By Myself and Then Some (81 page)

John Gielgud was quite an extraordinary man. An avid reader – saw every play he could in theatres large and small – witty – a staunch friend. Very easy to adore. As the years went on, I got to know him better, became closer to him. In 1962, he directed Jason in a play called
Big Fish, Little Fish
with Hume Cronyn co-starring. I’ll never forget the sight of John sitting up front watching a run through of the play – his great head and profile, his hand to his chin in a Shakespearean pose, totally engrossed in what was happening onstage. He would often say to the actors, ‘Oh
do
go on yourselves
you know so much more than I do.’ Not bloody likely.

He brought his one man show
Ages of Man
to New York, playing Shakespeare’s men from Hamlet to Othello to Macbeth to Lear, segueing into a sonnet or two – a performance of complete brilliance. And for once every coveted award went to the right person. Him. Then, during my two years living in London doing
Applause
onstage for a year in 1972-3, and filming
Murder on the Orient Express
in 1974, we saw each other more and more. Every day on the set of
Orient Express
, with the director’s chairs, with our names printed clearly, lined up next to each other – John Gielgud, Albert Finney, Ingrid Bergman, Wendy Hiller, Sean Connery, Rachel Roberts, Richard Widmark, Vanessa Redgrave, Jacqueline Bisset, Michael York and me – quite a gathering – all of us sat enraptured while John told us endless marvelous stories, anecdotes of theatre experiences and theatre greats. It was a once in a lifetime experience. And it was John who took me with him on a very special tour of the National Theatre before it was completed and officially opened. When we were taken to the backstage dressing-room area, John remarked, ‘Tiny dressing rooms, as usual, for the actors.’

Every time I was in a play or a musical, he came to see me. When he came to
Applause
, he came back and asked me how long I would be playing. I said one year in London after a year and a half on Broadway and a year’s national tour. He said, ‘Oh, you’re one of those actresses who stays in a play a long time.’ You see, in England they usually don’t, they have repertory theatres there. Actors have the great privilege of playing two different plays in a week. There’s much more variety, more basic training in the classics and Shakespeare in England than we do in America.

So many memorable lunches, dinners, hours spent together. Whenever I came to London, there were flowers with a handwritten note from John. There was laughter continually. He was a joy to be with. Always with a story or two. I remember we were in Israel making an Agatha Christie movie together. While waiting for the camera to be ready, John would be doing the
Times
crossword puzzle in ink no less. When we lapsed into conversation, he would look up, having remembered something, and I would hear a funny, bawdy limerick come from John. Limericks, memories, people, incidents just popped out. So much to draw from. He was unique. Theatre – work – was his life really. He always worried there weren’t enough roles for him to play. He told me
once that someone, who was writing a book about favorite rooms, had asked him what his favorite was. John said, ‘I wanted to say my bedroom but then changed my mind because I realized that one day I’d wake up dead in it.’ He was the complete, perfect English gentleman – impeccably groomed, gold crested ring on pinky finger, cigarette case at the ready. When in the city, he could be seen walking down Piccadilly toward Fortnum and Mason with certainly two or three books in his hand having just left Hatchard’s, the best bookstore anywhere, that was just up the street. Never an idle moment – ever curious – ever interested – ever active – the brain never slept. That was John.

He had a partner, Martin – a very attractive man – who was devoted to John, made the garden beautiful, had painted the gold leaf molding in the living room of their home. He would never attend an opening or a party, always stayed in the background. I loved his company. He was extremely well read (had to be with John overflowing with knowledge), and fun. Quite a bit younger than John. Imagine the shock when he suddenly became ill and died. That was completely devastating to John. He was so dependent on him – so many years together – somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty, I would guess. That left John, at ninety-four years old, bereft, rattling around that large, beautiful house alone. A housekeeper and gardener/chauffeur were there, yes, but that was hardly of comfort to him. I would call him from New York, first to chat, see how he was, give him some local gossip. I’ve forgotten how much time had elapsed before John really began to sound frail, when talking on the phone became more and more difficult for him, until one day I informed him that I was coming to London to appear on a TV show and would descend on him almost on arrival. He sounded pleased – he was too polite to deny me the privilege of seeing him. I took my friend John Erman with me and down we went.

It was to be my last time. I found him moving more slowly, speaking with less gusto, but there was tea and there was cake. I regaled him with every bit of information I could garner on happenings in the U.S.A. and mostly the theatre. He became more interested, more alert, was genuinely glad to see me. But he was alone in this house that had always had people and life in it. Now it was sad and I hated to leave him.

Not long after my visit, on May 21, he died. The same date as my wedding to Bogie. A few weeks later I received a call from his lawyer telling me John had left me a ring and asking when could he deliver it. I
couldn’t have been more surprised or more touched that John had done that and thought of me. The lovely jade ring arrived a few days later – oval jade set in simple gold. So lovely – so John – so treasured in friendship. I feel now as I felt when we first met, that I was lucky to have known him, lucky to be included in his life, lucky to have seen him so often on the stage. To think I actually heard him say to me about his friendship with Ralph Richardson as we left the Richardson home after an Easter Sunday lunch, ‘He is such a great friend to me. I never thought anyone like Ralph would like me’ – that alone tells you everything you need to know about that modest, lovely man, that great actor.

As if the loss of John were not enough, less than three months later came the passing of Alec Guinness, another brilliant actor who happily became part of my life and allowed me to enter his. We hit it off that evening I first met him in London in 1959 at a Royal Command performance of his movie,
The Horse’s Mouth
, but for some reason it was a long time before we really became friends. I always attended his theatre performances and went backstage after the show to see him and congratulate him. He was marvelous onstage – very rich and full of voice. When in New York I would see him, but it was in 1972, the beginning of my two years of living in England, that our friendship became more constant, more of a reality.

It’s funny but in England actors like John or like Alec have lovely lunch dates with no more than four people including themselves. It is a habit I am very fond of when traveling. Europeans take time for such pleasures. I almost never do it except when truly special friends come to New York. And I do mean special. Both of these supreme beings fell into that category. They were very different men and actors who led very different lives. Both quite fascinating – supremely intelligent – fun and funny, with over-the-top talent.

Alec was very proper and meticulous when he hosted a lunch or dinner. When I was playing
Applause
at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London, he invited me to dinner in a lovely restaurant on my day off. I always looked forward to his company. His wife Marella, a lovely, lovely woman, was present and I think Keith Baxter. He had ordered a special wine and when time came for the waiter to serve it – they didn’t have it. Alec was furious. He said, ‘I came down especially today to order our dinner and the particular wines to be served. I was told there was no problem. But now you say you don’t have it. That is outrageous.’ Of
course the waiter and maitre d’ were flustered and apologetic but Alec would have none of it. Nevertheless, he ordered two different wines and the rest of the dinner went off without a hitch. But I was amazed, amazed that he had gone to the trouble of visiting the restaurant beforehand to make certain that the dinner would be perfect, and having been assured that it would be, was beyond annoyed that it wasn’t. He was right, of course. He didn’t make a scene, that was not part of his character at all. He just made it clear that he was displeased.

In the more than twenty years that followed, our friendship solidified. As we got to know each other better, we became more open and I became more relaxed. The fact is I was always in awe of both John Gielgud and Alec – also, in actuality, in awe of almost all British actors when I first met them. Laurence Olivier in particular, of course. That friendship having begun in the early fifties continued until his death. When ‘How do you do’ progressed to telephone numbers exchanged – flowers sent – lunches shared – friendships flowered. I am now, at this point in my own life, so grateful for those friendships, for the many of life’s graces they unknowingly taught me – among which were that manners were not forever a thing of the past, that laughter was not always at the expense of somebody else, that intelligence – the reading of books in this computerized, robotic world – still counts, that quality and character can prevail and that status and acquisition are not and should not be a goal. Alec loved to wake up in his simple country house – to hear and watch the birds – to have a leisurely breakfast – a walk on a country road – a good book – a glass of wine and a good meal.

In 1993, I had the immense good luck to work with Alec for the BBC. Charles Sturridge, a fine young British director, came over to New York to give me details on
A Foreign Field
, a wonderful piece about revisiting Normandy and Omaha beach after World War II. Jeanne Moreau was also to star and Leo McKern. Can you imagine such a proposal? Working with Alec Guinness and Jeanne Moreau in a really interesting and first-rate bit of writing and an excellent part for me. I was more than thrilled to be included. It meant a month in Normandy – all living in a beautiful chateau, dining together nightly. Alec always waited for me before going into the dining room. Impeccably dressed – a blazer with waistcoat underneath, perfectly pressed trousers – the definitive English gentleman. And would I like a cocktail? We-ell … a light vodka on the rocks, perhaps. Even if I didn’t want it, I didn’t want to disappoint Alec.
So we would have our ‘cocktail’ and then go into dinner. Alec was the kind of man who would stand when you entered the room, and pull your chair out
(not
from under you) so you could sit at your place for dinner.

My first day of shooting was with Alec. I was a nervous wreck. It was a short scene – a brief exchange between us at the door to his room: he on the inside, me on the out. When Charles Sturridge called action, I walked to Alec’s door – knocked – he opened it and became the character he was playing so completely that the English Gentleman totally disappeared. And I began to tremble, like the kid I was when I started in pictures. I think it was because I suddenly realized I was in this movie for the BBC with the brilliant Alec Guinness and would I be good enough? That terrible insecurity from my beginnings reared its ugly head after all these years.

I guess a true sense of self-confidence is not in the cards for me. At least in certain special situations. It’s a different kind of nervousness – not like opening night in the theatre. I think it’s reverting subconsciously to my first dreams of becoming an actress – of being so star-struck. After watching for so many years Laurence Olivier, Ralph Richardson, Vivien Leigh, Gielgud, Guinness and more – to find myself meeting them – being accepted by them as one of them, no less – was quite unbelievable to me. And upon working with any of them – at the beginning I became eight years old.

Anyway – the working with Alec and Jeanne Moreau – everyone – turned out splendidly. The piece itself was high quality television and the entire experience was a marvel – a highlight for me. And, of course, it brought Alec and me closer together. From then on we were always in touch, mostly when I came to London, always at Christmas. I would call him when I was heading his way, and he always came to town so we could have a long lunch or dinner together. The last time I was in London, I rang him and for the first time he said he didn’t think he could come up; Marella had been ill and doctors were coming to see her. I was of course saddened, but understanding. About two days after our conversation, I was emerging from the elevator in the Connaught Hotel. I brought my room key to the concierge and as I glanced toward the hotel entry, I saw a man who looked like Alec rush into a taxi. I ran outside and asked the doorman if that had been Alec Guinness. Imagine my surprise when he told me indeed it was but he didn’t seem like his
usual self. I couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t call anyone without knowing where or who his close friends were. I guess I figured I would hear from him. I wasn’t going to be in London very long, had to get back to New York. I left knowing nothing until less than a week later came the news of Alec’s death.

It couldn’t be. How could it happen so fast? Clearly that’s why he came to London, why he had rushed into a taxi. No warning. Finally my friend Keith Baxter, who had been a close friend of Alec and Marella, came to New York and told me that yes, indeed, it had been quick. Clearly Alec’s personal physician had found that he had cancer and must go up to London and hospital. It was obviously terminal as it was all over in less than a week. Keith said that with Marella at his bedside, Alec said what he hated most was leaving her. In Alec’s worry about Marella, he had forgotten about himself. So, so sad – so touching. And she followed him about three months later.

To lose these two major men in such a short time was painful. My world was getting smaller. Shrinking too fast. And little did I think that the millennium would be the beginning of so many more endings. The chipping away of pieces of your life that had been there for so many years, threading their way through your work life and your personal life. Just as you think you can take a breath again, another jolt comes along. Then I get to thinking that my awareness of and learning to deal with losses started when I was eighteen and nineteen with the loss of my grandmother, followed by my Uncle Jack and my surrogate father Uncle Charlie. You never think of death at those ages – it seems so far away. Then as I moved into my twenties, when a friend became ill – seriously ill – other friends would remind me that I had been with people at least twenty-five years my senior as Bogie had been! I guess that was true then. It is not true now. But I also think how very lucky I have been to have had mostly good health in my life, with interruptions from time to time with physical injuries – nothing life-threatening, usually work related. And the real luck is in knowing and having the great friends I have had and the extraordinary people I have known who have graced my life, enhanced it and enriched it. I am so grateful for that.