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  Sylvia Plath first traveled down Elm Street as a Smithie on September 24, 1950. In her early days on campus, as she settled into the room she had been assigned in Haven House, she met the house’s other forty-seven girls, one of whom, Ann Davidow, became a friend immediately. Some girls knew of Plath, having seen her byline in magazines. But even from the start, Sylvia allotted little time for socializing. Once she had passed her posture, hygiene, and swimming tests, she signed up for a standard courseload of English, Introduction to French Literature, Botany, Art, European History, and Physical Education. At Smith, as at any other academically challenging school, scholarship students were expected to uphold an overall B average; fee-paying students, on the other hand, needed only to maintain passing grades to stay enrolled. If a scholarship student failed to sustain “a satisfactory grade of work,” the college’s letter of scholarship notification stated, she would lose her financial aid. For Plath, this was all the catalyst she needed to make her work hard from the start. While she studied, she squeezed out a few hours here and there to write letters. Besides her mother, to whom she corresponded regularly, she wrote to Eddie. Recently, Sylvia had accused him of sending her a “nonplatonic” letter. Eddie had replied: “What it is, is a reflection of the warmth I felt on realizing that females of your caliber actually do exist. After the experience with B., which is only a few months old, I had a rather bad taste in my mouth about women. . . . If I do get East sometime, I’ll look you up . . . but as for a random letter ending up in a Big Romance—even Seventeen’seditors couldn’t swallow that whole, I’m afraid.” Days later, after mailing her a bracelet he had bought in Mexico, Eddie sent her a one-thousand-word discourse on sex. Finally, in response to a letter in which she implored him not to “stop talking to me,” he wrote:

  It amazes me how much you have been able to get under my skin. . . . At first . . . I liked your sense of humor, primarily. Then one or two things made me conscious of the possibility that you were also rather mature and perceptive. . . . And you flatter me nicely, which no male can resist . . . and yet at the same time you are no “Yes-girl”. . . . You ask me not to stop writing. Don’t worry about that. Control of the matter passed out of my hands some time back.

  In early October, Sylvia countered Eddied obvious overtures with her own variety of flirtation. She hoped he would find the right girl, she wrote to him, and added that she would not be married after college since she did not want to be dismissed so easily. Answering her, Eddie pushed for a commitment. “I cannot get it out of my head that you are saying something that you did not put into writing, perhaps because you can’t get your fingers around it yourself. Yet it is there, I am sure.” He then asked about her boyfriends from last summer and suggested he might materialize in Northampton in the spring.

  By October, Eddie’s trip had become of secondary importance to Sylvia. While she did date sparingly—she went on a blind date with an Amherst College boy; two weeks later she double-dated with Ann— Sylvia devoted most of her time to schoolwork. English, French, Botany, and Art all challenged her, but she believed she might actually fail European History. Many did, she wrote to her mother; her class contained more than a few sophomores and juniors. To stay ahead, she had to work constantly. Work brought fatigue; fatigue, homesickness. As of mid-October, not a month into the academic year, Sylvia was already dreaming of a single day of peace and quiet at home. Her exhaustion brought on a minor depression, which caused her to see life as chaotic, civilization as barbarian. Late in October, her depression lightened somewhat. She celebrated her birthday by opening the presents from her mother (a Vigella maroon blouse, a bureau scarf, socks). She also met with Mary Mensel, who told her who her scholarship’s sponsor was—Olive Higgins Prouty. Best known for Now, Voyager, a novel that had been made into a movie starring Bette Davis, and Stella Dallas, a novel that had been adapted into both a Barbara Stanwyck movie and a popular radio serial, Prouty had written some of the best-selling books of her day. Sylvia could hardly wait to take Mensel up on her suggestion that she write Prouty a letter to thank her for her scholarship.

  In November, Seventeen published Plath’s “Ode to a Bitten Plum,” a short, Keats-inspired poem in which the narrator, contemplating a plum, decides its seed represents more abstract concepts like time and eternity. Though encouraged by the publication, she had become so busy with her studies that she had all but stopped writing. Walking through College Hall one afternoon, she was amused to find “Ode to a Bitten Plum” posted on the bulletin board reserved for Smith students in the news. It made her think of herself as a writer even if she wasn’t writing. One person who read the poem was Eddie Cohen. Because she had “tried to make too much out of the subject,” he felt “somewhat disappointed” by it. After revealing this in one of his November letters, Eddie then made a startling leap of logic. “Maybe two writers could never get along together anyhow,” he said. “They are apt to commit double homicide over each other’s criticisms of their work.” Since he feared he had offended her, Eddie ended his letter by saying, “At any rate, in recognition of the factors involved, the least (and most) I can do is blow a kiss into the warm west wind and hope that it finds you.”

  In November, Sylvia fought her depression, which had not been cured by the diversions of late October. Over Thanksgiving weekend, she went to Wellesley for four days, at which time she visited with her mother, her grandparents, and Warren, home from Exeter. But when she returned to Smith she became homesick—and even more depressed. Determined to meet her social obligations despite her depression, Sylvia wrote Olive Higgins Prouty—a beautiful lyrical letter— near the end of the month. She recounted her thrill over being accepted into Smith on scholarship—"I went about the house for days in sort of a trance . . . saying, ‘Yes, I’m going to Smith’ “—and confessed to being inward-looking, which she probed through drawing and writing poetry. Then Sylvia listed her influences, who included Edna St. Vincent Millay, Sinclair Lewis, Stephen Vincent Benet, and Virginia Woolf. And though she hoped for a career in writing, that remained in the future; now there was Smith. “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. . ..” Concluding, Sylvia addressed Prouty directly. “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.”

  A week after she mailed the letter, Sylvia received Prouty’s reply. “I have read your letter with great interest and am much impressed by it,” Prouty wrote. “I am having it typed with several carbons as I want others to read it. I think there is no doubt that you possess a gift for creative writing. Your descriptions of your first impressions of college . . . brought a blur of tears to my eyes as I read your letter aloud to my husband. He, too, was moved by it.” Then Prouty invited Sylvia to her home in Brookline for tea during the upcoming Christmas holidays. Excited by the invitation, Sylvia could hardly wait for the two weeks to pass before Christmas break. It did, though, and on her first day back in Wellesley she dressed in her only wool suit and set out on the short trip to Brookline.

  2

  On that cold, beautiful December afternoon, Sylvia Plath got off the bus and walked with purpose up the curving driveway to 393 Walnut, a handsome two-story mansion. At the door she checked her watch— five o’clock, on time—just before she rang the bell. After a moment, a maid answered and ushered her through a foyer into a huge oblong living room which spanned the house’s entire width. The maid told her that Mrs. Prouty would soon appear, then left. As Plath stared into the fire crackling noisily in the fireplace, a voice behind her cried, “Why, you must be Sylvia.” She turned to see a well-dressed, pleasant-looking woman motion for her to sit on the sofa. Joining her there, Olive Higgins Prouty, whose face radiated warmth and kindness, chatted in a quiet voice while she served Sylvia tea and cu
cumber sandwiches. In time, Prouty and Sylvia touched on a subject dear to them both—writing. Sylvia wanted to write, she said, on grand topics— traveling in exotic locales, shooting tigers, scaling volcanoes. But she hadn’t done any of these things. “Wait a minute,” Prouty said. “Is there any time in your life you’ve had a problem, a real conflict which seemed terribly important to you at that moment?” Yes, Sylvia said, and told her how in high school she had been both attracted to and repulsed by her sorority, which treated badly girls who were not admitted—the reason Sylvia had resigned from the Sub-Debs. “Seems to me there’s a story there,” Prouty said. “An interesting one too. Take life! Think of the material you have!”

  Before long, it was six o’clock—time for Sylvia to go. “You’ll be coming to visit me again,” Prouty said, on their way to the door. Outside, as she walked down the street towards the bus stop, Sylvia thought about the implications of Prouty’s words. An author had to search no farther than the world around her—her family, her friends, herself— for characters about whom to write. Although Sylvia may not have been fully aware of it at the moment, although she may never have adequately documented its importance in the future, Prouty’s comment sank deep into her consciousness.

  During the next week, Sylvia celebrated Christmas and New Year’s at home in Wellesley. On Christmas Eve, she wrote her pen pal, Hans, a political letter in which she contended that the atom bomb would never purge the world of evil and, besides, that democracy would be worthless in a post-nuclear age. In January, she returned to Smith to study for and then write her final exams. Sylvia’s first-semester marks—English, B + ; Physical Education, B –; Art, A; Botany, A; French, A –; and European History, A – (this in the course she had expected to fail)—indicated that in college she would continue her superior academic performance.

  Upon her return to Northampton, Sylvia learned that, while home for the holidays in Chicago, Ann Davidow had withdrawn. Though saddened, Sylvia was not surprised, for she knew that at school Ann had been racked with anxieties. One day in December, Sylvia could not forget, Ann had appeared so wildly and unnaturally happy that Sylvia forced her to discuss her problem. “I can never do it, never,” Ann had said, referring to her inability to succeed at Smith. Then she confessed that she had been hoarding sleeping pills and razor blades in case she decided to commit suicide. Apparently, Sylvia now saw in January, Ann had gone home, figured Smith wasn’t worth it, and dropped out. Soon Sylvia wrote Eddie to suggest that he contact Ann. “I must remember to look up . . . Ann . . .,” Eddie replied, “provided that she has not already placed her head in an oven, or something like that. . . . Anyone with suicidal tendencies should fit neatly into the group of neurotics and semi-psychotics with whom I surround myself.” In truth, if Eddie had contacted Ann, he would have done so only to learn more about Sylvia. “Let us face it, Eddie boy, you are still interested in the gal [Sylvia] for far more than the purpose of writing exercises,” he had told her in a recent letter. “Now, if the onlookers will pardon the splattered ink, a man will demonstrate how to hang himself with a typewriter ribbon.”

  In January, Seventeen wrote Plath that “Den of Lions,” her story based on her failed “love affair” with Emile, had placed third in its fiction contest. Besides earning one hundred dollars, the story would be published in May. Later in January, Plath enjoyed a (for her) different sort of publication. On the 23rd, the Peoria, Illinois, Star ran “Teen Triumphs”—the first biographical piece about Plath to appear in print. “Sylvia Plath, 17, really works at writing,” the article stated. “To get atmosphere for a story about a farm she took a job as a farmhand. Now she’s working on a sea story [for which she’ll get a job on a boat]. . . . A national magazine has published two of her brainchildren, the real test of being a writer.” Sylvia had discovered the clipping on the same College Hall bulletin board on which “Bitter Strawberries” had been posted. Her reaction was, how did the Peoria Star learn .about her in the first place?

  To save fifty dollars on housing for the spring term, Sylvia moved to a second-floor room in Haven in which she shared bunk beds with Marcia Brown, a bright and energetic girl from New Jersey. In the absence of Ann Davidow, Sylvia struck up a friendship with Marcia that the two girls cemented in early February on a weekend trip with Marcia’s mother to visit a woman known affectionately as “Aunt.” At this time, as she continued the two-semester courses she had started in the fall, Sylvia made an effort to have a social life. In early January, she dated Bob Humphrey. Then, on the 30th, Dick Norton, the cute, intelligent Wellesley friend with whom she had had little contact since leaving for Smith, wrote from Yale to invite her to the school’s annual Swimming Carnival in mid-February. On the 17th, she boarded a morning train down to New Haven, but it rained so hard that day that she and Dick had to hole up in his room and amuse themselves by discussing such subjects as science, sociology, and mental illness. The next day, which was sunny and clear, the two of them took in several Carnival events, becoming so caught up in what they were doing that Sylvia missed the last train that would have put her in Northampton ahead of curfew. Because she was late, Sylvia had to appear before the Judicial Board, which required her, as punishment, to be in her room by nine o’clock each night for a week.

  Three weeks later, Sylvia again took the train to New Haven, this time to go to the Yale junior prom with Dick. All in all, she enjoyed herself immensely. Dick did too, and during the following weekend, while at Smith to escort another girl to Smiths sophomore prom, he wrote Sylvia a note to accompany a photograph taken of her on their prom date. At the end of the note, he said that if he missed “seeing [her] (briefly), here is a sigh of disappointment.” The tone rang all too clearly. Like several other boys now, Dick had become infatuated with Sylvia. Of course, one of those other boys was Eddie, who in his letters in March had revealed his emotions. “Regardless of how much I may seem to have neglected you at times,” he wrote on the 19th, “or what the situation with Rita”—his new girlfriend—“may have been, the passing months have only served to strengthen my determination not to commit myself to anything permanent, like marriage, until such time as I have a chance to actually see you. As a matter of fact, I have a lingering suspicion that much of the reason for my being unable to wholly give myself to Rita has been my unconfirmed idea of what might possibly exist in points east.”

  His chance to meet Sylvia in person came on the first day of her spring break. As Sylvia packed her suitcase upstairs in her room at Haven an hour before she and a friend were supposed to ride home together, someone yelled from downstairs, “Oh, Syl, there’s a boy to see you.” When Sylvia rushed down the stairs to the living room, she was startled to discover, as she would later describe him, an odd boy with dark-colored hair. “This is the third dimension,” the boy said, and then it occurred to her: this was Eddie Cohen. “I’ve come to drive you home,” he said, puffing his pipe. Stunned, Sylvia finally agreed to allow Eddie to pack her suitcases in his car. On their way to Wellesley, Eddie revealed that he had driven some thirty hours straight from Chicago to Northampton, enduring bad weather much of the way, just to drive her home. But this confession did not achieve the eflFect on Sylvia that Eddie had wanted, for their three-hour journey turned into one long, painful ordeal. Sylvia could not accept that this strange-looking boy was the same one to whom she had spilled out her most intimate secrets in her letters. Also, Eddie, who Sylvia thought would be strong-minded and articulate, was actually nervous and bashful. And in a gesture that seemed too calculated to lend him an air of intellectuality, he even smoked a pipe.

  A stop at a restaurant did not help. They got back in the car only to resume their trip—and more strained, awkward talk. By the time they reached Wellesley, Sylvia was nearing her breaking point. Immediately after Eddie had parked the car and they had walked to the front door of 26 Elmwood Road, she thanked him for driving her home, introduced him to her mother, who had come to the door, and dashed upstairs. Confused and insulted, Eddie left Welle
sley for New York, where he spent the night with a friend before heading back to Chicago. Only later did Aurelia discover which Eddie this was, and when she did she felt embarrassed over Sylvia’s rudeness. On the other hand, Sylvia did not. She had neither invited Eddie east nor, when he tried to invite himself, encouraged him to come. He had therefore acted of his own volition, which meant that he was taking a risk by driving to Northampton to meet her unannounced. She felt no obligation to do anything other than respond to him honestly. And she had. If others— her mother, for example—interpreted her behavior as cruel, that was their problem, not hers. If she had invited (or even encouraged) him to visit her and subsequently acted rudely, then she would feel badly. But she had not.

  To herself, Sylvia had to admit why she had not wanted Eddie to visit her. Frankly, she did not wish to have a relationship with him. But why not? Was he not handsome enough? Was he too neurotic? Did his future as a breadwinner appear too uncertain? Probably she could have adjusted to many shortcomings, but the one he seemed most to display was the one quality in a man she could not accept: because he was not a “challenge” for her, she did not see him as her equal.

  Vacation did contain some pleasant experiences for Sylvia. Traveling to New Jersey, she visited Marcia, with whom she went into Manhattan, a city Sylvia had never seen before. Enthralled, she became the typical tourist—window-shopping on Fifth Avenue, dining at the Automat, sightseeing at the Empire State Building. She and Marcia even saw Darkness at Noon, starring Claude Rains.

  Back at Smith, Sylvia suffered the fallout from Eddie’s trip. After writing her one letter in which he revealed that “my return trip from New York ended up (predictably?) in a head-on collision somewhere in Ohio,” another in which he stated that “[y]our mother was quite right—you were incredibly rude,” and a third in which he began to relinquish his anger somewhat although he would not apologize for being “sarcastic, [and] at times outright insulting,” Eddie finally could not help himself. “This much . . . I would like to make clear—whatever you may have done . . . I like you none the less for it. If anything, I perhaps think more of you; by behaving in a manner something less than perfect, you have become considerably less of a goddess and considerably more of a human being in my eyes. . . . I am sharply aware now of just how solid and wholesome certain aspects of our relationship are. For which I can only say again . . . thanks . . . for being you.” Like other boys who had fallen and would fall in love with Sylvia, Eddie worked out a way in his mind to ignore, even justify, any of her personality faults.