Read Portraits and Observations Online
Authors: Truman Capote
They did. “Oh yes,” Miss Collier reported to me, “there is something there. She is a beautiful child. I don’t mean that in the obvious way—the perhaps too obvious way. I don’t think she’s an actress at all, not in any traditional sense. What she has—this presence, this luminosity, this flickering intelligence—could never surface on the stage. It’s so fragile and subtle, it can only be caught by the camera. It’s like a hummingbird in flight: only a camera can freeze the poetry of it. But anyone who thinks this girl is simply another Harlow or harlot or whatever is
mad
. Speaking of mad, that’s what we’ve been working on together: Ophelia. I suppose people would chuckle at the notion, but really, she could be the most exquisite Ophelia. I was talking to Greta last week, and I told her about Marilyn’s Ophelia, and Greta said yes, she could believe that because she had seen two of her films, very bad and vulgar stuff, but nevertheless she had glimpsed Marilyn’s possibilities. Actually, Greta has an amusing idea. You know that she wants to make a film of
Dorian Gray
? With her playing Dorian, of course. Well, she said she would like to have Marilyn opposite her as one of the girls Dorian seduces and destroys. Greta! So unused! Such a gift—and rather like Marilyn’s, if you consider it. Of course, Greta is a consummate artist, an artist of the utmost control. This beautiful child is without any concept of discipline or sacrifice. Somehow I don’t think she’ll make old bones. Absurd of me to say, but somehow I feel she’ll go young. I hope, I really pray, that she survives long enough to free the strange lovely talent that’s wandering through her like a jailed spirit.”
But now Miss Collier had died, and here I was loitering in the vestibule of the Universal Chapel waiting for Marilyn; we had talked on the telephone the evening before, and agreed to sit together at the services, which were scheduled to start at noon. She was now a half-hour late; she was
always
late, but I’d thought just for
once! For God’s sake, goddamnit! Then suddenly there she was, and I didn’t recognize her until she said …
MARILYN:
Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. But see, I got all made up, and then I decided maybe I shouldn’t wear eyelashes or lipstick or anything, so then I had to wash all that off, and I couldn’t imagine what to wear …
(What she had imagined to wear would have been appropriate for the abbess of a nunnery in private audience with the Pope. Her hair was entirely concealed by a black chiffon scarf; her black dress was loose and long and looked somehow borrowed; black silk stockings dulled the blond sheen of her slender legs. An abbess, one can be certain, would not have donned the vaguely erotic black high-heeled shoes she had chosen, or the owlish black sunglasses that dramatized the vanilla-pallor of her dairy-fresh skin.)
TC:
You look fine.
MARILYN:
(gnawing an already chewed-to-the-nub thumbnail): Are you sure? I mean, I’m so jumpy. Where’s the john? If I could just pop in there for a minute—
TC:
And pop a pill? No! Shhh. That’s Cyril Ritchard’s voice: he’s started the eulogy.
(Tiptoeing, we entered the crowded chapel and wedged ourselves into a narrow space in the last row. Cyril Ritchard finished; he was followed by Cathleen Nesbitt, a lifelong colleague of Miss Collier’s, and finally Brian Aherne addressed the mourners. Through it all, my date periodically removed her spectacles to scoop up tears bubbling from her blue-gray eyes. I’d sometimes seen her without make-up, but today she presented a new visual experience, a face I’d not observed before, and at first I couldn’t perceive why this should be. Ah!
It was because of the obscuring head scarf. With her tresses invisible, and her complexion cleared of all cosmetics, she looked twelve years old, a pubescent virgin who has just been admitted to an orphanage and is grieving over her plight. At last the ceremony ended, and the congregation began to disperse.)
MARILYN:
Please, let’s sit here. Let’s wait till everyone’s left.
TC:
Why?
MARILYN:
I don’t want to have to talk to anybody. I never know what to say.
TC:
Then you sit here, and I’ll wait outside. I’ve got to have a cigarette.
MARILYN:
You can’t leave me alone! My God! Smoke here.
TC:
Here
? In the chapel?
MARILYN:
Why not? What do you want to smoke? A reefer?
TC:
Very funny. Come on, let’s go.
MARILYN:
Please. There’s a lot of shutterbugs downstairs. And I certainly don’t want them taking my picture looking like this.
TC:
I can’t blame you for that.
MARILYN:
You said I looked fine.
TC:
You do. Just perfect—if you were playing the Bride of Frankenstein.
MARILYN:
Now you’re laughing at me.
TC:
Do I look like I’m laughing?
MARILYN:
You’re laughing inside. And that’s the worst kind of laugh. (Frowning; nibbling thumbnail) Actually, I could’ve worn make-up. I see all these other people are wearing make-up.
TC:
I am. Globs.
MARILYN:
Seriously, though. It’s my hair. I need color. And I didn’t have time to get any. It was all so unexpected, Miss Collier dying and all. See?
(She lifted her kerchief slightly to display a fringe of darkness where her hair parted.)
TC:
Poor innocent me. And all this time I thought you were a bona-fide blonde.
MARILYN:
I am. But nobody’s
that
natural. And incidentally, fuck you.
TC:
Okay, everybody’s cleared out. So up, up.
MARILYN:
Those photographers are still down there. I know it.
TC:
If they didn’t recognize you coming in, they won’t recognize you going out.
MARILYN:
One of them did. But I’d slipped through the door before he started yelling.
TC:
I’m sure there’s a back entrance. We can go that way.
MARILYN:
I don’t want to see any corpses.
TC:
Why would we?
MARILYN:
This is a funeral parlor. They must keep them somewhere. That’s all I need today, to wander into a room full of corpses. Be patient. I’ll take us somewhere and treat us to a bottle of bubbly.
(So we sat and talked and Marilyn said: “I hate funerals. I’m glad I won’t have to go to my own. Only, I don’t want a funeral—just my ashes cast on waves by one of my kids, if I ever have any. I wouldn’t have come today except Miss Collier cared about me, my welfare, and she was just like a granny, a tough old granny, but she taught me a lot. She taught me how to breathe. I’ve put it to good use, too, and I don’t mean just acting. There
are
other times when breathing is a problem. But when I first heard about it, Miss Collier cooling, the first thing I thought was: Oh, gosh, what’s going to happen to Phyllis?! Her whole life was Miss Collier. But I hear she’s going to live with Miss Hepburn. Lucky Phyllis; she’s going to have fun now. I’d change places with her pronto. Miss Hepburn is a terrific lady, no shit. I wish she
was my friend. So I could call her up sometimes and … well, I don’t know, just call her up.”
We talked about how much we liked New York and loathed Los Angeles [“Even though I was born there, I still can’t think of one good thing to say about it. If I close my eyes, and picture L.A., all I see is one big varicose vein”]; we talked about actors and acting [“Everybody says I can’t act. They said the same thing about Elizabeth Taylor. And they were wrong. She was great in
A Place in the Sun
. I’ll never get the right part, anything I really want. My looks are against me. They’re too specific”]; we talked some more about Elizabeth Taylor, and she wanted to know if I knew her, and I said yes, and she said well, what is she like, what is she
really
like, and I said well, she’s a little bit like you, she wears her heart on her sleeve and talks salty, and Marilyn said fuck you and said well, if somebody asked me what Marilyn Monroe was like, what was Marilyn Monroe
really
like, what would I say, and I said I’d have to think about that.)
TC:
Now do you think we can get the hell out of here? You promised me champagne, remember?
MARILYN:
I remember. But I don’t have any money.
TC:
You’re always late and you never have any money. By any chance are you under the delusion that you’re Queen Elizabeth?
MARILYN:
Who?
TC:
Queen Elizabeth. The Queen of England.
MARILYN
(frowning): What’s that cunt got to do with it?
TC:
Queen Elizabeth never carries money either. She’s not allowed to. Filthy lucre must not stain the royal palm. It’s a law or something.
MARILYN:
I wish they’d pass a law like that for me.
TC:
Keep going the way you are and maybe they will.
MARILYN:
Well, gosh. How does she pay for anything? Like when she goes shopping.
TC:
Her lady-in-waiting trots along with a bag full of farthings.
MARILYN:
You know what? I’ll bet she gets everything free. In return for endorsements.
TC:
Very possible. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. By Appointment to Her Majesty. Corgi dogs. All those Fortnum & Mason goodies. Pot. Condoms.
MARILYN:
What would she want with condoms?
TC:
Not her, dopey. For that chump who walks two steps behind. Prince Philip.
MARILYN:
Him. Oh, yeah. He’s cute. He looks like he might have a nice prick. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Errol Flynn whip out his prick and play the piano with it? Oh well, it was a hundred years ago, I’d just got into modeling, and I went to this half-ass party, and Errol Flynn, so pleased with himself, he was there and he took out his prick and played the piano with it. Thumped the keys. He played
You Are My Sunshine
. Christ! Everybody says Milton Berle has the biggest schlong in Hollywood. But who
cares
? Look, don’t you have
any
money?
TC:
Maybe about fifty bucks.
MARILYN:
Well, that ought to buy us some bubbly.
(Outside, Lexington Avenue was empty of all but harmless pedestrians. It was around two, and as nice an April afternoon as one could wish: ideal strolling weather. So we moseyed toward Third Avenue. A few gawkers spun their heads, not because they recognized Marilyn as
the
Marilyn, but because of her funeral finery; she giggled her special little giggle, a sound as tempting as the jingling bells on a Good Humor wagon, and said: “Maybe I should always dress this way. Real anonymous.”
As we neared P. J. Clarke’s saloon, I suggested P.J.’s might be a good place to refresh ourselves, but she vetoed that: “It’s full of those advertising creeps. And that bitch Dorothy Kilgallen, she’s always in there getting bombed. What is it with these micks? The way they booze, they’re worse than Indians.”
I felt called upon to defend Kilgallen, who was a friend, somewhat, and I allowed as to how she could upon occasion be a clever funny woman. She said: “Be that as it may, she’s written some bitchy stuff about me. But all those cunts hate me. Hedda. Louella. I know you’re supposed to get used to it, but I just can’t. It really hurts. What did I ever do to those hags? The only one who writes a decent word about me is Sidney Skol-sky. But he’s a guy. The guys treat me okay. Just like maybe I was a human person. At least they give me the benefit of the doubt. And Bob Thomas is a gentleman. And Jack O’Brien.”
We looked in the windows of antique shops; one contained a tray of old rings, and Marilyn said: “That’s pretty. The garnet with the seed pearls. I wish I could wear rings, but I hate people to notice my hands. They’re too fat. Elizabeth Taylor has fat hands. But with those eyes, who’s looking at her hands? I like to dance naked in front of mirrors and watch my titties jump around. There’s nothing wrong with them. But I wish my hands weren’t so fat.”
Another window displayed a handsome grandfather clock, which prompted her to observe: “I’ve never had a home. Not a real one with all my own furniture. But if I ever get married again, and make a lot of money, I’m going to hire a couple of trucks and ride down Third Avenue buying every damn kind of crazy thing. I’m going to get a dozen grandfather clocks and line them all up in one room and have them all ticking away at the same time. That would be real homey, don’t you think?”)
MARILYN:
Hey! Across the street!
TC:
What?
MARILYN:
See the sign with the palm? That must be a fortune-telling parlor.
TC:
Are you in the mood for that?
MARILYN:
Well, let’s take a look.
(It was not an inviting establishment. Through a smeared window we could discern a barren room with a skinny, hairy gypsy lady seated in a canvas chair under a hellfire-red ceiling lamp that shed a torturous glow; she was knitting a pair of baby-booties, and did not return our stares. Nevertheless, Marilyn started to go in, then changed her mind.)
MARILYN:
Sometimes I want to know what’s going to happen. Then I think it’s better not to. There’s two things I’d like to know, though. One is whether I’m going to lose weight.
TC:
And the other?
MARILYN:
That’s a secret.
TC:
Now, now. We can’t have secrets today. Today is a day of sorrow, and sorrowers share their innermost thoughts.
MARILYN:
Well, it’s a man. There’s something I’d like to know. But that’s all I’m going to tell. It really
is
a secret.
(And I thought: That’s what you think; I’ll get it out of you.)