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By Root 1151 0

I mean it seemed that of all of us he’d got the rawest end of the deal. He’d been tricked into both taking the test and taking the part under the assumption that he might be helping us out. And now he’s stuck with it. But, as the days go by, the thing I’ve been noticing is that he doesn’t seem to mind at all. Of course I wouldn’t expect a Canadian ex-diving champ to mind any of that water stuff, but he enjoys the Studio part equally well. He’s become great pals with the French Still-Cameraman, who also has a Rolleiflex and gives him all sorts of pointers on how to use it. He was terribly impressed to hear that Cartier-Bresson had started his photographic career in films. He doesn’t even mind the eternal waiting around. “It’s not so bad,” he says, “kind of peaceful.” And it gives him a chance to study the lighting setup. He doesn’t much like gadding about all night and he doesn’t much mind getting up in the morning. In short he has the perfect temperament.

Larry minds terribly not being In Charge, and Missy obviously minds terribly what it’s doing to their love life. She’s gone back to the old Plantation stance, and started that business of sulking around her room again with a bowl of fruit, and last night, for no reason at all, she went out with Mac. I am so punchy trying to arrange my life around the seven-to-one schedule, that I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I find that it leaves me two possibilities for the rest of the day—either to go to sleep in the afternoon and then be raring to go all night and dead again in the morning, or to try staying awake, puttering around, in the afternoon, and get my second wind anyway by evening, so that I don’t get any sleep at all. I’ve lost practically all my sun-tan and my mind wanders so I hardly know what I’m thinking.… I can’t finish this, I’ve forgotten what I was about to say … something about Jim.…

Oh yes. I wonder if he’s got to Florence yet. I wrote to him but I haven’t heard.

June 21

Friday

Spent the first half of the week waving hello (or good-by) to the fishing vessel. They didn’t say which; they just said wave.

Missy and I still in and out of our friend’s balcony.

Spent the last half of the week in a Tavern sequence. They actually took the cameras off the boat and got us all inside one of the bistros and shot the scenes there. It was a rare sight. The French Extras were drunk every day.

June 25

Tuesday

We have taken to the hills without explanation. Mules and things. Something about stolen treasure. I may be wrong. Also they’ve issued us with new costumes. Spanish, I think.

Bax and I have been kissing each other occasionally and holding hands. He hasn’t forced the issue yet, but I suppose I’m leading him on. I feel I should draw the line soon. I’d like to, only I don’t know how. To tell the truth I’ve never drawn it.

June 27

Thursday. 3:00 A.M.

Have been crying steadily ever since two o’clock this afternoon when I came back and found Jim’s letter waiting for me.

I sat down and replied to it immediately, tears splashing all over the pages and my hands trembling. I sealed it and sent it without even rereading it. It’ll probably make me curl up and die in a couple of days but I can’t help that.

Here is a mystery: it’s a phony letter all right but there’s nothing phony about my grief. This has been the worst day of my life. So far.

Jim is getting married. He’s marrying Judy in one week’s time.

He wrote me all about it. They ran into each other his very first day in Florence and he knew at once that he’d loved her all the time. “… She doesn’t know about us—about you and me—and I didn’t think I ought to mention it.” Mention it! That killed me. I’m no more to him than that—a mention.

What the hell is the matter with me anyway? Why have I written that monstrously awful letter begging him not to go through with it, swearing black and blue I’ve never loved anyone but him, that I only came down here in the first place to test us?

I mean—lies. Nothing but lies.

And yet I know I wouldn’t get that letter out of the mailbox even if I could. Nor will I write