Ever, Dirk: The Bogarde Letters

by Unknown

  So make of it what you can, and then tear it up!

  A bientôt – DB.

  To Paddie Collyer1 Grasse

  19 June 1985

  Dear Miss Collyer –

  Thank you for your letter of the 8th.

  I am sorry that I have not been able to assist you more with your ‘problems’ over ‘VICTIM’.

  It was all such a long time ago and so many other films have come between.

  Mr Relph2 (who was not absolutely happy about the subject, especially with the ‘final scene’, which worried him!) may be able to assist you much more.

  In 1961 it was impossible to go ‘a lot further’, as you suggest!

  It was difficult enough to make the film at all: the lawyers who had to read it for libel declared that there was no problem but that they wished that they could wash their mouths out: they found it so distasteful!

  So think on that!

  It is all recorded, anyway, in my book ‘Snakes And Ladders’.

  As far as I am aware a great many homosexuals ‘resist their instincts’, it is not at all unusual, but what you call a ‘practicing’ type would have been quite unpalatable then as, indeed, he would be now to Family Audiences.

  You must remember that the film, in 1961, was made for Commercial Cinema .. it was the first tiny break-through towards films of a more important nature. For that Rank must be thanked. They had the courage to give it a release, even if it was restricted.3

  A great many distributors did NOT want to show it at all.

  I well remember that a number of people I knew well were deeply shocked by the subject and would never have set foot in the Cinemas to see it! Bigotry was a major force in those days: you cant blame Rank for restricting the release. I might just add that a number of Distributers did’nt wish to show ‘Death In Venice’ either!

  No American company would have dared to make it, and a very few were brave, their word, enough to screen it in the States.

  We have come a long way now .. anything goes. Which is a great pity.

  Lord Arran saw the film on TV when he was in the middle of the Wolfenden Business1 and wrote me a charming letter saying that both he and I could claim to have altered the Law. He was desperatly moved by the film (which he had never seen before) and it added power to his elbow: it was exactly what he needed to ‘finally convince’ the reluctant members to vote as he wished.

  From that point of view the film was important: made at a time when films of that kind were NOT popular and the subject matter was simply not acceptable. Ralph and Dearden made a number of films in this manner, about the colour problem, handicapped children and so on. A far cry indeed from Anna Neagle and Mike Wilding ..

  The letters which poured in from families, from men, from wives, were heartbreaking. But we had lifted the corner of a veil, and people suddenly realised that they were ‘not the only ones’ in the world.

  All it was was an excellent little thriller with a bit more to it than that! As such it worked beyond our wildest dreams .. but we had to go slowly, and Dearden more than anyone deserves the credit for his honour and bravery and integrity.

  Sincerely – Dirk Bogarde

  To Hélène Bordes

  (Postcard) St Andrews

  4 July 1985

  Chere Mme de la Planche –

  C’est fait!

  I am now a Doctor! – & it was a very moving, and ancient, ceremony. The College began life in 1411. –

  So I am honoured. Tonight I have to make a speech2 to the University – I am VERY terrified!

  Merci!

  DB.

  To Lucilla Van den Bogaerde Clermont

  28 July 1985

  My dear Cilla –

  Thanks for loving letter and postcard .. boastcard [ … ] and for thinking of the St Andrews caper.

  All tremendously moving, humbling, and exhausting!

  Dirk’s notes for his speech at St Andrews, inspired by Colette.

  Cocktail party for eighty Faculty Members and wives (wives by far the worst and noisiest!) and then a dinner at the Principles house for twenty, with me at head of the table. Fairly agonising really, because the flight had been an hour late from London so there was no time to change (I’d, thank God! worn a blazer and dark tie) or to pee. Which was tiresome. But everyone was in tremendous form and most wonderfully kind, except that Academic Life is a bit strange to me even though I have read all my Iris Murdoch etc.

  Next thing, back to the hotel, a vast granit lump overlooking the 18th hole of the Old Course.

  A sitting room with three chairs, a pastel of Honesty and dead asters, a cabinet with ten tarnished golf-trophies and a TV set which did’nt, or I could’nt, work.

  The bedroom was fairly hairey … enormous; a window ON the 18th bloody hole, sea mists, sea gulls, two divan beds and a wardrobe.

  In the lav. no-where to put anything. A loo beside the window which had a squint, immovable, plastic venetian blind. So that to sit or to stand one had to hang the only towel up. I felt rather lost at one A.M after the dinner was over. We’d (my minder and I) left London at two thirty for the three-something flight.

  Next morning, in thick mist, off to Thanksgiving .. then the Robing Ceremony which was a bit jolly with everyone pulling themselves into their robes and buttoning up. Mine was rather splendid: not as pretty as Jacquie’s1 wedding dress but nudging it. Black satin with huge sleeves and a million yellow buttons down the front, all covered in silk. Graduation a sort of terror: a procession led by giant silver maces and various heraldic creatures on gold-covered staffs … and three hundred students to be given their ‘scrolls’. I sat in terror .. but really only had to watch what the others did (300 times) to get the dance steps right.

  I graduated with a splendid lady from Maine, who had flown in the night before and was eighty years old that morning! Dr Elizabeth Holt .. she is one of the greatest Art Professors in the world … and then there was a particularly nice Sir James Black (pathologist) who had discovered something vitally valuable to the stopping of internal bleeding and duodenal ulcers … well worth honouring, I’d have thought … and then me, for Letters.2

  A long and fairly shy-making Lauration, during which one had to stand and face the Professor giving it; back to the thousands in the great, ancient (1411) Hall … and then the bowing and the kneeling and the ‘capping’, with what remains of John Knox’s own cap, and then the ‘hooding’ when a uniformed gentleman placed a yellow silk hood, or cape, around my shoulders and I was an Hon. Doc.

  I must confess it was all very impressive, not at ALL Municipal (like Leeds, Sussex, Bristol etc) and one really did feel, strangely, enobled by the events and the solemnity, hymns and all that.

  Then there was a great lunch .. God! the Scots gobble! And very well .. and a Garden Party in the courtyard of St Salvators Hall .. all Strawberries and cream and hundreds of Mums in merangue-hats and Dads in tails .. I skipped this and took my minder, Ros Bowlby,1 off for a five mile walk along the sands … which was MUCH nicer.

  Then, in the evening all the formality of the Graduation Dinner, at which I had to speak so therefore was too petrified to drink or eat anything set before me … and after that, sweltering in my robes (we all were) the Graduation Ball in a huge marquee which was as pretty as a Tissot. Fellows in the kilt, girls with tartan sashes in long dresses; very elegant. Breakfast was served at four am … I’d skipped off at midnight.

  I was sad that Ma and Pa were not there: that Norah had died, that my splendid Mrs X in America had skipped off too and that there was no ‘family’ there to see the Ugly Duckling get his ‘hood’.

  But there you are. Cant have everything. Tony had to remain in London, which was wretched, but he’s not up to that kind of a junket now … so I was, except for sweet Ros, who came with me to ‘mind’ me and hold my hand, on my tod.

  I would’nt have missed it for anything: and I ask nothing more.

  It was nice to be so honoured for writing! Not for acting … or being a politici
an or something.

  Flew back, in my University tie to which I am now accorded: and got picked up by a young man at the luggage-collection at Heathrow, the first person I even saw, who asked me when I had graduated! He was a St Andrewian himself and had graduated the year before.

  I felt quite chuffed!

  [ … ] Tony’s checks were satisfactory .. and he has’nt to go back until April .... the longest time he’s, we’ve, been ‘off the hook’ … so now it’s back here in blinding heat and trying to get a book finished and tables laid and dogs fed and all the mundanities. However it was a good break .. tiring, terribly expensive, alas! but very pleasing.

  So were your letters and card … I do wish that one day we can all meet up again: I cant, nor will I, make plans when one comes to London for the Medicals because everything depends on the results .. and as soon as they are over, if they have proved to be okay .. T. wants to get home .. he cant cope with restaurants or crowds of more than two people and has to be near a familiar Lav! All very tiring and boring .. but God does play odd tricks … and Parkinsons AND cancer seem to me to be quite a lot for one elderly gent. Ah well.

  [ … ] P.S. Aunt Sadie (94) was NOT present! But I bet there was a lot of switching off of the TV sets in Glasgow; I got the full ‘cover’ over a rather grumpy looking Queen opening a supermarket and a wet, and cross, Diana in the Highlands!

  Much love

  Dirk

  XXX

  To Audrey Carr1 Clermont

  28 July 1985

  Dear Mrs Carr –

  Thank you so much for your surprising letter!

  I am at a loss as to know why your mother-in-law chose to, as you say, ‘hang a film star’ in her house!

  But I can give you the background to the thing it’self.

  It was drawn by my father (a fairly decent painter) and was exhibited at the Royal Academy in, I think, 1958 .. he was very chuffed that he was ‘hung’.

  I never, personally, liked the thing: indeed it is of me playing Sydney Carton, but we all went up to the Exhibition to honour Papa and, lo and behold! it was sold already.

  We did not know to whome, or at least I did not.

  It is possible that your mother-in-law knew my father who was, indeed, a charming man, or on the other hand she might have liked the film!

  I cant, at this stage in my life, offer any other suggestions.

  My fathers name, incidentally, was Ulric van den Bogaerde … which is why there is a ‘U’ on the paper and not a ‘D’!

  Alas! I have no personal memories of a ‘great Edwardian lady!’ .. but she sounds absolutely splendid and, who knows, she might have gone to the Cinema from time to time if she cared so much for the arts in general.

  Anyway: that’s the story as far as I know it: ten out of ten to you for guessing (‘’Tis a far, far better thing I do ..’)

  Dirk Bogarde

  To Elizabeth Goodings Clermont

  Sunday 4 August 1985

  Dearest LuLu –

  Brock1 is, I rather hope! about to leave for his Boss’s house (half a mile down the road in Opio!).

  He’s had a good sleep [ … ] and been swimming all day, and lying in the sun and really looks nothing like the white-whey-faced youth who arrived on Friday evening. Absolutely shagged out: whatever he earns he bloody well deserves it. I’ve loaded him up with Supponerils2 and hollyhock seeds (for Kimbo3) and he’ll be off presently: after he’s eaten his tea.

  Trouble with not smoking is that people eat so much! We demolished a whole bloody chicken at lunch … I was hoping there would be a bit left for T. and I for supper tonight. But no.

  I only say ‘hope’ he’ll be leaving because although he is splendid company he does talk rather a lot .. not about himself so much, about everything. He’s very well informed and well read, to my surprise … for I thought he wouldn’t be into reading books. But apparently he is. Slowly!

  [ … ] I understand so well your present situation,4 watching for (or dreading) the good days and the bad days, the little signs which mean worry, the restlessness and silences … T. is TERRIBLY brave and good about things, and is coping mentally now wonderfully well. What else to do?

  But he dreads, as I do, the time when, for example, his French Driving Liscence runs out and he has to have a Test for the new one: and/or sign a form declaring that he has no ‘impeding ailment’ … well: when that comes along I don’t know what we’ll do. I’m far too old to try and learn driving again .. perhaps I shall have to buy one of those awful chugging buggies old ladies have to go shopping!5

  T. of course has no pain like G. And for that God be thanked. But the slowness, the shaking legs, the slight wobbles now and then distress him dreadfully … I know this, of course, and we discuss it calmly and coldly. It has to be faced flat on. The moment that Gilles6 said it was cancer that was it. Cold, clear headed, no panic. Now: face this. How do we get on with it .. out of it .. how best to deal with things.

  We made out. And then bloody Parkinsons on top! And Tote, the active, tall-standing, proud fellow … oh shit.

  We all say ‘Why should it be us?’ We wonder, ‘What have we done to deserve this?’ It’s silly … we haven’t DONE anything. It just happened to us, that’s all … and we have to take it.

  I am not a Goddy person, so cant lay blame or plead for special help! But there are moments … there are moments … and the awareness that each day is a new one, each might bring something lovely as well as something wretched … but that it’ll be a new day, does help a bit. You are right; one does see things in a different light, feels in a different way, becomes a different person to some extent. But the strength that was ALWAYS there all the time just waiting to be put to use, comes to the fore.

  At least that’s how it feels to me.

  You probably will see some deterioration .. you might not .. but if you do you must expect it. I have got used to it now … I see the signs of age, the good days, the bad days, the buttons which wont get buttoned, the paper he cant fold, the table napkin he cant un-fold, the spoon he cant quite get into the saucer … it’s not ALL the time … but it’s there, and it wont ever get better.

  So I fold the papers and the napkins and cut the tomato for the salad and button the buttons … NEVER in front of people … unless I can do it so no one notices.

  It works alright …

  It’s just that I must’nt be ill! Thats a bugger .. and worries me more than many other things to which I have, as you will, mercifully adjusted. And you’ll adjust as well: you’ll find it just sort of happens … you do it subconsciously and remember (as you do) that you have got your kids about you, and a loving family who will help as much as they can. It’s not as bad as being stuck in a flat, alone, in Brighton .. with no one at all except the District Nurse.

  The ones to be sorry for, if sorry is the inadequate word, are the victims … not ourselves. Yet.

  I know that whatever happens I have to try and keep this place going as long as humanly possible because I have almost seen Tote ‘die’ when he is away from it … when he’s in London it’s pretty hellish. All that matters are the Tests, the results and then he wants to come immediatly Home. It’s pathetically sad, and touching … so I know my duty now … no return to a dear little flattie in London or somewhere … we stay here until the last moment. If we are lucky enough.

  It could be ‘years’, you know. But I doubt it really … I mean for you. There are no miracles in medicin, but there are remissions and there are ‘holdings’ when things stabalise; do as I do and prepare for the worst things and then you’ll find such relief when things are’nt as bad as you imagined in those grey hours: there are always hidden strengths in us … and the main thing is to guard them and keep them strong and polished bright. Like swords against adversity.

  You’ll manage, I am certain that you will; dont over-tax your emotions with guilts and regrets, too late for those now … you need the force of lions, and you cant waste energy fretting about what was or what could,
or might, have been. Remember what was good, what IS good, and fight for yourself as well as George; but spare yourself.

  You, like an actor, are your own instrument. You have to manufacture your own guts, courage and love. No one else can do it for you, and it’s bloody tough work. But, if you do it reasonably, dont fret about, dont dissipate the force, you’ll get through the battles. If this sounds like a lecture it really is’nt supposed to be! I’m trying to share some of your burden … not much. I cant do that really so far away … but loving you as I do, and giving your bundle a bit of a lift now and again might, only might mind you! help the load a bit.

  I pray so.

  It’s six o’clock, I really must turf Brock off .. after all his Boss paid for the fare and has given him a room in the house … so he’d better go and do his ‘bit’ there. At least he wont keep them all awake ALL night hacking away with that cough … he’ll sleep like a log with my Shovvies.

  And it’s time for my drink, anyway … and then, when the terrace is still again we’ll sit in silence and watch the sun sink and wonder if it’ll be an egg and a tin of soup or just soup in a tin … you know?

  Anything will do: as long as there’s no bloody washing up and setting tables .... Basta!

  This with all my love, as ever, & for ever

  Dirk XOXOXOX

  To Elizabeth Goodings Clermont

  9 September 1985

  Darling LuLu –

  The most extraordinary thing about writing a book is finishing it! It is really just like having a baby, I imagine … only the pregnency is two years (in this case1 anyway) instead of nine measly months. I feel so absolutely flat and dispirited: there is nothing left in my head at all .. no running-thread of thought, no rumbling about with ideas, no sorting out of dates and facts and selecting and rejecting things.

  Condensing sixty-five years of your life into a modest book of some 250 pages aint easy! I have ghastly back-ache, from sitting on this upright kitchen chair for so long .. and a head-ache, probably for the same reason .. I MUST get a decent chair. An Office-type. Upholstered and swivelling .. like the one I had at Adams up in the gallery. Why did I get rid of that? I suppose because it never occurred to me that I’d ever have to earn my living writing.