The Richard Burton Diaries (98 page)

Not, if you have a careful look, a bad record, for two people, who happen to be in love, and compete with each other, and who have the same temperament.

So, in some way it proves that we have our own taste. And if they allow us free rein, we will manage not to let anybody down. I think we should revert to being splendid amateurs, and if E wants to shoot the love life of a turtle, with herself as the vet, we shall do exactly that. I'll be the turtle.

We are, for a minute or two, at the absolute zenith of our ragged professions. So they, before they start tearing us apart again, should gracefully withdraw. The last sentence does not make any kind of sense, so let us stop. NOW. It is still a beautiful morning. The Americans have arrived back safely from the moon. [...]

Sunday 27th
I read a most enjoyable book yesterday by Laurie Lee. An account of a walk through Spain in the middle thirties with nothing to support him but the playing of a fiddle.
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It showed remarkable enterprise in one so young – he was about 19 – and one who'd never been abroad and who moreover couldn't speak a word of the lingo. He has the same love for the Spanish people that I have. I once lived in and around Madrid for about six months and I remember that the minute I crossed the border from Lisbon driving alternately with Ivor a bright new red MG and a great grey ghost of a Jaguar, I felt at home.
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Perhaps because the Spanish working man is small dark with cavernous
hollows under the cheek-bones and has a murderous death-wish humour. Just like my own people, and I don't mean the Welsh, I mean the South Welsh miner, the collier, or, as I discovered when I went to Somerset House to get a copy of my birth certificate, a ‘coal hewer’. Was that my father who was determined to change the cliché? Or was it a clerk who fancied himself in the English language? ‘Coal hewer’ indeed!
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It sounds like my father I'm afraid. Or me. Nine tailors make a man, said Tommy Roblin, and ninety clerks make a tailor.
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It therefore follows that ... Roblin had had some trouble with some clerks at the Municipal Offices in Port Talbot. Roblin was responsible for some memorable lines. He is now an old man and a retired headmaster. ‘How tall are you Mr Roblin?’ ‘ Five feet six and a half inches, but stand me on the slimmest volume of human suffering and I will overtop the Himalayas.’ ‘The encroachment of this foreigner (he was talking about a man who'd bought the house next door to him) his proximity, his adjacency, has torn the compact metabolism of my land.’ His ‘land’ was roughly
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th of an acre! The ‘foreigner’ came from Cardiff and was as Welsh as Llywellyn ap Olaf.
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But the poor sod couldn't speak Welsh. Roblin has red hair which stands up on end, even under water, with, as he says, ‘the fury of my permanent sense of injustice.’ Roblin was the local choir-master. In the choir were four, sometimes five, of my brothers. The choir was roughly forty strong. They used to practise twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday nights, in the local school in Cwmavon. And there, on his little podium with a thin baton in his hand stood the incomparable Roblin. I would sit with the bass section, oddly enough I am the only son of my father who has a bass voice, or a least a bass-baritone, – the rest are all tenors – and carefully watch myself in case I incurred the wrath of Sir Thomas Roblin. No shit was allowed by Roblin, none of those sickly ballads so beloved of drunks at closing-time, nothing but the best was allowed for Roblin and his ravaged nightingales. One Friday night, I must get E home to hear them one of these days before everybody dies, I sat there and listened and half joined in when I thought it was safe, as they sang the overture to the 3rd act of
Lohengrin
transposed by Roblin into human voice from German brass. ‘No! No! No!’ he roared, in his middle-of-the-night-dream of being Toscanini, ‘No! Because you have vulgar souls, even him,’ he said, pointing at me, ‘playing as he is the great Welsh King Henry the Fifth at that monument to mediocrity, the Old Vic, even he is pandering to his own inferiority. Let me make it simpler gentlemen to you and for you,’ and the forty colliers look at him with the sly half-smile of pure delight, ‘the last pause, despite the authority of baton was pure ostentation and self love’.
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I do believe, rubbish as a great deal of it is, that the half educated South Welshman speaks English with a verve a love and a vivacity unmatched anywhere. The peasant Irishman is lovely and mellifluous but as a result perhaps of over-exposure has played himself out. He is no longer unexpected. He is as predictable as dese dem and dose. The Scots, despite their gaunt and iron constitutions, are still as wayward as Burns. ‘wee, slickit, timorous cowering beastie.’ Can you imagine a Welsh miner calling a mouse a ‘beastie'? Or a breast a ‘breestie'? He would feed it, I mean the first, and feed from it, I mean the second, but he would never insult them with such diminutives. Even ‘wee’ is wee.
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But, to get back to the Spanish, the Spanish make me feel at home. They have the cruelty of children and the dumb acceptance of inevitability. Sitting in a desperate cafe once at a place called ‘El Molar’ about 30 or 40 miles outside Madrid, slightly drunk and in the company of the stunt-men from the film, we watched appalled as two Guardia came into the bar and started to beat a young man, sitting with a girl, about the head with their pistols.
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I went mad and leapt across the room frightened and blood-red in the brain and stupefied and immunized by this affront to human dignity. Were it not for the fact that stuntmen were not strictly averse to a punch-up I have no doubt that I would be sleeping out now at ‘El Molar’. The Molar. The Tooth. I remember Johnny Sullivan picking up one of the Guardia and slinging him through the door of the cafe which was a door made of long strings of coloured beads to keep out the flies (fat chance) and how one accidental string of beads nearly tore the man's lobe of his ear off.
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Later when the Guardia had been driven away, we asked the two youngsters why they had been picked on. Only because I am with a pretty girl, said the boy. Well, Indeed To Christ! Come back with us to Madrid, we said, before they come back. They won't come back, said the boy. They have seen your great Rollas Royce (pronounced something like Royath Royth – it was the battle-grey Jaguar, actually) and they will not come back. And they didn't. I crept home at dawn and, sleepless, dreamt of killing Franco.
¹⁸²

Perhaps the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness of the Spanish, so reminiscent of the thirties in South Wales, endeared them to me. I dunno. Not
that we were as badly off as the poor bloody Spanish. At this same El Molar we once employed most of the able-bodied as extras. They changed into Greek clothes in a large tent. The wardrobe man, a feller as queer as a river running up hill, came out ashen.
¹⁸³
‘Come and have a look Richard,’ he said, ‘Come and have a look.’ I went. I looked. Everybody, male, female, child and teenager had running eczema from the knees down. I killed Franco a few more times. Why does nobody kill these swine? Lincolns and Kennedys and Luther-Kings get themselves assassinated, why not a Hitler or a Macarthy or a Stalin or even a fart like Wallace?
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What providence protects these pigs?

Monday 28th
[...] The weekend has been delightful. Brilliant hot sunshine, E and Liza watching TV, me reading books. I read yesterday a book by Lord Kinross called
Between two Seas
a racy history of the building of the Suez Canal.
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I had hazily got Lesseps all wrong.
¹⁸⁶
I had always thought that he was an engineer. It turns out he was a French diplomatist, a consul. He was however a sort of Renaissance man and understood engineering. One reads the pig-headed British reaction to the canal, how they held it up for at least a decade out of sheer stupidity and non-knowledge, with a kind of despair. No wonder the French hate us. We lunched on the top deck, or ‘brunched’ rather and I over-ate. I remained bloated and belchy for the rest of the day. The pleasure boats came past packed to their taff-rails with red tourists, once every
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an hour or so [...].
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The ‘sweet and rotten, unforgettable, unforgotten river smell’ is certainly with us this morning.
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Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, is a sewer.
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[...]

I wrote a letter to the
Sun
newspaper yesterday offering to pay the expenses of a London boy who, a polio cripple, is walking on crutches from John O'Groats to Land's End.
¹⁹⁰
He is moving towards Gloucester I suppose at the moment. He had said to the reporter who interviewed him that ‘I hope somebody will be there to meet me when I arrive, just one or two. Nobody seems to know about me.’ I told the Editor that E and the two girls, and if it were
possible, I, given a couple of days’ warning would be there to meet him. I hope to God the letter didn't sound unctuous. E says not. It will be interesting to see how the lad reacts and how the newspaper, which appears to be on its last legs, handles it. [...]

Tuesday 29th, Dorchester
[...] It was an odd day. Sir Alan (A.P.) Herbert came to lunch with his grand-daughter, who is one of the ladies in waiting to Anne Boleyn.
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He is old – coming up for 79 – and according to Gin Bujold, made a pass at her. It was probably wishful thinking as I didn't notice anything, but that's what she believes anyway. He is what one might describe as an enlightened Victorian. He refused, for instance to let anybody smoke between courses at lunch. On the other hand he said that the British should change to right side of the lane driving. He objects violently, on the second hand, to the introduction into England of the metric system.
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Did you notice, he said, that over the weekend man achieved his greatest technological feat, that of landing on the moon, and everything was calculated in pounds feet, inches, miles and Fahrenheit and not in kilos, metres, centimetres, kilometres and centigrade. I hadn't thought of that and he was of course quite right. Note the reflectors that the Yanks put on the moon to catch the laser beams. When announcing the results, the Americans said that they could now measure distance from the Earth to the Moon within 7 inches. They didn't say 10 centimetres. So the old man has a point.

Tony Quayle revealed himself to me in a way that I would not have thought possible. He talked of the formative years of his childhood, spent in Wales at Pontypridd.
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[...]

Wednesday 30th
I knew there was something wrong yesterday. I could feel it in my primitive Welsh bones. E had gone into the surgery for her 3rd and last injection for her ‘piles’, and when by 2.30 I had not heard from her (a mistake I understand) and I couldn't get through to her, all kinds of horror began to pile up on me, if you'll pardon the pun. The first word I had was from her doctor, a minute Welsh Jew called Rattner, who, twixt lines as ‘twere, made it blatantly clear that my baby child had nearly kicked it. Some doctor-idiot the last two words are virtually synonymous, had allowed the ‘shot’ to leak into her blood stream and the fools were standing by with heart shots etc. in case she started to die, which they feared she was actually doing. I can forgive a ‘panel’ doctor in South Wales making a mistake, seeing a miner every minute on the minute, because the pressures are so enormous, but I cannot forgive Harley
and Wigmore Streets.
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They work hard of course, even they, but there is no excuse for treating so expensive and tender a mortal as Elizabeth with anything less than calculated care. I am still dazed by the potential enormities of their ill syringes. [...] Well she has defeated their best efforts to kill her many times. I wish she would realize, like me, that good doctors are as rare as good actors. I only know about ten of us, I mean actors, out of ten thousand, who are not derivative and repetitive and tedious and run-of-the-mill. Why should one expect a higher percentage from doctors? They continually make stupendous mistakes, mortal ones, and get away with it. The feller who buggered it up with E yesterday was already protesting that it was her fault not his! In case so celebrated a patient died as a result of his maladministration. I could beat him to death with an eye-lid.

Anyway, she's alright, though I am still night-mared. What could life possibly be without her? Where would I go? What would I do? Everybody else pales by comparison. It's no use picking up a mini-skirted chick of 18 – she wouldn't last a week, if that. I would die, I suppose, a greatly accelerated death. Anyway, she's alright. Bastards.

Because of my fear, relief, anxiety, etc. yesterday I went over the top in one scene. I had to say to an actor called Marne Maitland ‘Get out! Limp back to Rome and tell His Holiness the Pope That I will have the marriage annulled. Get out. Get out Get out’.
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The last ‘get out’ was delivered with such murderous virulence and at the top of my voice that Mr Maitland's feet left the ground and he tripped and fell down. It was somewhat embarrassing and we had to do the scene again. Not only doctors can make mistakes! I couldn't wait, you see, to get home.

Thursday 31st, Dorchester
It's a cool grey dawn and E and I have just had a quarrel about who knows what. [...] If she'd only do some movement of some kind she could cure herself. But she slugs and slows and shrugs the world away. And she firmly believes in doctors rather than herself. Shots, shots, shots and pain-killers. And though she is not a Jewess by birth, she has acquired at second-hand, not only their brilliance but their mass masochism. [...] As for me, the day and the days stretch before me like a vast steppe. I have mentioned many times that what kills me is boredom. I am perfectly happy to be alone with E or Liza, oddly enough I can't say that about anybody else except Kate – (note that they are all women) but the pity of me is that I pity everybody else. I cannot bear, and I have to bear it, members of the human race, who don't know where to turn or where to go. I have, despite my background, never lacked for money, and when I am confronted with a Tony Quayle or a Robert
Beatty who cannot either separately or together afford the fare to Gibraltar or the Canary Islands I am suitably astounded.
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I bet you that if the worst came to the worst and inevitably to the vast unknown, I could find a job that would feed and clothe my family. As long as I am alive, Ivor used to say, nobody shall go short.