I hope you will accept the enclosed piece about an item in my collection; I think you will like the fine photographs.
With renewed thanks and warm regards.
TO LIEBERT
1st August, 1961
Thank you very much indeed for your charming letters of July 17th and 27th, and I am glad that the pen has arrived and that you are pleased with it. In fact I find the ball points rather fine, but Cartiers were adamant that they could not get a broader one for you.
I have just this minute been talking to Jonathan Capes who are ecstatic at receiving the cleaned up manuscript so swiftly. And I do thank you most warmly again, not only for the trouble you took, but for your rapidity.
There is more I wish you had done to the book and I am still not very happy with the gangsters, but I accepted I think every one of your suggestions and now the little book must fly on its own.
Incidentally, I am also a great hyphenater and you picked up several I had missed.
I haven’t had a chance to talk about you to Jack Carter or to John Hayward as I have been up to my uvula in miscellaneous mundungus since our correspondence began. I was warmly influenced by the kindness and perception of your first letter.
Alas, it is most unlikely that I shall be in Jamaica before January 10th, but I will let you know my plans nearer the time. In any event we will certainly meet in due course in one continent or another.
Thank you very much indeed for the Johnson’s Head, which I shall take home and read this evening. I must say I am enchanted by the photographs of the bust, what a splendid face!
Having read it I propose to pass it on to John Hayward with a suggestion that he might care to reproduce it in the Book Collector. So please write if you would have no objection to this happening.
FROM LIEBERT
August 4th, 1961
Dear Mr. Fleming:
Footnote to Chap. I., requiring no reply.
I hope the garbridge (see OED s.v. mundungus,* 1st quote; a delightful spelling I shall always use) has dropped below the uvula, to the jejunum or even to the levator ani.
John Hayward is welcome to use the piece if he wants it, but if so I would welcome the chance to make two small changes, so ask him to let me know direct if he is going to print. He is indeed a law unto himself; I always say he may have a weak constitution but his by-laws are iron. Give him my love.
May the serious work prosper. May it and health allow you to come south in January. End of footnote.
* Thank you for this lovely word.
FROM LIEBERT
January 16th, 1962
Dear Mr. Fleming:
The stars are indeed unkind to me, to take me away from Jamaica just as you arrive. We had a wonderful month in Runaway Bay, and return wondering why we insist on living so near a pole. Middles are so much better than ends, in everything that counts: women, and bottles of claret, and cigars, books, age, life, and even earth.
We saw in The Gleaner that you were filming “Dr. No” and we look forward to seeing some of our favorite Jamaica landscapes in it. The Runaway Bay caves and the phosphorus lagoon at Glistening Water might supply good locations.
I hope the sun and the sea will restore your health, as it has ours. We envy you the days ahead; drink a Red Stripe for us.
Don’t trouble to reply. When we are next in London or Jamaica, we will inquire whether you are nearby. Favete astrae.
Signed with the pen.
FROM LIEBERT
April 30th, 1962
My dear Fleming:
I have just returned to find the book with its abashing inscription.
Like most of us, I do not allow my pleasure at flattery to be diminished by the mere fact that it isn’t true. And I certainly greatly value the manifest kindness that prompted it.
I have also had the American edition, and am now reading the texts against each other to see what has been altered. I have found one typo and will write Viking about it and any others I find.
I hope the trip to Jamaica has restored your health. I am off to Italy this week, but only until the end of May. If after that you come Statesward, do let me know so we can meet. I have a Madeira solera 1808 that might tempt you; John Carter approved of it last Saturday, when we spoke much of you.
Liebert died in 1994 at the age of eighty-three, a man of many qualities. He was just three years younger than Fleming yet outlived him by another thirty. This says much for Yale, Jamaica and Madeira but may also have something to do with favete astrae – ‘Let the stars decide’.
15
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
Given that he had spent a formative period in the Austrian Tyrol, and with promptings from at least one of his readers, it was unsurprising that Fleming should choose the Alps as a setting for Bond’s next adventure. Maybe, too, his memory of the mountains had been jogged by a brief visit to Switzerland the previous Christmas where, among other things, he had been delighted by the exclusive Corviglia Club in St Moritz. He began researching the project that summer and, by the time he went to Goldeneye in January 1962, he had all the material he needed.
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service was one of Fleming’s most intriguing books, offering as it did the closest insight into Bond’s mercurial character since Casino Royale. Following his stylistic experiment with The Spy Who Loved Me he returned to tradition with an attempt by Bond’s old SPECTRE foe, Blofeld, to destroy Britain’s agricultural economy. Having surgically remodelled his features, Blofeld is posing as a millionaire research scientist based in Switzerland. From his mountain-top Alpine clinic, Piz Gloria, he uses hypnosis to cure farmers’ daughters of their allergies before sending them home with canisters of lethal pathogens. His weakness, however, is snobbery: he would like to assume the title Comte de Blauchamps, for which he needs approval from heraldic experts in London. Impersonating a member of the Royal College of Arms, Bond infiltrates his sanctum and successfully prevents the canisters reaching their destination. Returning with reinforcements he destroys Piz Gloria’s laboratories and very nearly kills Blofeld, too, but is defeated in a daredevil sled chase down an ice run.
The action was dramatic, and packed with all the sensation Fleming’s readers had come to expect. The most important element, however, was Bond’s relationship with Tracy, daughter of Marc-Ange Draco, head of the Union Corse, a criminal organisation whose power almost matched that of the Mafia. At the start of the book he rescues her from a suicide attempt, in return for which Draco uses his criminal network to help destroy Blofeld’s lair. A strong character who knows her own mind, she can drive a fast car well, has no concern for danger and is a rebel. Quite possibly, Bond considers, this is the woman for him. Fleming builds her up so tenderly as a match for Bond, and pours so much angst into Bond’s decision to exchange his ‘marriage’ to the Secret Service for a marriage in real life, that the reader expects 007’s career to end in a rosy sunset. So it comes as a shock when Tracy is killed by Blofeld in a drive-by shooting on the first day of their honeymoon.
For anybody, let alone someone in poor health, it was an extraordinary book. Fizzing with energy, it captured the excitement Fleming had experienced in the Alps as a youth – Telemark, Sprung-Christiana and all – and his descriptions of the Swiss mountains would have brought tears to the eyes of any Alpinist. As for Bond’s marriage, it made him fascinatingly human. Despite his image as a womaniser, Bond had teetered constantly on the edge of matrimony ever since Fleming first introduced him to the world. Now the moment had come, and it was no fault of Bond’s that it had failed. If Fleming had dallied with the idea of ending Bond’s career, Tracy’s murder ensured he would have to follow it through to the end.
His zest for life was reinforced at Goldeneye by a Canadian film crew that came to interview him about Gary Powers, the US pilot who had been brought down while spying on Russia. Then there was the filming of Dr No which took place at Rolling River in Jamaica, and where Fleming met its stars, Sean Connery and Ursula Andress.
On his return to Britain he was cast down by the poor reception of The Spy Who Loved Me, and by the ongoing deterioration of his marriage. The former he was able to shrug off, but the latter weighed heavily on him (and on Ann perhaps even more). He retreated with increasing frequency to the Royal St George’s golf course, where he amused himself by playing for unusual stakes: on one round he competed for a pair of pyjamas, which was then upped to include a monogram on the jacket. Adding further to the gaiety of the links he donated a golfing trophy to Eton College. His brother Peter had already established ‘The Peter Fleming Owl’ for the best-written item in the school’s Chronicle. Fleming’s contribution took the form of a silver chamber pot bearing the inscription ‘James Bond All Purpose Grand Challenge Vase’.1
In July, as marital tension mounted, he left on an unusual summer visit to Goldeneye, where he started another Bond short story, ‘Octopussy’. A throwback to the war, it features a retired commando officer, Major Dexter Smythe, living comfortably in Jamaica, his hobby being the study of marine life, in particular a favourite octopus. His peace is disturbed by Bond, who arrives with uncomfortable news. The intelligence services know that in the last stages of the war Smythe had befriended an Austrian ski instructor who knew where to find a hoard of Nazi gold. Having ascertained its location, Smythe had then killed him and taken the gold for himself. The choice Bond gives him is simple: face justice in Britain or choose his own fate. He has ten minutes to decide. Smythe swims out to sea and, having been stung by a deadly scorpion fish, allows his mask to be ripped off by his pet octopus.
Barely had Fleming got back than he was off to Japan, to research another Bond instalment. And then, in October came the film premiere of Dr No. It left him excited and weary but with spirit undimmed. In an address to students in Oxford that year he encapsulated his approach to writing: say whatever you want, research it properly, and write fast. Never look back, he said: ‘If you interrupt the writing of fast narrative with too much introspection and self-criticism you will be lucky if you write 500 words a day and you will be disgusted with them into the bargain.’ He cast a warning note: there wasn’t much money to be made from books; it was only when you made a film deal that you could sit pretty. But if you persevered, a writer’s life had its advantages: ‘You carry your office around in your head. And you are far more aware of the world around you. Writing makes you more alive to your surroundings and, since the main ingredient of living [. . .] is to be alive, this is quite a worthwhile by-product of writing, even if you only write thrillers, whose heroes are white, the villains black, and the heroines a delicate shade of pink.’
In a foreword to a book titled The Seven Deadly Sins, published earlier that year, he dismissed the usual catalogue as part of everyday life and substituted his own: ‘Avarice, Cruelty, Snobbery, Hypocrisy, Self-righteousness, Moral Cowardice and Malice’. He appended an Eighth Sin – ‘that of being a Bore’. This he was determined never to be.
TO MISS JOAN SAUNDERS, 113 Fulham Road, London, S.W.3.
Joan Saunders ran the Writers and Speakers Research Agency. This rather attractive concept allowed authors to call her whenever faced with a tricky question of fact. She would then depute members of her team to provide answers. Fleming had already used her for Thunderball and now he did so again.
5th September, 1961
My dear Joan,
Before I begin I don’t think you ever sent me a bill for putting me in touch with Wing Commander Dobson over my last book, and you are so unbusinesslike I am sure I am right. So do please send me a sensible bill because your help was quite invaluable.
I sent on to you Miss Ann Marlow and I gather you are giving her some help for some meagre fee. She is an extremely rich television producer in America and you really must charge people more!
Now, I have another problem for you.
Briefly, in my next book James Bond will foil a plot to bring England to her knees by the most direct form of economic pressure – the destruction of agricultural and livestock resources by the spreading of disease.
As you know, this form of “germ warfare” is in the arsenal of all the major powers, and I am sure much has been written on the subject outside classified sources if only I knew where to look for it.
Such diseases as anthrax, fowl pest, swine fever and foot and mouth disease, come to my mind, and there are doubtless other bacteria or pests such as the Colorado beetle for attacking crops and perhaps forests.
I think I can arrange the introduction of these various pests etc. into England, but what I need to know is which parts of the United Kingdom would be the best targets for which bacteria, etc.
So far as poultry and cattle are concerned obviously a good means to spread the disease would be to introduce the bacteria at the big horse and cattle shows (query Peterborough, Cambridge, Smithfield, Dairy Show) and poultry shows, if they have such things, and I would like to be instructed in such matters as the introduction of the diseases will be by human carriers and not by spraying from aircraft etc.
I realise that all this is very fanciful stuff, but with the help of expert advice I think I can make it more or less stand up, if I can get the ammunition right and the targets more or less credible.
Can you help me?
I also need to know whether there is a Corsican local dialect and where I can find a Corsican who can translate a few sentences of English into his native dialect.
Can you help me?
TO MRS. MALCOLM HORSLEY, L’Haute Ville, Calvi, Corsica
4th January, 1962
Dear Mrs. Horsley,
Your name has been given to me by Dr. Saunders of Writer’s and Speaker’s Research as being an expert on Corsica, and I wonder if you would do a little fairly simple research in connection with a passage that will appear in my next thriller.
I believe there is a Corsican dialect.
Could you please consult one of the locals and translate into Corsican the following conversation which takes place over the telephone between one shady Corsican and his headquarters in Corsica.
“Get me headquarters”
“This is the chief. Have we any news of
Smith? Where is he living now? You’re sure of
that? But no exact address? Good. That is all.”
This should be rendered in tough, slangy gangsterese.
Secondly, could you write me a brief essay, say 300 or 400 words, on the “Union Corse”, which I believe was, and probably still is, run on the lines of the Mafia, the Unione Siciliano, – giving me as many facts as you can possibly discover both about their operations and habits inside Corsica and abroad.
I daresay you may find it difficult to get hold of this information, unless you have a friend in the police. But I would be glad if you could turn out something sufficiently mystifying and horrific!
If you think you could manage this chore I would be very grateful if you could possibly bend your mind to it quickly and air mail the results to me here [Goldeneye] together with your suggestion for a generous fee.
I hope this won’t come as too much shock out of the blue, and I hope at any rate you will have some fun over the second question.
I do hope you can manage this.
P.S. Could you please also give me a good and villainous sounding christian and surname for my Corsican gangster.
TO MICHAEL HOWARD
From Goldeneye
28th February, 1962
Thank you very much for your two letters & the excellent bit of showmanship by Tony [Colwell], also for dear Daniel’s amusing piece on Edwards. What a pity!
You continue to be splendidly obscure about the Joseph fiasco2 but perhaps you will explain when we meet. If you need money, why don’t you get it from people like me? I think it would be a fine idea for Caspar to have a stake in Capes!
Have just passed the 60,000 in my new opus. Quite tremendous bezants (look it up!) but at least JB is in from the first page to the last. Another 10,000 to go.
Fame is breat
hing down my neck. CBC flew a whole unit down to filmise me about Powers, the Tatler has visited again & of course the Dr No biz was a riot. By the way, Tony should have a talk with Saltzman sometime. Among other gimmicks he is turning out 5 million copies of a strip book on Dr No & I think you should climb on the band wagon.
No more for now as I have just had my hair cut for the first time in six weeks & am feeling rather light-headed! Back on the 20th.
Love to all on the Cape.
TO AUBREY FORSHAW, ESQ., Pan Books Ltd., 8 Headfort Place, London, S.W.1.
Forshaw, the head of Pan Books, was, like Fleming, a car buff. His advice was invaluable when it came to outfitting Bond with a suitable motor for the latest adventure.
28th March, 1962
My dear Aubrey,
I attach the passage in my new book which refers to Bond’s fitting of a supercharger to his Mark II Continental Bentley to which he had fitted in Thunderball the Mark IV engine with 9.5 compression. He had also designed for himself a two-seater convertible body, but that is neither here nor there.
Would you be terribly kind and re-write this passage as you think fit, but including as much of your famous expertise as you can without clogging up the prose?
Sorry to beg this service from you, but it was as a result of your instructions that Bond changed to this car and the idea of adding a supercharger amused me.
I am also not sure if the Continental has a red line at 5000 revs.
With more apologies.
“He leant forward and flicked down the red switch [the moan of the blower died away] and there was silence in the car as he motored along, easing his tense muscles. He wondered if the supercharger had damaged the engine. Against the solemn warnings of Rolls Royce, he had had fitted, by his pet expert at the Headquarters motor pool, a supercharger. Rolls Royce had said the cylinder head [camshaft bearings] wouldn’t take the extra compression [load] and, when he confessed to them what he had done, they regretfully but firmly withdrew their guarantees and washed their hands of their bastardised child. This was the first time he had notched 125 and the rev counter had been [hovered] dangerously over the red line at 5000 [4500]. But the temperature and oil were okay and there were no expensive noises. And by God it had been fun!”3
The Man with the Golden Typewriter Page 31