By Myself and Then Some (37 page)

We made our first trip to New York away from Steve in September. Miss Hartley was steady as could be – there were no apprehensions. It was World Series time. And
South Pacific
was a big hit on Broadway. I was more than a little enamored of Ezio Pinza – me and every other woman who heard him sing and saw him perform. We saw the show, went backstage after. Bogie led me into Pinza’s dressing room, we were introduced, then Bogie just left me there. I went into my shaking routine with Pinza – totally tongue-tied was I, and furious with Bogie. It was a typical Bogart maneuver – ‘She’s so mad about him – sure – let her have him.’ Oh, what a smart man he was. He knew the illusion was better than the reality, though in this case the reality wasn’t bad! After I told Pinza I knew the entire score of the show and congratulated him on his beauty and talent, there was nothing more to say. Thanks a lot, H.B.

One night we had dinner at ‘21’ with some friends, including Billy Seaman, an old drinking buddy of Bogie’s. It was a long dinner – much booze consumed – and the three of us walked back to the St Regis Hotel. Then Bogie wanted to go somewhere for a drink. I did not. I tried to get him to come upstairs – he’d have none of it. Oh, he made me mad when he was drinking and stubborn – although he didn’t need drink to be stubborn: when he made up his mind, that was definitely
that. I marched upstairs – he and Billy went off for their nightcap. About four in the morning Bogie awakened me – with an enormous stuffed panda on either side of him, wearing red Stork Club suspenders – to tell me there’d been a little trouble and he thought we’d hear more about it the next day. The next day started about four hours later when an assault summons was delivered to Mr Bogart in person – at 8:00 a.m. Those people do rise early.

He decided Uncle Charlie should be his lawyer. Charlie loved it – it was one of his all-time favorite trials. The press had a field day. It seemed Bogie and Billy had bought two pandas at the Stork Club, taken them into El Morocco, sat down with them as their dates. The Morocco publicity man and a gossip columnist who was always trouble got Robin Roberts, a young woman around town, to try to take Bogie’s panda. As she grabbed it, Bogie gave her a shove, saying, ‘Get away from me – I’m a happily married man.’ She fell – and sued. When Bogie was asked if he’d been drinking, he replied, ‘Isn’t everyone drunk at 4:00 a.m.?’ He always felt the whole world was three drinks below normal anyway. When asked if he’d hit her, he said, ‘I’d never hit a lady – they’re too dangerous.’ If he hadn’t been a hero before, the panda incident made him one. Our Hollywood friends loved it – wires came by the dozen – they all wished they’d been in New York. Charlie’s argument in court was that Bogie was defending his property – that this woman was just looking for publicity and using Bogart to get it. She’d arrived in court all done up with two black-and-blue marks painted on her chest. Charlie was impassioned. The Judge summed up, ‘Mr Bogart was protecting his rightful property and using sufficient force to do so. Whether he used too much is the question. There is not enough evidence – summons dismissed!’ The crowd outside the courtroom hailed Bogie – they loved him for protecting his rights. Bogie hailed the decision and his lawyer. We all had lunch at ‘21’ and Steve and Scott Johnson each got a panda. The reason Bogie never got into any real trouble was that his derring-do was always innocent. He just didn’t like hurting people. No wonder he was everyone’s hero. All through our life together, the most fun was where he was.

Bogie had a joke dream – that a woman should be able to fit into a man’s pocket. He’d take her out, talk to her, let her stand on the palm of his hand, dance on a table; when she got out of order – back in the pocket. And she could be made life-size when desired. And despite how
wonderful he was, there were times when I would have liked to do the same thing to him.

W
e were back in California
and on the boat when news came over the radio that Walter Huston had died. We rushed back to town. Walter had been staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel – we’d all been together just a few nights before. It was all sudden and very sad. I was more than ever aware of John’s very real love for his father. John Huston’s life had not been based on attachments. He felt things, of course, but I don’t believe that a life blow had ever been dealt him until Walter died. There was a small service, with a bust of Walter on a stand and Spencer Tracy reading the Twenty-third (my favorite) Psalm. It was beautiful and moving. There was a moment about halfway through when a deep, half-muffled sob emanated from John. A chilling sound. I looked at him and thought of him differently from then on. I was very glad he was married now to lovely Riki Soma and that she was to have a baby. John had done everything but that, and he wanted someone in his image. It was one of the things he envied Bogie for. One ending – one beginning.

I was in my last Warner Bros. picture in 1950 –
Bright Leaf
with Gary Cooper and Patricia Neal, directed once more by Mike Curtiz. ‘Coop’ was one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen, with his cornflower-blue eyes. He was a pro, but not always on time. One morning he was late and Mike was livid – so much so that he screamed at me. He wouldn’t dare let go at Coop, knowing he’d just walk off the set. Now, I have never handled myself well in screaming situations. I become inarticulate, usually cry. On this occasion with his ranting and raving – ‘Goddamn actor-bum!’ – I took myself tearfully to my dressing room. Finally Coop arrived, not all that late, and Mike was all over him: ‘Gary, dahling, how are you – how do you feel?’ Coop knew that Mike was full of it, but played the game.

Jack Warner kept giving me terrible scripts and I kept going on suspension. He was one of the most ill-at-ease human beings I’d ever encountered. When you’d try to talk to him about the script (which he’d probably never read), he’d crack a joke. When you’d try to reason with him, he’d tell you how hard he worked – how the only reason he didn’t come to the studio early in the morning was that he waited for
his wife, Ann, to wake up so he could have breakfast with her. It was well known that he adored Ann much more than she did him. That side of him was sad – but his uneasiness with actors made it impossible to have any reasonable exchange. I tried to get Charlie Feldman to persuade him to let me out of my contract, but it was no deal. I was also getting restless about Charlie. He was a pal of Jack’s and Darryl Zanuck’s and wanted to produce – I felt I’d been with his agency too long and nobody there gave a damn about my career. A funny thing happened to my career after the first few years of being Mrs Bogart. Funny-peculiar. Everyone thought I was terrific personally, but they stopped thinking of me as an actress. I was Bogie’s wife, gave great dinners, parties, but work was passed over. It was very frustrating. I wanted my career to go on. From the beginning Bogie had made it clear that he would never interfere – never try to get me into one of his pictures, never make it a condition of his working. He’d give me advice if I asked, but he never called a producer or director to try to get me a job. He went along with the director’s choice always. It became apparent to me that, overjoyed as I was to be Mrs Bogart, I had no intention of allowing Miss Bacall to slide into oblivion.

John had spoken to Bogie about
The African Queen
. Bogie had never wanted to go to Europe – just had no curiosity about it – but I was longing to go, to see and do everything. Bogie liked his life as it was; going to New York was all the traveling he wanted to do. Finally Sam Spiegel told Katharine Hepburn that he had Bogie and John – told John that he had Bogie and Katie – told Bogie that he had John and Katie – and
The African Queen
was put together. I was wildly excited, but Bogie knew that John would find the most inaccessible spot in Africa as a location and he dreaded it. We planned to go early in March, by ship, to Paris first, then London, before filming began. The only thing I hated was leaving Steve, who would join us with Miss Hartley in London after Africa.

Mother was on her yearly visit to California, early this time, for Stephen’s first birthday party. One morning I received a call from Uncle Charlie telling me that Jack had died while on holiday in Jamaica with Vera. I would have to tell Mother. God, why was it always I who had to tell her? Jack was the baby of her family, only forty-four years old. I remember looking out my bedroom window and watching my mother walk toward the front door, looking forward to a smiling
baby and her prize of a daughter. I opened the front door. She knew, as she always did, that something had happened. I hugged her and blurted it out. A gut sound came from her – she must get back to New York. The phone calls started. When one of a family goes, and the youngest at that, the remaining members get even closer for a while. I’d been close to Jack – I shed many tears over his death. And I loved Vera and felt so for her. I grasped my husband very close to me through that.

A
ll ghastly shots were completed –
farewell parties given – passports gotten, including Steve’s and Miss Hartley’s.

We were leaving on a night flight to New York. Miss Hartley and Steve came to see us off, as well as Lynn Spiegel and Carolyn’s mother, since Carolyn was on the plane too. I have a pain in my solar plexus when I remember how it felt to leave Steve behind – you suddenly say to yourself, ‘Why the hell am I going – what am I doing?’ Then, of course, you
know
what you’re doing – you’re going with your husband, who believes in no separations in marriage, who is working. Your life with him cannot stop for your son. And – admit it – you want to see those unseen places. So the brain whirs – the heart tugs – the gut aches. I must have turned around a hundred times to look at Steve and wave and throw kisses and get teary-eyed.

In those days there was a stop in Chicago en route to New York. When we landed there, a man from the airline came aboard and said there was a phone call waiting for us. What could it be, for God’s sake? It seemed that as our plane became airborne, Miss Hartley, with Steve in her arms, had had a stroke and was taken immediately to the hospital. Steve was fine at home, Lynn and Carolyn’s mother were with him. My poor baby – poor Miss Hartley. I asked them to notify Dr Spivek and tell him I’d call them on arrival in New York. Bogie and I were in shock. How terrible – that seemingly strong, feisty woman. As soon as we got to the St Regis, we called home – Miss Hartley was dead. She had never regained consciousness. May was her sturdy, reliable self and knew just what to do for Stephen. I called Mother and told her. I had a sore ear from hours on the phone that first day. Mother volunteered to go out immediately – Lee could join her in a few weeks. Dr Spivek did not feel I should return. He would interview nurses, tell me whom he liked best, I could interview her on the phone – it was
only a few months. Bogie wanted me to stay with him. If the doctor said it was okay, I mustn’t worry – and with Mother there, no problem. I was worried about my baby – I wanted to be with Bogie – I wanted to get to Paris, London, Rome, Africa – too many things to want.

Dr Spivek found an English nurse with excellent references. I interviewed her from a phone booth in ‘21’ – a long, long interview. She sounded all right. I talked to May – Kathy – they were to report to me regularly. Mother would leave the day after we did. I tried to talk to Steve on the phone, but he would have none of it. Was I doing the right thing? As the doctor said, ‘Steve will be fine. You may not be, but he will be.’

So we boarded the
Liberté
. Atlantic crossings are romantic happenings, no doubt about that. Your world is on that ship for five days – nothing outside can touch you. Bogie was in his element. I was surprised how much of my high-school French came back to me. Bogie was very proud of me speaking the language. It was very halting, but they understood me – vocabulary small, accent good. I felt mysterious and exciting speaking French. We docked at Le Havre, where a car and driver were waiting, and started out for the most beautiful, romantic city in the world – Paris. Our driver spoke English and was to stay with us all the six weeks we were there. We stopped at a roadside café in Rouen for ham, cheese, and the most incredible of French breads. Very early in the morning. Immediately I could see how artistic the French were – the simplest food looked beautiful, the furniture, even farm furniture, had its own unique flavor and tremendous style. I told the driver to warn me before we reached Paris so I could prepare myself. I was breathless with anticipation. The green of the French countryside was unlike any green I had ever seen. Suddenly he said, ‘You can see the Eiffel Tower – in about ten minutes we’ll be in the center of Paris.’ I held Bogie’s hand tightly – I couldn’t believe I would finally be there. I must have been French in another life, or why did it mean so much? And then there it was – Arc de Triomphe, Place de la Concorde, the Seine, Louvre, Left Bank – the beauty of it! My eyes were not big enough to take it all in. And then the Place Vendôme and the Ritz Hotel, where we were going to live. Paris seemed so open – no crowded New York streets, no skyscrapers – the Paris sky so blue – our suite at the Ritz so romantic. After settling in a bit, we met Harry Kurnitz, who’d lived in Paris since the blacklist. We started out to see some of
Paris on foot with him, stopping at the famous Café de la Paix, where you were supposed to see everyone you knew if you just sat there long enough. To sit at a sidewalk café having coffee or a drink – the sound and sight of France all around. The Champs-Elysées was incredible – the chestnut trees – how could one city attain such perfection? Who had dreamed it up? Who had made it all come true? I wanted to see every corner of it. Harry took us to the Tour d’Argent on the Seine for dinner, with Frank Capra and Art Buchwald. The restaurant had an arrangement with the city that Notre Dame could be lit at their request. And there was this girl from the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Manhattan sitting in Paris at a window of the Tour d’Argent with Notre Dame, especially illuminated, to one side and the Seine and the lights of the bridge below.