回复：【长篇阅读】公子的传记

When Michael died, Taylor gave up his fight. He could succumb now that Ursula had been relieved of one burden anyway. His great love for her, and the awareness that she would be tested to the fullest when he was gone, was on his mind more than the fear of death. How much more would she have to take? Would Manuela snap out of her troubles?
When he spoke to Art it was always, “Ursula. . . Ursula . . . Ursula . . .”

He was taken back to hospital and onThursday, June 5th, exactly one week following Michael’s funeral, Ursula was again taken from Bob’s besides. She went to Terry’s grade school graduation. “I wanted to be with my husband, but Terry needed me for a little while . . . if anything had happened to Bob when I wasn’t there . . .”
Shortly before Taylor lapsed into a coma, he spoke privately to Ronald Reagan: “I only have one request right now. Tell Ursula, be happy . . .”

On Saturday, June 7, 1969, the newsmen printed the news that Taylor was fighting for his life. He was not in pain, since the disease had reached his nerve centers several days ago.
The following morning Ursula and Art stood over him. The nurse, who said she had prayed she would not be on duty when Bob died, was so upset, she was unable to take his blood pressure. Art had to takeover, but it really didn’t matter.
Robert Taylor simply closed his eyes.

“A few years ago a friend of mine shot a large cock pheasant and seconds later, he himself fell dead.
I always thought that if anybody woulda told me that was the way I was gonna die, I’d be happy as a bird dog . . .”

Robert Taylor Eulogy
June 11, 1969
Governor Ronald Reagan
How to say farewell to a friend named Bob. He’d probably say, “Don’t make any fuss. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.”
How to speak of Robert Taylor—one of the truly great and most enduring stars of the Golden Era of Hollywood. What can we say about a boy named—well, a boy from Nebraska with an un-Nebraska-like name of Spangler Arlington Brugh?

Perhaps that’s as good a staring point as any. A young man, son of a Nebraska doctor, coming to California—to Pomona—for his last years in college, and from there the story reads like a a script from one of those early musicals. And it happens to be the last person in the world who would have thought that great fame was in store for him.
There was the college play, the talent scout, the most improbable of all—the coincidence of timing that found him in an MGM casting office on the day that had been picked for the testing of a prospective actress. Who can we get to do the scene with her? What about that kid in the outer office. When the test was over, they didn’t hire her, they hired him. And I suppose that would be first-act curtain.

And the second act followed the same pattern—almost a repeat. A newly signed contract player getting a minor role in a picture. No one remembers who had the principal roles—most have even forgotten the title of the picture. But when it was previewed, everyone wanted to know who was Robert Taylor—a young man with the name that sounded like one the studio would think up and become instead Robert Taylor—a name with a kind of honest Midwest sound.
MGM was a giant and the home of giants. It had the greatest stars in an era when Hollywood was a Mount Olympus peopled with God-like stars—Gable, Grant, Montgomery, Coleman, Cooper, the Barryomres. And there were Goddesses to match—Garbo, Shearer, Crawford, Irene Dunne. BobTaylor became one of the all-time greats of motion picture stardom. Twenty-four years at the same studio, MGM, alone. Thirty-five years before the public. His face instantly recognizable in every corner of the world. His name, a new one—a household word. And all of this came to be one sudden dazzling burst. To simply appear in public caused a traffic jam. There has never been anything like it before or since—possibly the only thing that can compare it—Rudolph Valentino, and why not? Because on all Mount Olympus, he was the most handsome.

Now there were those in our midst who worked very hard to bring him down with a label, “Pretty Boy,” and of course there’s that standard Hollywood rule that true talent must never be admitted as playing part in success of the individual who is too handsome or too beautiful. It’s only in the recent years of our friendship that I’ve been able to understand how painful all of this must have been to him—to a truly modest man—because he was modest to the point of being painfully shy. In all of the years of stardom, he never quite got over being genuinely embarrassed at the furor that his appearance created. He went a long way to avoid putting himself in a position where he could become the center of attention. And in these years I have learned—and not by any complaints from him—complaining wasn’t part of him—but I have learned of something else that must have been hard for him to bear; the idea that just a handsome face was responsible for his success—that he wasn’t truly an actor. Because Bob had one intolerance; he had no patience with those who came into the business with the idea that they could short-cut hard work and substitute gimmicks for craftsmanship.

He respected his profession and he was a superb master of it. He took a quiet pride in his work. He was a pro, and the “Pretty Boy” tag couldn’t begin to survive roles like Magnificent Obsession, Camille, Waterloo Bridge, Johnny Eager, Quo Vadis.
It takes a rare and unique actor to be believable, as he was believable—in costume epics like Ivanhoe, Knights of the Round Table, and also at the same time as a fighter in The Crowd Roars and the almost psychopathic Billy the Kid. Some of his pictures live on as true classics, and generally, the standard is so high in retrospect it would appear his modesty caused this industry to underrate the calibre of this man who was truly a star among stars.
And yet, none of this is what brought us together here today.

Perhaps each one of us has his own different memory, but I’ll bet that somehow they all add up to “nice man.” Mervyn LeRoy, who directed so many of his great pictures, speaks of his always showing consideration for everyone who worked with him. Artie Deutsh said he never worked in a company where he wasn’t well-loved, well-liked, even beloved by his cast and crew.
His quiet and disciplined manner had a steadying affect on every company he was ever in and at the same time, throughout the country, there are hundreds of men who remember him because he taught them to fly. He sought combat in World War Ⅱas a Navy flier and he wound up teaching others—and I’ll bet he taught them well.
There was no caste system in his love of humanity.

Today I am sure there is sorrow among the rugged men in the Northwest who run the swift water of the Rogue River and who knew him as one of them. There are cowpokes up in a valley in Wyoming who remember him and mourn—mourn a man who rode and hunted with them. And millions and millions of people who knew him by way of the silver screen, and they remember with gratitude that in the darkened theatre he never embarrassed them in front of their children.

I know that some night on the late, late show I’m going to see him resplendent in white tie and tails at Del-monico’s, and I am sure I’ll smile—smile at Robert Spangler Arlington Brugh Taylor, because I’ll remember how a fellow named Bob really preferred blue jeans and boots. And I’ll see him squinting through the smoke of a barbeque as I have seen him a hundred times.
He loved his home and everything that it meant. Above all, he loved his family and his beautiful Ursula—lovely Manuela, all grown up!—little Tessa; Terry, his son, a young man in whom he had such great pride.

In a little while the hurt will be gone.Time will do that for you. Then you will find you can bring out your memories.You can look at them—take comfort from their warmth. As the years go by, you will be very proud. Not so much of the things that we have talked about here—you are going to be proud of simple things. Things not so stylish in certain circles today, but that just makes them a little more rare and of greater value. Simple things he had like honor and honesty, responsibility to those he worked for and who worked for him—standing up for what he believed and, yes, even a simple old-fashioned love for his country, and above all, an inner humility.

I think, too, that he’d want me to tell you how very much he loved your mother. What happiness she brought him and how wonderful she is. The papers say he was in the hospital seven times—actually he was out of the hospital seven times. He needed the strength that he could only get from being in that home so filled with her presence. He spoke to me of this just a few days ago. It was uppermost in his mind and I am sure he meant for me to tell you something that he wanted above all else. Ursula, there is just one last thing that only you can do for him—be happy. This was his last thought to me.

I don’t pretend to know God’s plan for each one of us, but I have faith in his infinite mercy. Bob had great success in the work he loved and he returned each day from that work with the knowledge there were those who waited affectionately for the sound of his footsteps.