by Noel Coward
The musical was, indeed, a success, remaining on Broadway for 375 performances.
CHAPTER 30
“DAD'S RENAISSANCE”
(1964-1965)
DESPITE NOëL'S strongly worded advice—the verbal equivalent of “that tense and emaciated forefinger of doom,” as G. B. Stern once described it—Larry Boy did agree to run the new National Theatre and clearly forgot and forgave Noël's warnings.
The biggest thing since the Beatles … or before them.
In fact, he went one better. In early 1964 he invited Noël to direct a revival of Hay Fever with an all-star cast—the first production there of the work of a living playwright. The original suggestion appears to have been made by Kenneth Tynan, whom Olivier had lured from the ranks of the caustic critics to be his right hand in charge of publicity and development. In opposite camps theatrically for most of Noël's postwar career, he and Tynan now had common cause.
In the program notes Tynan wrote for the production, he came to the revisionist conclusion that “Coward took the fat off English comic dialogue; he was the Turkish bath in which it slimmed.”
Working together for the first time did a great deal to remove the tension that had historically existed between the two of them, and it was Tynan who held out the hand of reconciliation.
The National Theatre
22 Duchy Street
London S.E.I.
2 September 1964
I saw Marlene's triumphant opening at Edinburgh a couple of nights ago and we talked glowingly about you over supper. I then went to bed and had an extraordinary dream in which you confessed to having had an affair with Diana Cooper. “She keeps a good pillow,” you said reminiscently, “but she's rather lacking in udge”. At this I nodded sagely, though I hadn't the least idea what “udge” was. Perhaps one day you might care to explain.
Ever yours,
KEN
While flattered by Olivier's offer, Noël's initial reaction—prompted by his doctor's advice—was to stand aside from personal involvement. He wrote to Larry Boy:
Blue Harbour Port Maria Jamaica, W.I.
April 15 th 1964
Dearest Larry Boy,
I am bitterly bitterly disappointed to have to tell you that I can't direct Hay Fever for you. I enclose a fairly sharp letter from my doctor which explains why. I am terribly sad about this because I was so flattered and pleased to have been asked to work for your National Theatre. Hay Fever, as you know, is one of my pets, but if you feel like dropping it from your programme, I shall quite understand. If, on the other hand, you want to go on with it with another director, I will do anything I can to help in discussing cast etc., etc.
Having done three large “Musicals” within a year: Sail Away in Australia, The Girl Who Came to Supper (now defunct) and lastly High Spirits which, from the point of view of wear and tear, was the worst of the lot, I developed what was thought to be a stomach ulcer in Philadelphia. As soon as I could and after a great deal of pain I flew to Chicago to Ed Bigg (Alfred, Lynn's and my doctor) and went into hospital for a thorough check-up. Having endured every known physical humiliation—Barium up—Barium down!—it was discovered that I was organically sound, that it wasn't—thank God—an ulcer after all, but that I was suffering from acute gastritis caused by nervous exhaustion and continuous irritation. There were many many other attendant horrors, which I won't bore you with, but the net result of the whole nightmare was that I conked out and have now been on a mild diet for eight weeks.
Obviously in this peaceful place I am getting better every day and in a few weeks time I shall be back on sizzling steaks and booze and all sorts of wickedness. However, I have learned a pretty severe lesson and have accordingly promised myself (and the doctor) not to engage in any directorial activities whatsoever for at least a year. I may write fourteen plays, seven novels, and appear in a series of ravishing movie cameos, but I would rather undertake to play Peer Gynt on Ice than show one actor, however talented, how to walk across the stage. (Incidentally, I find that very few actors nowadays know how to achieve this minor miracle.)
I know that you, of all people, will understand this and please believe that I wouldn't unless it were absolutely unavoidable.
It is being slowly and painfully beaten into my skull that I am no longer a precocious boy of nineteen, although when I look in the mirror at this lovely little heart-shaped face with all those pretty little jowls hanging from it, I find it hard to believe.
Please, please cable me or write to me when you get this letter saying that you understand and forgive your loving old
Noelie.
My fond love to Joan and a very very great deal to you.
The only bright moment in the hospital was when a perfectly strange lady with orange hair bounced into my room and said “Are you Miss Davis and would you like a shampoo?” I replied coldly in the negative.
Though surprised and disappointed at Noël's decision, Olivier took the news gracefully. It was, he cabled in reply, “no good crying over milk that never got into the jug.” Perhaps it was his sympathetic understanding that did the trick—or more likely the smell of the metaphorical greasepaint— but by mid-year Noël had changed his mind and agreed to direct “a cast that could have played the Albanian telephone directory”—including Dame Edith Evans, Maggie Smith, Derek Jacobi, Robert Stephens, and Lynn Redgrave.
Hay Fever revival, National Theatre, London, 1964. “No, dear, on a clear day you can see Marlow—on a very clear day you can see Marlowe and Beaumont and Fletcher!” Noël directs Dame Edith Evans and Robert Stephens. (Photograph by Lord Snowdon and used by permission.)
Where the Dame was concerned, Noël found himself in territory that was depressingly familiar. In July, Olivier was writing to warn him that the lady had an unshakable “theory” about not learning her lines before she rehearsed, so he didn't honestly think there was any sense in “fussing her about it.” He hastened to add that there was probably nothing to worry about since she had played the part before and must “all but know it.” He felt that they could afford to let her keep the book in her hand as long as she wanted “without any undue disquiet.” It was advice that was easier to give than to receive.
When the experience was safely behind him, Noël could write to Joyce:
November [?] 1964
Darling Doycie,
Well, it's all over bar the shouting and there has been a good deal of that at an encouragingly high decibel level. I do believe Dad has pulled it off this time and no error …
I do feel that after the trials and tribulations of Gladys [Cooper] and Bea [Lillie], who both had a wayward way with my jeweled words, I might have been spared Edith's doubtless well meant approximations.
The classic example was her insistence on saying—”On a very clear day you can see Marlow”. Finally, when I had corrected her for the umpteenth time, pointing out that the “very” was very very superfluous to my intent, I heard myself saying—”No, dear, on a clear day you can see Marlow—on a very clear day you can see Marlowe and Beaumont and Fletcher.” Which I was rather pleased with. You may very well hear me repeat the story and, should you be so fortunate, you are not—on pain of death—to stop me!
Then there was the time she took to her Christian Scientific bed with some unspecified illness and one could almost see dear Mary Baker Eddy waiting in the wings. I recalled that Lornie had once told me that on one such occasion the lady went twelve days without going to the lulu and refused to take a dose of anything, till finally in agony she had to get a doctor. Lornie put it exquisitely when she said—”If she ever works for us, I think a daily poop should be a clause in the contract!”
This time the doctor turned out to be my darling Maggie [Smith]. When Edith heard that “the Smith gal”—as she calls her—was word perfect and ready to go on for her, she made a recovery that should go in the record books!
The critics—now firmly convinced that they had been responsible for “rediscovering” him—were unanimous
in their praise for the production, with Ronald Bryden going so far as to declare that Noël Coward was “demonstrably the greatest living English playwright.”
When I tapped out this little comedy on to my typewriter in 1924 I would indeed have been astonished if anyone had told me that it was destined to re-emerge, fresh and blooming forty years later … One of the reasons it was hailed so warmly by the critics in 1925 was that there happened to be an ardent campaign being conducted against “Sex” plays, and Hay Fever, as I remarked in my first-night speech, was as clean as a whistle. True there had been no campaign against “Sex” plays lately; on the contrary rape, incontinence, perversion, sadism, psychopathology and flatulence, both verbal and physical, have for some time been sure bets in the race for critical acclaim. I was, therefore, agreeably surprised to wake up on the morning after the first night at the National Theatre and read a number of adulatory and enthusiastic notices. Such (almost) unanimous praise has not been lavished upon me for many a long year and to pretend that I am not delighted by it would be the height of affectation.
It was noted … that the play had no plot and that there were few if any witty lines, by which I presume is meant that the dialogue is non-epigrammatic. This I think and hope is quite true … To me, the essence of good comedy writing is that perfectly ordinary phrases such as “Just fancy!” should, by virtue of their context, achieve greater laughs than the most literate epigrams. Some of the biggest laughs in Hay Fever occur on such lines as “Go on,” “No, there isn't, is there?” and “This haddock's disgusting”. There are many other glittering examples of my sophistication in the same vein … I would add that the sort of lines above mentioned have to be impeccably delivered and that in the current performance they certainly are. In fact, I can truthfully say that never in my long years of writing and directing have I encountered a more talented, co-operative and technically efficient group of actors and my gratitude to them and my affection for them is unbounded.
But perhaps the most appreciated hosannas came from Larry Boy:
BRAVOS TO MY BELOVED ONE AND ONLY PRETTIEST AND BEST.
To which Noël replied,
WHAT A FRIGID UNGENEROUS LITTLE TELEGRAM STOP ALL I CAN SAY IS I AM NOW VERY CONCEITED INDEED AND I LOVE YOU IF POSSIBLE MORE THAN EVER STOP NOëLY.
Hay Fever at the National. Lynn Redgrave plays Jackie Coryton in one of her first professional outings. Celia Johnson replaces Dame Edith and can presumably see Marlow clearly.
Joan Plowright (now Lady Olivier) teased the two of them that if their exchange of passionate missives had been intercepted they would both have been arrested!
•
WITH THE PLAY safely launched, Noël took another of his frequent vacations. In the summer he had been to Turkey and Italy. On returning to Rome from Istanbul, he had sent Coley one of his more memorable cables:
I AM BACK FROM ISTANBUL WHERE I WAS KNOWN AS ENGLISH DELIGHT.
He also sampled Capri, which he enjoyed so much that he wondered what it would be like out of season. He revisited it now with Coley and Graham and soon found out. There was little delight, Italian or otherwise, to be had. “There is nowhere to go, no one to see, nowhere to eat except two crummy restaurants.”
•
THE YEAR OF “Dad's Renaissance” ended on that note of anticlimax. Like so many that preceded it it had been a play with more than its share of exits.
Max Beaverbrook in June (“This long—too long—delayed occurrence requires no comment.”) Much more to be mourned in August was Ian Fleming. (“It is a horrid but expected sadness.”) Then in October, Cole Porter (“another figure from the merry early years”), and in December that old new “enemy friend” Edith Sitwell. (“I am sad and glad that I talked to her before I left London.”)
And then, as the year turned, came the death of the ninety-year-old Winston Churchill. By hosting an all-star television tribute to the old warrior on his birthday the previous November, Noël had said his own personal farewell. In his Diaries he simply recorded: “Winston Churchill died this morning.”
•
BACK IN JAMAICA, Noël had an unexpected visitor. The Queen Mother and Noël had been friends for many years. He had known her first as the Duchess of York, then as Queen Elizabeth, and since the accession of her daughter, Elizabeth, as Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. She was now to make a state visit to the island and caused a little havoc with official protocol by insisting on time being found in an already busy schedule for a visit to Noël's “mountain retreat.”
The visit took place on February 24, and Noël must have put pen to paper to report to Lorn before he'd even finished waving goodbye:
The dear darling Queen Mother came up to Firefly today to lunch, in the teeth, I may say, of considerable opposition. They couldn't understand why she should want to come to such a SMALL house! The whole place was hopping with security gentlemen and vast ebony Chiefs of Police but I managed to keep them all at bay and she really had a lovely two hour feet-up. It was all a triumphant success.
There were only the Creatures (Lynnie and Alfred), Blanche [Blackwell], Coley and me and her own personal lot.
The lunch was fine—iced pea soup, Coconut Curry—or rather curry in coconuts, strawberries and Rum cream pie. The day was perfect, not a cloud.
I must say I love her more than ever. She was radiant—after a three hour drive from Spanish Town—she was sweet to everyone and insisted on having a dekko at Blue Harbour, so I drove with her through Grant's Town with all the inhabitants waving and screaming. She finally drove away—a full hour later—leaving rapture behind her.
Westminster Abbey, March 28, 1984. The service of thanksgiving for Noël's life. When Graham thanked the Queen Mother for attending, she replied simply, “I came because he was my friend.”
The carry-on over the whole business has been terrific but now we can all relax and the shrubs are no longer festooned with anxious black faces.
A few days later, The Daily Gleaner, the local newspaper, printed a letter from one of Noël's neighbors:
Dear Sir,
We Jamaicans seldom say thanks, but this time we people of Grant's Town in St. Mary feel that we must say a big Thank You to Noël Coward for the great honour he has brought to us in having Her Majesty The Queen Mother drive through our village to lunch at his place, “Firefly”. The word got around that no fuss was wanted, as it was just a private affair, so we were deprived of the opportunity of giving welcome in our way, but we were so glad of the opportunity of seeing Her Majesty on our narrow roads, so close to us. Nothing happened, and nothing could have happened as none in the area but was thrilled by the Graciousness and Beauty of Her Majesty. We felt it a great honour and were proud that Her Majesty could drive through our village and see perhaps for the first time Jamaica at first hand. There were among us some English folk on vacation from their homeland, who were as much thrilled as any of us, as they explained that there were not many people in England who had seen Her Majesty at closer range than about 50 yds. Here any of us could have touched the car as it passed.
To all of us it was a signal privilege. Indeed, we feel that we are now on the map. Thank you, Mr. Coward, and God Bless The Queen Mother.
God Save The Queen.
Joyce wrote: “I don't think I know anyone else at all who has their lav inspected for the benefit of the Queen Mum. Plumbing the heights, you might say.”
Noël then received one of his most valued handwritten thank-you letters:
Clarence House
June 29th 1965
My dear Mr. Coward,
Thank you so much for the charming photographs—They bring back vividly many delightful memories of that heavenly luncheon party in Jamaica, and I am so pleased to have them.
I enjoyed it so much—Seeing your delicious house with that spectacular view, the splendid food, and those enchanting guests made it all utterly enjoyable, and a delicious moment of relaxation.
It was the nicest bit of my visit to Jamaica and I c
an quite see what a wonderful and inspiring place it must be to work in—I hope so much to see you when you come to England … Could you not come down to Sandringham for the night of Tuesday July 20th—when a famous Russian cellist (I can't spell him) is playing in one of our lovely old Churches? It would be such fun to see you, and show you dear Edwardian Sandringham.
I am, Yours very sincerely
Elizabeth R.
On March 28, 1984, the Queen Mother laid the wreath in Westminster Abbey at the service of thanksgiving for Noël's life. When Graham Payn, now the executor of the Coward estate, thanked her, she replied simply, “I came because he was my friend.”
Two for the Rain. Following her visit to Jamaica, the Queen Mother (“She's a great outdoor girl”) invited Noël to a picnic at Sandringham (1965). The English summer weather behaved predictably.
CHAPTER 31
SONGS AT TWILIGHT
(1965-1966)
Just a song at twilight
When the lights are low
And the flickering shadows
Softly come and go.
“LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG”
THE QUEEN MOTHER'S visit clearly inspired Noël, and he immediately set to work on what would turn out to be the last of his plays to be produced in his lifetime.
In the event, it turned out to be a trilogy. For some time he had been mulling over the idea of writing a “farewell” play for himself and the Lunts. Perhaps he and Alfred could play a pair of retired actors appearing for one last performance? Rehearsal Periods Swan Song? But what would there be for Lynn?