Anyway, from St. Tropez we drove to St. Jean de Luz on the Atlantic where, with the Matthiessens and with Irwin Shaw, I weathered, with the help of a pile of martinis, four or five days of absolutely foul weather. Finally it cleared up and we did a lot of fine surf-swimming at Biarritz, went to a bull-fight in Bayonne with Art Buchwald of the Herald-Tribune, who wrote a very funny piece on it afterwards, and then—last week—came back to Paris, finding all much the same, but lamenting the fact that you hadn’t been along to be with on the sand.‡p I love you.
I’m making now slow preparations to go to Rome but they seem to be hindered almost impossibly by the continuing night life here in the City of Light. What I like to call the Elsa Maxwell circuit holds me in thrall.‡q Last night I went to a birthday dinner for Sammy Goldwyn, Jr., given by his father at a sordid little Nedick’s-type dive called Joseph’s where the entrees alone usually run to about $7. I had coq au vin, crêpes suzettes, champagne, and Mrs. William Paley, on my left, who is a tasty dish herself but not nearly so good as the coq.‡r Darryl Zanuck was across from me and we had a fierce and regrettable fight over Chambers’s Witness, which I’ve just finished reading and consider one of the vilest, most unwholesome documents I’ve ever read.‡s Zanuck is apparently a mile to the right of Msgr. Sheen, and so the discussion, especially since I was loaded to the ears with martinis, was a bit heated.‡t I also somehow alienated Goldwyn, Sr., by saying Ike was a platitudinous ass and learned that Goldwyn is head of the Ike-for-Emperor movement in California. I’ll never get into the pictures that way.
You must read Witness, if you haven’t already; it’s an obscene, infuriating book but engrossing, perhaps, because of this—in the same way that a lot of revolting things are fascinating. Someday I’d love to be able to do a J’Accuse against Chambers, in the same way Zola did against the French government in the Dreyfus case. The more you read the book the more you become convinced that Hiss, though probably guilty, was nonetheless the dupe of one of the most frightfully, psychotically vengeful men in history.
I must close now, dearest. I hope things are going well with you, and that you do find within yourself the courage you need. But always remember that I’m ready to give you more courage if you need it and that I love you, always more than anything on earth.
Your
Bill
JOHN P. MARQUAND, JR.‡u
September 17, 1952 Paris, France
Dear old Jack,
“Skinhead,” which is what Cass calls his old man, was over here the other day on some sort of crazy joy-ride with T.K. Finletter, and he told me about your receiving 25 G’s from the Post for “The Second Happiest Day.”‡v I wanted to hurry to be the 500th person to congratulate you so here it is—congratulations mille fois. It really was great news; with that dough you’ll be able to organize a rival boot camp in competition with old Jim Jones, only far better furnished and with all of the trappings of elegant depravity. At least you and no doubt Miss Bailey will be able to swing a trip to Europe; why don’t you come over?‡w Incidentally and of even more importance, to me, than the dough, I’m very interested in seeing the book when it comes out. Do you think you could manage to send me a set of proofs, or at least an advance copy? Everyone here who’s seen it—Cass Canfield père and fils, among others—have great things to say about it, and so I think the least favor you could do for an old buddy is to see that I get a first look.
Furthermore, I want to thank you, shamefully and very belatedly, for the fine letter you wrote me this summer. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated it then and how the impression of it still lingers. After all the postal abuse I got (and still get every now and then) from illiterate morons in places like Modesto, Calif., complaining about my degeneracy, I can tell you that a letter like yours was a great thing and I’m not shitting you when I say that I’ll treasure it.
Life in Paris has been fine but has become monotonously the same during the past few weeks and I’m looking forward to Rome toward the end of the month. Cass and I have gotten drunk with a rather dangerous regularity recently, and the new vogue, originated by Cass, has become a sort of blackface toward the end of the evening, whereby with the aid of a burnt piece of cork everyone is transformed into Groucho Marx, glasses are thrown into the street, and Franco-American relations become utterly dissolved. On my part I think this footlessness arises from the fact that for the past month or so I did no work. I had a fine trip to St. Tropez and then to St. Jean de Luz (which Michael no doubt told you about) but with nothing to do now in Paris, and no project to concentrate on, the place has become something of a drag. I hope to get busy in Rome. I wrote a 22,000 word story this summer which apparently now is in the first mitts of John W. Aldridge for consideration for Discovery, but I have a lingering hope that somehow it’ll turn up in Harper’s, in spite of its great length. Oh well—hell, the literary life is sure a pain in the ass, isn’t it? I’m of the opinion that if you have an agent, as I do, you’re lucky if your stuff gets into Women’s Wear Daily.
Look, old Jack, do try and get over here this fall or winter. I can assure you from experience that there are happier things than being in New York when your book is published. After October 1st I’ll be at the Accademia Americana, Porto San Pancrazio Rome, so drop me a line then if not before. Tell Appleton to keep his elbow straight and give him and all the boys in the back room at Harper’s, including Mike and Jack Fischer, my best and love to M. Bailey.
All the best, Bill
TO ELIZABETH MCKEE
September 25, 1952 Paris, France
Dear Lizzie,
Thanks for the cable and for the letter about the story, which I received today. I was happy to hear that Discovery took the story and that they liked it; no, $725 doesn’t seem too small at all—outside of LDID it’s the first thing I’ve ever written which I got paid for, and $725 seems good for that kind of starter.
There are two small but important items I want to mention here. First is the title of the story. On reflection, the title “Like Prisoners Walking” seems a bit flowery—a couple of other people here who read the story are of the same opinion. Instead, I think something like THE LONG MARCH is more direct and apropos, so I wish you would get in touch with Vance or Aldridge or whoever has the MS and tell them I want the title changed to THE LONG MARCH. I hope it’s not too late to make the change. Secondly, on reading over my handwritten MS I noticed a misusage of a word. This occurs on what must be the third or fourth page of the typewritten copy and it’s in the passage where I describe Culver’s home-life in New York. I had written “a cat which he deigned to call by name.” This is the wrong usage of “deign”; and implies that Culver condescended to call the cat by name. What I meant was that Culver wouldn’t call the cat by name and so the phrase should read “a cat which he did not deign to call by name.” I wish you’d have this changed in the MS. Incidentally will I get galley proofs of the story to check over before publication? I hope so because though I don’t think I’m especially prissy about my stuff, I like to be on the lookout for those important mistakes which occur in even the best-edited copy.
Now, as for the contract, that sounds fine with me. However, I’ve already promised my friend Annie Brierre, who wrote the enclosed interview, first crack at the story for possible publication in the weekly magazine she works for—Les Nouvelles Littéraires—and told her that I would arrange to have a copy of Discovery sent to her when it comes out. So that’s all taken care of. By the way, there’s a lotta garbled stuff in that interview (I didn’t tell her I was in Korea for seven months, or even one month), but you know the French and their flair for drama.
As for sending me the contract to sign, that brings me to the fact that sometime next week, probably Tuesday or Wednesday, I’m leaving for Rome. My address will be ACCADEMIA AMERICANA, PORTO SAN PANCRAZIO, Rome, but since I’m not absolutely sure whether this is the best address or not you can check by calling Miss May T. Williams at the American Academy in Rome office at 101 Park Avenue. T
he number is in the phone book. At any rate, if you have anything to send me before the middle of next week you might as well send it to the American Express here in Paris, with whom I will leave my Rome address and who are supposed to be very efficient about forwarding mail.
That’s about all. I’m about as devoid of news as you are, except to say that life is pleasant still here, but unexciting, and I’m looking forward to things picking up down in Italy. Best to all.
Love,
Bill
TO VANCE BOURJAILY
September 29, 1952 Paris, France
Dear Vance,
Thank you very much for your letter. I’m at present in a state of grim confusion about getting to Rome (I don’t know if I’m expected at the Academy, there’s a foul-up on train reservations, I’ve got to get money changed, etc—you know how it is) so I think you’ll understand if this letter is brief and to the point.
First, I checked carefully over your list of emendations and corrections and agree with you on all of them, without exception. They all make perfect sense to me, and I’m glad you took a priori liberty in making the changes. Since you’re so strapped for time I won’t plead for copies of the galley proofs, but will trust you at your word about checking over it carefully yourself, which I know you will. The change in the first paragraph from “Flit-gun” to “hose” is Haydn’s correction, but he told me about it as a suggestion and it’s fine with me. I can’t think of anything else.
The magazine sounds like it’s shaping up fine, and I’m as proud to be in it as you say you are to have The Long March. Of course, I’ll be interested in all developments and I hope you’ll keep me posted from time to time. I’ll have a short list of addresses, later on, of people to whom I wish you’d have copies sent. My address, as of a few days from now, will be c/o Accademia Americana, Porta San Pancrazia, Rome. I’ve heard nothing of or from the people there, or their representatives in New York, since I first got word of winning the prize last March—and all this in spite of letters I’ve written—so I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all not a great big yuk on me. At any rate, I think the above address will do and I hope you keep in touch. Best to Tina, Aldridge and Company and all the characters you run into.
Best,
Bill
Styron arrived in Rome in October 1952 and began living at the American Academy.
TO JOHN P. MARQUAND, JR.
October 8, 1952 Rome, Italy
Dear Jack,
This will be I think a rather uninspired letter, in comparison to your very lively one, because the three days I’ve spent in Rome have resulted in nothing but a beautiful cold in chest and head—the second in six weeks. It must be psychosomatic or something, or perhaps because the only person I’ve seen to talk to has been Truman Capote, whom I ran into in the Excelsior Bar.
The Academy is really some joint, a beautiful place, totally inhabited by the queerest group of egg-heads you ever laid eyes on. I suspect that most of them will be very nice once I get to know them, but it’s a bit out of my frame of reference to be set down amidst a bunch of people which, to the myopic last one of them, almost, is made up of nothing but archaelogists. Your proposed trip with your uncle to Greece and points south already begins to appeal to me, anything that steers clear of archaeology, and although I can’t say yet for sure whether I’ll be able to go with you or not, I think I can safely say that the chances are that I can and will. I hope that this doesn’t sound too indefinite. I want to do another long story this month, aimed shamelessly at something like Harper’s Bazaar, or any chic place that will pay me a pot of dough, and if I get that done by the time you arrive—which I think I shall be able to—then it’s off we go to the flesh-pots of Smyrna. I wish I could be more conclusive, but I hope this will do for an answer.
It’s good to hear that you’re finally coming to Europe, even without Mrs. Bloomingdale, or whatever the hell she calls herself by now. I suppose it was a grim sort of summer for you, but I always am a sucker for platitudes and maintain that it’s all probably working out for the best. I trust that by the time you get this letter you will have shaken the burden of grief, or whatever shoddy emotion you’ve been feeling, from your shoulders and have begun to live high off Ben Hibbs’s $$$$.
I left everyone in Paris in good and characteristic shape—Cass high as a kite and the Matthiessens only a bit more sober, due to the fact that they’re expecting a bundle from heaven and don’t want it to arrive bleary-eyed and reeling. I caught this cold on the Rome Express and arrived in Rome in a feeble state and mumbling broken Italian. Since the Academy is sort of in the suburbs of Rome I’ve spent more money in taxis than I did the whole time I was in Paris. I’ve really begun a dreary regime and have become a typical Amurrican, refusing to go to see the Colosseum or any of the celebrated wrecks around here, but staying safely within the confines of the Excelsior Bar where they speak English, have Truman Capote, and sell martinis at 60¢ apiece. Could anything be more shocking? I’m really not much of a traveler, my baggage being my own neuroses and a hacking cough, which weigh me down too heavily, even if I were in the Garden of Eden. However, by the time you heave on the scene I have no doubt that my perspective will have altered and I’ll be a hardy voyageur, ready for hashish in Haifa and belly-dancers in Baghdad. Let me know how things progress with you and in the meantime I’ll try to clear my conscience with Art.
Best,
Bill
TO WILLIAM C. STYRON, SR.
October 27, 1952 Rome, Italy
Dear Pop,
Thanks for the piece by Mr. Jebb, which I liked, and for your earlier letter. The reason I haven’t written more promptly is because I’ve just recently finished a week’s trip by car—along with some other members of the Academy—to Florence, Siena, Ravenna, Urbino and Assisi. It was an excellent trip, lasting about a week, and thoroughly illuminating because my companions were all either painters or, better yet, art historians who gave me first-hand scholarship and information about the Art (with a capital A) we were seeing. I think, Art-wise, I was most impressed by the Medici tombs in Florence and by the Ravenna mosaics, which date from the middle of the Dark Ages and shine today in all their glory. As far as towns go I think I was particularly struck by Urbino, which is pitched on the top of a mountain and is filled with winding, steep streets and the nicest people in all of Italy. Assisi, on the other hand, is a tourist trap, filled with knick-knacks and holy pilgrims from places like Munich and Brussels.
Back at the Academy now, I’ve somewhat settled down. I wish I had a photograph of the place, but I’ll try and get one for you soon. It’s really a lovely place, a real palace, and big enough so that no one gets in anyone else’s way. The painters, sculptors, and architects all get enormous studios which would cost a four-figure sum in New York, and each of which commands a marvelous view of Rome down below. I myself, not needing so much space, have to be content with two huge connecting rooms, excellently furnished, with large ceiling-high windows and a view of the Academy courtyard below, where there is a fountain surrounded by four beautiful cedar trees. We eat in a sort of community dining hall. The food is good Italo-American style, but as in Paris I generally, except for lunch, prefer to eat down in Rome where there are of course excellent restaurants. The keynote here, somewhat like Rabelais’ Abbey of Thélème, is “Do What You Will” and there is no more routine here, or regulations, than in a hotel. That suits me fine. Of course I’ve already met some very amiable and interesting people, yet in spite of the slightly community aspects of the place, it doesn’t look to me as if there will be any trouble in keeping out of each other’s way, nor, on the other hand, as if there will be any lack of parties and bon camaraderie when the occasion demands. I have also met an absolutely beautiful girl, American, named Rose, with whom I get along right well, and who has an apartment on the other side of Rome, which will obviously necessitate my buying a car pronto.‡x It won’t be a Fiat, but either a German Volkswagen (an excellent car) or an English Austin, either o
f which will cost around $1300 but which cost I can get back substantially in re-sale before I come back to the U.S.A. One thing just leads to another. A young man just must have a girl, and that always—even, or I should say especially in Europe—brings up the question of wheels.
The election of course is a big topic over here, too, although perhaps not so intensely emotional as in the U.S. Everyone seems to be rooting for Stevenson and I hope he gets elected, too. The only reading matter available is Time and the Herald-Tribune and it seems to me that even in those arch-Republican journals it cannot be disguised just what a prime jackass Eisenhower has made of himself. If he had come out just once and roundly condemned McCarthy he might have had a chance with the not-after-all-so-dumb voter. But by the time you get this letter I suppose all the issues will be coming to a head.
As soon as I get this car situation straightened out, I’m going to settle down for a spell of work. I have ideas for three or four more long stories, which will help me financially, and in the meantime I suppose I will have thought up something for a new novel. I suspect that my long story “Long March” will be the strongest piece in the forthcoming issue of Discovery, which I’ll have sent to you in December or January. Meanwhile, I’ve gotten a proof of the jacket of the jumbo, economy-sized 50¢ Signet Double Volume, which will appear in every Walgreen drugstore in November, in which a wan, sad, half-clad Peyton is seen on the verge of climbing into bed with one of the most unsavory-looking Italians you ever saw. Sic Transit Gloria Literati, but it will sell 250,000 copies and my stock will soar in Peoria. Best to all. In Italia Ego. Yet, American to the bone, I think often of home.