by Wendy Leigh
How exciting for you to meet Churchill—I would love to meet him one day, as he is one of my heroes—along with Mr. G.
Love,
Martha
__________________________
* For the first time in his life, when Jack was confronted with the possibility of losing Marilyn to Rainier, he was compelled to face the fact that Marilyn—out of all the legions of women in his thrall—had infiltrated his carefully constructed facade. Consequently, at this time, he directed all his emotions, charm, and tenderness toward her.
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
Martha Marshall
2 Sutton Place
New York, New York
December 20, 1955
Dear Martha,
I have been meaning to write to you for the longest time, but today heard something that made it imperative for me to pick up my pen at last.
Rainier has finally chosen his bride—and she is none other than Grace! Jack was a trifle miffed when he heard the news and, under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, muttered, “She would have married me if I had asked her.”* I had great difficulty in stifling a smile!
I am afraid I am dashing this letter off in great haste, as I gave Jack a faithful promise that I would sail with him to Hobe Sound this afternoon, just the two of us, for once, without the horrendous sisters. All too inviting an opportunity to miss!
I hope you will have a happy and prosperous New Year and that all your dreams will come true in 1956.
Warmest regards,
Josephine
__________________________
* “Jack was a consummate actor—the best,” wrote Charles Cabot-Winthrop III, who was present when Jack and Jackie read in the newspaper that Grace was engaged. “Of course, he already knew about the engagement from Grace herself. But he threw Jackie the bone of pretending to be jealous. Clever, that. Making Jackie think she had scored points, when all along it was Jack who was doing the scoring. Typical of him. In control, always. Except, perhaps, when it came to Marilyn. Because, really, for Jack, no matter how many he had (and he had plenty), deep down where he really lived, it was always Marilyn, and he knew it.” (See Forever Jack by Charles Cabot-Winthrop III [Washington, D.C.: Hookstead House Books, 1965].)
2 Sutton Place
New York, New York
Josephine Kendall
Hickory Hill
McLean, Virginia
March 15, 1956
Dear Josephine,
It’s three in the morning, I can’t sleep, and I want you to he the first to know the reason why. Tonight I went to the opening of My Fair Lady, the Lerner and Low [sic] musical, and finally made up my mind to marry him at last.
Not Mr. G, because I wouldn’t have him anymore, even if he crawled over broken glass, naked. When he thought I was going to marry Rainea [sic], for a few weeks, he was everything I have ever wanted—except not married, but that is too much to ask, I know. He treated me as if—to quote Romeo and Juliet, the play I am studying with Lee Strasberg—I was spangled with stars.” But then, as soon as he knew that Rainea [sic] was definately [sic] marrying Grace and not me, he was back to his old ways again. No more compliments, no more red roses, no more midnight calls. Just the same old G. And I couldn’t bear it.
My new analyst, Dr. Brandt, says I definately [sic] shouldn’t blame myself because G is a classic narcessist [sic], a loner whose defenses I temporarily penetrated but who, when he was sure of me again, reverted back to his old pattern. G’s armor, he said, was once more firmly in place, and I didn’t have a hope in hell—my language, not his—of penetrating it again, unless I found another love with whom to threaten him. But that isn’t why I picked Arthur. I picked Arthur because I want to spend the rest of my life with him. Arthur, as in Arthur Mliller. Writing his name sends shivers up and down my spine. …
We met many years ago—he spent the entire evening just stroking my toes—I was too young, too dumb, and too much in love with Mr. G to really appreciate him. Now I realize what a wonderful, brilliant, and insightful man he is. My very own Professor Higgins.
He is so different from Joe. I once gave Joe a gold medallion engraved with that saying from the Little Prince—”True love is visible not to the eyes, but to the heart, for eyes may be deceived.” Joe just looked at it as if it were written in Korean—which he doesn’t even speak. I tried to explain the Little Prince to him, tried to teach him, but he didn’t want to learn. Not that, not anything. But now the tables are turned. Now Arthur teaches me instead. But I am in love with ALL of him, not just his mind. And loving him has made me feel so special, knowing that someone as brilliant as him loves me back.
Nothing will be announced in the press for quite a while, so please keep my secret secret, like we always do. But do tell Jack, if you like, and wish him luck in his run against Stevenson. Lots of it, and yourself, too.
Love,
M
P.S. Please forgive me for forgetting the most important thing—Grace marrying Rainea [sic]. I am so glad, and I’ll bet you that from now on, Jack will be faithful to you again forever.
Hickory Hill
McLean, Virginia
Martha Marshall
Old Tophet Road
Roxbury, Connecticut
March 20, 1956
Dearest Martha,
I know from the press that you are in Phoenix filming Bus Stop (and really admired those pictures of you in the rodeo), but assume this will ultimately reach you.
First of all, I want you to know that I am utterly delighted that you have chosen Arthur Miller as your husband. I’ve admired his work for as long as I can remember, know that he is an erudite and charming man, and am thrilled that you finally have found the mentor and the husband whom you so richly deserve.
In many ways, Martha, strange as this may sound, I almost envy you the wonderful opportunities which you now have at your disposal for learning from an older, wiser man who can guide and teach you.
For while I adore Jack, as far as our relationship is concerned, I am the teacher, but merely in sartorial terms—as before we met, his style of dress was generally crumpled and boyish, as opposed to suave and sophisticated. There is little reciprocity. All in all, had life turned out differently, it is highly likely that (much as I love Jack) I would have opted to marry a Professor Higgins of my own. …
On reflection, though, Martha, please don’t pay too much attention to my meanderings. They are, in part, prompted by the fact that I am pregnant again but, instead of resting, am on the campaign trail with Jack. He craves victory so strongly that I feel I have very little choice but to support him, albeit that our private life is virtually nonexistent. The house is always full of his political associates or his family—which, to all intents and purposes, practically amounts to the same thing. Sometimes, I feel as if I am running a small hotel.
Through it all, I am still haunted by the fear of Jack’s infidelity. You were kind to reassure me that now that Grace is married, he will once more be faithful to me, but frankly, I don’t see the connection, as I don’t believe Grace is still one of his paramours.
Whatever the case, all my focus must now be on the baby.
In the meantime, please know that I am thinking of you and wishing you and Arthur much happiness in your new life together.
With my warmest regards,
J
P.S. What does Mr. G say about your marriage?
__________________________
Jackie wrote in her diary, “Mailed a congratulatory letter to MM but, on reflection, think my pregnancy must have temporarily unhinged my mind. Arthur Miller, indeed! Well, yes, he is an intellect, and a great playwright, but he is hardly an Adonis, nor a charmer of Jack’s caliber. … Still, I wish her well, and hope that she will, at last, find peace.”
Senator and Mrs. John F. Kennedy
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
Mr. and Mrs. Arthu
r Miller
Old Tophet Road
Roxbury, Connecticut
July 5, 1956
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Miller,
Please accept this gift as a small token of our esteem, which brings with it our congratulations on your marriage and our best wishes for your future happiness.
With warm regards,
Senator Kennedy and Jacqueline Kennedy
MR. AND MRS. ARTHUR MILLER
Parkside House
Englefield Green
Egham
Surrey
England
Senator and Mrs. John F. Kennedy
Hickory Hill
WcLean, Virginia
August 6, 1956
Dear Senator and Mrs. Kennedy,
Arthur and I were thrilled with the beautiful silver Cartier picture frame. We would love it if you would send us a photograph of yourselves—as neither of us can think of anyone else’s picture we would rather have in such a beautiful frame.
Love,
Marilyn and Arthur
Parkside House
Englefield Green
Egham
Surrey
England
Josephine Kendall
Hickory Hill
WcLean, Virginia
August 11, 1956
Dear J,
Your picture frame was lovely, thank you. I only wish I could write you the kind of glowing, happy letter a new bride is supposed to write, but I am glad that I have a true friend with whom I can be myself and be, honest.
I think I may have made a terrible mistake in marrying Arthur. I already felt that way the day before our marriage, but it was too late. So, here I am in England with Arthur, making Prince and the Showgirl, with Sir Olivier—or is it against him? Sir Olivier, I mean. Or perhaps I mean Arthur, I don’t know anymore—at times, they feel like one person, both of whom despise me.
Before I forget, you asked what Mr. G thinks of my marriage. Well, at first he said all the friendly and encouraging things, and wished me luck. But now that he knows how wrong everything is, he is right here for me. Not here, exactly, but not too far, and maybe … if I am lucky, this weekend … but I had better not jinx it by writing any more. Not that I don’t trust you, just that things have been so tough, and I am so desperate to see him.
Part of it is Sir Olivier. Maybe if I wasn’t married to Arthur, and we could have taken things somewhere personal—I know he doesn’t love Vivien Leigh anymore, I can tell and it’s really sad—things might have worked out better between us. After all, I was so thrilled to be working with the greatest actor alive, and I really did believe that he wanted to work with me as well.
Instead, he says all the right things in his snooty British voice—”How simply ravishing, my angel, how divine, all that kind of stuff—when all the time he looks at me as if I were a pile of bad fish and he is about to throw up all over me.
For a while, I tried being Marilyn and funny. You know, when he first said “fuck” in front of me, I played Her, opened my eyes real wide, and said, “Gee, do they have that in England too?” Trouble is, Sir Olivier thought I was for real and didn’t laugh.
I hate acting with him—acting at him is what it feels like. Meanwhile, Arthur seems to be more on Sir Olivier’s side than on mine. Neither he nor O is anything like I thought he would be—wise and strong, like Mr. D’Arcy [sic] or Max de Winter. Just patronizing and old, and derizzive [sic]. All of which makes me want to be bad. Just to test them. Or are they testing me? I am not sure. Only that I don’t like it.
Isn’t life disillusioning?
Good luck with the campaign, and tell Jack good luck from me as well.
Love,
Marilyn
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
Martha Marshall
Parkside House
Englefield Green
Egham
Surrey
England
August 19, 1956
Dear Martha,
Yes, you are right, life is disillusioning. I am eight months pregnant, yet Jack is off on a Mediterranean cruise with his cronies. I try and console myself with all those clichés about boys being boys and so forth, but sometimes it is difficult.
A couple of days ago, I was by his side at the Democratic Convention, supporting him, shaking countless hands, and smiling a myriad of bright smiles, despite the great heat and my considerable discomfort, both with the climate and the activity. When Stevenson won, naturally, I was on hand to console Jack as well. Yet now he has left for France, and I am here, in the sweltering Palm Beach heat, waiting.
But I don’t want to bore you with my complaints and did want to say that I so admired your photograph on the cover of Time and that, as always, you looked lovely. At the same time, it struck me forcibly that it is probably far better for a woman to be a person in her own right, with her own career (despite such vicissitudes as Olivier), rather than merely being the frame to some man’s picture.
So Jack is off on his cruise and his own adventures. Leaving me to wait here until the baby is due. Before I end, I must say how sad I found it to learn from you that Olivier is no longer in love with Vivien Leigh. Has her beauty faded, or do you sense other reasons why he should fall out of love with her after such a grand passion? When you have time, do write and tell me all about her.
Love,
J
__________________________
On August 17, the same day as Jack lost his bid to become vice president, Marilyn chanced upon Arthur’s notebook, in which he had confided his deep disillusionment with her. Devastated, and already yearning for Jack, she sent him a distraught message, suggesting they meet in Paris, if only for one night. Unable to resist Marilyn’s charms, as well as the urgency of her plea, on August 25, Jack slipped away from his cruise and (after Marilyn flew to Paris incognito, under the alias of Zelda Green) spent one night with her at the Ritz. (See My Summer with Marilyn [Honolulu: Baynards Press, 1965], the memoirs of Delia Hamilton, Marilyn’s personal assistant during The Prince and the Showgirl.) In the meantime, on August 23, unbeknownst to Jack, who couldn’t be reached for a week, Jackie gave birth to a stillborn child.
Parkside House
Englefield Green
Egham
Surrey
England
Josephine Kendall
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
August 31, 1956
Dear Josephine,
I am so extremely sorry about your stillborn baby. I ran into Peter at the studio and he told me. I couldn’t stop crying when I thought of it struggling to live, then failing and dying. I feel terrible. I hope Jack does, too. He should have been by your side, instead of in Europe having fun. Whoever was with him—his friends or whoever—must feel terrible. I know God probably will punish them in the end.
But I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you decided to end the marriage. I definately [sic] have deep doubts about mine, deeper every day. Arthur treats me as if I were even less than Eliza Doolittle was before she met Higgins. I am pregnant again—I wish it was Mr. G’s, but he can relax, because it can’t be (in Paris I took care of him) … and I don’t think the baby will make things better between Arthur and me. All he really loves is writing. And maybe money.
You asked me about Vivien Leigh. In a way, I wish I had never met her, because she isn’t Lady Hamilton or Scarlett at all. Maybe that sounds silly coming from me, being an actress and knowing that it is all fake, but I do feel that way. I so wanted her to be wonderful, and she isn’t. She’s beautiful and scared, fragile and frosty. She drinks a lot—and why not, being married to Sir Olivier—is overshadowed by him, and is almost like a shadow herself.
More than anything else, she makes me terrified of growing old in this business. When we arrived here, the producer, Terrenz [sic] Rattigun [sic] gave a party in my honor. Everyone was there, Tyrone Power (very dark and gorgeous, a bit like Gable, and if I didn
’t have Arthur, and didn’t love Mr. G …), Margot Fonteyn, Sir John Geelgood [sic], Peggy Ashcroft, and Sybil Thorndike. The garden was decorated with Chinese lanterns, they served lobster, and it was lovely, except at the last minute, Vivien didn’t show up. Later, I found out that it was because her dress didn’t fit. Then on another day, she refused to pose with me for a picture. Very politely, but firmly, and I guess it was because I’m younger. I feel so sorry for her, but I can’t help wondering how I’ll feel when I’m her age, and I’m not nearly as beautiful as she is.
Arthur is at the door, I have to go. I am so sorry about the baby,
Love,
Martha
P.S. I don’t know why Sir Olivier has fallen out of love with Vivien. I don’t think he has anyone else. And even if he did, he might still love her a little.
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
Martha Marshall
Roxbury, Connecticut
November 21, 1956
Dear Martha,
I am extremely sorry that I haven’t communicated with you recently, but life stood still for me when my baby was born dead. This may sound a trifle strange, but although my baby never saw the light of day, to me she—and it was a girl—was already a person.
All during the nine months when I was carrying her, I was constructing a dream future for her. I imagined her to grow up being a combination of Jack, my father, and me. I pictured her first smile, her first word, and all the years to come.
When the doctor told me she was dead, all feeling drained out of me.
Worst of all, Jack was not there to share my anguish.
