by Noel Coward
There is an Air India Angel at Cairo called Ali Aga who pressed my hand, gave me a drink and said regretfully that he was married! Ask for him when you arrive … He's rather large but very sweet. The weather will be lovely for you but NOT really hot, just nice, so bring woolies. This, of course, is steaming hot and thank God I brought that quinine. I was racked with cramp immediately. It isn't the heat, you know, it's the H[umidity]! [In fact, it was the beginning of amoebic dysentery] …
Mr. Bobby Kooka (The Big Fritzi Shot) is procuring a chiropodist AND a masseur who apparently goes in for weight lifting. Something tells me I've fallen on my back.
India, having achieved its independence and thrown out the hateful British, is already showing signs of utter chaos and decay. Nothing QUITE works, except the air-conditioning, which was like a pride of lions and freezes my balls off. I have silenced it. I also THINK I am going to be glad I brought the crab powder but time will tell.
It is all violently colourful but almost inconceivably filthy. Oh, those Dhoties! My suite is fairly clean but the pillows small and curious. Actually, there is an all-pervading smell everywhere which is Mother Injun … I shall go out to dine later on—choked to the throat with Entero-Vioform and see which way the cookies crumble.
… Oh dear. I DO feel a long way away, which is quite natural because I AM.
Taj Mahal Hotel
Bombay
October 15th
This certainly was a week this was. I can't wait to give you a blow by blow account. Owing to my friend, Mr. Kouka, I have been the belle of Indian Cafe au hait Society. I also had to give a press conference, which was absolute hell and hilariously funny. They really are dreadful and as for the glamorous city, it's unbelievable. They never, having achieved independence, DREAM of cleaning the garbage out of the roads, which is lovely for the sacred cows but makes driving about a bit grungy. The heat really is intense, worse than Bangkok and the Americans as noisy as ever, only mercifully not many of them.
The snorkel mask has just arrived this afternoon, so I have sent a lot of Peter Sellers characters to get it out of Customs. I hope they succeed because I leave at eleven tomorrow morning.
There are a lot of Amateur Little Theatre movements going on. I am asked ghastly questions in high pitched voices. I met the Captain of my ship who is a dear called Bruce (Call me Spider!) The more I hear about the Seychelles the more lovely they sound.
This is a dull letter but I just wanted to let you know all was well. I THINK. Entirely owing to Entero-Vioform. I had a dreadful lunch with Mrs. David Lean, who is very morose on account of David himself being sick to death of her. She is very artistic, which perhaps explains it.
To Lorn:
Hotel des Seychelles
October 24th
The food is indescribable, God knows. I have encountered some vile cooking in my travels but nothing to touch this. I wait with bated breath for each nauseating little dish to be set before me. Curiously enough, in spite of all this, I am enjoying myself enormously … there are hours and hours of lovely peace which I am utilizing by reading Martin Chuzzlewit and learning A Song At Twilight, Oh darling, Mr. Dickens is a comfort, isn't he? Pecksniff and those ghastly daughters!
To Joyce:
Hotel des Seychelles
October 26th
Darling Doycie,
Here I am at last in The Seychelles and I must admit they are lovely islands. On the primitive side as far as creature comforts are concerned but full of lovely eccentrics and a mixed breed of natives of all shades who converse in high voices like little birds, in a Creole patois which I don't believe they understand. Unfortunately, I have struck the tail end of a cyclone so there is a fearful wind and deluges of rain. However, this will soon pass and I shall be able to fly to the lagoons. It is, of course, blissfully warm. My week in Bombay was hilarious. To add to the general fun there was a sort of black-out on account of the war with Pakistan … This is really the most shut-off place in the world, no newspapers, no nothing, except some occasional B.B.C. News scratching away with a lot of static.
I am going to have a dekko at some of the other islands when the weather clears. I am stuck here for a month anyhow, whether I like it or not. I have a private bungalow to moi-rmme which I share with some lizards and an occasional flying fox. The food is frankly a fucker but I have made some suggestions and things are looking up a little … I must now go and have a cold shower on account of there isn't a hot one.
Bessie—Bessie—Bessie
To Coley:
Hotel des Seychelles
October 26th
It is lucky I am here for five weeks because with the exception of one day, there has been a perpetual deluge and a sixty mile an hour gale. It is VERY reminiscent of Jamaica in a really bad Norther. When it clears up I am going to explore. There ARE several islands for sale. Two of them sound ideal but I'm not jumping at anything. The whole set-up is incredibly primitive and the shopping in Victoria unbelievable. If we were ever bonkers enough to embark on this wild cat enterprise, we should HAVE to get everything from the mainland, which is Mombasa, a thousand miles away—three days by ship. There is, however, one Amphibious—(aren't we all?) American plane which takes in mail once a week. The people are fascinating. The island is 99 percent Catholic and a really very funny lady Doctor has arrived, sent by the International Parent Planning Federation in London, armed with crates of contraceptives. She is a girl with a great sense of humour and looks a bit like Peggy Wood laced with Hopie [Williams]. I have taken to her. She's very funny, very bright and agreeably bawdy and, as you can imagine, her clashes with the Governor AND the clergy have been jolly enjoyable. My sharp little violet eyes see a story in this somewhere.
If we ever did come here, it would mean starting from scratch. The water situation is all right but the natives are even more lackadaisical than the Jamaicans. Unlike Jamaica, you can get masses of fish. Like Jamaica, they are unable to cook it. Yesterday I bought an electric torch and the Indian gentleman who sold it to me looked hurt when I pointed out that it didn't work. “That,” he said, “is because it has no battery.” “Put one in, then,” I replied. “That I cannot do, because we have none!” I found one incidentally at the next door shop. All this is very amusing and picturesque but I feel it MIGHT get us down after a bit.
However, I shall go and look at the island. Getting here is not so difficult if you time it right. Three hours to Cairo—four to Nairobi—one to Mombasa and three days at sea. It might—it might—it MIGHT be a good idea for I'Avenir,
Of course, what I am really enjoying are the people. There is a great deal of sitting round the hour before lunch and dinner and signing chits and “This round is on us,” etc. …
Do you think you would like a shark's jaw for a Christmas present? They are comparatively inexpensive and very frightening indeed. It MIGHT just keep people out of your bedroom if you bury it at the door.
On Friday, if the weather is clearer, I am sailing to Praslin—two hours—and spending three nights in a hotel called “Pegal” on account of the proprietor and his wife being called Albert and Peggy. You do see, don't you, how the cookies crumble?
Love—love—love
MASTER
I love Entero-Vioform like a mother
To Coley:
November 5th
The idea of a Seychelles island is fading fairly rapidly from my mind. It is TOO inaccessible, really and very tatty indeed and if we contemplated building or doing up a house, the frustrations would drive us mad. NOTHING can be bought here, not even tin tacks. The sea between the islands is VERY rough and the boat scruffy to the point of nightmare. I spent three days in Praslin and came back in a hospital ship with little room to sit and NONE to lie down. The sea was violent. Everyone was vomiting their hearts out and a lady who was retching into an enamel basin started her labour pains as we left port. As the journey took four and a half hours, you can readily understand that the noise was considerable. I, who had lashed a deck chair, whic
h I had borrowed from the hotel, to the rail, tried, not very successfully, to read Persuasion,
A small Peter Sellers Indian Doctor officiated at the accouchement. Fortunately, we got the poor beast ashore before the poor little mite actually made his entrance, but all this in a heavy sea was a bit upsetting.
My camera packed up on me at a crucial moment and I was in despair but I kicked it and it has worked perfectly ever since. I had some Yorkshire pudding the other day. Mercy!
I have seen Praslin, La Digne and Silhouette—they are all lovely with glorious beaches but not really a patch on the Pacific. The inhabitants of all of them are as barmy as makes no matter. Life comes under the tactful heading of “Primitive.” Returning to this dump was like coming back from the Taft in New Haven to the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo.
Government House Seychelles
November 8th
This is really for all loved ones, as I haven't the strength to write individual letters. I've been attacked by some sort of bug—they haven't discovered which sort yet. I was wheeled out of Government House midday Sunday and have been in this DEAR little hospital ever since.
Will now acquaint you with a decision that was in my mind long before I was stricken and that decision is that no bribe, no threat, no power human or divine will induce me anywhere near the Seychelles again. All right, all right, so the beaches are lovely, so the vegetation is luxuriant. Let them be. The standard of living is lower than a snake's arse. And the social life! Ah, Mama Mia! Everybody loathes everyone else and everyone seems to loathe the poor dear Oxfords [Lord Oxford and Asquith was the governor of the islands, known as “Ox and Ass”] who swim through their days being gracious and kindly and thinking seriously about The Times crossword. The other islands are very very beautiful and primitive to the point of lunacy … The architecture is mainly decaying wood and corrugated tin roofs. The Seychelles Club is full of atmosphere. It is also inhabited by some of the largest rats I have ever seen. Fortunately, having been laid low, I now have an excuse to get out of many of the gay entertainments arranged for me. I'm feeling weakened anyhow but perfectly all right apart from the damned squitters. I am actually surprised that I lasted for so long as I did …
This hospital, of course, is the last ditch. I have a terrible tin bed pan set in a worm-eaten commode. The proper loo and the showers are miles away. The noise all night and all day is deafening. There is NO privacy and in my ward at this minute a white clad nun is walking up and down apparently learning her script. Everyone has been so kind, so kind, poor things! I just thought I'd let you know these few facts of life. I have collected so many characters and ideas for short stories that I ought to be well supplied for years to come.
Government House
November [?]
My sojourn in the hospital was grim. It will take too long to describe it in a letter but if you take the Port Maria hospital, subtract and divide by four and then stuff it up an elephant's arse, it will give you a rough idea. It was finally discovered that I was suffering from “Round” worm which I had acquired from the water at Government House, which is apparently notorious. I've been feeling stringy all the week, added to which it has poured solidly for seven days. However, the Oxfords have been really sweet. I have stayed in my bungalow— NOT waterproof—and had special foods and now the sun has come out! ACTUALLY I FEEL FINE. Apart from the eternal “Trots” the rest did me good. It is a VERY curious place and the people!
I don't suppose that in all my travels I have endured quite so much sheer physical discomfort but somehow I haven't minded. The very idea of having a comfortable bed, hot water, clear light to read by seems like a mirage. When I get back to Les Avants, I shall wander about touching everything like [Chekhov's] Madame Ranevski [Ranevskaya].
I was wrong about the sun—it's just gone in again and rain has returned. Everything is soggy and the day before yesterday I happened to look at my “charcoal” suit and it looked as if it was covered with mother of pearl! This has now been fixed.
I have not yet been able to use my snorkel because with all the rain the sea is muddy and when the sea is muddy, the sharks come in and there are a GREAT many sharks in the Indian Ocean.
I am INFURIATED by those bloody little Beatles going to Buckingham Palace and all those “Teenagers” knocking policeman's hats off and Paul Macartney [McCartney] saying the Queen was just a “Mum”. I DO know what the younger generation is coming to non mi place at all, at all.
He was amused when he heard Princess Margaret quoted as saying that she presumed the Lads from Liverpool thought M.B.E. stood for “Mr. Brian Epstein,” their manager.
Government House
November 21st
Oh Coley,
I will withhold from you no longer the gruesome fact that this holiday has been a disaster. I have been horribly ill again for the last week and I have a dreadful suspicion that it MAY be Hepatitis. There is a lot of it about in these bloody islands. I am being inspected right and left and I'm beginning to feel a little better but very far from well. I sail on Thursday for Mombasa, unless I can get on to the American sea plane which goes on Wednesdays … I shall forego the African part of the trip and fly straight back to Geneva. Anyhow, I will wire you from Mombasa.
When I came out of hospital last week there was a steady deluge for ten days without letting up. These last few days have been lovely but too late to be of any good to me. I haven't even got enough energy to walk into the sea. Everybody is very kind and one or other of the Oxfords come and visit me every day. The food remains indescribable so I stick to poached eggs and corn flakes and tea.
I HATE the Seychelles and everything to do with them. Everything is tatty and dirty and run to seed. I share my ghastly bungalow with a rat the size of a small collie and several centipedes. I haven't quite recovered my sense of humour but there have been some black moments! I'm counting the days.
Oh, oh, oh, oh!
MASTER
It was a gaunt, emaciated Noël Coley found at Geneva airport, “more dead than alive.” Nor was he over the illness, which necessitated further treatment and hospitalization in Lausanne in the first three months of 1966.
•
IRENE AND LILLI PALMER spent time with Noël in Les Avants in January discussing the plays, but the London opening had to be put off until April. When rehearsals began in March, he found himself in a position he had always despised in those who had worked for him over the years—he had trouble remembering the lines he himself had written and frequently had to be prompted by his leading ladies.
Nonetheless, when they eventually did open at the Queen's Theatre on April 14 with A Song at Twilight, and on the twenty-fourth with Maud and Shadows of the Evening, the reception they received was ecstatic. If this was to be Noël's last theatrical hurrah, it was a satisfyingly loud one.
John Mills wrote:
The Wick
Richmond Hill
Surrey
April 15th 1966
Your performance was quite one of the best things you have ever done (excluding perhaps Stanhope!). It was bang up to date apart from anything else, and at the next R.A.D.A. [Royal Academy of Dramatic Art] meeting I shall suggest sending the academy along en masse to mark, learn, and inwardly digest the way to play comedy. I don't know any actor alive today who could get laughs with, apparently, so little effort. You never compromised or went out after our sympathy for one moment.
And from Irene Worth:
April 25th 1966
Darling Noël,
There is a line in Shadows which has struck me so deeply and meant so much to me that I must thank you—from my heart—for such a profound and precious lesson which I shall never forget—”Life—our most important responsibility.”
I do thank you with a full heart for everything, everything—I'm grateful and rejoice in your fantastic talents and sweetness and for giving me the precious experience of working with you—and to thank you for all you've done for me.
With admiration
and love—
IRENE
Another anonymous correspondent wrote a perceptive critique of Noël's own performance:
He is quite wonderful and actually manages to look like Maugham! The gray, shrunken face, the thin, curved-down mouth, moustache and hair—and I don't think it is entirely makeup. He has submerged his own personality into the bitter, trembling, neurotic old wreck of a man and never attempts to play for sympathy. Only occasionally he uses a touch of Coward voice or mannerism to point a laugh, always brilliantly placed to relieve a moment of tension. I was most impressed by it because I have nearly always seen him play himself. Not that I'm silly enough to under-rate the technical skill in “playing himself,” but it's fascinating to see him being so different; he's not only unlovable but unlikeable, which can't be easy for anyone with his natural charm.
His natural charm was stretched by the experience of working with Lilli Palmer, and he wrote to an unnamed friend: “The wonder is that I survived her Song At Twilight. What a difficult and prickly Kraut she can be. Only Claudette and Beattie were more injurious to my wayward and infinitely pathetic diverticulum.”
When the tumult had ceased and the “captains and kings” had departed, Noël recognized just how much it had all taken out of him. He reluctantly decided he would not take the plays to Broadway after all.
In fact, they would not be performed there in his lifetime. It was 1974 before Jessica Tandy, Hume Cronyn, and Anne Baxter played Noël Coward in Two Keys (Twilight and Maud) at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre—home to Design for Living forty years earlier.