The Letters of Noel Coward

by Noel Coward

  Love and kisses

  Noël

  But other friends were positively dismayed at his decision to move. Laurence Olivier was one:

  Arroyo de la Miel

  Torremolinos

  My dearest Noëlie,

  It is truly awful that I have not written to you and I am truly sorry. But I have truly felt (Jesus)—The thing is I have tried and once sat for half an hour putting nothing down for the reason that I worried that would have seemed to you smug and pompous and even hypercritical. But it's no fucking use. If I let it go on any longer it'll be too late to write ever and turn into an idiotic puzzlement not really to be laughed off when we meet.

  “That we would do we should do when we would” and I should bloody well have sat down and risked it when you made your Big Decish. I didn't because I didn't know what to say. It's always been a problem for me that I've never been able to adopt an attitude or reach a conclusion on purely logical or reasonable grounds. Doubts prompted by my feelings always get in the way. Is it too much to suppose that this hesitation is an artistic one prompted by an instinct to apprehend the real truth about a thing, and appreciate the ins and outs and pros and cons that go to make up that truth? I think you could probably guess that it is weakness both of sentiment and indolence … But I wouldn't like you to think that the problem is one that preoccupies me to the extent of making me brood or anything, or that I am any great hero to myself.

  I couldn't write to you when I should have without sounding like a letter to The Times, I didn't think it suited you. I didn't feel it was up to me to be the prompter of your conscience as you've no doubt got a perfectly good one of your own; or be a depressing disturbance on a decision that you'd no doubt had a tough time making. But I couldn't go with you on it. You had prompted (?) too many other patriotic consciences—the bravery of your carriage of the flag would have made Kipling and Elgar regard you with awe. It is obvious that the country needs dough as much as it ever did anyone's blood. Your tax situation was, of course, extreme and even so your contribution couldn't make very much difference. So it was not the fact, it was the symbol that was upsetting. It could only make people who couldn't take the same course feel a little worse off, if anything. I'm not envious, darling, really I'm not. I happen to like living in England and I can suppose that perpetual Rep in Kingston would support me in the style to which I might hope to accustom myself. It just didn't feel right for you; and even with your superb technique of resolution and smart carrying out, I feel it can't be honey and almonds all the time. Darling one, make bags and bags of dough and enjoy it like hell and find the sort of peace that you have the strength of mind to achieve.

  Love always

  Your Larry Boy

  The personal advice was by no means one way. When Olivier was being wooed in 1963 to take over the National Theatre as its first director, Noël wrote:

  Les Avants

  Darling Larry Boy,

  You have been much in my thoughts lately and I am sure everybody has been “at” you in one way or another, so I am going to pile Pelion on Ossa, Stoke on Trent and possibly Lee on Solent. Don't administer the National Theatre. You have clearly made it and given us some of the greatest performances of the century. Administration is more frustrating and tiring than poncing about and shouting “Ho, there!” or “I'm fair Venice's lofty cunt!” What you need is a full year off duty. Please listen carefully. Take Joanie [Plowright] and the tots—never mind about disrupting their education—fly from here to Los Angeles, from Los Angeles to Tahiti—resting for a few days to get your breath and look at the Middle Western tourists, then fly overnight to Bora-Bora and sit down for a long time. The hotel is, oddly enough, luxurious—you will have a private bungalow in the garden and live in Paradise. Once a week a ghastly cruise ship arrives. On those days you take your boat (a boat is essential) and go to one of the little islands with your lunch and wait until the coast is clear. I have done all this and it saved my life. There is nothing to do so take War and Peace and Present Indicative,

  If the National Theatre was not there, I could go to the movies. If you were not there, I could still go to the movies but I should be unable to see the screen.

  Noëlie

  PS. Fondest love to Joanie P.P.S. Don't dismiss this as impossible. Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it.

  PPPPPPPPS I love you very much.

  Larry Boy, needless to add, took the job.

  •

  NOëL HAD ALSO started work on a novel—or, rather, two novels in parallel—and in December, he wrote to Lornie:

  I am getting on with my novel [Beyond These Voices] very well and have done forty thousand words … which is nearly half way. I am in full spate and writing well. I think you will like it. It is really that French Resistance melodrama I once told you about based on a rich American bitch who collaborates with the Germans, betrays a young R.A.F. pilot and then gets back into society again after the war! I am writing it as the story of the R.A.F pilot's father who is the hero of the book. I am writing it in the first person singular, not as myself but as a well-known writer who has returned to Samolo where he was born. He is sixty-one and the story is written in retrospect. He, the narrator, is Kerry Stirling, the grandson of Graham in Pacific 1860. [Graham's character in the play was also named Kerry Stirling.]

  It is absolutely fascinating to do and all the early Samolan bits are really lovely. I am just about to embark on London in 1911, then the first war and then the Twenties, etc. I know better than anything that as long as I have time to write and invent and imagine I am happy as the day is long. I do between two and three thousand words every morning before 12 o'clock and play for the rest of the day.

  At the same time he was writing Pomp and Circumstance, a comic novel set in Samolo and dealing with British colonial junketings. As always, he valued Lornie's opinion.

  December 24th

  Darling Lornie …

  I adored your letter and I'm terribly pleased that you think so highly of Beyond These Voices, I shall certainly press on with it the moment I have finished Pomp and Circumstance, but I think it is a good idea to do the lighter one first. I agree with you about Samolan phrases. They are really only put in to create atmosphere. But when the book is finished I shall whittle them down a bit.

  {Beyond These Voices was never finished. Noël left behind the first fifty pages or so but no notes on how the story was to develop.)

  •

  IN DECEMBER he made his leisurely way to Los Angeles where he had rented a furnished house at 1573 Sunset Plaza Drive, Beverly Hills.

  Boulevard Nowhere

  December 18th

  Tolette,

  Havana was un-noted by me on account of the Ambassador giving an enormous buffet dinner party for all the nobs the majority of whom were called Gonzalez-y-Lopez except for a few who were called Lopez-y-Gonzalez. They were all Sugar Barons and not one Sugar laddy for me. This is going to be a curious letter as I am doing it on the Tippa Tapper et je ne suispas certain of it. The house is sweet and when the fogette lifts the view will be gorgeous. Oh dear, there is so much to tell that I don't know where to begin. Little Lad is in fine form and has landed a part in a new film with Robert Taylor. He plays a British Officer who is rather supercilious. It's apparently only a tiny bit really but there is one good scene and anyhow it is a commencement.

  He is leaving Clifton's today and has taken an apartment in the same place as the boys [Charles Russell and Lance Hamilton] as we considered it unwise for him to stay here. This has caused a great fluttering in the colony and no-one knows where they're at. He has handled the Clifton situation with consummate skill and every prospect pleases, except that it was getting near the point of no return. Poor Clifton is always on the verge of Umbrage about something or other and this is not helped by Harry Pissalatums which happens very very often indeed indeedy

  The cocktail party yesterday was a riot of fun and fancy and the girls came and Erica [Marx] was mistaken for Millie Natwic
k by Betty Bacall who congratulated her on her wonderful performance in something or other. Tub finally said “Who do you think I am?” Whereupon Betty said “Mildred Natwick—Jesus Christ have I put my fucking foot in it!” And it all passed off in gales of laughter. Rock [Hudson] and Phyllis [Gates, Hudson's wife] appeared and were very sweet. Marlene gave me a wonderful set of black silk pyjamas and dressing-gown to match for traveling! The Nivens are sweet and send you particular love, so do Betty and Bogey.

  I was just in time to give Charles and Ham a good finger wag on account of they were in a fair way to antagonize everyone by being too upperty and pushing. Clifton, until I insisted, refused to ask them to the party. Now, however, all is well. Oh dear, Oh dear, I have to be a psychiatrist and Nursery governess as well as the prettiest T.V. star in the world. It is all ‘Ow you say—difficile—mais alors ilfaut press on.

  Mexico was almost complete disaster on account of Peter and Vail being intolerably silly. They kept on taking wrong turnings and not knowing the way to anywhere and Vail was playing the Dauphin in The Lark in the Round and I had to go and sit through it wrapped in a rug with a flask of brandy and it was a bugger to end all buggers. So bad indeed that I was bereft of speech. My only comfort was when Joan [of Arc] said something about not fearing the flames, a small, miserable boy in front of me let off such a loud fart that it blew the brandy flask right out of my hand. She, Joan, was a bright amateur Jane Baxter with her arse resting on her heels and a boyish manner. I expected her to say “Mumsie, can't I play one more set with Roger?” Vail camped about and was quite inaudible and the whole thing was very very dreadful indeed … I managed to get one satisfactory bit of nuki and left the next morning with the greatest relief. I am sure that Mexico as a country is fascinating but Mexico City is dusty, cold, hideous and without charm of any sort.

  Peter, you know, is a trifle too defeated and poor Vail is jolly asinine and not a very good driver. The only subject is THE subject and I am sick to death of THE subject.

  My coloured maid is called Fredda. She has Diabetes and came from St. Ann's Bay. She is very sweet, not only because of the Diabetes.

  The boys are being very good apart from their social gaffes and all is going well. I am just off to Betty's [Bacall] for the first reading.

  There is really no more nouvelles.

  Love love love and get after that turfing [at Firefly].

  MASTER

  PS. My Spanish lessons stood me in good stead, because I found myself gabbing away like crazy and making witty little jokes.

  The Cottens came to the party and made a very great noise.

  I have a most most most wonderful car which goes fast fast fast up hill and down dale.

  I am on a diet and not drinking.

  My Irving [“Swifty” Lazar, his agent] sent me a Christmas Tree. I hate Christmas.

  The weather is very foggy.

  I do not like foggy weather.

  The boiler burst the day I arrived but happily it was mended before I froze to death.

  I am now very hot.

  Lauren Bacall played Elvira opposite Noël in the live television production of Blithe Spirit in 1956. Noël reported, “She was gay and charming and a darling from first to last”— unlike some he could mention.

  Claudette Colbert insisted on being filmed from only one angle, which complicated everyone's life in these early television days. In filming Blithe Spirit, she was so uncooperative that Noël swore he would wring her neck—if he could find it.

  Did I mention that Mexico City is a cunt?

  The nicest Mexican I met was Roy Boulting.

  Mabelle [Webb] is very well and much brighter than her son.

  Bogey, justly celebrated for his Dix-Huitieme manners, said to Clifton at the party apropos their own projected Christmas Eve Rout, “Bring your fucking mother and she can wipe up her own sick!” Clifton was not pleased.

  Alec Guinness was very pleased and we bowed low to each other like characters in a Restoration comedy.

  It was all meant in a spirit of nice clean fun.

  Betty Bacall passed out on Mabelle's bed for three hours.

  All of this surprised the Rock Hudsons who are perhaps unused to high society.

  Betty Bacall called Hedda Hopper a lousy bitch and kicked her up the bottie under my very eyes. Then there was an upper and downer and now they are great great friends.

  Comme la vie est etonnante, n'est-ce-pas?

  Voila c'est tout,

  •

  BLITHE SPIRIT was scheduled for January 17, 1956. Noël was to play Charles Condomine; Claudette Colbert, his second wife, Ruth; Lauren Bacall, his ghost wife, Elvira; and Mildred Natwick, Madame Arcati.

  From the beginning there were problems.

  Noël once summed up a career-long problem when he wrote: “God preserve me in future from female stars. I don't suppose He will. I really am too old and tired to go through all these tired old hoops.”

  He had known Colbert since the 1930s, when she appeared in the film of his play The Queen Was in the Parlour {Tonight Is Ours). In 1951 she had starred in Jack Wilson's production of Island Fling at the Westport Playhouse.

  Noël was most decidedly not pleased with her in Blithe Spirit, The trouble began with the contract negotiations:

  Blue Harbour

  Port Maria, Jamaica, B.W.I

  12th November 1955

  Darling,

  Emerge from your frizz, dry oh dry those pretty tears, all will be well eventually, so there. Agents really are tiresome sods; I had explained to my TV boys that you had said you would do it if you were free of other contracts and that your salary was 10,000. They then called up your agents, after my talking to you who demanded in high, fluting voices, 25,000. Very confidentially, Betty Bacall's agent also demanded 2 5,000 and finally, as she rightly wished to play the part, they settled for 7,000.

  I hate discussing money as much as you do, particularly with friends, but as we happen to be true friends, I don't care a bugger. The actual situation is that, according to my contract with CBS, I, or rather my Company, have to pay for the cast and sets and director for each production, and believe me this is a very big item. If we are to pay Betty seven, Mildred Natwick whatever is suitable, and the other three performers and the set etc., we really can't afford to pay you more than ten without, to coin a phrase, which you will readily understand, fucking up our budget.

  I know it's an hour and a half instead of an hour; I also know that I want you to do it terribly (I don't mean play it terribly) and have looked forward to us playing scenes together so very very much, so please do it, darling, and let's enjoy ourselves. And listen, listen, listen, if by any chance you don't want to do it for that money, I swear it won't cast the faintest, tiniest shadow on my love for you. I should only be bitterly disappointed and insult you roundly on arriving and leaving your house constantly during my stay.

  I don't want to bring undue pressure to bear, but would like to point out that every dollar encircled by those pudgy French fingers will have been extracted from these gnarled Scottish fingers. I do wish, Claudette dear, that you would look at the thing in a more Christian spirit; after all, Christmas is coming very shortly and I would like you to remember (a) The Manger, (b) that God is Love there is no pain and (c) that you ate me out of house and home last Christmas and this is all I get in return—nothing but bitter recriminations and sordid financial squabbling.

  I have painted you a picture for a Christmas present, so cast out of your mind all thought of that ermine stole, it is a very charming picture and if you don't like it I shall be on hand with some seasonable suggestions as to what you can do with it.

  Love, Love, Love, Love and let me know at once which way that fluffy little Gallic mind has decided to jump.

  P.S. The next ugly scene, I suppose, is going to be about billing which is, and always has been, my bete noire. So, I have arranged it alphabetically which will put the triumphant Betty Bacall before both of us! And if there's any argument I
shall appear under the title myself in tiny, luminous letters and leave you two glamour pusses to straddle the farting title.

  Later, recollecting the experience of the actual production in relative tranquillity, he wrote to Coley:

  15 th January, 1956

  Darling Toley…

  Well it is all over and apparently a roaring triumphant success. This week has really been a nightmare right up to the moment we went on the air.

  … Darling Claudette made a beast of herself from the word go. To begin with she wouldn't learn her lines, which as you know is not the way to please Father. She said it “wasn't her method”. She then bossed everybody about, and we all had to keep on getting into Anglo-Saxon attitudes so that the correct profile of her rather large face should be presented to the camera. She had us all whirling round her like dervishes, except that for quite a while I managed to be full-face, while the camera only caught the back of her head.