The letters Capote wrote during the fifties include the same cast of characters he had known in the forties. Among them were Leo Lerman, Donald Windham, John Malcolm Brinnin and Andrew Lyndon. But there were additions. Newton Arvin was one (if there were earlier letters, as seems likely, they cannot be found). William Goyen, a writer from Texas whose career he encouraged, was another. Bennett Cerf, his Random House publisher, and his wife, Phyllis, were two more, as were David O. Selznick, the producer of Gone with the Wind, and his wife, Jennifer Jones.
There are a few, more businesslike letters to William Shawn, the editor of The New Yorker. That magazine finally ran one of Capote’s articles, “A Ride Through Spain,” in 1950 and then went on, over the next fifteen years, to publish several more. The letters to his revered Random House editor, Robert Linscott, gradually taper off as Capote spent more of his time on plays and screenplays and less on books. They end altogether with Linscott’s retirement in 1958. Perhaps his best new friend, as well as one of his most interesting correspondents, was Cecil Beaton. A product of both Harrow and Cambridge, the favorite photographer of the British royal family and a top theatrical designer in both London and New York, Beaton adored Capote as much as Capote adored him—though as brothers rather than lovers, despite Capote’s many “Cecil Dearests.”
Readers today might be puzzled by the frequent mentions of war and fears of war in Capote’s letters. “No one here seems to feel there is going to be a big war,” he wrote from Sicily in July 1950, just days after North Korea invaded South Korea and the United States sent in troops to prevent a Communist takeover. But many outside sleepy Sicily thought there might be a big war, and for most of the decade a conflict between East and West was, in fact, a distinct possibility.
TO ANDREW LYNDON
[Hotel d’Angleterre, Rome]
[18 March 1949]
New address: Bel Soggiorno
Taormina
Sicily1
Lovely you—
Both your sweet letters reached me here today—I just arrived myself from Florence: Tenn [Tennessee Williams] drove us down; quel journey, mon cher, what with Tenn losing the mss. of his new play, the police arresting Frankie [Merlo]2 (for traffic violations) and all of us in hysterias of fatigue: when we finally reached Rome it developed some piece of Roman trade had looted T.W’s apt and all of us [were] afraid to go to the jail and identify him. We were in Rome last week before setting off on this unfortunate junket to Florence. In Venice some boy tried to kill himself in Peggy Guggenheim’s palazzo where we were visiting. I can’t tell you! But it is beautiful here now, really breathtaking. Marian [Ives] sent me a batch of reviews,3 mostly very good, though some from small-town papers are absolutely screaming: my dear, do you know you are consorting with a “sick and terrified child”? If the New Yorker ever reviews it, do send it.
I am very upset about Random House and Phoebe. That is all too stupid for anything. They must be out of their minds. I am going to write Linscott to that effect. That is silly about the Atlantic, too.4 Why don’t you send it to Mademoiselle? I wish I could see your new one.
Baby, could you send me a batch of magazines, like the Partisan, New Yorker, etc. We have nothing to read. I know it will cost a lot (air mail) but if it does not exceed $10 please do and I will send you a check. Has Life ever run the pictures of your sister and your Grandmother Grover Whelen?
That’s funny about M.L.A. [Mary Louise Aswell]. Do you suppose her old man browns her? She ought to kick that dickey-Licker in the balls (?) and throw him in the street.5
Jack is fine, and sends his best. Give Harold a great big kiss and tell him I’m getting everything he always wanted for me—daily, nightly and after lunch.
I love you; I love your big brown eyes and your long long lashes. Oh dear, I do miss you
T
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO DONALD WINDHAM AND SANDY CAMPBELL
[Hotel d’Angleterre]
[Rome]
[ca. 25 March 1949]
Donny dear, Sandy Lamb—
Have lost track of time, but think I arrived in Rome a week ago: however we were no sooner here (literally) than T.W + F. [Tennessee Williams and Frank Merlo] had us in their car skidding (literally) over the hills to Florence, where all was almond blossoms and spring green—though we did have one little adventure, oh yes oh yes: first off, 10 [Tennessee] lost his typewriter and the mss. of his new play (still unrecovered, though expected momentarily); secondly, F. and the cabaneri (sp?) of Firenzi disagreed over certain traffic laws (less said about this etc.); and lastly, we slunk back into Rome to discover thieves had paid a call chez Williams for purposes of loot—said parties are now in the clink but 10 refuses to go there and identify them: some little something makes him suspect they are trade of fond remembrance.10, by the way, seems very well, a little restless perhaps; he is very devoted to F.—who is most certainly a kind, sweet boy. They are leaving Rome soon, either for Sicily or Paris: word has reached here that Maria B. [Britneva] is on her way.6 She writes 10 almost every day. Tell her please that I delivered the folder—but that if she sees me to stay clear as I will slap her in the tits and kick her down the Spanish steps: you should see the things she has written 10 about me! Quel bitch. I mean this, you tell her. She is a dreadful liar. Everyone here asks after Donny and wonders when he is coming back: they say he “fits in,” whatever that means. Are you coming, pet? We are leaving the first of the week for Sicily; heavens [sic] knows for how long, so do write me soon. The address: Bel Soggiorno, Taormina, Sicily. Love to you both
T
P.S. Donny, what happened at Knopf?
[Collection Beinecke Library, Yale University]
TO LEO LERMAN
March 25 1949
Pensione De Lustro
Forio D’ischia,
Naples, Italy
Leo Love—
Am settled at last my dear—on this strange, rather fantastic island off the coast from Naples: but Lord, what a series of journeys we had before reaching here—Paris, Venice, Florence, Perugia, Rome, Naples—some of it beautifully happy, but all of it cold. But this is a wonderful place; we have a charming apartment high-up overlooking the Meditternean [sic]; it is perhaps a little primitive (after dark we live by candle-light, a la 1453)7 and more than a little isolated, but I think it is a fine place to be: Paris and Rome are filled with more monsters than Huysmans8 ever concieved [sic] of. We decided against Sicily: all the reports were unvaryingly dismal and, aside from Forio being quite as beautiful, it has the added advantage of being a great deal cheaper—we live together for $2 a day including the apt, a maid, and all food (delicious). If Richard [Hunter] is taking a boat which lands in Naples tell him to come & visit us—tell him to come by in any event. Of course they will like the cities more. Rome and Paris are very expensive, though. The exchange for the Lira is dropping steadily. Tell them not to change their money until they reach Rome. I miss you Leo darling and hope always that you will be coming here. Write me all your news and send me all your love—as I send you mine
T.
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO CECIL BEATON
Pensione De Listro Cecil dearest— Forio D’ischia
Prov. Di Napoli, Italy
March 25 1949
After a voyage that was not so bon but certainly voyage, we arrived in Paris with raw tempers and even rawer colds—and looking for all the world like the Gish girls at their most pitiable moment. I tried twice calling Broadchalke 211: the first time with no success and on the second experiment I had quite a fuzzy conversation with some English dame who at length confirmed that this was not the residence of Mr Cecil Beaton. Alas, we went our way—to a snowy Venice, a rainy Florence, an expensive Rome, a crooked Naples—where we took the boat to this island—which is I must say another matter altogether: it is really very beautiful and strange: we have about a whole floor on the water-front overlooking the sea, the sun is diamond-hard and everywhere there is the pleasant Southern smell of wisteria and lemon leaves. I do so wish, dear heart, that you could fly here for a week or so: we could bathe all day (there are hot springs running into the sea) and laugh all night: think how charming you would look with a dark Italian tan. Or a dark Italian: there are many beauties of nature here. You were so delightfully starry-eyed that night you sailed: do you still twinkle? Please, I hope so. I am writing a book, and, silly goose that I am, I seem to think myself very happy—so perhaps I am. But happy or not, I miss you, sweet Cecil, and long so to see you. Write me—meanwhile,
mille tendresse [sic]
Truman
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
Pensione Di Lustro
Forio D’Ischia
Naples
March 28 1949
Darling—
Your letter, the one forwarded from Rome, came this morning—and was a joy, even though it contained that item from the magazine which once advertised itself as “not for the Old Lady from Dubuque”; on the contrary, she must now surely be the audience they are aiming at. Am much amused by the Mme’s McCarthy & Trilling.9
