Nov. 2, 1954
[typewritten, to her parents]
November 2nd
Cher parents:
Aren't you getting sick
of all these letters—? No, well—my pocket book is
beginning to suffer from sending them. Got your letter
of Oct. 13th today . . . it is so hilarious to try and
reconstruct the events of three weeks past. So today
is election day, eh. I would be so excited if I were
there, always loved them so—must get it all vicariously from
Time magazine.
I got awfully excited
today after receiving a long funny
letter from
John*, ending up by resignedly acknowledging my
dominance over him by letting me plan our Xmas
vacation. He said he had planned on spending
Xmas relaxing in front of a Yule log in England with a
bottle of whiskey, BUT NOT FOR ME! Claiming that no
one cares about him, he gave up and surrendered his fate to
me completely. Chuckling gleefully, I scurried right
over to Cook's
Travel Service and got brochures on Switzerland and
Germany, am of this date considering Geneva, Interlaken,
Chamonix, the Bavarian Alps, Salzburg, and Munich . . . will
probably change my mind a million times before December.
John worries me a lot,
has lost much too much weight, but seems cheerful enough, so
I'll wait for awhile before pouncing on him about proper
diet, etc.
I wrote three letters
tonight, interspersing them with three glasses of sherry
with the Reades*
and some jolly guests . . . yes, Mr. R. is once more among
the well. He is very much up and around these
days. I wrote one of those blue airmail forms to
Bonnie*,
Jane*, and
Morton* and Elizabeth so that should hold them until
Xmas. I sent a package yesterday to you, but you
shouldn't be receiving it until around the 1st of December.
About the Stratford
pictures:
1 — is the first one I
took, taken from the Memorial Theatre veranda, looking out
over the Avon to the bridge at the other end . . . note the
blurry swans at left.
2
— a closeup of swans. Jack*
said they must be trained to complement the theatre, for
they, in perfect formation, do dips and dives and glides
with rhythm and precision.
3 — view of the
rose-garden and statue off of the bridge, unbelievably
beautiful sight.
4
— front view of theatre—its least imposing viewpoint . . .
the theatre itself is unfortunately in the shade.
5 — side view, the
mostly lovely side . . . as you can see very modern and
functional . . . the glassed-in part is the restaurant where
we spent a fortune, note swans on right. The
Shakespeare Memorial Theatre was built not too long ago,
found to be greatly wanting, and much redone in past years.
6 — back view . . .
where I was standing to take the picture is a marvelously
beautiful length of green grass and willow trees flanking
the Avon.
7
— elegant photo of Hamlet statue and Jack both examining
Yorick's skull. In back of them is huge statue of
Shakespeare.
8 — was a mistake . . .
after that thirty minute walk I came across this little
house and thinking it Anne Hathaway's cottage took a hurried
shot of it . . . turned out to be a private home . . .
anyhow, nice representative of Tudor type architecture.
9
— FINALLY? yes, Anne Hathaway's cottage and me looking
sleepy . . . that is a REAL thatched roof, I'll have you
know (not my hair, that is).
STILL haven't started
on the project, but as long as I'm so busy with the musical
(am now designing the costumes also) guess Wickham*
will let it go. Spent a hilarious hour in the reading
room of the Senior Library today trying to read Nicoll while
Rod
Brown* grimaced . . . what a wonderful person he is!
Wickham continues to
amaze me; he is a born teacher, gets things across so well,
and clarifies everything so much for me . . . I think he
even exceeds John in this respect, probably because I don't
argue with Wickham so much.
Aren't your proud of Mr.
Hemingway?
Until later . . . XXX
[handwritten
postscript:] What did I say in my letter from
the ship that was so outstanding?
[typewritten
addendum:] AMAZING FACTS OF INTEREST:
Gerry* found out on the q.t. that only 16 out of 144
applicants were awarded Fulbrights in the field of drama—no
comment. Also John tells me that Bristol Drama
Department is not only the only one in England but one of
the very few in all of Europe! Marcie*
went to London last weekend and talked to two of the Fellows
at the Central School of Acting there (considered top notch
school). They were most unhappy there, are kept on a
rigid, inflexible schedule, and are quite envious of us in
our situation. Guess things are just about as right as
they could be!
How is Marcia
[Nash]* and the cheerleading coming out?
Mrs. R. just brought in
an orange, praise be. My first in three weeks.
The man downstairs is at it again . . . sawing this time,
wonder what he is building? I should be reading Masks,
Mimes, and Miracles at this point, but the books
on Winter Sports and Winter Sunshine are much too
intriguing. I keep looking wistfully at the ski
resorts and into windows featuring skiing outfits . . . John
would simply pass out of the picture if I even suggested it
. . . remember his telling me about his one and only
encounter with the sport, he ending up rolling down the
slope. Ah, well—
Nov. 10, 1954
[typewritten, to her parents]
Nov. 10th
Dearest folks:
Just when I had about
decided to give up the ghost, that I would never have time
to do anything, let alone write letters, the reversal
in fortune which marks the basic action in all drama (and
also life) happened: I was so tired all the time I couldn't
concentrate, I was upset about the playwriting course since
I could only write the damnable play from about 11:00 PM to
2:00 AM (which I either fell asleep over or got disgusted
with and always emerged trite and uninteresting); the five
hours rehearsal time without a break, leaving no time for my
project at all, and just life in general (you KNOW how I can
get, or as John said about himself, "You know me well enough
to guess what a production I can make out of things").
I was generally throwing fits and making life unpleasant for
myself and everyone else in general. (Of course just
the day before I was on top of the world.) Anyhow, I
had a tutorial with Wickham this morning and didn't know
what would come about—the whole day started out promising:
since none of us ever wake up before 9:00 (and I had to make
a phone call at 9:15 and be at the University at 10:00) I
decided to set the alarm. This in itself was a
mistake, knowing how I am about anything mechanical.
Thought I would be brave and set it for 8:10 . . . since
Mrs. R. had promised some hot chocolate I stayed up reading
until about 1:00 AM (finally realized she had forgotten and
went to bed) so I too turned in after falling asleep several
times over The
Burlesque Tradition. Just in the throes of
that first blissful sleep, the alarm went off—yes, at 20
minutes of 2:00 (just the reverse of 8:10). Gave up on
that gimmick! After a troubled sleep, finally got up
about 8:30—Mr. R. up about 9:00, usual hilarity of his
getting breakfast for me (spilling EVERYTHING since he's
three times more nearsighted than I), me calling Duncan Ross, trying to get
my rubber overshoes on (just the thin pullover kind—I've
ordered a pair of fur-topped overboots like we wear in the
States, that you can wear with any type heel—they aren't so
warm as the furlined ones they wear here but more practical
for travel; may get the other kind when the really cold
weather sets in. By the way, my black flats are
rotting away—the heels are slowly peeling off), running out
the door without my umbrella (it has been pouring freezing
rain all day), finally arriving at 10:10, but naturally no
Wickham. He arrived about five minutes later, cursing
the weather in his RAF
raincoat, going through the mail, dictating to his
secretary . . . I got so interested in thinking how handsome
he was that I forgot about being nervous . . . we had our
conference in one of the dressing rooms, with all the jumble
of the ballet class in the background, and to put it
consciously, it was marvelous. I now have no troubles,
only things to do [that] I am interested in, a wonderful
itinerary for all vacations, a stimulating conversation
about The Crucible, and many thanks to the Lord and
John Douty for getting me to this wonderful place, and to
this wonderful man.
In the short space of
half an hour, I was relieved of the playwriting course
(which definitely was NOT my cup of tea), I will keep on
with the two productions as Gerry's assistant and costumer
from 5:00-10:00 as my practical work for the year, while
doing some reading and research on the pantomime in the
daytime. After the productions come off (Dec. 6-8) I
will probably go to Bath, which is noted for the best
pantomime in the country and is only about twenty miles
away, to work with them for a week on their Christmas
pantomime—sitting in on rehearsals, etc. and then to London
on the 16th. I wrote to John about this, being in
London through Xmas, then to Geneva, through Switzerland and
southern Germany in a circle to Paris for a week.
Wickham has contacts in all these places, and will give
introductions at same, also to sit in on rehearsals at the
Comedie Francaise. The spring term will be composed of
going to other pantomimes in the country, and writing down
the academic side and the traditional side; spring vacation
in Italy and Spain (where he also has contacts—what
a man!). Summer term a twenty-page paper summing up
for him. NOW! If I can swing it by saving money
or getting some from K.C. (do I have any left in the bank?)
I hope in June to get to the Scandinavian countries and
Berlin (where he ALSO has contacts), then spend a month in Dartington
Hall from July 1-17, where the Bristol Drama
Department does an intensive practical period—Wickham says
"It's probably the best thing we have to offer all year
long" so I'd better take advantage of it—then, home, I
guess—unless some other opportunity offers itself, at any
rate I'll be leaving sometime in August.
I had made up an
outline which was broad and extensive, but which I could do
a part of now of the English tradition and use as perhaps a
Master's thesis, but could broaden out for a Doctoral if I
ever wanted to (but probably won't). He was very
impressed, surprisingly, and everything seems rosy
now. Amazing how my moods change . . .
Then we had a wonderful
discussion of The
Crucible, which is going over madly here—will
probably go to the West End (THIS is a big step . . .
anything that goes from a province to London is really IT)
and I couldn't be happier—I have worshipped Miller since the
first day I saw Death of a Salesman, and I have
never experienced anything that moves me so much as his
plays, even Shakespeare I'm ashamed to say. Wickham
says he thinks The Crucible is almost a great play,
and could be if Miller prunes it a bit, so it seemed to
confirm my thoughts since first reading it . . . the script
arrived yesterday, by the way—perfect timing—between the
rehearsal I saw and the performance Saturday night.
Thanks so much—you couldn't have sent anything I wanted
more.
The production by the
way from what I've seen and heard is quite good—some
miscasting, some off timing, but powerful . . . Wickham said
they gave it an ovation at last night's opening, so I think
we can give the English credit for having very susceptible
feelings. The hero was far from Arthur Kennedy's
"tearing flesh off bones" sensitivity, but not bad.
When he gets to the point; "I say God is dead!" you feel
like running out in the street and literally screaming in
pain—and it's not just me and my emotional nerves
either. It is a painfully powerful play, almost too
intense for human consumption.
I want to thank all for
the wonderful letters, also got one from Jane Davis, Durward, another from Joann*,
and a copy of the Pygmalion
program from (don't faint) Morton. I honestly don't
KNOW about sending things. Gerry even called the
customs office and they seemed a bit vague: still think it's
used clothing, food, and books. I can send you things
up to $10.00, provided I put MAY BE OPENED FOR INSPECTION:
UNSOLICITED GIFT [on the package], and value and listing of
contents. Gerry gets money all the time in the mail,
but that's neither here nor there. I shall be
well-heeled for Xmas, from then on it's more of a problem,
especially the summer months.
After my talk with
Glynne I stomped down the street and tried on my
dress. It's almost custom made, since the only one
they had in stock was a 12 and had to have one made in my
size, then altered, since the waist was too big, the hips
too small. Tried it on and it's a triumph—it now
sweeps elegantly in back, and clings the rest of the
places. Is a marvelously made thing with a covered
zipper in back, a tab which hooks underneath the dress to
make it fit right, and the wool is like nothing I've ever
seen: you feel like eating it rather than wearing it.
Our shows are coming along
fine—the kids are so nice and helpful, and very cooperative;
the Saroyan
play I think we rock Bristol U. off its foundations;
they're doing a very moving job even now.
Mrs. R. is throwing
together lunch, and I have to write to Zanni (Johnny [Douty]) imploring
him to verify the Xmas plan, so I can tell Wickham.
Much love, Jean
Oct. 31—Nov. 17, 1954
[typewritten, to her parents]
Oct. 31st
I will get this part of
the letter done now, and mail it later on to reinforce a
package which, as of tomorrow, will be wending its long,
tiresome way to you. I suppose the contents officially
should be considered as Xmas presents; however, please
accept them as a small token of my esteem and thanks for the
luggage, the packing, the lugging of the steamer trunk
around, the sharing of those hectic hours of planning,
getting tickets, etc. I am mailing the package Nov.
1st in hopes that it will get to you sometime around the 1st
of Dec. I'm not sending it any later since packages
seem to go so slowly, they might get held up even more
during the Xmas rush, and also because after this week I
will be going mad on
Down in the Valley*,
and probably won't even have time to write, let alone pack
Xmas parcels—takes me so long, don't you know? I am
sorry that I can't manage Xmas presents for everyone, but it
can't be done, unfortunately—so the pretty cards will have
to suffice. Felt that I had to send something to Joann
and Pat*
after those ten wonderful days of feeding me, bedding me,
and sharing in all the excitement, so I got them two
light-wool neck scarves.
Yours (as if you won't
see [it] listed on the outside) are: one for Mother, one for
Father, one for the house. This letter will probably
get to you before the package, but never mind that.
The box (one of the few in this country . . . they do not
give boxes for anything; I haven't even been able to find a
shop that sells them—paper shortage, you know) is
one in which my evening sandals came.
The scarf is mohair,
Mother, quite the thing around here, probably too warm for
K.C., but luscious to look at, no? The pipe, Father,
is French imported, of cherry, probably quite impractical to
smoke with,
but intriguing looking, don't you think?
The two little
figurines are another buy from the Art Students Guild, hand carved—I go absolutely
mad in that shop (where I bought the 55 cards)—the loveliest
glassware and china imaginable.
I hope everything is
intact, not too mussed by customs officials, and not too
late or early to be applicable for Xmas.
[continuation:] Nov. 13th
By word of explanation
with apologies—
Sorry, know there's
nothing more irritating than not understanding enigmatic
statements. The Crucible is being given by the
Theatre Royall*
here for a three week run (they are a three-week
professional repertory company—the Theatre Royal [sic]
building is the oldest theatre in England still playing
shows) until the end of this month)—then, they go on with a
Ustinov until middle of December—I thought I gave you their
repertoire but guess it was JTD [John Templeman Douty] or
someone else. We have met their production manager, Nat
Brenner, and the director, John Moody—hence, the
allowing us to attend rehearsals. Connected with the
Theatre Royal is the Old Vic Acting School (this set up is
like the one in London), the head of which is Duncan Ross
(whom I've mentioned before). They train kids in
professional acting, allowing them to sometimes take small
parts in the big shows. The town has really gone wild
on The Crucible—Sam
Wanamaker and other London critics were down, it's
pretty certain the show will hit the West End after Xmas.
I am acting as Gerry's
assistant and also working on the costumes on two shows
(each running about thirty minutes) which is HIS
project. Down in the Valley (surely you've
heard of it?) the musical, and Saroyan's Hello Out
There, a one-act play. We've used mostly
University students on the shows, about three or four Old
Vic students, and a friend of George Brandt's—formerly
with the London Old Vic . . . the whole setup is frankly
taking up way too much time but Wickham is pleased that I'm
doing something practical (meaning physical) and it only
involves the next 3½ weeks so I will be content and enjoy
myself. The kids are all so nice and cooperative that
it's pleasant by contrast.
I'm having a tutorial
with George
Rowell* Monday morning . . . the project is just the
same as it always was—those
damnable pantomimes. I
don't really mean the latter—I'm just tired and irritable
and looking forward to Xmas, when I don't have to make a
constant effort to live up to the conception the English
have of the eager, enthusiastic American all the time; it
wears one out being eager and enthusiastic. It will be
great fun to be nasty and jaded for a month.
Aside from rehearsals
every morning and night for five days—our weekends are just
as bad: parties every Saturday night, we're invited out to
dinner Sunday, we're supposed to perform on an international
conference; we're supposed to participate in an
Anglo-American discussion; and the English are completely
bewildered and hurt when we refuse or act unenthusiastic
about these things. So it boils right down to a
hard-facts selection of what we can do or should do, and
what one is going to do to get anything out of this
year. Obviously you are the public relations
end of Anglo-American relations; on the other hand, you came
over here under the supposition that you were to study
too. I hate to think it will ever come to a choice of
one to the exclusion of the other, but one can't do
everything. I figured generally it would be: 1st term:
public relations, practical work, getting to know the
students both at the U. and Old Vic, conviviality.
Xmas vacation. 2nd term: more intensive work on
project, traveling around to various pantomimes, gathering
data. Easter vacation. Summer term: really
intensive work: writing the stuff down, getting it on
paper. In the midst of all of this the English friends
are more or less dropped by the wayside—I also have to write
to Dr.
Barnett or someone about my status at KCU and "Where
do I go from here?"
Enjoyed the [news]paper
so much, Daddy. I may be stupid about baseball, but I'm not stupid
about what prestige this gives good ol' K.C. nationally
speaking. I do, however, think it rather stupid of Mayor
Kemp's statement to the effect that this is probably
the greatest thing that ever happened to K.C.: rather a case
of confused standards or don't you agree?
I agree with you about
Bill
Ludeke: time will probably help him grow up as much as
anything; after all, he's not very old, but their attitude
towards the whole matter is most lamentable.
A few people have TV
here, but a very small segment of the minority: recently the
BBC did a two-part version of Peer Gynt with Peter
Ustinov in the title role. Marcie saw it and said it
was quite good.
Mellie*
spent nine cents on the letter, and I don't know how she got
by with it: the minimum is fifteen, I'm sure. I'm
about to embark on buying postage stamps for my 35 [sic]
Xmas cards, you can mail cards here to any part [of] the
world for about two cents unsealed, but I want to write
things in mine, and I fear they would take two months to get
anywhere, so I guess I'll spend the extra four cents on
all. Gerry says I'm being stingy—he is sending
150...
I am going alone to see
The Crucible this afternoon—am cutting rehearsal
because I'm sick of them and Gerry, and because I was afraid
I'd never get to see it if I waited any longer.
I got a letter from
George*, the man on the ship, yesterday . . . it was
very funny and very like him. He said when he got home
(Conway, South Carolina) he got the shock of his life . . .
only five out of 375 houses left standing on the beach, with
refrigerators, radios, mattresses strewn all over, the
result of Hurricane
Hazel. Said it would probably take years, if
ever, to get built back up. Also a hilarious account
of the trip back on the United States with his two
table mates: one a wife of a saloon keeper from Hannibal,
Missouri!
I have to go clean up
this mess; am reading a book of Rod's on script writing for
the movies, God knows why. Saw On the Waterfront
the other day: generally very good, in spots marvelously
done, in others not so good. Brando, better than
ever. I thought Lee J. Cobb badly miscast; Karl Malden
also a little uncomfortable, but both excellent.
[Handwritten addendum:] —or at least make the most out of a
bad deal. Eva Marie Saint was excellent.
Nov 14—12 noon
Where was I? I
enjoy Sunday mornings about the best of all—sleep until
10:00, get breakfast in bed—even if it isn't good, the whole
idea of such luxury compensates . . . read the Observer
(also in bed). Cleaned out my dresser drawers,
interspersed with Virginia Woolf's diary, which is getting a
bit boring after some twenty years and 200 pages—only
fifteen years and 150 pages to go! She had the most
amazing personality; every once in a while I feel that we
are really vibrating in harmony, and many of her
observations and evaluations are acute—yet in a flash she
becomes the worst kind of snob. The last entry (which
I had already read in one of John's New Yorkers) is
very matter of fact, was going shopping, etc.—and four days
later she committed suicide. I'm supplementing the
diary with Mrs. Dalloway—have never ready any of
her novels, which is a little silly on my part, since she is
considered one of the greatest women novelists; I remember
one of the Fulbrights was doing her project on Woolf.
I'm also dabbling in Faulkner's Knight's Gambit
which I never got around to last year. I got these
books at the Library yesterday, since I was so sick of
plays, theatre history, and analysis.
Was a trifle
disappointed in The Crucible yesterday—rather
overplayed, dramatic, no I think theatrical is the word,
rather than sincere. Read the review in one of the
London papers this morning, which felt that Miller had
ruined a "magnificent play" by being too subjectively
convinced of his stand, which is precisely what John has
been trying to drum into my head for years. I can see
the point, but the trouble is that I am also subjectively
convinced that Miller is right, and hence think the play is
great. Anyhow, the going was worthwhile, since I was
blessed by having Sir
Cedric Hardwicke sit right in front of me! His son (about 21 or
so) is in the Old Vic Company, here played a minor role in
the play. Either no one recognized Sir Cedric (which I
think was the case, since only about two people asked him
for his autograph) or they didn't give a damn.
Naturally Old Mila Jean stomped up after the show and asked
him what he thought of the play as script—said he thought it
"wonderful" etc. etc. usual guff about whether the
McCarthyism of it is applicable to English audiences,
etc. Just then his girlfriend
came back with his coat; oh, by the way, he was with a broad
(as Morton would say) in her 30's, Italian haircut, fur
coat, heavily madeup, no wedding ring. She interjected
in my statement that I thought the script needed cutting,
exclaiming that it was "ABSOLUTELY PERFECT" the way it was,
she knew now why Miller insisted on having the forest scene,
it was all wrong in the New York production—which she
prefaced by saying that she was American. I felt like
asking her who she was, but didn't: I was exhausted by the
whole affair; it was dark and raining out, and my umbrella
had fallen apart AGAIN, and I wanted to get home, feeling
that they hadn't much more to offer me, so I bade them fond
farewell. No autographs, I detest that sort of thing,
haven't asked for one since I was 16—but it only goes to
show you what can happen in Bristol.
Walked home in the
rain; did a washing, and read. Declined to go to a
party—hated the thought of getting out in the rain
again. Am going over to some friends tonight for
dinner—since they are the ones who always cook exotic food
(last time it was some sort of Spanish dish with mushrooms,
spaghetti, rice, garlic), serve intoxicants, and are about
my favorite people in Bristol, I am going quite willingly.
Will you please send my
Emmy's address, Flo's, Dee Glogau (if you have it)
and Bill
McGehee*'s? The latter either the office or home
will do. I have to get the Xmas cards out by
Thanksgiving, I think.
The U.S. Educational
Commission probably is quite bitter with me by now. I
haven't made any reservations for the Fulbright Xmas dance,
nor have I booked passage home. Hesitate about the
first—can you imagine John at a formal dance?—and I have
nothing to wear; but I would like to see all the Fulbrighters again, and they have a bar open until 2:00 AM
which is a lure, and also a buffet supper, both of which
would help. I figured we could run in late; I could
deposit John at the bar, and circulate around seeing
everyone, and then run out. The only hitch is that it
costs about $4.50, and it just isn't worth that kind of
money.
I am fulfilling the
Aunt
Mellie tradition and bought myself a large straw
basket—EVERYONE carries one here, since they very rarely
provide paper sacks, to carry packages, groceries in.
I figured it would help while I am in Bristol, and would
come in handy on vacations, since I am bound to spill over.
Went through two more
pairs of hose—it's a curse; and they [the British] think it
ridiculous for young women to wear anklets, or high wool
socks like are the rage in the States. I don't care,
I'm wearing mine anyway, and wish I had some more.
I must go have the
traditional Sunday dinner now: at 1:00 PM, lamb, potatoes,
broccoli, cider, and "sweet." Must finish Woolf before
tonight. Cheerio!
[continuation:] Nov. 17th
Still haven't got this
mailed—last night I was sure I had the flu and staggered
home from rehearsal early and took to my bed, sure that it
would be my last night on earth—Mrs. R. gave me one of her
"pills," and I awoke this morn feeling fine except for a bit
of dizziness. Wonder what was in the "pill"—ha.
Please thank Skippy for his note and the pictures; they are
so like him—tell him I am sending one to his Uncle John
[Douty], who has grappled more than once with him on the
front porch in the early hours of the morning. Uncle
John is fine—amazingly calm and philosophical these days—is
being very fatherly and clinical psychologist to me,
casually pointing out things to me and in a kind sort of way
kind of bolstering me up. I've decided to stop making
such laborious plans about everything, and just enjoy
myself. He said he would come over to London on the
boat train on the night of the 15th, and I guess we can plan
from there; it's much too tedious the other way.
I mailed 25 [sic] Xmas cards
for only three shillings (1½ cents a piece). Left the
cards for Hamilton and Dayton. Please list who you
think I should send to and their addresses—it all takes such
a long time to organize. Everything is getting Xmasy
already around here; the store windows and everything.
People keep telling me
that was Sir Cedric's wife I saw, but I don't believe
it. Besides, he is known for "playing around" since
he's been so much in Hollywood.
We had a lovely dinner
Sunday night, but ended up around 1:00 AM with our usual
animated discussion about aesthetics, art, life in general
which is already the natural outcome of any party in
England.
Had my conference with
George R. who was as usual very helpful, and am now wading
through Planché's
autobiography and two other huge volumes.
Do you think I should
send Xmas cards to Dewar and Jonesie?
Am enclosing
description of gifts I wrote back in October—don't know if
the package will ever arrive but here's hoping! Love,
Jean
Nov.
23, 1954
[typewritten, to her parents]
Nov. 23rd
Winnie [Churchill]'s coming!
Yes, they're cleaning
floors, waxing furniture, etc. for the past few days.
He will be here to confer degrees at
the university and to give a big speech at Colston Hall downtown, an
auditorium which would put Music Hall to shame.
Of course, the former is a closed ceremony, but I have a
ticket to the latter along with about 4,000 other eager
enthusiasts. If you never hear from me again I will
have been crushed in the mob, but at least I can tell the
younger generation I saw Winston Churchill.
You and your
friends! Last Friday morning at about twenty minutes
after 7:00 I was peacefully snoozing after a late night on
the town, when the phone rang. I my befuddlement I
sensed that Mr. R. was yelling outside my door: "It's a call
for you from London—" Wondering who in God's name I
knew in London, but sensing it might either be one of the
Persian princes, or John on a drunken spree, I staggered
out. First comment in a strange male voice: "You don't
know me, and I don't know you—but I know your mudda"—ye Gods
and Great butterflies: Daniel!
It was one of the most inane conversations I've ever had and
couldn't repeat a word of it to you, but I must have slipped
up, muttering something about "I remember you" when he had
only mentioned he worked at the store—since the next day I
got a letter from him saying that in all the excitement he
had forgotten to give me his name! Oh, well: I tried
to sound properly excited, and must have conveyed some of it
since he said he wished I could come with him—ha, ha.
Kept repeating over and over, "You write your mudda I called
you," so I am. Pray tell me—what next??
Got a letter from Connie*
this morning, saying that she had received the gift*
the day before (the 17th) so you should be getting yours
about Dec. 1st. She sounded like forced enthusiasm as
if the thing had come in ten pieces and she was afraid to
tell me, or didn't know what it was or something, so maybe I
should have gotten something impractical and pretty. Well, at least the
thought behind it was good.
I'm being sent out on
another mission tomorrow, I always get the feeling that I
should be in uniform, which sealed papers (we actually did
when we went to Stratford) and a secretive expression—I
always also have the feeling that I will never get back and
so say lasting farewells to all my friends. This time
it's to a little town in Devonshire, which only has one bus
which runs only twice a day and one taxi. I have to go
to Dartington Hall, which is three miles from the station,
so here's hoping. It's to look at the costumes that
are stored there, which we hope to use for the shows.
Takes three hours to get there, and three or four back (the
night train is slower) so it should be quite a day.
Thanks Mellie and
Mother for the excavation for the article. It was
highly applicable since I had just a few days earlier heard
all about Mort
and the donkey from John's sister, who was
in K.C. for the dress rehearsal and wrote him about her experiences.
Ah, children's theatre!
Hope you had a
wonderful Thanksgiving yesterday—I'll never forget last year
with the one turkey family dinner and the duck and champagne
at Mort's at night. Rod and
June*
Brown were planning a cocktail party for before our dinner
(to dull the taste, you know), but haven't heard about it
lately. By the way, we went over to their place
Saturday night and ate pizzi [sic] until we nearly
burst—first I've had in months. Sunday night went to
Marcie's for a birthday party and listened to records.
Also last week a birthday party for Masúd and a beer get-together at
Gerry's. Last night was invited by the local Fran Polek to go on a party
with him aboard a Dutch ship in the harbor . . . I declined,
and went home for hot cocoa and Faulkner instead. I
guess I'm getting old and domestic. My spirit of
adventure has deserted me forever, I fear.
Finally bought my
boots—they're going to be quite serviceable I think, and are
quite pretty. You and that raincoat deal.
Frankly, I doubt if they are any cheaper, if not more
expensive over here, just like cashmere sweaters. I
haven't investigated—won't need one until spring vacation
anyhow, since it's the same miserable cold here all year
round.
Intelligence from Paris
informs me that [John] is planning to attend at least seven
shows in London!!
Also we may be in
Brussels by the 25th, ach!
We had our first
legitimate fog last week—was terribly exciting wandering
around, feeling one's way by the walls, hearing locomotives
bearing down on one, and not being able to see them.
Everyone had the air of "this is NOTHING," "You should see a
REAL fog"—I hope I will never have the opportunity, but by
the looks of things outside, we may have another soon.
Must get my umbrella
repaired today: everyone, including Wickham, has so much fun
playing with it now—it has such a dejected air with all the
spokes hanging out. Doubt if it can be salvaged this
time.
Am staggering once more
to the shoe repairer, this time with three pairs—since he
takes at least a week I guess the old loafers will have to
be brought out to wear in the interim.
Had a talk with George
Brandt last night, who asked if I would consider producing
his children's play with the local group here—I told him I
was weak in conceptualizing and declined, but agreed to act
as his assistant if he wanted to do it, and would take any
rehearsals that were necessary. Who knows how that
will turn out.
Bought a hideously
expensive ticket for the
Sadler's Wells* ballet Saturday night—Coppelia
which I've never seen. All the balcony tickets were
sold out the first day that they started selling them, so I
am downstairs with the upper crust.
I must try and catch Wickham
to see just WHO is paying for my little caper of tomorrow.
Hope all are well—sorry
I can't write Mellie a separate letter, but surely loved
hers. Much love, Jean
[handwritten
addendum:] Enclosed—Dan's letter
Nov.
30, 1954
[typewritten, to her parents]
Nov. 30th 9:30 AM
Can you imagine me
writing a letter at this hour of the morning?
Got your letter today
with the money—Gosh, thank you so much, I feel guilty about
receiving it. After your letter of before I was about
to write and tell you not to send money, since you probably
need it worse than I do, but thinking of it in terms of
buying something on the Continent—well, it makes the whole
prospect more tempting. Anyway, after all the
vacillating I accept it gratefully. Seemed so
wonderful fingering American money after so long—like
Fitzgerald, I somehow harbor the feeling that as long as I
have some of the U.S. green stuff I can do anything.
Had an exciting past
week. Anything that I could feebly put down on paper,
especially so early, would not do it justice. I have
just been reading Cornelia Otis
Skinner's Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, and
am convinced that if I have any time to myself at all this
summer, I must start a book. Her experiences and mine
seem to parallel each other.
First things first—the
preparation for the Devon trip was naturally as complicated
as only I could make them. Wandering around in the
pouring rain, buying train tickets and thoroughly confusing
the ticket man at Cook's, paying a trip to the bank, with a
hilarious session with the tellers and the assistant
manager—then trading alarm clocks with Mr. R., since I can
never get mine to work right. Falling into a troubled
sleep, I kept waking up in fitful starts and squinting
towards the clock: 2:00 AM, 4:30 A, 6:00 AM, 7:00 AM.
"Well," think I, "at least I'm awake in case the alarm
doesn't go off," promptly falling asleep, to be brought up
sharp at 7:15 by the scream of the alarm. Tell me, is
it ever possible to find the alarm button? I kept
fumbling around, knocking off the clock, etc. Finally
staggered up, shivering, pulling on the clothes wrongside
out, etc. With bags and trepidation, I opened the
front door and got the paper. Weakly staring at the
paper, the headlines defiantly glared "FLOODS IN DEVON—BRING
OUT DISASTER CREWS."
"Well," thought I,
"back to bed," wondering if Glynne Wickham cherished some
well-hidden desire to see me dead. Noting, however,
that the sun was feebly trying to come out, I began putting
my outer clothing on (meaning two sweaters, jacket,
scarf). Timid knock on door with Mr. R. yelling: "Did
the alarm go off?" "Yes!" He, the lamb, prepared
breakfast for me, in his own inimitable manner (milk all
over the floor, on cracked cups, suggestive of an Irish
tragedy setting). I ate a solitary breakfast,
envisioning what it would be like in a rowboat, trying to
remember all you told me about the 1913
Ohio flood, and the 1952
[sic] Missouri one. Bravely I set
out. Naturally long queues of people waiting for buses
downtown, and no buses. I began walking. Halfway
along I gave up, exhausted, feeling that Providence would
take care of me and a bus came along. It took three
people to get me off at the right stop, and three more to
head me in the direction of the station. I boarded
what I hoped was the right train (no one ever seems to know,
including porters and conductors) at five minutes before
scheduled to leave, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Luckily, it was a
through train, and the trip down was lovely. The view
of the sea just out of Exeter was worth the whole
trip. It was all sunny and pretty, and brought back
memories of the voyage. From the time I landed at Totnes (I
suddenly decided that this little whistle stop had
to be it, since it was about the right time, but no markers,
and no one, again, seemed to know, so I swing off just as
the train started up again) to the time I got back, it was a
frenzied rush. A liveried chauffeur presented himself
with "Miss Smith from Bristol?" "Yes-s" said I in my best
Jack Benny manner, anticipating all sorts of things.
He turned out to be the one taxi driver in town. After
arriving at Dartington and several horrible exchanges with
the wardrobe mistress, e.g. "But I told Glynne we
didn't have any suitable costumes here," etc.
I finally managed to
salvage about a dozen, packed them after much agony in a big
tin trunk, had a lunch there (ugh), a quick tour through
Dartington, which is about the most enchanting thing I've
seen in ages: old medieval, glossed over in parts by Tudor
and Georgian architecture—the castle belonged at one time to
both Richard II and Henry VIII, hysterical trip through town
("town" is about the size and length of College Ave.), depositing
me and the trunk at the station at the precise moment the
train was chugging out.
The trip back was a
nightmare—pouring rain, the sea was ugly and grey and misty,
wet people, having to change stations, and ordering my trunk
dragged off, arriving late in Bristol after nearly four
hours, not being able to find the trunk, big confusion,
finding trunk, finding porter, finding taxi cab, taking taxi
to U., dragging trunk to U. along with great bouquets of
flowers for Winnie's arrival. Ahh! Needless to
say, I collapsed that night.
Next night:
Thanksgiving dinner. Started off with a dry sherry,
then someone brought a bottle of wine and [I] had about three
glasses before dinner. I sat next to Rod and we were
in great shape, feeling warm and cosy: then, darn it, they
served the food, and the mood was gone forever. Two
slabs of white meat, cauliflower (WITH EVERY BLASTED MEAL),
a tiny spoonful of cranberries (the man across from me got
two!), potatoes (natch), pumpkin pie, and after dinner
coffee, cheese and crackers, sweets, and peaches. It
wasn't exactly tasty, but the idea was wonderful, so we were
happy (at least at first).
Prof. Heffner* gave the acceptance speech of thanks
for the Americans and we got hysterical after the first
twenty minutes. Ended up the evening by standing on
the street corner for 45 minutes trying to get a cab for
Marcie, ending up with Jack walking her home, and me going
home alone.
Best part of the day
was going to see Modern
Times in the afternoon. I knew I was going
to like it: I always do, but this was overwhelming.
Really perfectly detailed and integrated with the music,
savage satire, beautiful mime, and of course, frantically
funny. I never can make up my mind whether to laugh or
weep at Chaplin: he is truly one of the greatest geniuses of
our day.
Next day:
Churchill. It poured rain naturally. I went down
early and stood in queue with Rod and June and Jack for 45
minutes, then realized I was in the wrong line, and should
be in the balcony queue, but finally got a good seat in the
third row of the balcony. It was all awfully
impressive, except that I was terribly shocked at how feeble
and old he looked at first. Somehow one gets the
feeling he is ageless. He seemed bewildered at first,
sat down at the wrong time, blew his nose in the microphone,
was at a loss for words, and had a hard time navigating, but
he gradually drew up, displayed some of that delicious wit,
and gave evidence of his former spirit. The students
gave him an ovation, an it was all very emotional.
June, Rod, and I stood
in a mob for about 15 minutes outside the U. thinking he
would go in soon, until we learned he was already inside, so
we dripped across the street for coffee. I went home
to change clothes and eat. Wandering back in time to
see another crowd gathered outside the U. and joined it
(always the joiner). It was pouring rain with a high
wind and my umbrella turned inside out (don't scream, it's
all right). I marched up to the bobby and asked if I
could go in, since I had a book in the library (they had
closed the U. all day). Nodding in the affirmative, I
went in—big crowd inside. Mike
was up the steps on the second floor so I went up and joined
him. After about a half an hour of jocular talk with me
deciding I really should go to the library, the people began to
file out of the reception room. I got terribly excited,
kept leaping up and down, and grabbing Mike's sleeve.
Characteristically, I yelled to Mike, "Oh look, there's the Lord
Mayor," pointing down the hall, but Mike was looking right next
to me, because standing there was Winnie himself. Everyone kept milling back
and forth like at a cocktail party, so I milled with them,
rubbing shoulders with Winston Churchill for at least 15
minutes—all terribly impressive—except that it wasn't[,]
just then. It was more just very friendly and homey,
and there was Mr. Reade, and other people I know well.
Churchill is bigger than I thought, fairly tall, but very
bent over: he looks exactly like his pictures and had a big
black cigar clenched in his teeth. Finally he went
down the steps, with me behind him bringing up the rear, so
to speak, leaving Michael behind with my umbrella. The
students started cheering, and it was a sight to behold as
we got out in the street: people hanging out of windows and
lining the streets cheering, the Lord Mayor's coach and
horses, and the numerous big black limousines drawing away
from the curb, and of course, the rain. The students
presented him with a silver
serving tray in commemoration of his 80th birthday and
he remarked that he would preserve it—about to say "always,"
but said instead "as long as I can preserve anything at my
age."
The ballet was rather a
disappointment . . . I don't care for Coppelia: I arrived
soaking wet and lost an earring during the overture, causing
a big turmoil during intermission hunting for it, finally
found it had gone down my front. The Company (minus
Fonteyn) is not particularly outstanding, but I had a fairly
good time anyway. Went to a dirty Turkish restaurant
for coffee afterwards, which was fun.
Next day I went over to
a girl's digs for supper and to sew on sashes for Down
in the Valley. The English hospitality is
overwhelming. This girl is a counterpart of Joann,
very sweet and unselfish.
Yesterday had my hair
washed, set, and a light perm for the equivalent of about
$6.00—couldn't stand the straight hair one more
minute. It is a good permanent, but right now is too
curly for my taste, although everyone pronounces it
wonderful. At least I don't have to worry so much
about it now.
Rehearsals are going
well—I think the shows will be good, although it takes up a
lot of time, but I still enjoy it. No more letters
until after they get on (6th, 7th, 8th).
Heard from Sue Dinges yesterday, from
San Francisco (on vacation) and Joann (who evidently had
another fight with Patricia and is with Diane for this
week—poor kid). No word from [John Douty in] Paris in
two weeks, which always scares the pants off me (usually for
no good reason) ever since that awful day in the costume
room with Richard
Diesko looking on—remember? I am sure I am more
worried about ulcer attacks than he is.
I loved the picture:
very good I thought except for Madam's sunglasses—ha!
Eileen, the girl who is
like Joann, is doing some knitting for me, since she needs
money badly. She is a student at the Old Vic school,
and they are really hard up. Since I have three new
sweaters I am having her do an oatmeal tweedy kind of yarn,
long-sleeved sweater for John for Xmas in place of those
other things. Guess I will save the big book for
Morton. Guess that Morton and [name struck through
with typed dashes:] Elizabeth Martha
are still together, since Sue said she had them over along
with the theatre staff and Barnett for buffet supper.
Was happy to hear
Thanksgiving dinner turned out so well. If all goes
well, I shall be leaving here the 15th—that is, unless
Monsieur Douty is sick, or unless Bristol is washed away in
the meantime. Last night it rained and blew so hard it
was frightening. Old timers claim they've never seen
the like.
For now then I shall
say goodbye, and tread my weary way to school to see if
Glynne has my money yet (the Devon trip cost me nearly
£3). Love, Jean
Dec. 7-9, 1954
[typewritten, to her parents]
December 7, 1954
Hello, Out There!
Honestly (sorry I keep
disregarding the same questions) I don't know, nor have any
idea what the initials*
mean on the toilet paper, and it isn't exactly a table
conversation topic. All the Americans use another
kind—Rod and June use the kind put out by the Kleenex
company.
Here we are halfway
through the shows—they are going very well; most people are
quite impressed at least with Hello Out There—the
other had its moments. Enclosed please find
review and
program. I have worked fairly hard on it, but nothing
to compare with last year's grueling schedule—a couple of
nights until 12:30. The costumes turned out well, and
after a frantic search down in the basement of the U. late
Saturday night, the four of us with beer bottles in hand, we
managed to locate an old Victorian type dress of a lovely
turquoise plaid, and renovated it for our leading
lady. We, with relief, went to a local American type
pub last night in Lav*'s
"hand-made" car and forgot our troubles. Tonight we're
invited to Wickham's for a party, and tomorrow night the
cast party at George Brandt's. Then planning
the schedule and packing for Xmas.
Finally heard from
John, who had been writing [a letter] in installments,
interspersed with sending packages home, writing to the
Moores* (Beauregard and Miss Sheba have a new set of
pups, eight this time, but I promise I won't obligate you)
etc. He seemed quite cheerful and verbose. After
much agony of writing to eight hotels and receiving
confirmation from seven of them, I finally managed to select
one, recommended by a friend here and which is cheap for
London, so if all goes well Dr. D[outy] and I should be, from
Dec. 16-23 or 24, at: St. George Hotel / 46, Norfolk Square
/ Hyde Park, London, W.2.
From then on, God only
knows, but I promise to keep you informed when and if we
make up our
[page ends; sentence
not completed on next page]
Haven't been doing much
since last writing but the shows. Mrs. R. was greatly
interested with the card, which I felt was nice, but the
message awfully "parentish." As Mrs. R. said, "I don't
recall doing anything for you in particular."
Appreciated both your cards—I have no calendar and have to
keep running in[to] the W.C. where there is one to check
dates, etc., so now I won't have to so much (at least to
check dates). The alumni mag was so funny and
typically gushy for such types of publication. Keep
running around showing everyone Old Paint [Dr. Barnett]'s picture . . .
must take it with me to show Zanni; I thought it awfully
uncanny of you to enclose those clippings between the pages;
kept expecting to see a letter too.
Among my thirteen
letters of yesterday, heard from Bill [McGehee], who swears he will
get together with you during Xmas vacation. It was
very long and typically Bill, being very funny and expletive
(?) [sic]. Enclosed a description of local KCU
life he experienced during one day of Thanksgiving
vacation—was very depressing and it took me hours to choke
it off. God, how I hate the thought of going back to
that same little niche. The trouble is that I love all
the people dearly, but they never change, merely get worse
instead of better, including poor old Hyatt, who is evidently
taking to drink again. Wonder what the Founding
Fathers of the Church think about this?
Sunday, Eileen (the
girl who reminds me of Joann) and I went downtown for lunch
as a break from sewing or costumes. Went to the
restaurant across from the Theatre Royal and had (get this)
hamburgers and onions, baked beans, French fries, and
Coca-Cola! How American can one get? That night
I had my first spinach for years—I normally hate the nasty
green stuff, but felt that I needed the iron badly so lapped
up every bit. Also every week Jack and I get
liver—also for the iron. I have never been so calorie
conscious in my life. Just wait until vacation, I'll
bet I won't be able to roll back to Bristol!
Finally broke down and
bought two more pairs of hose after shivering without any
for a week . . . feels so luxurious. My hair is coming
along marvelously and looks fine—curls in the rain, and I
can't have to put it up very much.
Got a card and $2.00
from Connie—made me feel about two cents worth of nothing .
. . her with a
new baby and me running around Europe.
Well, if she wanted to do it, I am grateful, but still
ashamed.
Took time off for as
party at Rod and June's Saturday night—they also had the
Brandts and George Rowell—had a very nice time, complete
with cold chicken sandwiches. (Chicken is sky-high
here.)
I think I am going up
to London next Wednesday since there is a special rate on
Wednesdays cheaper on the train . . . Rod and June and the
kids are going on it, and now Gerry, Jack, and Marcie say
they are going too, so it should be a riotous trip.
I told John to please
bring and not forget his passport, traveler's checks, specs,
and good humor. He got involved with a bunch of Greeks
on a conducted tour of Chartres
on the coldest day of the year, and the account beats
Cornelia Otis Skinner for laughs. I unfortunately read
it in the library and kept punctuating the pristine air with
hearty American guffaws.
Mrs. R. is throwing
together a couple of sausage rolls for my supper (the first
one here in two weeks) so I should be getting ready.
Mr. R. is going to the show tonight. More later.
Dec. 8th
What a life: the rain
has begun again, nasty as ever. Dragged up this
morning since Mr. R. had two tickets for a children's
concert of the Birmingham Symphony, and he and I went down
about 10:00 where we met Jack. It was very nice, with
a good selection of pieces, and the children proved to be
much more attentive than those of K.C. Found out that
Mr. R. had organized the whole affair, being the head of the
Education Committee here. George Brandt told me that
Mr. R. sat next to him last night, and was telling him all
about the days many years ago when he was the tutor for the
grandchildren of J. Pierpont Morgan. He has told me he
spent more time in the States, but never this!
Such company I keep, and for that matter, live with.
ll went well last
night, but we had to take pictures and it was almost as much
of a hassle when McGehee performs—dragged out after a couple
of hours and a couple of beers (with Lav in the sound booth)
and six of us piled into the car again and drove away to
Glynne's. Quite a place he has: complete with mother-of-pearl inlaid desks etc. He has turned out to be Gladstone's
great-grandson! Served a lot of exotic food:
crabmeat in aspic, hot ham-rolls, red wine served hot with
cherries . . . I almost got sick I ate so much and after the
excitement.
Helped Gerry and Jack
repaint the ground cloth an scenery pieces for tonight—thank
the Lord it's the last—and Jack took me to lunch at the Berkeley*:
had marvelous roast beef and met
Rudy Shelley
(have I ever told you about him? the crazy Austrian who
teaches movement classes at the Old Vic) which occupied us
for another couple of hours.
Back to the library
where I finished a book on the pantomimes, and had to talk
awhile with Dr.
Joseph* (the crazy prof who teaches Elizabethan Acting
. . . he is actually a trifle insane, but intelligent . . .
runs the Mermaid Theatre in London in off hours . . . no,
not that kind of "off"). He has gotten in the habit of
running over to my place in the library with books and stuff
. . . this time it was a series of photographs.
Then back home to
change (am wearing new dress to the cast party—yes, with
shields in the proper places) and a small supper.
Tomorrow we have to give a talk on the U.S. electoral system
at a meeting of the Socialist Club . . . I'm going to let
Rod do all the talking, and I'm sure Gerry won't let an
opportunity to gab get by him, so I hope I am reasonably
safe. From past experience, I probably will have to
answer some deep, involved question and behave quite
stupidly. We're doing it mostly for the lunch which is
being included.
I can't resist
including this for your benefit from John's letter:
I was trotting down Blvd.
St. Germain last midnight in search of a small snack
when, peering myopically in the terrasse
of the Flore (I wasn't wearing my glasses at the
time, of course) I saw Bunker. It was
not a simple "Oh, that looks like Bunker," or "Could
that be Bunker?"—there were no questions asked—I
just automatically fled into the night. When I
could run no longer, and after my heart had resumed
its normal beat, the thought occurred to me that if
it had been Bunker he would have been in hot
pursuit. So perhaps it wasn't—perhaps I'm
cracking up. But his name has not appeared on
the UKC programs or in the publicity your mother has
sent.
Can you imagine anything more horrible than Bunker in
Paris? Sort of like a nemesis-complex.
Sorry for all the
mistakes . . . I am tired and in a hurry, and my fingers are
a trifle frozen tonight. I purchased a hot water
bottle today, much against my will, but my feet were so cold
last night I had to wear those wool sock things after
awhile.
Yesterday at tea Mrs.
R. asked me how my twin brother was! It seems she gets
her PG's (paying guests) mixed up—that's not all she
gets mixed up!
I must go once
more—unless I add more to this, I should be able to mail it
in the morning. Luv, J
[handwritten
postscript:]
Dec. 9 11:30
Typical mad
cast party. They gave me a bouquet of mums with stems
three feet long but very lovely—finally got home at
2:00 AM. Slept, or tried to with Mrs. R.
coming in every five minutes until 10:30 this morn.
Off to visit Woolworth's now (yes—there is one
everywhere!).
Dec. 17, 1954
[handwritten, to her parents]
December 17th, 1:30 AM
Dearest folks,
Just a line or two to
let you know that all is well and promising to be even
better.
I drove up yesterday
with Masúd, Gerry & about five others of the Persian
princes (all in different cars). Exhausting trip in a
way, but helpful in that it was free! (M. gave up
trying to find Norfolk Square, however, and I had to take a
cab but wasn't much from the Princes' flat in S.W.
London). Got to the St. George around 7:00
PM and John
arrived around 1:20 from the boat train. The St.
George is a dream—we are (until after tomorrow) situated in
two double rooms in the top floor since she didn't have any
singles available but is only charging us the price of
singles. The place is scrupulously clean (the owners
are French) and neat. John still can't get used to
having to eat eggs at 9:00 in the morning, thrown at him in
bed by the little French maid, but we are trying to work
this out by eliminating the eggs & ordering more coffee
(French).
Ate dinner last night
at a Turkish restaurant near here (good) and walked
all the way to and from Piccadilly—getting lost, but loving
it—finally arriving at Regent Street with all the gorgeous
Fifth Avenue type shops, the elegant architecture, & the
Xmas trees & lights which was well worth the walk.
Staggered back with a bottle around 12:30 & drank &
talked until nearly 3:00.
Finally managed to get
him out around 11:00 this morn, went (by bus) to the
Fulbright office for my check, to Piccadilly branch of my
bank to deposit it & get money, booked my passage home
on the Cunard line (the Mauretania—Aug.
20th), booked our entire transportation through to Paris at
Cook's, got theatre tickets, ate (toasted cheese
sandwiches), WALKED, got lost & hysterical at the same
time. Went home to change & a quick drink.
Then a truly hysterical trip by the tube (subway) to
Sadler's Wells (it took hours). Saw The Consul (Menotti).
Absolutely a beautiful performance—slick production,
gorgeous singing all beyond belief. Ate beforehand at
the restaurant enclosed (Greek) sort of theatrical.
Went back to Piccadilly & in wandering around hunting cigarettes
found a gorgeous bar underground in the tube—very
swish with sweeping staircase, three different parts,
mirrors, luxurious decor—drank martinis & ate cold
turkey sandwiches until midnight when we took the tube
home. I have just taken a bath & washed out some
things & am planning on turning in soon.
Weather has been okay
for England—been spitting today but no nasty weather per
se.
THE TRIP may kill
us both, but should be something. We
leave here the 26th at 9:00 AM for Amsterdam via the Hague,
then Cologne, Frankfurt, other German towns, Munich, Zurich,
Salzburg & Paris. There are a lot more towns, but
John took them down & I got confused, especially at this
pace. I will naturally keep you posted on route.
No fights yet, all is
rosy & giggly. J. is thinner, but in good spirits,
so thank God for that.
We both wish you a
wonderful Christmas
and please thank Mellie for the money & card, will
you? It was so sweet & thoughtful of them.
Love to all—Jean
