GROUP FOR THE SOUTH FORK, INC.

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Current projects of long range importance:

1. Our next project working with officials of both Southampton and East Hampton is bringing about at least a five acre upzoning on primary watershed areas. This action is warrented as substantiated by the research contained in the South Fork Water Management Handbook. Copies of the booklet will be sent upon request and will be distributed at all public meetings. Our board of directors regard this book as the most important and convincing document G.S.F. has yet produced.

2. Directors and staff are fast becoming a recognized resource for community organizations as communities consider feasible steps they can take toward achieving responsible land use planning for their areas.

3. Wherever we meet with the public we not only have the handbook but an excellent professional slide show that we prepared in 1982 for our tenth anniversary. In fifteen minutes it profiles the South Fork environment from ocean to bay, highlighting the diversity and unique function of each habitat in spectacular color. The professional voice of Roger Caras as narrator powerfully demonstrates how G.S.F. emerged on the scene educating the public and local officials to the importance of the environment in arriving at land-use and planning decisions.

We are now taking appointments for private showings to small groups arranged by some of our faithful supporters to take place in their homes over the next six months. Won't you consider inviting us to your next gathering or cocktail party?

As you read the other enclosures we hope it will become clear to you that we are continuously involved in an educational campaign to help convert our major environmental findings into political realities for the South Fork.

We appreciate your generous contribution and the stimulus it provides to make possible all that we do.

AR/sss
Enclosures

And her Ears. They were always pounding, ringing, upsetting her equilibrium and promoting terrible headaches. She was very deaf. Deaf people's voices are either inaudible or corn-crake shrill. Even raised in anger, hers was hardly more than a whisper; of course the emphasis, gestures, and mounting cackex color of her cheeks was a sure indication. We had to lean and strain for the exact gist -- and respond in shouts. All of which made exchanges noisy and uneven, and, in the confines of the moving car, claustrophobic.

Dolly where did you get those shoes... your hair is a fright.. but I told you Aunt Emmy was coming to tea... that awful film you dragged me to... the rubbishy books you bring into the house... forcing down my throat... I never see you and now you're running off again. ... those foreign friends of yours... their ways aren't my ways... oh Dolly, what, why?

Poor Dolly. She couldn't do anything right. Yet she was trying so hard. Enacting an impossible role; she wasn't herself, nor could she ever be the Dolly of her mother's exacting standards. She fell down the middle, I was caught in the middle -- round and round Hyde Park, in hat and gloves. A strange position for a child, but again, as with so many early experiences, that's the way it was.

Young John made no concessions. Theirbelzted Scjorn to the family fortune, their belated one and only boy, their pride, their joy -- he played no roles except his own, the misunderstood maverick, the rebel. He reacted outwardly and openly to the point of obnoxiousness Dirty nails, rumpled clothes, filthy language. Always late for meals, or more unpardonably not present at all -- and never an explanation or an apology. They couldn't handle him. So there were constant

Nice people, individually. They could not get on with each other. All miscast, except for Sir John, the shipping magnate. He led the life of his choice, master minding ships and cargoes, making millions which made more millions. At home, he was abstracted, and gentle, perfectly cordial with his family. He treated Dolly's Ward like a junior duchess, always with a bow and a handshake. Irreproachable, but not very approachable. Certainly not a grandfather substitute who would tell jokes, read to me, dandle me on his knee.

In the drawing room, with the silver tea service spread before her, Lady Ellerman played gracious hostess to perfection. She was very pretty, if rather overweight, rosy and dimply. She wore exquisite lace gowns and ropes of pearls, and smelled of lavender. Unfortunately she was very deaf and never spoke above a whisper -- except when she lost her temper, then the teacups rattled -- while everybody had to yell at her, which made for a certain discordance. She didn't belong there, she wasn't bred to the life. She was a Yorkshire farm girl, and should have remained on the moors, walking dogs -- and rushing home, all wind blown to bake scones in the kitchen. Destiny had snatched her from her natural habitat. And love, of course. She remained extremely devoted to her Jack -- Sir John, and adapted up to a certain point. She struggled valiantly with her parricide role. If only Dolly had been more of a daughter, arranging flowers, playing the piano.

Sir Luke Fildes painted a portrait of the idealized Dolly. Swathed in white tulle, with a blue satin sash, and the inevitable pearls. Hair coiled in heavy plaits. All dressed for the part, and faithful likeness. The eyes give her away -- clear and steadfast, she's out of here. Age 15, and her brother came along at this time. Was 15 when I was introduced to the family. After all those years, on, inevitably named John Reeves Ellerman, the future baronet.

Doolittle, Hilda. Rows of numbers, some indicating whole chapters or lengthy sections. 184/203, 92/119. And photographs. She had many facets. Serene and contemplative. Farouche, woolly-haired, wild eyed. Femme fatale, smouldering on a sofa. Startled, just down from Mount Olympus, disoriented and vulnerable. Flapperish -- the Zelda Fitzgerald look -- with a cloche hat tugged down and a heavy fur collar hunched up. Ethereal wood nymph, shying from Man Ray's lenses. They're familiar, for I've seen them all before. Yet unfamiliar, sometimes I recognize the mother I know, sometimes not.

Back to the index. I meet myself. Perdita, H D's daughter. Birth of... concern for... visit from. Brief entries. Peripheral, but, yes I was there too.

Bryher. No one can agree on her rightful name. I pursue her zigzag of references and cross references, parentheses, italics. See Ellerman, Winifred. See McAlmon, Robert -- wife of. is Macpherson Kenneth -- wife of. She never Bryher, straight and plain, right on through. I don't recognize her at all in the early photographs. She seems singularly ill at ease. A rebel with self-doubt, obeying convention with fussy clothes and a most unbecoming permanent wave. Later, she came into her own that she evolved her style: totally unadorned close cropped hair, tailored suits, unique and strong.

H D and Bryher, my two mothers. Ces dames, the Swiss neighbors called them. The one tall, abstracted, always off into some higher realms of thought. The other short and purposeful. And a chunky

She was, as it happened, an imaginative Kindergarten teacher. We drew pictures of dinosaurs and cut them out and pasted them up in an elaborate montage. We pored over history books and atlases. We charted the Battle of Hastings with every crayon in the box, also the destruction of Pompeii, and Drake's Armada. We did jump around somewhat. I could recite lists of kings and their dates, the rivers of Africa, the capitals of the world -- and was urged to do so, ad infinitum, for visitors. She despised calligraphy. I never traced A B C s and fine lines and curlicues. The typewriter was a short cut to all that tedium. It would help my spelling, she insisted. There, I think she had a point. I very quickly caught on to the size and shape of words, and knew instinctively how they should look. Her tutoring was irregular, however, catch as catch can, when she had the time and inclination. I saw children trudging off early in the morning with their satchels, and back again in the afternoon, sauntering, fooling around exchanging secrets, eating candy. A closed society. No, I couldn't go to school and be like them. I was learning more at home. Maybe I was. I desperately needed companionship, although at the time I didn't realize how much I missed it. Anyway, nothing to be done. Bryher was the law, she laid it down so emphatically, she must be right.

East Hampton and

312 East 53rd Street, N Y C

November 4, 1984

Eve dear ******Thank you so much for your letter of October 17th with all the news, the good and the not-so-good. Well, that's the mixture at our stage of life. I can see how frustrating it must be for David failing his medical. That aeroplane was such a Thing for him; he must hate being grounded. Or can the heart condition be corrected so that he can have another try, and fly again? Your black-out on the motorway is the stuff of the worst nightmares. I can only say thank goodness you're hear to tell of it. That problem is now under control, I trust. Otherwise, you seem to be leading a full and lively life.

It was most thoughtful of you to think

"Just like a puppy," Bryher exclaimed, and she agreed to share the responsibility of my upbringing.

The puppy/baby equation didn't work out quite as they imagined. They never anticipated the noise, mess, constant demands. So I was boarded out at the Norland Nursery, a kind of luxury hotel for babies. I was tended by professional matrons, and nannies in training, in the company of my peers, other privileged foundlings. H D and Bryher came to visit every day. It was no doubt the best solution for us all.

I left there in 1920 to accompany my family to America. A chaotic passage, I wish I could remember any part of it. H D was returning to her home country for the first time. Bryher was setting out on a new adventure into the unknown. I was a rambunctious toddler. A young Irish nurse had been engaged to take care of me. And there was a vast amount of impedimenta -- steamer trunks, typewriters and manuscripts, bay equipment, and a large wicker tea basket.

We continued on to California, the entire retinue, rocking along for five days in a couple of small compartments.

My nurse deserted, leaving a note pinned to my cot. "Dear Madam, I have decided to become an American. I am marrying a fine young gentleman. Yours truly, Kathleen."

Nothing went right. California was an all round disappointment. They sought out remote cousins, but had very little in common. They searched for culture; it was sparse, existing in remote isolated pockets. Distances were unmangeable. The atmosphere was sterile, the architecture hideous. The scenery made little impression, and the eternal sunshine was monotonous.

"Oh, he's gone back to his rooms. He'll be joining us on the boat, and there's a lot to do. I suppose he'll need some clothes -- and luggage and stuff, and he'll need some help, I don't know my way around the shops."

Dorothy picked up her cue.

We headed back for New York.

Bryher's family was beginning to complain. High time she
stopped gallivanting around and came home to be a dutiful daughter.
They urged her to book passage on the earliest sailing. Those
walls were closing in again, three thousand miles away. She
made a dramatic decision.

My Aunt Dorothy, a lively raconteuse, has related her
side of the story. She had recently married Uncle Melvin, H D's
youngest brother. She was considerably in awe of her distinguished
and eccentric relatives from overseas, but eager to help in any
way she could -- mostly baby-sitting.

She was paying one of her duty calls when Bryher burst
into the hotel room, agitated, pale, with her hat all askew.

"Horse, I've just got married!"

Consternation. When, where, to whom? The bridegroom
was not present.

"Robert McAlmon."

An impecunious young poet, part of their literary circle.
He longed to go to Paris, but couldn't afford it. Bryher suddenly
hit on marriage as a valid escape route from the clutches of her
family. As a married women, she could go anywhere, do anything.
She had, in fact, discussed it with H D. It all sounded inauspicious,
cut and dried, overly pragmatic. One of Bryher's ideas. Nobody
really thought she'd follow through.

Here she was, far from a radiant bride, more like a
squirrel in shock.

Where was he? There should be some semblance of
congratulation.

"The Zambezi's a very very big river full of hippos."
The stout lady sat on the sofa, arms akimbo, with a
children
should be seen and not heard look on her face. A Miss Richardson
Dorothy to the grown ups. I'd been told to go in and pay my respects,
and so we were stuck with eachother. Her companion was rather more
receptive, a gangly man with very little hair. What there was of it
was long, and he coiled it round his bald head and anchored it
with a hairpin. I unfolded my montage of African wild life,
and the grownups came in and I scuttled off, social duty done.
The Odles, pronounced Odell. They'd come down from Chateau D'Oex
They came to tea several times a week. I never quite
adjusted to Miss Richardson's savage manner. Then after a few
weeks they'd disappeared, back to England. People were always
coming and going.

Robert McAlmon was the only visitor who stayed in the
apartment. Others were parked a few floors down in Riant Chateau,
at the Pension Jundt. The Jundt sisters were peppery Calvinistic
They must have been bewildered by
Swiss Germans. I met them one day when I was on some of their
guests. But they adored Uncle Norman -- nobody's uncle, it was
a courtesy title. Il Signor Douglas, traveller, former diplomat
and author. He was a universal catalyst. Rosy and rubicund;
he flirted with the cook and jollied HD and Bryher out of their
nervous proccupations. He bounced me on his knee. "Have a
pinch of snuff my dear!" I sneezed and sneezed. He always had
a glass of wine in his hand. "Come on, a little sip won't hurt her"
Bryher, a relentless teetotaller, looked grave. She needn't have
worried. I didn't like the taste anyway.

Those kindly ladies, Grandma and Aunt Laura came in from afar --
The States. They too, stayed in the Pension Jundt, but spent the
days upstairs with us. I sensed that they were different, and not
only because they were of another generation. There was a serenity
about them. They were predictable. They didn't bring typewriters,
they never raised their voices. And they always had time for me.
in a gentle
They gave me a lot of attention. They were quite firm, XXMEX no
nonsense, NEW way. I realized that brattiness was unacceptable,
and I loved them so much that I only wanted to please them.
The old fashioned regime seemed to work better than progressive ideas.

on the warpath." was frantic
"Family" XWXXIXRQWHUQJXUHIXUH Bryher XUHHUHIXUH, she XUHHUHIXUH ed
shrieking at a cowed Bob McAlmon, closeting herself with H D,
typed her daily letters twice as fast and furiously. Telegrams
arrived. Suitcases came out AXUHXLHQUHQUHIXUH

"Orient Express. Two weeks. Six weeks. Paris. London."
Wagons lit, Thomas Cook, tickets."

Anguish, drama. Nobody could agree on anything.

And they were gone. Grandma and Aunt Laura moved up
from the Pension Jundt.

Then, suddenly, some of us were in Capri. I have no
any
recollection of the plans, or of the journey. Those continuity
tapes have been totally erased. But there we were, Grandma and
H D and Bryher and I. I have photographs to prove it. Grandma
nervously clutching one arm while I clasped Jasper my huge stuffed
giraffe with the other while I stared over the parapet. Bryher
and Jasper and I sitting on a terrace H D guiding
me up a stony path.

vivid
Genuine memory has retained isolated vignettes, which to
this day. Cliffs, stony paths, the bluest of seas. Surprise:
my mother suddenly overtaking us astride a donkey, dwarfing her
steed with her huge hat and long legs, feet almost trailing the
ground. She herself must have been overcome by the incongruity
of the situation. She said, "Mama, Mama!" She neither heard
not saw me. I remember our pensione, a remote eyrie with a
miniature barnyard in the back, and the almighty fuss when I
caught fleas from the chickens.

And there was my old friend Uncle Norman, pointing
out a cone shape across the water.

"Vesuvius," he said, "a volcano."

The bishop was seasick, confoundedly seasick....

So begins the classic, South Wind. I was, too.
Grandma held me over the side of the rail. I clutched Jasper.
Great waves came lashing through. We were all soaked.

It must have been two years later, for I was strutting
around and bragging "I'm six!" the seasonal frenzy broke out
again. "Family" and for how long and where. This time there
was a suitcase in my room too. Bryher kept stuffing it with
dull unnecessary items like shoes and socks and underwear.
Decisions, selections, rejections. No, I couldn't take the
Noah's Ark. She made an unexpected concession for Jasper,
however, with the proviso that I carried him myself.

I was put to bed as usual, but fully dressed, which
was most unusual. Just as I got to sleep, they barged in,

turned on all the lights, sleep walked me into a taxi, and we
careened off to the fabled Orient Express.

"You take this one, I'll go there --"

"But my bag's in here."

"Where did you put the pills?"

"Dear me, I think I forgot the blue shoes."

"Where's the hat box? I can only see three typewriters"

Of course I wanted the top bunk. We were almost at the
French frontier before we sorted ourselves out -- Bob and I in
one compartment, H D and Bryher in the other.

Who in the world would waste such an adventure by sleeping
through it? I tucked my blanket around Jasper and sat up wide
eyed. Bob and I discussed lions and rivers and Plantagenet
kings. And there was a stentorian knock resounded from next door.

"Quiet! Stop talking and go to sleep. At once!"

Do Not Disturb was, once again, the order of the early
day -- and infinitely harder to carry out in a small service flat.
Even when I whispered to Jasper, my mother would come rushing and
shushing. She was exceedingly nervous, it seemed. The situation
was exacerbated by there being only the two of us.

to Hyde Park

Then at last we were off, with our bag full of crusts
from the breakfast tray. We re-created our routine on the banks
of the Serpentine. The ducks were smaller, and sooty, and very
voluble. And then, "run ahead, run, run, run."

Grandma was in London too, staying at a nearby hotel.
She was always there on our doorstep when we returned from our
expedition. And she took over, bore me off. For
the rest of the day,

stumbling bleary-eyed from the Orient Express at an ungodly hour.
Before he had time to shave, the fighting began. Trapped under
one roof, in an incompatible situation -- cut off from his
gregarious life. These enforced visits were, of course, part of
the deal. Elaborate inventions could be dropped; no more letter
drops for a while. All in the shaky cause of Family
Opinion. She was spending the next few months -- though weeks
were all they could stand -- in Switzerland, with her husband.

Family exacted personal appearances from time to time, so
they everything had to be disrupted all over again and they
reported to the Mausoleum.

No 1 South Audley Street. That formidable pile still stands.
It has withstood time, weather, aerial bombardment, and post war
reconstruction. I used to walk by there after heavy air raids.
Beloved landmarks were pounded into the ground, blasted to high
heaven. Smoke polluted the air, glass crunched underfoot and
was swept into the gutters, like snow. Surely, this time I
would find a crater and a mountain of rubble. I didn't exactly
hope I would, poetic justice didn't have to go that far, and I
was free now, so no call for revenge. It came through, time and
time again, a symbol of Victorian grit and survival, without a
single displaced brick or chipped window.

I still walk by. Nobody lives there now, except maybe a
caretaker. All offices now. I study the name plates at Berlitz
School, St Dunstan's Association for the Blind, International
Business machines. I'm tempted to tug the heavy bell, step
through those massive doors and make some spurious inquiry about

I cut out tiny cardboard Christians and flung them to my
collection of stuffed lions. Bob's armchair was the Colosseum,
he the audience of thousands. Then the grown ups interrupted our
game, and started up on those endless arguments. Joyce and Ezra
and Pound. And place names and travel plans which nobody could
agree on. Orient Express, Paris -- yes, no, I know, we turn
Bryher's voice would be shrill and we have to do Duty,
Haudley, Family's on the war path.
created

Family was an overbearing presence. I had no idea what
it, or they, consisted of. Bryher wrote to it every day,
resentfully and compulsively. She received a daily letter,
handwritten on lavendar colored paper, which set
the mood of the day. Family's seems calmer, Family's being
very very difficult, going to Brighton, maybe coming here --
horrors -- all right Bob, I'll meet you in Paris, only a few
then
days, we have to report to Haudley, yes at least a month,
Family will never forgive. Family, Family, we must report
Duty, Duty. It sounded positively military, and at odds with
those genteel missiyes.

In among her stormy preoccupations and conflicting
drives, She educated me: Her ideas were singular, wildly
progressive. Anything remotely traditional went out of the window.
She was adamant in her non conformity. She drew on her own
experience as an only child with unusual parents who travelled
widely and took her along, a miniature adult. There were
governesses here and there, now and then, but no real application,
never any continuity. When she reached adolescence all that
changed. During her early past.

He lived in Paris and he came and went. The Simplon Orient Express stopped conveniently in Montreux, at an ungodly hour. He would be there at the breakfast table, bleary eyed, chain smoking and sipping his café au lait. "Good morning, Lump, what are you up to these days?" His special name for me might have seemed derogatory, he pronounced it affectionately. We had a good rapport. I recognized him as a loner, an outsider. The mothers were always picking on him. They were a most contentious trio. The atmosphere, tense enough already, developed into a new charge. Voices were raised, doors slammed. H D became more "nervous" than ever. He, poor man -- so I summed him up -- was parked in a bleak poky room far from Bryher's. She provided him with a typewriter, little else. listened to He spent a lot of time there. In his uneven tapping -- counter syncopated long pauses, then sudden bursts, which was with Bryher's relentless barrage at the other end of the apartment. Then H D would start up with her own staccato rhythm.

Everybody had a typewriter. When they weren't fighting they were typing. When they weren't typing they were fighting. Again, not knowing anything else, I accepted that as the norm, even if the fights were a bit wearing. Boring -- the way those grown ups carried on, endless discussions and bandying of names. Joyce, Pound. Ezra -- funny name. I was always hearing it.

Bryher's theories of education were wildly progressive. She taught me to type before I could write. So I too, had a retracked typewriter. Like everybody else, I was in a room -- and wrote long letters to Bob, "miracles of Steinese prose" he subsequently recalled. When he emerged from his room I delivered them in person.

Territet, Switzerland, 1924. The two of them, inseparable unapproachable, eschewing the gregarious English colony. Strictly unto themselves. Des ecrivaines, it was rumored, and that explained a lot. Mrs. Aldington and Mrs. MacAlmon. And, tugging small figure inbetween, or lagging behind, a chunky Miss Aldington.

The same child appears in another photograph, holding hands with two benign older ladies in black -- Grandma Doolittle and her sister, Great-Aunt Laura. They are smiling down on her, and she is gazing way up, aodringly, grinning under her woolly cap. They are standing on the steps of Riant Chateau which was not a castle, nor did it laugh. A huge and forbidding block of flats. We had a garden and roof apartment, rather shabby, yet highly luxurious by today's standards. Friendly, and rambling. Rooms for everybody, including a household staff -- Catherine the cook, and Sophie who cleaned. And long corridors, and more rooms for visitors.

and her children
Territet made headlines when Melinda Maclean boarded a train and disappeared into Russia to join her defected spy husband, Donald. A local train -- the express roars right by. An unlikely, anonymous start for such a sensational adventure. No doubt that's why they chose it. Dear, dull little Territet. Nearby Montreux has changed its image considerably. It hosts large conventions, and music festivals to suit every taste. For two weeks in July, Le Rock takes over. Former undesirables publicplaces throng the lakeside, and litter and camp out The lakeside reeks of pot. A skyscraper has sprung up, a stark eyesore. Sports cars race along the thoroughfare. And there's a Hyatt Regency Hotel, shiny and glassy with a swimming pool.

of ½ South Audley St

Robert McAlmon's impressions were recalled in *Being Genuses*
Together. He wrote warmly, amusingly -- and, I consider, very
fairly. He had no idea what he was getting into when he struck
his
to that bargain. with the little "school teacher".

That That

That first round of visiting accomplished, the couple left
for Paris and set up their establishment. Nominally. Bryher
stayed around for a few days while Bob found lodgings and followed
up his letters of introduction. Then she left him to it and went
on to Switzerland -- and sent for my mother and me. That's
where my own memory tapes start reeling.

The telephone rang in New York City, late one freezing
night in January 1953. John answered.

"Yes, yes of course. Yes, I am Perdita's husband, she's
right here, but she's very tired."

Understatement. My second child was due that week,
possibly that very night, to judge by the size of me and the
commotion within.

"Chelsea Hotel. Yes, I know she'd love to see you --"

Sotto voce, hand over receiver "Robert McAlmon, he
wants to come over and talk about old times."

I wasn't so sure I wanted to see him. I didn't need
that confrontation. Not right now, certainly not.

Nicholas was born two days later, a sickly baby, blue
in tinge, with a bronchial condition. He spent the first month
of his life wailing and barking like an orphaned seashell.
The
baby nurse was called Joy; her disposition was anything but.

rivalry

Two year old Val acted out every sibling cliche in the psychology
book.

We were preoccupied. We honestly gave no thought

They introduced her to the Isles of Scilly.

Crossing the Atlantic the old fashioned way, Bishop's Rock
lighthouse flashes the first landfall -- and, conversely the
last outpost. On a clear day they can be seen from the cliffs
of Land's End, pale and netherlike on the horizon. Usually they
are lost in mist and rain. 26 miles away, 2½ hours by boat.
For poor sailors it is an eternity. Atlantic swells meet
the choppy English channel. Even professional sailors turn
"poor". The Lyonesse has long since gone to the ships' graveyard,
to be replaced by the Scillonian, and now a sleek new namesake.
There is also a heliocopter service, with a limited passenger
load, and notoriously susceptible to mechanical breakdown and
weather conditions. At the first sign of fog it neither comes
nor goes.

The Scillies are inconvenient, hence their continuing magic.
They can't be spoiled, there simply isn't space for crowds
of tourists and pollution. Only Tresco aspires to tourist chic,
with an elegant inn, and exotic, extensive tropical gardens.
The Scillonian docks at St Mary's, the business centre. There
are a few modest hotels; and banks, shops, offices. Available
housing belongs to the local inhabitants -- farmers and fishermen.
During the summer months, some offer Bed and Breakfast accomodation.
As far as modern civilization goes, that's it.

The climate is mild out there in the Gulf Stream. As
early as February, the Scillonian sails laden with daffodils
and spring vegetables.

Counting every last rock there are at least a hundred
islands -- and no buildings except for fishing huts and

American organizations, in both the public and private sectors, are taking advantage of the modern conference facilities midst the peaceful surroundings of what has been described as "the loveliest castle in the world".

It is therefore no surprise that its popularity as a conference center has been able to attract corporations such as Citicorp, Crocker Bank, Monsanto, Dupont and Allied Chemical Company. These American companies have been very helpful in providing financial support for the work of the Foundation.

Because of its reputation (and its proximity to London) Leeds has become a major attraction for diverse groups whose interests range from gardens and stately homes to rare birds and medieval dog collars. More than 350,000 people visit Leeds a year, making it one of the most popular castles in England. If you have not visited us recently, please let us make arrangements for you.

In the seven years that Leeds has been open to the public, the Foundation has gone from an operating loss of £200,000 to a surplus of £300,000. Those surpluses are being invested in improving the conference facilities; kitchens have been expanded; ramps and a special elevator have been installed for the disabled (who are admitted free); and the gardens and grounds have been restored.

We are proud of the entrepreneurial management which has enabled us to make these improvements and to provide excellent maintenance...protecting the magnificent heritage. Under our Executive Director, Andrew Y Grant, formerly Deputy Director of Operations of the San Diego Zoo, the Foundation will help fulfill Lady Baillie's vision for Leeds Castle.

You, as a contributor, must share in this success. Your continued support will serve to reaffirm the American commitment to this most deserving cause. Won't you send us a contribution and join the other Americans who are participating in this joint effort.

PS If you make your contribution of $100 or more now, payable to Leeds Castle Foundation, United States, we will send you a set of six table coasters, each with a different view of Leeds Castle.

Always courteous, gracious, grateful for recognition from
any quarter, I'm sure she would have answered it. But she
might so easily have left it at that.

She was going through a very difficult time. Her marriage
to Richard Aldington had broken up, though they were not divorced
until many years later. He was involved with yet another mistress,
a flamboyant redhead, Bridget Patmore. H D, with commendable
spirit had formed a new romantic attachment of her own, with
a young musicologist, Cecil Gray. They were there together,
in Cornwall. She suspected she was pregnant. Always, and
especially at this time, protective of her privacy, she was in
no frame of mind to take on a new acquaintance. But she was
curious about this young admirer, and, on impulse, invited
her to tea.

It took considerable courage on Bryher's part too.
She realized that the artist and the work could be at variance.
Trudging over the cliffs, clasping a bunch of
flowers, she braced herself for a disappointing confrontation --
her favorite poet might well be a little old lady with wispy
hair and spectacles, or some farouche overbearing Amazon.

She'd never seen anyone as beautiful as the woman when at
the door -- alone in the little cottage, so it must be
she -- quintessentially H D, the work personified, idealized,
with a melodious voice, radiating warmth and enthusiasm.
Rapport was instant, all-enveloping, total. The encounter
changed both their lives, for life.

SURABAYA

Standing room only at the Lucille Lortel theatre, formerly the De Lys. October 18th, five years ago, the star's birthday. She wasn't with us, yet *again* she was, in our thoughts and love. And all around us. Slide projections of her face, *those* quirky features, hair a-tumble. And her voice on tape, singing. That voice, sandpapery, tender, provocative.

Her late husband Kurt Weill always kept it attuned to his inner ear as he composed.

Lotte Lenya. Lenya. Hardly anyone called her Lotte.

That voice. I have all her records. Sometimes it comes in unexpectedly, over the radio, or the stereo at a party. Thought and conversation stop, I'm lost. One very hot night last summer, drifting from the windows of a beach cottage...... Moon of Alabama -- and the moon on Accabonac. It was too much.

"Whatever happens," she used to say of me, "I'll always have *one* fan."

She had thousands, all over the world, and still has.

I was among the early ones, a child. Before the rise of Hitler Berlin was a cultural centre, the place to be, for the grown ups, my literary family who had branched out into film. They became through them, met close friends with Pabst and Eisenstein; and Elisabeth Bergner, Colleen Brooks, Lotte Lenya. They brought recordings back to our home in Switzerland, great heavy 78's not designated as such for there were no others. Scratchy, even when new, played on a tinny wind-up gramophone with the HMV doggy logo on the lid.

Drei Groschen Oper, then Mahagonny, inculcating my life long passion for Kurt Weill.

I met the great man, just once. In the presence of genius I always feel utterly lightweight. He seemed so cerebral. He was very courteous, but somehow preoccupied. He gazed at me politely through thick glasses, excused himself and hurried away. A business appointment. Street Scene had just gone into rehearsal. That was, of course, many years later, in New York City. He was reclusive, spent most of his time sequestered on the other hand, in Rockland County with his piano. Lenya was highly gregarious.

I studied the program, an impressive roster. Broadway performers, singers from the Metropolitan Opera production of Mahagonny, directors, producers.

Alexander Cohen greeted us from the stage. A memorial service, he said -- but also a tribute, a celebration. Therefore, please, no sober restraints. If anything delighted or moved us, we shouldn't hesitate to respond. Lenya loved applause.

I remembered another full house, the welcoming ovation that rocked Carnegie Hall. "I felt waves of love," she said in her dressing room afterwards.

Jerry Orbach started off with Threepenny Opera's opening number and leitmotif, *Mack the Knife*. Die Moritat, Macky Messer. In either language, Kurt Weill's most compelling song. I've often tried to analyze its particular quality. Monotonous, it goes on and on, repeats itself. Yet always comes up new, and shivers every cartilage in my spine.

Weill died very suddenly of a heart attack in 1950.
In Lenya's own words, she felt as if her entire life had fallen
into the bottom of the sea. A friend helped her salvage it.
George Davis, a raffish, difficult man. He had written a novel
in his early twenties, a best seller, a sensational success.
He was never able to do it again. So he became an editor,
critic, and teacher. He cultivated Carson McCullers, put her
early work on track. As the fiction editor of Mademoiselle,
he bought Truman Capote's first story. He ran a successful
workshop at Columbia University. But he never wrote that
second new book. He was embittered. When he married Lenya
he underwent a complete personality change, the sharp tongue
permanently muted. She had lost confidence in her talents
as a performer, show business was something she could take or
leave. She was content with her role of Rockland County
housewife. George didn't fully accept the status quo.
"You shouldn't be ironing my shirts," he said one day.
"You have more important things to do."

Threepenny Opera in concert form, then a full production
at the Theatre de Lys. A rousing come-back, rave reviews,
sold out houses. Mack the Knife hit the charts.

We were invited to lunch with our two small sons,
Val and Nicholas. City kids. "May we take off our shoes and
socks and run in the wet grass?" they asked politely. Permission
granted. We adults took our drinks inside, to Kurt's workroom.

His presence was awesome. Bound scores, posters of all his
shows, his piano. George and Lenya talked as if he were right
there. "We think.... we feel.... we have serious decisions to
make.... in our experience we have found....." A menage a trois.
Weird.

On stage, Tammy Grimes sang "It never was you."

One of the Mahagonny girls announced <u>Surabaya Johnny</u>.
A great euphoric sigh went up, and there a big round of applause.
She apologized for only having an operatic voice. "Ach Johnny
Johnny, ich liebe dich so." A glorious aria.

Reminiscences, more songs. Not <u>Moon of Alabama</u>,
alas, nor <u>September Song</u>. Couldn't have everything, and I
had my albums at home.

I thought of Maxwell Anderson's prophetic eulogy:
"In the years ahead many thousands of young men and women,
as yet unborn, will come to love the work of Kurt Weill."

Our own children were in on the earliest wave of his
immortality. They always clamored for Threepenny Opera first
thing in the morning, whereupon they stopped fighting and ate
their cornflakes.

A couple of decades later I noted the preponderance
of young people attending a series of Weill concerts at London's
Royal Festive Hall. Posthumous admirers, out in force.

5

In our house Lenya was known as the German lady. She related well to children, adults too, on all levels. She was fun, and funny, down to earth, totally without side.

"Ach the nonsense you carry around in your Dummkopf!"

I'd expressed some reticence about approaching her. She was by then a star, a celebrity. You can't bother people like that. The

When she returned from filming *Roman Spring of Mrs Stone*, I asked her what it was like, working with Vivien Leigh. She considered awhile.

"That dear Vivien, a troubled life. Also, a woman was once very beautiful, and time goes on, that it sad -- I suppose." And she laughed merrily. "Then of course I never had that problem."

She was beautiful, though. She had radiance. And style. She could look truly horrendous when the script called for it. The Lesbian chambermaid with her stiletto in *Russia with Love*. The lethal glint in her eye when she sang *Pirate Jenny*. The cover of her Berlin album -- greenish complexion, hair twisted into a harsh top knot, fingers like snakes. Marvellous.

I remembered a tiny incandescent figure way off in the vastness of the Lewisohn stadium, and the whole audience, including a hitherto icily composed Marlene Dietrich surging towards the platform. We cheered and carried on, wouldn't let her go.

"I was doing it for George," she said. afterwards.

George had died of heart failure in Berlin where they had gone to record *Mahagonny*.

Work was therapy, her career really peaked. Concerts, recordings, television appearances. *Seven Deadly Sins* at the City Centre; a West Coast production of *Threepenny Opera*; Brecht *on Brecht* at the Theatre de Lys, followed by a national tour; *Cabaret* on Broadway.

She married Russell Detwiler, an artist, younger by 30 years.

She got married again, to Russell Detwiler, an artist younger by 30 years. Handsome, personable, but seldom on the social scene. He preferred to stay home, painting. I never really knew him. He became ill, and died.

She more or less gave up on performing, and devoted herself to the endless ramifications of the Weill Estate which often took her abroad. She also found herself much in demand on college campuses, directing workshops, talking to the kids, a refreshing sideline. She thoroughly enjoyed working with young people.

Then one night, sitting behind xxx her at Lincoln Centre I thought she looked frail. The concert was in honor of her birthday. Lesser known Weill, totally unknown to me -- bongs, crashes and clashes, portentous silences, atonal squzzles, She received a standing ovation as she stepped up on the podium. The conductor brought out a giant cake with one candle on it. Seventy-nine too few, she quipped. I had no idea. She was, to my mind, ageless. But then I encountered her the next week, at a ghastly multi-media bash. Strobe lights, paparazzi, over-amplified music. She was standing by a giant column of luridly colored coiled rope -- appalled, but not a bit frail. "Ach darling why do we engage ourselves in these social engagements. Complete Unsinn, a craziness. There must be somewhere we can hear ourselves think."

There wasn't. Pontaguchi
She looked somewhat, in a swirling red dress. Red was her favorite
color, she wore it a lot.

We must get together, we were always exclaiming, and it
was the hardest thing to bring about. Life kept intervening, rushing
us off in opposite directions. I would see her on the street, clad in
old slacks, carrying groceries -- just like anybody else. At the
post office, "oh darling, how I hate Christmas." And at the Metropolitan
Opera, quite unlike anybody else, her face beige spangled with silver.
The premiere of Mahagonny, Channel 13 all over the place, and she was
to appear on camera at intermission.

October 18

I always remembered her birthday, and sent her a card with
an update of family news. Flowers, when I could ascertain where
she was. That seemed to mean a lot to her, for she always replied
at length. Just like me, she preferred correspondence to the
ubiquitous telephone.

Then one year we were far into November, and no response.
Off somewhere, no doubt -- at UCLA, or conferring with the Berliner
Ensemble on its own turf. I was about to fly to England.

A mutual friend came to lunch, the day of my departure.
He was going to call on her, later in the afternoon. She'd been
in hospital, discharged because nothing more could be done. Was
back in her apartment, nurses around the clock.

"Please send her my love," was all I could say.

I sent her a note from London, which she may or may
not have read.

8

Kinetic Joel Grey clowned and sang *Willkommen* from *Cabaret* as the finale to our celebration.

There was a reception afterwards, cast and audience jammed into the tiny upstairs bar.

"An Unsinn, a complete craziness," I could hear that voice.
"Any minute this whole Balkon will crack and go crashing down."

My companion had already retreated to the lobby. We walked down Christopher Street into the balmy Indian summer night, our thoughts high on memories and melodies.

I read her obituary in the London Times. The photograph showed her wearing a red turtle neck sweater. I just knew it was red, it had to be. And she was laughing.

Surabaya, Lenya.

My mother, Hilda Doolittle, H D, has been rediscovered and celebrated in recent years. Scholars, feminists, aspiring poets -- they all identify with her, acclaim her voice as their own. They lecture, sit on panels, write theses and biographies, xxx evolve complex theories about her life and work. And they turn up to pick my brains.

"How do you know D H Lawrence wasn't your father?"

"Oh please," I reply flippantly, "don't I have enough trouble."

No, not those genes. Others, yes, just as unfathomable. He was, nevertheless, a kind of amitie amoureuse -- totally cerebral, however. It was even said he was impotent at the time, be that as it may. 1918 the last year The time: World War I. The place London. Bloomsbury, the other Bloomsbury as it has come to be called, contiguous to Virginia Woolf's circle, not part of it. Two leading figures, Ezra Pound and Amy Lowell had long since returned to America. The group now consisted of H D and her husband Richard Aldington, also a poet; D H Lawrence and Frieda; and numerous acolytes, mostly female -- men were off at the war -- starry eyed young women, xxx wildly unconventional by the standards of the day. Two of them attached themselves to Richard Aldington. Dorothy Yorke a.k.a. Arabella and Bridget Patmore. He, too, was in the army. He came home on leave and installed first one, then the other as mistresses; right in the home. One domestic crisis after another. My mother still had her passion for D H Lawrence, xxx which went no further than conversation and letter writing. He brought in a new man, however, a composer and music critic, Cecil Gray, who became greatly smitten with her.

The Lawrences left town in the early summer, found a <u>HOUSE</u> retreat
in Cornwall, and urged Cecil and my mother to do the same.

"Toss aside your unhappy house of cards" Good advice, fair enough.

~~UNTIL EVILTEA~~
~~THEXXXX~~
~~WHERE~~

Neighbours for a while, ~~THE~~ X~~THE~~ X~~WHERE~~ XXX~~X~~

Frieda

had an unfortunate ~~habit~~ of singing German lieders from the rocks.

Military authorities suspected her of signalling ~~to Submarines.~~

~~She and her husband were evicted from the area.~~

My mother and Cecil stayed on

I was born the following March.

One day that summer my mother received a note from a
who signed herself
stranger. A young woman ~~EXITED~~ Bryher. An ardent fan letter.
She had read and loved every line of H D's poetry, had heard that
she was in Cornwall. She, Bryher, was visiting friends in Penzance,
could she possibly come to call? Very shy, tentative, almost scared.

She came to tea.

"Just supposing I'd never answered that note,"
my mother often said in years I'll to come.

Cornwall, the toe of the long leg bordering the English
channel, a country of its own. Jagged coastline, cerulean seas,
scrubby moors. We might be in Greece, Way out there and even
further out and beyond, the Isles of Scilly. A hundred of them,
counting rocks, bird sanctuaries, seal colonies. Only two of
them qualify as tourist resorts. Tresco with its pricey hotel
and tropical gardens; and St Mary's, the official centre -- port
and airport, banks, offices, bed and breakfast establishments
and a number of hotels. Other islands -- St Martin's, Samson,
St Agnes, Bryher -- are minimally developed, inhabited by fishermen
and eccentric hermits. Bishop Lighthouse, first landfall on European
landfall, looms from a foam lashed rock base. It used to be manned
in fortnightly shifts, a stark isolated assignment drawing hardship
pay. Now it runs on computers. The Gulf Stream creates a benign
climate, early in January the daffodils are already up and promptly
and shiped out
nipped in bud to supply florists. Vegetables flourish too, another
major industry, along with fish. Excursion boats zigzag between
the islands and out to the open sea, bird watching, chugging among
unperturbed seal families.

boarded

I took one of those boats last year, Excursion to Bryher.
The bow scrunched into the sand, the passengers took a high jump.
I was back on Bryher where I hadn't set foot for twenty years.
The last time was with Bryher and her friends Doris and Ethel.
Bryher, my second mother. She took her name from the island.
Her writing name, and first name to all, also last name -- Annie
Winifred Bryher on legal documents.

The Scillies represented freedom, they had liberated her as a young girl. Annie Winifred Ellerman she was then, the daughter of a wealthy shipping tycoon. Her parents were very possessive, sheltering and smothering her with Victorian prohibitions. They obsessed over proprieties -- hats and gloves on the street, full evening dress at dinner. They waxed phobic over germs, liver complaints and all other ails. When she was fifteen a baby brother was born. She was pushed out of sight to a conventional boarding school. A total misfit exposed to a new kind of misery. Nonetheless she made friends -- she had never known anyone of her own age. She found two kindred spirits, early on, Doris and Ethel, sisters from Cornwall. Their father operated the *Lyonesse*, the small ferry boat between Penzance and St. Mary's.

"What a coincidence," she exclaimed, "my father is a ship owner too."

Doris and Ethel adopted her, abducted and absorbed her into their family lives. She spent summer vacations with them, in Penzance -- and over to the Scillies, A new start, a revelation. Running barefoot on the sands, climbing rocks, fishing, shrimping. No stuffy rules, health hazards limited to seasickness on the *Lyonesse*.

They returned regularly throughout their lives, bringing children, grandchildren too, all imbued with their love of the islands. Appropriately enough, Doris' daughter Dean accompanied me on my recent quest, my pilgrimage to Bryher.

A small island, yet the most varied of the lot. Wide open, pastoral at the centre -- sheep, a lake, and myriads of flowers. Rugged around the edges. At its highest point the cliff path affords a dramatic view of the Bishop Lighthouse. Narrow lanes with high hedges lead up and down and all around, crisscrossing, winding back on each other. A rambling island, you can ramble forever, a new discovery at every turn.

Back on the mainland we drove around. Penzance and Mousehold, the artists' colony, pronounced Muzzle. And over to the North Coast to Tintagel, St Ives. And Zennor...

"There, that's the house." Bryher had pointed it out to me many years ago. An ordinary grey stone farmhouse off on the moors, not particularly memorable, but significant for that is where it all began. I tried to find it again now. There were several. Could have been this one, or that. Another house within walking distance, how long a walk? I had no recollection.

My mother H D has been rediscovered. Scholars, feminists, aspiring poets, they identify with her and acclaim her voice as their own. They lecture, sit on panels, write theses and biographies, and evolve complex theories about her life and work. And they pick my brains.

Rather flip, I reply "oh please, don't I have enough trouble."
No, not those genes. Others, yes, just as unfathomable. He was
nonetheless instrumental.

They were close friends, more than friends -- amitie
amoureuse -- totally cerebral however. It was even said he

impotent at the time, be that as it may. The time: 1918, the last year of World War I. The place, London. Bloomsbury -- the other Bloomsbury it came to be called, contiguous to Virginia Woolf's circle but not part of it. Two leading figures Ezra Pound and Amy Lowell had long since returned to America. The group now consisted of H D and her husband Richard Aldington, D H Lawrence female and Frieda, and numerous/acolytes, starry eyed young women wildly unconventional by the standards of the day. Two of them attached themselves to Richard Aldington, Dorothy Yorke a.k.a Arabella and Bridget Patmore. On leave from the Army he installed first one, then the other, in the home. My mother still had her passion for D H Lawrence which went no further than conversation and endless correspondence. He brought in a new man, however, Cecil Gray, a composer and music critic who became greaty smitten with her.

The Lawrences left town in early summer, found a retreat in Cornwall, and urged my mother and Cecil to do the same. aside "Throw away your unhappy house of life," he wrote. Good advice, fair enough under the circumstances.

They were neighbors for a while, then the Lawrences were evicted. Frieda had an unfortunate way of singing German lied by the rocks. Military authorities suspected her of signalling to enemy submarines.

My mother and Cecil stayed on.

A letter arrived one July day of that summer, from a stranger a young woman who signed herself Bryher. She had read and loved every line of H D's poetry, it had changed her life. She was visiting friends in Penzance, had heard that H D was living nearby, could she possibly come to call. She didn't want to be a nuisance, but it would mean so much to her. Shy, tentative, almost scared.

H D wrote back and invited her to tea.

"Just supposing I'd never answered that note," she often said in years to come.

Per

THE MOON IN YOUR HANDS

If you take the moon in your hands
and turn it around
(heavy, slightly tarnished platter)
you're there

if you pull dry sea-weed from the sand
and turn it around
and wonder at the underside's bright amber
your eyes

look out as they did here
(you don't remember)
when my soul turned around
perceiving the other-side of everything
mullein leaf, dogwood leaf, moth-wing
and dandelion seed under the ground

NEVER MORE WILL THE WIND

Never more will the wind
cherish you again

never more will the rain

Never more

shall we find you bright
in the snow and wind

The snow is melted
the snow is gone

and you are flown:

Like a bird out of our hand,
like a light out of our heart,
you are gone.

He fell in love with Hannah Glover, a farm hand or a barmaid --
maybe both -- in Yorkshire, his original provenance, brought her
to Eastbourne on the South Coast, commuted to London every day.
He didn't marry her.

Dolly -- unfortunate misnomer which she never outgrew --
q̧a was born.

People contracted liaisons, even in those moralistic times.
Underground, out in the open. Common Law marriages. Hannah --
~~Annie & Annie~~ -- and ~~Xanadu~~ young John Ellerman ~~together~~ and their
small daughter together forever. Mr and Mrs Ellerman to the
world, no one challenged the status quo. He granted the child
his name. Annie Winifred Ellerman. Born out of wedlock, she
was still illegitimate. Only ~~the public records office~~
the public records office
Somerset House knew the difference.

There may have been a Mr. Glover, which would explain a lot.
Nobody knows.

Dolly was their darling and their pet. They never let her
out of sight. She accompanied them on their travels. Her
earliest memories are of riding camels ~~AMONG~~ past the Pyramids,
blucking edelweiss ~~IN~~ Swiss ~~CRAVICS~~ slopes. Long train rides through
France, Italy. She was too precious, too special, to ~~BE~~ attend
school. ~~SO~~ the ~~KING~~ governesses came and went.

Ellerman's fortunes grew. His values changed. He longed
for respectability, the snobbish kind. He purchased a
baronetcy. And he began to cast around for a wife suitable
to his position. Faithful devoted Annie was not to the manor
born. She dropped her H's now and then, her grammar was
often dubious.

Then the bombshell, it served him right. Annie came up
pregnant. Supposing it were a boy, heir to the title. He
must be legitimate. If Sir John married Annie, bans would be
with
posted, Publicity sleuths fast on the trail,
exposing Dolly's status. Scandal. His new station in society,
his career, the title all in jeopardy.

They eloped to Scotland like runaway teenagers, taking
Dolly along. She didn't have a clue. She knew vagely about
the baby, but was astonishingly uninformed and naive; anyway
people didn't discuss these things. She sat around in a
bleak boarding house while Mama and Dada stepped out on
unspecified business.

Mid December. The future Sir John was born on the 21st.
Why weren't all those vexing predicaments settled a bit sooner?
Maybe the hypothetical Mr Glover had to be accomodated.

Part of the family history has been pieced together.
a gradual skimpy process. Mystery domain
later

Forty years later, after Bryher's lawyer found
a couple of new leading clues.

Bryher's new lawyer ferreted out some vital information.

"Well," she said, forty years after the fact, "I always
wondered why we all had to go to Scotland in December."

MARKOWITZ, PREISCHE AND STEVENS, P.C.

CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANTS

IRVING MARKOWITZ, CPA (RETIRED)
WALTER A. PREISCHE, JR., CPA
DALE E. STEVENS, CPA
ROBERT E. WHITE, CPA

MEMBERS OF:
NEW YORK STATE SOCIETY OF
CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANTS
AMERICAN INSTITUTE OF
CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANTS

Board of Directors
Poets & Writers, Inc.
Room 301
72 Spring Street
New York, NY 10012

September 16, 1992

30 PARK PLACE
EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK
516-324-2044

SOUTHAMPTON, NEW YORK
283-4955

SOUTHOLD, NEW YORK
765-1515

We have audited the accompanying balance sheets of Poets & Writers, Inc. (a nonprofit organization) as of June 30, 1992 and 1991, and the related statements of revenues and expenditures, statement of changes in fund balances, and cash flows for the years then ended. These financial statements are the responsibility of Poets and Writers, Inc. management. Our responsibility is to express an opinion on these financial statements based on our audits.

We conducted our audits in accordance with generally accepted auditing standards. Those standards require that we plan and perform the audit to obtain reasonable assurance about whether the financial statements are free of material misstatement. An audit includes examining, on a test basis, evidence supporting the amounts and disclosures in the financial statements. An audit also includes assessing the accounting principles used and significant estimates made by management, as well as evaluating the overall financial statement presentation. We believe that our audits provide a reasonable basis for our opinion.

In our opinion, the financial statements referred to above present fairly, in all material respects, the financial position of Poets & Writers, Inc. as of June 30, 1992 and 1991, and the results of its operations and its cash flows for the years then ended in conformity with generally accepted accounting principles.

Markowitz, Preische und Stevens, P.C.
Certified Public Accountants

their

The mothers were expanding horizons. There's a photograph of H D in austere costume and shady hat, camels in the background, striding through a tomb -- King Tut's? A faded annotation just says EGYPT ×××× 1923. An envelope marked Greece: skewed fuzzy snapshots of columns, everything very grey, no personalities in sight. Corfu: a hotel similar to those in Territet, surrounded by cypresses. Bland photographic impressions, no inkling of their reactions, states of mind. Those later. They thought of themselves as seasoned travellers, well informed, esoteric in taste. They were, in fact, overwrought, highly strung, over-receptive to the point of sensing the occult at every turn. Their later reminiscences tell of weird appearances and disappearances. reincarnations, premonitions.

Then off to the contemporary scene, Paris, Bob McAlmon's NEW YORK TIMES best-selling literary circle. And over to London, taking him on his mandatory appearances dancing attendance on Family, the demanding anomalous family that kept her so guilt ridden. H D went her own way at these times, rented a service flat, saw her own friends, roamed through museums. and parks.

The marriage bargain had achieved its objective, insofar as Bob was concerned. He established himself on the Left Bank, presented his letters of introduction to James Joyce, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein.

the Scott Fitzgeralds, Djuna Barnes, Sylvia Beach. They all took him up and around, he soon knew everybody. He wrote several short stories, started a novel, but had yet to find his true focus. He was highly adept at shaping other people's work -- editor, catalyst, drinking buddy, at the centre of it all, leading life to the full.

Bryher passed through periodically to collect him for the mandatory visits to London, and Family. As in Greenwich Village, she felt ill at ease. She was at last meeting writers whose work she admired but she couldn't connect. The parties, the free wheeling conversation -- and the drinking. It all met with her disapproval and it showed; she froze. She warmed up gradually, intimate settings suited her better, two, three people at a time. Bob took her to the Rue de L'Odeon to meet Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier. Adrienne had her own bookstore opposite Shakespeare & Co, Les Amis des Livres. The three of them struck up an instant, life long friendship. Bryher was also taken to call on Gertrude Stein. She was cowed by the presence, happy to be relegated to Alice's end of the room with the wives of geniuses. Eventually she and Gertrude established a fine rapport.

South Audley Street became an increasingly grim place to visit.
Sir John's failing health and the Depression excarbated eachother.
Ships were sold, others laid off to idle in backwaters.
Each day brought another grave financial reverse, a million 1st --
yet wasn't he fortunate to have had it in the fist place and to
wield a mighty reserve. For the most part the ships kept on going
around the world, providing jobs for thousands. He didn't see it
that way.

There was no cutting down on household expenses however.
increased her purchases.

In fact Lady Ellerman

More hats and handbags, exotic fruits, costly flowers. Trade was
essential to the shop keepers. The domestic staff remained in
full force -- not one of those faithful people to be cast into
the harsh new world of unemployment lines. Bryher, in her resistance
to Fascism, had become increasingly Communistic, Lef Wing she
called it. Her views rubbed off on me. Dismantle the preposterous
mansion, turn it into a soup kitchen; sell the Rolls Roycem travel
by bus and tube.

We all, in diverging ways, acknowledged the gravity of
the situation. Arguments went round and round.
We dispersed once more.

The parents departed on their annual holiday in Dieppe,
There
stately resort and spa centre. Sir John had his fatal stroke.

His body was shipped home, we all rushed back to South Audley Stl
for the funeral, as I have already recounted in an earlier section.

Obviously, things would never be the same again,

Bryher was stoical, her mother helpless and hysterical.

Brother John, the new Sir John, reeled under the shock of
inheritance -- I don't remember just how many millions --

and the daunting position he never aspired to -- head of the Ellerman lines. He also had a personal problem. He planned to get married, considered himself engaged to Esther de Sola, sister of a school friend, Gabriel; they had known each other for a long time. Sir John wanted -- ordered him, in fact -- to wait for at least two years, to establish himself more fully in business, and possibly meet more suitable girls. Not that Esther was beneath him by any means. The De Solas; a highly Sephardic family. distinguished, a family of the first rank. The dynasty had originated in Portugal, was now spread over the world. Sir John disapproved of mixed marriages. Wait and see, however, wait, wait, wait. Young John was fed up with edicts and restrictions. He had a headstrong temperament. Esther was his choice, he wished to start a new life without delay.

"If only he would find a nice sweet English girl his mother kept reiterating."

Now that the patriarch had died John could do exactly as he pleased. So he felt. The grieving and general turmoil had not yet subsided when he announced that he would marry Esther within the next few weeks. He hadn't reckoned with the emotional impact on the rest of the family. Admittedly, the timing was wrong. A full blown Row exploded around the dining room table. Paton and the footmen withdrew tactfully, John shouted at his mother and sister. For once, Bryher was on her mother's side; she shouted back. Lady Ellerman sobbed hopelessly. John leapt to his feet "I'm fed up with the whole bloody lot of you!" He threw a chair at Bryher and stamped out. leaving the house for good.

Bryher never spoke to him again.

He married Esther even sooner than announced, in a Registry
contrived
office, almost anonymously -- Fleet Street sleuths ~~MARGINAL~~ to
gather for the scoop. Some of her relatives were present, his
of course not.

Eventually feelers were put out, and they came to dinner,
the only time they ever entered the house. I was staying there,
sent out for the evening. Lady Ellerman didn't tell me how it
went, I didn't dare ask. She would have burst into tears,
she lived awfully close to the flood.

I never saw either of them except cursorily, formally,
his mother's funeral
at ~~MARGINAL~~ Ellerman's funeral. Six years had passed, they probably
had no idea who I was.

The Dowager Lady Ellerman as she hated to be called --
promoted or ousted by her daughter in law -- died on September
16 1939. Her age was a secret. I remember her increasingly
frail under her bulk, tired, discouraged. "I can't go on much
longer." The outbreak of war delivered the ultimate blow.

John was, willy-nilly, the chief executive and owner
of the business. Temporarily, he assumed, for he was of military
age. He volunteered for the Royal Navy, was turned down.
"Go back and run your own ships."

And so he did, and to his surprise, very ably. The
ships were all out at sea, ferrying troops and supplies.
The ~~MARGINAL~~ office was evacuated to a large country house. The
staff worked in an easy state of camaraderie. Parental pressure
was no more. Everything had changed. John still wanted to
join the Navy. He was turned down again. And again, twice more.

When the war ended he delegated the whole works to colleagues, and went to South Africa where he and Esther lived simply and contentedly. He took up his thwarted vocation, zoology. He applied himself to an extensive study of rats and compiled an encyclopaedia of rats, a definitive work. Farmers came by to consult him.

He travelled to London every year. The feud with Bryher continued -- I should say *Her* feud, she was adamanet. "I Miss my sister" he was heard to say. She finally relented, agreed before it could take place to a tentative meeting, He died of a heart attack at the heart attack at the Dorchester hotel. disagreements

Never, never let *Her* fester for forty years..... talk it all out, thrash it out, patch it up.

The Dowager had a difficult time adapting to widowhood, *as* consumed by self pity she made it even harder. She could, in due course, found release, freedom from constant domination, She didn't know where to turn, what to do. *As* Everything continued as before -- the fully staffed house, shopping, runs in the car, dress codes. Bryher felt obliged to spend more time with her; it didn't run smoothly. She dragged me in as a buffer.

["not to tell her we were coming.", "The season of Elisabeth. With all the applause and\nacclaim, packed houses, pulicity -- speculative ✶, she never\nfill\ngave interviews -- we seemed to ✶ a private need. She\ndidn't have to answer probing questions or put on any kind of\nBumsi at her\nan act. Curled up, lost in a big armchair, wide eyed, with\n♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣♣

those
The first wave of exiles hit our shores, those fortunate,
energetic and prescient enough to see the future Hitler
threatened. Intellectuals for the most part -- psychoanalysts
writers, film makers, Bryher's old friends. They all wanted to
see her, she invited them to tea, strained little levees, the
guests ill at ease on the gilt chairs. There was also a
communication

"Perfectly nice people, Dolly, I dazesay, but from one world
and I'm completely in another."

That just about summed it up, but Bryher assured her that she
would enjoy Elisabeth.

Die Bergner had arrived some months ahead of the new wave,
and contacted Bryher in a series of brief notes. They must
meet again, they would, but her life not her own -- consumed
by the Studio, Catherine the Great -- not to be confused with
Marlene Dietrich's Hollywood film.

Finished at last, and a hiatus before rehearsals for a dreaded
London stage debut, *Escape me Never* by Margaret Kennedy, author
of *The Constant Nymph*.

Rather a silly contrived play based on mixups and misunderstandings. Two thirds light picaresque comedy, moving from Venice to Bolzano in the Dolomites. Act III the depths of tragedy in a London garret. Two brothers, ✿ good worthy Caryl and unscrupulous ✿ but fascinating Sebastian, a composer. ✿ Gemma Jones, wild lost waif. ✿ also ✿ mother of a baby whose father she couldn't recall.

TINY ACTRESS TAKES AUDIENCE BY STORM.

Eight curtain calls, cheers, tears, everyone wrung out by the pathos of the last act. Sebastian off with rich friends ✿ at the opening night of his new ballet leaving Gemma in the garret with a sick baby. who dies in her arms. She then wanders the ✿ rainy streets, talks to strangers ✿ at an all night fish and chips stand. "Does your husband know?" "Well." she shrugs, "it wasn't his." Sebastian returns to the garret, equally dejected. The ballet was a flop, everything is as bad as can be, no money, tomorrow he will look for no future. Then a sudden upturn, ✿ ✿ ✿ a real job there will ✿ be another baby, maybe several. "Oh Sebastian, a real family man." They end up laughing and crying in eachother's arms.

Every single review a rave.

Magical Bergner, die Kleine, greatest actress of the generation., Talk and toast of the town. Long lines at the box office.

How did she react? She took to her bed, stayed there all day, conserving every ounce of energy for her performance. She didn't trust her success, it might go

* Mr. Davis asked if the Board would consider inviting artists, such as Terrence McNally, to join the Board.

* Ms. Daniel said that it would be a grave mistake to do that as Bay Street's Board has fiduciary control, it would be unwise to allow the Board to make artistic decisions, which would occur if artists were made Trustees. She felt very strongly that artists were only invited to join the Advisory Committee.

* Mrs. Rose mentioned Laurel Cutler - Ms. Chew noted that she is getting more involved and is currently contributing at the Supporter level as well as attending all the productions and special events.

## V. Artistic Directors Report

* Ms. Christopher reported that Alec Baldwin will be unable to do *By The Sea* due to his filming schedule. The theatre has not formally announced this, but wanted to tell the Board members first. She is not devastated, but has learnt never to announce an actor's name in the brochure again.

* Mr. Pincus wanted to know how we would handle the public relations problem, knowing that many constituents had bought tickets on the strength of Mr. Baldwin's name. Although we should not make a big deal out of this, we should know exactly what to say.

* Mr. Hamilton noted that we were putting in the *By The Sea* contract that Bay Street would have first refusal if the play moves to an off-Broadway house.

* Ms. Christopher said that casting auditions for *A Life In The Theatre* were taking place later that day.

* Ms. Davis noted that the production team for *Splendora* was now in place including Jack Hoffsis: Director, William Ivey Long; Costume Designer, Richard Nelson: Lighting Designer

* Bay Street is still in dialogue with the York Theatre, Mr. Montgomery's office is assisting us with that. There are some glitches: Janet Hayes-Walker has been sick which has held up negotiations, and there is the logistical problem of the York's equity contract being different from Bay Street's. They cannot afford a LORT D contract, and so any working relationship would have to be informal one, but that could jeopardize sharing the production funds.

* Bay Street is also looking into renting a New York theatre space, and producing *Splendora* in New York without the assistance of another theatre.

* Mr. Pincus requested that because of the success of the Board
Challenge Campaign to date, the amount of the total campaign
should be raised from $200,000 to $350,000. A match of 1:1.
It was unanimously agreed to increase the goal to $350,000.

* Mrs. Cullman noted that she is sure the Evan Frankel Foundation
will give $25,000 which will be part of the Match.

* Mrs. Rose asked about the progress of the Steinberg Foundation
proposal, and for Mr. Hamilton to keep her informed.

* Mrs. Rose said that she would co-ordinate a luncheon for
herself, Mrs. Cullman and Mr. Pincus with Bob Menschel.

* A group discussion about the ideal size of the Board of Trustees
ensued with the consensus being that 20 would be an ideal number,
but that it should build slowly with only people who have the
right spirit being invited to join the existing group.

* Mrs. Rose advised the executive staff to keep an eye on the
audiences this summer - she is always amazed at who is there!

* Ms. Daniel mentioned that she is cultivating a new prospect -
Steve Kossak - a curator from the Met. He has just bought a
house in Sag Harbor and is very committed to the area.

* Murphy Davis noted that he and Ms. Christopher are to have lunch
with Jay & Gail Furman. Ms. Chew noted that they are now patrons
of the theatre as are Frieda and Roy Furman. Mrs. Rose noted
that Roy Furman is the head of the Film Festival.

* Ms. Walton mentioned Laura Baudo Sillerman as a prospect, but it
was the general concensus that until Bay Street's relationship
with Southampton College is a known entity, it would be a
conflict of interest for her, and could lead to complications.

* Mr. Hamilton went on to tell the Board about Ms. Walton's
upcoming directing project at Guild Hall, and that it was the
beginning of what he hoped would be a mutually beneficial
relationship.

* Mrs. Rose was most concerned to hear about this. She feels that
Guild Hall has very different views about theatre than Bay
Street, and she was adamant that Guild Hall not be allowed to
make any of the artistic decisions with joint productions,
although she did approve of using the space for revivals to take
advantage of the proscenium stage.

* Mr. Kline interjected, and said that it was becoming apparent
that Bay Street needs to draw up a 3-5 year programmatic and
financial plan. It was decided that a meeting should take place
in the summer to discuss that specific project.

Minutes Board Meeting for Bay Street Theatre

Date: May 8th, 1995

Time: 10:00am

Place: Offices of E.M. Warburg, Pincus & Co. New York City

Attendees: Sybil Christopher, Joan Cullman, Ana Daniel, Murphy Davis, Stephen Hamilton, Robert Montgomery, Lionel Pincus, Joanna Rose, Emma Walton.

Perdita Schaffner joined the meeting after her official election to the Board of Trustees.

Adrianne Cohen, John Jordan, Patrick Malloy, Martin Richards, John Scanlon, Elaine Steinbeck, were unable to attend.

Norman Kline was an invited guest.

Lynnette Chew took the minutes.

## Agenda:

I. Approval of minutes from last meeting and election of new Board Members.

II. Chairman's Report.

III. General Manager's Report.

IV. Executive Director's Report.

V. Artistic Directors Report.

VI. Development Director's Report.

## I. Election of New Board Members & Minutes Approval

* Ana Daniel asked for a motion to approve the minutes from the previous Board Meeting. The motion was passed unanimously.

* Ms. Daniel asked for a motion to approve the election of Perdita Schaffner to the Bay Street Board of Trustees. Lionel Pincus approved the motion, Robert Montgomery seconded it. The motion was carried unanimously.

* Ms. Daniel then asked for a motion to approve the election of Patrick E. Malloy III to the Bay Street Board of Trustees. Mr. Pincus approved the motion, Mr. Montgomery seconded it. The motion was carried unanimously.

* Stephen Hamilton commented on the recent meeting he and Elaine Steinbeck had with Jo Sullivan Loesser. She is considering their proposal to join the Board of Trustees, but did not want to commit immediately.

## II. Chairman's Report

* Ms. Daniel noted that the next Board meeting will be on Monday, August 7th in the Hamptons. The location will be determined at a later date.

* She reported that we are ahead in numbers from the original predictions at the beginning of the fiscal year, and that Norman Kline would comment further on this.

## III. General Manager's Report.

* Mr. Kline reported that the three month financials are encouraging, and that after three months, there is a $81,000 year to date surplus.

* Because of this the accounts payable and income tax debt have been substantially reduced. Bay Street now owes approximately $25,000 to the Federal Government, and is in the process of negotiating the penalty. Accounts payable are now down to $100,000.

* Kline pointed out healthy box office receipts, which he attributed in part to an earlier and targeted mailing and a more visually attractive brochure.

* Mr. Pincus noted that although this was very encouraging, it does not change the bottom line of the budget and the organization's fundraising goals.

* Mr. Kline acknowledged that a strong box office in the Spring, gives us an earlier cushion, but that it must be spread out through Labor Day.

* We still have a bank loan of $55,000, and we would like to pay the principle down while we have healthy cash flow.

* We owe the Not-For-Profit Facilities loan $10,000 which is being paid back at $1,000 per month to which Mr. Pincus replied that doing this will help Bay Street's future credit record.

## IV. Executive Director's Report.

* Mr. Hamilton noted that Patrick Malloy had hoped to be at the meeting, but pressing business in Sag Harbor prevented his attendance. But he had set up a meeting with Mr. Malloy for Tuesday, May 16th.

* Mr. Hamilton went on to report John Jordan's 1995 gifts: His home in Vail for a week for the July Benefit auction as well as $30,000 toward the Board Challenge.

Zeppelins and distant sporadic air raids notwithstanding, the war did not affect daily life in the Ellerman home. Routines, rules and rituals were maintained as usual. Bryher's friends were all out doing their bit in canteens, various ministeries. Ethel was a nurse in Salonika. Doris remained in Penzance, helping her father run his tiny shipping business. It would have been an ideal time for Bryher to step into her father's office, short handed with all the young men gone. Dada still would not countenance that, and Mama needed her at home. Musk Marking time, and how it dragged. It seemed the war would never end. If and when it did, then what? She had already decided. She would be a writer. Even now, she could prepare herself. She cultivated her inner resources whenever she could. She stole time from Mam's demands, and built up a life long habit of seizing the moment with total concentration.

Her poetry was considerably influenced by the mysterious American, H.D. She started a novel, very autobiographical, sparing nobody. The protagonist, was misunderstood and misused. Clement Shorter provided constant encouragement. A widower, edger to remarry, they discussed knd matter. Bryher proclaimed that Some years marriage was another form of bondage, not for her, ever. He later married his friend Doris, and fathered Dean, my friend and Scilly islands travelling companion.

He discovered, through his literary connections, that H D was in Cornwall, not far from Penzance. He even had her address. Bryher was about to visit Doris. He suggested that Bryher write to her admired poet, maybe pay a call.

She composed her note, and to her surprise, received a reply inviting her to tea. She set off across the moors.

1

Department of the Treasury
Internal Revenue Service

1992

# Partner's Instructions for Schedule K-1 (Form 1065)

## Partner's Share of Income, Credits, Deductions, Etc.
(For Partner's Use Only)

(Section references are to the Internal Revenue Code unless otherwise noted.)

## General Instructions

### Purpose of Schedule K-1

The partnership uses Schedule K-1 to report your share of the partnership's income, credits, deductions, etc. Please keep it for your records. Do not file it with your tax return (unless you are required to file it with Form 8271, Investor Reporting of Tax Shelter Registration Number). A copy has been filed with the IRS.

Although the partnership is not subject to income tax, you are liable for tax on your share of the partnership income, whether or not distributed, and you must include your share on your tax return if a return is required. You should use these instructions to help you report the items shown on Schedule K-1 on your tax return.

The amount of loss and deduction that you may claim on your tax return may be less than the amount reported on Schedule K-1. It is the partner's responsibility to consider and apply any applicable limitations. See Limitations on Losses, Deductions, and Credits, on page 2, for more information.

Where "attach schedule" appears beside a line item of Schedule K-1, see either the schedule that the partnership has attached for that line or the space below line 23 of Schedule K-1.

### Inconsistent Treatment of Items

Generally, you must report partnership items shown on your Schedule K-1 (and any attached schedules) the same way that the partnership treated the items on its return. This rule does not apply if your partnership is within the "small partnership exception" and does not elect to have the tax treatment of partnership items determined at the partnership level.

If the treatment on your original or amended return is inconsistent with the partnership's treatment, or if the

partnership was required to, but has not filed a return, you must file Form 8082, Notice of Inconsistent Treatment or Amended Return (Administrative Adjustment Request (AAR)), with your original or amended return to identify and explain any inconsistency (or to note that a partnership return has not been filed).

If you are required to file Form 8082 but fail to do so, you may be subject to the accuracy-related penalty. This penalty is in addition to any tax that results from making your amount or treatment of the item consistent with that shown on the partnership's return. Any deficiency that results from making the amounts consistent may be assessed immediately.

### Errors

If you believe the partnership has made an error on your Schedule K-1, notify the partnership and ask for a corrected Schedule K-1. Do not change any items on your copy of Schedule K-1. Be sure that the partnership sends a copy of the corrected Schedule K-1 to the IRS. If you are a partner in a partnership that does not meet the small partnership exception and you report any partnership item on your return in a manner that differs from the way the partnership reported it, you must file Form 8082.

### Sale or Exchange of Partnership Interest

Generally, a partner who sells or exchanges a partnership interest in a section 751(a) exchange must notify the partnership, in writing, within 30 days of the exchange (or, if earlier, by January 15 of the calendar year following the calendar year in which the exchange occurred). A "section 751(a) exchange" is any sale or exchange of a partnership interest in which any money or other property received by the partner in exchange for that partner's interest is attributable to unrealized receivables (as defined in section 751(c)) or substantially

appreciated inventory items (as defined in section 751(d)).

The written notice to the partnership must include the names and addresses of both parties to the exchange, the identifying numbers of the transferor and (if known) of the transferee, and the date of the exchange.

An exception to this rule is made in the case of sales or exchanges of publicly traded partnership interests for which a broker is required to file Form 1099-B, Proceeds From Broker and Barter Exchange Transactions.

If a partner is required to notify the partnership of a section 751(a) exchange but fails to do so, a penalty of $50 may be imposed for each such failure, unless the partner can show that the failure was due to reasonable cause and not willful neglect.

### Nominee Reporting

Generally, any person who holds, directly or indirectly, an interest in a partnership as a nominee for another person is required to furnish a written statement to the partnership by the last day of the month following the end of the partnership's tax year. This statement must include the name, address, and identifying number of the nominee and such other person, description of the partnership interest held as nominee for that person, and other information required under Temporary Regulations section 1.6031(c)-1T. Instead of this statement, the nominee may furnish to the person on whose behalf the nominee holds the partnership interest a copy of Schedule K-1 and related information within 30 days of receiving it from the partnership.

**Note:** A nominee who fails to furnish when due all of the required information, or who furnishes incorrect information, is subject to a penalty of $50 for each statement for which a failure occurs. The maximum penalty is $100,000 for all such failures during a calendar year. If the requirement to report correct information is intentionally disregarded, each $50 penalty is increased to $100

311001

Ezra Pound visited the maternity ward, pounding and expounding
as my mother wrote later. "This should have been my baby."

They were engaged to be married once, long ago, a youthful
romance which didn't work out. Hilda's parents voiced grave doubts
over this raffish firebrand. She followed him to Europe, accompanied
by her friend Frances Gregg. A triangle, the two girls were
passionately involved with each other -- and with Ezra.
He continued as her mentor, guided her to write "straight from
the Greek". She was trying to decide on a byline. Her own name,
Doolittle, invited puns and jokes.

"Well then," he said, "just be H. D."

She was christened in the tearroom of the British Museum.

"H D Imagiste," he signed the sheaf of poems.

Frances broke the triangle, deserted it by marrying Louis
Wilkinson, and eminent professor. Hilda and Ezra saw them off
at Victoria Station. Hilda tried to fling herself into the
honeymoon train. "No," said Ezra, "she must have her own life."

first

My name is Frances. My father is Perdita, the second son.

first

The second, the one I'm known by
My name is Frances. And Perdita, the second son,
lost, then found heroine of The Winter's Tale by Shakespeare.

We were very ill, we two, we nearly died. The 1918 flu
epidemic, and pneumonia. Bryher got us into the best nursing home
available. Her parents disapproved of this new friendship: an
older woman with a husband goodness knew where. A writer of poetry
that didn't even rhyme. Yet a mother in need and her baby, a
hardship case. They had to accept the situation, if reluctantly.
Dolly was an adult now, with a handsome income settled at the

age of 21. They were sure the infatuation would pass. It evolved
into a lifelong commitment. Mama became intensely jealous -- railed
against That Woman. Dada remained totally aloof.

I spent the first 18 months of my life in a babies' hotel,
the Norland Nursery, training establishment for top notch Nannies.
I left to sail for America with my two mothers and a Scottish nurse.
H.D's first return to her homeland, for Bryher a voyage of
exploration, a search for fresh vistas and new freedoms. They
envisioned a long stay, with possible future relocation in
sunny California.

We headed West, our odd retinue with mountains of luggage
Ladies always had their
and the tea basket. Noxity ever travelled with her tea basket,
fully equipped with fine china and silver and methylated spirit stove.

The California experiment was a disaster. They hated the
place, never gave it any extended chance. The nurse met a young
man and eloped, leaving a note pinned to my pillow.

We trekked back to New York, a hotel in Greenwich Village.

-2-

partners, we have exhausted the funds previously raised for the Cablentertainment Tax Case Fund. Accordingly, we must ask each partner for a small additional contribution to the Fund. These contributions will pay for the necessary work done over the last few months demonstrating to the IRS that it has assessed too much tax from Cablentertainment partners, assisting the IRS to complete the assessments correctly, examining the resulting need for protective refund claims, and providing general assistance. Additionally, because the corrected assessments still have not been issued by the IRS and likely will not be issued for several more months, the funds contributed also will be used to cover future expenses involved in finalizing this matter.

The additional amount we are requesting is $100,000. As in previous requests, we have calculated each partner's share based on his or her percentage interest in the controversy, with a $50 minimum. For your information, all your prior payments (and any refunds we paid of excess contributions) are shown on your attached personal statements. We believe we can resolve these final problems within our $100,000 budget, and, of course, any amounts not used will be returned to partners once the IRS assessments are finally completed.

We believe the results we have obtained for the partners have justified your past contributions to the Cablentertainment Tax Case Fund and have preserved to the maximum extent the exceptional economic return on these Cablentertainment investments. Without your assistance, we would not have been in a position to negotiate the favorable settlement we reached with the IRS last year, nor would we have been able to resolve these latest problems caused by the allocation and computational errors made by the Holtsville Service Center. Accordingly, we need to receive your contribution. Please send your check, made payable to the "Cablentertainment Tax Case Fund," and mail it in the enclosed pre-addressed stamped envelope. Please include the remittance copy of your personal statement to ensure proper credit to your account.

Thank you for your immediate attention to this matter. If you have any questions about your share of the budget, please direct them to Laurel Starkey at Dow, Lohnes & Albertson, tel: (202) 857-2958.

Dolly had her own, very different ideas. She longed to
break out, discover the world for herself, to be among people
who did exciting things. She worshiped her father. Business
acumen was already in her genes, and she absorbed his knowledge
in long talks about high finance and world trade. She should have
joined the firm, a dedicated trainee. She couldn't. He and
Mama would not countenance that. Young ladies in her station
didn't work in offices. The office was man's domain. Ladies
occasionally welcomed as visitors, as workers never. The boy
hadn't graduated from
was the only rightful scion. John, the nursery; his
future was already set.

The boy, the boy, it was so unfair. She should have been
a boy. She dug up grievances, old and new. The time she was
denied a carpentry set, her thwarted dream of running away to
sea as a cabin boy. Deep within, she fantasized, she was a boy.
And she was stuck, literally dolled up, the dutiful daughter in
the big gloomy house; stifling luxury, endless
Of course
protocol, senseless duties. She was bored. She searched out her
own resources, found them in books. She read voraciously. It
wasn't easy. Her new passion had to be pursued under cover, at
odd times snatched from Mama's demands.

Reading was morbid and selfish.

Sir John was indisputably a genius in his specialized field.
Literary he was not. He claimed to be a generous patron of the
drts, bought pictures by the score -- all in the fashion of the
day: formal landscapes, simpering maidens, stags shot at dawn.
Occasionally Lady Ellerman indulged in genteel romantic fiction.

Record of the Minutes

of the Annual Meeting

of the Board of Directors

of Poets & Writers, Inc.

425 Park Avenue

New York, New York

March 2, 1993

The annual meeting of the Board of Directors of Poets & Writers, Inc. was held at 425 Park Avenue on the second of March, nineteen hundred and ninety three.

Present at such meeting were: Richard Abrons, Marie Brown, Russell Cecil, Elliot Figman, John Holman, Jr., Beverly Jablons, Ellen Joseph, Edgar Koerner, Joanne Leedom-Ackerman, Neltje, Theodore Rogers, Timothy Seldes, Robin Smith, and Galen Williams.

Absent from such meeting were: Lynne Alvarez, Sylvia Barnard Brown, E.L. Doctorow, Jeremiah Kaplan, Galway Kinnell, Helen Macioce, Honor Moore, Joanna Rose, Perdita Schaffner, and Gail Sheehy.

Present at the invitation of the Board were: Juliet Gumbs, Development Director, and Frazier Russell, Director of Programs, of Poets & Writers, Inc., and Kenneth Preston, pro bono consultant to Poets & Writers, Inc. Also present was Denise Hart, assistant to Mr. Figman.

Robin Smith, President of the Corporation, presided as chair of the meeting. The meeting was called to order at 6:30 p.m.

The minutes of the October 14, 1992 Board meeting and the December 2, 1992 Executive Committee meeting, appended hereto as Exhibits A and B respectively, were read. Written notice of the Board meeting, mailed January 19, 1993, is appended hereto as Exhibit C.

Upon motion duly made and seconded, the following resolution was unanimously carried:

RESOLVED, that the minutes of the October 13, 1992 Board meeting and the actions taken at the December 2, 1992 Executive Committee meeting are approved.

All before my time. I was present, and I remember nothing whatsoever
of these tumultuous events.

Now at last I touch down in conscious memory.

Territet, on the shores of Lake Geneva. Riant Chateau --
Laughing Castle, in actuality a huge and rather hideous block of
flats. We are on the top floor, the penthouse we might put it
fancifully -- a garden apartment with private roof. Lots of rooms
and rambling corridors, corners, hiding places. It accommodates my
two housemaids
Bryher and H D and me, and, at the far end Berta and Hedi
and Catherine the cook.

The busiest household from early morning onwards, the helpers
at their domestic tasks, and Bryher in her room with the door open,
oblivious of distractions, typing -- endless letters and something
mysterious she calls My Work.

My mother is in her room, behind a closed door. I don't
although I don't understand it. A Greek jar filled with pencils,
a pile of exercise books and on another table, a typewriter. Time
and place are sacrosanct. I forget now and then, I'm promptly evicted.
"Your mother is working," says Bryher reproves me, "she's very nervous
today." Today and every day, it seems. Any fuss on my part and
Bryher sends out a warning signal. "Hippo, hippo." A dainty whip
of hippotamus hide hanging on a hook. She chases me with it.

Between the nerves and the hippo whip, I lie low. I know
the routine. Eventually my mother's room typewriter will explode
in a barrage to rival Bryher's. Then, suddenly, a dead stop and a

shift of activity. Mundane sounds, supboards opening, a shuffle of
shoes and outdoor garments. Time for our walk.

I organize my Noah's Ark meanwhile. The wooden animals have
spent the night helter skelter below decks. I Marshall them two by
two across the carpet with daily variations in protocol -- the
smallest in back, in front, or in the middle, protected by the elephants.

My mother bursts forth, nerves recharged into a different kind
of energy, she can't wait to get going. Catherine hands us a bag of
leftovers for the birds.

Seagulls they are called, what has brought them to this
mountain locked lake? Nobody is able to explain. Here they
are anyway, swawking and swooping and snatching crusts in mid
air, nothing left for the placid swans below.

My mother is not entirely with me, but away
somewhere, turning over deep thoughts. Impossible to engage
her in conversation.

We set off along the lakeside, to the right, towards
Montreux, a bland promenade -- immaculate flower beds add elderly
folk on benches -- or to the left, much more fun -- a narrow
stone path at water's edge to the Château de Chillon -- hapless
prisoner was immortalized by Byron. It is also a centerpiece for
innumerable calendars, postcards, pictures and jigsaw puzzles.

Impossible to carry on a conversation, she says, so,
tall, I way down there so small, trying to keep up with her
swift strides. She is moreover stiff in her solitary state of
mind. And she wants me to go even faster. Run ahead, she
says, run ahead. On to the big rock where I stop and backtrack,

cantering around her like a little pony.

All my early life it seems I was running ahead so as not
to disrupt people's inner lives; running behind or alongside trying
to keep up with them. Running on double track, stalling at peripheries,
and windows on the outside looking in. And Bryher was running our lives
with the precision of a small army encampment.

"Mail for you, Horse -- and I made an appointment for
flu injections. Monkey" that was me, the first of my zoological
 nicknames, " time for lunch, wash your hands, quick. You left your
 socks in the middle of the floor -- Hippo-Hippo if you do that again.
Cabbage is good for you, clean your plate."

She was the only person I've known who could type and
talk simultaneously. That eternal typing.

"There's a rabbit in the garden, come and look."

"No Monkey, I can't."

"Why?"

"I'm working on my book."

"Why?"

"It's my job."

"Why?"

"Hippo-Hippo."

When it wasn't my book it was correspondence. She wrote
to Family, as she called her parents, every single day, purportedly
from Paris, and mailed them to Bob for forwarding. He had been
dropped off to start his new life, we continued on to relocate
in Switzerland. Family was not to know, my mother and I were non-
existent, our establishment a secret. It must have involved

I was helping Bryher dust and arrange books.

"Don't ask me about this one, please don't ask."

I wasn't about to. A plain green book, Sibelius, whatever
that was, by Cecil Gray. It looked very dull.

Signalling information and simultaneously suppressing it.
I've always puzzled over that exchange.

We were on the move again, constantly, so it seems
in retrospect. Twice, three times a year. departures
in the Wagon Lit, Paris at dawn and a taxi ride to the Gare du
Nord, the boat train, the boat, and another train to Victoria
Station, London. A long trip in those days, tedium broken up by
the transfers. Grandma and Aunt Laura joined us when they were in
Europe at the time, and, occasionally Robert McAlmon -- the
although his visits were few, the married couple still had to
up appearance and reported duly to "Family".

Family, that inexorable maw, waiting beyond the gate.

Bryher hurrying towards it with a separate porter, while we hung
back, invisible, gradually shuffling to the taxi rank. The routine
was always the same.

"Herbert Mansions, Knightsbridge."

No knights, no bridge, the mansions a dull pile of bricks
and our quarters called a Service Flat. Dark, cramped, smelly
and an alcove smelling
of furniture polish. Not a very satisfactory arrangement for
either of us.

E. P. Wilbur & Co., Inc.

2507 Post Road, Southport, Connecticut 06490 (203) 255-3434

November 2, 1992

Ms. Perdita M. Schaffner
1223 Fireplace Rd.
East Hampton NY 11937

Dear Ms. Schaffner:

We are writing to the Limited Partners and Bondholders of
Heritage Village Limited Partnership to inform each of you
about a possibility which exists to refinance the property
owned by the Partnership, which we believe offers significant
benefits. In this letter we will offer a brief summary of the
situation, request your consent to the refinancing and invite
certain Limited Partners and Bondholders to obtain information
about purchasing part of one of the mortgages.

Heritage Village Apartments, the property owned by the Part-
nership, has been funded through a series of mortgages. The
first mortgage, to Huntington National Mortgage Company,
matures in December of 1992. A second mortgage to Glendale
Federal Savings Bank, was to mature at the end of 1991 but was
extended for a year, so it also matures at the end of 1992.
These mortgages together are in the principal amount of approx-
imately $4,100,000. These mortgages are wrapped by a mortgage
to DRW Heritage Associates in the additional amount of
approximately $3,500,000. The total wrap mortgage indebtedness
at the end of 1992 will thus be approximately $7,600,000. The
Partnership's bondholders (who purchased bonds during the
initial offering) also have a mortgage on the property,
subordinate to the other mortgages. These bonds were in the
original principal amount of $800,000, and substantial interest
has accrued to date.

The General Partner has been working for over a year in an
attempt to restructure and/or refinance these mortgages. In
June of this year, DRW initiated legal action against the
Partnership and has continued the legal steps necessary to
foreclose on Heritage Village Apartments. However, DRW has
continued to work with the General Partner and has finally
agreed to accept a significantly discounted amount in satis-
faction of its mortgage.

I relished his company more than anyone else seemed to.
He had a curious effect on the mothers. Voices were raised,
doors slammed. H D was a non participant in the arguments,
yet constantly overwrought, "nervous" even for her.
He retired immediately after dinner -- down to the Pension
Jundt, or out to whatever Territet might offer in the way
of night life -- absolutely nil.

Territet, staid semi de luxe backwater where
nothing ever happened. For that very reason, no doubt,
Melinda MacLean chose that railway station for her getaway
to Moscow to join husband Donald and his cohorts Kim Philby
and Guy Burgess. McAlmon knew Melinda and Donald
McAlmon knew *all the people* in Paris in the 40s,
he introduced them to each other.

His visits to us became fewer, briefer, and stormier.
then stopped altogether.

"Where is Bob?"

"In Paris, on business."

That explained nothing. I wrote him a couple of
Gertrude Steinese letters which Bryher duly forwarded. He
never replied. I missed him. By now other people were
coming in -- up from Italy, down from London and Paris.

POETS & WRITERS BUDGET VARIANCES OVER $5,000

2/26/93-6/22/93

FY 92-93 EXPENSES (-$27,875)

(1) Outside Professional (+$6,000)--Additional expenses for
writers for magazine and additional consulting for LitNet project

(2) Advertising, Marketing (-$10,325)--Delay in mailing June
renewal series; savings in direct mail campaign

(3) Benefit (-$7,000)--Reclassification of charges to
conferences, meetings

(4) Writers' fees (-$6,500)--Reduced fees paid to writers in New
York and California

FY 92-93 INCOME (-$27,000)

(1) Magazine advertising (-$18,000)--Projected ad income for
spring issues down

(2) Individual contributions (-$15,000)--Delay in receiving one
major gift; one anticipated gift came from foundation rather than
individual

(3) Foundation (+$11,000)--Gift anticipated from individual came
from foundation

as of 6/22/93

He was relieved to get back to his life among bistros and writers.

Futher along in his memoirs I transmute from miniature
Oriental Princess into The Lump. Affectionately, well meant.
Several years have gone by.

He visited Territet now and then. Bryher could abandon the
Byzantine twists of her correspondence with Family. Having a
nice holiday together in Switzerland. No mention of my mother,
of course, or of me.

He would stumbledbleary eyed off the Orient Express and
was boarded out
[BOARDING] at the Pension Jundt, a [BOARDING] establishment
a couple of floors below [BOARDING], run by two elderly
sisters. Obeying orders -- back in her own domain Bryher issued
them constantly -- he reported in early, my mother absent in the
silence of her room, Bryher in hers, door open, typing doggedly.
Bob sat around, looking lost. I recognized something sad and
displaced about him, rather like myself in this hiatus of the day.
I set out to entertain him. He was most receptive. We organized
the Noah's Ark together, I showed him the scrap books of battles.
We turned chairs into a Roman Forum, cut out paper doll Christians
and threw them to stuffed lions. By this time I too, had a
typewriter. I wrote him long letters, "miracles of Gertrude
Steinese prose," he later recalled.

A meeting of the Executive Committee of the Board of
Directors of Poets & Writers, Inc. was held at the offices of Poets
& Writers, Inc., 72 Spring Street, on the twenty-first of July
1993.

Present at such meeting were: Elliot Figman, John Holman, Jr.,
Ellen Joseph, Joanne Leedom-Ackerman, Helen Macioce, Robin Smith
and Galen Williams.

Timothy Seldes was absent.

Robin Smith, President of the Corporation, called the meeting
to order at 6:30 p.m.

Written notice of the meeting, mailed June 14, 1993 is
appended hereto as Exhibit A.

The minutes of the May 5, 1993 Executive Committee meeting,
appended hereto as Exhibit B, were read.

RESOLVED, that the minutes of the May 5, 1993 Executive
Committee meeting be approved.

There was discussion of the freeze on salaries for senior
staff members. It was agreed that senior staff would be eligible
to receive raises of up to 5% eighteen months after their last
increase.

Mr. Figman's salary was approved at $75,000, effective July
1, 1993.

There was a review of the budget for the year ended June 30,
1993 and for the year ending June 30, 1994 (see Exhibit C). There
was discussion of proposed cuts to the 93-94 budget (see Exhibit
D), and it was agreed to proceed with cuts totaling $70,000.

There was discussion of Poets & Writers' contribution to the
Retirement Fund for 92-93, and it was agreed to recommend to the
Board that a contribution of $5,000 be made to the fund for
fiscal year 92-93, with the intention to make a contribution of
at least $10,000 in 93-94.

There was discussion of potential new Board members, and it
was agreed that the committee would recommend to the Board that
Carol Makovich be elected to the Board at the next annual
meeting. There was also discussion of priority recruitment areas
for the Board. After discussion, it was agreed that the committee
would recommend the establishment of an Advisory Board.

1

preferences. See section 56(h) for more
details.

5. Recapture of the section 179 expense deduction. If the recapture was caused by a disposition of the property, include the amount on Form 4797, line 18. The recapture amount will be limited to the amount you deducted in earlier years.

6. Recapture of certain mining exploration expenditures (section 617).

7. Any information or statements you need to comply with requirements under section 6111 (regarding tax shelters) or section 6662(d)(2)(B)(ii) (regarding adequate disclosure of items that may cause an understatement of income tax on your return).

8. Farm production expenses. You may be eligible to elect to deduct these expenses currently or capitalize them under section 263A. Get Pub. 225, Farmer's Tax Guide, and Temporary Regulations section 1.263A-T(c).

9. Any information you need to compute the interest due under section 453(l)(3) with respect to the disposition of certain timeshares and residential lots on the installment method. If you are an

individual, report the interest on Form
1040, line 53. Write "453(l)(3)" and the
amount of the interest on the dotted line
to the left of line 53.

10. Any information you need to compute the interest due under section 453A(c) with respect to certain installment sales. If you are an individual, report the interest on Form 1040, line 53. Write "453A(c)" and the amount of the interest on the dotted line to the left of line 53.

11. Any information you need to compute the interest due or to be refunded under the look-back method of section 460(b)(2) on certain long-term contracts. use Form 8697, Interest Computation Under the Look-Back Method for Completed Long-Term Contracts, to report any such interest.

12. Any information you need relating to interest expense that you are required to capitalize under section 263A for production expenditures. See Notice 88-89, 1988-2 C.B. 422, for more information.

13. Any information you need to compute unrelated business taxable income under section 512(a)(1) (but excluding any modifications required by paragraphs (8) through (15) of section 512(b)) for a partner that is a tax-exempt organization.

Note: A partner is required to notify the partnership of its tax-exempt status.

14. Your share of expenditures qualifying for the (a) rehabilitation credit not related to rental real estate activities, (b) energy credit, or (c) reforestation credit. Enter the expenditures on the appropriate line of Form 3468 to figure your allowable credit.

15. Investment credit properties subject to recapture. Any information you need to figure your recapture tax on Form 4255, Recapture of Investment Credit. See the Form 3468 on which you took the original credit for other information you need to complete Form 4255.

You may also need Form 4255 if you
disposed of more than one-third of your
interest in a partnership.

16. Any other information you may need to file your return not shown elsewhere on Schedule K-1.

The partnership should give you a description and the amount of your share for each of these items.

"Bryher, promise me you won't commit suicide, you have to help me take care of my little girl."

"Like a puppy?"

"Yes, just like a puppy."

I was a couple of weeks old.

The agreement held up. Puppies grow, however, tug at the leash and seek their own direction. The catch-all term identity crisis had nooe been invented. It was merely called asking awkward questions.

I raised quite a few, where for instance, was my father?

"He was a very bad man. He ran away from you."

From me....?

My name was Frances Perdita Aldington. My mother was Mrs. Aldington. I could read well enough to decipher names on the incoming mail, to identify handwriting, return addresses, foreign stamps. There were weighty letters from England and France -- from Richard Aldington.

"She's getting letters from him," I said protectively.

"He's not your father," Bryher replied.

Not the bad man who ran away from me.

"His name is Cecil."

I was still convinced that it had to be Richard. So many names were bandied around, elided, duplicated. Ezra <u>and</u> Pound, I always thought, were two people. And all the absurd nicknames. Cecil Richard, Richard Cecil, what difference did it make.

I knew I couldn't discuss it with my mother. Too much secrecy and nervousness were associated with those letters.

I was helping Bryher to dust and arrange books.

I wouldn't have. A plain green book, *Sibelius*, whatever
that was, by Cecil Gray. It looked very dull.

Signalling information and simultaneously suppressing it...
the psychology was very baffling.

Robert McAlmon had gone. He couldn't, wouldn't keep up the
pretense of being a conventional husband. Even as a marriage of
convenience it didn't work on any level. He and Bryher was
always fighting.

Sir John, with surprising magnaminity, ~~we were~~ made a handsome
settlement. He retreated to Paris, for good, became known as Mr.
McAlimony, and ~~moved right in~~ with the Lost Generation.

I missed him, still typed surreal little letters from time
to time, which Bryher duly forwarded.

Other visitors arrived from all over, old friends of my
mother's, new connections of Bryher's, and were put up at the
Pension Jundt, a boarding establishment a couple of floors below,
run by two ~~extraneous~~ stern spinster sisters. ~~They~~ took their meals
~~in our apartment.~~ And talked, how they talked, brilliantly no
doubt, but ~~exactly~~ grown up stuff, lost on me. Some of these
distinguished folk paid me mind, others not. One of them was
famous, a great writer. Bryher was particularly deferential.
Dorothy Richardson, a doughty lady who clumped in and sat down,
arms akimbo, to voice strong opinions. Her husband Alan Odle
remained silent, a nervous, attenuated man with a hair style I
could not keep my eyes off -- a few strands grown to maximum

["An\nLength, pinned round and round his bald pate.\nA x x x k x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x

chose the biggest, Jasper, an enormous giraffe.

Midnight, the Simplon Orient Express. A narrow room with double decker beds. Bryher hoisted me up top and clambered after me. My mother lay down below, an Eau de Cologne drenched handkerchief over her face.

I was in a fine conversational mood, and wanted to look out of the window.

"Nothing to see" said Bryher," and Mama needs her rest.
She's very nervous."

Next morning there was plenty to see --- a wide plain,
canals, vegetable gardens, fruit trees.

The blinds were up, the mothers were activating the tea
basket, the spirit stove teetered on the brink of the night stand.
Grandma and Aunt Laura appeared and took me for a long swaying
walk to the Wagon Restaurant.

There were hills now, and tunnels. We rushed in and out
of roaring darkness, and stopped frequently at stations,
the conductor calling out unfamiliar names.

So it went on all day. Little stations, big stations -- Bologna,
Firenze. Roma, hysterical change of trains, And, finally NAPOLI.

Our room looked out over an esplanade, a bay, and a distant island.

"That's Capri, where we're going tomorrow, on a boat."

From another room and window Grandma pointed out a grey cone
shaped mass. Vesuvius.

My picture books had taught me all about volcanoes.

"Will it burn?" I asked.

"No, it's extinct."

How boring of it.

"The bishop was feeling rather seasick, confoundedly seasick in fact."

So goes the opening line of Norman Douglas' classic novel, *South Wind*.

I leaned over the rail, hanging on to Jasper while Grandma and Aunt Laura hung on to me.

Two transatlantic crossings and the initial move to Switzerland were long lost in babyhood amnesia. As far as I could see, hear, and remember, Capri was my first travel experience with a lasting indelible effect. Everything dramatically perpendicular, stone paths climbing up and up and dropping down to blue seas and black rocks. Carriage rides to Anacapri, donkey rides alongside a precipice. Goats and chickens in the courtyard of our Pensione. I caught fleas. The Piazza, the only horizontal space on the island, Uncle Norman with his vino and the newest crocodile, hurdy-gurdy musicians in the background. My impressions stayed on, vivid and indelible. I returned more than twenty years later. Nothing had really changed.

My mother planned to spend the afternoon at the Louvre.

"You're coming with me," said Bryher, "we are going to
call on Miss Stein."

"Who is she?"

"A very important writer. And she has pictures it will do
you good to look at."

Not a very enticing prospect.

A diminutive gypsy opened the door. She had black hair
chopped into heavy bangs, and the beginnings of a moustache.
She greeted us effusively. Not Miss Stein, Miss Toklas.
She bustled us through to the salon where a stout figure in
monks' robes sat, holding forth to a reverent circle. She
nodded at Bryher, looked straight through me, and resumed
her monologue.

Miss Toklas set me down in a wicker chair and dodged off
to answer the doorbell, Bryher at her heels, abandoning me.

I'd already encountered a number of eccentrics in my brief
time. Miss Stein was the most bizarre yet. I was overpowered
by her appearance and her relentless manner. She went on and on.
I had no idea what she was talking about, nor did her pictures
make any sense even if they were good for me; triangles and
boxes within boxes in turgid colors.

Gertrude used to say that she consorted with the other
geniuses and that Alice talked to the wives. No provision was
made for the unknown species at the Rue de Fleurus, the children.
Bryher had taken off in the role of token wife, away in a far
corner, carrying on a whispered but lively conversation.

I felt wiggly. The wicker chair creaked whenever I moved.
The "other geniuses" seemed a glum lot. Nobody uttered a word,
nobody had a chance.

"And now," Miss Stein announced, "I know you will all
want to hear a chapter from my new book."

often
We visited the Rue de L'Odeon, where I felt
infinitely more welcome. There were two bookstores. Shakespeare
& Company, also a lending library. And a French counterpart
across the street, Les Amis des Livres. The proprietesses
were Sylvia Beach, original publisher of Ulysses; and her
friend Adrienne Monnier. They lived over the Shakespeare & Company
shop. There, all joy and spontaneity. They treated me like an
honored guest, a household pet. "Ah, voila notre petite Perdita."
And, no matter how august and "grown-up" the gathering might be,
they kept circling back with picture books, delicious goodies
to nibble.

tailored suits
Sylvia was trim, almost prim in ×××××× ×××××××××××××××××××××××× and ×××××× schoolgirl dresses; frail looking but highly energized in thought and movement. Adrienne was buxom and rosy. She affected a medieval style of dress. Everything about her flowed -- the long woollen skirts, blonde hair. She loved to eat. "Ici on mange serieusement" She was a superb cook. She laughed a lot and chattered incessantly, only in French. Sylvia darted back and forth as simultaneous translator.

People assume that I must have met James Joyce. I never did.
He had treated Sylvia shabbily after the breakthrough success and
scandals of *Ulysses*. He was equally cavalier towards their
friend Harriet Weaver who had supported him financially and
typed *Finnegans Wake*. And Gertrude Stein had said he smelled
of old museums. He said nasty things back. And so on and
so on. I was unaware of these frictions and factions. I
remember the loving warmth of the hostesses who remained my
dear friends to the end of their respective lives.

New York City, January 1953. A late night call, a boozy voice. Robert McAlmon, he wanted to come over and talk about old times.

Our second child was due any day, possibly that very night. My husband explained all that, and took down details: Chelsea Hotel, yes we would certainly call back.

Nicholas arrived a few days later, a sickly babe, blue of complexion. We developed bronchial troubles, barking day and night, looking and sounding like a baby seal. His brother Will acted out every sibling conflict in the book. And we forgot about Mr McAlmon., We finally called the Chelsea Hotel, he'd checked out, left no forwarding address. Surely we would hear from him again. We didn't.

I still regret out dilatory response. Blasts from the past should be faced head on, then and there. Seize the moment, you never know. No doubt an odd encounter, before or after the advent of Nicholas. Had he changed, or was he the same romantic character I remembered from so long ago. We were good friends, but not along very well. In his memoirs Being Geniuses Together he described me as a miniature Oriental princess. Now he'd made an effort, searched out my married name, tried to follow through.

He died not long after.

We had started life anew once more, after the Californian
misadventure, and were settled into an apartment hotel in
Greenwich Village.

My mother's old friends gathered to welcome her and to meet
Bryher. Amy Lowell, Marianne Moore, William Carlos Williams --
and numerous acolytes. Lunches, dinners. And parties, something
new for Bryher. The only parties she knew were decorous teas at
South Audley Street. Here she was, among forceful intellectuals,
talking the night away, many of them rather shockingly drinking.
The kind of free world Bryher had dreamed of, she never thought
it was quite like this, as she became closed and silent.

Letters had begun to arrive from England, the gist always
the same: worried about Dolly, missing her, what was she doing,
when was she coming home? Guilt nagged again.

She walked into my mother's room one morning.

"Horse," she called -- these people had the most absurd
names for each other -- "Horse, I've been married."

At a recent party she had found herself talking -- really
talking for a change -- to a young poet, Robert McAlmon.
Penniless, unknown, living in a small furnished room. He longed
to go to Paris, to write, and meet his idols James Joyce and
Hemingway, and knew he could never afford it. Bryher had a sudden
revelation. She who excoriated marriage, realized it was the only
way to break from home and live as she wished -- with my mother.
Posing as a school teacher she suggested that Mr McAlmon marry
her without delay, she would subsidize his impossible dream
from her savings. She didn't go into any of the true detail,

Merely stipulated that they visit her family now and then, behaving
like a valid couple. Otherwise, they would lead separate lives.
They made a deal, telling nobody, were married at City Hall a
few days later.

The Pterodactyl -- Marianne Moore -- insisted on giving
them a reception. Otherwise, the bridegroom was dismissed until
sailing day.

Bryher cabled the news home. Quite a bombshell, not at
all the way her parents visualized Dolly's wedding. Sir John
ordered their immediate return and, as a goodwill gesture, secured
the bridal suite on a White Star liner.

My Aunt Dorothy -- brother Melvin Doolittle's young wife --
was pressed into service. A fairly recent bride, she was overawed
by her dynamic sister in law. She was lively and energetic, however,
game for anything, even though she didn't have a clue -- only
instructions and a hefty wad of cash. An entertaining
raconteuse, she has often related her part in the plot.

The boy was threadbare and had no luggage. So they went
shopping together. John Wanamaker's, Macy's. Shirts and shoes
and socks, suits and suitcases.

We were installed in splendor ~~of the bridal suite~~, the
surrounded by fruit and flowers and Bon Voyage well wishers.
But no Robert. Dorothy rushed off, up and down, all over the
ship, All shore that's going ashore, hooters blasting. She
found the errant bridegroom, dazed, wandering around the Steerage
deck. A modest little school teacher who had sacrificed her
savings, how else would she travel?

After Paris, London. The call of duty, the dread appearance
at the Mausoleum, the Ellerman establishment. There they conducted
their charade of conventional married happiness. Bryher didn't play
it very well. Under the family roof she regressed to her old ways,

yes Dada
yes Mama, no Mama -- obsequious yet with tensions rife -- jumpy,
but of character and ill at ease in her best clothes. Mama would
tuck them in to the marital bed, with heavy hints about a dear
little grandchild.

Bon acquitted himself very well. He was totally out of his
element, flung into an extraordinary situation. He saw it that
way, with friendly detachment, and saw through it. He didn't kow-tow
he refused to be intimidated by their protocol and ostentation.
He became very fond of Lady Ellerman, understood her as a simple
soul and a cheery one whose cheer was constantly pushed under.

station in
She was made for quite another life -- lots of friends, dogs,
open air. None of these were granted. He respected Sir John,
undeniably a man of distinction, whose life revolved around business --
reigned
where he was incomparable -- and his family where he was not their
forever at cross purposes
XXXXXXXXXX He showed his devotion by ordering every
minute of their day like a shipping schedule: the Rolls Royce at
eleven sharp to take Her Ladyship to the shops, the dressmaker,
and a sheltered spot in Hyde Park for a little stroll. Then the
afternoon ritual, the Run -- a lengthy drive into the countryside,

FJORDCLUB

A Chapter of
CUNARD
WORLD CLUB

Mrs. Perdita Schaffner
1223 Fireplace Road
East Hampton, NY 11937-1435

Your Club Membership number
is 11962818. Please provide it
to your Travel Counsellor to
ensure your club privileges.

Dear Mrs. Schaffner:

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Strange man, Sir John -- always nice to me, unfailingly courteous, almost deferential. Yet he remained so far away. No hugs and kisses such as I received from other elderly gentlemen of my acquaintance, Only that grave nod and a handshake. I had no name. "Your Ward" to his daughter, Miss Winifred's Ward to the servants, to me directly just a plain You.

Never a cross word to anyone. Tensions ran high
young
between father and son -- John would report awful Rows -- but
they were not allowed to show in public, before the ever present
servants. I respected him, became quite fond of him, even
sorry for him at times -- he could look so sad and tired --
but we never seemed to get through to eachother.

The London sojourns became longer, juggling between
two contrasting worlds -- the ascetic isolation of Sloane Street
and the enervating opulence of South Audley Street, neither fully
homelike to a seven, eight, nine year old.

Family had accepted me in gradual stages -- from tea
parties to "luncheon" and finally overnight stays. I was no longer
on the periphery but drawn more and more into the centre, an
extension of Dolly and her misguided sense of Duty.

The periphery had been pleasant enough once I got the
hang of it. Lady Ellerman did have a most endearing personality,
she made every effort to put me at my ease. Living among people
even for a few days, sharing in their routine, was something else
again. I was older, more aware of RUFTS and RUFTONS, if not
remotely understanding them.

X

Switzerland, Paris, London, and vice versa; the circuit, several times a year. My mother enjoyed London well enough. She established her routine: work a walk in the park, museums and literary tea parties in the afternoon. Bryher was miserable, entirely consumed by Family. She had made her breakaway, via marriage. SIKER Her divorce from Robert McAlmon KAN restored her position of submissive daughter. There was, however, a conflicting issue which could not be ignored. That Woman -- my mother -- and child. Bryher asserted her responsibility, she couldn't desert me, nor could a mother be reft from her child. She had taken on the two of us. Family ignored the whole business. It was never discussed. It seethed constantly, however. And the two protegees stayed out of sight. For all Family knew, they remained in Switzerland.

Lies, complications, endless subterfuge.

We divided our luggage at Victoria Station -- two separate porters, two carts. Bryher marches ahead with hers, towards the gate where Family and car are waiting to carry her off. We hang back until the last of the stragglers have passed through, and hail a taxi to Knightsbridge -- Herbert Mansions, a block of service flats.

Knightsbridge -- where's the bridge, where are the Knights?

Oxford Circus the next day -- no elephants or performing bears.

Misnomers, false clues.

Close quarters at Herbert Mansions. Mama's work takes over behind the closed door of our bedroom. I try to play quietly in the dining alcove -- never quietly enough, it seems.

At eleven o'clock we collect the breakfast leftovers and set off through the Hole in the Wall -- a crooked alley, short cut to Hyde Park, We stop by the Serpentine to feed eager quacking ducks. Then, as in Switzerland, "run ahead, run ahead" Into the trees and round and round and back again. Along Rotten Row, racing the elegant horseback riders. Over to Kensington Gardens, heading into a flock of sheep -- grey greasy lethargic creatures --"no, don't pat them, you'll get your hands dirty, and your dress."

We end up by that preposterous edifice, the Albert Memorial.

"There she is."

Sometimes already waiting, it depends on Mama's shopping routine. With any luck there might be a hiatus before lunch at one sharp. After tagging obediently through Harrods Bryher insists on her daily exercise. And she bolts to our trysting place. Rush, rush, snatched conversation. A transformed Bryher; lady like clothes, a hat instead of her usual beret, gloves, pinchy little shoes.

Now and then she came to tea.

"I got off my lead," she would exclaim triumphantly, the truant puppy.

Family, Family, Number One South Audley Street.

J

In and out and off again in a rush.

"Family will pull my tail."

Always these canine allusions. At beck and call, circling,
following close on heels. A faithful but disoriented pet,
trying so hard.

Family, family. That dynastic tableau. There were only
the two of them, Mama and Dada. Three if we counted young John,
weigh in
but he didn't matter, being another maverick, just as much of a
problem as she was.

Dada left for The City -- the business and financial district --
at 8 A M sharp. As befitted a shipping tycoon he had a passion for
he was a consummate plotter and plannker. He ran his household in the same way.
Every minute of everybody's day had to be accounted for. He
made lists, issued specific commands. The car at 10.30 sharp
was always known as the Cybil Palace for Mama's errands. Fortnum & Mason's for tea, Harrods for fruit
and flowers; the milliner, the dressmaker; Harvey Nichols, Woollands
a Handkerchief for whatever she might need in the way of handbags, stockings,
other fripperies. A ten minute stroll in the park, weather
permitting, otherwise a car ride around the park -- and home in
time to change for lunch at one sharp.

Lady Ellerman already had more hats, dresses and
handbags than she could ever use, but she followed the orders of the day.
Bryher hated shops and shopping, yet was expected to tag along and
help with crucial decisions.

"Which shall I get, the black crocodile or the pretty
little beige?"

"I think the beige, Mama --"

So the crocodile it was. And so on. Tiring,

4

time consuming, boring, boring.

Sir John came home for lunch -- at one sharp, of course,
no matter what traffic or weather. He had an uncanny command
over time, brooked no delays from himself or anyone else.
He left again at two sharp, in his chauffeured car, the Lanchester

At two thirty sharp the car arrived, The Rolls, came by
for another mandatory ritual, the afternoon run. A stately
outing to the green belts of Surrey, Sussex, Essex, Buckinghamshire
and Hertfordshire -- route already programmed by Sir John.
A fresh air obligation. Bolt upright, rugs over the passengers'
knees, windows sealed against drafts. Lady Ellerman asleep most
of the time, waking only to argue with her daughter. They did
not get along.

Young John was occasionally dragooned into joining the
expeditions, which made things worse because then Mama didn't
sleep at all.

Poor kid, another source of her chagrin, already a
grave disappointment to his father. "No use to be such a
darling boy," they would say. He had no interest in business,
future heir and
unfortunate for the scion of the shipping line. He only cared
for animals, always off to the Zoo, didn't show up for lunch
or tea. He also had a passion for barbaric music from America,
played his gramophone for hours on end. And when he
_dressed_, refused to wear a bowler hat, or change for dinner.
He lived at home. He was between schools, having been expelled
from his prestigious boarding school. He attended tutoring
classes. Teachers liked him. Nobody else knew what to
do with him, except his sister. A fifteen year age gap here.

between them, their interests widely divergent -- not a trace
of literary appreciation on his part. Nonetheless they were
united by rebellion against the status quo.

Lady Ellerman was essentially a simple, joyous soul.
The joy had got pushed under 'as Sir John came up in the world.
She was gregarious by nature, he reclusive and insolently jealous
of her friends. They dropped away. Her social circle, what
there was left, comprised wives of business associates, and
two dismal sisters. Bryher's former school mates called
dutifully from time to time, cheered her somewhat. But she
had nobody of her own, for laughter and contemporary chit-chat.
Luxury was not to her taste, and she was stuck with the whole
charade, obeying her beloved spouse's edicts, trying to
understand her wayward children. A sad, confused lady of
limited intelligence, unable to voice valid discontents; they
which burst out in sudden trunums and non sequiturs.

Back to the Mausoleum as
Home again for tea, if you could call it home. Here
called 'em the members of their home.
like a series of furniture exhibits such as you see, roped off,
in museum. Massive furniture, oriental carpets, gigantic
porcelain vases -- genuine treasures, undoubtedly. But also
a bewildering clutter of sheer bric-a-brac: marble and bronze
statuettes, clocks. Paintings covered the walls: simpering
flower girls, Stag shot at dawn, sheep adrift on the moors.
It all went on and on, up and up. The house was enormous
to contain the numerous personalities. The staff outnumbered

X

6

Family, four to one, just about; ranging from the French chef and his retinue belowstairs, the two footmen and the butler, Paton, manning their front door and officiating at meals; the upstairs maids a driven twittering flock. Always somebody wherever one turned, stoking fires, drawing curtains, hovering poker faced in the dining room.

Like *Upstairs Downstairs*. The Bellamys at least were part of real life, they gave parties, the King came to dinner, rip-roaring scandals erupted now and then.

South Audley Street was a constant rush -- in a vacuum. Changing clothes. The car at the door. Meeting for lunch, tea, and dinner. No peace. No privacy, that was considered selfish.

A hiatus of a kind, between tea and dinner. But then Sir John came home, and liked to have a chat with his daughter. She idolized him and was fascinated by his business. So they discussed international trade, and the fate of the world. He took a dire view. Way ahead of time he already prophesied trouble with the Gold Standard, a decline of trade, depression, another war. Doom and gloom. For Bryher, the best time of the day.

Then, all too soon, time to dress for dinner.

Peremptory calls from Mama's quarters.

"Dolly, Dolly.... come here a minute!"

She had a lady's maid, good patient Ellen, to iron the dress, heat curling tongs over the methylated stove. But there was always something else, some other crucial decision -- the little pearls or the big ones, which evening bag to match the grey lace.

T

At the end of the corridor, young John stage musical comedy routines to barbaric music. Would he ever get dressed in time? Willy-nilly, he always managed, just -- finery tossed together, vaulting the staircase two steps at a time.

He was, understandably, curious about us, the outcasts. Herbert Mancions, Bryher brought him over. A noisy friendly youth. We hit it off immediately, talking about dinosaurs. The next time he came he presented me with a manuscript, and illustrated typed on flimsy pages, Tyrannosaurus Rex, Diplodocus, Stegosaurus and other cohorts rampant, Pterodactyls flying across the cardboard covers. XXX was dedicated to a "Good Monkey-Puppy-Kitten." I'm going to take you to the Zoo."

A promise, and I was sure he would keep it, though it would have to be postponed. We were returning to Switzerland in a few days time.

A truly portentous development came about before we left. "Family" wished to meet me. Not us. Just me. The Albert Memorial at eleven sharp. All dressed up, I scrubbed and brushed and combed. No bird feeding or sheep chasing, I Bryher was already in wait. My mother delivered me, turned and fled down the Brompton Road.

A big shiny car approached very slowly, and stopped. The chauffeur opened the door for a plump lady in a fur coat. "Thank you, Steer. Please come back in ten minutes."

"Here she is, Mama." Theya
Nice, I thought instinctively, nothing formidable about her,
just a rosy lady, all smiles and dimples and an enveloping manner.

Steer -- that really was his name. For a long time I thought, logically enough, that all chauffeurs were called Steer.

["\"Here she is, Mama, this is Perdita.\"", "Nothing formidable about her, just a rosy lady, all dimples\nand smiles and an enveloping manner xxx\".", "\"Well, well, how very nice. But I'm going to call\nyou Bunchy -- you remind me of a little girl in one of Dolly's\nbooks. Now tell me how you like London --\"", "\"Very much,\" I x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x

True to his promise, John took me to the Zoo. We rode
the train in the front seats atop a double decker bus -- 74,
I have always retained an affection for that number and route:
Knightsbridge, Baker Street, Regents' Park -- almost there now --
and London Zoological Gardens, North Entrance.

The animals all knew John, recognized his footsteps, the
smell of him, his empathy with them, and he knew their keepers
by their first names. He had full entree to cages and back
sheds. Two sulky giraffes, Maggie and Maudie, swivelled at
our approach and lolloped over to stick his profer purple Kong
tongues which they wrapped around locust beans. Porcupines
came scrabbling, shedding quills in their excitement,
swarming around like loving household pets. We bypassed
carnivores, John felt no rapport for the big cats. We both
And we were headed for the hippo house. We both loved the
hippos. Their custodian, George, led us to the edge of a
murky tank. Ears and nostrils twitched, the deep creatures
whooshed into and galumphed forth, jaws at the open MOK SHAMM
hand. We were驚呆的, 因為我們在驚呆的時刻
I fell in love with Diana, the pygmy from
Liberia. I patted her shiny head and kissed her on the cheek.
We ran and chased eachother, John and I --
through tunnels, along pathways, past the bears on Mappin Terrace.
All very different from my outings with Miss Trowbridge.
I cosseted the hand that had patted Diana. Nobody told me
to wash it.

10

John took me out regularly, once a week, from then on.
The animals began to recognize me, too.

Then, another major breakthrough -- Lady Ellerman invited me to tea.

Another time, a totally different era. I often walked down South Audley Street on my way to work. No L was a ghost house now, windows boarded up, white steps a dismal dirt spattered all too grey. It exuded the familiar smell of bomb damage -- damp rotting rubble. It was restored after the war, but not to amy former glory. Nobody ever lived there again. All offices now: St. Dunstan's Society for the Blind, a Berlitz school, a three name legal firm. The Ellerman lines reclaimed it eventually. Smaller quarters, smaller business: six container ships and sundry diversifications.

felt neither

I had no wish to step in there, not even curiosity. Many years later still, I had to, on business connected with Bryher's estate.

The interior was completely stripped except for what was painted on ork inexorably built in. The dark pannelling would last forever; Angels still drifted across the drawing room sky. The room itself was divided into cubicles. Filing cabinets lined the walls. Secretaries -- young swinging London girls -- buzzed around, wearing trousers.

Well, goodness gracious me.

11

Back to my first visit, a bumptious little girl in blue
velvet, eager and confident, Bryher at my side, all frilled up, edgy.

The portals swung open, manned by two stalwarts in funny
uniforms; striped yellow waistcoats gave them the appearance of
giant elongated bees. An austere character in black stood
guard under the chandelier. He bowed.

"Good afternoon, Miss Winifred -- her Ladyship
expects you in the drawing room."

"Thank you, Paton."

Henry, curly headed footman, escorted us up the staircase.

"Miss Winifred and her ward," he announced.

Many people, it seemed, were expected to tea, a semi
circle of spindly tables and gilt chairs all set up. And a
trolley laden with sandwiches, scones, small colored
cakes, fat brown eclairs. Lady Ellerman presided at the
centre, a massive silver tea service at her side, looking
very pretty in lace and pearls. She smelled of lavendar.
She poured the tea, skilled and gracious "milk, sugar -- one
lump or two?" extracting the lumps with shiny tongs. Henry
handed the cups around, and brought plates from the trolley,
in succession, cucumber sandwiches first.

I was stunned by my environment, terrified of dropping
crumbs on the carpet, kicking over the precarious table.
Neither was Bryher quite herself. Dolly now. "Yes Mama, no Mama"
stilted, submissively.

The plates kept coming a miniature
{x}countertops{x}eat{x}all{x}that{x}much{x}it was{x}like a five course
meal. I couldn't eat all that much, I nibbled.

Our hostess gave Henry a nod of dismissal. He retreated, only to return a few minutes later.

"Sir John is in the library, he wishes to see Miss Winifred and her ward."

Mama bade us farewell, rather chagrined that I hadn't eaten my chocolate eclair, and told me to come again, soon.

Another pannelled door, and the recurring proclamation.

"Miss Winifred and her Ward --"

The Library, a dour, men's club style of room.
Baize covered table, heavy leather chairs, and books which nobody
would ever read -- rows of finely tooled sets behind glass.

The bearded gentleman rose and shook hands with his
daughter as if she were a distant acquaintance he couldn't quite
place. He honored me with a curt little bow, asked me whether
hoped I'd had remarked on the
nice tea, and asked me remarks about the weather.
Making Obviously making an effort, but from so far away, he
didn't seem real. He rang the bell.

"Henry, would you call Steer and ask him to take
Miss Winifred's ward to her home."

Errands done, I come to you "Round the Park, Steer."

Literally around, once, twice depending on the time. Creeping
within the 20 MPH speed limit. Past the Serpentine, the military
barracks, the equestians on Rotten Row, and some very grand houses
near Hyde Park Corner.

"There's Princess Elizabeth without a hat!"

A little blonde girl bouncing a ball in her own garden,
surely every child's prerogative.

We, of course, were wearing hats, and gloves.

It was imperative that we change our clothes for lunch.

Why, and for whom? There were usually just the three of us at
the elaborately set
which
included fish knives and forks, menus written on little marble
slabs, finger bowls. Paton and the footmen silent sentinels,
moving only to take away one set of plates and bring another --
six courses, minimum, the finest French cuisine, too much, too rich.

chased

A brief break after lunch, I ran up and down the stairs
And Steer back on duty for the mandatory Run.

"Sir John advises Richmond Park today, Milady."

"We may now say, calmly and confidently, that Hitler
has missed the bus." Neville Chamberlain, in the spring
of 1940.

The bus ripped into Norway, Denmark, Holland,
Belgium, and France.

I poured tea in railway stations, and read two
classic best sellers, *War and Peace* and *Gone with the Wind*
similar in theme: the outbreak of war, high hopes, bravado,
and glamor — young men in their uniforms, girls in ball gowns.
Followed by escalation, encroachment; an inexcusable force,
strewing wreckage, taking over everybody's life.

Now it was happening to us. The Battle of Britain.
Spitfires, Hurricanes, Messerschmidts tearing around over
Southern England, fall out in Householders' back yards.
Few of them enemy planes ever got to London. Occasionally
we would look up and glimpse tiny silver insects wheeling,
darting, a puff of smoke, the white dot of a parachute.

The first raids were little more than forays. A lone
plane — we came to recognize the guttural vroom-vroom of
the engine — circling, going away. A distant bump now
and then, way off on the outskirts. We became accustomed
to the sirens. Dogs and cats hated them, heard them before

2

we did, cowered and bolted.

September 7. It all came down. The warnings were
immediately followed by screeches and the loudest explosions
I had ever heard. My apartment building rocked. The bangs
came nearer, even louder. I hauled pillows into my windowless
kitchinette, closed the door, settled in.

No more close calls. Din and mayhem continued through
the night, however -- fearful crashes all over town, the
clashing of fire engines and ambulances, burts of anti
aircraft fire. I dozed off, and woke to the high monotone
of the All Clear.

"This is the BBC Home Service, London -- Richard Dimbleby
speaking from the top of St Paul's. He described Dockland fires
He spoke emotionally and at length:
still raging, wide spread devastation with dead and wounded as
yet uncounted.
This is LONDON.

Yes, this was it, really and truly happening to us.

There were two sunsets that evening, one in the East
from the unquenched glow of burning docks, an ideal target for
bombers. They returned that night and every night, through the
week, for many weeks.

LONDON CAN TAKE IT! An irksome slogan, what else
could London do?

More to the point: lunch and dinner served as usual
unless a bomb falls on the building.

A store with all its windows swept into the gutter:
Open rather more than usual.