Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1963)

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She was in a spot that would have made almost any other woman hysterical and bursting with a Niagara of tears. But not Sybil. She was a profound example of the bravest woman in the whole wide world. “I don’t think anyone will question my courage for separating from Richard,” Sybil said solemnly. “We’ve had a go of it, you know, and I have no special position entitling me to any more misery than I’ve already suffered.” This was the moment of truth — the moment when Sybil Burton had at last decided that the best course for her was a legal separation from the husband who had publicly deserted her and their two lovely children, Katherine and Jessica. The place was New York City. The time was April 2, 1963. . . . And the whole wide world had just been jarred by another of those periodic blockbusting headlines that seem to erupt around Liz Taylor, Richard Burton and their mates wherever they go. This time it was Mrs. Burton who stole the big black type on the nation’s front pages by flying to New York from London with her brood, and promptly announcing that she and Burton would henceforth go it alone. Sybil, who played it calmly and coolly all the while that Richard romanced Liz in Rome. Paris, and London over the past year, had finally decided to give Burton the boot. “It wasn’t a decision I reached hastily,” Sybil observed with a serious look. “I’ve had a long time to think about it. And, in fact. I have discussed it with Richard. You might say that we came to a mutual understanding regarding matters.” Just what matters were brought to the head in their discussions were not revealed by Sybil, who said she was “entitled to have some anonymity in my private affairs.” However, a close friend of Sybil’s confided to one of Photoplay’s London reporters that Sybil told her: “At first I thought he would tire of Elizabeth. I did what I could to understand. But Elizabeth forced the issue, made understanding impossible. She wouldn’t stop. My marriage was more than a shambles. It was a nightmare.” When Sybil woke up from the nightmare, she could only reach this conclusion: For herself and for her daughters a separation was necessary. And then there were the arrangements to make . . . legal, financial, all kinds of arrangements. . . . “We have worked out arrangements on financial matters,” she told this writer, “and about visitation with the children. Of course, I retain their physical custody.” Sybil’s decision was a direct about-face from her unshakable stand of the torturous past year when she had played the supporting role of the long-forbearing wife, refusing steadfastly to betray even the slightest annoyance at the disgraceful and shocking carryings-on of Richard with Liz. Only last March Sybil had told this writer in an exclusive Photoplay Magazine interview : “Richard is mine. He is all mine. He shall always be mine. I will never give him up to Elizabeth Taylor or to any woman. . . And now. all at once, Sybil seems to have changed her mind over the ultimate course of her storm-tossed marriage. Or has she? “There are no plans for a divorce,” said Sybil with a quiet dignity. “Richard and I never considered nor discussed divorce. Yet we have agreed a separation is properly warranted at this time in view of the highly irregular pattern that our marriage has achieved.” She refused to discuss Liz but it was obvious that the long-standing mockery Richard has made of his marriage was the reason Sybil had finally reached this state of exasperation. It was plain to see what Sybil meant: Liz forced me to give Richard up. But I haven’t given him up completely. He’s still mine. Maybe not all mine anymore , but neither is he all Liz’. He can’t marry Liz so long as / hold on to him. by the legal coattails as I’m doing now. When Sybil arrived with her children, accompanied by their nurse, aboard the British Overseas Airways Boeing 707 jetliner from London, she was met at LaGuardia Airport by Aaron R. Frosch, the longtime family attorney for Sybil and Richard. The dolorous 114-day New York newspaper strike had just ended and reporters swarmed over her with an enthusiasm and verve that had long been missing in the city. But Sybil, ravishing in a black-trimmed grey tweed coat and beret-capped golden tresses, didn’t want to contribute any news to the all-but-starved newshawks. She parried one question after another about Richard, about Liz and even about Eddie Fisher. One of the more (Continued on page 8)