141 Downes Avenue Stamford, Connecticut May 14, 1956
Dear Enid Bagnold--
Your letter came fluttering across the salt water like a bit of yourself. My wife was so enchanted by it and by the play and by the award to you that she hoped no word of mine had encouraged you to stay comfortably at home--then she said, "But I know what you'd do in a similar case. You'd skip the ceremony, especially if you had an idea for a new one."
I find it so difficult to make rules for myself that I certainly can't make them for others. It does seem unnecessary to fly six thousand miles to receive a salvo of admiration when you're going to get it anyway and much more comfortably in your own livingroom. Yet so often the unnecessary trip or the acquaintance you tried to avoid turns out to be the key to your best future.
In all truth I don't want to influence you. I've written some stodgy literary adjectives to go along with the medal. They won't sound any better near at hand. "The Chalk Garden" speaks more ably for itself than I can speak about it. However, it would give me great personal pleasure just to meet you and talk with you, even briefly, and if you come that will be possible. 1
By the way, Harold has been my agent a long while. I think I met him in 1922. 2
Summer came to Connecticut yesterday with no intervening spring. You'll find New York in flower if you come. But of course you'll leave the Sussex buds behind. Everybody would be happy to see you, and it makes me happy to know that you're in the world and have an idea for a new planting. 3
Yours, Maxwell Anderson