by Wendy Leigh
If I have been too emotional in my sentiments, please understand. In fact, I should appreciate if, in your next letter, to which I am naturally looking forward to, you do not allude to my darkest hour. I know I must go on.
I’ve been thinking of you so much recently, particularly as Lee and I are about to go on a trip to Paris and your Mr. G lives there. Wouldn’t it be strange if we met him, without knowing it? Or Mrs. G, for that matter. Does Mr. G talk about her, or give you any clue as to her appearance or anything else about her?
Forgive me for rambling, though—I was a bit tired yesterday what with preparing for the trip and Thanksgiving. My main reason for writing (and I have been intending to for ages, but things have been heating up in terms of Jack’s political career) is to say that I hope you and Arthur have managed to work things out and that you are happier.
If we don’t write before the end of the year, please believe me when I say that I will be wishing you a happy 1957 and that I have a strong sense that next year will be wonderful for you.
Warm regards,
J
P.S. I apologize for being somewhat cryptic as regards Jack’s career—but you will read about it soon enough, so … Spurred on by his father and the rest of the family, as well as by his own abiding ambitions, he is definitely going to make a run for the Presidency. Am still mulling over the consequences, but shall, of course, support him all the way.
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
Josephine Kendall
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
March 17, 1957
Dear Josephine,
I am sorry not to have written before, but I’ve been really doing all I can to make things work with Arthur—and I think we are starting to be happy at last.
Men are so difficult to figure, aren’t they? But, of course, you know that, and I remember you saying so, in different words, when we met all that time ago in L.A. Most of everything that went wrong between Arthur and me was really my fault. I really thought that because Arthur is so much older, and so brilliant, I could depend on him for everything, that he would take care of me just like my father would have done, had I had one. But it turned out that he needs taking care of just as much as—and maybe more than—I do. So that is what I am doing, and I like it.
You asked about Mr. G and Mrs. G—which was so kind of you—but really, now that I am trying to make things work with Arthur, Mr. G isn’t on my mind much anymore. Still, to answer your questions. Mrs. G is small and doll-like and blonde (Mr. G said), with violet eyes. He once said we have similar voices, but I think he was just kidding around, and I didn’t appreciate it, because I do know that my voice is unique.
By the way, what do you think about Elizabeth Taylor marrying Mike Todd? I liked him a lot when I met him—remember, the pink elephant—and, had I not fallen for Arthur or loved Mr. G, might have gone for him myself. He certainly knows how to put on a show—15,000 flowers at the wedding, oceans of champagne, and mountains of caviar, they said in the papers. Elizabeth is very lucky.
So, by the way, is Brigitte Bardot. I don’t know if you’ve seen And God Created Woman, but I heard from Dee Dee Crawford—who did her makeup for the London premiere, where we met when I was over there—that Roger Vadim guides her career every step of the way. I wish Arthur was like that. I guess, though, I’ll just have to guide my own career, like I always have. Except when Mr. G gives me advice.
Speaking, I mean, writing, about careers—I’m working real hard at the Actors Studio. The other day, had to sing “I’ll Get By As Long as I Have You” to the class, and suddenly burst into tears. For a moment, I didn’t know why, but then realized it was because of Mr. G and that I don’t have him. But I do love him a lot.
I hope you don’t think I am crazy feeling that way, and that you will never ever show any of my letters to Jack. I am sure you won’t.
Take care of yourself.
Love,
M
__________________________
When Jackie received Marilyn’s letter, she wrote in her diary, “Strange letter from MM, veering between love and disdain for Arthur Miller, and harking back to ‘Mr. G’ far too often to render her avowed love for Arthur the least bit convincing. Then a bizarre plea that I not show the letter to Jack. In any event, he is far too busy and self-absorbed right now (and probably always) to pay attention to anyone or anything except politics. His true mistress … ”
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
Martha Marshall
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
March 28, 1957
Dearest Martha,
Just a brief note to assure you that I would never dream of showing any of your letters to Jack or, indeed, discussing the contents with him or anyone else. As far as I am concerned, our correspondence is private and confidential, and you have my word.
In haste, and with great affection.
Yours,
Josephine
MR. AND MRS. ARTHUR MILLER
Stoney Hill Farm
Amagansett, New York
Jacqueline Kennedy
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
August 4, 1957
Dear Jackie,
Arthur and I want to send you our deepest sympathies on the death of your dear father, Jack Bouvier. He sounded like a wonderful man and I am only sorry that we never had the opportunity of meeting him. I am sure he was extremely proud of you and loved you very much.
In sympathy,
Marilyn and Arthur
P.S. If there is anything I can do, please let me know and I will do it.
P.P.S. Have just lost my baby. Am getting accustomed, though, to the idea I shall never be a mother. Perhaps it is for the best—the baby could have turned out just like me.
1095 North Ocean Boulevard
Palm Beach, Florida
Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller
Stoney Hill Farm
Amagansett, New York
August 10, 1957
Dear Martha,
How like you to think of me amid your own sorrow! I understand only too well what you must have gone through, and you have my sympathy. I was sad, too, to read your emotions regarding your own fitness for motherhood. With your kind heart and loving nature, I think you would make a wonderful mother, and I am sure, when the time is right, you will have the opportunity you so richly deserve.
Since the death of my father, for which I suppose I should have been prepared but which, strange as it may sound, took me entirely by surprise, I have been reflecting on my life and remembering my childhood.
I find that my father’s death has affected me in the same manner as an earthquake. For despite his unconventional behavior vis à vis women, my father was the best person in my life, the strongest influence I have ever known, and I don’t think anyone will ever love me that way again, or I them. He was the wisest, kindest, most intelligent man I ever knew and no one, not even Jack, will ever live up to him. Except, of course, in one particular area, in which we both know Jack outstrips my father, and every other man: his sexual insatiability and virtually unlimited capacity for infidelity.
But enough of that—I despise self-pity and, close as we are, Martha, do not wish to inflict it on you. I must admit, though, that this has been the most difficult time of my life. Ironically, it began the day before my birthday, when my father checked into Lenox Hill for a series of routine tests.
Initially, they revealed nothing. I, of course, had flown up to see him but, thinking that he was in the clear, returned to Hammersmith Farm to celebrate my birthday with my mother, who (even at a time in which my father’s health appeared to be in jeopardy) still found herself unable to jettison her deep and abiding bitterness regarding him. An example to me, if ever I saw one …
In any event, I relaxed into my habitual blithe mode of existence at Hammersmith (reverting, I suppose, to my you
th in that serene and peaceful environment which is so familiar and so dear to me) when, on August 3, I received word that my father had lapsed into a coma.
Although Jack and I rushed there, posthaste, we arrived at the hospital too late and I never saw my father alive again. Consequently, I had no opportunity to say good-bye to him. In retrospect, however, I think it was worse for Lee, who only arrived from Italy in time for the funeral.
I never saw her cry, of course, nor she me—as both of us were drilled, from an early age, not to display our emotions. Instead, I cried in private, then resolved to create a funeral worthy of my father’s memory, one that reflected his intense love for life.
It was held at St. Patrick’s, and his coffin, according to my instructions, was garlanded with daisies and cornflowers, all reminiscent of the flora at Lasata, the Long Island home where we shared so many idyllic and happy days together.
Lest I bore you with my somewhat maudlin sentiments, I shall now attempt to amuse you with the following. No fewer than eight of my father’s paramours were present at his funeral, all perfectly coiffed—as he would have wished it—all weeping profusely, all convinced that they were the alpha and omega of his desires. I must, at this point, confess that one of them—Mimi Formosa—the Texan oil field billionairess who was one of my father’s many last loves—actually made me laugh when she had the effrontery to whisper to me, “Honey, tell your kids that their granddaddy was the very best in bed. I should know. After Black Jack, no other man will do. … “ A fitting epitaph, don’t you think???
I do have some other news, Martha, news which I feel somewhat tentative in imparting to you but, aware as I am of your good heart and the kind impulses which you have always manifested toward me, feel that, in the interests of being honest, I must share. I am, once more, pregnant. Whether or not I carry the child to term is, of course, with my track record, another subject. However, I can only pray that God, having taken from me the person whom I loved most in the world, will now be compassionate and give to me another human being to love.
I apologize for my meanderings, but know that you will understand.
With my love,
Josephine
MR. AND MRS. ARTHUR MILLER
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
Senator and Wits. John F. Kennedy
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
November 28, 1957
Dear Jackie and Jack,
Arthur and I are thrilled to learn about the birth of Caroline. We wish you all a great deal of happiness.
Love,
Marilyn and Arthur
SENATOR AND MRS. JOHN F. KENNEDY
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
January 2, 1958
Dear Marilyn and Arthur,
Jack and I just adore the beautiful christening robe which you sent us upon the birth of our daughter, Caroline. The lace and the work is exquisite and we shall always treasure it.
We both enjoyed Bus Stop immensely and look forward to your next movie with great anticipation.
Warm regards,
Jackie and Jack
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
Martha Marshall
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
March 26, 1958
Dear Martha,
The moment I heard about Mike Todd’s tragic death in a plane crash (what fate that Elizabeth was sick and couldn’t travel with him at the last moment) I wanted to express my condolence. I know how much you admired him.
I don’t know how Elizabeth will go on without the love and support of such a man. I feel deeply sorry for her, don’t you?
Thinking of you during this sad time.
Love, as ever,
Josephine
The Beverly Hills Hotel
Josephine Kendall
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
August 3, 1958
Dear Josephine,
I feel really guilty telling you this, but I probably don’t have as much sympathy for Elizabeth as I should have. *It’s just that she has always been so lucky, you know, born rich, always loved, praised for her acting, and having such great men in her life.
But I shouldn’t complain—and have been feeling a bit brighter, though a little scared, because I am starting a new film tomorrow, Some Like It Hot, with Billy Wilder, who did so well for me with The Seven Year Itch. So maybe this time I’ll be lucky as well. …
Hope you are having a happy summer.
Lots of love,
Martha
__________________________
* Throughout her career, Marilyn always felt inferior to Elizabeth Taylor, standing in awe of Taylor’s English background., her voice, her refined manner, and consequently was extremely jealous of her.
In later years, when Marilyn heard that Taylor was getting a million dollars to make Cleopatra, she was outraged. What bothered her most was that Taylor’s huge fee was coming from Marilyn’s own studio, Twentieth Century-Fox. Marilyn received only a hundred thousand dollars a picture. According to Lena Pepitone, “It seemed like a fortune to me, but to Marilyn, it now seemed like nothing. She was insulted. Was she only one-tenth as valuable as Elizabeth Taylor?”
Jackie’s letter in response to this one from Marilyn is unaccountably missing from the correspondence.
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
Josephine Kendall
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
December 16, 1958
Dear Josephine,
I know I haven’t written for the longest time, but I have been dividing my time between the movie—Hot—and working at being Arthur’s wife—the more difficult of the two jobs. … I’ve even been trying to cook—although he can’t stomach the pasta dishes I learned from Joe’s mother—and encouraging him while he writes a brilliant—I think—new script for me called The Misfits. I hate the title, but Arthur says I am projecting. Only I think he is.
The Time spread on you and Jack was lovely, you seem so happy together—I mean, you look it and being a father has obviously changed Jack a great deal. I am glad. Congratulations on Caroline. She looks just like Jack and is beautiful like you.
I also saw you and your mother-in-law, Rose Kennedy, on a TV show. She must be really interesting—she’d have to be very tough, to survive him—Joe Kennedy, I mean. And all those children. What is she really like?
Speaking about what people are like, I’ve always wanted to ask you if you knew anything about the Duchess of Windsor and what tricks she used to make the Duke give up all of England just for her. I’d love to know—specially as I can’t even get Mr. G to answer my messages, never mind give up a country for me—only, of course, he doesn’t have a country to give up, just an insurance company. At least Arthur is a writer.
Lots of love,
M
3307 N Street
Washington, D.C.
Martha Marshall
444 East 57th Street
New York, New York
January 18, 1959
Dear Martha,
I was delighted to hear from you. Thank you for asking about Caroline. She is a good baby, but I am determined not to sink into motherhood and stagnate. For no matter how much she touches my heart, I know that the role of mother is one which often diminishes a woman—something which, dear Martha, you must always bear in mind when you have regrets that you do not, at the moment, have a child—in terms of her feminine allure.
In that spirit, rather than enthusing interminably—as so many women are prone to do—about the baby, I shall answer the questions in your last letter as honestly as possible and shall, in the bargain, enjoy doing so—thus reminding myself of the larger, more glittering world beyond my current new role.
First, the Duchess of Windsor. To be perfectly frank, I know more about the lady than one might wish—all of it deliciously titillating. The source is one Bridget Maria Collins—a former maid of my mother’s whose identity I do not find it necessary to conceal from you. First, because we trust one another. Second, because she was found to have stolen a garnet and pearl broach from my mother and summarily dismissed from service.
That said, I believe that her story about the Duchess can be believed implicitly—as others have whispered similar stories to me as well. In any event, Bridget M—who, I almost forgot to mention, before becoming employed by my mother worked for many years for the Duchess—claims that the Duke’s entire demeanor when in private with her speaks of his regret at having relinquished his throne for her.
So that while he does not, in the course of their many and virulent arguments, reproach her with the recrimination “To think what I gave up for you,” he continually exhibits an attitude toward her which speaks volumes.
During the day, that is. In daylight hours, he requires her to curtsey to him, treats her dismissively, and regularly criticizes the (I think) somewhat contrived appearance she strains to create. One epithet BM heard him hurl at her was “Wallis, you can buy a million couture gowns and have a thousand face-lifts, but as far as I am concerned, all you will ever emanate is the allure of a rotting chicken wing.”
Yet at night, things change dramatically. Bridget M heard the Duke repeatedly address the Duchess as “Nanny,” and the villa often echoed with his pitiful wails as she chastised him. All in all, a classic example of the well-known English vice and perhaps an answer to your question regarding the tricks by which the Duchess succeeded in enslaving the Duke. All of which reminds me of one of my father’s time-honored maxims: “Once you have a man’s perversions, you have that man.” In any event, I thought you might find the story diverting. Tragic, yet fascinating, don’t you think??
