The Secret Letters of Marilyn Monroe and Jacqueline Kennedy (16 page)

The Beverly Hills Hotel

Josephine Kendall

3307 N Street

Washington, D.C.

April 5, 1960

Dear Josephine,

Your letter shocked me so much. How could Jack be such a louse? Specially now that he’s running for President as well. I almost hope he doesn’t make it. But I hate the thought of you suffering so much, and hate Judy even more. If I were you, I would divorce him this minute. I’m thinking of divorcing Arthur myself.

In a way, your letter came at just the right time. Although I’ve seen G
—
he doesn’t deserve the title Mr., because he isn’t a gentleman
—
now and again during my marriage to Arthur, I always felt that seeing G didn’t count as infidelity because, in a strange way, I was married to him before I ever met Arthur. Or at least till now I thought I was.

Now, though, I mean to go ahead and start seeing someone else. Someone about whom I think I could get really serious. I expect you will have guessed by now who I mean. Everyone knows we are working together. And I know you will always keep my secrets.

He looks a bit like Joe, but is far brighter and more sensitive. In some ways, he reminds me of G because he can be sweet and sensitive and sexy. But unlike G
—
who is spoiled and pampered, had everything he ever needed but is still cold and selfish
—
he came up the hard way, like I did.

The good news is that we have a great deal in common. The bad news is that he is married. But she
—
his wife
—
is more like his mother. I know I should feel bad about borrowing him from her for a while—or
longer
—
but she is much luckier than I am, and has a lot more to be glad about, so maybe she won’t care too much.

I know I sound like I’m speaking in riddles, so I’ll be up front, because I always am with you. She is Simone Signoret
—
and she really is lucky because she’s just been awarded the Best Actress Academy Award for her performance in
Room at the Top
. Of course, she
was
good, but then so was the part. I’ll never get a part like that. Or if I did, they would never give me the Oscar,
or
any other awards either. She is so lucky, she probably will be so busy celebrating that she won’t even notice about Yves and me. So now you know who he is. Yves Montand.

Until I got your letter, I wasn’t going to do a thing about him, but now everything you told me about Jack made me realize that I am crazy to be true to Arthur, or even G. So watch this space!!!

Arthur is calling me, so I had better stop in case he reads what I said about Yves. But he probably wouldn’t even care. Nor would G
.

I’ll be keeping a good thought for you, Josephine, and feel so bad for you.

Love,

M

__________________________

After Marilyn wrote to Jackie, she called Dr. Brandt, begging for an emergency appointment. According to his transcript of the session: “‘The bastard’s having an affair. Probably a real tacky one. But I fixed him. I wrote and told her that I was planning to fuck Yves, and I’ll bet that she will tell him. Even if she doesn’t, I’ll still fuck Yves. I really will, and I’ll like it as well.’”

1095 North Ocean Boulevard

Palm Beach, Florida

Martha Marshall

The Beverly Hills Hotel

Beverly Hills, California

April 12, 1960

Dearest Martha,

I am thinking out loud, Martha, as I often do when writing to you. Since I dispatched my desperate missive to you, I have reevaluated the situation regarding JC. I believe now that Jack has won the New Hampshire primary, his bid for the Presidency will engender a sense of caution within him and cause him to curtail his propensity for adultery.

But I am not altogether sure. His sexual allure (glittering as it is and, as far as I am concerned, unmatched by any other man) will surely be even more enhanced by the patina which power will inevitably bestow on him. Where that will leave me, I am not altogether sure.

In a way, his passion for politics threatens me more than his affair with JC. I feel so very excluded from all the hoopla and the festivities. To give you an example, on the night on which Jack won the primary, the family threw a victory party during which they gathered round the TV to watch and applaud his speech, which he had recorded earlier in the day. Throughout the entire evening, Jack and the rest of the clan (the gaggle, as I sometimes think of them, as in geese) completely ignored me. I spent most of the evening sitting on the stairs, reading, and (when the time to depart for the airport drew nigh) escaped into
the car, where I waited for Jack to join me. He did, giving me nary a thought. Such is the fate of the political wife and I guess I had better become accustomed to it. For Jack, I know will, for as long as he lives, no matter how high he climbs or low he falls, remain beguiled by (to mix metaphors) the thrill of the crowd and the lure of the greasepaint.

On that subject, I want to congratulate you for having won the Golden Globe for
Some Like It Hot.
You certainly deserve it. I so admire your acting abilities. I have to confess (and I believe this is my first confession in this arena) that I have always nurtured a secret desire to become an actress. Naturally, I shall now never be able to live out my desire. Except, of course, if I become First Lady, a thought which fills me with a combination of dread and excitement. However, to continue my train of thought, if I do, I know I shall require every iota of acting talent I possess to play the part to the satisfaction of Jack—and history.

You may think I am being presumptuous assuming I have acting talent.
*
My only basis for thinking I might is my childhood, during which I was continually compelled to keep up a front, to hide my grief at my parents’ divorce and my knowledge of my father’s rampant infidelity, about which, thanks to his somewhat inappropriate honesty, I knew every detail (who, what, when, where, and even in what position …). Against all odds, I was compelled to hide the truth from my mother, my school friends, and, of course, Lee. In short, I was compelled to become an actress—in life, if not in art.

So that from the: age of around seven, I had to pretend constantly
that things were not as they were. When I wasn’t pretending, I escaped into a dream world in which I pictured myself as Queen of the Circus, Madame de Staël, or Josephine and above the fray and the pain of my parents’ splintering marriage.

But I digress. Back to JC. After a great deal of anguish, I have concluded that my best course is to ignore the entire affair. To sweep it under the carpet, as it were. After all, by now I should know the pattern of Jack’s dalliances. They begin with high intensity, and burn out quickly. Besides, now that he has scented victory, my sense is that all his energies will be focused on the Presidency, and not on JC.

To answer the rest of your letter. I trust that your romance with YM is progressing happily and that the errant Mr. G has been eclipsed in your affections. However, perhaps “errant” is an understatement. You called him “selfish, spoiled, and cold”—which, now that I think of it, sounds exactly like Jack. That, as far as I am concerned, is a further justification for your having transferred your affections from Mr. G to Mr. M.

By the way, does Simone know, do you think? I saw Yves recently on the newsreels and think he is very handsome and erotically appealing. Do write back and tell me all about your romance.

In great anticipation,

Josephine

__________________________

*
On Jackie’s acting ambitions, see Gore Vidal interview in Bradford: “One afternoon, Vidal took Jackie, whom he described as being ‘fascinated by Hollywood and movie stars,’ to a rehearsal of his television drama Honor. Vidal remembers that they were drinking coffee and watching the rehearsal when suddenly Jackie blurted, ‘I’d love to act.’ When Vidal asked if Jack’s political stardom wasn’t more interesting, she replied, ‘For Jack it is. Not for me. I never see him.’ When Jackie pushed the acting issue, Vidal told her he was sure a studio would cast her for the novelty alone.”

The Beverly Hills Hotel

Josephine Kendall

3307 N Street

Washington, D.C.

July 2, 1960

Dear
Josephine,

Thank you so much for writing to me. I am feeling very low these days. I hated making the movie
Let’s Make Love
, think the script was awful, despise Cukor, and feel like I’ve failed at life.

My romance with Yves, which you asked about, is over and I feel like a fool. It started out great, of course, as romances always do. At first, he was so sweet and shy. So
—
because I knew how much he wanted me
—
I did the same thing as I once did with George Sanders all those years ago, put on my fur
—
a white mink this time, not a sable
—
and knocked on the door of his bungalow here at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Simone, of course, was out of town, promoting her movie.

The moment I closed the bungalow door, I slid straight out of the coat. All my life, I’ve loved being naked. I even have dreams in which I am naked in public. I started having them when I was ten years old and I’ll never forget the first one. I was lying naked on a big table in front of all the girls and all the teachers in the orphanage and they were all examining my naked body. I felt proud and less lonely. Since dreaming that dream, I’ve had no shame or sense of sin about being naked.

So it all started than with Yves and me, and for a time it was bliss. I felt
bad about Simone, of course, but not about Arthur. He
has aliunnated [
sic
] me on every level. The last straw was his actions after the Screen Actors guild went on strike. I had always admired and respected him for his communist beliefs and support for the workers. Imagine my shock when, in the dead of the night, he broke the strike by working on the script.
*
Looking back, though, I don’t know if Yves is any better. I like to think he is, but it’s difficult, as now that filming has ended, he has ended everything with me as well. Same old same old. “On location it doesn’t count.
… “
And I hate that. I still miss Mr. G so much.

On another front, as you would say, I guess because I donated money to his campaign, I have been invited to hear Jack speak at the Convention here in L.A. Will you be there, too? I sure hope so. If you are not going to be, though, I am not sure whether to accept, as I am still mad at Jack because of Judy Campbell and how badly he made you feel. Please let me know whether you think I should go or not, and I shall do whatever you think.

Love,

M

__________________________

*
Miller, according to Yves Montana’s memoirs,
You See, I Haven’t Forgotten
(New York: Knopf, 1992), “came running back from Ireland to rewrite some scenes, pocketed a check (from Fox) and complained about prostituting his art.”

In her memoirs,
Nostalgia Isn’t What It Used to Be
(New York: HarperCollins, 1978), Simone Signoret recalled the letter that Yves wrote Marilyn and her reaction: “Don’t leave me to work for hours on end on a scene you’ve decided not to do the next day. I’m not the enemy. I’m your pal. And capricious little girls never amused me. Best, Yves.”

According to Simone, on receiving Yves’s note, Marilyn went to his room and burst into tears, weeping, “I’m bad, I’m bad, I’m bad. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

3307 N Street

Washington, D.C.

Martha Marshall

The Beverly Hills Hotel

Beverly Hills, California.

July 10, 1960

Dear Martha,

Sadly, because I am pregnant again, I shall not be accompanying Jack to the convention in Los Angeles. But please don’t hesitate to go. I have long forgotten about JC and I know Jack would love to see you. Moreover, your support, which I know will garner a great deal of publicity, will only add to his luster.

I look forward to reading about the convention, and your visit there, in the papers.

Warmest regards, as ever,

Josephine

__________________________

Jackie wrote in her diary, “I couldn’t have stopped her going, even if I had tried. So (on the basis, better the devil you know) I encouraged her. After all, I have no proof and I really am not sure. Just that now and again, I wonder. In any event, if I am right, the continuing presence of Mr. G in her life clearly precludes her having any other deep involvements. So on that count, at least, I shall relax, enjoy the summer, and wait for November and the new baby.”

Marilyn did, indeed, attend the Democratic Convention on July 12 (see Summers) and then spent the night with Jack afterwards and the next few days as well.

Room 614

The Maples Hotel

30 North Virginia

Reno, Nevada

Josephine Kendall

3307 N Street

Washington, D.C.

July 29, 1960

Dear
Josephine,

I am sorry I didn’t write after the convention when
—
for just a few minutes
—
I saw Jack. He probably complained to you afterwards that I was cold and distant. If he did, he was right. I meant to be
—
because of JC, of course. I don’t know how you live with it.

My big news, though, is that I am out here in Nevada working with Clark Gable
—
am enclosing a signed picture for you. He is everything we both always thought. We’ve already done one sex scene together, but in his case, I would rather call it a love scene. I was so thrilled when the moment came in the script when he kissed me. Luckily for me, we had to do the scene over several times. When the sheet dropped and he put his hand on my breast, I got goose bumps all over. Whenever he was near me, I wanted him to kiss me and kiss me and kiss me. We did a lot of kissing, touching, and feeling. I never tried harder to seduce a man, but Clark is happily married
—
his wife is pregnant
—
and I knew I didn’t have a chance. But, oh, I wanted to, I really did. Because if I had, I know I would have been happy forever.

When I am with Clark, I feel as if he doesn’t just know Marilyn, he knows Norma Jeanne as well
—
and also the third woman who is in me and who ultimately controls everything I do and everything I am. She kind of hovers above me, rarely says much, but decides which me I should be each day. She doesn’t have a name
—
except that I think of her as “the puppet mistress.

Clark knows all of me, though, all three of me. He knows all the pain, and all the desperate things in me. In the movie, when he put his arms around me and said he loved me, I knew it was true.
Or
was it? Sometimes, like I told you once, I don’t know the difference between what is true and what isn’t. Like with Mr. G.
I love him, but I know that he will go away soon (because he is being promoted and transferred to Africa
—
I think the place is called Mogambo) and will not have too much time for me anymore.

I am sorry if I sound confused. I guess I am. The movie isn’t anything like I hoped and I haven’t been well and have been taking things to get better. I’ll write when I am.

Hope you are well and happy.

Love,

M

__________________________

In his autobiography,
Monty and Me
(Chicago: Hart & Richardson, 1963), Montgomery Clift’s double, Ben Gordon, remembers Marilyn writing a letter, which he mailed for her, and says, “She was drugged out and disheveled. I felt sorry for the recipient of the letter, because, given M’s condition, it could hardly have been coherent.”