by Noel Coward
Then the Hallidays decided they needed to bring not only their daughter's nanny but also their secretary, and became increasingly insistent until Lorn firmly pointed out:
APPLICATION NOT GRANTED AND AM ADVISED USELESS TO PRESS FOR IT.
By September 26 the Hallidays are safely—if somewhat sullenly—on the Queen Mary and Noël reenters the fray:
WE ARE DANCING WITH IMPATIENCE AND SO VERY MUCH LONGING TO SEE YOU STOP STAY IN CABIN TILL I GET THERE SO WE DON'T MISS EACH OTHER STOP LOVE NOëL
AS he drove home after leaving them at the Savoy, Noël was, he told his Diary, “in a haze of happiness … Personally I think she has authentic magic. She is quite obviously an artist in the true sense.” To begin with, he persuaded himself that she was “a dream girl … [with] all the mercurial charm of Gertie at her best with a sweet voice and more taste.”
The troubles then began.
•
THE FIRST PROBLEM was the play itself. Noël had become besotted with his imaginary South Sea island of Samolo that he had first evoked in We Were Dancing, Hay Fever and Blithe Spirit had been written spontaneously in days, but now he spent weeks constructing a history of the island, the genealogies of the principal characters, and even the rudiments of a language. In Conversation Piece he had fallen into the trap of overindulging his French; this time it was Samolan. The final effect was decidedly unbalanced.
The story was conventional operetta. Mary Martin played Mme. Elena Salvador, a famous and widowed diva who visits the island after an exhausting world tour, then meets and falls in love with Kerry Stirling, younger son of a traditional Scottish Victorian family. Social pressures force them to part but, predictably, all ends happily.
Onstage, while the show was taking shape, happiness was in short supply. In truth the actual building was in no fit state to be used. There was no heating, and the winter winds found every bomb-damaged nook and cranny, while the cast was busily turning blue in their flimsy tropical costumes.
Noël wrote to Jack:
Here we are going through the familiar trouble of auditions with rows upon rows of hideous dwarfs with no voices and wild mad looking women of all ages who sing off key. As always we get a few good ones and are actually collecting a good singing company. But, of course, some, who I decide are only just good enough for chorus, are so God damned high and mighty that they want £2 5 a week and a single number.
The unfamiliar trouble we're going through is the long and bitter struggle to repair the bomb damage to the Theatre. I think it is more or less settled now but it has been a long, wearisome and idiotic fight. I have been putting additional touches to the score and I do think, honestly and truly, that it is very good.
Mary, realizing quite early on that she was badly miscast, began to show temperament. At first Noël tried to be understanding. He worried about her “general lack of understanding. However, I am sure she will get it.” She did not get it. Instead, she fussed about her hair, refused to wear a hat or have bows on her dress. “She is at last showing signs of being tiresome … but I suppose she must be allowed a little latitude.” And what Mary didn't choose to say to Noël, Richard Halliday was happy to say for her—loudly and repetitively. (“It was one of the most hideous, hysterical and vulgar exhibitions I have ever known in the theatre.”)
Things were not helped by the financial facts of the production. Mary had insisted on 10 percent of the gross. Noël himself received no more as librettist and composer. He expressed his true feelings in private verse:
I RESENT YOUR ATTITUDE TO MARY
I resent your attitude to Mary,
It betrays a very ugly sort of mind.
She is innocent and pure
And her husband, I am sure,
Would consider your behaviour rather rude and most unkind.
He resents and I resent
And all the passers-by resent
Your hideous attitude to Mary
I resent your attitude to Mary,
You only send her flowers once a day
Tho’ her voice is apt to jar,
She's a very famous star
And she's only taking ten per cent for acting in your play,
Tho’ her husband's heel is rather hairy,
He does very nicely on her pay.
He resents and she resents
And even Sylvia C {Cecil, a cast member) resents
Your beastly attitude to Mary
During rehearsal there was a sad personal note—a postscript to the war and much else. Auntie Vida Veitch, not wishing to be a bother to anyone, died peacefully in her sleep. “She looked very pathetic and little … [She] chose the perfect way to die. Just sleep and the light flicking out.” She left an estate of £463.105.4d.
•
PACIFIC 1860 FINALLY opened on December 19. The critical consensus was that the postwar West End didn't need prewar Coward, especially now that Broadway had groundbreaking shows like Rodgers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma! Ironically it was that very show that would follow Noël into Drury Lane.
As for Pacific 1860, Noël “came to the sad conclusion that the fundamental trouble is that Mary, charming and sweet as she is, knows nothing about Elena, never has and never will, and although she has a delicious personality, she cannot sing. She is crammed with talent but is still too ‘little’ to play sophisticated parts.”
He was strengthend in that belief when, on the occasion of the visit of the king and queen and Princess Margaret (January 23, 1947), Mary was heard to say to Princess Margaret of the absent Princess Elizabeth, “Give my best to your sister. Bye-bye for now.” And when the following day Mary made a speech to the company, thanking them for their “good performance” for the royals, Noël briefly lost his composure with the lady— only to piece it laboriously back together the next day: “I have searched London for an olive branch but, like really agile butlers, they are very rare nowadays. To find a hatchet to bury is also difficult owing to the steel shortage. I am, therefore, sending you these flowers with my love.”
But the relationship had now deteriorated too far, and Noël's attempts to patch it were counterproductive. Tired of Mary, Pacific 1860, “Dreary Lane,” and the whole episode, he decided to set off on his first postwar visit to New York. But before he did:
Dear Noël,
I'm sorry to say I don't find it easy to be gracious about accepting the “peace-offering”. Perhaps if I hadn't had less sleep in the last three weeks than I've ever had I could be more appreciative. But, I'm very weary, all over.
However, there are at least two things I'm very clear about and which I don't think you are aware of. One—you are without doubt the most charming host I've ever known and I shall always be grateful, and shall always love recalling tens—even hundreds—of wonderful moments you created and that gave me nothing but fun and pleasure.
Two—we have not had any “disagreements”. I have never been permitted to say so little or express myself so little. One just isn't allowed to disagree with a dictator—or with you or Gladys. It is fortunate and has been rewarding in the past and will be in the future, that you two found each other and understand and admire each other so perfectly. I am sure the association gives you both everything you want. But, professionally, I'm sorry to say, it has given me little that I want—and personally it has given me nothing. I found the emotional outbursts something entirely new; the unreasonable approach ugly and deplorable—they made me physically ill. I'm really writing to ask, that for all our sakes, that you accept me “for better or for worse”—but, please, both you and Gladys, stay away— “professionally” in every way—I'm incapable of going onand&t the same time receiving orders, I'm tired, I'm bored. I need sleep. I'm sorry but I find I can't get sleep and commands from you and Gladys at the same time. And, now that it's gone so far—I can't take any more suggestions from third parties. But, of course, you also realize that “professionally,” Coward and Martin just don't have anything more to offer each other. “Socially” I look forward (and w
ill consider myself lucky) to see you again and again and again—and even more than that;—again and again—!!!
Have a good and successful trip—All best wishes.
MARY
January 28th 1947
My dear Mary,
I am typing this reply to your letter because I have quite a lot to say and my handwriting is difficult to read.
You said very charming things about our social and personal relationship and I do most sincerely assure you that as far as all that side of it is concerned we are absolutely quits. You and Richard couldn't possibly have been more genuinely appreciative of any small efforts I may have made to make your visit happy and you also, both of you, reciprocated everything to the full. Now, professionally speaking, I think the situation needs clarifying a little and I must say to you what is truly in my heart and mind regarding both your position and your performance in the theatre. I fully appreciate the fact that you are weary and tired and have lost sleep. So am I and so have I. It is always difficult and exhausting when something upon which one has immense faith and energy turns out to be a disappointment. I am dreadfully sad that after all our high hopes, the show has not been as successful as we thought it was going to be. However, there it is and facts must be faced.
It seems to me that you and Richard have got your theatrical values very confused. The Star System, as occasionally exemplified by (for example your Lute Song) [her previous show] contract should not, on the basis of logic and reason, exist in any theatre in the world.
You have personality, charm and a great deal of talent, as yet largely undeveloped. Your years in the theatre have been few; you made your first success singing, quite perfectly, “My Heart Belongs to Daddy;” your second success was One Touch of Venus, in which you were charming and did what was required of you gracefully and well. Dancing In the Streets I know little about beyond the fact that it did not come into New York, hute Song I did not see but I have heard on all sides that it was beautiful to look at, dull, only moderately successful and that you were unanimously acclaimed as being charming in it. Whether or not your acting performance was accurate and according to the script I do not know, as I neither read the script nor saw you in it.
Pacific 1860 is, according to these statistics which I think are correct, the fifth theatrical production with which you have been concerned. It is the forty-seventh theatrical production with which I have been concerned since 1920. For your performance you are paid by the management the biggest star salary payable in this Country i.e. ten per cent of the gross and have been given full transport for yourself and party. You arrived in this country full of friendliness and enthusiasm with a completely wrong conception of the part of Elena Salvador. This you have frequently admitted to me yourself. You accuse me in your letter of being a dictator. What you are really accusing me of is being a director. I have tried, with the utmost gentleness and patience, to guide and help you into understanding and playing Elena. Not only am I the director but I am also the author and creator of the character, therefore, I am afraid my conception must logically supersede yours. You worked extremely hard, not only up to production but after production, to play the part as I wished it played. You were on the verge of succeeding when, on account of some highly irrational and quite inaccurate opinions of your own about period clothes, you proceeded to throw away all that our joint efforts had so nearly achieved.
Your insistence that your position as a star entitled you to wear a dress in direct contradiction to the designer's, the director's, the author's and the management's wishes was an abuse of your position and a tacit acknowledgement that you still had no conception of the job you were being highly paid to do. It was perfectly apparent a long while ago that you had conceived a personal animosity for Gladys Calthrop but the fact remains she is an expert on period clothes and you are not. Since then you have built up in your mind an animosity towards me as a dictator. I am also an expert and know exactly how, ideally, this part should and could be played by you.
When we were rehearsing you remarked on my patience and gentleness in directing Sylvia Cecil. You may remember that both Gladys and I insisted on her wearing a wig which she did not wish to do. We insisted on this (A) because it was correct and in period and (B) because for her to have more or less the same coloured hair as you would have been ineffective. Do you consider this dictatorship? Or would you have preferred us to have allowed her to wear her own hair exactly as she wished?
You say you found the emotional outbursts something entirely new and the unreasonable approach ugly and deplorable. The first emotional outburst, I hasten to remind you, took place some days before production when Richard had admittedly had too much to drink and screamed a great deal of irrelevant and hysterical abuse. The second emotional outburst was when I came into your room with Lorn and asked you not to wear your Second Act dress in the First Act as it completely defeated the effect you were trying to make. You then burst into angry tears, stamped your foot, said I was out of my mind, screamed at the top of your lungs (with reference to the yellow dress), “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it” and refused point blank to wear any sort of hat in a period when only a lady of easy virtue would leave her house bare-headed. The end of this second and I hope last emotional outburst was the discarding of the yellow dress and hat in which you looked dignified and delightful and the designing and making of a new dress which, although perfectly adequate, is not a quarter as distinctive or distinguished. From that moment onwards you have proceeded to behave in a very curious way. You refused to make recordings, regardless of the fact that the making of them meant a great deal to the Company and to the show, unless I guaranteed that you had “two sides” to yourself. And that you sang, as a solo, a number which in the show is designed and executed as a duet. You also refused to appear at a photograph call until 1:30 on a Monday, thereby completely ruining the planned work of the day. It seems to me, dear Mary, that you and Richard are placing too much emphasis on the word “star” and too little on the famous theatrical word “trouper.”
I am sure that by the time you have read this far you will have convinced yourself that by writing this letter to you I am behaving in an “ugly” manner with intent to hurt you. This is untrue. I am writing to you as a man of the theatre of many years standing who is full of admiration of your personality, charm and talent and who also sees, perhaps more than you realise, how many years of hard work, possible disappointments and the humble acceptance of superior knowledge lie ahead of you before you achieve the true reward that your ambition demands.
Please believe that your future career depends on your throwing away your, and above all Richard's exaggerated and grotesque conception of “Stardom” and concentrating on learning, diligently and painstakingly, to be the fine artiste your potential talent entitles you to be.
So much for my professional point of view.
Socially, indeed, I deeply hope that we shall meet again and again and again and I do send you my best wishes always.
He had long since become “sick to death of Pacific 1860 and everything to do with it,” and when it finally gave up the ghost after 129 performances, his sigh of relief was almost audible.
The Coward-Martin team was certainly at a parting of the ways, but it would only be temporary. They would again be “together with music”— but not just yet.
•
WHILE NOëL HAD BEEN shivering through a drafty South Pacific, he had also been trying to guide Jack through the Broadway production of Present Laughter, very much as he had with the earlier Blithe Spirit, Once again Clifton Webb was playing the leading role.
23/9/46
17 Gerald Road
S.W.i.
Darling Mr. Webb,
You poor foolish boy! Fancy attempting to play a part which being in itself small and rather thankless requires, above everything else, beauty and grace and sweetness. After all, you must remember, it was written with those qualities in mind and played with such exquisite finesse that you could hav
e heard a bomb drop.
However, if you like, in your clumsy heavy footed way, to go stamping through the fabric of my dreams, that's entirely your affair.
I detected in your letter a certain whining note about the number of words you had to learn.
This complaint has been verified by those funny little Lunts who I hear are strutting about in some trumpery little piece [0 Mistress Mine] and who also have trouble with their words.
Now, my Darling Little Webb, it is a question of concentration and Mary Baker Eddy … You must persevere, Dear Boy, and think beautiful thoughts and if you don't make an enormous success in it, I shall come and knock the B'Jesus out of you! I consign you happily to your fate! I love you very much. I also love Mabelle very much and will send her a gold tooth when I get round to it.
Now, be a good boy, Master Webb, and when in any doubts, think of Leonora Corbett.
Love and mad mad kisses
Mr. Coward
The largely socialite first night contributed to a fiasco, which the critics were quick to seize on and, although Jack soon had the numbed performers back on track and put the “bloody awful” experience behind them, the edge was taken off what might have been a considerable success.
Noël commiserated with Jack:
12th November 1946
I can't tell you how I sympathized about the obvious bloodiness of the first night. I am sure you did all you could to give them speed but I should think myself, and very much between ourselves, that the main trouble was Clifton. I am sure he plays it beautifully and I know he is a fine actor, but Present Laughter is not so much a play as a series of semi-autobiographical pyrotechnics, and it needs, over and above everything else, abundant physical vitality. I myself found it arduous to play and God knows I have the vitality of the devil. Clifton's method is more measured than mine and I suspect that because of this, in spite of his technical skill and wit and charm, he gives the audience time to see the wheels going round. I played it more violently than I have ever played anything, and swept everything and everybody along with me at a breakneck speed. Obviously there is nothing to be done about all this but I expect you will agree with me. I am delighted that the business is good. As you know I don't pay much attention to notices and if it's a reasonable success, so much the better.