Must You Go_ - Antonia Fraser [118]
Then I see three geishas with huge be-rollered heads wrapped in black net and grey towelling robes over their taffeta skirts. Mary as the Princesse de Lamballe, the Comtesse de Provence, the gorgeous Rose Byrne with her rich auburn locks (she’s allowed a red net) and perfect pout as the Duchesse de Polignac – what Sofia calls ‘the party girl’.
Finally the filming starts. Kirsten Dunst, in turquoise with a little black lace scarf, takes my breath away. Not only does she look absolutely beautiful and natural (that fabulous pink and white complexion, wide-apart blue eyes) but she’s graceful. Except that she’s not disfigured by a big Habsburg lower lip – you wouldn’t want that in a film – Kirsten is an exact replica of the young girl, as I imagined her. Sebastian Armesto asks me what he should call his wife. Me: ‘Madame in public and Sweetie Pie in private.’ I learn that the first seven-year-old Dauphin has been sacked. Well, that poor little boy never had much luck, did he?
28 March
Easter Sunday. France. We visit the country house of Laure de Gramont and her family, one of our favourite places (and families). Laure’s brother-in-law Gerry Shea gets hats together with Harold over politics. Gerry says he is a coward when it comes to speaking out, unlike Harold: I must say I think this is modesty on his part. A critic might argue that Harold is not especially brave in speaking out since he particularly likes shocking and shaking. But later I say to Harold in the Dark Bar of the Meurice Hotel that he was certainly extremely brave over his chemo and his cancer operation when he faced death. In the real sense of the word, he is valiant.
Shortly after our return from Paris, Harold’s health began to deteriorate again, with a severely painful throat. For a while I thought it was traumatic: Paris which had been so promising, ending in a devastating – for him – evening when the distinguished, ancient director Roger Planchon had elected to run together two of Harold’s plays, Family Voices and Celebration instead of doing them separately. There had been rumours … but Harold who had admired Planchon’s No Man’s Land years earlier, did not believe them. After this disastrous performance he left with dignity, as Planchon said roguishly: ‘I hope you are not going to hit me.’ Nothing causes Harold more pain than unlawful interference with his text.
I was absorbed writing my book called Galaxy at the time, which morphed into Love and Louis XIV. Harold admitted that reading it every three weeks or so when I had finished a new chapter, he found it rather muddling. I did not want to hear this: like everyone who asks their nearest and dearest for a candid opinion, I didn’t actually want that candid opinion.
My Diary throughout the summer is dominated by observations about Harold’s health, which is occasionally, but only occasionally reported to be better, generally worse: ‘his depression is waning.’ All sorts of verdicts (but not cancer). ‘Viral bronchitis’ is one of them. Better than lung cancer, we say to one another, the word emerging for the first time. In July things get worse. Harold’s mouth is in agony and he feels ghastly. Visits to the dentist provide no relief or solution.
Then, after more hospitalization, ‘inflammation of the oesophagus’. Oh for some relief for him! In mid July I record Harold as hollow-eyed after coughing from 10.30 p.m. to 9