He was no longer the skilled seducer he’d been before. As Elizabeth’s biographer, Alexander Walker, put it, “He didn’t waste time letting girls know what he wanted, and how. He’d already been involved in one unpleasant episode with the daughter of a family friend, which had been hushed up.”
Walker must have been referring to a weekend in Palm Springs when Hilton had brutally sodomized a seventeen-year-old and sent her to the hospital for stitches. His father, Conrad Sr., paid off the girl’s family with a $10,000 check, and the episode was hushed up.
Even to her closest confidants, Elizabeth relayed very little of what happened during her three-night honeymoon in Carmel. She did admit to Dick Hanley that “Nicky wanted me to perform unspeakable acts on him. He told me that when he goes to bed with a woman, he is not satisfied until he has plugged all three holes. His idea of passion involves spitting into a woman’s mouth— disgusting, revolting. Before our marriage, he had been such a gentle, considerate lover. On my honeymoon, I learned that I had married Mr. Hyde.”
Dick later said, “During that time in Carmel, Nicky and Elizabeth realized for the first time that they lived in completely different worlds. He had no interest in the movie business, and she had even less interest in the hotel business. They didn’t really have anything to talk about. He was a playboy used to his freedom. He liked variety in his sex life with young men and young women. He often said he liked sexual partners ‘who will do anything I ask.’ He didn’t want to feel owned by any woman. ‘I want to be as free as a bird ready to take flight at any minute,’ he told me.”
“Nicky viewed a movie contract as tantamount to slavery. Both he and Elizabeth were spoiled brats. They’d been catered to all their lives. Elizabeth’s world had always revolved around her, her wants and her needs. From the day he was born, Connie Hilton had given his son anything he wanted—the world’s most expensive hookers, an airplane, a new Cadillac every time he wanted one, and a banker who always paid off his gambling debts.”
Back in Los Angeles for Mother’s Day, Elizabeth told Sara, “All the world knows Elizabeth Taylor as movie star, not Elizabeth Taylor, housewife. It’s a role I can’t play.”
“You’d better learn,” Sara told her. “When you get back from your honeymoon, Mayer wants you to play an expectant mother in Father’s Little Dividend, the sequel to Father of the Bride. Tracy and Bennett will be your parents again, Don Taylor your husband.”
“The idea sounds like a crock of shit to me!” Elizabeth said.
***
From Los Angeles, the newlyweds journeyed to New York via Chicago, to sail on the Queen Mary from the Port of New York for a three-month holiday in Europe, paid for by Conrad, Sr.
In New York, Elizabeth registered at the Waldorf-Astoria, a Hilton-owned property since 1949, as Nicky was called into the manager’s office for an emergency call of some sort from Conrad, Sr. Of course, he treated the hotel like his New York home, which it was.
The desk clerk handed her an envelope from Conrad Sr., containing some shares of Waldorf-Astoria stock. “You’re part owner new,” he wrote on a card. “So feel perfectly at home here.”
She later bragged to friends, “In New York, I stayed at my hotel, the Waldorf.”
The presidential suite was glorious and filled with flowers. Before dinner, Nicky attacked her. He preferred his sexual encounters with his wife to be tantamount to rape. As Elizabeth later told Janet Leigh, “If Nicky doesn’t cause you pain and make you scream, then he feels he’s failed as a man.”
After she cleaned up and made herself presentable after a bubble bath, Nicky informed her that they were having dinner at the hotel with his best friend, the Texas oil magnate Glen McCarthy. Ironically, the James Dean character in Giant, a movie that loomed in Elizabeth’s future, would be based on McCarthy.
Over dinner, Elizabeth found the Texan gauche, especially when he’d had a lot to drink. Like her husband, McCarthy was a racist, denouncing “niggers.” He also was virulently anti-Semitic. Yet when he went to the toilet, Nicky told her that he often took Jewish or black women as his mistresses, although he abused them horribly, and, in some cases, sent them to the hospital.
At the end of the meal, McCarthy announced that he was going “on a rampage to find me the hottest poontang in New York City.” He invited Nicky to accompany him, and Nicky accepted, leaving Elizabeth alone at the dining table.
She ordered another bottle of champagne, and sat there drinking it alone until she was approached by the hotel manager.
“Mrs. Hilton,” he said, “I hate to intrude on your privacy. But Mr. Hoover has heard that you and Mr. Hilton are on your honeymoon at the hotel, and he wishes that you’d drop by his suite for a celebratory drink.”
“You must be talking about Herbert Hoover, since J. Edgar Hoover is not the marrying kind,” she said.
“Exactly,” he told her.
“I’m free now, if you’d like to escort me to his suite, she said. “Regrettably, Mr. Hilton is engaged in a business conference tonight.”
The next morning, very early, Elizabeth, from the Waldorf, awakened Sara in Beverly Hills. Nicky had returned to the suite at around 7am, and he was in the suite’s second bedroom, sleeping it off.
She told Sara that she had spent the first night of her honeymoon in New York alone “except I stayed up until midnight talking with Herbert Hoover. He seemed pleasant enough for an old goat, and he feels he should not be blamed for the Great Depression. He also told me he misses his wife, who died five years ago.”
“What did you say to him?” Sara asked.
“I advised him to get a new wife, one who’s a bit younger and healthier.”
“I’m sure he appreciated that, dear. Very sound advice.”
“I told him that I had just gotten married and already my husband was running out at night,” Elizabeth said.
“What sort of presidential advice did he give you to handle a situation like that?”
I think President Hoover blamed me for Nicky’s straying. He told me, ‘When a man strays, it’s usually because he’s not getting what he needs in the boudoir.’”
***
Elizabeth brought so many steamer trunks aboard The Queen Mary that Nicky complained bitterly about paying the freight surcharges. Even though he was a rich man who ran up enormous gambling debts, he could be very stingy with money, especially when it had to do with Elizabeth’s vast wardrobe.
“You’ll also be buying out every fashion house in Paris, so why in the fuck do you need all these clothes with you?”
He became even more enraged when he learned that he and his new bride would not be occupying the ocean liner’s bridal suite. It has been presented gratis by Cunard to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, as part of Cunard’s lifelong commitment to the ex-Royals for free travel aboard any Cunard ocean liner.
In the Hilton’s suite, an invitation was waiting for the following night from the Duke and Duchess, who wanted to have dinner with them. Nicky seemed to have little interest in the royal couple, but Elizabeth, partly because of her English heritage, was awed by the invitation, and could not wait to relay details of the evening to Francis and Sara.
Elizabeth didn’t know at the time that the Duchess was impressed with anyone rich and famous, regardless of their pedigree.
She was dazzled by Wallis’ jewelry—so awed, in fact, that she would, decades later, at the estate sale of the jewelry that had belonged to the (by then deceased) Duchess, pay $577,000 for a diamond-and-platinum brooch patterned in the shape of the “Prince of Wales feather.” For that piece of jewelry, Elizabeth would outbid Prince Charles.
Both the Duke and Duchess were pillars of fashion, always attired immaculately in the latest haute styles. Elizabeth hoped that the former king would relay some pointers about dress to her new husband, partly because Nicky preferred ties adorned with illustrations, including some patterned with bathing beauties.
Elizabeth had not fully developed her own sense of fashion yet.
She and the Duchess talked about jewelry and Paris couture, while Nicky seemed bored and the Duke actually fell asleep at table before the end of the dinner.
The following day, Elizabeth and the Duchess bonded again in the play room, discovering that they both had a fondness for canasta. They met every day of the transatlantic crossing for card games, while the Duke preferred to play bridge in another area of the ship.
During the late afternoon, the Duke and Nicky often went together to the ship’s steam room, reserving it just for themselves. One night, shortly before dinner, Nicky returned to the quarters he shared with Elizabeth and said, “Guess what? The Duke of Windsor gave me a fabulous blow-job in the steam room. Forget all that press shit about the love affair of the century. He’s a fucking cocksucker, one of the best, and I should know. A real sword-swallower.”
“You allowed him to do that to you?”
WELCOME TO HELL
Wallis Warfield Simpson (The Duchess of Windsor) and the former King Edward VIII (aka, Edward, the Duke of Windsor)
“Hell, yes!” he said. “What was I supposed to do? Turn him down? After all, he was once the King of England and the Emperor of India.”
Later that night, Nicky staggered to the casino after drinking far too much at dinner. Once again, he dropped $100,000, the same amount he’d lost at that mob-operated gambling house in Carmel.
Returning to their suite at four o’clock the following morning, he woke Elizabeth up primarily to fight with her. By dawn, she was seen wandering the decks of the Queen Mary alone. He’d beaten her very badly, taking out his rage at losing all that money on gambling.
During her first day out in the sun aboard ship, when Elizabeth appeared in her play clothes, revealing a lot of skin, Nicky was heard yelling at her, “Hey, monkey, come over here.” The hypertrichosis of her childhood had reappeared. She tried to seek a treatment within the Queen Mary’s beauty salon, complaining, “My husband calls me ‘The Hairy Ape.’”
The steward noted how Nicky bossed her around. “Go find me a waiter and tell him to bring me a drink.” Or else he’d tell her loudly, “C’mon, hon, we’re going to watch a Robert Mitchum movie.”
She’d shout back at him, “I’ve seen Holiday Affair twice—and that’s enough.”
A staff member reported that Nicky then grabbed her and pushed her against a bulkhead. “Listen, bitch, you’ll do what I say or else I’ll smash your face in. Take your fucking choice.”
During the long voyage, a lifelong friendship was formed between the Duchess and Elizabeth. Partly because of her lesbian streak, the Duchess was powerfully attracted to the beautiful young star, although Elizabeth shocked her by wearing blue jeans during the day. In 1950, that apparel had not yet become fashionable.
Also sailing to Europe aboard the Queen Mary was Elsa Maxwell, who informed the Duchess, “I’ve got to meet the Hiltons, have dinner with them, and get to know them.”
The Duchess agreed to set up an onboard dinner for their final night afloat, but warned, “They act like a couple at the end of a marriage instead of a young man and wife on a honeymoon. But they’re rich and important.”
Maxwell, at mid-century, was known as “The Hostess with the Mostest.” As she said of herself, “Not bad for a short, fat, homely piano player from Keokuk, Iowa, with no money or background.” She was traveling aboard the Queen Mary with her longtime lover, the Scottish socialite and singer, Dorothy Fellowes-Gordon, whom Maxwell lovingly referred to as “Dickie.”
The hostess organized parties for prominent social figures. She was also a sort of international pimp, introducing A-list men to celebrated women. She claimed that she had introduced Prince Aly Khan to movie goddess Rita Hay-worth and Aristotle Onassis to opera diva Maria Callas.
At dinner that night, Maxwell dominated the evening, delivering one bon mot after another. “Someone said that life is a party. You join in after it’s started, and leave before it’s finished.” She also said, “Under pressure, people admit to murder, setting fire to the village church, or robbing a bank, but never to being a bore.”
Was she talking about both Nicky and the Duke of Windsor?
Back in their suite, Nicky told Elizabeth that he found the evening disgusting. “There you were sitting between the two most internationally famous dykes in the world—the Duchess of Windsor and Elsa Maxwell.”
Before disembarking from the Queen Mary, Maxwell promised Elizabeth and Nicky that she would throw a lavish party for them at Maxim’s in Paris. She didn’t plan to pay for it herself, but would charge the guests $1,000 per couple to enter.
“I know everybody in Paris, my dear,” Maxwell said to Elizabeth. “Who would you like to attend your party?”
Put on the spot, Elizabeth could think of only one French personality. She blurted out, “Maurice Chevalier.”
“A dear old friend,” Maxwell said. “Of course, he’ll be there along with everybody else worth knowing. If they are not at your party, that means they are not important and aren’t worth your time.”
Most Parisians saw Nicky Hilton’s picture for the first time when he checked into the swanky George V, where photographers had been waiting for his arrival with Elizabeth.
Paris Match wrote, “He was chewing a large wad of gum, how very American, and he spoke in monosyllabic tones. He is the heir to a vast fortune but wore an ill-fitting suit, far too baggy. He also has the smile of a ferret.”
In their suite at the George V, Nicky told Elizabeth that he was going downstairs to the bar to have a drink. The hotel bar was known for attracting the most expensive prostitutes in Europe at the time. He didn’t return to the suite until five o’clock that morning. A violent argument ensued in which she called him a “whoremonger,” for which she was severely beaten.
Both Elizabeth and Nicky pulled themselves together to be the guests of honor at Elsa Maxwell’s gala staged for them at Maxim’s. As the press noted, Elizabeth had never looked lovelier than in a spectacularly stylish gown designed for the occasion by Christian Dior.
In addition to celebrities, Maxwell rounded up a gaggle of mostly deposed aristocracy of the lost kingdoms of Europe, including counts and their countesses, dukes and their duchesses, some ex-kings, and several couples who had attached a Marquis or a Marquise in front of their names.
Professional Hostess to the postwar glitterati: Elsa Maxwell
Among the latter were included Henri and Emmita de la Falaise (a.k.a. Le Marquis et La Marquise de La Coudraye). In the 1930s, he had been married to screen vamp Gloria Swanson. He invited Nicky and Elizabeth to lunch and to attend the Prix de Paris horse races with them in the Paris suburb of Longchamps.
Nicky accepted for them. Before she’d leave Paris, the Marquis would place a personal call to Elizabeth, telling her that if she ever decided to divorce Nicky, that he could arrange for her to marry a titled “personage,” for a fee, of course.
Maxwell’s self-anointed duties that evening involved presenting Nicky and Elizabeth to the VIP guests, although they didn’t understand why their first introduction was to a rather dull-looking man who seemed as if he might fit the role of an insurance salesman to chicken farmers in the hinterlands of central France. Vincent Auriol stood before them, chatting, asking Nicky if Conrad Sr. planned to open Hilton hotels in Paris and in Cannes.
Nicky was noncommittal, uttering a “maybe.” Then he excused himself to go to the bar, and Auriol spoke for another ten minutes to Elizabeth, who signaled Maxwell to come and rescue her. When Auriol had departed, Elizabeth asked Maxwell, “Who in hell was that? An out-of-work actor looking for character roles?”
“Vince, my dear, is the President of the Fourth French Republic. He’s a socialist, and I don’t care much for that type, but he called me and asked me to invite him. You don’t want to turn down a request from the President of France.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “He’s the equivalent of our President Truman.”
“Exactly,” Maxwell said. “But I did receive another ca
ll about you. It was from Mohammed V, the Sultan (later, King) of Morocco. He is willing to deposit five million dollars in gold bars in a bank of your choice in Zurich if you will divorce Nicky and marry him.”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Elizabeth said. “Howard Hughes, the cheap bastard, offered me only one million dollars.”
For Elizabeth, the star attraction of the party became Gérard Philipe, a devastatingly handsome French actor. As he was being escorted by Maxwell to meet her, Elizabeth whispered to the Duchess of Windsor. “I’d give up Nicky for that one. He’s gorgeous.”
In accented English, Philipe murmured pleasantries and kissed Elizabeth’s hand, and then said, “It is true. You are the world’s most beautiful woman.”
“Where have you been hiding all my life?” she asked him. “You are, without a doubt, the world’s most beautiful man.”
“I fear film critics usually reserve that title for my rival, Louis Jourdan,” he said.
“I hope that in the future, I can make films with you—and not with Jourdan,” she said.
[Ironically, she would one day, with Richard Burton, make The V.I.P.s (1963) with Jourdan. Regrettably, like Marilyn Monroe, Philipe was slated to die at the age of thirty-six.]
At long last, Elizabeth met Maurice Chevalier, the only guest she’d made a point, specifically, to invite. The veteran French showman spoke with her for about fifteen minutes, whispering to her: “Marlene Dietrich, whom I adore, is always spreading this rumor that I’m impotent. But since you wanted to meet me, I’d like to arrange a rendezvous at my apartment to prove to you that her mischievous lie is not true.”
Before Elizabeth could bow out from that proposal, she faced the legendary French cabaret and film entertainer, Mistinguett, who planted a long, wet kiss on Chevalier’s lips. Chevalier then introduced Mistinguett to Elizabeth, who— despite the fact that Mistinguett was a legend throughout the French-speaking world—had never before heard of her.
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