by Noel Coward
This is no evasion of responsibility on my part—I am free as the air, I have no commitments … and there is absolutely nothing to prevent me from re-writing Quadrille from beginning to end, except that I can see no reason whatsoever to do so. Do write to me at once, the moment you get this letter, and let me know that you really understand how I feel.
All dearest love, my darlings,
NOËLIE
Lynn replied:
Ten Chimneys
July [?] 1954
Darling,
I am writing this in pencil because it slips along easier and no damned pen trouble. Now, first of all, we love you and believe in your honesty and know if you say so that it is impossible to re-write or improve the first act—scene—or prologue. But you are wrong in your diagnosis of our criticism of it. When you first read the play— we both felt there was something wrong with the first scene—too long perhaps—or was it that we were not in it—and “when were we coming on?” and so on. Then we rehearsed and got immersed in the whole thing and lost our eye—others came—Binkie and others and said the first scene needed cutting—you cut a little before we came to London and, after Alfred and I cut a lot, it was improved—but we felt still (now nothing to do with criticism because we had nothing but praise from all kinds of impressive people writers—[S. H.] Behrman—well, allright—Lord David Cecil, Bob Sherwood— Maugham—Edna Ferber—all had something different and something interesting to say)—no one said the thing that we felt and it is this—for what it is worth.
The first scene between those two is too fatal—we know it is going to be a failure—couldn't it be two people madly in love (he truly—he always is) and she certainly—a respectable girl—no fool— she knows it isn't wise to sleep with a man you want to marry—so she must be mad for him—then couldn't it be a gayer, more living, more over the moon with delight—so that we want them to make a success of it.
Another little technical thing. The first scene, apart from its costume, has no atmosphere of the period—the thing you are past master at—please do a little something about that.
I don't know why I am underlining everything—but I feel a little vehement. About Lord Herondon—Allen [Alan] Webb is a fine actor and could play him as a dapper Don Juan—if he will accept the part and if you want him, we would be willing—he is a fine actor and would realize the difficulties of the part and turn in something interesting. Bobbie Fleming [Flemyng]—no. Now Brian AHearne [Aherne]—you don't like him, but, he was vastly amusing in [Maugham's] The Constant Wife and from the meagre choice we have, he would be ours—aren't there any others? John Williams turned the part down. Perhaps darling, when you have had a little rest—first from the play—and then from the sadness of Mum's death—perhaps then you will look at it again from the point of view which I have said.
Our dearest love (the barometer says 98 in the shade today) our little suit-case in Genesee is slightly uncomfortable.
XXX LYNN
From Paris, Noël continued the debate with Lynn:
Hotel Le President, Paris
August 4th 1954
Darling,
Now then, about your letter. It was dear and sweet and understanding of my point of view but not understanding of the play.
Hubert, as played by Griffith Jones and cut by you and Alfred was a dull meaningless bore. As written by me and played by a good actor with a sense of humour, he would be neither dull, meaningless nor a bore. He could never, never be truly in love. Serena says this herself. His only true love is himself and his enjoyment of words. If you start twitching his character about you will ruin the play.
The only outstanding difference between Brian Aherne and Griffith Jones is that Brian is less decorative and has adenoids.
He was good in The Constant Wife because he was playing a pompous bore without a grain of humour. Hubert is not not not a pompous bore, and if he is in the American production, as he was in London, the play will be seriously damaged. Do remember that in the very beginning Alfred thought Hubert such a good part that he went into his usual act and said he wouldn't play! I find I am firm of mind, if not more than you, because I, too, am vehement.
I love Quadrille very, very much. We all loved Quadrille very much … The first night audience in London and all the critics were determined not to like it before the curtain went up … I also think the whole company suffered from being directed by three very definite personalities. I still love Quadrille and I don't give a bugger what the critics think. They didn't like Private Lives either. I wrote the play lovingly for you and Alfred and, until the “clever ones” got at it, you never stopped saying how happy you were in it.
Serena is a great part for you and you played it gloriously, tenderly and beautifully, from the opening in Manchester until the last night in Streatham. Alfred was superb, in spite of occasional bouts of over-embroidery
In his Diary entry covering that performance, Noël recorded that Alfred “crouched and wriggled and camped about like a massive antiquaire on heat. It is so depressing that so beautiful an actor can go so far wrong.”
The play, in my opinion, will have a far better reception in America but, even if it doesn't, you two will triumph.
I do not agree with you when you say the first scene has no atmosphere. It is crammed with “atmosphere”! Or was, until it was cut to pieces. I have a very strong feeling that you don't want to play it at all, which would not be entirely unnatural in the circumstances.
We are old and close friends and always will be—no play good, bad or indifferent could change my love for you. I could, however, with the greatest pleasure in the world crack your silly heads together. I do not—underlined—think that you know as much as you think you do about playwriting and I do not—underlined—think that you know as much as you think you know about acting, except for your own in which you are unique! You are very unsure about cast.
Both John Williams and Brian Aherne are worthy, humourless and dull. But over to you, Pals. This is your decision and I will have no part of it and no blame. You will both do exactly what you want to do in the end, you always do. I would no more try and force you to engage someone I wanted for Hubert than fly. The poor bugger would be in a clinic after three weeks of rehearsal. The play is yours to do as you like with. I wrote it for you and there it is. I will not rewrite or alter one more line. You can cut it to bits, play it backwards, engage Shirley Temple to play Octavia. I shall not be pleased but I shan't mind all that much because, unless it is played as I wrote it, I shall never come and see it. I have already explained gently in my other letter why I cannot re-write, even if I were willing to, which I most emphatically am not.
I expect this letter will make you hopping mad but that can't be helped either. I am, as you may have gathered, hopping mad myself.
Am sending over this little billet doux to Lorn to have typed and copied. One of the copies may very well be put in Variety. I reiterate that I love you dearly, dearly, dearly and however maddening you are, I always will. I also reiterate that I won't re-write one line, phrase or word, and please, please don't do the play at all if you don't want to and please, please do, do it if you do want to. It is as simple as that.
Some poor tortured playwright should have written this letter to you years ago.
Love, love, love, love
NOËLLIE
He shared his frustration with Jack:
Goldenhurst
13th Sept. 1954
Dearest Dab,
I think the Lunts’ behaviour over this production has been dithering, indecisive and irritating to the point of lunacy. As you know, the reason I am staying outside the whole business is because I know by experience that my presence would achieve nothing except possibly a nervous breakdown for myself. They will get their own way in the long run; they always have and they always will.
I think Edna Best is a fine actress and I am devoted to her—I also think she is entirely miscast as Charlotte because, apart from her ingrained commonsense quali
ty, she is not American and it seems idiotic to engage an Englishwoman, however good, to play an American in America …
As I said in my two letters to the Lunts, I have read the play in its original version and in its cut form and I cannot feel that it needs rewriting. If I did feel so, I would do it unquestioningly. On top of all this, I have just had a long conversation with poor Cecil on the telephone. He has suddenly had a request to turn the first set into an inset—also, having designed, at Lynn's request, a new dress for the second act and having received an enthusiastic letter saying she and Alfred adored it, she now changes her mind and says she has never worn blue on the stage and doesn't intend to.
All of these questions could have been hammered out and settled months ago. Although the play was written as a vehicle for the Lunts, it is a play for four people. I think it is pretty obvious that the Lunts will have a triumph in it and that again I shall be blamed as a bad playwright. As I am absolutely resigned to this, the only thing to do is to let them get on with it and do everything that they want to do. In any other situation I would fight all this idiocy to the last ditch, but I know perfectly well that, as things are, no good would come of it and I think it far better for the future health, wealth and happiness of John Chapman Wilson and Noël Peirce Coward for the latter to concentrate on a nice new play for himself.
I really feel a tiny bit conscience stricken at leaving you to hold those two intractable babies, but there it is, my poor dear—you must tighten your belt and get on with it and do the best you can. I thought I would like to explain this to you so that you wouldn't feel that I was casually letting you down … And I might also add— “Courage, mon brave!”
Cecil Beaton, who accompanied the U.S. production for at least part of its road tour before New York, reported:
The Ambassador
341 Park Avenue
Just a note hurriedly on return from Boston where I went to supervise a few details. You will be very pleased with the improvement in this production. The extra pair are so much better—Edna Best is quite wonderfully funny—very appealing and babyish—like a meringue—enormous, fluffy, creamy. Ahearne excellent in last act. The Lady Bonnington scene really comes off—an actress with authority takes charge and the girl in Joyce's part is a good fighter— much more riposte and thrust—she puts Lynn on the spot.
… The whole thing goes extremely well. The Boston audience lapped it up—Everyone is pleased—Alfred had a lot of grumbles against [H. M.] Tennents and listed all the items they didn't send. Lynn was radiant—her new clothes are a big success and she looked just as lovely as in London.
Just time for me to do a few tiddivations before N.Y. opening— but I'm sorry you weren't in Boston last night to see your play brought to life with such vitality and charm.
Jack was also at the out-of-town rehearsals and, being a longtime Lunts watcher, saw a different and more typical side of things. “Grandma” (Lynn) achieved everything she wanted without even raising her voice, whereas “Grandpa” (Alfred) chose to create scenes “reminiscent of the late Sarah Bernhardt.” Not since Basil Dean had Jack seen someone make a point of bullying small part actors. Nonetheless, the results achieved were always remarkable.
The strength of Noël's comments had clearly had some effect. Alfred wrote and told him that many of the lines that had been cut in London had now been put back. When Noël replied, he expressed a different concern—that he detected a distinct chill in their friendship.
17 Gerald Road
October 25th 1954
Dear Alfred,
I must say I was delighted to get your letter and I am awfully glad you put back so many of the lines and, above all, that they go so well. This must obviously be because they are spoken a great deal better than they were in London. I am really horrified over eight pieces of scenery, eleven costumes and the props being missing. I haven't the faintest idea what went wrong about this but I bloody well intend to find out. Since getting your letter I have been trying to get hold of Binkie [who was co-producing on Broadway], but have not yet succeeded. There seems to be no excuse for it or for the music not arriving. I will try and ferret out the cause of this incompetence and will let you know the result of my findings.
I hear that Brian is exceeding good and I couldn't be more pleased and of course I can't wait to see it. I thought the Boston notices were fine. The New York notices will obviously be mixed for the play but I am sure not as unanimously damning as the London ones were. I am equally certain that you and Lynn will have the triumph you so richly deserve. It is all very exciting and I am terribly thrilled.
The only thing, of course, that saddens me a little is the inside feeling I have of stiffness between you and Lynnie and me. Lynn's tart little note which started “Dear Noël” and finished “Love Lynn” was rather chilling, which I presume it was intended to be. None of this can be explained satisfactorily until we meet but it certainly must be then. It naturally makes me unhappy that my motives should be misunderstood by you two who I have loved so much for so many years.
I expect to arrive in New York in the first week of December; I shall come and see the play the night I arrive and will expect to be asked to supper after the performance. No place cards will be necessary and, if conversation should be a little stilted during the first part of the soiree, I hope by the end of the evening Lynnie might be induced to call me “Noëlie” on leaving and even perhaps to let me kiss her hand. Failing this, I shall be forced to goose you both thoroughly as I always have and always will.
I am,
Yours sincerely,
NOËL COWARD
XXX
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.
The play opened at New York's Coronet Theatre on November 4. When he had seen the production himself, Noël wrote to Lorn:
Brian is heavy and inclined to be comical, but he has authority and looks well and compared with Griff Jones is John Barrymore on ice. Edna gives a brilliant performance, knows exactly what she's up to, and has her sturdy little Dutch trotters firmly embedded in the ground. I think Grandpa and Grandma are terrified of her. They did a lot of the Gestapo routine during the rehearsals—there were tremendous rows and screams, but now in the glow of success all acrimony has evaporated and the whole thing is just one big happy-ish family.
Lynn, Mountbatten, Chaplin, and Alfred at Chalet Coward, ca. 1970.
As Noël had predicted, the New York critics were kinder than their London peers, but once again, the Lunts were seen to triumph despite the play. It ran for 159 performances and could have run longer but the Lunts decided to end the run in March 1955, much to Noël's irritation. He wrote to Jack:
February 18th 1955
I am, naturally, sad about Quadrille but not surprised. Quadrille was written for four people; in London it had two, in New York it has three—the Lunts and Edna. Brian is as wrong for Hubert as Griff was, except that he has more authority and a name. For Hubert to be played as a pompous ass is entirely wrong, he should be so charming that there should be a certain amount of genuine regret that Serena is leaving him. This, neither of the Lunts have ever admitted, and of course, in the last analysis, it is my fault as a playwright. I should either have left Hubert as he is and played him myself, or reconstructed the play as a twosome. However, there has been so much spilt milk that I refuse to shed one tear over a drop of it. I think in fairness to the company, the management and me, the Lunts should at least recoup a little by playing Philadelphia, Washington, Chicago, etc., but if they feel, as you say, that “the play is not good enough,” there is nothing more to be said and we must tighten our belts and rise above it.
He then went on to muse on the current state of American theater:
The American theatre, with the exception of a very few sensational hits, seems to be falling off considerably. I think that this is inevitable, because what with the Unions and Equity and one thing and another and everybody's salaries being far too high, it is impossible to have a moderate success. I always suspected that the U
nions and Equity would kill the living theatre far more effectively than the talkies and television could ever do, and it looks to me as if this is coming to pass. I think the only thing to do, when eventually I appear again on Broadway, is an eight-week season with one set and a small cast, but we shall see.
CHAPTER 23
… AND THE FITFUL FIFTIES
(1950-1954)
ACE OF CLUBS opened in July 1950. It was definitely not the smash hit Noël had been looking for, and to rub it in, Frank Loesser's Guys and Dolls appeared on Broadway four months later to show how low life could have high impact. When Noël saw it, he was the first to admit, “It is a great evening in the theatre.”
To make matters worse in what was perhaps the low point of his career, the film of The Astonished Heart had opened in New York to dismissive reviews, which were only echoed even more loudly later with the London opening.
Again, he put geographical distance between himself and these latest disappointments. He returned to Jamaica and buried himself in matters domestic, and in reading all twelve volumes of Proust as a soporific.
Noël, Pat Kirkwood, and Graham backstage in Ace of Clubs.
In an undated letter to Coley, he reports:
Dearest Tolette,
The biggest hurricane since Tallulah Bankhead has just avoided the island and is on its way to Miami. We had a dear little earthquake on Saturday morning but I was on the loo at the time and put the strange rumbling down to natural causes. Apparently in Kingston quite a lot of ladies rushed into the street holding sponges over their pussies and crying Hilfe! Hilfe! Apart from these minor caprices of Mother Nature's, life is very peaceful and the weather now divine. Tell Little Lad that I went to the Moneague Hotel and that we were very foolish not to go before as it is perfectly enchanting. It is run by a stout gentleman who, although far from being as normal as blueberry pie, is a really wonderful cook; his cordon couldn't be bluer and he has promised to take some poor wretch into his kitchen and train him or her as a cook for me next winter. Jolly good luck! His hotel is perched on the top of a highish mountain and is crammed with gout—you know, Bristol, Sheraton and old Spode. It is all very strange. I am going up to New York for about ten days to buy some braid and a thing for making ice cubes which is made of rubber and plugs into practically anything. I shall then return and plug it in and hope for the best.