by Anne Edwards
In New York, Vivien fell to pieces after she had made her announcement. Jack at least was there to help her get through the days and nights. His affection never flagged, nor his ability to express his deep feelings for her, but he was a proud man who carried himself and his emotions with great dignity. It was painful for him to see Vivien in the state she was in and to be aware that her love for Larry could still torture her with such deep effect. He remembered them when their love was golden and a standard of what he most desired for the love he sought in his own life. If Vivien was feeling the scalpel’s sharp edge, Jack was suffering the open wound. He tried to surmount his own pain by soothing hers. And she responded to it with gratitude.
Tuesday
May 31st, 1960
Helen Hayes Theatre
My Darling,
This is to thank you most formally for my really beautiful presents. I love them and shall treasure them and enjoy them.
It is also to put in writing that I love you I love you and I absolutely love you— So there—
Vivien.
As fate would have it, Equity called a theatre strike at that time. After many days of meetings and negotiations the strike was settled, but Roger Stevens, the play’s producer, decided the play would remain closed in New York and would open a month later in Los Angeles and do a tour—Los Angeles four weeks, San Francisco four weeks, Chicago three weeks, and Washington two. It was a godsend because it enabled Vivien to go back to England for a week’s treatment with Conachy. It also meant Jack could get some sleep too, for Bobby Helpmann and Peter Wyngarde were seeing her home. The truth was, Jack was now not at all sure that he didn’t want out.
She left June 10. From the TWA aircraft she wrote Jack, “Oh, how I love you dearest heart!” For the return address she wrote “Lady Vivien Olivier.” She had always loved being Lady Olivier and Jack did not know if it would ever be possible for her to accept being Mrs. Anybody.
Reporters swamped her as she stepped out of the customs hall. She wore a beige linen suit and a high-crowned, low-brimmed brown and white printed cotton hat that half concealed her face. Helpmann and Wyngarde stood on either side of her as she puffed nervously at a cigarette and refused to answer questions about her marriage. Larry had moved from Eaton Square and was staying with friends. The first thing she did was attempt to arrange a meeting with him. At first he agreed to see her at the Royal Court and then changed his mind. “I thought I was going to see Larry at his theatre,” she told reporters. “But he phoned me and said he believed it best not to meet right now.” She appeared to be choking back tears as she continued. “He said he would see me later, but there are no definite arrangements.”
Olivier rang Jack in New York about the same time he had refused to see Vivien. “Jackie, I hear from Vivien that you and she are in love. Any chance of a union?” he inquired. “Oh, no. Absolutely not,” Merivale replied. To which Olivier—with a large degree of disappointment—simply said, “Ooooh.”
It was not that Jack loved her less but that he could not envision how he was going to cope with their future, or indeed that she truly wanted him to do so. His former experience with this sort of illness was sketchy. She took so many pills for ups and downs that there was no way for him to be sure when she was behaving in a normal way. While manic she was abusive, difficult, cruel, and impossible to manage. In depression she was the clinging, dependent, frightened child. At other times she was sweet and adorable, the charming, witty, generous lady the world and her dear friends knew and loved.
Gertrude and costume designer Bumble Dawson (an old friend) stayed with her in the flat at 54 Eaton Square the night Olivier refused to see her. She was in a terrible state and Gertrude called Dr. Conachy at two in the morning much concerned. He came right over and administered a tranquilizer, but at five A.M. she was still awake. She sat down and wrote Jack:
54 Eaton Square
5 A.M. June 11, 1960
My Darling Love—
I cannot sleep without writing to tell you a) that I love you and b) that I miss you. I have been wondering all evening where and how you have been. I gave you most of my news on the telephone and there is little else to say. I have been sorting out things from Notley—placing them and hanging pictures and oddities like that. Gertrude came over looking a good 16—sends you her fond love— Armando Child came to dinner and Bumble Dawson—the latter kindly spending the night here for the telephone and the door bell ring ad infinitum and the angelic Rubyesc has enough on her hands with the cooking and cleaning and shopping without dealing with the dear reporters all of the time. They have been pleasant enough, to tell the truth, but ever present which is fatiguing. I feel better already. Shall have treatment tomorrow. Otherwise stay in bed or anyway knock about here—then to Notley to meet with the gardener and his wife— Lunch at Little Hasdey with Baba Met-calf. Back to London the 15th to see “Rhinoceros” [the play that starred Olivier and Plowright]—then, I don’t know what. There has been no communication from his Lordship. Oh, my dear, dear dearest love—I do adore you and send great waves of love—good-good night and God bless you.
Your Vivien.
Notley was being shown to prospective buyers, and Olivier had brought some of Vivien’s personal things to Eaton Square for her before her arrival. When she got to Notley she was upset with the gardens, which had not been tended to as she thought they ought to be, and it was a painful wrench when she left, feeling in her heart it must be for the last time. She saw Rhinoceros in London—falling asleep in the middle—and complained that the acting was not too good, but that perhaps she wasn’t quite in the mood. A few days later she was on a plane back to New York. En route, on a Pan Am Jet Clipper, she wrote Jack:
June 20th, 1960
My Darling Love— I am on my way to you with a beating heart and the only point of this little scribble is that it makes me feel nearer. I wonder every minute if you are awake (I was at 5 this morning) when you will be starting out for the Airport—if you will drive right by it?
Dear lad I long to see you—and read and reread every little thing you have ever written me to make the time pass quickly. I am feeling so very very well—it seems like a miracle— Indeed, I believe it is— This has been a very extraordinary week. I think the most extraordinary of my life— Alone—and darling infinitely close to you— Friends have been most remarkable. I have every reason being grateful— I seem to have seen everyone I meant to and there have even been some hilarious moments. To think 5 hours time I shall be able to tell you of them. My darling dearest dear. We have just passed over the Coast of Ireland— We have head winds so will be a little late. Sweet dear love I ache and long to see you.
With great apprehension Jack met the plane at Idlewild. But Vivien stepped off the aircraft looking like a divine angel, loving and behaving courageously. He was flooded with relief. The manic phase was over. Yet deep inside he wondered how long it would be before depression would overtake her again and the whole cycle start over.
But those three weeks before they were to reopen Duel of Angels in Los Angeles erased all his doubts.
They took a train to the Coast, thinking they would have the time alone, but reporter David Lewin came along with them to do a profile for his English paper. Lewin was constantly at Vivien for the first day, remaining in her drawing room, following her into the dining car for meals, the questions never stopping. The second day out Jack got quite cross. “We were hoping this would be a holiday,” he told Lewin. “Well, I’ve got to get this work done,” Lewin replied. “I realize that, but couldn’t we arrange say two hours in the morning and one in the afternoon?” Jack suggested. Lewin agreed and from that point in the trip Vivien and Jack had their holiday.
An amusing thing happened the first evening they boarded the train. Vivien and Jack ordered a drink before dinner in the drawing room. The porter served them and they began to talk. “Are you going to be with us all the way?” Vivien inquired.
“Yes, ma’am.” The porter beamed.
“Larry,” he replied.
Vivien and Jack could hardly contain their laughter until he had gone. Then they hooted, unable to stop. After that it became their one great joke. Whenever they needed anything, Vivien would smile mischievously and say, “Oh, just ring for Larry.”
For the first time Vivien did not seem upset by the restriction of the train. Jack seldom left her side. She had her new cat, Poo Jones, complete with basket and litter box and a Renoir she had brought back from Notley because, as she insisted to Jack, “I need something truly beautiful to look at in hotel rooms.”
They had managed to keep the time in New York rather private and free from the press, as New York agent Gloria Safier had lent them her little house out at Old Quogue. But they would now be traveling together. It would not have mattered so much, but Olivier had not issued a public statement as to his intentions—or, for that matter, even acknowledged that a divorce might be imminent. To all intents and purposes Vivien was still a married woman.
Jack sat down and wrote Larry a letter apprising him of his new feeling of commitment and his deep love for Vivien. Olivier sent him an immediate reply on August 16, 1960, in which he confided that moments after he had read Jack’s letter he had broken down and sobbed in relief with the purest kind of gratitude he had ever known and thanked him for giving him that, adding how happy he was for all of them. He obviously felt released now to proceed with his own life, but at the same time he warned Jack to watch for those little signs that at first were not easily recognizable but which grew to formidable symptoms of her illness.
Olivier was in effect now resigning all responsibility toward Vivien and turning it over to Jack. A strong sense of relief came through in the tone of the letter, an unspeakable joy. Perhaps the irony was fitting, for the same indescribable feeling had overwhelmed him when he and Vivien had decided to run off together to become the golden lovers of the 1940s.
Chapter Twenty-seven
She called him Angel, he called her Angelica. For Jack it was hard to remember when he had felt so young. She was so beautiful and softly shining as she responded to his affection. They stayed at the Chateau Marmont high in the Hollywood Hills in an apartment with a terrace that overlooked the city, and Vivien was surrounded by old and dear friends. George Cukor opened his house to the lovers. They had the use of his garden and pool any time, and he hosted a splendid gala party for them. The title role in the projected film of Tennessee Williams’ The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone had just been offered to her; and she was glad to have George there to discuss the part and help her decide if she should do it when it went before the cameras in January 1961.
Duel of Angels was a sophisticated play, and Hollywood did not seem able to pick up on its humor. The laughs did not come where they were expected, which put a slight tension on their four-week engagement at the Hollywood Playhouse. It did fair business and there were always crowds of fans waiting at the stage door for “Scarlett O’Hara.”
Cars had always been one of her great passions and she bought a Thunderbird. She was deliriously happy as she showed it to Jack. “That was really rather naughty,” he scolded. “You shouldn’t have done it.” He did not honestly think she could afford such an extravagant whim when she had a Rolls-Royce in London.
The fact was that Olivier had always given the impression he hadn’t any money, what with taxes and theatre costs; and the theatrical set of London often conjectured how terrible it was for such a great actor—who could have been a millionaire if he had remained in Hollywood—to be limited in any way financially. But Vivien, from her own earnings and because those close to her in London had invested well for her, actually could afford such a whim, even though she was never aware of how much money she had. When Vivien was on a “high” she went on great spending sprees—mostly gift-giving. It was part of the illness.
“Well drive to San Francisco,” she announced when they closed in Hollywood.
“What? All our gear in a sports car convertible? It will be impossible!” Jack protested.
“Don t be ridiculous, darling,” Vivien replied. “We’ll be traveling light.”
“Traveling light” to Vivien meant twenty-eight suitcases, Poo Jones, a cat bed, a litter box, and the Renoir. Somehow they managed to pile it all in the car, though it was not possible to see in the rearview mirror over the enormous mountain of luggage. It was August and hot, and both Poo Jones and the Renoir shared the front seat with them as they drove up the Pacific Coast Highway. One hundred miles from San Francisco the car broke down. It had to be left in a garage and another car rented. With so many suitcases, only a convertible would do. Finally, after much difficulty, a fire-truck-red Chevrolet was located (a color that Vivien abhorred), and everything was transferred so that they could continue their journey.
They were now two very happy people. The weather was beautiful in San Francisco and the audiences cosmopolitan. They flew to Chicago four weeks later, where they were met by a good friend of both of theirs, Sir Cedric Hardwicke. They had a suite with a kitchen at the Ambassador East, and after the show “dear Cedric” would come by and Jack would cook a steak for the three of them. Vivien adored Chicago with its beautiful museum of art, and they were invited out by many people with private collections.
By the time they reached Washington, fall had approached and the leaves were just beginning to color. They took drives out into the country during the day and had small picnics. It was a lighthearted and loving time for both of them. Vivien had not had an attack for the entire tour, and they had pushed all the former pressures and problems out of their minds.
“How are we going home?” Jack asked when they closed in Washington.
“We’ll fly,” she said.
“No, we’ll go by boat.”
“What a lovely idea!” she agreed.
They booked passage on the Queen Elizabeth and Peter Wyngarde came too, though that was not exactly Jack’s idea. However, Wyngarde respected affairs of the heart, and he came by their suite (they had connecting staterooms) for a drink only occasionally and joined them for dinner just twice.
At Cherbourg Jack got his first taste of the press. All the time they had been together on the tour not a word had been printed in the papers or columns. But as soon as they stepped off the gangplank they were instantly surrounded by reporters peppering them with extremely personal questions. Vivien seemed to be enjoying it and stood by smiling with Poo Jones clasped in her arms as Jack told them all, “We’re just good friends.”
While she had been away Cecil Tennant had ordered her old Rolls-Royce to be exchanged for a new one. En route she had received a cable from him: HAVE MANAGED TO GET YOU A SABLE ROLLS. She cabled back: DARLING UNCLE CECIL ’TIS THE ONE COLOUR I REALLY CAN’T ABIDE, SPRAY IT!
So there on the dock at Cherbourg a lovely new gray Rolls awaited them. They drove to Paris, where Vivien had costume fittings at Balmain for The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.
They had a marvelous time in Paris. Vivien seemed to be glowing with happiness. From Paris they drove to Switzerland to visit with Noël Coward. Adrianne Allen and her husband Bill Whitney were also there, as was Cole Lesley, and in the evenings after dinner they played hilarious word games at which “the Master” always won. In one you had a minute to say as many unreal words as you could starting with the same letter of the alphabet. No one could top Noël’s ability to create the most improbable words, and they all roared with laughter until late into the night.
“Dear, dear Noël.” Vivien embraced him when she and Jack were leaving. “You are the most marvelous companion.”
On December 2, 1960, thirty-year-old actor Roger Gage was given a decree nisi in the divorce court in London on the grounds of the adultery of his actress wife, Joan Plowright, and Sir Laurence Olivier. Moments later, in her own divorce petition, Vivien, pale and nervous, followed Gage into the witness box, wearing a neat red and black checked suit and a wide-brimme
d black hat. She held her head very erect but folded and unfolded her white-gloved hands almost as though she were wringing them. When she was asked about her own conduct, in accordance with British divorce procedure, her lawyer interrupted, admitting into evidence a written declaration of two instances of her adultery, in London and Ceylon. Vivien bowed her head. The man involved was not named, but her lawyer contended that since reconciliations with Olivier took place after her adulteries were committed this constituted a condoning of her acts by her husband.
Vivien closed her eyes for a moment, shutting out the sight of the courtroom. When she opened them again a tiny smile caressed her softly curved mouth. She was apparently recalling something she and Larry had shared in the past, but whatever had crossed her mind in that brief time made her appear suddenly stronger. The hand-wringing ceased and her voice became quite clear and confident as she raised her head and looked the lawyer and the world straight in the eye.
A private detective testified that he had found “Miss Plowright and Sir Laurence in nightclothes in a London apartment last June.” Both willingly signed a statement to that effect.
“In October 1958,” Vivien, in a brave voice, told the court, “my husband came to see me in my theatre dressing room. There were a number of newsmen outside because a magazine story had appeared concerning his love for Miss Plowright. I asked him if it was the case and he admitted he had been in love with Miss Plowright for three months.”
Under English law when two parties in a dissolving marriage confess adultery it is up to the judge to determine which shall be accorded the divorce. In this case the judge awarded it to Vivien, and Olivier was made to pay the court costs in both Gage’s and Vivien’s divorce actions.
