The Richard Burton Diaries

by Richard Burton

  Later, worn out by the excitement [...] we fled with a few friends, Jacqueline de Ribes and husband, Curt Jurgens and wife, two Rothschilds etc. to the hotel where we had a few jars and talked (me) a great deal.137

  We flew back on ‘our’ jet in 1.35 minutes and worked through the night though I finished by midnight but stayed up anyway.

  OCTOBER

  Sunday 1st, Capo Caccia We slept ‘till noon while B. Wilson, Ron B and Gaston together with Bob's girl, Judy Hastings, flew in the jet to Nice to try and persuade the idiot chef to give up Sianni. After ten fruitless [...] hours arguing and cajoling and threatening – the Police joining in – they gave up. Now I will have to depose and it looks as if the man and his poor wife will go to prison. He has made us both so angry that I feel as if I could strangle him with my bare hands.

  We sat in the sun in the afternoon and took Norma and David for a run in the speedboat which I nearly crashed on the way back against the Kalizma putting the Riva accidentally into reverse. [...]

  Friday 20th, Capo Caccia We flew in the 125 to Oxford last Friday landing, by special permission, at Abingdon and went straight to ‘The Bear’ at Woodstock.138 We were nerve-racked and nightmared at the prospect of 48 hours of solid public exposure. On Saturday we televised with D. Lewin, Alexander Walker, [...] N. Coghill, Lord D. Cecil, and a Professor Rosenberg of Berkeley California.139 The scholars were fine but the journalists, especially D. Lewin, were quite silly and shaming – on and off TV. Cecil was a joy and both E and I quite fell in love with him. He is the best kind of well-bred eccentric, sane, compassionate but acerbic brilliant maiden aunt – though married and clearly male. Nevill said, upon being asked on TV, that E would have made a fine scholar because she was among ‘the most intelligent creatures he'd ever met’ and was paradoxically ‘an instinctive intellectual.’ So there. He said that I was among the three greatest Welshmen he'd known, the other two being Dylan and David (In Parenthesis) Jones. He didn't realize – and I didn't correct him – that Jones is a Cockney.140

  At lunch afterwards at Merton College D. Lewin, quite sober, further disgraced himself. His mind is poverty stricken, and rises only to the lowest levels of the Daily Mail, and nevertheless, fool rushing in, he dared to cross scholarly swords with Professors Coghill, Cecil and Rosenberg all of whom treated him with icy politeness. Once or twice his presumptive idiocy drew Nevill to the edge of open anger but like the near-saint that he is he drew back. Not so E. She let him have it with both barrels, both there and on TV. She became almost inarticulate with fury and malapropized freely.

  On Sunday morning I read poetry at the Union with Wystan Auden. He read a great deal of his own poetry including his poems to Coghill and MacNeice.141 Both very fine conversation pieces I thought but read in that peculiar sing-song tonelessness colourless way that most poets have. I remember Yeats and Eliot and MacLeish, who read their most evocative poems with such monotony as to stun the brain. Only Dylan could read his own stuff. Auden has a remarkable face and an equally remarkable intelligence but I fancy, though his poetry like all true poetry is all embracingly and astringently universal, his private conceit is monumental. The standing ovation I got with the ‘Boast of Dai’ of D. Jones In Parenthesis left a look on his seamed face, riven with a ghastly smile, that was compact of surprise, malice and envy. Afterwards he said to me ‘How can you, where did you, how did you learn to speak with a Cockney accent?’ In the whole piece of some 300 lines only about 5 are in Cockney. He is not a nice man but then only one poet have I ever met was – Archie Macleish.142 Dylan was uncomfortable unless he was semi-drunk and ‘on’. MacNeice was no longer a poet when I got to know him and was permanently drunk. Eliot was clerically cut with a vengeance. The only nice poets I've ever met were bad poets and a bad poet is not a poet at all – ergo I've never met a nice poet. That may include Macleish. For instance R. S. Thomas is a true minor poet but I'd rather share my journey to the other life with somebody more congenial. I think the last tight smile that he allowed to grimace his features was at the age of six when he realized with delight that death was inevitable. He has consigned his wife to hell for a long time. She will recognize it when she goes there.143

  And so to Sunday evening and the opening of Faustus. It rained like mad, as usual in that splendid climate, and there were lots of people outside the theatre in macs and under umbrellas who applauded etc. A nurse, it was a charity performance for the Nuffield Hospital, and therefore a nurse, presented E with a bouquet of flowers and if you please curtsied.144 E and I were delighted. I met Quintin Hogg and thinking him to be Boothby asked him ‘Where is your Sardinian wife.‘145 He replied that he was not Boothby. I recovered fast, told him I was pulling his leg and asked ‘Why aren't you the leader of the Tory Party?’ He: ‘They had their chance in 1963 and lost it. Now I'm too old at 59.’ Me: ‘Winston didn't become PM ‘til he was 65–66.’ He: ‘Hmm.’

  The Duke and Duchess of Kent arrived and were all presented.146 The Duchess is adorable and both E and I loved her. She was frantically nervous as we all were but she showed it in close-up. Muscles twitched uncontrollably around her mouth. He was shy. The show went alright.

  The party afterwards was alright but exhausting – between us we must have met a 1000 people. Incidentally when we entered the theatre we were greeted by a fanfare of trumpets, then silence as we took our seats and then another fanfare for the D and Duch of Kent. I record that because it shows the idiocy of fame. 5 years ago we'd have had a fanfare of raspberries. If we were lucky.

  [...] Ken Tynan came up from London to discuss the Churchill play The Soldiers.147 Will write about that later.

  The weather was dreadful and made me feel that I never wish to see England again. [...] Don't think out of choice that I would live in England again even if they paid me to.

  Am in a violent temper. E, as usual, has to combat everything I do or say in front of the children. I wish to Christ she'd not contradict me in front of them and wish likewise that I didn't do likewise. But it's the status quo. I'd best shut up.

  Saturday 21st, Alghero Bettina and a friend Jorgen Wigmoller (?) stayed with us for two day.148 She is of course enchanting as ever and very giggly and, despite aging, essentially feminine. He is slim and Danish blond and is I'm afraid a little boring. Largely the latter because he doesn't have the capacity to listen. I also suspect that he's a nose ahead in the white-lying selling plate. [...]

  Ivor and Gwen and the two girls are with us on the boat and today – J. Losey being ill and therefore no work – we sailed to Alghero. [...] We sat around endlessly talking of this and that – mostly about Kate and Sybil. At one point Ivor reached into the depths of his bowels and brought out a cosmic fart that shattered the eardrums. E was delighted and tried to respond but her netherhand [sic] was not talking.

  [...] It's pleasant to sit around on the boat and remember with infinite nostalgia the days when a penny was a penny was a penny, and a green cap with a badge on it and membership of the secondary school was the height of human felicity. And selling papers, dung, blackberries, winberries, dewberries was almost the sum-total of one's life. How I remember that green sweater, that stinking green sweater. And the names of the houses on the way to school are like a roll-call of the dead. ‘Pleasant View’ for instance had a view of an exactly similar house in Abbey Road called ‘Rest Bay’ and ‘Sans Souci’ was a very careful house. And so now to Church and the mumbo-jumbo of Latin imperfectly spoken. And an obeisance to little Liza who bought, out of her allowance, a quite expensive present for Maria – our new Anglo-Welsh stewardess – and the conversation went like this:

  Me: You're a good girl Liza. How much did it cost?

  She: I'm not going to tell you.

  Me: Why not?

  She: Because you'll pay me back what I spent.

  Now you can't hardly be better than that.

  NOVEMBER

  Tuesday 7th, Grand Hotel, Rome Two weeks since I wrote during which time we finished the film in Alghero on Sunday m
orning the 22 October and sailed to Costa Smeralda about 11am.149 [...] We arrived at dusk and, nobody quite knowing whether we had the right landfall, waited for a sign. It came we thought and hoped from a car which flashed its headlights on and off [...]. We lowered the Riva and crept slowly through the water to the shore. It was Jorgen with a Fiat. Sent Alberto and Raphael back to the boat to get E and Gwen (and the girls) and went in Jorgen's car to Bettina's house.150 It is lovely and open – except the bedrooms a bit cramped and monastic for my liking – in the living room; a sunbathing roof, several acres of land, a lovely patio, log fireplace and a floor made of log sections set into some sort of stone. A private beach with a small jetty and a fishing boat (converted). Blissful place. We ate well, beef and chips and braised onions and local wine. All immensely pleasant. Bettina is a dear woman.

  We decided to stay in the bay (I believe it's called Liscia di Vacco – the place? of the cows) overnight and set sail tomorrow.151 This after I'd talked with J. Heyman producer.

  [...] We dine tonight with the Israeli Ambassador to Rome – Ehud Avriel – and his wife. He is, according to Bill Pepper – Newsweek correspondent in Rome – ‘the wisest man in Israel, much cleverer than the PM or Foreign Secretary.152 Was ambassador-at-large in Africa and formulated Israeli policy there. Formerly Ambassador to Austria. Goes on special assignments which is why he's in Rome now dealing with the Vatican. Born in Germany. Doctor of Philosophy. Translates Russian poetry.’

  We left Costa Smeralda about 2–2.30pm on Monday 23rd October. And for the next 14 hours went through very rough seas on our way to Anzio.153 [...] We reported to Dino de Laurentiis’ studios that morning for shooting at 12.00 with Noël. It was his last day. We heard that Phil is to arrive on Friday and we looked forward to seeing him. The girls went reluctantly back to Residence Gardens, where they are staying with Ive and Gwen, and to school.

  I like Anzio – it is not pretty but it's a ‘working’ harbour and everything that works has some kind of attraction even unto a cement mixer. I love the stalls along the quayside where they sell fresh shellfish, oysters mussels etc. It smells very fishy.

  And so to cocktails with Ehud Avriel and dinner.

  1967

  Richard stopped making entries in his 1966 diary in mid-November. Between then and the start of his 1967 diary he gave an interview to Kenneth Tynan, part of which was broadcast in April 1967, and a transcript of which appeared in print in Acting in the Sixties (ed. Hal Burton, London: BBC, 1970). Christmas and New Year were spent in Paris, and early in January Richard and Elizabeth travelled to Dahomey (now known as Benin) in West Africa, to prepare for the filming of The Comedians.

  JANUARY

  Monday 9th, Cotonou1 Last night we went to Glenville's for cocktails.2 Most of the people stood outside on the asphalt. It was warm but not oppressive. Alec was there playing the part either of a sweet saint or a great actor charming but removed from the ordinary run of common human beings.3 We arrived (deliberately) late and left after about an hour. We dined on cold ham, spring onions, radishes, cheese, bread (lovely long loaf) tomatoes.

  Gaston works like a dog. He charges around shopping answering telephones, preparing salad, filling thermoses, defleaing the dogs and watching us wherever we go, and all with the greatest good humour. He really is indispensable and, tho’ it sounds disloyal, a far better helper than Bob Wilson. There are certain things that are beneath Bob's dignity. Nothing is beneath Gaston's. [...]

  Today we're off to be officially welcomed by the President of the Republic – events which I dread.4

  E is looking gorgeous – she blooms in hot climates. It must be that Italian blood. I didn't drink a single drop yesterday and consequently had profound ‘shakes’. I must take it easy with the booze.

  Tuesday 10th Yesterday we went to the Palace to be received by the President called by all his staff ‘Mon General.’ He is very black (married though to a white wife and has seven children) about 5'8" tall, slightly bow-legged, stockily built. His clothes were ill made though his cabinet members were impeccably dressed.5 I understand that coups d'états are the thing here, as in most of the new African states, so that he may not be the boss for long. At the moment it is something of a dictatorship – when I asked him how many deputés there were in Congress he said ‘aucune.‘6 Whoops! I thought. He obviously likes women and was forever taking E by the arm. She of course was charming and very feminine. We both found the experience oddly moving. Here was this huge mosaiced palace, only completed 3 years ago, and outside the immense Salle de Reception, capable of receiving 3000 people at one time, there was washing on the line.

  He showed us with great pride the ‘chinese’ room which was so cluttered with furniture and bric a brac from, he said proudly, ‘Mon grand ami Chiang Kai Shek’ that we could barely move between the furniture.7 With equal pride he showed us his own and his family's living quarters which were poky and small. He showed us his wife's clothes closet and brought a lump to E's throat when with a flourish he opened a cupboard to show a perfectly ordinary rack for shoes.

  He asked E to step on to a mat on the way out and chuckled with delight as two wall lights automatically came on. E simulated astonishment and he was very pleased. By this time I was sweating like a bull and was glad to leave.

  The English are a cold lot. We had lunch afterwards with Guinness and Glenville and I'm sure that had we not said immediately how impressed and moved we were they were ready to send the whole thing up.

  E says that Peter Glenville [...] is a right ‘bitch.’ ‘I have yet,’ she said, ‘to catch him saying a good word about anybody.’ She's right I think.

  I am madly ‘in love’ with her at the moment, as distinct from always loving her, and want to make love to her every minute but alas it is not possible for a couple of days. She'll have trouble walking in a couple or three days.

  [...] Both of us had a hell of a time getting to sleep. The bedroom though air conditioned is the least cold room in the house and there seemed to be scores of minute mosquitoes which even if they didn't bother you made you feel itchy. [...]

  Wednesday 11th Like all films the first day seems to be the worst. We slept a little last night, perhaps 5–6 hours, and woke unrefreshed. We had Bloody Marys for breakfast. There was a mist or fog which hung around for some time. Eventually we shot the first shot at 10.30 approx. Very Hot. We did 3 takes – one of which was my fault. Then we shot 3 close-ups of the same thing. [...] Then the President arrived with his wife and entourage. I searched for E. because he quite clearly wanted to see her and not anybody else, though he might strongly deny such a terrible imputation. He was as engaging as ever and wicked. At one time, after a particularly salacious remark he kissed his wife (white) and was given a round of applause by the assembled hangers-on. His wife, who should be used to it, looked perplexed. E adores him. He looks to me like my brother Verdun after a hard day in the pits and before he's washed. He called Christian – our principal servant, one might call him a butler – ‘mon petit’. So far it seems that he is beloved. There was a beautiful negro girl, whose name I've forgotten, who never smiled, very chic, who never took her eyes off Elizabeth. There was admiration, envy, malice, hatred and love in her every reaction to my silly old girl.

  [...] Later we sat at home with the publicity man who is, so far, a bore, and Gaston and Ron and F. La Rue and after the aforesaid pub man had left started talking very seriously and equally very drunkenly of the obligation one has to one's fellow beings. Should one have a child if one has a history of insanity in the family. Should Ron take off with Vicky or stay with his wife Leah. All this laced with profound lectures from me and Elizabeth. Stupendously Smug.

  We had lunch with Ron, Claudye, Raymond St Jaques – the latter anxious to prove that he is essentially a stage actor in the Shakespearean tradition.8 Very American.

  [There are no further entries in the diary from mid-January to late March. Burton and Taylor continued filming in Cotonou until mid February. At the end of that month
The Taming of the Shrew was released, having been selected for the Royal Command Performance at the Odeon in Leicester Square, attended by Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon, and raising money for the Cinema and Television Benevolent Fund. While in London Burton and Taylor stayed at the Dorchester Hotel, along with many members of Burton's family from South Wales, and on 18 March Richard took the opportunity to see England beat Scotland at rugby union by 27 points to 14 to regain the Calcutta Cup at Twickenham. Further filming for The Comedians was carried out at studios in Paris and Nice.]

  MARCH

  Good Friday, 24th, Saint Jean Cap Ferrat9 What a huge lapse. We spent some more weeks in Dahomey getting hotter and hotter with most people getting sicker and sicker. E won the NY Critics award for VW. (I was runner-up to P. Scofield) and cabled M. Brando, who was staying in Gstaad at our house, to ask if he would pick the award up for her.10 He did and then, if you please, flew to Dahomey to deliver it personally! He apparently made a speech attacking the assembled critics for not acknowledging E before and not giving me the award now. Funny fellow.

  [...] We still retain a certain amount of nostalgia for Dahomey. The house, the lizards, the palm trees, the unit intrigues, the arrogance of the American negroes with the West Africans, the dangerous fascinating sea only a couple of sand tumps away from the house, the mad palace, the President and his dowdy provincial wife. The Palace receptions and the fetes.

  We persuaded PG not to fire an actor called George Stanford Brown – a very beautiful sluggish lethargic negro boy.11 He always wears tight jeans and sits sprawled with his legs wide open. Gives me a pain but am told to be nice to him by E. And also he's a pupil of PHB's [Philip Burton]. I hope we were right to keep him on – not that it matters, it's only a film.