I read ‘Look down In Mercy’ (the English Edition) and it ends with the officer committing suicide—it does not sound like the ending you mentioned.239 How did that end?
I know Walter Baxter—and he is so cheesy (not at all unlike Howard Rothchild [Rothschild]) that it deterred almost any feeling I might have had for the book—which did, amid a lot padding, have many touching and terrible scenes. Write soon. Love from Jack. Love from Kelly. And much, much love from T.
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO CECIL BEATON
[Taormina, Sicily]
August 16, 1952
Cecil dearest—
Bless you for the Angus Wilson—I’d been longing to read it.240 On the whole I liked it very much, it really has quite a charge for all its slickness. The N.Y. Times has asked me to review it when it comes out there—but I don’t believe in reviewing books. Or do you think I should?
It is so sad about Simon’s [Simon Fleet] little house—I think there must be a pyromaniac abroad in Wiltshire. Fulco [di Verdura] hints that Simon didn’t come here because Juliet [Duff] wouldn’t let him—which sounds a little farfetched to me.
As for news from the piazza—Fulco and his crowd seem to me like a rather desperate lot: so longing to have a good time, and yet not knowing quite how to go about it—they seem to sleep all day and play Canasta all night. There are many too many of them, and Fulco never stops complaining. Their house is hideous. I think Fulco is having an affair with a French boy (man) who has dyed blond hair and whose name is Jacque Something. I loathe the man called Hamish Erskine; he is profoundly repulsive. I do like Judy Montague [Montagu], and the young girl Sarah Roosevelt. Judy has a nice hearty openness. There was a woman called Mrs. Alexander who made a fool of herself trying, of all things, to put “in” with G. [Gayelord] Hauser. Hauser gave a huge party and didn’t invite any of them—they were mad as hornets. So they gave a costume party night before last. Jack wouldn’t go, but I went—much to my regret: it was terribly tacky—nothing to drink except a cheap wine punch and etc.
Saint [Subber] tried to phone the other day, but I refused to go down and sit in that office. I suppose he wanted to tell me he’s coming over here. I wish he wouldn’t. He ought to get to work—get a play and produce it; any play.
I have a new animal—a Raven. We have got it quite tamed now, and it really is very clever and amusing. It sits on my shoulder every evening on the terrace. Kelly hates it. It’s called Lola.
The heat is terrific—I simply pass into a coma every afternoon. But mornings and evenings are fine.
Darling, I wish you would hop a plane and come here next week. For heaven sakes why not?
We are going to be here until the 20th of September, then I want to go to Venice for a week or so. I can’t think beyond that—
I’m very sorry indeed to know that your mother has not been well—I do hope she has recovered.
I guess that is all the news for the moment, honey. Jack sends his love. I miss you greatly,
L O V E
T
P.S. Thanks so much about John Heyward; you were an angel to ask him; perhaps some other publisher will like the book.241 I do hope so.
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]
TO CECIL BEATON
[Taormina]
[Late August or early September 1952]
Cecil dearest—
All quiet on the Sicilian front: the merry-makers have vanished in a cloud of discontent and debt—even La Reine [Gayelord] Hauser departed leaving a string of unpaid bills: I suppose he thought he could get away with it for, as he told me, he does not intend ever to return to Taormina—a bit of news not received with the grief he might have wished. Fulco and Judy [Montagu] left under rather dismal circumstances, too. The fact is, poor Judy had just gotten out of jail—seems the police in Syracuse were not amused by her habit of speeding round the countryside without 1) a drivers license, 2) a passport, 3) a permisse de Seggiorno—so, along with several of her loutish companions, they tossed her into the jug; and Fulco managed to get them all released just in time to pack their bags, not pay their bills, and catch the plane for home. Well, I was sorry to see Judy go: for all her drawling inanities, her bad taste, her third-rate friends, her offensive clothes, her canasta mentality—for all that, she still seemed to me a thinking person, good-hearted and wanting to please: but then I’m always a sucker for this type: The Ugly Duckling Holding Her Own. So ends the summer. Amen.
After having opened that cable from the mad Saint [Subber], I’m amazed you still do have your young secretary. What I would like to know is: who sends those cables for him? Surely he hasn’t the guts to walk into a Western Union office and hand over such a message in person! Bye the bye, I rather fear he will be headed this way toward the end of the month, and I strongly suggest you put up storm windows at 8 Pelham Place. For my own sake, I pray to god he doesn’t bring The Tar Baby with him.242 Because I will not, no never again, put up with the boredom of that.
Darling, I will be thinking of you on the 12th—I wish for you all a wonderful opening, and a great success.243 I’m too broke to send you a cable, much less a Cartier token—but you know I love you anyway, don’t you? And won’t you please give my good wishes to the Lunts?
Lola, the Raven, is in here pecking at my head—she’s a violent creature. Kelly is downstairs barking at a horse. Jack is in the kitchen making coffee—I guess I’d better get up and begin the day. Write me soon, precious
Love
T
P.S. We are leaving here around the 20th. When do you go to N.Y.?
[Collection St. John’s College, Cambridge University]
TO ANDREW LYNDON
[Taormina, Sicily]
Sept 6 1952
Dearest Heart—
You’ve been so long silent—I wonder if a letter from you went astray. Anyway, I’ve been brooding about you, and missing you and wanting to know how everything is. I want so to hear from you before I leave here—on the 20th—I will probably be in Rome (just for a day or two) on the 22nd and you could write me there. (American Express). After that, our plans are a little vague. We may go to Copenhagen. I don’t want to come home until I’ve finished this play—I wonder if you will like it. To which purpose I know I ought to stay in Taormina—but for the moment I’m really very tired of it.
Two weeks ago Frankie Merlo descended without warning and sans Tennesee [Tennessee] who is off sucking cock in Germany. I thought Frankie would a) never stop talking, and b) never leave. Finally I convinced him to get on a train. Bless Jesus we’re leaving before Bob & Olga [Dunphy] can possibly put in an appearance. Have I told you about Lola? Lola is a big black Raven who came to live with us—a mad, marvellous creature, terribly affectionate; we’re taking her with us.244 Kelly hates her.
Darling, will you call Nina and tell her two things. 1) Will she please give my tweed overcoat to Saint to bring to me here, and 2) The Grass Harp is being televised Sept 17th on the Kraft Theatre Hour.
Had a letter from Pearl Kazin who said she’d met Phoebe on the street. Of course Pearl, with her usual generosity, gave a very negative report, but I take it Phoebe is still at the Vendome. What is the Vendome? A restaurant? I do wish I knew her address, as I would like to write her.
Have you heard from Newton? I suppose he is happily established in Cambridge. Here’s one bird who’ll never visit him there. I wouldn’t set foot in Boston if my life depended on it.
Jack is very well and says give you his best love. Write me all your news, precious. I miss you muchly. Love galore
T
P.S. Who is the friend of yours that took B & O’s (how accurate those initials are) apt.?
[Collection New York Public Library]
TO ROBERT LINSCOTT
Taormina, Sicily
Sept 7 1952
Dear Bob—
So happy to have your letter; it seemed such a while since I’d had a steadying word from you. I hope, in fact I know, your summer was better than mine. But I shall not go on about it, at least it’s nearly over, the summer I mean, and I am leaving here on the 20th—I will be in Rome on the 22nd for two days and you can write me there c/o American Express. I will let you know a more permanent address when I know it myself.
Even so, I have done quite a lot of work. I’ve written half of a play which I think you will like, and about forty pages of my novel. I would like to finish the play and have a hundred pages of the book before coming home (after Christmas). I may want an advance—I don’t know yet.
Of course you know Marian Ives is closing her agency. I am sorry for her—but, well, you know how I feel about it. I do not intend to have
