If you have any long-playing records that you don’t want please send them to us.
Are Saint and Robbie together—?229 Saint never mentions him in the few letters I’ve had.
Love to Gray, and Love to you, and Love from Jack and Love from Kelly and Love Love Love from
T
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO LEO LERMAN
Taormina,
July 2 [1952]
Leo dearheart—
At first I didn’t know what you were talking about—I’d quite forgotten Pearl’s story: and I think you should, too.230 I maintain what I did when I originally read it: that the story, or essay, is not about you, anymore than a parody of me is about me.231 This is the sort of thing that happens, though happily you have avoided it until now: I’ve been bitten so often that antiserum flows in my veins. Lord knows Pearl has done you a disservice—but mainly an artistic one. I know that you have been hurt, precious, and Gray, too, because he loves you; but if possible I think you ought not to hold it against Pearl—I’m sure she is quite miserable. At any rate, very few people will see the story—not of course that that is the point. What is so wretched is that you should have read it when you have been having so many troubles. Darling, I hope that all your surgery is over, and you can look forward to the rest of the summer in comparative peace.
Taormina is peaceful enough all right: not a bloody thing happening. I work all morning and in the afternoons continue to be the local underwater fishing champion—you’d love me with my water-mask and spear-gun. So butch. Every day I remind myself that you and Gray may be coming here—we can’t wait. Jack wants to send love to you both—Kelly would too, except he’s off chasing rabbits somewhere. Kisses for Gray.
I love you: so does
all the nation
T
P.S. Write me
[Collection Columbia University Library]
TO CECIL BEATON
Taormina, Sicily
July 1952
Cecil darling—
Am writing in the middle of a fierce sudden storm—hailstones large as your thumb: it seems all very strange, for I can’t recall having seen so much as a drop of dew during a Sicilian summer. On the whole, the weather has been marvelous—not really too hot at all. We have taken up underwater fishing very seriously—have an extraordinary new mask, as well as the one you left, and shoes, guns—we transport tons of equipment to the beach. I’ve been a real devotee—awfully solemn about the whole thing.
Darling, I’m so happy everything turned out so well in Manchester. I long to see it, and your sets, especially the clamber-rose. I hope you make stacks of money. Was very amused by Saint sending the Cartier token; I think it was sweet—and can’t understand what the Wilsons’ [sic] mean by saying ‘he only does it to humiliate us.’ As a matter of fact, I’m really fascinated by this remark—what does it mean?
Just had to go downstairs and help Jack rescue the terrace furniture—all being overturned and blown away. Am drenched!
I wish I could entice you to spend your August holiday with us—after all, it’s only a little plane ride. You can have any room you want, and anybody in it—and there is something Really Remarkable stalking the streets.
Would it be possible for you to speak to John Heyward (sp?) and ask him if he would read Jack’s book and if he liked it reccomend [sic] it to the Cresset Press? The Cresset Press turned it down—but Marylou Aswell said they will probably reconsider if Heyward reccomended it to them.
Thank you for the Avedon snaps—but I look so fat in them—and really I’ve lost pounds.
I’m working every day on the play—I wonder what you will think. To tell the truth, I’m delighted your play is not going to be done in summer stock—I was always against the idea—but I’m really delighted with the thought of a N.Y. production. Am keeping my fingers crossed.
Honey, pack your clothes and come back here to those who love you: Jack, Kelly.
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]
TO CECIL BEATON
July 12, 1952
Cecil dearest—
We were all delighted with the pictures—Anne especially. I’ve intended writing you every day, but really so little has happened here—except a carabiniere on a motorcycle ran into the car and partly demolished it. However, it has been fixed now and we are again riding to the beach (Isola Balla [Bella], where we rented a little boat for the summer).
I finished the story, but am not too pleased with it and at least shall keep it a while longer.
Had a two page cable from the Saint yesterday. He is very anxious to come over here and seems to feel he needs a visa from me. Christ! But I just don’t want to see him until I have done enough work to feel less vulnerable.232 Speaking of which, our friend [Arnold] Weissberger telephoned me—but I refused to go to the telephone office.233
Darling, at this moment you are probably off battling the Lunts in some remote province. I’m assuming the play has opened. You must write me every tiny detail. I know it will be a great success, and a triumph for you.
Are you going to the states?
The Verdura set have not arrived, but suppose they will be along presently. I wonder what they’re going to sleep on or with. The house they’ve rented hasn’t a stick of furniture.
Something far more interesting than the Panther has turned up. Something in fact really fabulous. If you don’t go to the states, come back! Come back!
The weather has been really quite wonderful—cool and crystal. Even Anne has stopped complaining.
Did you see [Katharine] Hepburn? What was it like? Please tell me if Constance Collier is still at the Hotel Connaught—and if so what is the Connaught’s address?
I miss you, precious one. Everyone sends their love, especially Jack. Write soon, honey.
Love
T
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]
TO DONALD WINDHAM
Taormina, Sicily
August 4, ’52
Donny love,
This long silence was due not to a lack of affection—but infection. I was feeling right porely there for quite a spell. Anyway, I’ve missed not hearing from you.
I wish I had read your book, for this way I can really have no opinion, except I hope Rupert Hart-Davis took it. But I’m glad you are working on a new book—you are a real writer. You said you had written a play—I would love to see it; have you shown it to anyone yet?
You ask about the folks here; it seems all so much the same—except there are more cafés, more tourists, and Carlo Panarello has opened a nightclub. That boy Enzio has gone to Brazil to join his father. The Panther no longer parades the beaches: he got involved in a great scandal by trying to ‘blackmail’ one of Gayelord Hauser’s guests, and the police told him to stay out of Taormina.234 Chicho, the football player (Sylvia Bombaro’s boyfriend) has taken up whoring and according to those who are interested makes himself very available on a trip to see the grotto. Bobby Pratt-Barlow has been very miserable all year, due to two things 1) a really horrible American called Culver Sherrill stole his little boyfriend Beppé—and thus divided the whole town into an absolute war: those for Bobby, and those for Sherrill—Sherrill is very rich and bought a villa here; 2) he is the ‘hero’ of Aubrey Menen’s novel ‘Duke of Gallodoro’ and Bobby feels very betrayed by Menen—actually, it’s a bad and silly book, only worth reading because of one terribly funny scene. The Campbell-Wood’s [sic] are still dispensing boredom and latte di capra. I have a simply wonderful story to tell you about Giovanni Panarello: but it is very long and I will only do it if you write me a three-page letter. Kelly is biting more dogs than ever, and Jack insulting more people.
I think we will go to Venice toward the end of September. I don’t know whether Merlo and Williams Inc. are in Italy or not—never hear of them, not even in the Rome Daily American—which paper, by the way, is worse than ever: they have a new column called ‘Roamin’ Forum.’!! ***
Love to Sandy, and congratulations on his selling his article to the Bazaar. Love from Jack, and Kelly, and
Me
[Collection Beinecke Library, Yale University]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
[Taormina, Sicily]
[Summer 1952]
Andrew darling—
This morning I woke up thinking about you, remembering all sorts of sweet things, and I thought now today I’m going to write my precious magnolia a letter and tell her how much I love her and miss her.
For in truth there is nothing else to tell you. Kelly has fleas. Jack got a haircut. I’m reading ‘To the Lighthouse’235 and when it’s not too hot tinkering with my pen: mostly it’s too hot. I said I would never, could never, go through another Sicilian summer—alas, I don’t listen to myself: a great failing.
I suppose you’ve heard about the apparently battle-to-the-death being waged between Pearl & Leo. Because of the really ghastly bad story she wrote about him and published in the current Botteghe Oscure. Leo has vowed to drive her from New York, and according to Pearl he has so far prevented her from getting two jobs. Myself, I have no side. I think they both are quite, quite expendable.
Well, I take it the Robert Dunphys are heading this way.236 But over my dead body will they ever set foot inside questo casa [sic]! I do loathe that Olga woman.237 I must say she wrote Jack’s sister (who sent it to him) an hilarious letter—quite unintentional: a dead-earnest account of spending an evening in the exalted company of Freddie Bartholomew.238 (!!!)
Dear heart, what has been happening along employment
