So far as Laurence Olivier was concerned, there were two of her. One was “my Vivien,” the most beautiful woman on earth, yet without evident vanity; an enchanted being, joyful, kind, uncomplicated, generous; moving in a cloud of perfume, exquisite in her manners, immaculate in her person, full of grace and taste and fun. This Vivien kept 75 pairs of white gloves wrapped in tissue paper and at night covered her folded underwear with a napkin of silk and lace. She was a talented actress who worked twice as hard as anyone else; she was intelligent, cultivated, at home in literature, art and music; had scores of friends to whom she was the most faithful and affectionate of correspondents, whom she showered with gifts, delighted with her wit, her stories, her games. She was a passionate and considerate lover, the perfect companion, the woman of whom no woman was jealous, who had once been the little girl everyone wanted to be like. She was too good to be true.
For there was another Vivien, a hellish-shrew who shrieked obscene abuse, who knew the most wounding things to say, who in her hysterical rages broke windows, ripped off her clothes, struck and slashed at those she loved; who seduced the taxi driver or the delivery man; periodically grew fat, filthy, foul, and finally, after hours, weeks, or months of nightmare, would fall helplessly weeping, remembering nothing, begging to know whom she had offended so that the good Vivien could write humble notes of apology. This Vivien was a woman sick in body and spirit who refused to confront illness, to spare herself the calamitous interaction of alcohol with drugs she took for the tuberculosis she would scarcely acknowledge or treat. — The Washington Post, 1977
