What's in a Name?

In the Brandy and-Cigar Glow following the Churchills' golden wedding anniversary, one of Sir Winston's friends reflected on this singular fact: there was a period during his adult life when, in America, the correct answer to the question "Who is Winston Churchill?" would have been "The author of The Crisis and Richard Carvel," rather than the writer-politician who was to become one of the most illustrious men of his time.

America's Winston Churchill, whose family had settled here long before the Revolution, had established a reputation as one of the nation's most popular serious authors. He was not even distantly related to the Englishman who wrote him suggesting that since both had the same name and both were writers, one of them ought to change his name.

The Yankee author who, by then, had written eleven successful books, politely replied that the British Churchill's idea had merit. But, he added, he was the senior and, therefore, it wasn't up to him to make the change. The future Prime Minister agreed, and thereafter added a middle initial – S. for Spencer – to his signature. Inevitably, each received mail intended for the other, particularly during visits to each other's country. It was Winston S. Churchill who offered a solution to Winston Churchill: "If the message is uncomplimentary, it's undoubtedly for me."

After John Strachey, another British author-politician, visited the U.S.A. he said: "I found two classes of people in America. The first consisted of those who confused me with Lytton Strachey; and the second consisted of those who hadn't heard of him either."

Similarity of names has produced interesting confusion and novel experiences for other notables as well. Sherwood Anderson confided that he was distressed, at first, when people mistook him for the playwrights, Robert Sherwood and Maxwell Anderson. "But then," he smiled, "1 took advantage of it: many's the blonde I won by telling her I was writing a part in a play especially for her." And Upton Sinclair told Sinclair Lewis: "I didn't mind the mix-up as long as they were attributing your Main Street to me. But I started to mind it when my book,The Jungle, was being attributed to you."

Archibald Fleming MacLeish had an uncomplicated academic life at McHarry Medical College – until he started writing poetry. The confusion was compounded, for a while, when he and Archibald MacLeish, the former Librarian of Congress and Pulitzer Prize poet, had the same publisher and used the same bank. Each received bills, stock certificates and royalty statements meant for the other.

It was Ernest Hemingway who suggested to the younger MacLeish that he drop his last name and try to become known as "Archibald Fleming." This, however, proved to be even more perplexing – for whenever people would ask "Who's Archibald Fleming?" the inevitable, correct answer was: "Oh, you know – MacLeish."

Colonel Barney Oldfield, the screenwriter-author, spent part of his honey-moon in Indianapolis, where the suspicious hotel clerk scoffed: " 'Mr. and Mrs. Barney Oldfield'? In this city even 'Mr. and Mrs. John Smith' would be less obvious." A scoffing tone also was used by Elsa Maxwell, when she was introduced to Ciro Alegria, winner of Farrar & Rinehart's Pan-American Novel Contest."Ciro can't be your name," Miss Maxwell told him, "because Ciro is a name I invented and gave to a nightclub in Paris."

Dean Acheson, the former Secretary of State, has a brother who also is distinguished: Ted Acheson, Professor of Finance at George Washington University and author of several learned books. Professor Acheson's resemblance to the lawyer-diplomat was strengthened by the fierce mustaches both cultivated. "But I never could be promoted to Dean, at the University," Professor Acheson said "Two Dean Achesons would be too confusing."

The presence of three Rubinsteins at the Hotel Majestic in Paris became quite bewildering to the desk clerk. The registry showed Mittka Rubinstein, a banker who had Red from Russia; his son, Serge, whose subsequent murder in New York still is an unsolved mystery; and Artur Rubinstein, the pianist, who wasn't related to the other two. Because cable companies charge for each name in the address of a message, the desk clerk often had to deliver cablegrams sent to "Rubinstein, Majestic, Paris."

Artur Rubinstein, who then was acarefree bachelor, was visited by Mittka (continued on page 64) Name? (continued from page 60) Rubinstein, who held a batch of cablegrams in his hand and who began: "Will you please assure my wife that I know no Marie in Venice, nor an lisa in Prague, nor a Margaret in Bucharest?" The pianist then displayed his own batch of misdirected cablegrams and said: "I'll do it, if you'll assure my family that I don't owe three million to a bank in Rome, two million to a bank in Nice and four million to a bank in Zurich."

Jerry Lewis, the author, enjoyed life at his Beverly Hills home until Jerry Lewis, the comic, moved into a house two blocks away. The writer had to take his listing out of the telephone directory, because of the stream of calls for Martin and Lewis. He subsequently moved to Pacific Palisades, where his number was listed in the directory – until Jerry Lewis, the comic, also moved to Pacific Palisades. The phone calls, from nightclub owners desperate for the services of Martin and Lewis, again assailed the writer's home, and again he removed his listing from the directory. Each, of course, received mail and bills intended for the other. Finally, when writer Jerry Lewis received bills from Romanoff's and Chasen's for dinners bought while he and his family were in Europe, he arranged a conference with the comic. They agreed that thenceforth the writer would sign his checks and bills as Jerry D. Lewis, and the comic would sign his as Jerry P. Lewis.

Lewis, of course, is an assumed name, as are the names of most comics. Britain's famed comic, Bud Flanagan, used his true name (Robert Winthrop) when he began in London's music halls. But then he served in the Army, under a cruel sergeant who disliked everything about the soldier-actor from Whitechapel – his looks, his religion, his habits. "Most of all," said the sergeant, "I hate actors." When the war ended and the comic was released from Army service, he told the sergeant the revenge he'd planned: "I'm going to change my name to yours – to Bud Flanagan – and make it famous on the stage."

Dino Yannopoulos was stage-manager of the Metropolitan Opera when Edward Johnson became general manager. Mr. Johnson twisted his tongue in trying to pronounce the stage-manager's name and suggested that he change it. "By the way," he asked, "what does Yannopoulos mean?" The stage-manager explained that it means "Son of John. John's Son. If you wish, I could change my name to Johnson."

"No," replied Mr. Johnson, "that won't be necessary, Mr. Yanol ... Yollan ... Yannopoulos."

The matter of name pronunciation diverted Edna Ferber's attention during The Small Hours, a play written by George S. Kaufman and his actress-wife, Leueert MacGrath. The leading role was played by Paul McGrath, who pronounces his name "McGrath," while Miss MacGrath pronounces her name "Mac-Graw." Miss Ferber later said that throughout the performance her mind had toyed with this jingle:

Said P. McGrath to L. MacGrath,

"Why don't you spell it a la Waugh?"

"My ancestors would rise in wrath,"

Said L. MacGrath to P. McGrath.

Although Deborah Kerr and John Kerr, who both appeared on Broadway in Tea and Sympathy, spell their name the same way, they pronounce it differently: Miss Kerr pronounces it "Car" and the young actor pronounces it "Cur." It was at a Hollywood premiere that the doorman, who uses a loudspeaker system to call the stars' chauffeurs, became confused when Miss Kerr corrected his call for "Miss Cur's car, please." She told him: "My name is pronounced 'Car.' " The doorman reached for the microphone and called: "Miss Car's cur, please."

One J. Thurber seemed the same as another J. Thurber to a process server who had handed James Thurber, the humorist, a summons intended for his brother, John Thurber. A court hearing, therefore, was held, a hearing at which James Thurber took the witness stand to prove that he was not John Thurber. He submitted his driver's license, letters, membership cards, etc. At that moment, his identifying witness, Robert Benchley, entered the courtroom and waved to James Thurber in the witness chair: "Hello, John," he said.

"Hello, Kenneth Roberts," wrote the late Kenneth Roberts, novelist and author of Northwest Passage, to Kenneth Roberts, the TV and radio announcer. "Through the years we've received mail intended for the other. I have not been too seriously inconvenienced, and I hope you can say the same. One word of caution, if I may: let us mutually promise that neither will ever become embroiled in a breach-of-promise suit."

Although Robert Merrill, the opera star, and Robert Merrill, the songwriter, spell their names exactly the same way, neither has been inconvenienced at all – unlike Jules Stein, the fabulously successful head of the Music Corporation of America, and Julie Styne, the composer. Mrs. Leland Hayward distinguishes their names and phone numbers in her address book by spelling the composer's name $tyne, and the MCA's man $tein. When Mike Romanoff's restaurant sent a bill for $200 to Jules Stein, he replied: "I do my entertaining at home. If it's a $30 tab, it might be mine. If it's |200, it must be Julie Styne's."

Mr. Stein has diversified his vast holdings by investing in many fields, including the purchase of Paramount's backlog of films, for TV use, for $50 million. In the years when Julie Styne was first composing, Jules Stein wanted an ice rink on which to produce an Ice Follies. Mr. Stein warned the owner of the rink he wanted that he would build a competing rink unless he could lease this one. The owner asked a few days' time to think it over – and then ordered a credit check on Mr. Stein. The credit house, of course, mistakenly checked into the affairs of Julie Styne. Then just before granting the lease, the rink owner said to Jules Stein: "How can you manage to do so many things, and also be a $300-a-week composer at Fox Studios?"

When George Humphrey was Secretary of the Treasury, he and Senator Hubert Humphrey of Minnesota often would receive insults and praises intended for the other. Senator Humphrey, a Democrat, even received a White House invitation intended for Secretary Humphrey. The Senator treasures two news headlines, which resulted from speeches he and the Secretary made on the same subject on successive days. The first day's headline, covering the Secretary of the Treasury's speech, was "Humphrey for Interest Boost." The second headline, covering the Senator's speech, read "Humphrey Opposes Interest Boost."

When Bob Sherwood, the White House ghostwriter and Pulitzer Prize winning writer, visited Guam during the war, Major General "Howlin' " Smith flew to the base just to meet him. General Smith's questions and comments indicated that somehow he was familiar with every play Mr. Sherwood had written. The General then explained it: he told of the Marine Corps' campaigns in the Pacific, which had been covered by Robert Sherrod for Life: "We'd see Sherrod at Tarawa and Saipan and Iwo Jima. He'd send his dispatches, but we never saw them in print." General Smith therefore wrote to Mrs. Smith and asked her to send him everything written by Robert Sherrod. "I guess my handwriting wasn't clear: she sent me the plays of Robert Sherwood."

Mrs. Smith had not been the first to confuse the playwright and the editor-war correspondent. Both men had their offices in Rockefeller Center. Sherwood once was editor of Life, before Henry Luce bought it, and Sherrod soon inherited Sherwood's mail there. In Italy, Sherwood almost was given a rough ride by a B-26 pilot who resented Sherrod's criticism of the bombing of Kiska. The flier realized his mistake just in time.

In Guam, one day, Robert Sherrod received a letter from his wife, who suggested (continued on page 129) Name? (continued from page 64) that he must be leading a double life: "I just found a §100 check in your bank statement, dated January 12, Washington, D.C. You told me that on thai day you were aboard the Essex in the South China Seas." It had been a bank error, for both Sherrod and Sherwood banked at the Corn Exchange's Sution l'lace branch.

Clare Luce, the actress who established her Broadway reputation in The Gay Divorcee and Of Mice and Men, had no scrapbook problems, beyond mere dipping and pasting, until Clare Boothe married Henry Luce. The news clipping services began mailing to Clare Luce, the actress, all the press items about Clare Boolhe Luce, the playwright wife of the magazine publisher.

Both ladies once toured Europe at the same time, and Miss Luce received not only the diplomatic invitations intended lor Mrs. Luce, but also her alimony checks. One night the actress chanced to see a TV panel show emanating from Washington, where her photograph was used in a quiz and she was identified, incorrectly, as the American Ambassador to Italy. She immediately telephoned the network, and was assured that an apology would be forthcoming. The network apologized the next clay, but to Mrs. Luce.

It was in Toots Shor's restaurant that Clare Luce insisted that she might seek a way of eliminating the confusion b\ changing her name, legally, to "Clare Luce, The First." This was her right, she said, because she was Clare Luce long before Clare Boothe married Henn Luce. "And just for the hell of it," the actress sighed, "I'd like to marry a man named Boothe."

"I know what you mean, honey," she was told by Toots Shor, who was born Bernard Shor. He told her he'd adopted the name Toots on the day George Bernard Shaw announced that he preferred to be known as Bernard Shaw. "I figured," said Toots, "that he was older and entitled to the name; so I changed mine."

A similar decision, in a way, was made by a young English actor, A. G. Andrews, on ihe night he saw a play in which ihe leading role was played by Mr. A. G. Andrews. The younger A. G. Andrews learned that the older A. G. Andrews had been born in Brooklyn during an American tour by his English parents, who then brought him back to London where he eventually established a reputation on the stage. The older A. G. Andrews returned to Broadway and spent his declining years at the Actors Home on Long Island. This was long after his younger namesake had decided: "With one A. G. Andrews already prominent. I can't expect to make my own reputationunder this name." That was how Arliss George Andrews came to change his name to George Arliss.

Although Paul Douglas, the United States Senator from Illinois, and the late Paul Douglas, the Broadway and Hollywood star, had the same name, the legislator suffered confusion only over another Broadway and Hollywood star. It was during the war, when he was serving as a captain in the Marine Corps. He flew in from the Pacific, on leave, then went to Washington to see his wife, Emily Taft Douglas, who was a member of the House of Representatives. He learned she was attending a session at the House, and he therefore applied for admission to the Family Gallery: "I'm Captain Douglas. I've just arrived from overseas. I'm anxious to see my wife. She's making a speech on the floor of the House today." The attendant looked at him scoffmgly, and said: "Aw, everybody's pulling that line today." The mix-up was solved when Captain Paul Douglas met Captain Melvin Douglas, who had just flown in from the Pacific to see his wife, Representative Helen Gahagan Douglas, who was making a speech on the floor of the House of Representatives that day.

In New York, incidentally, I have an unlisted telephone number – but the Manhattan director)' does list a Leonard Lyons, who is a successful furrier. When Charles Poletti was Governor of New York, he had occasion to telephone me. His secretary searched the Manhattan directory, telephoned the home of Leonard Lyons, the furrier, who was out. She left a message for him to call the Governor at the Executive Mansion in Albany. Governor Poletti eventually reached me and complained that my unlisted phone number undoubtedly had cost him a potential vote: "The furrier, Leonard Lyons, called me back and said it apparently was a mistake, after we started to talk. It cost him a long distance toll charge."

I, however, benefited from this confusion one afternoon, when I was trying to verify a story about a fur coat ordered by the Shah of Iran for his former wife, Saroya. The coat was of sable, a gift to the Shah from the Soviet Government. The story I'd heard was that because the Shah had reneged on an oil deal, the loyal members of the Furriers Union were refusing to work on the coat. I telephoned the furrier who had been entrusted with this royal assignment and my call was put through immediately. "Hello, Lenny," the furrier began, and answered my questions about the labor dispute over the Shah's sables – fully and frankly, before he discovered that the caller was not Leonard Lyons, a New York furrier, but Leonard Lyons, a New York newspaperman.