How one Philadelphian had his identity stolen by the world’s most famous secret agent.
By Charles E. Ramsey
TWO BACHELORS
In the early 1950s, a 40-something Englishman named Ian Fleming found himself in a troubling situation: for the first time in his life, the self-described “confirmed bachelor” was about to get married. “I decided to take my mind off the dreadful prospect,” he later wrote, “by writing a thriller.” The thriller in question would become the first of thirteen novels published between 1953 and 1964, each detailing the exploits of Fleming’s most celebrated character: a British spy who is as famous today for his code name – 007 - and cocktail order - vodka martini, shaken not stirred – as he is for the name with which Fleming christened him: Bond, James Bond.
At about the same time, across the Atlantic, another confirmed bachelor was facing a similar predicament. Bachelor #2, we will call him for now, was a 50-something ornithologist at the Academy of Natural Sciences, a native Philadelphian who had been born on Pine Street in 1900, raised in wealth and privilege on a sprawling estate in Spring House (now Gwynedd-Mercy College), and educated in England at Harrow and Cambridge. Unlike Fleming, Bachelor #2 had already made a name for himself in books: his Birds of the West Indies, first published in 1936, was widely recognized as the final authority on the avifauna of the Caribbean. By the early 1950s, he was, you might even say, somewhat of a household name… at least among ornithologists and Caribbean bird enthusiasts. But his lifelong bachelordom, like Fleming’s, was not to last. In 1953, he married Mary Wickham Porcher Lewis, a poet and novelist who was two years his senior but energetic, vivacious, and youthful in appearance. Her charms won over the tall, dark, and handsome ornithologist. In hindsight, her feat seems even more remarkable: she made an honest man out of James Bond.
MARRIED LIFE
James Bond, who had been living at various Center City addresses since his return from England in 1922, moved with his new bride into The Drake on Spruce Street. After three years there, they moved to Chestnut Hill, where Mrs. Bond had been born and raised.
While the real James Bond was finally settling down, Ian Fleming’s Bond was just getting started. Fleming was publishing his novels at a rate of one per year – Casino Royale (1953), Live and Let Die (1954), Moonraker (1955), Diamonds Are Forever (1956), From Russia With Love (1957) – and, while they were growing increasingly popular in England, they remained largely unknown in the United States. Mr. and Mrs. Bond went on with their life unaware of the existence of 007. Like the fictional James Bond, they made frequent trips to Jamaica; but instead of chasing Dr. No and Mr. Big, the real James Bond was after such elusive quarry as the Golden Swallow and the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker.
STRANGE REVIEWS
In 1960, James Bond released the latest edition of his Birds of the West Indies. As the press clippings started coming in, the Bonds were shocked and confused by the reactions of the British press. “‘Image’ is the new nauseating word,” wrote one critic from London’s Sunday Times:
I can barely bring myself to write that James Bond, like practically everyone else mentioned in the newspapers these days, is trying to establish a new image of himself. To show maybe that his life is not all sado-masochism, Smith and Wessons, and ecrevisse-tails in a white wine and brandy, Bond has revealed himself as a bird-watcher… Terrible mistake! I now find that the author of Birds of the West Indies is a different James Bond, Curator at the Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia, and a top banana in ornithology.
In trying to make sense of this and other similar reviews, the Bonds became aware, for the first time, of Ian Fleming and his 007 novels. Through a friend, they obtained a copy of Fleming’s Dr. No, which Mrs. Bond read “with keen enjoyment.” She had fun picturing her husband in the role of the book’s protagonist, and even fancied that some of 007’s Caribbean adventures had been inspired by her husband’s ornithological expeditions. For the time being, though, the Bonds smiled and shrugged. Surely, they reasoned, this was nothing more than a happy coincidence. They would soon find out otherwise.
A DREADFUL CONFESSION
In the spring of 1961, Mary Bond was getting film developed at Dedaker’s Camera Shop in Mt. Airy. “I read something about your husband the other day,” said the shopkeeper casually. “Now let me see – where was it? Oh yes, in Playboy Magazine.” Mrs. Bond was intrigued and, needless to say, a little alarmed. The shopkeeper went on to explain: “It was something about an English writer who said he’d taken your husband’s name for his hero.”
Astounded by this revelation, Mary Bond did a little detective work of her own and was able to find an interview with Fleming from Rogue magazine (February, 1961). In it, Fleming said:
There really is a James Bond, you know, but he’s an American ornithologist not a secret agent. I’d read a book of his and when I was casting about for a natural sounding name for my hero, I recalled the book, and lifted the author’s name out-right.
Mrs. Bond wasted no time in dashing off a letter to Fleming’s London office. “It came to [James] as a surprise,” she wrote, “when we discovered…that you had brazenly taken the name of a real human being for your rascal!” She closed her letter thus:
I tell my JB he could sue you for defamation of character, but he regards the whole thing as a joke.
Later in the year, she received Fleming’s reply, addressed, strangely enough, to Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, Pasadena. “I will confess,” wrote the British novelist, “that your husband has every reason to sue me in every possible position and for practically every kind of libel in the book, for I will now confess the damnable truth.”
Fleming went on to explain how, nearly ten years before, he had begun writing his first 007 book as a diversion from the “dreadful prospect” of his upcoming marriage:
At that time one of my bibles was, and still is, Birds of the West Indies by James Bond, and it struck me that this name, brief, unromantic, and masculine, was just what I needed and so James Bond II was born, and started off on the career that, I must confess, has been meteoric, culminating with his choice, by your President [John F. Kennedy] as his favorite thriller hero.
So there is my dreadful confession together with limitless apologies and thanks for the fun and fame I have had from the most extraordinary chance choice of so many years ago.
In return, I can only offer your James Bond unlimited use of the name Ian Fleming for any purposes he may think fit. Perhaps one day he will discover some particularly horrible species of bird which he would like to christen in an insulting fashion; that might be a way of getting his own back.
Fleming closed his letter with an open invitation to Goldeneye, his vacation home and writing retreat in Jamaica, “so that you may inspect in comfort, the shrine where the second James Bond was born.”
FICTION MEETS REALITY
On February 5, 1964, while visiting Jamaica, the Bonds decided to take Ian Fleming up on his invitation of three years before. As they pulled into his driveway, they were greeted by one of Fleming’s housekeepers. “Who shall I say is calling?” she asked. “Mr. and Mrs. James Bond,” came the reply. The woman smiled with an expression of shock and amusement, and she rushed off to inform her employer.
Fleming came out of the house and greeted the unexpected guests affectionately. He insisted that they stay for lunch. First, though, he pointed to a flock of birds, and asked Bond to identify them. “Cave swallows,” said Bond. “A very common species in the Antilles. Do you see the square shape of the tail? If you look closely you’ll see a chestnut rump.” Fleming now had no doubt that he was, at last, in the presence of the real James Bond.
Over lunch, Fleming insisted on sitting next to Mrs. Bond. He was genuinely curious to know more about her and the man whose name had brought him so much success. At the end of the day, Fleming brought out his guest book and turned to a blank page. “You’ve got to have a page all to yourself!” he said to James Bond. “And write it BIG!”
In return, Fleming gave the Bonds a copy of his newest novel, You Only Live Twice. On the fly page, he wrote:
To the real James Bond, from the thief of his identity, Ian Fleming. Feb. 5, 1964 (a great day!)
It was the first and last time that James Bond would meet Ian Fleming, and one of the last great days of Fleming’s life. He died just six months later, at the age of 56.
THE LEGEND GROWS
With the release of the first James Bond film, Dr. No, in 1962, the Bond legend took on new proportions, and the real James Bond could no longer avoid the complications that went along with having such a famous name. At a literary party, a lady rushed up to him and cried, “Oh Mr. Bond! I did so enjoy your Dr. No!” Even customs officials gave him sly smiles when asking if he was carrying any firearms. Occasionally, the Bonds would receive late-night phone calls from young women asking for James. “Yes he’s here,” was Mary Bond’s usual reply, “but this is Pussy Galore and he’s busy now.”
Mrs. Bond clearly had more fun with the Bond legend than Bond himself. In an interview with The Sunday Bulletin Magazine (October 4, 1964), James Bond directed the interviewer to his wife for any questions relating to 007. “Quite frankly,” he said, “I’m not particularly interested in this business.” Robert Peck, a Senior Fellow at the Academy of Natural Sciences, described “Jim” as “modest and soft-spoken” and “embarrassed by the notoriety that Ian Fleming had given him.” Nonetheless, Bond’s name occasionally proved helpful. As Peck recalled, “he was always able to get a good table at a restaurant.”
As chance would have it, Bond’s personal characteristics invited comparisons to the fictional spy. Later in the Sunday Bulletin interview, Bond provided his martini recipe with a specificity that would have made 007 proud: roughly six parts gin to one part vermouth in a chilled glass, with a little lemon peel rubbed on the rim. “I see no point in not making it right.” Bond said. “A poor martini is the worst drink in the world.”
Physically, Bond bore more than a passing resemblance to the fictional Bond. “You fit my image of Fleming’s Bond much better than the actor [Sean Connery] who plays Bond in the movies,” said Peter Martin, the interviewer in the Sunday Bulletin article. Mrs. Bond, too, noted a resemblance between Bond and the big-screen 007, but summed up their similarities thus: “They are both gentlemen and share a ceremonious regard for the mixing of a martini.”* She added that she found her husband the more handsome of the two.
BOND, JAMES BOND
The real James Bond died at Chestnut Hill Hospital in 1989 after a long and distinguished career at the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia. Upon his death, ornithologists from all over the world paid tribute to him, in particular, for his groundbreaking discovery that birds of the Antilles were North American, and not South American, in origin. His books and scientific discoveries are still housed at the Academy of Natural Sciences, where they continue to be consulted regularly. Ornithologists even re-named the Caribbean boundary between North and South American birds “Bond’s Line.”
But to the rest of the world, Bond’s most famous line is his own name: last name first, followed by full name. And for this, Ian Fleming is indebted to a quiet and unassuming ornithologist from Philadelphia.
May 28th of this year marks the 100th anniversary of Ian Fleming’s birth. Whether you are visiting the Academy of Natural Sciences, wandering up Pine Street, passing through Rittenhouse Square, or staring up at The Drake’s distinctive facade, spare a thought for the man who unwittingly gave his name to Fleming’s beloved secret agent: Philadelphia’s own, original James Bond.
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Acknowledgements:
-The biographical details of Bond’s youth and early-married life are drawn mainly from David R. Contosta’s book, The Private Life of James Bond (Lititz, PA: Sutter House, 1993)
-Mary Wickham Bond’s personal recollections, including her correspondence with Ian Fleming, and the details of her and James’ visit with Fleming, are drawn from her very fine book, How 007 Got His Name (London: Collins, 1966)
*This quote is taken from an interview with the Cambridge News (July 14, 1966)
The author is grateful to Robert Peck, of the Academy of Natural Sciences, for his personal recollections of Jim and Mary Bond, and to Eileen Mathias, of the Ewell Sale Stewart Library in the Academy of Natural Sciences, for allowing him access to the Academy’s archives, including Mary Wickham Bond’s personal scrapbook of 007-related photographs, press clippings, and letters.