The Richard Burton Diaries

by Richard Burton

  [...] I've had a bad sore throat for the last three days and a blister on my tongue, but this morning both seem better. [...] I cut down my smoking yesterday and didn't drink a drop all day.

  Thursday 7th The hacking cough that has kept me awake for nights was killed last night by a pill. [...] My sore throat is gone. I haven't coughed once since I awoke. I have a bottle of Perrier straight from the fridge at my right hand, cigarettes at my left, the Avenue Montaigne below and in front of me, it's ten to nine in the morning and apart from the fact that Nixon has won the Yankee Election, all's right with the world114. Of course a child dies of starvation every minute somewhere in the world, Biafrans are being slaughtered in ambush, napalm is burning babies in Vietnam, and what shall we do about it? ‘Good Works’ as those hideous upper-class Victorians revelled in. A cauldron of soup and a loaf for Mrs Lewis in the village. She's not too well. Read Pilgrim's Progress to dying Mr Jones, illiterate Mr Jones, and go home afterwards to a 7 course dinner, swollen with sanctity.115 A great house, fifty servants, sweeping lawns, follies and vistas and oak drives and no drainage in the village.

  Hullo, and what's the matter with me?

  We had a charming and very excited letter from Liza yesterday [...]. I have developed a love for that child that is in danger of becoming obsessive. She is so honest about what she wants but generous also. She can of course, as far as I'm concerned, have anything she wants. I have promised her a pony if she gets to Millfield or wherever. I must find out if the school or schools will permit it. I wrote to her yesterday and shall write again shortly.

  Yesterday was a miserable working day. [...] I am at that stage, which I reach in every film, where everything seems boring and silly. The same thing happens in the theatre with me too. After a month of a run in a play I become suicidally bored, even with parts of infinite variety like Hamlet. And yet I keep on doing it. I'm a rich man. Why don't I pack it in and do some ‘Good Works’ afore-mentioned? Grow two blades of grass where one grew before and all that. I couldn't grow grass in a window-box or hammer a nail in a wall without hammering a finger in with it. I'd better just continue to give money to charity.

  I am reading two books at once: A political biography of de Gaulle and another of Pierre Laval.116 So far there seems little to choose between them, except height. Scheming, conniving, disloyal monomaniacal monsters, both protesting their love of la belle France. Of the two de Gaulle seems to be the bigger liar. But in politics all men are liars. The squalor of the latest Election campaign in the States has to be read to be disbelieved.

  Friday 8th [...] After completing yesterday's entry with milady fast asleep in bed as I thought, I was looking through some scenes in the script when suddenly the bedroom door opened and standing there in a near diaphanous nightgown with one shoulder slipped on to her arm was E. So I went back to bed for ten minutes. I was unquestionably seduced and I teased her about it for the rest of the day when we talked on the telephone. She was very beautiful. It is a fact that after all these years the girl can still blush. I lost that latter capacity a long long time ago.

  I am reading My Life by Sir Oswald Mosley between shots at the Studio, but I fear that I shan't get much done today in that direction as I have John Morgan of the Sunday Times, John Sullivan, Elliott Kastner [...] all self-invited, coming to visit me at the dressing room.117 Are they on business, are they on pleasure? I wish they'd all go away.

  Yesterday was a hard day physically. Rex and I did innumerable shots fighting on the floor of the living room. Now film fighting is relatively easy because one can cheat on angles etc. but when you have to remember to fight like a queer it complicates things. In addition I had to keep in mind that I must keep my head covered at all costs. It follows that since we rolled around on the floor for most of the day that I am a little grazed and a little sore this morning. Not unpleasantly so. I hope it turns out to be as funny as it seemed to the crew.

  [...] I have compromised on smoking to the extent that, when I remember, which is most of the time, I don't inhale and only smoke about a 1/4 inch of the cigarette and throw it away. Costly, but I feel much better for it already. Occasionally, of course, I cannot resist a deep sensual drag right down to my ankles.

  So after this day is over we have three delicious days off. We plan to hide in the hotel and not go out at all, except perhaps for an occasional meal. I shall read and read and read.

  Saturday 9th Another rough day physically. I had to pick up a supine paralysed Cathleen Nesbitt saying to a disgusted Rex Harrison: ‘She's seized up tonight. I'll lift and you pull.’ Meaning of course that I would lift her from the sheet while he removed it. Well indeed to God, either Rex or the camera or I, buggered it up every time, so that I had to do it twenty times. I shall have arms like Marlon Brando on my birthday. Which is tomorrow. I'll be forty-three years old. [...]

  Anyway, John Morgan came to ask me to do an interview for Thames TV. I said I would. With him was a sort of slip of a girl called Foot. Dingle, I said, Michael and Ebbw Vale.118 [...] Give my love, I said to her as she left, give my love, though he will never remember me. We met, I said archly, a thousand years ago in a miners’ meeting during the wars of the roses. He'll remember you, she said. Who could forget you? Anyway give my love to Ebbw Vale. She was as mini-skirted as a Californian Palm tree. The hem was only slightly below the neck. [...]

  Then, in order, I had Shirley MacLaine and a friend, who purports to be a Swede and a Sexologist.119 That is to say she is a sort of psychologist, so Rex tells me, he knows her, and they show you filthy pornographic photographs and sort of register the mental size of your tink. [...]

  Then there was Elliott Kastner and somebody called Bick Something, and Bettina for lunch, and John Sullivan. The latter is in a desperate state. He is shrewdly lumpish and his wife is equally so. He cannot match her, except for physical beauty (they are both as handsome as hell) and she has the stamp of failed inordinate ambition written all over her like a Dead Sea scroll. So what does one do. I have given them $100,000 [...] about two years ago. So what does one do? Hide.

  Sunday 10th I am now 43. It's nine in the morning. The sky is grey but it has a look of turning into sunshine later on. Yesterday was wholly delightful. We drank vodka screwdrivers, but not too many. We taught Caroline to play ‘Yahtsee’ [...]. I'd forgotten how much fun it is. Later we, just E and I, played Gin Rummy for $1,000 a point! I won $648,000! I refused to accept a cheque. It has to be paid in kind, I said.

  I received some nice presents. From Gaston, which he can ill afford, a huge tome called Gloire de la France. From Ron, an oldish Oeuvres de Molières in eight exquisite little volumes.120 From Bob Wilson a twenty dollar bill when the Americans were still on the Gold Standard. From Jim Benton an old but beautifully preserved sword-stick. From Elliott Kastner an overcoat made out of some kind of leather. [...] From Claudye and Gianni a tweed pair of trousers which they had copied from a pair they had given me about a year ago. I shall get more today. I mean more presents, not trousers. [...]

  Two more delicious days off, the French take tomorrow, Armistice Day, as a national holiday. We don't I think. All I seem to remember is two minutes’ silence in school and selling penny poppies made out of wire and paper. They were made by blind people, I believe. How quickly the world forgets or doesn't even know. A group of children were recently asked what was the Battle of Britain.121 They not only didn't know, they didn't know with what weapons it was fought.

  Both E and I have had congratulatory telegrams from Richard Zanuck for our ‘great’ ‘brilliant’ ‘superb etc.’ performances in our respective films. Donen and Rex too. It's a long howl to that day in New York, it was actually Shakespeare's birthday, when just about to play Hamlet at the Lunt-Fontanne, I was served at the stage door with a writ suing us for $55 million.122 Settle out of court, of course, after three ghastly years and innumerable depositions.

  Monday 11th Armistice Day and cold and grey. We shall probably go out to lunch for the first time for ages, I mean i
n a restaurant. If open we'll go to Coq Hardy and have some chicken pie.123 E gave me a mink coat and I shall wear it. A mink coat! It's very dark brown and the nap is close and short and it gleams and catches light as only a mink can. It comes to half way down my thighs. I hope I don't look like a fool of a money-lender! E says not. Any way, short of being robbed, I shall keep it forever. Other presents were three books from Don Waugh, my stand-in, who gave me Castles of Europe and Palaces of Europe and A Pictorial History of the Silent Screen.124 Dick Hanley and John Lee gave me a thin zip-around briefcase from Hermes. Beautiful to the touch. Nella, E's maid, gave me a silver frame to keep the children's photographs in, and she worried if it was too small. Caroline and Jane clubbed together to give me a jacket, very with it, which zipped up into a roll-top collar. [...] Sara and Francis sent me a lovely thick cashmere sweater with a matching scarf. I really could start a boutique with the number of cardigans jumpers and sweaters I have, and yet I never stop giving them away.

  We stayed in all day and read. [...] I read all the political comment in the ‘quality’ papers about Nixon as President, Sunday Times, Observer and Sunday Telegraph. I then read in succession my two presents: Castles of Europe and Palaces of the same. Fascinating little pocket histories but mostly photographs and drawings and reproductions of tapestries like the Bayeux. A [...] book called The Double Helix by a scientist-physicist yclept James D. Watson.125 It is an account of the search for and discovery of DNA at Cambridge. According to the book DNA is a molecule of heredity and to ‘know its structure and method of reproduction enables science to know how the forms of life are ordered from one generation to the next.’ On the jacket is a quote from Lord Snow: ‘It opens a new world for the general non-scientific reader.’ I now append a quotation from the book.126 It is on p. 190. ‘Happily he let out that for years organic chemistry had been arbitrarily favouring particular tautomeric forms over their alternatives on only the flimsiest of grounds. In fact, organic-chemistry textbooks were littered with pictures of highly improbable tautomeric forms. The guanine picture I was thrusting towards him was almost certainly bogus. All his chemical intuition told him it would occur in the keto form. He was just as sure that thymine was also wrongly assigned an enol configuration. Again he strongly favoured the Keto alternative.’ Really milord! Still I stayed up until 2.30 reading it. [...]

  Tuesday 12th [...] We did indeed go to lunch at the Coq d'Or and have chicken pie. And wine, which was my undoing. I came home and slept for about five hours so my mate tells me. Disgraceful. Hence my being able to sit up half the night, writing. In addition, I was in a pub-crawling mood and insisted that we stop and have one. E was very good and complied. [...]

  I wore my mink coat to everyone's satisfaction, including my own. It really is a splendid fur. [...] I shall wear my mink to work and show off and try and make Rex jealous.

  E was funny last night. She must have come in to see me ten times during the course of the night, dog-tired as she was, because she said she couldn't sleep without me. She's a funny odd old thing and needs comfort. She could be easily lonely.

  I have either lost or mislaid Liza's irastosable letter. I shall go mad if I can't find it. [...]

  Wednesday 13th I said yesterday that the day might turn out to be irastosable, and it did. E said last night that I behaved just like Rachel Roberts. Probably I did, which is just as well as it means that we'll never be invited again to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor's soirées. And thank God, he said fervently. Rarely have I been so stupendously bored. There were 22 people for dinner and only two names did I know or remember, and that was from history – the Count and Countess of Bismarck.127 And he, the Count, looks as much like one's mental picture of the iron chancellor as spaghetti. Soft and round and irresolute. He couldn't carve modern Germany out of cardboard. The iron of his grandfather didn't enter his soul.128

  It is extraordinary how small the Duke and Duchess are. Two tiny figures like Toto and Nanette that you keep on the mantelpiece.129 Chipped around the edges. Something you keep in the front room for Sundays only. Marred Royalty. The awful majesty that doth hedge around a king is notably lacking in awfulness.130 Charming and feckless.

  I took my coat to work and Rex confessed that he was jealous. Latterly he has been calling me me ‘darling.’ I call everybody ‘love’ so I suppose it's rubbed off. He tried on the mink and I had difficulty getting it off him. It, of course, looks superb on him. He wears clothes as only a coathanger can. Clothes, no matter how dreadful, drape themselves around him, knowing that they have come home at last.

  E just reminded me that at one point I said to the Duchess last night: ‘You are, without any question, the most vulgar woman I've ever met.’ Waaaaash! She also just told me that we were the only people at the dinner party who didn't have titles. Little does she know that we've made her the Princess of Pontrhydyfen. The Duke, says E, was furious with everybody that he wasn't sitting next to her, and I was furious that I wasn't sitting next to the Duchess. I was surrounded by two American ladies, one was a Duchess and the other a Countess. They were hard-faced pretty and youngish like ads for Suzy Nickerbocker's column, which I've only read once.131 One of them said that she had seen me as Hamlet in New York, and actually asked me how could I possibly remember the lines. I told her that I never did actually get them straight and that some of my improvisations on speeches which I hated and therefore could never recall would have been approved by the lousy actor-writer himself. I told her that once I spoke ‘To be or not to be’ in German to an American audience, but she obviously didn't believe me. I told her there were certain aspects of Hamlet, I mean the man, so revolting that one could only do them when drunk. The frantic self-pity of ‘How all occasions do inform against me and spur my dull revenge.’ You have to be sloshed to get around that. At least I have to be. I think I must have shocked her.

  Another lady, not a day under seventy, who's face had been lifted so often that it was on top of her head asked me if it were true that all actors were queer. I said yes, which was the reason why I was married to Elizabeth who also, because of her profession, was queer, but that we had an arrangement. Her face, in its excitement, nearly joined her chin. ‘What,’ she said, ‘do you do?’ ‘Well,’ I said, as straight as a die, ‘she lives in one suite, and I in another, and we make love by telephone.’ If she believes that she'll believe anything.

  At another moment apparently I picked up the Duchess and swung and swung her around like a dancing singing dervish. Elizabeth was terrified that I'd drop her or fall down and kill her. Christ! I will arise and go now and go home to Welsh miners who understand drink and the idiocies that it arouses.132 Holy mother, they had to have licensing laws to cure us, and we were incurable. I shall die of drink and make-up.

  The reason why there are two pages, instead of one, in today's entry for the idiot stakes, is because I have nothing better to do. [...] I have been up since about eight, and Elizabeth tried to lock me in the spare bedroom, and so I was constrained to try and kick the door down, and nearly succeeded which meant that I spent some time on my hands and knees this morning picking up the battered plaster in the hope that the waiters wouldn't notice that the hotel had nearly lost a door in the middle of the night [...]

  Thursday 14th Yesterday was a day as doomed as the Hittites but more delightful, that is to say, nobody died. Many curious things happened. Rachel, who is always pretty good value for a diary, showed everybody her pubic hairs, and as a dessert lay down on the floor in a mini-skirt and showed her bum to anyone who cared to have a glance. Outrage, in Rachel's case, has now become normal. If she had a cup of tea with a ginger-snap and made polite conversation about modern poetry, we would all go mad and display our private parts to visiting tourists. I wasn't much help. She said at one point over my dying body to Rex, hooded-eyed and malevolent, ‘I don't care about his hard-faced blondes.’ No response. So she said again: ‘I don't care about his hard-faced blondes.’ ‘Neither,’ I said with a laugh as false as a dentist's assur
ance, ‘do I.’

  I've just received a letter from Cathleen Nesbitt with a poem, ‘in his own write’ as she says John Lennon would say, written about her by Rupert Brooke.133 I shall write a poem for her in the next short course of my life or pack in the idea of courtesy for ever. What a lady. They bred ‘em good in the old days. She is the only old lady, she is near 80 years old, that I could imagine making love to. [...]

  I'd better be off and to work because I behaved with a fair amount of disgrace yesterday. I drank, so I gather from my friends, three bottles of Vodka, during the course of the day. And that, naturally, doesn't include the evening when I think I slowed down. But it is not a good idea to drink so much. I shall miss all the marriages of all my various children, and they'll be angry because there'll be nobody around, apart from their mother, to make bad puns.

  Everybody was very kind about me. The director was nice and Rex, feeling himself in the ascendant superior and having received my confession, was good enough to say that with three Hail Marys and a smart visit to the lavatory and a touch of ipepacuana, I would stand a fairish chance of being absolved.134 [...]