The Richard Burton Diaries (168 page)

Monday 8th, Rome
Yesterday was for the most part unsatisfactory. Brook Williams came at 10 o'clock and J. Heyman at 11.20 [...]. It seems that I can delay going back to Jugoslavia until January and we have decided to do so and take a long seven week holiday. John Heyman's long disappearance can be attributed to – I had guessed so – to woman chasing. A particular woman called Suzy Kendall who is the girl who stayed with us on the yacht last summer with Mike Caine. We approve of her thoroughly though I am now finding it difficult to believe that neither Caine or Heyman (so he swears) have been to bed with her. She must either be that rare thing indeed – a truly chaste and virtuous girl – or that not so rare child – a girl who's not going to give herself unless the man is going to marry her, or that very common and to-be-pitied thing – frigid. Anyway, there goes Heyman with his tongue hanging out. Rather you nor me Johnny, rather you nor me. I must never have people around again on a Sunday morning. They destroyed the rhythm of the perfect Sunday, the reading of the papers with E reading me out choice bits from the cheap papers especially the
News of the World
while I work my way through the sports sections – Longhurst and McIlvanney and Parkinson and on to the politico pages with a final luxurious orgy in the book reviews with pencil and paper at the ready for books to buy immediately or shall we wait for them to
come out in paperback.
²⁸²
I have long given up reading the theatre and film sections. I find them, and always have unless they concerned me, unreadable. When Tynan stopped flashing his naughtiness at us I stopped being interested. Apart from Hobson in theatre and Dilys Powell in films I don't even know the critics’ names and I only know the two forementioned because they've been there ever since I was very young.
²⁸³
I've always been astounded actually that Hobson kept his job. He followed Agate and has always been considered a poor joke.
²⁸⁴
A good notice from Hobson was almost certainly the kiss of death unless you were already established. He is a tiny near-dwarf horribly disfigured by some cruel crippling thing or perhaps he was born that way. He walks with the aid of two sticks and seemed when I met him some years ago on a brains trust to be well under five feet. I was immensely nasty to him that night I remember. It was at Wyndham's Theatre. He had said in a recent article that though I was a great actor I was too short. Nobody else had thought I was too short either before or since and I am in fact the perfect size for an actor. At 5'10" I can be tall or shortish depending on what is wanted. Nevertheless I was still annoyed. When I met him, I said ‘You are a bright bugger to describe someone as "lacking inches" aren't you. I must tell Mr Andrews about your breath-taking proportions when next I see him.’ The very Sunday previous to this meeting he had described Harry Andrews as having the biggest chin in London with the possible exception of Mr Jack Hulbert.
²⁸⁵
And I knew Harry was very hurt, particularly so as Harry is a homosexual and like most of that company inordinately vain. He was, of course, still desperately trying – Hobson I mean – to match the much-quoted Agate's acid wit. Agate had described Neil Porter's nose as ‘effectively bridging the gap between Roman and Modern times’ in a performance of
Julius Caesar
.
²⁸⁶
And of another actor who was very fat and playing the
Merchant of Venice
: ‘Mr So-and-so could very well afford to lose a pound of flesh.’ And so on. Mr Hobson should have stayed in his former job which was, so I believe, soccer correspondent. Ken Tynan on the other hand was so good that Paul Scofield and I practically committed them to memory. He was at his very best when he began on the
Evening Standard
. Miss Anna Neagle took out her voice and shook it at the audience like a tiny fist.
²⁸⁷
There is nothing in Miss Audley's performance that fasting won't cure.
²⁸⁸
Except for flashes he never was that funny again and sadly ever as penetrating again. He is still though an exceptional writer and very disappointing at the
same time. He should never have allowed himself to be taken up with and by The National Theatre. He is now known as Ken (
Oh! Calcutta!
) Tynan.
²⁸⁹
A sad obituary.

I read David Niven's autobiography yesterday in one sitting.
²⁹⁰
It is very funny though not very well written and is, like all actors’ biographies, very anecdotal and full of ‘and then Mike Todd called me and said "Get your ass over here"’ etc.
²⁹¹
He describes one scene on Bogart's yacht which is not what happened at all as I was there. He describes Sinatra singing all through the night on a motor yacht with a lot of other yachts around ‘awe-struck’ he says.
²⁹²
Frankie did sing all through the night it's true and a lot of people sat around in boats and got drunk it's true but Bogie and I went out lobster-potting with Dumbum [...] while Frankie was singing kept on making cracks about Betty [Bacall] sitting on Sinatra's feet etc. and Frankie got really pissed off with Bogie and David Niv who describes himself as bewitched all through the night was trying to set fire to the
Santana
at one point, because nobody could stop Francis from going on and on and on.
²⁹³
I was drinking ‘boiler-makers’ with Bogie Rye Whiskey with canned beer chasers so the night is pretty vague but I seem to remember a girl having a fight with her husband or boy friend in a rowing dinghy and being thrown in the water by her irate mate. I don't know why but I would guess that she wanted to stay and listen to Frankie and he wanted to go. And Bogie and Frankie nearly came to blows next day about the singing the night before and I drove Betty home because she was so angry with Bogie's cracks about Frankie's singing. At that time Frankie was out of work and was peculiarly vulnerable and Bogie was unnecessarily cruel. But any way it is not at all like Niv's description. He's very sweet about E and indeed about practically everybody.

Alexandre has just arrived with a message from Marie Hélène Rothschild inviting us

Tuesday 9th, Rome (continued from yesterday)
to a party at Ferrières on December 2nd and to stay the night before, which is a Wednesday, and to stay on over the following weekend. Now with the news about Jugoslavia, we are able to go. I had made it a condition of the party that we stayed at Ferrières the night before and after. Two reasons: I love Ferrières. And I don't have to worry about E being on time.

The first is the real reason. The vastness of the chateau and, at the same time, its cosiness gives me immense satisfaction. The grounds, seemingly
endless, laked and forested and bridle-pathed are a huge world of their own and I walk around and about it for miles. Also I like the Rothschilds very much. I am not much given to ‘Society’ but Marie Helene and Guy will always command my respect and loyalty as they were so nice to us when nobody else was. During the time of the Scandale they went out of their way to be warmly polite to us when we were front-page and vulgar sensationalism every other day and every paper. Much lesser people cut us dead, even, if you please, people from our own profession. An idiot like Audrey Hepburn, for instance, a supposedly long time friend of E's was unobtainable on the phone and refused to acknowledge flowers that were sent her for her birthday. David Niven was toffee-nosed too, though he has apologized since. Grace wouldn't have been seen dead in our company though I'm sure now that Rainier didn't give a bugger. We didn't give a bugger either and were perfectly content to be left alone and therefore the nice attitude of Guy and M-H was of no real importance personally to our happiness, but it was a splendid smack in the eye for the black crows crowing at our ‘disgrace’.

I gather that the party is in honour of the centenary of Proust's birth. Christ, he was dead in 1922 at 51 years of age and here I am only 5 years away from his death age without a book to my name. I have never liked his 7 volumes of
A la Recerche
but nevertheless recognize the enormity of the attempt.
²⁹⁴
Perhaps I will understand him and enjoy him better than I did when first I read him. I must have been in my teens. I will have another go when we get back to Gstaad.

The ladies are asked to dress in the style of the period with their hair in the period adorned only with ‘flowers, feathers or diamonds’. The men are asked to wear tails! Marie Helene nearly got a ‘go and take a running jump into Ferrières Lake’ message in reply to the last request but E persuaded me otherwise. I am actually looking forward to it.

Yesterday was a blood and sweat day. Me being wheeled, dying from a terrible wound in my head, down a hospital corridor and in to the emergency operating theatre. A thoroughly messy day with false blood drying tackily in my hair and on my face and Cortese crying at my dying even in rehearsals. How I shrink from people who really ‘act’ like that. They are always so bad too. But they think they are being great instead of bloody idiots, self-indulgent idiots. Creepily embarrassing. E came in the afternoon to cheer me up. We worked at what was the Jewish hospital on the Isola Tiberina, a diabolical place to get to as the bridges Fabricio and Cestio are one permanent traffic jam. No wonder they've abandoned it as a hospital – an emergency patient would be killed by the traffic. Ponte Fabricio was built [in] 62
BC
with modern
traffic not being its main concern. The Ponte Cestio was built in
AD
192 and rebuilt last in 1890 so that too was made for horse and cart and pedestrians. We work there again today.

Brook told us on Sunday that Emlyn [Williams] wanted to sell his cottage at South Moreton and I immediately said we'd buy it. They want £16,000. It's a bit steep but is worth every penny and will be worth more in the years to come. Liza can have it when she's older. It is perfect for us for a weekend cottage. It is not far from a railway station and there is a good pub within walking distance and shops in the main street only a couple of hundred yards away and unlike Brook's cottage it is off the main street so that dogs and small children are fairly safe. A railway line runs between London and the West Country and Wales about a mile away and I've always loved the sound of trains at night. I prefer it to Sussex and Paul Scofield's part of the country while Kent, though lovely is a monster to get to. It is pretty convenient too for Shepperton and not outrageous for Elstree. All in all, I can't wait to work in England again.
As long as it's summer time
. I wrote to Emlyn this morning and Brook will take the letter back with him. I've told Emlyn that he can use the cottage whenever he likes for as long as he likes. We shall be there so seldom anyway. Did not note that on Sunday E and I had a martini each and two glasses of wine while yesterday E had a jack daniels. [...]

Wednesday 10th, Rome
I am 46 years old today. I am sometimes surprised that I got so far. I always had the feeling that I would die in my thirties and in my twenties was firmly convinced that I would die at the age of 33. This belief was induced in me by an Irish (Welsh-Irish) idiot many years ago in the ML Club in London on a wet Sunday afternoon, late afternoon, when we were having a break from poetry reading. Dylan was there and Constant Lambert, Louis MacNeice and Esmé Percy – by God all of them are dead – and we were drinking well with no particular thought for the fact that we were broadcasting ‘live’ in an hour's time some intricate verse – at least Esmé and I were.
²⁹⁵
No we weren't, we were doing Thomas Love Peacock's
Nightmare Abbey
.
²⁹⁶
The ML Club was and is a most unattractive, badly run, filthy hole in a wall just off Upper Regent Street. I have never found out if I was a member though I must surely be one now as I ‘loaned’ them £500 last winter via John Dearth.
²⁹⁷
Its only use was as a place to drink when the pubs were closed. One never dreamt of going there if the ‘George’ was open a hundred yards away.
²⁹⁸
Anyway this particular afternoon we had the usual ‘break ‘til 6.30, run through until 7.30,
the red light comes on at 8’ injuction and Esmé and I repaired to the ML. It was my idea of total bliss. A Sunday in London at the BBC on the Third Programme – surely the best radio channel in the world – playing Shelley in Peacock's marvellous piece, surrounded by a melodrama of brilliant English actors – Esmé himself, Count Robert Farquarson of The Holy Roman Empire who was reputed to be a Satanist, Ernest Thesiger, Andrew Cruikshank, Robert Speaight, Michael Hordern and sometimes Dylan and James Crock of Gold Stephens and always the BBC stock company one of whom was, if such a thing is possible on radio, a truly great actor – James McKechnie.
²⁹⁹
So there you are in my drab paradise of magnificent language for the speaking of which you were actually paid money, on a Sunday in Studio 8 of the BBC Portland Place, the Sunday papers strewn hither and thither and much chat between the boys who matched story after story and, because the competition is so intense, no one person was able to hold the floor for too long even if Dylan was there for Dylan – the most compelling talker I've ever met – was oddly constricted by these precise cold English actors with their impeccable accents. Lunch was at someone's club – I would sometimes go with Esmé to the Savile – but more often it was in the BBC canteen a hellish place appositely placed in the sub-basement of the huge building.
³⁰⁰
It was a serve-yourself cafe and a pretty sight it was to see the august Count Farquarson, cloaked like a bandit, and all the other great presences queueing up for the appalling BBC fare. The drinking men however lunched out of a bottle at the George or – not quite so popular as it was that bit further away – The Stag or The Roebuck or some such name. But it was the work itself that was the wonder. The audience was a minor consideration as it was so small. Apart from the fact that the channel for the Third Programme was unfindable in most of Great Britain this brainchild of the BBC would play plays in the original Greek and was indeed deliberately steered away from the mass audience. If they accidentally hit on a smash success it was almost always replayed on the Home Service or Light Programmes. The best work I have ever been associated with was with that programme. I did endless poetry readings there and every kind of adaptations from great works, particularly the lesser known stuff. Your
Hamlets
and
Henry V
s were common fare and one did those on the vulgar airwaves but
’Tis Pity She's a Whore
and Love Peacock and Bussy D'Ambois and Chaucer and Jones’
In Parenthesis
and
Anathemata
and Joyce's
Finnegan's Wake
and
Ulysses
etc. were all done on ‘our’ programme.
³⁰¹