Pedro IV of Portugal, Emperor of Brazil (1798-1834)
Artist: After John Simpson (English, 1782-1847)
Date: 1834
Medium: Oil on canvas
Collection: Royal Collection Trust, London, United Kingdom
Pedro I, Emperor of Brazil/Pedro IV, King of Portugal
Dom Pedro (1798 – 1834), known in Brazil and in Portugal as "the Liberator" or "the Soldier King" in Portugal, was the founder and first ruler of the Empire of Brazil from 1822 to 1831 (under the name of Pedro I) and King of Portugal in 1826 (under the name of Pedro IV).
Richard Burton Interview with BBC reporter John Simpson (1977)
I was the BBC’s radio correspondent in Johannesburg at the time when the African scenes in The Wild Geese were filmed… . The prospect of meeting Roger Moore, Richard Burton, Richard Harris and Hardy Kruger was, of course, an attractive one, though I probably didn’t mention that side of it. It would scarcely have sounded sophisticated.
“If you remember, I asked for an interview with Richard Burton.” … I wasn’t expecting anything. If Richard Burton was too grand to have lunch with the others, he would certainly be too grand to be interviewed by me. The PR man came back looking apologetic. I was ready with a sharp reply, assuming I would be given a crisp turn-down.
“He says if you don’t mind the mess in his caravan… . . [H]e’s just going through it a bit. That’s all.”
He certainly was. Richard Burton’s ravaged, pockmarked face looked even harsher in reality than it did with all the care of the make-up artists. And despite the fierce sun outside he looked pale and unhealthy.
But nothing could affect the voice.
“Come in, come in, my dear boy,” he said, gripping my hand and pulling me up the steps… . The warmth of his tone outdid the afternoon heat.
“Really sorry not to be down there with the others for lunch,” said Burton. “The fact is, you see, I’m on the wagon at the moment, and it doesn’t feel all that good, I have to confess… . Wish I’d been teetotal, like my old schoolmaster told me. But the stage, you know. And the company I’ve kept.”
He gave a huge laugh, which seemed to make the entire caravan shake. It was a big one, with room enough for a sizeable (unmade) bed and a table covered with books, make-up bottles and photographs in silver frames. The biggest photograph was of Elizabeth Taylor. I had wondered how to broach the subject, after their divorce. But with Burton, whether it was because of the influence of the bundu or his free, open nature, there was no trouble at all.
He saw the direction of my eyes.
“Ah, Elizabeth. Isn’t she the most beautiful animal you’ve ever set eyes on?”
… . I nodded, and felt emboldened.
“So, you don’t feel bitter towards her?”
“Bitter?” The caravan shook again.
“Look, if she’d have me back I’d leave this sh—y film and this ghastly heat right now, and charter a plan to go wherever she was. Actually I know where she is. She’s in Malibu. I kind of keep in touch, you know.”
“So why… . .?”
“It’s the old thing: can’t live with her, can’t live without her. But I adore Elizabeth, and I always will.”
There was a catch in his voice, and he looked out of the window at the baobab trees.
“I don’t drink now, you know. I’m not pretending it’s not painful, but I’ve given it up for good. It was what Elizabeth hated most in me, I think, even though she’s pretty partial to it herself. It was like pouring petrol over our marriage. And now I don’t do it anymore. I hate it, in fact.”
… . It seemed to me that a tear was glittering in his eye… .
“What is it about her that you love so much?”
“Ahhh,” he said expansively, waving his arms at the baobabs, “where does one start? ‘Age cannot wither her… .’ She’s a magnificent actress, you know, if only they will let her be.”
“She’s lazy, they say, and they also say she’s not very bright, though that happens to be an outright, damned lie. It’s just that her brightness is a natural brightness, not necessarily a college brightness. She may not know all about Shakespeare or Marlowe or Albee, but she understands the emotional truth, and that is what she projects.”
… “Director wants to know if you’re all right, Mr. Burton.” The voice was muffled by the door.
“Tell the director to go and f—- himself. I’m reminiscing here about the divine Elizabeth, and mustn’t be disturbed.”
“You were telling me about her understanding of the emotional truth of a part.”
“Was I?” … “But you see, what I should have said was that she was a lass unparalleled. A woman of the most charming but also the most natural kind. She could take care of a man, you know.”
He glanced at me.
“No, I don’t mean that. What I mean is that she could be so normal, so natural, so caring.
Listen. Once I took my brother and my business manager to Twickenham for the Wales-England match. Wales won; they always did in those days. And of course we had too much to drink, even my little runt of a manager. Much too much. And we came back on the Tube, and fetched up for some reason at Tottenham Court Road station. I must have said I knew a bar near there. It was late, you see, about midnight.
There was a gang of about a dozen skinheads at the top, all tattooed with England flags on their chests and faces and arms; a rather fearsome sight.
Well, it was too late to turn back, so we decided to take them head on. When I say we, I mean my brother and me. The last I saw of my manager, he was shouting, ‘You can’t hit me, I’ve got a briefcase.’ They gave us both a pretty good going-over. I think they were worse to me, though I don’t think they’d seen me on the screen. Maybe I was just bigger and uglier than my brother.
And then they left us lying there at the entrance to the Tube. My brother said he thought he could manage to get home by himself, and he hailed a taxi for me. He had to do quite a lot of persuading, because my entire head was a mass of blood. But at least I didn’t seem to have any bones broken. I told the driver to take me to the Dorchester, and gave him a tenner. Which was pretty good money in those days.
They wouldn’t let me in at the Dorchester, of course, till I told them who I was and demanded to see the manager. Then they were niceness itself, and two of them helped me to the door of our suite, though I told them to leave before I banged on the door for Elizabeth.
But, you see, she was magnificent. Utterly magnificent. She didn’t have a fit of the vapours, she didn’t get excited, she didn’t even tick me off for being drunk and getting beaten up.
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ was all she said, and she rang down for bowls of water and towels and bandages and God knows what. And when they sent up some kind of quack to look after me, she shooed him away.
She sponged the blood off my face, and found that my left eye was halfway out of its socket, so she carefully put it back in. Would you ever imagine that someone like her would be able to do any of that? But she was tough, you see, and brave too. And she tucked me up I in bed with the bandages over my head, and at nine o’clock the next morning, when I was starting to feel a bit better, she ordered up a magnum of Bollinger to cheer me up. And then she sat on the side of the bed and toasted me and Wales’s victory.”
He paused, and looked away from me and the microphone.
“Magnificent woman, in every way. Magnificent. If I’m honest, my life is a little empty without her.”
He thought for a moment.
“No, if I’m honest, my life is horribly empty without her.”
I (author) said goodbye not long afterwards, and shut the door of the caravan on him. He waved me out in the most courtly fashion, but I think he was probably glad to be left alone with Elizabeth Taylor’s picture.
