Must You Go_ - Antonia Fraser [127]
12 October
Harold was amazing. No shenanigans with the chair: the stage arch was much enlarged overnight. His interaction with the tape was consummate: he laughed along with it. And thrill, thrill, Orhan Pamuk has won the Nobel Prize! Harold made a statement to Reuters: ‘I expected him to win last year but somebody got in the way.’
Friday 13 October
Was Beckett born on Friday the thirteenth? Ian Rickson says not: he just pretended. Be that as it may, I was walking up the very narrow crowded stairs to the Theatre Upstairs, wondering why no one was being let in. Then a robotic announcement came: ‘Due to an emergency, the theatre is closed.’ Oh my God, Harold has had a heart attack, I thought. Rachel said later that she would have thought it was a bomb, but for me the bomb was Harold. Then Michael Byrne, in the queue, told me it was a technical emergency, the generator had gone wrong and it would be illegal to proceed.
14 October
The play itself was sensational! There is no other verdict: the most extraordinary experience sitting so close in the very front row of this tiny theatre so as to be able to stretch out my knee (Harold can’t see me: I checked). He is there. He is not there. He is my Harold. He is not my Harold. He is Beckett’s Krapp. Edward Beckett (the playwright’s nephew and heir) was very friendly. He said he liked the wheelchair (not in the text and thus actually, I suppose, unlawful). His wife queried Harold’s elimination of the bananas. ‘Does he not like bananas?’ Me: ‘He’s allergic to them.’ Hmm … Actually Harold said: ‘I’m not doing the bananas.’ And no one seems to have queried it.
15 October
Our friend Dr John Murray has been studying ageing and how to delay it. It turns out that playing Krapp’s Last Tape is the very best thing Harold could do.
18 October
Harold has decided not to do three more performances. ‘I’m not in good health and filming it for TV seems a natural end to it.’ It’s true: his poor feet are appallingly blistered. Meanwhile the telephone never stops ringing with people who want tickets. Harold’s mildest response: ‘I am not a fucking box office.’
Harold’s eczema raging in his foot. Chris Bunker instructs me how to bathe the foot in potassium solution. Bunker: ‘Pale pink like a Leander tie. Do you know what I mean?’ Me: ‘Yes. Or a Garrick Club tie.’
21 October
Due to go to Krapp for the fifth time. I’ve given away my nightly tickets to a few deserving causes such as Edward Fitzgerald. I was tempted by an American who accosted me outside the Royal Court and said firmly: ‘You must have seen this already. How about $250 dollars for your ticket?’ But how could I explain it to Harold?? As it was, I did voluntarily give my ticket to Dustin Hoffman as I thought this great actor should see, as it were, another one. Had to dash backstage to explain. Harold amazed and then very pleased. Dustin and Harold had a long talk afterwards.
24 October
Last night of Krapp. Lucian Freud in the audience, who says he wants to paint Harold. I think it was the front-page photograph of Harold as Krapp which got his attention: an extraordinary visionary shot of a man listening to other voices. Orlando’s comment pleased Harold immensely: ‘Harold was like a master batsman, so utterly in control of the situation, and taking his time at the crease.’ And the extraordinary thing is that Harold looks better at the end of the run than at the beginning, so maybe there is something in what Dr John said.
The rest of the year was dominated by the wedding of Orlando to Clemmie: an event of extraordinary happiness for everyone. To preempt arguments about the dress code, I sent for a pale silk