i am also tired of being told that i am ungrateful and thoughtless. naturally you would have heard from me and from the children if the silver had arrived.
you were sent a copy of my book as soon as i had a copy to send. that was about ten days ago.
will you try to realize that i am a grown up and fully capable of managing my own affairs? i have a happy and productive life, i have many good friends, i have considerable stature in my profession, and if i decided to make any changes in my manner of living, it will not be because you have nagged me into it. you can say this is “wilful” if you like, but surely at my age i have a right to live as i please, and i have just had enough of the unending comments on my appearance and my faults.
love to you and pop.
s.
• • •
[to Joanne and Sally]
wednesday [September 26–28, 1962]
my dear captive princesses:
the doc has taken away my big boss pills because they were no longer boss and has given me the prettiest, most explosive great black and blue things of which i have just taken one so let’s see if my typing improves.
have been meaning to write for several days but taking these pills uses up so much time that i hardly do anything else except play duets with barbara. and new duets arrived this morning so we will play twice as long tonight. also arrived this morning without warning a check for french rights to savages and hill house in the reader’s digest. very very nice.
i am still feeling a little bit like a visiting movie star after our trip to new york but i suspect that will wear off quite soon. not that i ever intend to go back to new york ever. i found that even with double boss pills i could not go out of the hotel without wild panic attacks so the publishers got me a nurse kind of to watch me. she was actually the publicity girl from the publishers and a very nice person named julie and it was her job to see that i got where i was supposed to be going and stayed there once i got there. she kept grabbing my arm when i got up and started madly for the door. we worked out a system—dad actually figured it—for transporting me; she would go out onto the street and look for a taxi while i cowered in a doorway and when she found a taxi she would bring it directly to the exact spot where i waited and i would make a mad dash while she held the door open and then she would persuade the taxi to stop directly in front of wherever we were going and i would race for the doorway and hide. i really made a very interesting impression on new york; people kept thinking there was something wrong with me, of all the silly ideas. i dwell on this to such an extent because it was the governing system of our whole visit. we had a magnificent suite in the hotel, a big living room with an alcove containing a refrigerator, and a small bar set up for us (we had to give drinks to visiting newspaper men) and a big bedroom with a three foot stone lion which it turned out we were unable to get into the elevator to bring home. when we arrived there was a big bowl of roses waiting compliments of the publisher and copies of the early reviews of the book, most of them very favorable indeed and a picture in time magazine which my mother is cancelling her subscription because you would not believe it if you saw it because that photographer got sent up from new york and he took sixty-eight pictures of me and this must easily be the worst it is ghastly. anyway the first reviews were great although most of them think merricat is crazy. then there were a couple of reviews not so great but all in all the general feeling is that the book will sell very nicely. the understanding was that i was to be interviewed in my suite drinking with the interviewers and it worked out very well, except each day i had to go out for lunch with someone. the first day it was arlene francis*4 and this luncheon at sardi’s thing and julie and i were secretly very amused although terrified. luncheon at sardi’s with arlene francis is actually without arlene francis. julie and i after identifying ourselves were taken to a second floor dining room which was largely empty and we sat in a little alcove (very fancy restaurant, all red plush and caricatures of people in show business all over the place) and across from us was a table full of tape recorders and microphones. so julie and i sat there in lonely state and had a cocktail and lunch by ourselves, since it is arlene francis’ policy to arrive after lunch for luncheon at sardi’s. we were just debating whether to order dessert when arlene francis’ assistant arrived, a very very oh very charming young woman who gushed at us and said how much arlene had loved my book just adored it darling. she was wearing a handsome pinkish wool suit cut very severely and lots and lots and lots of dangling bracelets and a big garish pin and a large elaborate costume ring. after about ten minutes arlene francis arrived. she was wearing a handsome white wool suit cut very severely and lots and lots and lots of dangling bracelets and a big garish pin and a large elaborate costume ring except arlene francis’ bracelets and pin and ring were all real diamonds. her assistant apparently copies everything she wears and says and even the tone of her voice and the big hearty laugh which is just as phony as it can be although actually the woman is very pleasant. anyway arlene francis sat down at the table with the microphones and said “darling, where’s the book, what did you say the name of it was?” and the assistant brought her a copy of my book and arlene francis turned the pages very quickly assuming that we could neither see nor hear her and she kept saying yes but what’s it about i never did read more than the first page. and the assistant whispered to her and they both made notes.
so then they called us over and sat me down by another microphone and arlene francis said for god’s sake don’t listen to the commercials darling they will literally turn your stomach. she was right, and she read them in an exaggerated eager voice which made them worse and i could not imagine how any audience could possibly believe she was serious about somebody or other’s pork sausages. so she asked me a lot of damfool questions and i gave her a lot of damfool answers and they taped it all and julie and i got away. laurie heard the program (it was broadcast last monday) and said that arlene francis sounded worse than i did, but not much.
* * *
—
thursday
laurie called at eight this morning and said he had taken corinne to the hospital during the night; they are not yet sure whether this is really the baby or a false alarm but laurie said he would call as soon as he heard and of course i will call the school and get word to you as soon as i hear.
so for the rest of the new york trip in a capsule: we had a wonderful cocktail party because they do these things very well at the st. regis hotel and there were about sixty people including frank and june and ralph and fanny and various other friends whom we had invited, and a number of publishing and newspaper and magazine people. i liked it because i came in with the two heads of viking press and the waiter came up and asked me what i wanted to drink and he came back with my drink on a silver tray. then i stood in a corner propped up against a doorway and smiled and said thank you very much to all the people who said they liked the book. and they had wonderful food: little sausages (not from arlene francis) and hot cheese tarts and smoked salmon and tiny hamburgers and all such but i was too frightened to eat. everyone had a fine time even me after a while and then the publishers took us to dinner at a fancy restaurant. and about ten-thirty i suddenly realized that i had had it and i said to dad please take me home to my stone lion and we went back to the hotel where dad fell asleep and i sat up most of the night massaging my feet. and wondering what was going to happen to poor old merricat who had somehow gotten lost in all the fuss.
except that two of the big new york bookshops had full window displays on publication day and another jumped the gun on sales and had sold out their first order the night before publication.
we saw lulu and arthur the first night in new york and poor lulu will never go out with me again because she simply would not believe that i was afraid to go outside and kept trying to argue with me and she had kind of an idea we would go to the tower suite or som
e equally fancy restaurant for dinner but dad explained that i had to go into an empty restaurant because i was afraid of crowds and consequently we were having dinner at sheik*5 and lulu could have a nice order of stuffed grape leaves which lulu nearly fainted but she was a very good sport about it.
we came home on saturday and found that barry who has been staying at barbara and murry’s was all set to go right on living there because the food was great and murry played monopoly with him every night. sunday night we had to go to the malamuds*6 for dinner and barry spent the early evening with laurie and corinne. he is enjoying being the only child but it is hard to pass things at the dinner table; we tried all sitting at one end but it was too crowded.
i wish that phone would ring. probably nothing at all will happen until late this afternoon and i will have spent the whole day staying by the phone.
SALLY: as you know i am to write another book for beginning readers, and dad thought it would be a wonderful idea to use your jay-hex about ten cities knowing your name,*7 okay? it is permitted? little girl named sally trying to get her name known in ten cities, writing it big on a kite and flying it over the rooftops, persuading bees to fly up and down the streets saying zally zally zally, making stars get in formation, and such. well?
although my new pills seem quite powerful i am still not equal to any large scale shopping and mostly just call the store and larry powers has everything ready to carry out to the car when i stop by. so i cannot yet send you packages of food although i hope you got the apples.
call just came. laurie too excited to talk; it is a boy, eight pounds, everything fine. you will know of course before you get this letter; i will call the school and leave messages for you. must call dad at college. lulu. arthur. yippee.*8 i will finish this later. i can go to the hospital and see corinne right away and maybe they will let me get a look at the baby so i can tell you all about it later.
* * *
—
friday
i must finish this letter today or the baby will be ready for school before you get it. barbara and i went to the hospital yesterday, taking along a few necessities of life for corinne—a box of candy, donated by larry powers, a bottle of nice cologne, a very fancy lace-trimmed nightgown and bedjacket (“what does she need a nightgown for?” laurie wanted to know, “aren’t the hospital nightgowns good enough?”) and, from barbara and murry, a bottle of dry cinzano, of which corinne is particularly fond, and which had to be hidden under the blankets. the baby looks just like a baby; he is quite big, weighed eight and a half pounds, quite long, little reddish fuzz on his head; we could not see his eyes because they were squeezed tight shut and he was yelling and yelling and laurie kept saying will he yell like that at home? they have definitely decided to name him miles, after gramp. he is fine and healthy and barry thinks he looks quite intelligent. we got barry in to see him last night by cornering oliver and begging him to put a little pressure on the head nurse; oliver got him in long enough to see the baby for a couple of minutes and to say hello to corinne. barry was enchanted with his nephew and is easily as excited as laurie; he went off to school this morning yelling at passing friends that he was an uncle.
corinne is fine. she apparently started having bad pains about five in the morning, and about eight laurie called the doctor, who said bring her over to the hospital; they still thought it was a false alarm—she is about a week early, after all—until around nine o’clock, when it became clear that she was going to go through with it. she simply took it all in stride, had almost no anaesthetic, and polished off the whole business in half an hour, practically a hospital record. by last night she was beginning to feel a little tired, but she was wearing her nightgown and drinking cinzano and eating candy. they will let her sit up today, walk tomorrow, and come home probably on monday.
lulu is practically beside herself, and so is arthur. i made laurie call them from here yesterday morning; he could hardly talk but neither could lulu. they are coming up the weekend of october sixth.
when laurie called me yesterday morning i called the college and left a message with dad’s secretary and she took it to him in class and he read it aloud to the class and they all cheered and dad went around the rest of the day giving away his good cigars. he thinks the baby looks like his uncle louis feinberg.
the college movie this saturday night is called torero, about bullfighting; one of the best and most authentic documentaries and starring a real toreador and i am most anxious to see it but of course cannot go into the theatre. dad talked to ben bellitt,*9 who is in charge of movies at the college, and ben has arranged a private showing on sunday afternoon for me and my little theatre party, which will now include barry and the karmillers, dad, and laurie. corinne and miles will have to miss it.
the combinations of my new explosive pills and the heady effect of being a grandmother has seemingly strengthened me considerably; i got to the hospital twice yesterday and even into bennington to do some shopping. barbara came with me, of course, but i did fine and even walked down the block and across the street and this morning i sailed down and got the mail without a qualm.
we are all delighted with your accounts of school. corinne was most anxious to know that you were sent word about the baby and sends you her love, as do laurie and probably nephew miles and the new grandma and grandpa and man do we feel like fools.
lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of love.
m.
* * *
• • •
This is the first letter Shirley actually sends to her parents after the St. Regis party trip.
[To Geraldine and Leslie Jackson]
tuesday [October 2, 1962]
dearest mother and pop,
laurie and corinne will of course be writing you, but in their present circumstances it may take a while, so i thought i would write right away and tell you that the silver arrived yesterday and is perfectly beautiful. the kids are enormously grateful and pleased, and tonight will be their first ceremonial use of their handsome silver, since corinne and the baby come home from the hospital today. i said i would take them over a little casserole and a bottle of wine and laurie will have the table all set, so they will have a fancy private party to celebrate.
we were supposed to go for dinner last saturday night, actually. it was to have been their first company meal, but corinne managed to get out of it. poor child; all things considered, she didn’t need to have the baby two weeks early.
stanley and laurie pass one another at the college and sometimes have coffee together. laurie is doing very well indeed, and is fascinated by the music program he is taking; he is composing and playing in an ensemble and actually learning the piano. after six years as a professional musician he is finally learning to read music. corinne is taking only an art course, and had a paper to write for that, due thursday which is the day the baby was born, so her teacher, who is paul feeley, generously gave her an extension until the following monday, by which time, he said, she should be through having babies and ready to get back to work.
we were in new york for three days, guests of my publishers, who had a fancy suite for us and all day i was interviewed in our suite, serving drinks to newspaper men and giving silly answers to silly questions, and i was on arlene francis’ radio program called luncheon at sardi’s. the head publicity girl from the publishers was with me all the time to make sure that i kept mentioning the name of my book. the book has been getting simply fantastic reviews—a new batch came in yesterday, making about twenty-five altogether and only two unfavorable—and is selling well.
this summer quite by accident barbara and i were looking over some of our old music; barbara is a first-rate pianist and she had been without a piano for so long she was homesick, so i got out the music and there right on top was one of the old piano duets dorothy*10 and i used to play and barbara dared me to t
ry it and of course i am hopelessly outclassed but we had so much fun that we went to the music library at the college and took out great volumes of bach and haydn and now spend evenings sightreading this stuff; i am playing far beyond anything i ever thought i could, but of course barbara is good enough to help me out.
the girls are very happy at school; sally’s letters are so joyful and enthusiastic that it is a pleasure to read them; she has made several friends and has for the first time met kids who are not ashamed to say that they like to read and to write, and she met a boy who actually boasts that he writes poetry, which in north bennington would get him laughed at. sally was asked to make a special poster for a dorm party and it was put up in the dining hall, to her great pleasure, and their only complaint is that now that sally is three inches taller than joanne everyone thinks sally is the older sister.
the oddest thing about being a grandmother, i find, is that you are so wholly unnecessary. i am dying to run over to laurie’s house and help dress the baby and play with the baby clothes and fold diapers but i do not seem to be needed. they both seem so competent and so confident, and corinne has no worries or nervousness about handling everything, that it is a real pleasure to see them. corinne’s mother was all set to move in with them for the first week, and take care of everything and was told most politely to stay home. they were surprised when i said i would bring them over some dinner tonight because they both assumed that corinne would come home and get right back to work cooking and taking care of the house.
The Letters of Shirley Jackson Page 56
