Pearl is flourishing—though a little frostbitten from time to time. She is working very hard, and I liked the one story I’ve seen. Leo seems to have been the springboard for the main character, but just that, for really it is not him. Pearl has certain qualms about it for fear people would say it was you, and I daresay they would: the physical facts are so like you: all the same I said she should show it to you and see what you thought, so maybe she will.166
From the few reports we hear, Marylou seems to be handling the situation; my instincts about her are good; I think she will live with a great deal more direction in the future.
Jack is fine, and sends his love; so does old Kelly dog. Now both of you write me—long letters full of LOW gossip. I miss you. Love—Love—Love
and
Love
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO JOHN MALCOLM BRINNIN
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina, Sicily
January 7 1951
Malcolm dear—
Last week I was in Venice for a few days: so beautiful, a little snow falling on the Grand Canal, piazza San Marco vast and empty, a great burst of warmth when you opened the door of Harry’s bar—I thought of you, and meant to send a card. But a letter is best, for I have many things to mention. It is spring here in Sicily: the whole valley is awash with almond blossoms, and we can have lunch on the Terrace again. Pearl [Kazin] is still here—your mutual friend, D. [Dylan] Thomas, has gone to Persia; but apparently he and Pearl are meeting the middle of next month in London.167 C’est vrai amour.
About Jack: he has been so happy over your interest in his book, it means a good deal to him I think. He has delayed about sending the mss. for several reasons: but mainly it is because we have been so touch-and-go about coming home, and he thought it would be best if he brought it with him. He has written a great deal more, and I believe it is going to be a very extraordinary novel indeed. Now it seems we are coming home: in March. I hate to, but with the war climate so dark I suppose Americans should be in their own country. Anyway, Jack will show you the mss. when we get there.
As you probably know, Newton has gone to the University of Ohio—at an INCREDIBLE salary.168 I hope he never goes back to Smith.
Marylou seems, at least in the letters, to have a fine hold on herself. Maybe people will listen to me hereafter; after all, everything I predicted, down to the fact that he would try to kill her, came true.169 Though it is hardly the kind of prophesy [sic] one enjoys having proved. Do you see her at all? I hope so.
We had a ghastly experience here with Robert Horan (only please don’t mention this). He tried to kill himself, and very nearly did: sleeping pills.170 I got the brunt of the whole thing, doctors, police,—couldn’t do anything else for ten days. Finally we unburdened him on Gian-Carlo M. Poor Menotti—he really has a suffering time. But I feel sorrier for Horan; he’s simply hopeless.
I’m somewhat more than half-way through my book. If I am very patient and concentrated, I certainly should finish it this summer.
Everyone writes what a great success your Poetry Center series is. I suppose it is too late to be on the program. I would like to—towards the latter part of April—and provided they would give me 200. If you could arrange it, let me know. I have the most beautiful new suit (olive velvet) and I must have some place to show it off.
Give my love to Bill [Read]. How I wish you both were here—sitting in the sun. Do please write me—return post, hear. Much love, little blue eyes
T
[Collection University of Delaware Library]
TO WILLIAM GOYEN
Fontana Vecchia
Taormina, Sicily
January 19, 1951
Bill dear—
I’m so happy you are leaving Chicago. You will like Yaddo, I’m almost certain. And now, I think, would be a good time to go—so few people. I often think of going back to Yaddo—but am a little afraid to because it was such a turning point in my life. But it is a wonderful place to work, I know you will finish your book. Lord that I could finish mine—but I’m no where near; heaven knows when that beautiful day will be. I love your title, Ghost and Flesh. How I long to read it. Tell me, is it a short book? Yes, Pearl is still here, but she is leaving early next month for Germany where she will be a week, and then flying home.
I don’t know where to begin telling you about Bob Horan. He was here about two months, and I grew very fond [of] him. It was obvious on what perilous ground he stood, but through some failure of insight I didn’t foresee in what direction this would lead. Suddenly, in early December, his behaviour became, for the first time, really alarming. If we asked him here for dinner he just never would go home. One morning I came downstairs and found him still sitting up in the freezing cold living-room. Also he began showing rather marked hostilities towards Jack—it very nearly reached the point where Jack could not express an opinion. Finally we did not see him for 3 or 4 days—although I went to his hotel and left notes etcetera. One night the hotel sent me an emergency message. Bob had taken a box of sleeping pills, but had got sick and thrown up a lot; also the Doctor gave him caffein [sic] shots. So for several days I was there as a kind of nurse-companion. Bob just kept saying how much he loved Gian-Carlo, wanted to be with him, didn’t want to live without him. But undoubtedly you know what that situation is about. Well, we got in touch with G-C, who is in Milan where they are doing his opera tomorrow night, and it was arranged that Bob was to go there—because I could no longer take the responsibility. He was well enough by Christmas eve to come here to Fontana—where he promptly collapsed. For three days I couldn’t leave him because he said he was going to kill himself anyway. Frankly, my dear, I was getting tired. I couldn’t work, hadn’t worked in weeks, and the whole house was in turmoil. On Tuesday, when he was supposed to leave for Milan, he suddenly told me he couldn’t possibly do so: dear God, I saw weeks more of it stretching before me. The only solution I could see was for me to take him to Milan. It was a hair-raising trip—I can’t possibly write all the details now.
The rest of the story is just too sad and sordid. When we finally got to the hotel in Milan G-C. wasn’t there. He was at a rehearsal. I could have killed him. But Bob, for his part, was dramatizing the situation as much as possible. When G.C. at last turned up Bob was incredibly insolent to him—made him out to be a monster of ambition and stupidity. And there was G-C jumping around pretending it was all a joke.
Then came the really sickening denouement. G-C came to my room, his face white as cold cream. All in a burst he said: Bob was ruining his life, that he’d spent $2,000 a month since he’d come to Europe and B’s extravagances were taking all his money—but that none of this mattered so long as he did not have to go to bed with him, that for the last few years B forced him to make love and afterwards he, G.C., had to go and throw up. He also said that he was terribly in love with somebody else—some young American boy—and he was terrified of B’s finding out.171
Well you can see that it was hopeless. Bob kept pleading with me to know what Gian-Carlo had said: did G.C. love him? I wanted to die myself. In a sick and twisted way B. does love Gian-Carlo; but he also loves the Mt. Kisco house, the life there. But G.C. says he will do anything in the world for Bob except live with him again.
I couldn’t bear anymore, and left the next morning. Since then I’ve not heard one word from any of them—and I’m a little sore about it, too. Because I had to pack and forward all of Bob’s luggage and pay over a hundred dollars worth of debts. I sent Gian-Carlo a bill for it more than 3 weeks ago—not a word. Of course that is an irrelevant detail, and I shouldn’t mention it. But the total picture would be incomplete without this squalid little epilogue.
Darling, I hope my account of all this does not strike you as unsympathetic, unfeeling. But the truth is my feeling has been exhausted—and since those concerned are close to you I know you would rather have a straight, rather than sentimental, story.172 I’m sure I need not say that all I’ve written is for you alone—though of course I know you will never make any reference to it.
I love you Bill. In this new year I wish all good things upon your dear head. Write me, precious.
T.
P.S. It isn’t definite, but I may come home in early April.
