Letters Home Read online

  … That rest care at the infirmary was a lifesaver. Life looks so bright when you’re rested and well.

  Sylvia, Warren, and Aurelia in the backyard, before Sylvia left for Smith, 1949

  Sylvia going off to Smith, September 5, 1950

  OCTOBER 27, 1950

  18TH BIRTHDAY

  Dear Mum,

  I couldn’t wait another minute before writing you how touched I was to get my birthday package, which just came. I walked into the house after my last class, and there it was, so I ran upstairs to open it.

  The Viyella maroon blouse is a dream (no wonder you are bankrupt) and the socks are warm and fit just right. I think I’ll share the cake with the freshmen in the house tomorrow … the bureau scarf just makes the room. This is my first birthday away from home, so I was rather overwhelmed by the packages. This morning I got three cards … and my favorite gift of the day—a letter from and a picture of my brother! His snapshot now occupies a prominent place on my bulletin board. He is the handsomest, most wonderful boy in the world. I’m so proud of him …

  Love, Sivvy

  OCTOBER 31, 1950

  Dear Mother,

  Well, I have just come from a half hour session with Miss Mensel [Mary Elizabeth Mensel, director of scholarships and student aid]. I was really foolish to ask you what I should say to her. It all poured out during the course of the conversation. Really, she is the dearest person—not beautiful—freckled and gray-haired, rather—but with a keen, vital twinkle in her blue eyes. She wants to meet all the scholarship girls in the freshman class and get to know them so she can describe them and their needs to the Board. In other words, she is the personal medium through which the Board gets to know who we are and what we deserve. So I found myself telling her how stimulating my courses are—how the French relates with History and Art with Botany. How I want to take creative writing and art courses. I even said how I love my house and the girls in it—the older ones, too, who could give us a sort of perspective on college life. And about how nice it was to get dressed up and go out on weekends or just go bike riding through the countryside. I had to keep myself from getting tears in my eyes as I told her how happy I was. I only hope I can live up to my courses and get good grades … I was afraid I would be stiff and nervous at first, but my enthusiasm washed all that away, and I just flooded over and told her how stimulating it was here. She agrees that I am in a superlative house [Haven House: the house mother, Mrs. Shakespeare, created a warm, relaxed, gracious atmosphere; this was a home for the students, rather than a dormitory] and also stressed the point about getting out on weekends so as not to go stale.

  Now I come to the most thrilling part—about whose scholarship I have. The thing is Miss Mensel likes the girls to establish contact with their benefactors so the people who give out the money are rewarded by a flesh-and-blood case. And whom should my $850 come from but Olive Higgins Prouty!!! Miss Mensel said it was very seldom given to freshmen, but with my enjoyment of writing and my prize from the Atlantic Monthly (I’m afraid my Atlantic Monthly Honorable Mention has increased its prestige too much), Olive Higgins Prouty would be very pleased to hear from me and learn about my achievements and future plans and also about the impact Smith has had on me. Now I will plunge into those darn critical English themes with renewed vigor and go through my art exercises with that “means-to-an-end” gleam in my eye. If only I can meet all the opportunities! Just now I feel rather overwhelmed at the things Smith offers. Olive Higgins Prouty. Isn’t she the one who dramatizes Stella Dallas? The fascinating thing is that she lives in Brookline, Mass.

  I just can’t stand the idea of being mediocre … I’ll be studying and sleeping all Thanksgiving, I fear. About the going out angle—I’ll plan on going out Saturday night and staying home the others. After all, I can go out all the time here, but my family isn’t seen so often….

  As for Bob [a high school boyfriend] … frankly I hardly have time to give him a second thought … I am so busy finding out about Smith that I have no time to be either homesick or lovesick. Boys are strictly secondary in my present life…. I find myself numb as far as feeling goes. All I’m trying to do is keep my head above water, and emotions are more or less absent or dormant for the while. It’s a good thing to have one less distraction.

  If only I’m good enough to deserve all this!

  Love, Sivvy

  NOVEMBER 8, 1950

  Dear Mother,

  … I was rather embarrassed in English today when my teacher said to let the rest of the class work at a story analysis once in a while—that I was explaining too much. It’s so annoying to sit back and watch people fumble over a point you see clearly. English is not too challenging, I fear.

  Love, Sivvy

  NOVEMBER 11, 1950

  Dear Mother,

  I was up in my room talking with a lovely girl … (she’s one of the people I really can tell things to) … expounding on the misery and inferior feeling of being dateless this weekend. Bill had asked me out, but I had refused—he just isn’t my sort—no spark … when the phone rang. It was Louise—three boys had just dropped over and would I go out tonight. So I threw on my clothes, all the time ranting … on how never to commit suicide, because something unexpected always happens. Turned out that my date was a doll … I now feel terrific—what a man can do. Oh, well, I’ll do my homework before class tomorrow.

  Love, Sivvy

  NOVEMBER 15, 1950

  Dear Mother,

  There are times when schoolwork definitely should be put aside, regardless. And tonight was one of them. I have been working pretty steadily, so I decided I owed it to myself to hear Dr. Peter Bertocci of B.U. speak on “Sex Before Marriage.” Naturally, the title of the lecture drew hordes, and the browsing room was packed to the gills. I have to hand it to the man: he knows what a college crowd needs—none of this dodging the issue, either. I quickly lost my consciousness of the fact that he has an unpleasantly raspy voice and became lost in the sound maze of his contentions….

  As for the substance of his talk, it was not to dictate, but to set up a pattern of inquiry in our own minds. His lecture was phrased so that you could apply your own history and ideals with the case histories and questions which he brought out.

  Naturally my mind was receptive to clear, cold logic—no “Emile” around to make my emotions fight reason. [The French version of her father’s middle name, Emil, was the name she gave to a boyfriend who inspired her first prize-winning story, “Den of Lions.”] In fact, since I haven’t really enjoyed myself with a boy since “Emile,” my emotional problems are vague and dormant. Maybe it’s a good thing. I have thrown all my energy, physical and mental, into Smith. Perhaps that would be a temporary sort of sublimation. The part that is hardest is this interregnum between boys. I need rather desperately to feel physically desirable at all times and mentally desirable in cases where I admire a boy for his ideas, too; but just now I am lacking any object of affection—no one to pour myself into except a close girl friend…. And I talk with her only too rarely.

  In other words, this is a period of sterility emotionally. Mentally, it is a fertilization of the soil in my mind … who knows what may bloom in the fruitful season later on? Enough symbolism. I am happy, which is strange, as I realize myself socially and emotionally unfulfilled. But with my old resilient optimism, I know deep down inside that when I find a real companion in a boy, I will be only too glad I had this period of static waiting to increase my sense of pleasure.

  As to my subjects—I’m beginning to see light. I love them all. I’m being stretched, pulled to heights and depths of thought I never dreamed possible—and what is most wonderful—this is only a beginning. The future holds infinite hope and challenge. I somehow can’t keep from singing to myself, no matter how weary I am. Sunshine which I had when I was little seems to have been restored by Smith, and I know that, in the cycle of joy and sorrow, there will always be an outlet for me. I can never lose everything—all at once. Once I get my
scholarship firmly established, I may have time to turn my attention more thoroughly to art and creative writing. Even now I am greatly encouraged to find that the black, immovable wall of competition is not so formidable when broken down into small human units. I am finding myself still in upper brackets as far as marks go. Sure, I work hard, and so do hundreds of others. But my sane weekend life has kept me healthy and able to cope with most daily work. I’m getting study habits, keeping up. When I get that down to a science, I can weekend with relative impunity.

  Above all, I’m happy—knowing that from pain comes understanding, I rejoice in whatever happens. Strangely enough, I am rather well-adjusted, I think, and enjoying life more fully than I ever have.

  If only I can weld the now—where I’m living so hard I have no energy to produce—into art and writing later on! It’s like animals storing up fat and then, in hibernation or relaxation, using it up. I have a feeling that my love of learning, of people, of wanting to perfect techniques of expression may help me to reach the goals I choose to set. Can you make any sense out of this? Maybe you can analyze the ramblings of your child better than she can herself.

  Love, Sivvy

  NOVEMBER 27, 1950

  Dear Mum,

  Well, I didn’t know just when the wave of homesickness would hit [on return to Smith after Thanksgiving holidays], but I guess it was when I walked into my room—empty and bare. Only three or four girls were in the house … Gosh, I felt lonely! I had so much work I should have done, and my schedule for the week looked so bleak and unsurmountable; but I have now snapped out of my great depression—the first real sad mood I’ve had since I’ve been here. I am now writing this in the cosy living room with a girl beside me and music coming out of the radio. What one human presence can mean!

  I realize that for all my brave, bold talk of being self-sufficient, I realize now how much you mean to me—you and Warren and my dear Grampy and Grammy! … I am glad the rain is coming down hard. It’s the way I feel inside. I love you so.

  Sivvy

  NOVEMBER 30, 1950

  Dear Mum,

  By the way, I’m almost famous! There is a bulletin board in College Hall (where the President and all the deans work), which has weekly clippings of Smith girls “in the news.” Yup, some news hound dug up my poem [“Ode to a Bitten Plum,” Seventeen, November 1950] and it and my face shine out.

  I had a strange experience in history today. As I always sit in the middle seat in the front row, it seems as if Mrs. Kafka is talking directly to me. I felt the oddest thrill. History is becoming rather vital and fascinating …

  DECEMBER 1, 1950

  … Wrote a long letter to Mrs. Prouty last night which took up a few hours of thought and time, but, good heavens, she is responsible for all this!

  {Excerpts from the letter to Olive Higgins Prouty were published in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, February 1951, reprinted below.}

  At first I didn’t want to let myself hope for Smith, because a disappointment would have been hard. But more and more I became aware of how much fuller my life would be if I were able to live away from home. There would be a beginning of independence, and then the stimulation of living with a group of girls my own age. After weeks of waiting and indecision, I heard from Smith that I was being awarded a scholarship … so I went about the house for days in a sort of trance and not quite believing myself when I heard my voice saying: “Yes, I’m going to Smith.”

  And here I am! There are times when I find myself just letting the sights and impressions pour into me until the joy is so sharp that it almost hurts. I think it will always be this way. There is so much here, and it is up to me to find myself and make the person I will be. I still remember the first evening when we had our freshman meeting. I was separated from the girls I knew in my house, and as I stood bewildered on the steps of Scott Gym, watching 600 strange faces surge at me and pass by like a flood, I felt that I was drowning in a sea of personalities, each one as eager to be a whole individual as I was. I wondered then if I could ever get behind the faces and know what they were thinking, dreaming, and planning deep inside. I wondered if I would ever feel that I was more than a name typewritten on a card.

  But even now I smile at myself. For with the studying and with the ability to isolate and differentiate one person from another, and with the increasing sense of belonging, I find myself at the beginning of the most challenging experience I’ve ever had.

  As for my courses, I have never felt such a sharp sense of stimulation and competition. I am especially fortunate in my instructors—all of whom are vital and alive with enthusiasm for their particular subjects. In art we sketch the same trees that we analyze in botany. In French we follow the ideas of men who were influenced by the events and times we read about in history. And in English—which has always been my favorite subject—we read and do critical essays…. As you can see, my courses fit together like a picture puzzle, and life has suddenly taken on deeper perspective and meaning.

  I don’t just see trees when I bike across the campus. I see shape and color outwardly, and then the cells and the microscopic mechanisms always working inside. No doubt all this sounds a bit incoherent, but it’s just that excitement which comes when you are increasingly aware of the infinite suggestions and possibilities of the world you live in.

  The people here are also another source of amazement and new discovery. I don’t think I’ve ever been so conscious of the dignity and capacity of women. Why, even in my house there is a startling collection of intelligent, perceptive girls—each one fascinating in her own way. I enjoy knowing people well and learning about their thoughts and backgrounds. Although I have never been able to travel outside the New England states, I feel that the nation—and a good part of the world—is at my fingertips. My acquaintances come from all sorts of homes, all sorts of localities, and as I get to know them better, I learn about all varieties of past personal history….

  I wonder … if I have revealed even a small part of my love for Smith. There are so many little details that are so wonderful—the lights of the houses against the night sky, the chapel bells on Sunday afternoon, the glimpse of Paradise from my window. All this and so much more…. I just want you to understand that you are responsible, in a sense, for the formation of an individual, and I am fortunate enough to be that person.

  DECEMBER 4, 1950

  … I am learning a lot. There is the sort of person who has problems and never tells them to anyone and thus no one ever knows them; there is the sort of person who has problems and tells them to one understanding person, and there is the sort of person who fools everyone, even herself, into thinking there are no problems except those shallow material ones which can be overcome.

  All this, as you may have gathered, leads up to my date last night. As I said, I doubled with Patsy. It was ordinary enough, driving over with the couples—my date looked rather old (in fact, his hair was somewhat reminiscent of Mr. Crockett’s) and he had a rather good-looking face. It developed that he and I like English and that he was majoring in Political Science. So as we all sat around the fire, I decided to stab in the dark and see if I could get to know him better. I told him how I like to write and draw and know people more than just on the surface, and I said I’d like him to tell me all about the things that ever had hurt or bothered him so I’d be able to understand him better. Well, it was just a try, but evidently he was rather overwhelmed by the fact that I could be so intelligent and yet not be ugly or something, and as we danced after cooking our supper over the fireplace in their room at the Fraternity House, he told me that he was twenty-five, disabled in the last war. Naturally that bowled me over, so I asked if he could tell me at all about it.

  Pat had said that his roommates don’t really know him because he keeps everything to himself, so I was rather amazed that he would confide in me.

  At his suggestion, we went for a walk so we could talk better, and he told me a little about fighting in the Marianas and about what it is lik
e to have to kill someone or be killed. Then he asked when my father died, and when I told him, he said his died two weeks ago and that he had been with him for the last days. It seems his father was the best patent attorney in Missouri—clients from England even, and this guy adored him … So he told me how he felt about him and said that the other girls he’d been out with since didn’t give a damn, etc.

  Naturally nothing like that had ever happened to me before, and I guess he was so overwhelmed with the idea that at last someone was interested in him as a person, not just as a date, that he seemed to think we should have intercourse. Of course, I was in rather a bad position, having gaily gone on a walk, but I told him quite forcibly that I wouldn’t oblige—all of which made a scene, and I asked him how many other girls he had known, and he said he would tell me the truth, that the Marine Corps wasn’t the place to be a gentleman and that ideals didn’t quite matter when you slept and lived in the mud. So I learned about the girl in Hawaii and about the English nurse when he was in the hospital for two years.

  … I came home in rather a fog. I don’t know just how things will work out or whether I should see him again. I am just beginning to realize that you can’t ostracize a person for having relations with a lot of others. That doesn’t automatically cancel out their worth as human beings…. I would like your opinion on the matter, as I don’t quite know what to make of it, never having run into anyone quite so determined before.

  It’s sickening to see all the uniforms on campus and hear that Amherst won’t even be here next year. I am so tired, and I’m looking so forward to being with the family this Christmas.

  Keep smiling. (Why do I always inspire males to pour out their life story on my shoulder? I guess I just ask for it.)