by Leo Lerman
NOTE: Gray had continued to share an apartment on First Avenue and Forty-seventh Street, but spent much of his time with Leo or (until the beginning of August) Philip Johnson. Relations with Robert Davison predictably chilled. One July morning at breakfast, when Leo or Gray hinted that they preferred not to look after Robert's cat, he erupted and yanked away the tablecloth, shattering much of Leo's prized Chelsea porcelain. After that they avoided Robert. He moved away in November.
Robert intended never to speak with either man again, but his resentment soon faded. In May 1950, he went to live and paint with the American painter Charles Blum in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Occasionally returning to New York to paint backdrops for shop windows, he sometimes saw Leo, and by the time Robert left Blum and moved to Paris in 1956, he, Leo, and Gray had become long-distance friends.
AUGUST 7, 1948 • NEW YORK CITY
TO RICHARD HUNTER • OCRACOKE, NORTH CAROLINA
Your apartment is such a haven.6 I stay there at night, and it makes my cellar days here [at 1453] pleasant. Robert has never yet realized that I do not sleep here usually, he is now making snuffling and washing noises in the bathroom. He wants to know why I am so quiet these days, but I pretended I did not hear him. I am trying to make him see—without telling him—that I want to work, alone in my workroom in the morning. I no longer eat any breakfast, for I have to be here to answer the phone by nine. He trails down at 10:30—and tries to converse—but I just ain't agoin' to. Gray is painting in your house. Robert has just departed above, I think coffeepot in hand—so perhaps it has sunk in.7
SEPTEMBER 18, 1948 • NEW YORK CITY
TO ELEONORA VON MENDELSSOHN
Every day, these last weeks, I woke thinking that I would hear from you: This morning it came true. You know, my dear, I lust for you—actually lust. Isn't that odd? This has been an awful summer—with illness and money worries and house worries and love worries (but I don't have these anymore, having reached a situation somewhat like yours—or is it a position?). I have been wretchedly ill and had one little operation and will probably have three or four more, when I find money with which to pay for them. That accident [in a taxi in 1943] that gave me my beard also cracked my right cheekbone, and this is now infecting my face, the remaining teeth, other bones…. Oh darling, I am a mess. I've lost eighty pounds, and you had better come home before I dwindle away. It's really not that bad, but it has been hell. I grow cysts, the pain is agonizing, and I am sucha coward. I took fifty-three Empirins in three days. All the doctors said that I was a miracle, and that I should be dead from it, but I thought of you and smiled, because they did not know the wonderful example of strength I have had for such a long time. I am so awfully homesick for your not unattractive face and for your dainty, not unfeminine ways. Oh darling, as unhappy as we were, I do miss those secret trips north, and the time I took you to hear the sap running in the trees of Central Park and [the driver] Miller was so shocked, and all the big and little secret pleasures and pacts we had, and you always thought that I would tell, but I never did. I have a new friend. He is really one of the greatest draftsmen I have ever seen and wonderfully beautiful. You will adore him—everyone does. It's pleasant to love without too much agony, but one misses it at times, like when a sore tooth has been pulled. One frequently misses the pain. Or is it that the pain has been so shocking that we wait for the shock?
SEPTEMBER 25
I've been to some parties (all dull) and, best of all, I lured Glamour into paying for me to go to all the theaters and music in town for the next month. So, I feel gay and put black ink on the rather large spots in my black suit which quite a few enterprising moths industriously managed to convert into moth luncheons and dinners. With the black ink covering where the lighter lining shows through it almost looks piggishly new—at least I hope nobody can see that the suit is really curiously chewed into intricate and unlovely designs.
Marlene asked me whether I would ghost her memoirs, but I thought it over and decided that she would never really tell what the public wants to know. So, I intimated, couldn't we just be friends.
MADEMOISELLE George Davis on the telephone—his sleepy lethal voice. His is the deep, quiet voice of frozen rage. “I am giving up my job at Mademoiselle and I want you to have it.” “Why?” “Don't ask questions! Just tell Betsy Blackwell that you have heard that I have given up my job and that you would be interested in having it.”
I called Kay Silver, fashion editor for Mademoiselle, and said, “Kay, why has George left Mademoiselle? He has the best job in New York: He's made the feature department into a glory. Why has he left it?” “I can't go into that now, but if you want the job I'll tell you what to do….”
So, late one autumn day, I sat on a window ledge polishing up the front windows at 1453 and jumped back into the front parlor when down the street I saw the first guest advancing—that was Kay. The bell rang and my new life began.
The back parlor was candlelit, but the candles, although densely placed, did not illuminate the faces of the closely packed crowd. Upon the flaming-red sofa sat a small, plump, much-hatted, mottled-faced, bird-eyed woman whose feet overflowed her tight shoes. These feet did not quite touch the floor. There was something appealing about her, for a very young girl peeped out of this plainly middle-aged, imbibing woman. The small woman, peering through the gloaming, asked, “And who are you?” “Marlene Dietrich.” There was no air around these two words. Then Marlene jumped up and insinuated herself about, emptying ashtrays, while Truman and Tennessee beamed. The Trillings, the Van Vechtens, Dorothy Norman, John Latouche aided and abetted. And the chums all piled in, making much of Betsy Talbot Blackwell, the editor in chief of Mademoiselle, the small, plump woman who sat on the sofa. (1993)
NOTE: Blackwell was impressed by Leo's connections and forecasting talent. By the end of December, after having him followed by a private detective, she offered him the position of contributing editor. Leo consulted Talmey at Vogue and Snow at Bazaar. Both advised him to sign, but to remain a free agent, an arrangement he would keep with Mademoiselle throughout his work there.
CA. NOVEMBER 20, 1948 • NEW YORK CITY
TO RICHARD HUNTER • NEW ORLEANS
Mademoiselle sent me $400, so I can pay off some of my debts and pay you $90 and next week when the Philharmonic $100 comes you can have that,8 and so I will owe you only quite a small fortune besides… but if all goes well and more comes from Mademoiselle next month and from the Philharmonic, you can be paid all the extra monies I borrowed!
CA. DECEMBER 4
Todd Bolender and Jack Dunphy (who wrote a good novel and was once married to [dancer] Joan McCracken but isn't—and now is a friend of Todd's) came, and Little T arrived and was quite pathetic and lonely and spoiled-acting. We all went to inspect his premises. Mr. Jack D said wasn't it all full of echoes of a powder room, and that's a good description.
NOTE: Within days, Jack Dunphy and Capote had been to bed. Bolender, a New York City Ballet dancer who had been Dunphy's lover, soon called Leo to say that he had been abandoned for Capote.
DECEMBER 22, 1948 • NEW YORK CITY
TO GRAY FOY • GLENVIEW, ILLINOIS9
The shortest day of the year has been and gone, and in its celebration the furnace has decided to rest itself a while—right in the middle of my shower. The water suddenly was fluid ice. I instantly knew this to be a judgment, but I am unreconciled to it. Now the house is nasty with cold, and I am pleased that you are not here—you would hate it. The snow was beautiful—especially in all the gardens where it almost obliterated the fences. Upon the trees, it invented incredible fantasies, and all this backyard world was wreathed in white. You would have loved it, and I was sad because I wanted you to see it. It is deeply quiet here—and lonely—very lonely—especially in the mornings. Good night. (I love watered silk but not in great quantities.)
DECEMBER 23
I am done up in gloves and shawls and blankets. The house is ice. You would be miserable here, but not a
s miserable as I am alone in this winter. The oilman has been and said that it is a matter of oil—but the oil remains an abstraction. Meanwhile I have a sore throat from the intense cold; my nose is a beetroot; my hands are numb. Writing to you warms them, but I am in such a temper that it is difficult to write. I wish that you were here. I am so frozen. Light is thick and golden on the houses all down the hill. There is something so Italianate about those houses and the sky.
MAY 6, 1949 • NEW YORK CITY
to richard hunter • madrid
Suddenly I understood some mornings ago, what [the clairvoyant] Pierce Harwell meant when he told me that I was going into exile someday, for a very long time, and now I understand about exile meaning one day one returns. That makes me optimistic. I understand all about these Elbas of the heart, which I have been resting on.
I saw Eleonora (who has been having a cure again) and there she was, rallied, and—when I did not peer too closely—amazing to look at.
MAY 10, 1949
I had an enlightening but grim (that should be vice versa) experience yesterday. Allene loved my book piece. Then she said that she wanted to talk to me about my writing—the actual technical aspects of it. She gave me an hour's lesson in elementary composition. It was wonderful. It also made me feel that I really do not know how to write the English language. Now I am starting all over again, trying to write simply and substantially. Gosh … She really knows, although she explained that all she was telling me was what she had been taught in freshman composition at Wellesley. I wish that I were a Wellesley girl! The gist of her message signified to me that I am extremely sloppy. I always manage to get away with hasty jobs. That is why I write badly. She merely said technical things: too many imperative sentences, too many sentences constructed identically, too many inactive verbs, too many crowded sentences, good critical phrases or telling characterizing words buried in all sorts of verbal rubbish…. She's right, of course. She said that I say such wonderful things about books and people, and that when I come to write it's all gone … and she's right there. Thinking over what she said, I realize even more intensely that if I am ever to write anything worthwhile I shall have to sit and write it. I shall have to stop making believe and making attempts—just write it and then rewrite it until it's good. What a difficult life that is. But since I want to write … and I do it shabbily now … I must set myself to it all over again.
MAY 23, 1949 • NEW YORK CITY
TO RICHARD HUNTER • MADRID
This is a day of sudden bursts of brilliant sunshine, then lowering clouds—and that is how I feel. It's quite unlike any birthday I've had these last fifteen years. But why be sad? I have three pretty presents: a small bird with a red breast (made in Sweden), a large white cup and saucer (very pretty, white Limoges), and a big pleated lantern from Denmark—Gray gave me these. The Trillings gave me a copy of Lionel's [first book] Matthew Arnold—and Mary Lou and Pearl are taking me to lunch at the St. Regis—and Dorothy Norman is having the mayor [William O'Dwyer] to dinner with me—and Jacqueline [Errera] and Rut [Ruth Yorck]10 and in all about nine people are coming here at eleven —and [high school English teacher] Maggie Henning and Momma are coming at 4:30—but none of this seems to mean very much, which is wrong but that's how it is—oh, well. Now I must get dressed. It all reminds me of that song about “Greta Garbo's had me to tea….” I guess—superficially—my life has turned out the way I dreamed of it when I was young, but essentially it hasn't. I shall have to accustom myself to what it is and build on it. Now I must stop. They [at Mademoiselle] renewed my contract for the rest of the year!!! Isn't that fine?
JUNE 11, 1949 • NEW YORK CITY
TO RICHARD HUNTER • PARIS
It was a pleasant Saturday morning until about thirty minutes ago when my “roommate” [Gray] threw his erstwhile familiar tantrum. Since he hasn't tantrumed for quite some time, this was unexpected. It's because last Saturday afternoon Pearl [Kazin] came over at five—and [literary agent] John Schaffner and Sylvia Wright [a magazine editor]—and it was so very pleasant sitting up here that I said why didn't they come today. I still have white wine left from my birthday [May 23], and all I do is put it in the icebox and then they sip it, so it hasn't cost anything or made any dirt. So I said for them to come—and also Mr. and Mrs. Fritz Peters, which newlyweds I haven't seen since they became just that11… and [editor] John Lehmann called up and Diana and Lionel [Trilling] … and also Jeremiah [Russell] … that makes exactly nine people. He scowled when I said about Jeremiah, and he threw the fit when I said about John Lehmann. And now he's locked himself in the bathroom and says he's going out because he doesn't want to be in that little group or even on the fringes of it.
It's lovely sitting up here over the garden in these two big vacant rooms, the sunlight buttering the leaves and flagstones and gilding the wisteria vines. There are no flowers in the garden, but it is beautifully green, and Gray keeps it so pretty-looking….
Sometimes I think that Gray's living here is not too good—especially right now. He has just departed, indicating that I am a monster of selfishness and without even saying good-bye. It was pleasant mostly these last weeks. Perhaps it is selfish to ask anyone to come here on Saturday because, perhaps, the outside world should be kept out… but I do spend all the time away from business with him, and it's good for me to see Diana and Lionel and Mary Lou and Pearl and … Oh, well… It occurs to me the chief selfishness in life is perhaps the focusing of attention on one person, because it is surely the attention that one gives a looking glass. You wish to see the image you create returned to you.
E. M. Forster has been here [in New York], and he had dinner at Lionel and Diana's and he loved the baby and held him, and then he autographed a book for the baby and signed, “With love,” and said, “I guess he won't resent that until he's fifteen or sixteen.” Diana says that he's a good sad man. When he inadvertently dropped a bit of food on his lapel, he said, “I guess I'm becoming one of those old men who drop food on themselves.” He seems to be very sad at growing old and also very bitter at losing the house, four years ago, in which his family had lived for over a hundred years. The family who own it decided that they had to have it for some connection, and they threw him out. Cambridge took him in, but this has almost been a mortal blow. He wrote a book about it and says that he will never publish it. He's a very private man.
JOURNAL • JUNE 18, 1949 Robert Lowell said to [poet] Allen Tate and the police before he was taken away, “I know I am God and they cannot cut my balls off.”
NOTE: Gray went to visit relatives in Chicago and Los Angeles for six weeks.
JULY 3, 1949 • NEW YORK CITY
TO RICHARD HUNTER • PARIS
It is so intensely hot that the garden is all seared; the earth actually hot and scorched, for this is the fifth or sixth week of the big drought. Now I am quite alone here. Everyone I really love dearly is gone: you, Gray (he went last Friday), Eleonora, Rut…. It doesn't quite seem being alive without you here. Sometimes I think I shall sell all the books and depart… but only for a moment. Every day I am lonely for you—isn't that absurd? Now, to be truthful, it is somewhat of a relief to have Gray away. There is no strain, and what heaven that is. Gray is a very good boy, and I am devoted to him. He can be extremely sweet, and he has tried very, very hard … but he forgets or can't control his surly disposition and his wicked temper, and life can be hell.
This is a lovely free time and, since it is a holiday, I am in bed (11:20!), and yesterday was a real lazy cat-stretching of a day … lovely. With Gray here I can't stay in bed because he thinks I am sick or something—anyway I can't. I have been working very hard—so hard that last Sunday I sort of passed out. I am all better now, but recently I haven't been well. I guess I was scared, because I bled for about eight days from my inside, but it stopped … and then Gray wasn't being very pleasant all during that time. The difficulty of not having money, feeling that he is being sort of kept, and the strain of going home to his family—all
combined to make him bad-tempered. Then he is so impractical about business and does not realize that to keep a job you have to work very hard, especially with business so bad. Ah well…
I don't think that it would be fun with all those old dreary faces in Paris. I am not surprised about Truman. Didn't he say anything unpleasant about me? He's a little monster like Pope, but I am fond of him, and until he does something horrible about me I guess I shall continue. I began to write in my notebook yesterday. I can't do that while Gray is here ever since I realized he read my notebook, and I am not secretive and can't write in it and hide it. It stops me.
I guess I might as well tell you … Gray didn't have any money, so I bought a drawing from him the day he left. It's that good one with all the naked bodies, very beautiful, and I paid him $100.I wanted it, and he wanted to give it to me, but I wouldn't accept it that way. So, I'll have to make some extra money and not take taxis and all that for about four weeks.
The telephone has not even squeaked all this day and the garden flecked by brown leaves looks as if it were under glass. The heat is so intense that it seems to cover everything with a thin glass surface. Here I have been all this long day, lolling in this now quite wet bed, and now I am beginning to feel that the world is dead. I am lonely for you … and why shouldn't I be? … There is no rancor in this… just a little sadness that I have to be and will probably always have to be … just a little, for I know that you will always be errant… and I am not.
