The Fulbright Year Abroad, Part Five: May-Jun 1955
 


A Note on the Text and Illustrations

For those who have not yet read Parts One (Sep-Oct 1954), Two (Nov-Dec 1954), Three (Jan-Feb 1955), and Four (Mar-Apr 1955), click on the links.

Asterisked hyperlinks below (*, **, ***, and ****) lead to biographical notes in those previous segments.  To enhance online clarity I have again amended some punctuation, adjusted some paragraph breaks, and expanded most abbreviations along with correcting some hasty typos.  A spaced ellipse (" . . . ") indicates one in the original text; closed ones ("...") are my editorial condensations. 

This webpage is best viewed on a device using both fonts I employed: Comic Sans for Mila Jean's entries, and Verdana for my own.


















 


May 12, 1955

[handwritten airmail, to her parents]

       May 12th
       "It" day
       3:00 PM
       Am having a hilarious birthday doing nothing as is my wont on these occasions
—sitting in the library, staring at the pile of books and half-finished paper on pantomime staring me in the face, looking forward to getting away from them to go to a theatrical exhibit in a half-an-hour with the Old Vic students.  Sat for an hour in the sun with Bob (Chremes)*** and others talking about the Left Bank and other lazy things.  Tonight am treating myself to a steak, and June* and I are going to see Carmen Jones.  Last night we sobbed through A Star Is Born, which kept me from any sound sleep last night—I keep identifying with people in movies—got all torn up inside after seeing A Country Girl.  Saturday I babysat with Diane* yesterday for June while she was rehearsing—both Diane and me with hacking coughs and running noses didn't help each other much—threw together some soup and sandwiches and the kitchen was in a mess when Rod* came home unexpectedly for lunch.  Ah, the rigors of being a housewife!  Stayed for dinner also—the usual turbulent situation, and staggered to the movie.  Today June and Rod gave me a pair of hose and Mrs. R.* five shillings, and I was interrupted from this morning's dressing by Mr. Reade* outside my door playing a musical birthday card (you know, the kind that winds up) which he had received last week on his birthday.
       Your cards were absolutely darling and I so appreciated them and the money, even if they all did come a week early
—the money is so needed since it will probably serve as five days rent in Paris.  Naturally, the whole prospect of living for three months or at least two with no money is a bit disconcerting, but I at least have enough to sustain me for one and am planning to stay at June's parents's for a week which helps.  Enough of this!
       Now that I'm about to leave it (aside from living conditions) Bristol is beginning to manifest its charm—am frantically involved in the paper and a seven-page report in triplicate to the U.S. State Department, plus going to rehearsals for Miss Julie, babysitting, going to movies, giving interviews, etc.  I had an interview last Friday with a very nice young newspaper man from London, who has affiliations with doing writeups for certain U.S. newspapers—one being the K.C. Star—since I was from K.C. and a Fulbright (his main specialty) he is doing an article on me—don't know when it will be run there, but keep your fingers crossed!
      
Jack* had a party at his place Sunday night with me officiating as cook and hostess—cooked baked potatoes along with gobs of salad, cold cuts, five loaves of bread, three bottles of wine, two bottles of Scotch for ten people—ach Gott!  It must have been a success since it lasted from 7:30 to 2:15 AM, but I don't think I could stand a steady diet of it.  We had enough left over for two meals Monday—did that salami stink!
       The
Wickham* baby has still not arrived and poor Glynne is looking rather frazzled and with George Brandt** in bed with boils, George Rowell* has to carry a heavy load these days, so none of us is going up to London tomorrow for the Fulbright reception—shame, shame.
       I, in turn, have heard nothing from KCU—wrote to McIlrath* and told her I was leaving Bristol after the first week in June and could not be reached after that, so something better start cracking one way or the other soon, or I'm going to say "to hell" with the whole thing.  I see no necessity in having to wait any longer on this and wish you would convey the message to the proper channels if possible.
       Sorry I have to write this inadequately, but it's impossible to do more under my current schedule.  I heard from
Mary Jo Brock*** who had been in the hospital for nearly two months with glandular fever!  Also poor "hardhead" [John Douty*]in Paris has written twice, so I must answer him soon.
       Wonder what has happened to you, haven't heard from you lately
—maybe my last letter and the photos overwhelmed you, eh?
       I'm not really doing much of interest to you of late, unless you'd like to her me spout about Grimaldi and the mime tradition, so I'll close this mess for now.  Much love, "Birthday Child"

May 16-17, 1955

[faintly typewritten airmail, to her parents]

       May 16—7:30 PM
       Sorry I have to keep using the bloody [airmail] forms when you write such lovely long letters, but it helps the money situation some . . . appreciated so hearing so completely . . . today, and got hysterically elated about the news about experimental [theatre] job from McIlrath until I realized I mustn't get my hopes up, and am now trying to forget you ever told me (it's exactly what I want).  I'll wait patiently for three more weeks and then things better start happening!
       First things first (sorry, I could have sworn I gave you all the Brown
* news before).  Rod* is American, June is Americanized . . . he met her while he was in the Air Force in England . . . married her here; Erica* was born here . . . then [they] went to the States and had Diane, which means that when she is eighteen Erica will have the opportunity of deciding which nationality she will assume, being half and half.  June's parents live in Ipswich and are very rich, and I will definitely spend at least a week there in August (probably more if I come back to England looking too gaunt).  They have rented a little cabin near their place on the ocean, where we can jaunt out to every once in awhile, nice eh?
       Have decided to stick it out at [the] Reades—rather than even suggesting staying with the Browns—until at least June 13th . . . I've not mentioned the Reades since letters here are supposed to be lighthearted and gay.  Explanation: I like privacy and certainly never get a chance of it here.
       I don't see what the furor over not having money was about . . . I myself was just mad about the whole affair, never frightened, in London.  This summer disturbs me somewhat, but if things start looking too rough, I'll ask you to send part of the bank account.
       John never went back to the Sorbonne after that first dreadful experience . . . but it was something to put down on his Alien Registration form to keep the police off his neck . . . most of his letters back from the Universities have been rejections—only one he asked for more money deliberately because he didn't want it.  He's a drifter by nature, or didn't you guess?
       [handwritten in first page's bottom margin:] Whoops!
       [second page, to the right of the first, is typed upside-down
]
       Only I do long for his brain sometimes.
       No, I never take meals at [the] Reades . . . I have too high a regard for my stomach and nerves.
       I think school term ends officially July 7th, in order that people can get in late papers, etc., but most people are gone by the middle of June.  Exams start around the 1st.
       Funny about that sweater, guess it was the gold filagree, but it was about £1-5 cheaper than yours.
       Rod is not a Fulbright . . . he's 35 years old and working on his PhD on Strindberg and O'Neill in connection with the department.  Georgie Brandt is sort of his tutor; they [the Browns] will live here until he finishes, probably the summer of '56.
       I was sick about Doc [John Newfield] and [his first wife] Inga . . . she is positively his crutch in life, but I always wondered how two such caustic, dynamic personalities ever got along without some blowup or other . . . maybe it will all work out . . . I knew he was unhappy at K.U.
       Glad everyone is well (except poor Mildred); seems like all I eat in Bristol is fattening stuff, but somehow I can now get into my spring suit fine.
       June and I are giving me a home perm this week, fortified with ale and giggles . . . all of my December curl is now gone and I'm straight again.
       We had a three-hour run through of Miss Julie yesterday and took time off to "re-see" Humphrey Bogart and his "Baby" in The Big Sleep, remember it?  About eight years old . . . really sort of awful, one of those complicated plots where the poor audience is left completely befuddled.  Jim**** just kept groaning through the whole affair . . . I wonder why I even bother with men?  I went home with June for coffee and almost missed the last bus (10:45 on Sundays, gawd!) home.
       Am now staggering through the last few bitter pages of the first rough draft of my pantomime paper.  I told George Brandt over many giggles in the library today (amidst glares from those studying) that if he hears a thud coming from his office tomorrow, it's George Rowell when he reads my nasty comments on his beloved form of entertainment.  Well, at least I'm honest.
       A messy package is now wending its slow way to K.C.
—[will] probably arrive the last week of June.  It's the dregs of the Italian trip, undervaluated of course!  [page three:] I hate spoiling the surprise, but I'd better tell you what I intend for whom.  Most of the things are wooden boxes bought in Florence (much to John's laughter).  The red and gold ones (the largest one and a smaller matching one) are for Daddy, to use as he so desires for cigarettes or cufflinks, etc.  John says "all men like red," so I hope you're like all men, cherie.  There is an opening-out Catholic-type picture which no one but me would value, but you can stick it on my bookcase until I get back.  The blue and pink one [is] for the Nashes*, since I thought it would harmonize with their decor, and the box inside it is for Marcia [Nash], as belated graduation present.  The little green and gold box and the string of beads are for Joann, and I would so appreciate it if you could put them in a larger box and send them to NYC addressed to "The Stegmans" so Patricia will feel included.  Mother, you will have to wait, I fear . . . couldn't pack yours but wanted to get rid of some of the bulk.  Besides, those beads are real amber and valued above £6, so I might have had trouble getting them out of the country.  Hope you won't have to pay any duty, but kind of doubt it.
       Did I tell you Drucilla sent me $2?  Also [received] a card from the Glogaus**, bless them . . . think I got around twelve [birthday] cards in all.
       Have begun planning out the mess in the trunk
—and have had cause to regret saving everything . . . took the greater part of two nights to throw away stuff, but still have seashells collected from the Venetian Lido (how cold and sandy I was that day!), and other such stupid things I hadn't the heart to discard.
       I have a tutorial with George [Rowell] tomorrow, so guess I'd better start cracking on this mess of a paper.  Must get this typewriter ribbon changed.  Much love, J
       [handwritten postscript:]
       [May] 17th
       The scarf and belt arrived today—what a positively gorgeous scarf, I'm almost afraid to wear such a luxurious thing.  But thank you.  [Got] another letter from JTD [John Templeman Douty]—what has happened to him this month—[he] sent mostly clippings and [a] schedule of the International Theatre Festival—I'll have to ask him to get me tickets for June 14 or [end of page three; page four is the mailing and return address only]

May 27, 1955

[still faintly typewritten, to her parents]

       May 27th
       Gentle readers:
       Just a note to tell you that I shall be on your hands again next year, since I heard from Patty McIlrath today to tell me that I got the fellowship, she said not definitely but practically that it will be Director of Ex[perimental] Theatre, three productions a year, and that Old Paint
** had said they will accept six hours credit of work done here (provided Glynne [Wickham] ever evaluates them) so God, is that a relief!
       Of course, aside from the greatest thing of finally getting to direct and finally finishing my master's is the fact that I CAN HAVE MY OWN ROOM, I repeat in other terms A ROOM OF MY OWN and PRIVACY.  It has got so bad here that I begged June for a key to their place (today she took the children to her parents for Whitsun holiday for a week) so I could spend at least an hour's running to myself without constant interruption, noise, questions, complaining, dirt, and the sound of Reade shuffling around the floor.  Why did I ever stay, you ask?  One thing, the lack of strength to get completely packed, have the steamer trunk loaded, getting a new place, and then having to do it all over again when I left Bristol.  Another reason, I guess inherited from my social worker mother, is horrid fascination: how far can it go, how can people live like this—etc., and then every once in awhile the whole thing strikes me as funny.  Oh well, I still have breakfast in bed.  Every night after I go to bed, I think of my own room and how I will fix it up again, with a table so I can throw books around, work and type, and rearranging furniture.  I can't leave a thing out here . . . it gets picked up, examined, put away someplace where I never find it ([Mrs. Reade] "tidies up") and then all I get is "the amount of these things I find on the floor . . . why can't you pick them up?"  Bobby pins, you know.  I'm really not bellyaching to you, just trying to prepare you for what is to come.  That room is going to be my castle, and when it's dirty that's all well and good.  I'll clean it up when I want to and not when someone else tells me to.  This sort of tirade is what John calls me "exhausting my spleen," but it has just gone too far for sanity.
       So now I am planning three glorious days of running in and out of the Browns, working upstairs in Diane's room so as not to disturb Rod, and eating when I want to . . . it seems like heaven on earth.
       You sounded just like a character from a Nancy Drew mystery story when asking about John's encounter at the Sorbonne, as if expecting all sorts of gruesome details, so to give you a laugh am enclosing part of one of his first letters* (that was when he used to write long letters, pages and pages like the enclosed) in order that you can get it first hand.  His experience was very typical, I have been told . . . the French are great ones for maddening secrecy and details.  Since John was okay as far as the police were concerned, since he "officially had a reason" for being in Paris, he just never went back.  You can see why.
       Other questions: I don't know how long I will be in Paris . . . I want to stay for a month, but I have next to no money . . . I have found it impossible to really make plans or be decisive . . . sorry it's so confusing to you.  All I know now is I will leave (provided no rail or dock strike) around the 14th and stay as long as I can, then either take a tour somewhere around Europe (already having booked it in England with pounds) or do something else.  Am definitely going to Ipswich somewhere around the first of August.  That is absolutely all I know, and I can't plan anymore without losing my mind what with this paper, packing, State Department forms, Miss Julie, and writing letters to boot.  Ipswich is just north of London, where one can get a boat-train to Southampton.  No chance of Ireland, I don't think . . . it's
£9 return to Dublin plus living expenses, and I just don't have the money.  No, the Browns don't have a car and, like me, can hardly afford the bus.
       Sorry I had to mail the Italian boxes, but I just don't have room for everything.  Am having to ship my books home separate also (probably next week).  And as I told you, the reporter who was doing the article on me is a foreign reporter for the K.C. Star, so you'll be sure to see it.
       The enclosed clipping is from the Herald Tribune*** from John
all of both of the vacations I have been longing to get a shot of a Mobilgas**** station with some sort of incongruous background, and this beats all—you're famous, Pete [Nash]!
       I sold my old green coat to a girl for
£4, and am now looking around for other things.  Am very much afraid one of them has to be this typewriter, if I can get a good enough price for it, since I need the money and might have trouble packing it and getting it out of the country without paying duty.
       Have been doing the usual frenzied round of activities.  Monday night Jack and I went up in
Lav's* station wagon with Lav and his wife and a friend to see "the world premiere" of Wild Thyme, out of town opening, in Bath, on which Gerry* has been working for a couple of months.  Well, I doubt if it ever opens in London, since it stank, but I had a wonderful time.  Since we had a beer each intermission, each succeeding act seemed funnier, spiced up by the fact that we met all sorts of people there, including Rudy Shelley**, the movement teacher from Bristol Old Vic School.  Went to a pub afterwards and listened while Gerry spouted steam for fifteen minutes, then he left and we drove back (cramped) since Rudy was now added to the group, and went to the espresso place for coffee and talk.
       Diane, Rod and June's youngest had her eighth birthday last week, this time only a party of eight, so we weren't so exhausted as the trip to the zoo****.
       Miss Julie rehearsals get more tense each time (thank heaven June will be gone for some days), usually ending with one or the other of us not speaking to the other, or June in (concealed) tears.  If we can only get through the 9th and 10th without mayhem.
       I went over to Rudy's night before last and was struck dumb by his huge collection of priceless books, made me green with envy, and such a gorgeous room!
       Glynne's baby came last week, named Stephen Glynne (he was ecstatic), for whom I bought a tiny felt toy lamb in baby blue.  June and I are planning to go over to see him and the mother [Hesel] after they get home from the hospital.  They keep mothers in for two weeks here.
       It is amazing since England is so northern that it is still light at 10:00 at night, and is the same at 4:00 AM (I get the latter information from John, since I've never been up at that hour).  The Brown children go to bed with the sun shining.
       We had one day of sunshine two days ago . . . everyone flipped their lids, put on sundresses (only about 60-65 [degrees] at the most temperature), sat out in the gardens and had hysterics.  I sat in the grass for hours myself.  Sure enough, the next day it was cold and rainy.
       My hair (after the home permanent) turned out quite well, although it is growing with the usual fastness, and will soon have to get cut again, if I get anywhere where it's hot.  Certainly not Paris . . . John says it is bitterly cold.
       I guess that's all the information . . . went to a sherry party yesterday in honor of Heffner*, who is leaving next Tuesday, funnily enough I only caught a fleeting glimpse of him across "a crowded room" (sorry, I'm just too tired to type decently) but not to speak to . . . went out for several beers afterwards, which livened up election night, which was dismal and rainy.  Mr. Reade is of course an unhappy man today, being a Labourite from way back.
       Among the movies last week was Roman Holiday (delightful) and Bad Day at Black Rock
—Spencer Tracy, very good I thought.  I'm seeing more movies this year then since my Oak Park days.
       Have finally finished my paper on pantomime, and am presently staggering through the State Department forms, then two weeks for rehearsals, packing, etc.
       Hope all are well, at this rate, I'm going to book a Cook's** tour consisting of just lying in the sun for two weeks.  What ever happened to that thing we call sun, anyway?  Hope all are well . . . Love, Jean

May 31, 1955

[handwritten-in-pencil airmail, to her parents]

       Tues. 31st
       10:00 PM
       Pen went bad again
—that'll learn me for buying cheap things.  Just a line to tell you a few new things and to ask your opinion on another.  One, is that we are surviving rail and dock strikes with typical British fortitude.  They seem to be settling in with a vengeance, and [it] is very annoying.  We can't send anything through the mail weighing over eight ounces, meaning that I can't send John's books to him, or pack my own to send home.  Am going to have to find someplace here to store my trunk (if they haven't lifted the ban by then) since I can't ship it anywhere.  Anyway, I took care of getting myself out of here, by booking flight from Bristol to Paris the morning of the 15th—have to catch a bus to the airport at 8:40 AM, plane leaves airport at 9:50, gets to Paris airport at 11:50, and to center of town by 12:30.  I alerted John today to be prepared to get up early that day to meet me.  I may not be staying at the Lindberg* this time, since it's so high and I'm so low (in cash), but I have the names of some other cheaper hotels nearby—so we should be able to work something out.
       I'm sorry I can't be more specific and that I tend to ramble.  I think I am finally beginning to wear out, but good.  Although all sorts of places on the Continent sound inviting and I would love to see everything, even if I had the money I don't know how long I could face it.  These kids that tour miles and miles of the world by hiking have it all over me.  I'm worn out by trains these days—imagine it will be that much worse after packing my entire set of belongings and customs list [is] made out.  All I can tell you is I'll be in Paris June 15th—how long I'll stay or where after that, I don't know.
       What I wanted to ask you was, do you think you could draw $10 or $20 (preferably the latter) out of my savings account and get it to me by the 15th?  I don't know how long these letters take to get anywhere these days but if you think you can, please don't mail it in a letter weighing more than eight ounces, or I'll never get it.  Probably no letter would weigh that much because I mailed the State Department forms back today and they numbered 22 pages.  I would greatly appreciate it if you could and so would my stomach, and so will the French.  They love American money.  How many times have I heard "Hey buddy—want to change some dollars?"  Ha!
       Bristol is currently going mad in a heat wave—everyone is wearing sundresses, shorts or going swimming.  Many have suntans already, after only 2½ days.  Guess what the "high" was yesterday
—63° !!!  I also love it—sat in the sun for hours yesterday in the ruins of an old Victorian church and graveyard—sounds gruesome, but it was lovely, with flowering fruit trees and with a gorgeous view—just like Genoa.  Rod and I are, between us, making [a] shambles out of the Brown house, especially the kitchen.  At last Mom I can appreciate your task.  I've given up trying to be original and slam together cheese, toast, eggs, and gulp milk—but at least I'm filled up enough not  to have to eat out much.
       Read Babbitt and Return of the Native and theatre notes by Barrault*** in three days plus finishing State Department forms and just collapsing on Diane's bed.  Saw Brigadoon today—not too terrific, but some wonderful dance numbers—plus bagpipes!  Hope the money doesn't cause you any trouble.  Love, Jean

June 11, 1955

[handwritten-in-pencil airmail, to her parents]

       June 11, 1955
       5:00 PM
       I am sitting on the floor of Frankie's room (the Jamaican girl**** I met on the way to London last trip) eating cookies, drinking milk, and trying to sort out my thoughts and get my head cleared after the cast party last night
—amidst the intermittent screams of witches and Alec Guinness in a recording of Macbeth.
       With luck and the grace of God, I should get off alright Wednesday morning [June 15].  Funnily enough, all the mail is coming through quickly from the States (still four days) but evidently the congestion is still bad within England itself, especially the London area.  Therefore your past two letters have arrived in good time, and how can I thank you for the money?  Also the savings money
—I think that it, combined with English pounds, will hold me for a good while—I hope until I can get back to Ipswich.
       Latest dispatch from "General Douty" reports that I am booked up with tickets for the Festival until the end of June, but to date no message about a room (the Lindberg, we have agreed, is out—both of rooms, and my price range).  At ant rate, the [Festival] sounds exciting—the 15th, Stockholm and Miss Julie; next, Judith Anderson in Medea; Berlin with Brecht's Caucasian Chalk Circle; Norway, Portugal, Canada; Saint-Denis's*** production of Romeo and Juliet (what they were rehearsing when we were in Strasbourg***); and USA (Mary Martin, Helen Hayes, George Abbott in Skin of Our Teeth)—plus a Picasso exhibit, a U.S. theatre exhibit, and the "David to Toulouse-Lautrec" [exhibit] that I did not get to last time, plus another American couple to wine and dine for three days next weekend.  The couple is Knox and Suzie (the Fulbrights I met in Scotland).  Luckily, they are wonderful kids, but I haven't told John about them coming over yet (I told them he would find them hotel rooms!) so don't know what the reaction will be—as if he had any choice!
       Miss Julie is finally over, with a general sigh of relief but let down also—everyone said "a very fine attempt" which was a compliment really, since Strindberg is so hard to do.  We went through the usual routine of staying up half the night after dress rehearsal, sloshing paint on flats and giggling—reinforced with beer—everyone joined in, including Glynne in his good blue suit, and it was a lot of fun.  June had several days of severe nerves, but we all managed to survive the ordeal.
       Heard from Patty McIlrath today and last week—had to fill in another fellowship form (about the sixth or seventh I've done to date) so that takes care of formalities.
       As feeling slightly "insincere" due to an impromptu cast party last night at the Browns—there weren't many there, but we managed to kill two cases of beer (quarts) and June and I sat up after everyone left (I stayed there last night) cleaning up, etc. until 4:00, when the birds started chirping and it was light.  First time I've been up that late for a year.
       Knox and Suzie were down for the play and we went to see the Japanese film Seven Samurai yesterday—terrific.
       Tomorrow Jack and I are invited to the Brandts for the evening.  Monday June is helping me pack and Tuesday night we're going to see Bristol Old Vic's Confidential Clerk for a farewell outing.  Everyone has been so sweet and kind lately.  I'm afraid it is really going to be painful to leave it all so soon—however . . . Did the broken Italian boxes ever get there?  Write me in care of John, and don't worry.  Much love—Jean

June 17-18, 1955

[handwritten-in-faint-pencil letter, to her parents]

       June 17, '55
       At last I'm warm!  It has been comfortably hot since I landed and all of the cottons that June and I, with fear and trepidation, packed are coming in handy.  I'm so overcome with the idea of actually wearing cotton clothes that I put on new outfits twice a day
—will probably end up with everything dirty and mussed, but have I ever enjoyed the process.
       If the past few
days are any indication, this will be the best Continental trip yet.  I have been having the most glorious time imaginable!  The plane trip itself was a mistake (although providing several hilarious situations):
       1.  Because the rail strike ended the day I left.
       2.  Because we had a low fog and the plane was delayed.
       3.  Because I got involved with an American girl and her nagging mother who reminded me for all the world of Mabel McClellan.
       Having obtained Mr. Reade's alarm clock (which he, nearsighted as he is, thought he had set for 7:30 AM and went off at 7:00 instead) I arose slightly bilious from the night before, when June had taken me out to dinner of Italian food and to see The Confidential Clerk and then several beers afterwards.  I managed to get things into the semblance of being packed and throw together some breakfast.  At 8:15, Barry (an Old Vic student) came by to carry my suitcase on the bus down to the Center, where we were to catch another bus to the airport.  After a twenty minute wait, the "bus" arrived (a taxi) and June went to the airport with me and all of the other passengers.  After arriving there, I had the strange feeling of apprehension and sure enough, we learned the plane was slow from Cardiff.  To make a long story short
—instead of leaving at 9:50, we got off sometime after 1:30 or later, not getting into Paris proper until 4:30.  Poor John, who had waited from 12:30 to 3:00, had gone home and by this time, I was more than slightly tipsy from having whiled away the time sharing a bottle of Scotch with the aforementioned American girl.  I managed to have the clerk at the air terminal call the Lindberg and soon John came and poured me into a cab and got me to a hotel to sleep it off for a couple of hours.  Ate usual elegant dinner and saw the Stockholm production of Miss Julie that night.  It was some day, with too many hilarious undertones to mention in this letter and my limited time, except that our plane was called "The Dove" and I am sure that a real dove would have outweighed it!
       Yesterday we went to one of the film festival attractions, a Swedish film of Miss Julie (with the sane stars as in the [stage] production), scenes from Erich von Stroheim's Dance of Death, and last night saw Judith Anderson in Medea—generally quite disappointing.  We kept laughing at all the wrong parts but it was so uneven, all the minor parts being taken by well-known stars (like Mildred Natwick, Shepperd Strudwick***, Arnold Moss, Charles Nolte) and done on the whole inadequately, and Judith herself was just too histrionic for words.  But it was interesting to see anyway.
       Had our usual beer at Le Flore**** afterwards, and you should see St. Germain these days!  The sidewalk cafés take up literally the whole sidewalk and pedestrians have their choice of walking in the street or pushing their way through the tables.  Everyone is louder, gayer and more in evidence in the warm weather, including the peanut vendors and the North Africans selling the fur rugs.  There are huge carts of cherries on the streets also, and an American behind every tree.  But my, is it fun!
       Today we devoted to buying more theatre tickets and wandering around the Champs-Élysées.  Tonight I think we are seeing a Norwegian production.  Tomorrow Knox and Suzie are supposed to arrive (the Fulbrights from Scotland) so we left tomorrow night open.  Seeing some Cocteau films in the afternoon.  Then, next week things like the Chinese opera, Oklahoma!, Chaplin films, exhibits, and [the] usual eating.
       It is all so nice to be here I'd forgotten what charm could exist in a city, especially after Bristol that closes up at 11:00 PM.  I have no plans for leaving.  John now thinks he will stay until the 1st of August (he may have a job at Buffalo next year) so who knows when I will leave?  Obviously, when the money runs out.
       The hotel room I have is at the junction of Rue St. Germain, Rue du Bac, and Rue Raispail—about three blocks from the Lindberg.  It is tiny, but serviceable and costs (with breakfast in my room) thirty francs cheaper a night than the Lindberg.  Thirty francs is next to nothing, but I had to go out for my breakfast there.  This room overlooks Rue du Bac and is very noisy, but I love it—the hotel is in between a billiard room and an ice cream parlor—I took a photo of it, but seriously doubt if any of this roll will come out, due to the fact that I took all of the shots in semi-darkness and complicated matters by dropping the camera on the floor before leaving Bristol.
       The enclosed is a pic of me taken by Frankie  in front of the Berkeley Café* in Bristol.  In reflection in glass you can see a bus approaching (center) and part of art gallery (upper right).  Also added attraction of the straw basket**.  I look like I'm about to enter a minstrel show with the white gloves and grin—Minerva* looks slightly dejected.  The other enclosed is article by John Crosby—when "damn mad" at [Arthur] Godfrey—very good, I thought.
       I am so hungry I could eat a bear, and still a half an hour to go.  John is taking one of his usual baths—suppose I should do a washing and write to June.  Poor dear, I just left her with taking care of my dirty work—like helping send the steamer trunk (along with Mr. Reade) to Southampton.
       The last day in Bristol was as I had expected, painful—with everyone sitting around looking doleful or else terribly bright—but now that I'm finally gone, I can't say that I'm took broken up.  Bristol was just too slow and sleepy—in spite of the wonderful Drama Department and people.
       This is all I can think of for now.  I'm booked up with theatre tickets until July 13th so you can take it from there!  On to dinner.  Much love, Jean.

       Saturday [June 18th]
       12:45
       Naturally, didn't get around to mailing this so must tell you about last night.  We ate in a poor man's bistro near Rue de Rivoli where we each had a five-course dinner both for 650 francs (about $1.75)
—an hilarious place, which you would have loved—everyone shoveling it in with a vengeance.  Afterwards over to the Hébertot for the Norwegian production which turned out to be a "one woman show," or as John said the Noralee Benedict*** of Norway—doing everything from speaking all the parts in Anouilh's*** Medea to reciting a poem with piano accompaniment.  Naturally, we had to stifle the giggles.  Afterwards, went to what we call the Stage Door Canteen or theatre bar, a darling place—which during the two hours spent there featured a quite heated argument between two men, one of whom had intimated that the other was German ("them's fighting words!"), the other who allowed he was as French as the next man and the other could bloody well shut his vile mouth, etc.  A French soldier kept quietly standing between the two and all was punctuated by a British colonel type gentleman who alternated between speaking loud English and loud French, illustrating all with loud whistles.  He turned out to be some famous aeronautical engineer or something and wanted to accompany us home.  Also featured was John trying to explain what a pretzel was to the barmaid, an elegant lady of easy virtue, a young man obviously a dancer at the Folies Bergère, a taxi driver and a stumble bum.  All was especially funny being translated by John, although I usually grasped the situation if not the conversation.  The only drawback of this bar is that it is in Montmartre and takes a good hour and a half to walk home from it.  C'est Paris, really more like Damon Runyon.
       Shades of England—it is now raining and the flower seller across the street is barricading herself in.  Hope I eventually get around to mailing this.
       P.S.
       Got your letter just now.  Thank you!

June 28-30, 1955

[handwritten-in-slightly-darker-pencil letter, to her parents]

       June 28th
       I will get a head start on this now, and finish it later
when, heaven knows.  I think my last letter was dated around the 18th and since I keep a skeletal account of everyday happenings it is fairly easy to give you some of the highlights.
       The 18th we went to see Naked City (in the original language) in the weirdest movie house you've ever seen—all tarnished gold and garish Oriental painting—called "The Pagode."  Since that was a Saturday, next we had to fight the French for seats, the consequence being that we sat in the second row!!  Found ourselves with stiff necks, burning and perpetually upturned eyes for the rest of the evening.  Earlier that day we walked to the outskirts of town—never have my feet ached so much.
       Sunday (19th) we parted our separate ways—did laundries, read etc.—that night saw a provincial French group do a Pirandello play.  Fair.
       Next afternoon (20th) to Film Festival of Cocteau films and readings with added attraction of personal appearance of Cocteau himself—thrill, thrill—and Jean Marais (you may not have heard of him—he is famous as one of France's great stage and screen stars—for being very handsome—and for being very charming with Cocteau).  Cocteau was very energetic and youthful for [a] 78 year [old].  [John and I] spent that evening (since the films and talks lasted 3½ hours) eating Italian food and walking (ouch) around.
       Next night (21st) saw an excellent production of Brecht's Chalk Circle—interesting staging by the Berlin Ensemble—had an unfortunate meeting with Jack (now on his way to Greece) and other Americans.  I was not in a sociable mood, and parting was cool.
       Next day [22nd], more films—one of Barrault's***.  Saw the Portuguese production that night.  Even though we arrived an hour late, the performance went on for 2½ more hours.  The Spanish, Portuguese, and Greeks don't start night activities until 10:45 or 11:00!
       The 23rd we saw the Chinese opera, which is quite the rage of Paris these days and rightly so—everything from the Marx Brothers slapstick to the most exquisite of movement, all with such gorgeous costumes.
       The 24th we went to the USA's "Salute to France" exhibit of "David to Toulouse-Lautrec"—quite good showing of French canvases from American museums.  That night, saw Canada (Montreal) group do three short farces of Molière—very funny, main comedian reminds me of Jackie Gleason—same routines.
       Saturday [25th] we messed around the reference room of the American Library due to an argument over which American playwright got run over by a tractor—turned out to be Sidney Howard, but we must have pulled out 25 volumes to find the information.  That night John dragged me to a fireworks display on the banks of the Seine—turned out that at the end of three hours they passed out tiny sparklers and they were the fireworks.  The French are always anticipating trouble, so consequently had out a contingent of fire engines and police.  Also that evening: folk dances, acrobatics, bonfires, and huge milling crowds of people.
       Sunday [26th], our mutual days of rest from each other.  I was ambitious and set out early—went to Notre Dame Cathedral and sight-saw, walked down Rue de la Huchette (have never got over Elliot Paul's Last Time I Saw Paris), went to the Louvre again and sat in Tuileries Garden by the pond and watched the kids sail their boats.  That night we had 700 francs between us, so went to the cafeteria for dinner for 300 francs apiece (about 40¢), walked around (oh, my bleeding feet) and blew the rest on cups of black coffee—that evening ended miserably at 11:00.
       Yesterdat [27th] we went to the bank (ha) and walked around again (my heels are like hard granite)—that night went to Michel Saint-Denis's*** production of Romeo and Juliet.  Aside from imaginative costumes, the production was inferior and really poor in relation to what I had learned to expect of him.  John nodded and burped champignons à la grecque (mushrooms Greek style with garlic) while I fidgeted.  I carried this nervy mood over to tonight.  Today I was supposed to accompany John to Cook's where he is worrying over travel arrangements, but I got so irritable waiting to leave I pinned a nasty note to the door and I went off by myself to brood.  Got home to soak my feet and he had slipped the envelope full of clippings** you sent under the door, so I had an interesting afternoon with all the tidbits.  Most surprising was to learn that Fran and Jan had finally come to the fatal decision (must find them a card) to get married.
       Tonight I'm all dressed up in pink garb to go eat at the hash house and see the outdoor opera in the courtyard of the Louvre—Berlioz's Romeo and Juliet with ballet.  Tickets were 1000 francs reserved ($3.00), 500 francs unreserved—guess which we got?  We may never see the opera.
       Have nothing planned for next two nights—probably an outdoor production of Molière.  Tomorrow hope to go to Sartre Day at the Film Festival.  Friday night is Oklahoma!
       Had my film roll developed: all but one (the one with Rudy in it) turned out fine—I had my thumb in the way again.  I think I won't send them from here—too expensive; probably from England, if I ever get back there.
       Have received two letters from June (one more expected tomorrow), two from Joann, and two (three with [the] clippings one) from you since arriving—such luxury.
       Let me explain to you the problem of the rest of my savings account.  It seems as though I have around $63 left.  Is that right?  But isn't part of that yours personally that you deposited into it this year?  Anyhow, I had planned to use (if it is $63) $30 of it in NYC ($25 at a minimum) and $30 here or in England, leaving $3.00 in it to keep it open.  Does that arrangement seem at all plausible?  By the time I pay my rent here and go through my funds now with me—I figure I will still have ten days to two weeks when I could really use the $30.  Please don't get the idea that we are throwing away money like mad—the 500 [francs for] the opera tonight is rare—most of the time we pay 220 francs for theatre tickets apiece (30¢) and only eat one meal a day, plus the coffee and rolls at 11:00 which comes with the rent.  We never pay more than 700 for dinner and usually 350-450 which doesn't seem extravagant.  The rest of the money is generally divided among from two or three beers after the theatre, 100-200 for Film Fest or exhibitions, and I usually pick Sundays to go to the Louvre since it's free then.
       Every once in awhile (once a day—ha) we get into big planning hassles, armed with papers and pencils for close budgeting of money—or, what is worse—arguing about it.  But, in the long run, it never seems worth it.  We know how how much we have to spend, and should silently try to live within it.  I figure I won't get back to Paris for awhile, and why not enjoy myself while I'm here?  Heaven knows England has little to offer in comparison.

       June 29th
       Got Mellie's* letter on my breakfast tray this morning.  It was so welcome and I enjoyed it so.
       It seems that while I was brooding my way around the Rue de la Paix (rhymes!) yesterday, John was causing a scene at Cook's—walked off in a huff after standing in line for an hour with eager Frenchman (friends of the clerk) getting at the head of the line once too often.  John is going through one of these periods of "Oh whither hath my lost youth fled?," is worried about his growing irritability, balding temples, etc.
       The opera was very impressive.  We didn't finish dinner until 8:50, but got seats anyway.  Just like a Hollywood premiere—all the people in evening dress, flash cameras flashing, the President (M. Coty) even attended.  They floodlit the facade of the Louvre, played "The Marseillaise" and it was all terribly dramatic.  Aside from the usual mosquitoes and hard benches, 'twas very inspiring evening—the man who danced Romeo was especially good.

       June 30th
       Got a long letter from June and one from Joann today—how can I keep up this correspondence!
       John wants me to ask you this: we noticed in the clippings that Mr. Breuninger was appointed [the] new Business Manager and Bursar of KCU—what happened to the old one, Mr. Bokelman?  John says he is relying on you to obtain necessary data—he suggests Dr. Barnett** for information source—ha!
       It has been cooler and rainy [the] past two days.  We saw Sartre's No Exit yesterday at films—found it boring—are trying out a Mexican film today, and eating at my favorite restaurant tonight—just around the corner from the Opera, called—Chez Jean!
       Since Joann is determined to buy theatre tickets herself, I think I can get by with less money in New York than I had originally planned—especially in light of the fact that I figured out a budget last night and ends won't meet unless you send me at least $30.00 by July 15th.  John is staying in Paris until the 1st of August, so I hope (at least present plan) to hang on until around July 25th in order to see the Greek production of Oedipus.  Oh, I hate planning so.  It will be a relief just to get settled somewhere for longer than two months at a time, or what is worse—the one week jaunts or even worse—the living out of a suitcase for more than a month.
       Oh well, try to bear with me—I have to get ready to go to the bank (again) with John today before the cinema.  Big argument last night, so the weather may not be the only thing that's cool today—ha!
       Lots of love, Jean


 


Notes

[click on the > at the end of each Note to return to its source above]
 

  Mila Jean turned twenty-three on May 12, 1955.  >
  Carmen Jones was a CinemaScope adaptation of Bizet's opera released in Oct. 1954, starring Dorothy Dandridge, Harry Belafonte and an all-black cast (though produced and directed by the all-white Otto Preminger).  >
  A Star Is Born, released in Sep. 1954, starred Judy Garland and James Mason in the roles played by Janet Gaynor and Frederic March in 1937.  Critic Bosley Crowther called the remake "one of the grandest heartbreak dramas that has drenched the screen in years."  >
  The Country Girl, released in Dec. 1954, starred Bing Crosby, William Holden, and Grace Kelly in a "non-glamorous" role for which she won the Oscar (besting Judy Garland and Dorothy Dandridge).  >
  Strindberg's Miss Julie was performed in Bristol on June 10th, with June Brown in the title role; Jack Sommers* directed and Mila Jean was stage manager.  (This production does not appear in Theatricalia.com's database.)  >
  On May 6th the United States Educational Commission in the United Kingdom wrote "Dear Miss Smith":

I quite understand that you may feel that our present request places an inordinate burden upon you at a very busy time of year.  Unfortunately there is very little that this Commission can do to alleviate the strain.  We have received requests from the Board of Foreign Scholarships and the Department of State in which each of you is asked to complete the enclosed questionnaire as soon as possible and to return it to this office.  We must receive these completed questionnaires in this office by June 30th, at the latest...  The forms have to be completed in triplicate, but they have been printed and simply clipped together so that they may be torn apart and put into a typewriter.  In making this report, which is completely confidential, we would like you to be as frank as possible.  It is only on the basis of complete frankness on your part that the Commission and the Washington authorities can improve the program as it exists today, and as we hope it will exist tomorrow.  May I take the opportunity of saying how delighted we have been to have you over here this year?  >

  On May 4th John Douty wrote from Paris:

Celebrated author, world-traveller, and costumer
     ...Your huge collection of waste material arrived today—all very interesting except that you neglected to attribute authorship to the enclosed letters.  Only one seems to be from your sainted mother—the other chattier
(and cattier) one I cannot identify.  The one which I think is from your mother begins (page 5): "Eng. & Theatre Depts.  Said Waggoner was so sympathetic with her until she started in on theatre work—then he dropped her*** . . ."  Who—who—who?...
     Bought a Foreign Correspondent-type trench coat in the clearance sale down the street.  It is several sizes too large—but a terrific bargain at 6000
[francs] Afterwards, figured my income tax and I owe the government $200 (actually $400, but have to pay only $200 before September), which takes care of any summer touristing, moonlight on the Acropolis, etc.  As a matter of fact, may serve as a good excuse for not returning to the States in September...
     If I were ambitious, I would be out fighting for Dr. Newfield's old job
[as Director of the University of Kansas Theater].  But... I have reached the age when I would rather be comfortable than ambitious...
     I wouldn't count too much on transfer credits from Bristol.  The number of credits you can transfer is limited, and the final decision rests with dear ol' KCU.  But you can still finish
[your master's] in a year
—needle in hand.  Comme ça?

A few days earlier****, Mila Jean had written her parents that "I will be dubious if not downright opposed to accepting a fellowship with the costuming again.  It is not my field and I simply could not stand it."  >
  On the envelope of John Douty's May 4th letter, Mr. (Robert St. John) Reade wrote: "Sorry I opened this, R.StJ.R."  >
  "Mildred" may have been Mila Jean's older sister, who changed her name from Mellie Agnes to Mildred Aileen in the 1930s; though Jeanie and her parents always addressed and referred to her as Mellie*.  (Her husband Pete called her "Milly," which I in my youth attributed to his Mississippi accent.)  >
  The Big Sleep, completed in 1945, was partly re-shot for release in 1946, adding scenes to emphasize the chemistry between Humphrey Bogart and Lauren "Baby" Bacallwhich replaced scenes that helped explain the complicated plot.  >
  On May 13th John Douty wrote:

A most dreadful evening:
     Perhaps there is something in this "Friday the 13th" business.  I was having dinner in a heretofore respectable restaurant on the Rue du Dragon, when I became conscious that I was gradually being surrounded by British.  The worst of the lot were two little old ladies who sat next to me
(actually one little old lady and her dreadfully plain, thirty-ish daughter).  At first, mother refused to order until she had inspected the plates of all the diners near her.  It seems that she did not want anything that would be all over "sauce"...  She finally decided that the roast chicken seemed the least tampered with, sat down, put on her hat, and ordered.  In the meanwhile, daughter had been laboriously translating the meal with the help of her pocket dictionary.  She decided it would be far safer to stick to the mutton chop.  After they had managed to convey this to the waitress, mother pulled out their guide book and began checking off the sights they had seen today.  She concluded that they had done quite well considering that they had been in Paris only one day, really.  Then she turned to the picture section of the book and the two of them spent happy minutes arguing over each picture—whether or not they had seen that...  Their plates came and we almost had a tearful session with daughter—the mutton chop wasn't hardly cooked at all.  Mother philosophically remarked that perhaps that was the way they like it here.  After some discussion, it was agreed that they shouldn't make a scene—particularly since they did not speak French—and mother would share her chicken with daughter...
     The real reason for
[this] letter is that it seems so naked to send the enclosed Festival program without something.  It contains all the information I have.  Prices are from 150 to 1000 [francs] per
séance.  I hadn't realized the shows would come so close together.  One glance tells me that my carefully planned summer budget is shot—and I shall have time for nothing else beginning the 18th...  >

  The first Paris International Drama Festival (Théâtre des Nations) took place the previous year, 1954; "twelve foreign companies visited the capital, and their performances received scanty attention from the press outside France," remarked the June 23, 1955 Spectator; but "this year has brought actors from twenty different nations and a flock of 300 or so foreign journalists."

The administration of the festival has inevitably suffered.  Any reader who has visited a French theatre will remember the scenes of wild confusion, of waving arms and uproar, which take place nightly at that altar of Thespis...  Normally the critics are spared all but minor injuries by receiving numbered invitations, but such luxuries have not been seen this year since the first week of the festival.  Struggling for tickets at premieres, attending press conferences to which the public are admitted, being lured to theatres three-quarters of an hour before the curtain rises: these are some of the discomforts that face the critics at the Paris Festival this year.  And yet I cannot imagine that any of us would have missed it for worlds.  The festival represents a unique theatrical feast.  For nine weeks in May, June and July the capital sits back and enjoys the cream of the world's best actors, producers and playwrights... 

The 1955 "Festival International d'Art Dramatique" was sponsored by UNESCO, with support from French state and municipal governments, and coordination by the Théâtre Sarah-Bernhardt*** >
  On May 24th Patricia McIlrath wrote:

Dear Jean:
     Following another conference with Dean Barnett, I am now in a position to offer some constructive proposals.  So, sit ye down, uncross your fingers, and lend me your eyes.
     We figure that you have nine hours of graduate credit applicable to your M.A. in theatre here.  Dean Barnett suggests that we can accept six hours of your work at Birmingham
[sic].  Therefore, we can conclude that you have already accumulated fifteen of your required thirty hours for the M.A.  The question resolves itself, thus, into whether or not our Department can offer fifteen hours in the courses you need.  If we can, you could certainly finish by June 1956.
     If you desire the fellowship available for you, I think that I can promise that our Department can fulfill its obligations by offering the appropriate number and kinds of courses on the graduate level.  Moreover, in view of your allergy to costuming, I might be able to persuade the proper sources that you would be a fine director of our Experimental Theatre Productions.  We plan three of these.  There is as yet no precedent for production thesis, but something of that sort should become an integral part of our Graduate Program in Theatre.
     Now how about it?  Does this sound interesting to you?  I hope that it will, and I shall be eager for your reply.
     Incidentally, I so much enjoy your long letters.  They bring back memories of my own travels, and of my work with Professor Heffner*.  Give him my love.  Sincerely, Patricia McIlrath
  >

  Mila Jean would scribble-copy a June 11th evaluation of her work by George Rowell (rather than Glynne Wickham):

Miss Mila Jean Smith has been in residence at this University throughout the Session 1954-55 as a Fulbright Student undertaking a non-degree postgraduate course arranged by this department.
     I have been asked to assess her work during the course in terms of credit hours, but this task is not easy since the system of credit hours does not obtain in British Universities.  However, I am given to understand that the maximum number of credit hours which a student who has attended all the courses permissible in two semesters at an American University is 36.  On that understanding I would assess the instruction she has received here as 12 credit hours in dramatic literature and theatre history, 6 credit hours in practical stagecraft and 6 credit hours in practical criticism.
     I should add that much of Miss Smith's time has been spent on an examination of the origins and development of the English pantomime, on which she has worked hard and well.  She has the results of her researches in the form of an outline dissertation and although I cannot assess her study in the field in the shape of credit-hours, I feel that her work does her none the less great credit.
     George Rowell, MA, BLT, Lecturer in Drama
  >

  Wild Thyme was a three-act musical with book and lyrics by Philip Guard and music by Donald Swann (who in 1967 would compose The Road Goes Ever On, a song cycle of J.R.R. Tolkien's poetry).  Wild Thyme premiered at Bath's Royal Theatre on May 23, 1955, and had a West End run of 52 performances in July and August.  >
  Glynne Wickham married Heseltine "Hesel" Mudford, "whom he met at a BBC staff training school in 1953" (as per his obituary); she was evidently descended from author/journalist William Mudford and his son William Heseltine Mudford, a newspaper editor.  "Dear Mila, Thank you so much for the little lam
b—and his wrapping," Hesel wrote Mila Jean on May 24th.  "I hope you'll come and see us all at home before you leave.  By then we may have been able to pay you back in your own coin!"  Stephen Glynne Wickham would go on to become a civil engineer, member of the Bristol Conservation Advisory Panel, and chairman of the Bristol Civic Society.  >
  Winston Churchill retired as British Prime Minister in Apr. 1955 and was succeeded by Anthony Eden.  His Conservative Party won the May 26th general election, defeating a deeply divided Labor Party (led for the last time by Clement Attlee, who would retire later that year).  >
  Bad Day at Black Rock, a CinemaScope thriller starring Spencer Tracy as a mysterious one-armed man, was released in Jan. 1955.  >
  KCMO's Oak Park Theater was at 3935 Prospect, seven blocks west of the Smith home at 3908 College.  The Oak Park opened circa 1931 and closed in the early Sixties; its building is now used by the Mount Vernon Baptist Church.  >
  The twenty-page "An American View of English Pantomime (for possible use for thesis material in the future)."  Its bibliography noted Mila Jean had observed four pantomimes: Cinderella in Bristol, Goldilocks and the Three Bears in Glasgow, Little Bo-Peep in Bath, and Sinbad the Sailor on Ice in Bristol.  >
  Great Britain declared a state of emergency during the national railway and dock strikes that lasted from late May to mid-June 1955.  >
  Brigadoon, a CinemaScope adaptation of the 1947 stage musical, was released in Sep. 1954 and starred starring Gene Kelly, Van Johnson, and Cyd Charisse.  >
  On May 23rd John Douty wrote:

Busy, Busy, Busy
     The festival has only begun and
[I] already have that feeling of being rushed, rushed, rushed.  The Dublin exhibit was quite distinguished ... with four complete realistic sets (and beautiful spatter work), outstanding lighting and a terrific impact.  There was the language difficulty, of course (and this seemed to bother the actors, too—I suspect that they do not play in dialect on the home grounds—or else they were secretly British and the nine o'clock curtain kept them up after their bedtime—in any case, there was a large number of serious line flubs) and there were occasions when one had the feeling of being at recitation day at the high school—racing monotonously through the long speeches, but the final curtain packed a good whallop.  The whallop was as much due to the production as to the script—at times I was a little embarrassed at recognizing the sort of cheap director's tricks that I would use...
     All this in miserable, British-type cold and rain.  It is utterly ridiculous that the day should be bright at 4 AM and still at 9 PM in the midst of winter cold.  It is my opinion that the whole world is going to hell...
     Your budget report indicates that you will be rolling in money this summer.  I still think you could get a real nice tour of Spain for 45 pounds.  I had been feeling sorry for you that your schedule would put you in Paris when the main attractions were the American bits—I mean, you can see that sort of thing any time.  I have not spoken to Madame about accommodations
[at the Lindberg]—you know a tentative date would just upset her.  And, I think, considering the time of year, she will want a pretty definite date of departure...
     Moralist that I am, I think it is very good that you are finally learning that one is not always simply handed things—but I didn't think "Old Paint" was the man to teach you.  What rumours about Newfield?  Sometimes I feel that I live in a little world completely out of touch with reality.
     God, will it never be warm?

This was followed on May 26th by:

In my usual spirit of good-natured self-sacrifice...
     But to get to the Drama Festival.  Sunday night there were not enough people in the house to pay house expenses
—twenty in the gallery.  And, in a way, I did not blame the people who were absent.  It was the Belgian company, of course, playing in Flemish...
     There was a full house at
Volpone, mostly French
—I do not know whether it is that more French understand English, that the British company chose plays which are familiar to the French, ...or that the Hébertot, being an avant garde theatre, has a loyal audience.  Anyway there was a crowd and they loved the show.  I was disgusted—finding it quite tasteless—change that to definitely bad taste.  In this modern dress production, the Elizabethan ribaldry in the mouth of proper contemporary Britishers just left a bad taste in my mouth.  The atmosphere which was created with the playing of the Eunuch and the Hermaphrodite as you can imagine they were played made the entire production more an indictment of degeneracy than a satire on the way of the world and a rabelaisian practical joke.  The cutting of the final scene so that everyone except Volpone himself went unpunished offended against poetic justice.  The audience loved it, however—it was held over for two nights that just "happened" to be open...
     If you still persist in coming to Paris—you won't like it—even though it has warmed up, the Americans are everywhere—give me some definite dates to work on... 
>

  On June 2nd John Douty wrote:

Hello out there!
     There is some feeling of writing in a vacuum.  Are the mails coming through?  One doesn't know how to act under strike conditions.  After all, we unstable, Communist-ridden, etc., etc., French have not had a major strike in two years...
     Delighted to hear about your appointment at UKC...  I see no reason why one of the three experimental plays could not be a production thesis.  Of course, there is a tradition that one should not get academic credit for the same work for which one is paid
—but I'm sure you will be able to get around that...
     The Festival has been generally poorly attended
—low point was twelve in gallery for Finland.  I got seats for USA on the 21st without any difficulty.  Also seats for myself for the Ballet without difficulty.  After all, the tourists are only interested in the shows with the naked young ladies.  Your luck held out, incidentally, on Sweden.  I had thought that they were doing the one-act [Miss] Julie as a curtain raiser to The Father.  It turns out that they are doing the full length version of each, each on a separate night—and Julie plays the 15th.  (16th to 19th is Brecht.)  Have booked you solid through the 21st but not beyond since I had no terminal date.  You had better let me know whether to get seats for USA on the 29th.
     Considering the fact that we have been booked solid
[at the Lindberg] for a month now, I think you are not in a good bargaining position with Madame.  I'm afraid with her it's $2 or nothing.  (I pay $50 per month as a permanent.The Boissy d'Anglas is directly behind the American Embassy, but except for that seems respectable.  While on the right bank today, walked past it and it looks enough like the Dragon to be its twin.  I do feel, however, that both it and Montmartre are unrealistic since you seem to consider yourself a left bank type.  The enclosed hotel guide is useless, I think, but you might check 5th and 6th Arrondissements.  A better guide would probably be your little British friends.  [handwritten in margin: The hotel list wouldn't fit in the envelope—it wasn't very good anyhow.]
     ...I received a nagging letter from my sister** indicating what life in Baltimore would be like.  So now I am in agonies of indecision again [about when to leave Paris] but keep putting off the evil moment on the grounds that since she hasn't gotten around to telling how much money I have I can't do anything anyway.
     Also, I am no more anti-American than the next person.  But you must admit there is some argument when you are walking along the Boulevard Malesherbes and you hear: "Ya cain't git 'em to unnerstan' 'n' whin they do unnerstan' they don' knaw."  And you look around and there is a shapeless hag in a cotton sack which at best would be appropriate to wear to the Safeway on a cloudy morning, being tearful to her friends because they can't find their way back to their hotel...
     Have no final advice on hotel situation—but if you want me to make you a reservation you had better give me a week's warning.  Also it might be a good idea to let me know how far in advance to get theatre tickets...  There is a huge Picasso exhibit waiting for you, the David to Toulouse-Lautrec, and an American theatre exhibit at the USIC.  A young American at the restaurant up the road this evening was pontificating about the Picasso exhibit and delivered his opinion—"Well, I suppose the French have to be enthusiastic about Picasso—after all, who else do they have?"  At which point I fired at him mel blanc: "But, signor, Picasso is a Spaniard."  I don't know why I bother—I'm a Walt Kelly man myself...

Mel Blanc provided the voice for most of Warner Brothers's cartoon characters during the Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies era.  Walt Kelly created the classic comic strip Pogo, a clipping of which John Douty had sent Mila Jean in a previous letter, noting on June 2nd: "Please return the Pogo since I feel that this is extremely significant and should be preserved."  On June 11th he wrote:

Briefly
     I refuse to make any more theatre reservations until you give me some dates.  You obviously have some sort of schedule in mind and I will not act until I have the necessary information, scholar that I am.  As for hotels, I think I am not the person to find one for you but am making the effort.  I think 500
[francs] is the lowest I shall be able to hit and then I shall have to listen to you complaining about the accommodations.  But I am used to being harassed so will bear up with my usual good spirits and joie de vivre...
     And speaking of people being mean to me, someone has offered me the sort of miserable, impossible UKC-type job.  Since this is the sort of thing God seems to have built me for, I recognize the inevitable and will probably take it.  I shall be in the market for ulcer cards in about six months.
     The Drama Festival continues apace but I shall report on that in person, using my energy now to write my sister
—who incidentally has not reported whether I have any money or not.  You may well have two mouths to feed in Paris.  At least one of these does not eat much.
     Cottons should be appropriate, but bring one warm suit.  We are in the midst of a cold, rainy spell which may last until September.  But we have had some hot days—so who can tell.  Also, bring razor blades, books and a sunny disposition... 
>

  Judith Anderson's performance as Medea, in a Robinson Jeffers adaptation of Euripedes's tragedy, won her the 1948 Tony for Best Actress.  >
  Bertolt Brecht's parable play The Caucasian Chalk Circle was written in 1944 but did not have its German premiere until Oct. 1954.  >
  Thornton Wilder's epic allegory The Skin of Our Teeth first opened in 1942, starring Tallulah Bankhead, Fredric March, and Florence Eldridge.  >
  No "Knox" appears as first or last name of anyone on the 1954-55 roster of "American Graduate Students in the United Kingdom Under the Fulbright Program."  Mila Jean's Mar. 13th letter indicated that only Knox, not Suzie, was a Fulbright.  >
  On June 3rd Patricia McIlrath wrote:

Dear Mila Jean:
     I was glad to hear our conclusions met with your approval.  I am quite amused that we have you in Birmingham; we both know very well that you are in Bristol.  I do hope you can succeed in having Dr. Wickham evaluate your work there in terms of six United States credits.
     Your summer plans seem most intriguing.  I would much enjoy trodding hither and yon with you.  We shall have a lot to talk about when you return.
     I enclose an Application For Graduate Scholarships and Fellowships which you should fill out immediately and return by Air Mail to Dean Barnett.  It seems that everything else is under control.
     Have a rollicking good time in these last few weeks.  I shall see you in September.  Sincerely, Patricia McIlrath

On June 6th this letter was stamped as being returned to its author, and she handwrote a postscript: "Mis-sent to Baker's Plays!  Carramba!!"  >
  Akira Kurosawa's masterpiece Seven Samurai was released in Apr. 1954 and has ranked among the world's greatest films ever since.  >
  T.S. Eliot's The Confidential Clerk, a comic play in verse, premiered in 1953 and played for a year on the West End before going on tour.  Rosemary Harris starred as Lucasta Angel in the 1955 Bristol Old Vic production.  >
  In KCMO's 1940 census, widow Mabel McClellan lived with her adult grade school teacher daughters Sylvia and Dorothy at 3346 Agnes, less than a mile from the Smiths at 3908 College.  >
  This must have been Barry Wallman, whom Mila Jean photographed holding her umbrella, and who appeared with Bernard "Bunny" Behrens*** in the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School's 1955-56 production of The Merger.  Otherwise, we might have guessed "Barry" was Barry Lategan, who'd appeared as "Davos, a gambler" in A God in the Garden***.  Theatricalia.com gives this as Lategan's only stage credit, but other sources indicate he left the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School to do national service, during which he became interested in photography and later opened a studio, where he would be credited for discovering Twiggy in 1966.  Regrettably, he “went on to grope six women [and] remains in prison with dementia because no care home can be found for him.  Barry Lategan, 81, has been stuck in custody since June [2015] for the sexual assaults on women in the street or on London buses.”  >
  The Dance of Death, a Franco-Italian adaptation of August Strindberg's two-part play, was released in 1948 with Erich von Stroheim as Edgar.  >
  Mildred Natwick spent over half a century on stage, screen, and television in a wide variety of character roles, frequently collaborating with Joshua Logan.  >
  Arnold Moss was a Phi Beta Kappa Ph.D who formed his own Shakespearean acting company and enjoyed a long career that ranged from Bob Hope comedies to Star Trek to the original production of Follies.  >
  Charles Nolte won acclaim in the title role of Benjamin Britten's 1951 opera Billy Budd; after retiring from acting in the 1960s, he taught theater at the University of Minnesota for over thirty years.  >
  Mila Jean stayed at Fleury's Hotel, 66 Rue du Bac, "where I spent six weeks!"  Today this is the Hôtel Bac Saint Germain.  >
  John Crosby was America's leading radio and television critic in the 1950s, serving for fifteen years on the Peabody Awards Board.  >
  Arthur Godfrey, the ukulele-playing "Old Redhead," was a prominent broadcaster, entertainer and pitchman whose career went into a decline after his on-air firing of popular singer Julius LaRosa in 1953.  >
  By leaving Bristol when she did, Mila Jean just missed the incoming Peter O'Toole, who joined the Bristol Old Vic for the 1955-56 season and appeared in thirteen different productions (as per Theatricalia.com) that year, including Volpone with Bunny Behrens (one of whose obituaries stated that he and O'Toole were "drinking buddies").  >
  The Théâtre Hébertot opened in 1838 as the Théâtre des Batignolles.  It is one of the few Parisian theaters to offer shows in English as well as French.  >
  The Naked City is a 1948 film noir, done in semi-documentary style, of police investigating a murder: "There are eight million stories in the naked city.  This has been one of them."  >
  La Pagode, an ornate replica of a Japanese pagoda complete with tea garden, was commissioned in 1895 by Le Bon Marché's owner François-Émile Morin as a wedding gift for his bride (who soon left him for his best friend).  In 1931 it reopened as a cinema, and screened avant-garde films till closing in 2015.  >
  As Jean Cocteau's longtime "muse," Jean Marais appeared as the Beast/Prince in La Belle et la Bête and the title role in Orphée, among many other roles.  >
  Sidney Howard, a celebrated playwright and screenwriter as well as gentleman farmer, was crushed to death in 1939 when the tractor he was cranking lurched forward and pinned him to the garage wall.  >
  Journalist/novelist Elliot Paul was an American expatriate in Paris during the 1920s who went to Spain to recover from a nervous breakdown, and got caught up in the Civil War.  His memoir The Last Time I Saw Paris was published in 1942.  >
  This "thumb in the way" was particularly regrettable, as it obscured Mila Jean's only photo not only of "dear Rudi Shelley" but "Greville Hallam (later murdered)" and "Bunny Behrens (later one of my best friends)."  >
  Greville Scott Hallam (born 1933) appeared in the Bristol Old Vic's 1955-56 productions of Ah, Wilderness (with Bunny Behrens) and Dick Whittington (with Peter O'Toole).  He went on join the New Shakespeare Company and be principal dancer with the Western Theatre Ballet before becoming a successful theatrical agent (with a "proclivity for rough trade").  In 1982 he would be strangled by James Monahan, who as "Erwin James" chronicled life in prison for The Guardian>
  In Aug. 1955 Bunny Behrens sent a picture postcard of Summerleaze Beach (near Bude in Cornwall) to Mila Jean c/o Joann Stegman in NYC:

Welcome home honey.  Hope you've had a wonderful time.  Patsy is at Coventry Rep.  Sonia**, Royal*, Bristol, Maureen (ballet) has gone into Can-Can, everybody seems happy.  This is where I've spent seven weeks working in cocktail lounge.  Off duty hours were great.  Am leaving four weeks earlier [than expected] to work for Nat Brenner**, and it's good because I've had enough of this.  Drop me a line sometime and don't forget my steak 196?  Love Bunny

"196?" was presumably the year in which Mila Jean was to provide the steak, mentioned again in Bunny's next letter from Bristol:

Nov. 27th [1955]
(or thereabouts)
Dear Mila,
     It was really great to hear from you.  Have passed your letter round and am sending it on to Patsy.
     They are really giving you a busy time during this coming season.  How are you doing with the art instructor kiddo?
     Don't seem much to write about except what's been happening to me.  Mind?  Too bad if yo
u do—so here goes.  The ballet show was a great success, also the school show.  Tom Kneebone** and Annette went to the London Vic.  Pat Blackwell**** and Sonia to Bristol Vic and Patsy went to Coventry.  Jim Douglas**** went to and is still in London—squiring young starlets about—so I here.  He has taken out dual nationalities, American and South African, which apparently allows him to work in England.  I spent a rather hilarious summer as a would be bartender cum waiter and it was quite akin to Keystone Cops at times.  The only thing that really saved my sanity was the fact that any day (except two) for eight weeks I spent surfing, swimming, sunning and sleeping on a gorgeous beach.  The night work however was quite an education.  I'll tell you all about it over that giant steak, which I trust you haven't forgotten about.  Nat Brenner rescued me from Bude and I returned to a full time job at the Royal for a month, and after school started, continued to work on the shows for six weeks.  Have taken three weeks off and start next week as First Judge in Volpone (a good part for a debut) for three weeks followed by eight weeks in the Xmas show.  The company is marvelous this season.  I only wish you could see them in action.  Moira Shearer is a darling and will be a good actress in time and with the right direction.  The new school is still under construction and Dinky Duncan** is as nasty as ever.  By the way Sonia played Sonya in Uncle Vanya and was marvelous and got terrific critics, and of course we're all very proud of her.
     Oh yes, we have a new teacher, a Daphne Herd
[sic] who is a whiz.  I got the Evening Post scholarship which was a great help indeed, also included a dinner at the Grand Hotel with lots
—too much—to drink and a fair sized steak—by English standards.  Our first production this term is Othello in which I had Iago, and we are now working on Oedipus at Colonus, in which I have Polynices.
     It has turned really cold now and I'd give anything to taste some good old Winnipeg 40° below stuff.
     Am living in at the Ballet school now with Greville, and it's really wonderful with regular meals and lots to eat.  The Fulbright students are not as lively as your lot, but then really don't see anything of them, so maybe it's not fair to say that.  They're mostly from around Chicago.
     A friend of mine from Winnipeg has joined the school and of course when she arrived it was like old home week.  She had only been here two weeks and walked in the lead in
Oklahoma which plays a week at the Hippodrome in February.
     Last week Greville went to spend the weekend with Patsy.  She is quite happy and working very hard.
     Do you ever hear anything from Jack or Gerry?  I guess Gerry is mixed up with the army right now.  Yeah, I know what you mean about life being frantic in the States.  As much as I long to go home, I feel I'm going to see everybody with jet tubes poking out from their shoulder blades.  If you know what I mean.  Apart from a few new stores well on the way to completion
—which means of course anything up to six more months—Bristol is not changed.  The place is dead by about 10:30 PM, the 22 bus service is lousy but you can't help liking it.
     We have a couple of young fellows from NYC and one from Flushing who are really the end.  Every week
(or so they make out) they get letters from Kazan, DeMille etc., begging them to return.  The new first year are or is made up of kids from all over the world, with a few from England thrown in.
     I'm beginning to meander and burble so I'd better dry up.  Hope you have yourself a wonderful Xmas.  Keep in touch once in a while.  Love Bunny

This was the beginning of Mila Jean's voluminous Behrens correspondence file, eventually put in order by "the art instructor kiddo" George Ehrlich.  On Nov. 9, 1982 Bunny would write:

...Had a letter from Mary and Muriel (who used to run the Bristol School of Dance) yesterday, and they imparted some tragic news which I will pass on.  In London en route from Turkey back to Ireland, they heard that Greville Hallam was dead, and that it seemed to be a case of homicide.  Their information was sketchy, and they will pass on more next time that they write.  That was quite a shock...

This was followed on Dec. 9th by:

Dear Mila and George,
     As you are going to be buried in finals and marking papers, this will give you the deserved break you will need.
     God, where to begin?  Well, let's start with the heavier news first and then try and lighten up.
     On Monday a letter arrived from our dear old ladies in Ireland, and enclosed was a couple of obits regarding Greville, actually one obit and a news clipping about the whole tragic affair.  Also enclosed was a letter from Phyllida
[Law]**** dated Nov. 7th and there is a lot of speculation about what really happened and apparently [handwritten in margin: Extract from Phyl's letter] Grev was a lot in the company of Pat Heywood and her husband, but when they were not around, Greville would be inviting all kinds of weirdos into his place.  Pat H. said that Greville had a very colorful sex life, and the whole thing looks like it was a homosexual killing (whatever that means) and made to look like a robbery.  The fact that a squad of twenty detectives is working on it seems to give it importance...  >

  "Patsy" may have been Patricia Healy, who appeared in the Bristol Old Vic's 1954-55 productions of The Crucible, Getting Married, and The Winter's Tale, and would be mentioned in George Brandt's 2007 obituary in The Stage.  However, no confirmation has been found that she (or Pat Heywood, another possible "Patsy") appeared with the Coventry Repertory Company.  >
  Moira Shearer began her career as a ballerina and won renown as Vicky in 1948's The Red Shoes.  Turning to acting, she joined the Bristol Old Vic company for the 1955-56 season, playing Celia in Volpone and the title role in Major Barbara among other productions.  >
  Besides teaching at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, Daphne Heard had a long distinguished career on stage and screen, most memorably as Nanny Webster on Upstairs, Downstairs and "Mrs. Pooh" on To The Manor Born.  >
  Pat Heywood was a Scottish character actress, educated at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, who played the Nurse in Zeffirelli's 1968 Romeo and Juliet; Theatricalia.com lists her appearance with Greville Hallam in a 1956 Nottingham Playhouse production of The End of Summer.  >
  Hubert R. Breuninger was a teacher of economics at the University of Kansas City before becoming its bursar and business manager, succeeding W. Robert Bokelman.  >
  Chez Jean remains in operation, praised by the 2017 Michelin Guide: "Jean plunges us into a deliciously old-fashioned and opulent bourgeois atmosphere (floral patterns on the wall, painted beams).  The menu puts quality ingredients to good use
langoustines, frogs' legs, scallops, Arctic charin dishes with a creative edge."  >
 

Appendix

"Those damnable pantomimes," Mila Jean called them on Nov. 13, 1955**, adding "I don't really mean the latter—I'm just tired and irritable."  However, on Jan. 21st she remarked: "Went to the pantomime in Bath last night (ugh, but I suppose good for pantomime)"; and May 16th she was "staggering through the last few bitter pages" of her pantomime paper, anticipating George Rowell's reaction "when he reads my nasty comments on his beloved form of entertainment."  His evaluation in fact stated "she has worked hard and well" on her study of English pantomime's origins and development; "she has the results of her researches in the form of an outline dissertation and ... I feel that her work does her none the less great credit."  Three outlines exist in slightly disjointed draft form, with no indication how (or even whether) they relate to each other; I present a composite in what seems the most logical sequence, without commentary.
 

Evolution of the Comic Fool

I.  World tradition
     A.  Dorian farces—the moron
           a.  Matreas
           b.  Eudicus
     B.  Puppetry—5th century BC
     C.  The Greek mime—the mimic fool, 3rd century BC
          a.  characteristocs of ass-ears, bald-head
     D.  The Phlyakes—the fool
          a.  the "cock-type"
     E.  The fabula Atellana—Oscan type stock characters of the fool
          a.  the "cock-type"
          b.  Maccus (mimus calvus)
          c.  Dossenus—Manducus
          d.  Bucco—puffed-out cheeks, associations with eating, warts, costume
     F.  The secondary mime actor (characteristics of shaved heads, long pointed hats, multicolored dress, warts)
          a.  stupidus
          b.  sannio
          c.  alapas
               1)  Latinus—Roman mime actor
     G.  The medieval jongleurs—ioculatores
          a.  the acrobats and puppeteers (varying costumes, masks, and dancers)
          b.  the ballad-singers
          c.  the makers of romances
          d.  the satirists
     H.  The Feast of the Fools.  Feast of the Ass.
     I.   Fools guilds—mystery plays—the devil—Tutevillers, Hellequin or Harlekin
     J.  The commedia dell'arte zanni
          a.  Arlecchino (Harlequin)—use of motley, bald head, mask
          b.  Pulcinella (Punch)
          c.  Pedrolino (Pierrot, Pagliaccio)—use of loose white pantaloons, white face, ruff, peaked hat, bald head)
               1)  Cecchini—actor
     K.  Puppet shows
          a.  Punch and Judy

II.  English traditions
     A.  The court fool
     B.  The "crowders" of Elizabethan times
     C.  Shakespeare's fools—variations in usage
     D.  Use in farcical pantomime after-pieces of Restoration plays (1697-)
     E.  Harlequinade dances (1700-30)
     F.  Use of the clown in the Georgian pantomime (1734-)
          a.  Grimaldi
     G.  Use in burlesque and farce (late 18th, early 19th centuries)
     H.  Use in the extraaganza  (1830-)
     I.  Stock characters of music-hall tradition
          a.  Buttons
          b.  Widow Twankey
               1)  Dan Leno and Arthur Roberts, actors
     J.  The circus clown
     K.  The modern burlesque clown
     L.  Clowns and puppets
          a.  use in children's theatre

The World Art of Mime  (After-pieces)

     A.  The Phlyakes
          1)  mythological burlesque
               a.  scenes of eating
               b.  scenes of theft
               c.  scenes of intrigue
               d.  character types—masks
               e.  staging
     B.  The fabula Atellana
          1)  The Oscan type stock characters (masks)
               a.  Bucco
               b.  Dossenus—Manducus
               c.  Maccus
               d.  Pappus
               e.  cock types
          2)  Style and treatment
               a.  improvisation
               b.  the animal theme
               c.  the debate
               d.  use of Greek language
               e.  staging (music, etc.)
               f.  the tricae
     C.  The commedia dell'arte
          1)  The stock phrases, speeches, situations
               a.  texts
               b.  improvisation
               c.  the lazzi
          2)  The stock types
               a.  serious
               b.  comic

The History and Development of the English Pantomime

II [sic].  The English tradition
     A.  Farcical elements of the pantomime (1697-1730)
          1)  Restoration plays
          2)  Harlequin dances
     B.  The magical elements (1734-1865)
          1)  John Rich and the Georgian pantomime
               a.  sequence of scenes and stage business
               b.  characters, Grimaldi
               c.  the pursuit
               d.  absence of dialogue
          2)  The influence of burlesque
          3)  The Victorian fairytale extraaganzas
               a.  J.R. Planche
               b.  the transformation scenes
               c.  use of rhymed couplets
     C.  The homely elements—late 19th, early 20th century
          1)  Creation of stock characters by Henry J. Byron
               a.  Buttons
               b.  Prince Pekoe
               c.  Widow Twankey
          2)  The music-hall tradition
               a.  the principal boy
               b.  the dame
               c.  the food and drink scenes
               d.  the topicality
               e.  presence of animals
               f.  Dan Leno and Arthur Roberts
     D.  The modern pantomime
          1)  Defects
               a.  lowering of standards in effort to cater to audience
               b.  lack of talent and intelligence in performance
               c.  the elimination of the author
               d.  lack of zest and imagination in staging
          2)  Staging methods
               a.  settings
               b.  sequence of scenes and staging
               c.  music
          3)  Audience appeal
               a.  slant toward children segment
               b.  slant toward adult entertainment
     E.  Future of the pantomime

 


List of Illustrations

●  Mila Jean (and the straw basket) in front of the Berkeley Café, taken by Frankie from Jamaica
●  Greville Hallam, Bernard "Bunny" Behrens, and (hidden by Mila Jean's thumb) Raphael "Rudi" Shelly
●  Rudi Shelly's card
●  Frankie from Jamaica
●  Barry Wallman, with Mila Jean's umbrella (and no thumb over the lens)
●  Mila Jean's summer home in Paris: Fleury's Hotel on the Rue du Bac
●  Program for the 1955 International Drama Festival in Paris: contents
●  Program for the 1955 International Drama Festival in Paris: cover
 


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A Split Infinitive Production
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