The Letters of Noel Coward

by Noel Coward

  “New York seemed, in spite of its hardness and irritating, noisy efficiency, a great and exciting place.”

  The hotel might well have been redolent with literary history and the ghosts of bons mots, but it was unfortunately lacking in adequate air-conditioning. The next day Noël moved to the cooler (and cheaper) Brevoort Hotel.

  Since his stay was theoretically open-ended, he was concerned to set to rest Violet's worries about his well-being. The weekly letters continued, and in an attempt to distract her, he devised a tongue-in-cheek “Diary,” which commingled a smattering of fact with a good deal of fantasy. He explained:

  My publisher has informed me that it is the note of careless intimacy in published diaries which attracts the public. According to him, people love to know a bit about names and personalities that they have never met. For instance, if I wrote—“ Tuesday—met Mrs. Fiske—how like she is to Auntie Clara, only without her nose”—everyone would be immensely thrilled. Tho’ until that moment they had never heard of Auntie Clara, they would experience a pleasant glow of satisfaction in the thought of how like she was to Mrs. Fiske. An atmosphere of charming cameraderie would be established. Mrs. Fiske would in all probability receive heaps of letters likening her to their Auntie Jessie's and their Auntie Amy's and everyone would be pleased.

  I was awfully thrilled when he suggested a diary of my American visit. Here is the opportunity I have been waiting for, I told myself. I shall be able to be frightfully witty and everybody will talk a lot about my caustic pen, etc. I shall tell the true story of Mrs. Vernon Ball and the Parrot…and I shan't scruple to publish the facts of the Southampton weekend party when Mrs. Frazzle and Marie Prune did that most peculiar nautch dance in their bathing dresses.

  The Algonquin Round Table, the self-appointed arbiters of New York literary taste in the 1920s. This mural from the Algonquin Hotel's dining room is A Vicious Circle, by Natalie Ascencios. (Reproduced by permission of the Algonquin Hotel.)

  NEW YORK DIARY

  SATURDAY

  I felt that some sort of scene was necessary to celebrate my first entrance into America, so I said—“ Little lamb, who made thee?” to a Customs official. A fracas far exceeding my wildest dreams ensued, during which he delved down with malice aforethought to the bottom of my trunk and discovered the oddest things in my sponge bag. I think I am going to like America. I have very good letters to frightfully influential people—Daniel Blood, Dolores Harper, Senator Pinchbeck, Violet Curyon Meyer and Julia Pescod—so I ought to get along all right socially at any rate.

  WEDNESDAY

  For a really jolly evening I recommend the Times Square subway station. You get into any train with that delicious sensation of breathless uncertainty as to where you are going. To ask an official is sheer folly, as any tentative question is calculated to work them up to a frenzy of rage and violence. To ask your fellow passengers is equally useless, as they are generally as dazed as you are. The great thing is to keep calm and at all costs to avoid Expresses. As another means of locomotion the Elevated Railway possesses a rugged charm. The serene pleasure of gazing into frowsy bedroom windows at elderly coloured ladies in bust bodices and flannel petticoats is only equalled by the sudden thrill you experience when the two front carriages hurtle down to the street in flames.

  This morning I took two of my plays to Fred Latham at the Globe Theatre. He didn't accept them for immediate production but told me of two delightful bus rides—one going up Riverside Drive and the other coming down Riverside Drive. I was very grateful, as the buses this slow moving are more or less tranquil and filled with the wittiest advertisements, which make everyone rock with laughter.

  THURSDAY

  Spent all last night at Coney Island. I've never known such an atmosphere of genuine carnival. We went on The Whip, the sudden convulsions of which drove the clasp of my braces sharply into my back, scarring me, I think, for life. Now I know why Americans always wear belts.

  Then we went into a Haunted House, where a board gave way beneath my foot and nicked my ankle. The Giant Dipper was comfortingly tame, as I only bruised my side and cut my cheek—after which we had “Hot Dog and Stout,” which the others seemed to enjoy immensely. Then—laughing gaily—we all ran through a revolving wooden wheel. At least, the others did. I inadvertently caught my foot and fell, which caused a lot of amusement. I shall not go out again with a sharp cigarette case in my pocket.

  MONDAY, 2 3RD.

  Met AW [Alexander Woollcott] at a first night. We were roguish together for hours and I liked him enormously. What a pity he's so devoted to Marie Prune—not that I actually dislike her but, really, a woman of her age ought never to behave in such an abandoned manner. Also that dreadful blouse she wore made me feel quite ill and she squinted vilely.

  I went on afterwards to “Montmartre.” Ina Claire was there looking lovely as usual—anyhow she's one of the cleverest artists in the world. I noticed poor Vera Frazzle at the next table. She was rather drunk and obviously upset about her sister running away with a Chinaman. After all, who wouldn't be?

  ABOVE LEFT: Laurette Taylor (1884-1946). The inspiration for Judith Bliss in Hay Fever. After she saw the play, Taylor didn't speak to Noël for several years (hence “Silently Yours”).

  ABOVE RIGHT: “Do you remember Lynn Fontanne?” Noël wrote to his mother from New York in 1921. “She played some small parts in London, was ‘adopted’ by Laurette Taylor…and came to New York.”

  SATURDAY 4TH

  Met the Theatre Guild and played Hide and Seek with them in the park. Helen Westley fell into the pond—how we laughed. Lunched at the Algonquin with the creme de la creme of the artistic world. Francis Carson, George Kaufman and notably, Cynthia Burdleheim, who ate her food quite disgustingly and was wearing imitation pearls the size of hen's eggs. Later on we went and had tea at Mesa Malmean's Studio, which was most attractive. She is a perfect hostess and there was an air of pleasing bohemianism about the whole affair which went far towards making me take another cake. In more formal circumstances I should naturally have refrained. After tea I played the piano and sang and everybody talked—mostly while I was singing. It was all great fun.

  TUESDAY 7TH

  Such a busy day—had a play refused by William Harris. I also fell off the bus, being unused to getting off on the right hand side. I just love America.

  SUNDAY 16TH

  America is the place to get on. I should always like to have a little working model of Broadway at night—just to take out and look at when I feel depressed. I'm quite sure it is one of the most amazing sights in the world. I shall feel awfully offended for Piccadilly Circus when I get back.

  The teasing would continue over the years. On his second visit to the United States three years later:

  Ritz Carlton, New York

  This is just a short line to reassure your yearning mother's heart. I am well considering I had three operations for appendicitis yesterday— was run over by a bus on Tuesday—smitten down by peritonitis on Sunday and am going into consumption tomorrow. But you mustn't worry because apart from these things I'm all right. There are certain to be Icebergs, Hurricanes, Typhoons and Torpedoes but Douglas Fairbanks I'm sure will save me if you write him a nice letter. By the way, there is a dreadfully dangerous lift in this apartment, several people are killed daily just getting in and out—and the drains are notoriously bad. Diphtheria and Typhoid are inevitable! But Don't Worry,

  Brevort Hotel

  New York

  (?) September, 1921

  Darling old Snig,

  In case you're wondering where your wandering boy is wandering, the answer is—anywhere and everywhere!

  Why did nobody tell me that the streets of New York are so hot in the summer that you could fry an egg on the pavement (sorry, sidewalk!)—always supposing you had an egg!

  Everybody who is anybody—and everybody wants to think they're somebody—goes out of town and they're now beginning to trickle back in with their Long Island tans. Eve
n so I've met some fascinating folk.

  Do you remember Lynn Fontanne? She played some small parts in London, was “adopted” by Laurette Taylor—now there's a character (and I've met her, too)—and came to New York. Well, she's had a huge success in a play called Dulcy (she's Dulcy). I went to see her opening night with her fiance, an actor called Alfred Lunt and, my dear, a star was born. Well, two stars, actually, as Alfred is also making a name for himself in these parts.

  Noël first met Edna Ferber (1887-1968) at the Algonquin Round Table. Observing the severe cut of her suit, he joked, “Why, Edna, you almost look like a man.” “That's funny,” she replied. “So do you, Noël.” It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.

  They're quite wonderful and couldn't have been kinder to me. They haven't any money either—though they soon will have, I'm sure—and they helped me keep body and soul together by sharing their last crust (not quite that, really!). They're going to be huge stars and, since we all know that yours truly is going to be one too, we've decided that, when that great day arrives, we shall act together in a play I shall write for us and the cosmos will have a new galaxy.

  Really, darling, the theatre here is something to wonder at. As a successful London playwright myself—ahem! (Well, five weeks isn't a bad start!) But I can tell you this is something in a different world. The speedl Everybody seems to say their lines at such a rate you'd think you wouldn't understand a word—but you do! And then it suddenly struck me—that's the way people actually talk. Wait till I get back to Shaftesbury Avenue!!

  Well, old Snig, that's all for now. Must rush or the Astors and Vanderbilts will think I'm not coming. Won't be long now till your dear son is back to give you lots of hugs and bore everyone with his stories and exploits, some of which actually happenedl Love, love, love.

  Alec Woollcott and Edna Ferber, as seen by James Montgomery Flagg.

  •

  AT FIRST GLANCE Noës friendship with Alexander Woollcott (1887—1943) was an unlikely one. Having returned from what he insisted on calling “the theatre of war,” Woollcott proceeded to combine the roles of theater critic, essayist, broadcaster, sometime playwright, and occasional actor. (He was the inspiration for Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner, the 1939 Kaufman-Hart play, and gloried in playing the part on tour.)

  But over and above all these roles Woollcott prided himself on being a “personality” and the self-appointed leader of the Algonquin Round Table for the decade that it existed. It was probably this aspect of self-promotion that he recognized in Noël. They were both their own creations.

  Woollcott began by being suspicious of this overseas interloper who would occasionally turn up for lunch with Alfred and Lynn, but the ice was broken the evening he asked Noël for his opinion of a play they had both attended. Noël pronounced it “tedious,” but with his distinctive manner of speaking, the word came out “tee-jus.” Woollcott was delighted. A man who was in the habit of falling out with even his closest friends and who never met a grudge he couldn't bear, he never quarreled with Noël. Instead, they maintained a relationship of mutual teasing and mock insult for the next twenty years.

  Whatever activity was involved, Woollcott had to be team leader. He insisted the Algonks take up croquet, a game in which he wielded a mean mallet and reinvented the rules as he went along. Noël became a skilled player himself but he knew better than to beat Woollcott too often. After a weekend visit he wrote:

  Although at croquet I was dull, and made myself a boah

  By choosing names in other games, less famed than Mrs, Noah

  Although at every verbal prank I merely sniffed and snuffled,

  Although I won at “Russian Bank” with cards you hadn't shuffled,

  In spite of all—to coin a phrase, my literary Caesar,

  I loved my halycon (?) nights and days with Ackie Wackie Weeza,

  Nothing was too trivial for them to debate.

  May 23rd 1932

  When I remember how you tossed your head and said you would not accept instruction in English pronunciation from an American, I take a special pleasure in suggesting that you look up the only pronunciation which the Oxford Dictionary {not an American product) sanctions for “inextricable.”

  A.W.

  May 26th 1933

  Dear Ackie Weeza,

  I have noticed with grief just lately that you are looking increasingly under-nourished and emaciated. Now, Ackie, don't be offended at what I am going to do, and please accept the enclosed cheque in the spirit in which it is offered, which dear Ackie, is the spirit of hate, contempt, fury, jaundice, loathing, not untinged with despair.

  All my love, you wicked, grasping old bitch.

  Noëlie Wolie Polie

  August nth 1933

  You would have enjoyed an idle conversation at Neysa's [McMein] the other day. The subject of claustrophobia came up and someone said the analysts were inclined to ascribe it to delayed birth. This naturally inspired a theme song, to be called “A Womb With a View”.

  A. Weeza Woollcott

  And so it continued for the next decade.

  Neysa McMein (1890—1949) was a well-known commercial artist. Her studio became a refuge for the “Algonks” between lunches. She and Noël became such close friends that for years after her death he would say to Cole Lesley, “I could have done without Neysa dying, you know.”

  •

  ALTHOUGH HE GOT to know all the Algonks to one degree or another, Noël had more of a rapport with some than others. There was the beautiful artist and illustrator Neysa McMein (1890-1949). No matter how erratic her attendance at the lunches, her studio was the next stop after the Algonquin for anyone anxious to fill in time until the dinner hour. While Neysa continued to paint her commissioned covers for The Saturday Evening Post, McCall's, Woman's Home Companion, and just about every other magazine, around her instant salon swirled the likes of George Gershwin, Charlie Chaplin, Feodor Chaliapin, Mary Pickford, and Helen Hayes.

  Neysa and Noël were inseparable whenever he was in New York over the years. And as with others in his life there was the teasing element that Noël found essential to a close relationship. Neysa became “Beauty,” and she christened him by the same name. But when Noël seemed to step out of line:

  Your self-election to the role of Supreme Beauty I dismiss with a coarse laugh. Super crust is the word that comes to mind. After all, you are barely graduated from the Fumble-Paws Bird Brain ranks, so this lack of modesty and flossy self-styling ill becomes one who has barely made the grade.

  And when war came:

  I resent the arrangement which makes you live 3,000 miles away, and it would have been wonderful to finish at least one of our “talks.” Here was I learning about Life at a mile a minute, and we arrive at a theatre or you leave the country.

  Do you suppose we will ever be together again…and care-free? I miss you, Beauty darling, more than I can say. Your handsome puss in an elegant frame sits in the living room. Your music is open on the piano. I have that lousy drawing of yours on my desk … So one way or another you are ALWAYS on my mind.

  (Oh, these mad notes that foolish women write at midnight. Be sure and burn this, dear.) Anyway, I adore you, my glorious Bird-Brain, and how about answering this just to prove to Mother that you CAN write?

  She died after an abdominal operation in May 1949 but remained in what Noël called his “deepest heart.” (“She always cancelled every engagement for me; this one she could not cancel.”) In later years his secretary, Cole Lesley, would recall Noël often saying apropos of nothing even remotely related—“ I could have done without Neysa dying, you know.”

  •

  NOëL'S OWN SUMMATION of that first visit to New York? “It seemed, in spite of its hardness and irritating, noisy efficiency, a great and exciting place.”

  And then, on October 29, the message Violet had been waiting for:

  don't forward letters sailing next week will let you

  know particulars.


  NOëL

  The Young Master was home and ready for The Young Idea,

  CHAPTER 3

  “DANCE, DANCE, DANCE, LITTLE LADY”

  (1922—1924)

  London's leading producer of “intimate revue” in the 1910s and 1920s—until the arrival of Charles Cochran—Andre Chariot (1882—1956) gave Noël his first opportunity in this field by staging London Calling! in 1923.

  In lives of leisure

  The craze for pleasure

  Steadily grows.

  Cocktails and Laughter,

  But what comes after?

  Nobody knows.

  “POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL” (1925)

  THE RETURN JOURNEY was made under rather more modest circumstances on the SS Cedric—even then his passage was paid for by new New York friends. There he met someone who would not normally have crossed his path.

  Marie Stopes (1880—1958) was a noted feminist and leading advocate of birth control. “She had, appropriately, the eyes of a fanatic,” Noël noted. They spent a great deal of a long, boring voyage together, but fortunately for him, she did not attempt readings from her master works, Married Love or Wise Parenthood—the finer points of which would in any case have been lost on him. Instead, she wanted to talk about theater and the novel, in both of which she showed a keen interest.

  In the spirit that holiday friendships create, Noël rather rashly agreed to visit her on their return to England, and did so more than once. He was to realize that no good deed goes unpunished when the lady insisted on reading aloud large amounts of her own fiction and sending him off with even more of it.