The Letters of Noel Coward

by Noel Coward

  I have decided to do a Broadway production of it under Jack's management, starting rehearsals in late October. I think it is too valuable a property to be kicked round any more. I have also decided, confidentially but quite firmly, that Kay Kendall shall play it. I have always thought she was the only possible legitimate successor to Gertie. She has wonderful looks, immense “chic,” a nice, warm basic commonness and a sense of humour and she is also wonderful to work with and will do what I tell her. To me it would be much more exciting to launch a new star on Broadway than have an already over-known one who would probably drive me mad. Bill Paley (privately) has agreed to put up all the money for the show on condition that he has the rights to make a TV Spectacular of it afterwards, quite agrees with all this and considers Kay is a wonderful proposition.

  Jack knows nothing of all this yet but I will explain all to him when I get to New York. I have cabled the Boys to find out if Ty Power would be available to play Hali. If not I think Larry Harvey might be quite a good idea. This will put Jack back on the tracks again as a Producer and even if he breaks down again and takes to the bottle I shall be in command and will at least have the satisfaction of having given him one more chance. Somehow or other I don't think he will and if he really could be REALLY saved I should feel a great deal better. If all this turns out to be wishful thinking, I shall merely forbid him the theatre and let him get on with his drinking wherever and whenever he likes.

  I have no other news except that I love Lornie very much indeed but this is such an old, old story that I am surprised Mary Martin doesn't do it on television.

  Then, on July 3, Vivien wrote again to Noël in Bermuda. She had to break the news to him that she was expecting a baby and her doctor had advised her to leave the cast in three weeks’ time. Noël had been in Paris a few weeks earlier, and Olivier had fully intended to travel there to see him and break the news, but script problems on his current film {The Prince and the Showgirl) had prevented him. She was endlessly sorry but she felt the play could continue successfully without her. Would he please write to her at once and tell her he was not too angry?

  But Noël was angry—very angry indeed. Why had she and Larry waited so long to let him know?

  This I consider fairly unforgivable of them, but I rose above my shock com-mendably and wrote loving congratulations … [He received no acknowledgment.] Altogether I'm sick to death of both of them at the moment. I've been bored and involved with their domestic problems for years and done all I could to help, and as they haven't even troubled to write to me, they can bloody well get on with it (Diaries).

  He also wrote to Binkie:

  Although the dubious sanctity of the Olivier's home means a great deal to me, the financial security of my own means a bloody sight more. I do not wish you to imagine that I am being in any way cynical about this inconsiderate Act of God. Oh dear me, no. Perish the thought! But I do I do I do wish that the long awaited reunion of two minds [sic] had been a trifle less enthusiastic and a little more thoughtful of others. I also have slight apprehensions on behalf of the imminent tot itself. It will certainly get to know a great many people in a remarkably short space of time. I also hope, for its sake, that Larry and Vivien don't go immediately into rehearsal with some particularly neurotic classic. This will be VERY BAD FOR BABY.

  I cabled them and wrote to them most sympathetically but have had no reply. I presume they are too tired to write.

  It wasn't long before the word got around. Joyce wrote:

  Alan [Webb] and I had lunch with Proud [Vivien] and Little by Little [Olivier]. She was the same and nice but he has become a gross, prize BORE. When we were told jointly about the Baby, Alan said it was an Act of God, and Vivien said it was the best billing Larry had ever had, which I thought was very funny of her.

  Noël wrote to Lornie about “the expected tot”:

  July 17 th

  Spithead Lodge

  Warwick, Bermuda

  Darling Lorniebubs,

  I am SO SO happy for them although a teeny bit apprehensive on the tot's account. To be born into such a turbulent menage might possibly be far from cosy, what with Daddy shrieking “Fuck” and bellowing Macbeth, and Mummy going briskly round and round different bends, and never less than twenty people to lunch, dinner and supper. I cannot either quite believe that it will remain in its present confined and uncomfortable surroundings until December the 22nd. My personal guess is that it may appear much sooner and astonish everyone … And I can tell you wistfully here and now if they ever want any more material from me again at any time, they're dead out of luck.

  He turned out to be morbidly prescient. Vivien left the show and had a miscarriage the next day. The show itself rapidly lost momentum. Vivien was replaced by Elizabeth Sellars.

  Matters came to a head when Noël was in Dublin that September to supervise Nude with Violin, Vivien and Binkie flew over to see him, since Noël's offshore tax status prevented his going to London, and when it came to light that Binkie had known about the pregnancy a long time before Noël, a blazing row ensued.

  Afterward Noël wrote, “I at least had the satisfaction of saying what has been fomenting in my mind for some time … I think and hope the air is now cleared.”

  Unfortunately, it was not. Olivier wrote to protest Noël's treatment of Vivien, and to give their own version of events. After calm consideration:

  Blue Harbour

  Port Maria, Jamaica, B.W.I.

  12th January, 1957

  Darling Larryboy,

  If I ever had any doubts about the reality of your love for me, your letter has for ever dispelled them. Knowing you to be an indolent little cunt as far as such matters as letter-writing are concerned, the fact that you sat down and routed about in yourself to find your own truth and hand it to me has proved to me that, in spite of some painful moments here and there, we are deep friends and always will be. You couldn't have given me a more heart-filling re-assurance that you mind about me as much as I mind about you.

  This is liable to be a long letter because I have a great deal to explain, so hold onto your hat, love, and press on. First of all I agree with all you say about the scene in Dublin; it was clumsy, self-indulgent and, practically all of it, quite indefensible. You are wrong in thinking it was in any way a side-wash from my “Great Decish” (I will come to all that later). The only possible excuse for it was that I had been miserably hurt by being shut away from your confidence. The idiotic spluttering fireworks were set off by Binkie saying that he had known your secret when he had come to Paris in June and had been expressly told by you not to say a word to anyone, even me. This, considering that I have been so intimately concerned with your and Puss's troubles for so long, made me very angry and hurt like hell. After all, you are both very dear to me and it was my play that was concerned. If only, if only you had had time to come to Paris yourself, or even let Binkie tell me, I would not only never have betrayed it to a soul, but not had the beastly feeling of being shut out. When, later, in Bermuda, I had the letter from you and Puss I did genuinely feel, play or no play, that this might be the solution to your troubled life together and immediately cabled and wrote to say so. To which, my darlings, I had no reply at all …

  Please, please try to see my point in being upset over all this; it made me feel so very much further away than I actually was. Also, please wipe from your mind for ever that I am contemptuous of “the crummy little human urge” to have children. It is one of the most important urges in human life, and whatever I may have ranted and roared in my unbecoming outburst was neither valid nor accurate. Curiously enough I believe Puss knew this at the time. She was very upset and understanding and, / know, forgiving. It is more difficult for you because you weren't there and got the whole episode secondhand. I am not really trying to excuse myself over this, but it wasn't all so utterly beastly as it sounds—there were some moments of laughter and some moments of tears. I think perhaps that it was Binkie's presence that caused it to get out of hand. N
ot consciously, of course, he was perfectly behaved, but the awareness of an extra audience probably egged me on to be more outrageous than I either felt or wanted to be … the steam had been working up inside me and it had to come out. Please, darling boy, forget and forgive it. Next time, I promise, I will wag my finger at you and it won't be about anything that we any of us really mind about in the least.

  Now then, about my “Great Decish”. Of course it isn't all honey and almonds and of course I have had a beastly time over it. I hated the idea of selling Goldenhurst and Gerald Road and I still, sentimentally, hate the idea of having no actual home in England. I suppose I shall have to fall back on Notley [the Oliviers’ country home]. It's not too bad in the summer!

  Unfortunately, the whole business has been so distorted by the Press that it is difficult, even for those who love me, to see it clearly. To begin with, it has nothing to do with lack of patriotism; I have gone away physically from England but I have not gone away from being English and being bloody proud of it. I live in two British territories, Bermuda and Jamaica. The “Symbol” of my action has been misconstrued. I have never since I was young, lived in England more than I could possibly help. I love the sun and I loathe the cold, and even in the days of my early successes, I used to go off on Freighters for a month at a time. Since 1948,1 have spent, on the average, less than three months a year in England. This place gives me peace and time to think and time to write.

  Two years ago I was informed benignly that I was nineteen thousand pounds overdrawn and that the overdraft was guaranteed by my life insurance which is my only tax free nest egg. I then decided to return to the Cafe de Paris, which I didn't want to do, go to Las Vegas which was, let's face it, a considerable risk and sign a package deal TV contract which I hated. Happily for me these enterprises were all successful and with a little perfectly legal but adroit finagling, I managed to keep some of the dough I made. Last year my lawyer, Lornie, Cole and I went into the whole situation. Goldenhurst (five gardeners all the year round, lighting, heat, etc.) was costing a fortune. Gerald Road, very pleasant but far from inexpensive, and Jamaica with an agent and three local staff all the year round—all this of course, without investments and without capital, was sheer insanity. I was faced with the choice of giving up English residence or giving up Jamaica and I naturally chose the latter because I cannot write or get peace in England, and in Jamaica I can. The Bermuda thing is complicated and its principal advantages are too intricate to go into here, but I do so very much want you to have a clear over-all picture of my circumstances and to make you understand why I did what I did.

  I have not evaded paying English tax by this move. My Company will pay English tax on all my English earnings except for “Bubble” and “Nude” which were contracted for with my Jamaican Company. What I have done is to avoid paying any more surtax which, if I had continued to be domiciled in England, would have completely crippled me and left me no cushion at all for my old age which is due to begin next Tuesday.

  I know other people have their problems and troubles, and I think the tax laws in England as applied to artists are iniquitous, but my case is different in that I have not lived in England for ten years … As a non-resident I can not only spend three months a year there, after this financial year is over, but get on with my job of being a writer without the fear of penniless old age and sudden illness hovering over me.

  Now that's enough of that “reasonable” part of the business. The abstract “Symbol” part is obviously more difficult to analyse. I can only assure you that in my deep deep heart I know how I feel about my country and my roots and that I never could renounce it by word or deed. The Press have as usual misrepresented the whole thing to millions of people, have given the impression that I have turned my back on my country and refused to pay my dues. In 1940 they all had another ramp at my expense and announced that I had run away from the war. This, incidentally, was one of the most hellish persecutions I have ever endured, but I did endure it and it toughened me. I know now, as I knew then, that my conscience is all right with me (except for a merry little evening in Dublin). I also know, darling, that the best way I can serve my country is not by sitting in it with a head cold grumbling at the climate and the telephone service, but by living further away where I can really get on with my primary job which is to become a better and better writer and a more tolerant and compassionate human being. I do not, I hasten to add, intend to give up being witty as all fuck and pretty as a picture.

  I have turned down all TV offers from America, refused haughtily but graciously to play My Fair Lady for three months, refused to do a month at the Palace and refused incessant offers from Las Vegas. I may make a picture of Present Laughter later in the year but this is very vague. I list all this in reply to what you said about “Make lots of dough!” I don't particularly want to make lots of dough. All I want is enough sitting in the Bank to ensure freedom from worry during the coming years. After all I am three years off sixty!

  I expect all this looks terribly garbled but I do so want you of all people to know the facts.

  My house on Firefly Hill is paradise and my loved ones scrabble about down in Blue Harbour. I sometimes permit them to come up for meals and sometimes, with exquisite magnanimity, I descend to their level. They consist, at the moment, of Winifred and Gladys and Coley. Binkie, Johnny P[erry] and Terry [Rattigan] arrive tomorrow and Marilyn Monroe is just along the coast, what more can one ask?

  I have typed all this because you wouldn't have understood one bloody word if I had written it for although my actual “writing” is improving hand over thing, my caligraphy is a sheer fucker (sorry, Mother).

  Thank you again, dearest darling Larryboy. Is there any chance of you both coming here on the way to somewhere or other? I am almost certain to pop over to England some time during the summer. Give my dearest love to Puss and tell her that she's a wicked, dull, common, repulsive pig and I never want to see her again except constantly.

  And that was more or less it—forgiven though never quite forgotten. Noël tied up the loose emotional ends in a letter from Blue Harbour:

  February 14th 1957

  Well, Darling Larry Boy,

  I certainly couldn't agree with you more about what Binkie said or didn't say and who said what or didn't say what. It's all over and done with and the only thing that's left is three people who love each other very much and always did and always will.

  He then turned the subject to lighter matters. Olivier had just endured the experience of not only acting with but directing Marilyn Monroe in The Prince and the Showgirl—the film version of Terence Rattigan's The Sleeping Prince—in which he had appeared on the stage with Vivien as Mary Morgan, the role which Monroe was now attempting. At this time she was married to American playwright Arthur Miller.

  In his own letter Olivier had seemed surprised that “the blond bottom looks and seems to be very good indeed,” although he was less enthusiastic about Miller: “Arthur talks a great deal better than he listens, but I never found his talk very entertaining.”

  Noël continued the topic:

  I am relieved on the whole that Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Miller disdained my invitation. I have a feeling that it just might not have been a success mad. In the first place I am not an ardent admirer of Mr. Miller's work on account of it lacking humour to an alarming degree. In the second place I once, at Clifton's in Hollywood, sat for two hours at a tiny table with Marilyn and felt, at the end of two hours, a piercing need for a whiff of oxygen. She is certainly no Madame de Stael, is she? Another reason why the lunch might have been a failure is that I was spitting mad about the tales Terry [Ratti-gan] told me about the silly bitch never being on time for anything and keeping you waiting for hours every day and I might, if the subject had come up, given some of my astringent views on tiresome leading ladies who are always having their hair done and pouting and making life hell for everybody. So that was something well avoided.

  Now, believe it or not, I have had
Johnny Ray wished on me! It will only be for a few days and I quite like him but I cannot imagine what to do with him. (The obvious answer to this might be pleasant but it really wouldn't fill in enough time!)

  I shall be thinking of you bashing away at Tightarse in all those peculiar towns, but most of all I shall be thinking of flinging my arms around your darling necks somewhere, sometime and not so very far away at that.

  The Oliviers were to take their Stratford production of Titus Andronicus on a prolonged European tour that summer. For Larry, the prospect, though emotionally draining (“darting like hysterical drunken bumblebees”), looked distinctly pleasing after “the blond bottom,” and for Vivien, another stint as Lavinia meant she was working again. What matter that the role carried with it one of the most depressing stage directions in theater history: “Enter Lavinia, her hands cut off, her eyes put out and ravished”?

  Thirtysomething years on, and this time John Gielgud plays the lead in a Noël Coward play, the 1956 Nude with Violin. Noël would play it later on Broadway.

  •

  NUDE WITH VIOLIN was written in early 1954 but only produced two years later. Sir John Gielgud was to star in it as well as direct it. Having followed Noël in The Vortex and The Constant Nymph back in the 1920s, he was now creating a Coward part. As Gielgud described it to his friend Lillian Gish:

  I have Noël's new comedy Nude With Violin to rehearse September 3rd. We open in Dublin September 24th and a short tour before we bring it to London in October. It is a funny play—with a rather new kind of part for me [Sebastien]—a sort of confidential Dago valet who is the smooth arranger of everything—a lot of semi-farcical happenings going on, to do with a dead painter who has tricked the world into accepting as masterpieces the pictures that were painted by other people. It is original and neat, and seems to me the best thing Noël has written in years, but we shall see.