The Grand Surprise

by Leo Lerman

  SEPTEMBER 15, 1959 • NEW YORK CITY

  TO RICHARD HUNTER • paris

  This is like the first night of winter—cold, rain—the leaves almost all gone. My, how I've selfishly wished that you were home these last weeks. They've been hell. Only seven of Mademoiselle's staff are left now: I am one of the seven! Cyrilly [Abels, managing editor], the art department, Kay [Silver], etc., etc., all fired … Today Mrs. B assured me that I would be with Mlle for a long time to come. But who can believe? Anyway I still had the job today—tomorrow?

  This evening I've been to a large dinner at Helen Hoke's! And there was Kitty Messner… just like years ago.35 When she arrived she looked untouched by time—even better than she used to look. Then as the evening went on, her face fell apart and that was awful. I could see age obliterating the younger woman I once knew … age and dissipation. She still drinks incredible amounts. She immediately asked after you … and when I said that you were abroad for a year again, she looked aghast and asked how was I eating? Very well, I told her, but she did not seem to believe me.

  I'm doing a job for the State Department. They've asked me as the leading authority on the American musical to write them a piece, which they will have translated into Iron Curtain languages, especially Russian, and then will distribute there in America Illustrated—not on the moon yet! So now I'm a leading authority! They pay $300. For $30 I'd be a leading authority on pigs' trotters!

  SEPTEMBER 23

  The office situation seems somewhat improved…. I have had two meetings with the baroness and those henchwomen.36 They move as one, a sort of blunt, obstinate, and ignorant flying wedge. They refer to themselves as “The Team” and as “The Brain Trust”! Thus far I've been able to cope, but I never know from day to day what next. Mrs. B seems to cherish me. I have a feeling that she has to because she has just about eight or ten of us left. Isn't that appalling? Also I seem to have an extraordinary reputation in this little world.

  NOTE: In 1959, Samuel I. Newhouse, founder and owner of Advance Publications, a media empire built on regional newspapers, bought first Condé Nast Publications, including Vogue, and then Street & Smith, including Mademoiselle. One motive of the latter purchase was capturing Charm magazine, Street & Smith's rival to Condé Nast's Glamour. On September 30, 1959, Leo wrote to Richard that Advance had shut down Charm and “almost its entire staff has usurped Mlle's.” The new ownership was improving Mademoiselle's financial stabililty, however, and hence Leo's own security. He soon ceased worrying about being out of a job and began a thirty-five-year working relationship with the Newhouses.

  JOURNAL • January 5, 1960 I was up and away to the Plaza to take tea with a Mr. [Herbert] Breslin. Mr. Breslin [a publicist] tried to “sell” me Joan Sutherland, but I told him he did not have to “sell” me her, for I had heard her—and she sings carefully with all the passion of an English miss who has suddenly been set free from her country school.

  Then we had a Schwarzkopf harangue and I told him why I'd never heard her save on disks—and he did not like what I told him.37

  AUGUST 27, 1960 Dipping into diaries—Louisa Alcott's kept in that sun-splattered red house at Fruitlands, with its poor little truckle-bed attic where she prayed and wept. I just want to sit and sit and sit, but time runs out of the glass now. This is almost—why almost?—the other side of the hill. Mrs. Woolf, Katherine Mansfield, Rev. Kilvert, even the Gloomy Dean—all [diarists] writing away, breathing through writing.38 Almost all that I have earned is by non-writing. That is why I am so ecstatic when I feel that I have written something. So these years of dissipation during which my “talent” has slowly drained away … that must be the reason for these empty, writingless days. Bill Inge said that “the pattern” of my life has changed radically. What then has this change done to my writing? If only the change could be complete—meaning money sufficient to sit home and write only what I want to write—but I do want to write about Rev. Kilvert: To be precise, I want to write about how he was so in love with living that he was able to surmount anonymity. He picked himself up out of the river and became an island and the beacon upon this island, illuminating the world about it. This is what I want to write—for if we do not affirm that we live, we are dead things. Strength comes from affirmation of continuity. Knowing that a thousand years ago some poor creature sat scratching upon his tablet—while his world smashed about him—makes going on possible.

  AUGUST 31, 1960 How can one know the depth of a wound? The injury inflicted by a phrase? No marks, no blood—almost nothing visible. These are wretched days—interior all messed, stoppage, breakdown—nothing moves from heart and head to paper. And the busiest time of the year. “Are you a writer?” the Israeli novelist asked. I can never answer, because I know how inadequate any answer would be. “Not for some time,” I heard Gray say, and I was an aching, amputated mass. I know the truth in this—but to hear it was to know that, despite a life shared, no living closely ever permits the other one to know most of what goes on within. My sleeplessness came in the early dawn. Even knowing the cure does not help, for I do nothing about it. Hedda [Sterne, a painter] answered the Israeli by saying I write reviews. This compounded the depression. If I had written what I should have written these years, even failing at it—but no one is to blame. I am the only one—having written and published millions of words for some twenty-three or so years and to no deep, abiding avail. This is no time to waste with self-humiliation, feelings—but what wrongs I have done to such talents as I have (had). What self-indulgence and waste. The only cure is writing. So simple to blame others—I must somehow climb out of this muck. I must become not myself again [sic]. I must stop fumbling for words here and get to work. I lack all discipline. This comes of wanting to be loved and admired and be made much of. If only I could go talk with other people who have these problems, these inabilities to work. But if you cannot talk to the closest being to whom can you talk? Oneself—like this—not saying all, because who can say all without hurting?

  NOVEMBER 15, 1960 • NEW YORK CITY

  TO RICHARD HUNTER • cairo

  That long review I wrote about the Rev. Kilvert's diaries was printed on the front page of the Times [Book Review]—and such a lovely hullabaloo—letters (even from Agnes de Mille, signed “Your Agnes”). It is a good piece—really a kind of cry from my little heart. So, I am pleased that some people heard. Martha G [Graham] says that she knows that something wonderful will happen because of this review—and, oh, how patiently I waited for the Times to publish it.

  The Blond Divinity [Dietrich] suddenly rang up to be friends again.39 She says she's $40,000 in debt to the bank, because she has to pay so much to unions. Now she's off in Las Vegas replacing Sammy Davis, Jr. Then she plays a huge Philadelphia club and opens at the Palace in January. That last is scary.

  DECEMBER 8, 1960 • NEW YORK CITY

  TO RICHARD HUNTER • bombay (forwarded to miami)

  I shall know on the twenty-first when the doctors take the cast off whether I must go into hospital to have an operation and be evermore gimpy-legged. You see, that taxi accident has caught up with me again. The cartilage in my right knee is gone—all broken—and water-on-the-knee has set in. So I have been encased in a huge cast from my ankle to my thigh all the way up. I sprawl here (in the basement—I can't move much) like a beached whale. The past ten days I was all alone, for Gray was in Dallas. His father is fading away—down to 107 pounds and coughing all the time.40 And his uncles are ill. All this is too grim. I am cheerful, but furious about my leg, since I don't think that I have earned this curious disaster. It is excessively painful—a little less (I try to believe) each day. I always have awful sickness when you are away. Sometimes—especially when I was alone and couldn't move—it was awful. I wished and wished for you all to be home, selfishly.

  NOTE: Mina Curtiss owned a house in the Georgetown district of Washington, D.C., at this time. During one of Leo's stays there, the director of the Harvard research center at Dumbarton Oaks invited
them to a concert and dinner.

  JOURNAL • April 10, 1961 • Washington, d.c. Of Dumbarton Oaks: A high “queen” (but likable) demi-camp runs it, Jack Thacher. The audience was invited and almost all in black tie. The British ambassador—a neat, businessman's compact, bargain-shrewd, polished face—and his wife, an American, in nondescript black, the dress very plain, reminding me of Sophie Guggenheim (they have in common the female athlete's look). The [James] Biddles—he with a rat-that-ate-the-cat face, and she I do not remember. “The oldest people in the world come to Dumbarton on Sunday nights,” said Catherine Shouse. She, née Filene, but having determined never to be a Jew has almost no Jewish characteristics, save the slight atmosphere of certain very elderly, rich, Jewish men, a sort of dry-sweetness. You can hear the paper money and coupons being totaled.41

  Maureen Forrester sang Schumann (the “Lorelei”) and Brahms especially well, everything else not well, and looked a frump. The music room is perfection in the manner of the twenties re-creation of the Renaissance.

  In the station I said to Gray, as we listened to two grubby Russians, not understanding a word, of course: “What a funny character, who eavesdrops even when not understanding a word of what he hears, but just because he loves to eavesdrop.”

  The full realization of my grave misstep in writing even a word for fashion magazines, years ago, has come upon me recently. I accept this—no anguish— but I must do something about it. How weak that last is. Surely [the actress] Signe Hasso meant, when she read my writing, that my fashion magazine earning-a-living has been the long detour, that this would be over, and I would write my books? (Such a lovely bacon smell now, but not for me. I hope not… save the teensiest hope, because if [the maid] Mae brings it, I shall have to eat it. I am very like Kchessinska, who had to accept emeralds and villas, so as not to hurt the givers.)42 Perhaps the Grand Surprise isn't finding oneself in the “great world” of society, fashion, arts, and entertainment, but discovering that one has made an almost comical mistake, which for years has deflected one from his true purpose. Am I frightened of failure? I wrote that bad little novel some years ago, but all the while knowing that I need never show it to anyone, and so being protected.43 If Proust had never written, I should not be what I internally am, nor should I be inhibited. But why use Proust as an apology? I know that I could sit and write. This novel would happen—no? Reading one of my many beginnings last week, I was appalled at the fancy writing, the overwrought, feminine, sensitized writing and feeling. I do not want to write that way. I want to write solidly, beautifully. The transfixed moment, yes, but not an enormous book of them.

  APRIL 13, 1961 “He used to treat me like his mistress. Now he treats me like his mother.” Mina about [her brother] Lincoln.

  APRIL 20, 1961 • NEW YORK CITY Just to note an unexpected evening with Maria Callas yesterday. She came off the [Onassis] yacht, having telephoned Dario and Dorle [Soria]. This was very family. Maria is leading the sort of life any woman lives, her timetable being totally controlled by the whims of her man who is apparently more loved than loving. “I'm an Oriental,” she said. But there is so much more of this: Her new smile—very young, sweet, hurt; her softness; her vulnerability. She would not remain on the yacht alone with [Winston] Churchill: “So boring.” How defenseless and inappropriate she looked, like an apprehensive schoolgirl, as she went up the steps of El Morocco going to meet Onassis. This person is the center of her life, not music.

  APRIL 29, 1961 I feel that the adventure, in living, is to follow the strings (the Minotaur's thread) with surprise and delight, even when the climate is that of despair. When I feel, then there is hope, but when I am very still inside, when everything is suspended, frozen, transfixed, soundless—then that is a dangerous time. I am very primitive in my reactions—like a beast—but what is the sense of all this? Nothing—save writing to keep courage. Some people whistle when in a fix. I write, that is, I scribble.

  MAY 13, 1961 I become more and more pent up. My ability to speak out diminishes. I know that much of what I want to say can make no difference save a destructive one. “If only once we didn't have to have something set… You must spend hundreds of dollars for food—dinners and lunches at the Plaza…. Who paid last night? Schiaparelli didn't pay…. And she wasn't even for business or a friend.” “She's interesting. I wanted to know her.” But I think that he never realizes how easy it would be for me to have these people in—on Sunday afternoon, just for wine and biscuits—no fuss— nothing—simple. “If you had the kind of life with a staff…” But I had the kind of life sans anything—very little money—none sometimes—and still the world came and loved coming and was grateful. I am now timid about saying that anyone has invited me anywhere, reluctant to say that I have gone anywhere, really quite frightened of telling what happened when I do go, for there is such a scoffing, such a ruthless criticism. This cannot be healthy…. Now everything becomes tangled.

  So much happened this week. Carmel [Snow] died.44 Richard came, departed, came again, and departed again—but I do not feel like scribbling about any of it. I can live upon myself, alone—but not when the aloneness is cracked wide open. I don't even think that he realizes: If he did he would be a monster: “What's the matter—does something hurt?” he asks…. Hurt! I am twisting into a strange root of an old man—afraid to be myself.

  Now I have scribbled from my side, but what of his needs? He obviously needs to be alone with the one person he loves, but he cannot stand anything repetitive (save sex and his drawing) for a long time. He seemingly dislikes most people and does not especially want to be with the ones he likes. What he should never have had is me. The “bad” accruing from me far outweighs the material and creature goods. If only I could come by money enough to take us away into a small world while we are still young enough to try such an experiment. Soon there will be no time—the effort of being becomes more and more tiring. I refuse to face my own weakness. I am so easily broken down—and right now I am on the edge again. Any show of violence would topple me over. He never knows when not to say something to me…. I had to stop scribbling and hide away this notebook. That is wrong. We each need a secret place, but that secret place should be inviolate even when others know about it.

  MAY 15, 1961 Yesterday at Poppa's grave, when Uncle Sam [Goldwasser] offered me the prayer book, thinking that I would read the prayer (in English), I could not even take the proffered book let alone read the prayer. I was never able to talk to Poppa when he was alive.

  AUGUST 12, 1961 Schrafft's at Eighty-eighth and Madison. All of the women have creaking voices like ancient rocking chairs, homely, of no singularity save that they have survived lovelier rocking chairs. Each of the creakers orders a Manhattan and the Diet Lunch. Crockity-crickity they go. One bravely summons the male manager and suggests that more fish be added to the menu. The headwaitresses are close kin to women who supervise “rest homes.” “Not in the dining room,” says the most rigidly haired one. The one with glittering spectacles in place of eyes and old 5-cent pieces in her throat. “We had that one out before, Mrs. Pomerantz.” Mrs. Pomerantz is large and could blubber. Her three companions diminish in size, each a replica of Mrs. Pomerantz: whitened, carefully set hair, and pale, carefully set smiles; wide, wondering, have-lived-for-years eyes huge and aquatic behind glass; mouths satisfied by things, not love, by respect from servants, not admiration. The supervisors have utterly dissatisfied mouths. They hate the “ladies.” “Do you have that lovely,” one of the ladies' voices suddenly cascades, young and girlish, “black raspberry ice cream I had the other night?”

  NOTE: Gray received a Guggenheim Foundation award in 1961. He went to his mother's in Burbank, where he remained from September through December, producing a large drawing in addition to some covers for Columbia Records and illustrations for Mademoiselle.

  SEPTEMBER 4, 1961 • WILLIAMSBURG, MASSACHUSETTS

  TO GRAY FOY • BURBANK

  I finished reading (not having read it for years) [Michael Arlen
's novel] The Green Hat. It is quite a document, and how apparent is its power and the reason for its great impact. Iris March is, indeed, a gallant lady—and what a rotter is Boy Fenwick. Do you know why Iris March led her “dissolute” life for twelve years and why, finally, she crashed her yellow Isotta with its silver stork cap against Harrods (the great ash on the Harpenden estate)? Because there will always be an England. You must read it. I think of that little man [Arlen]— suave, smooth, beaked, sallow-faced, with hooded, huge, worldly eyes— looking as if he had a head full of pearl-gray spats and was to the silver-headed walking stick born—an anachronism in the late forties and fifties—not given to saying much, but always watching—a sort of revenant—and never as much Michael Arlen as whatever his Middle East [Armenian] self had been before he became Michael Arlen. Then his mother-in-law—smaller than a Newhouse and always in princely Catholic black, but cut so beautifully—and such a ransom of pearls—and seemingly tipped in diamonds—and her old, old wise eyes amused but kind. Those eyes had not only seen Eugénie and Carlota and Victoria and Elizabeth of Austria but looked into their eyes. What that woman knew—the wit and sorrow she had heard, for she was fantastically old when I met her and was waiting to be amused for the brief remainder of her many days.

  SEPTEMBER 24, 1961 • WILLIAMSBURG, MASSACHUSETTS

  TO GRAY FOY • BURBANK

  Last night, as we sat reading in the immense but sibilant rain (the waterfall beyond the wood, the tides in the trees—a great Robert Louis Stevenson nightrider wind was vociferously driving away), we became gradually aware of a dog baying in the near distance. Soon we went out into the night to peer through the watery moonlight (that one passed through the sky like Garbo all deeply veiled in Susan Lenox: Her Fall and Rise) at an array of bright flashlights seemingly moving in our direction. We could hear men's voices—rough voices. And many dogs—hounds—were in full cry. The Goddess [Mina Cur-tiss] immediately went quite frantic with terror and boomed into the night, “Who are you? Who are you?” Then she rushed into the house to call the gardeners. I stood in the night quite fascinated by all of this—calm with that sort of quiet which always seems to fill me when I am not frightening myself. (That's because I do not believe anything will happen or even can happen.)45 So then she rushed out, bellowing and screeching, and I knew that I was about to get the giggles, but just then there was hollering from the flashlights and gunshots (such a curious flat, final crack, a gunshot—like the slap of a body against water, but no alleviating splash follows) and all of the hounds bayed wildly— and someone shouted, “Huntin' raccoons…” and the gardeners appeared, in bathrobes and spectacles, carrying rifles—and an ax and a club. It was all so other century—so like paintings and engravings, there in the hurtling moonlight, beneath the furious trees—that I never giggled at all, just stood there confounded and delighted. Later the Goddess said how brave I had been, so I did not tell her that it was not bravery but having a literary experience that kept me from lighting out for safety beneath my bed. All through the evening, I could hear the distant shouts of the men, the transports of the dogs, an occasional flat, sharp crack—but I do not think any coons were done in. It was a glimpse of an America I have never known—frightening only when I suddenly thought that men, too, are hunted this way.