By Myself and Then Some (40 page)

I still can’t believe the people I met – from friends we made and kept, like Margot Fonteyn, Robert Helpmann, Richard and Sybil Burton, Emlyn Williams, to T. S. Eliot, whom we met one night at the Oliviers’, a quiet, charming man who seemed to be totally unimpressed with himself. It was incredible to me that at twenty-six I was meeting the best in so many worlds. In all the arts. Such luck. I took it in stride because I was married to Bogie, I guess, or because I didn’t have sense enough or was too young not to. Or perhaps because these people themselves were so hard-working, so caring and involved in what they did, that they were open and welcoming to Bogie and me. They worked hard because they had chosen to, they were professionals, and they marveled at others’ good work. It was a great lesson. Whenever I am asked about competitive acting, professional jealousy, all that pettiness, I have only to reflect that the best actors, dancers, writers are not like that, they are too busy learning, improving, moving forward, trying to bring more to their professions. And they appreciate and admire other people who are good at what they do.

Bogie worked on
The African Queen
until two o’clock in the afternoon we were to leave London. Steve and I went to the studio for lunch and said goodbye to the crew. We all had been through a lot together and even though I hadn’t been in the film, I had been there through all the hard times, so we shared a common bond, and leave-taking was emotional. I had seen a rough cut of
The African Queen –
a very exciting
experience. There was no doubt that it was special, and Bogie and Katie perfect throughout. I knew it was a high for Bogie – John and I had talked about it in Africa. He felt that Bogie was better in this film than he had ever been. It was that perfect marriage every actor dreams of – script, director, and co-star. We said goodbye to John and Katie – we’d see them soon in California – and headed for Southampton and the
Ile de France
, a last look at England for a while and my last five days of speaking French. Now that that world was open to me, it would be a permanent, ever important part of my life.

I
t was time to go
home, to Benedict Canyon and to my career, which I’d ignored for this long period – I’d been sent a script by Fox, but wouldn’t leave Bogie and they couldn’t wait. Back now to what life was all about. Bogie couldn’t wait to see the
Santana
, and all our friends would be waiting for us. It was a good feeling to have left so much warmth behind and to have as much to look forward to.

So we settled back into our California routine and I found myself relieved to be home. My life there was where I felt safe. We gave our usual Christmas Eve party and I really outdid myself at that one.
The African Queen
was released in California, received with wild enthusiasm and much Academy Award talk for all concerned. Katie had rented a beautiful house that had once belonged to Charles Boyer, I think. She never would go out to dinner, but she did enjoy having two or three good friends come for a meal. One night she had Spencer Tracy, James Cagney, Bogie, and me for dinner. The three actors were contemporaries – each had left his individual mark – and they liked and admired each other. As they exchanged stories and reminisced, Katie and I sat spellbound. That is the only time I can remember that we both shut up. We just sat listening, and I, for one, felt privileged to be there. Bogie always said that if he were asked to choose the best actor in movies, Spence would win hands down – and without question the greatest movie personality ever seen was Cagney. It has passed through my mind that, in a way, he too thought it was pretty terrific to be with Spence and Jimmy that night.

Spencer was a man I had come to know slowly. We had adjoining booths at Romanoff’s when he had his regular Thursday night dinners
there – and he’d come to our house more and more as the years went by. Even to a couple of our big parties.

He had great humor – real, true wit, was highly intelligent – an avid reader. A total professional who had no patience with self-indulgent actors. His face had everything in it – many lines, smiles, love, wickedness, sensitivity, wisdom. The sight of Spence was always an experience. If it was unexpected, it lifted my spirits, made me feel warm; if the meeting was planned, that day was invariably a better day than the one before. Spence’s endless, unrelenting charm and sweetness were accompanied by an undercurrent of tragedy and torment. He and Bogie shared many attitudes and opinions. Complemented each other – they also shared their time.

I might say Spencer always affected me the way the Lincoln Memorial does – except that he was not a monument, too human, too real. But he was larger than life – a special event at all times to me, one of my life’s rarer bonuses.

Cagney I never knew. He never was seen socially anywhere – lived a very secluded life. But a nice man and interesting and original. He and Spence had known each other for years – were members of the Irish Club that included Pat O’Brien, John Ford, Frank Morgan, and more.

It was an unforgettable night. Katie and I sat on the floor – at their feet, of course. I remember thinking Katie was like a little girl – so thrilled to be in the company of these men, to know them. She hung on their words with a look of wonder and unending pleasure on that great face. I had thought she would be used to all that by now – but not at all. It was my first inkling of Katie’s naïveté and vulnerability. I knew even then what a happy addition she and Spence were to our lives – later I would find that they were to be much more than that.

S
tephen was three years old
and giving both of us more pleasure with each passing day. He was a beautiful boy – a loving boy who loved being with his father and mother. Bogie couldn’t wait for the day he could take him on the boat and to Romanoff’s for lunch. One day Bogie and I were having breakfast when Stephen came in, on the verge of tears, saying, ‘Mommy, I can’t walk – it hurts.’ I pulled his pants down to discover a bulge in his groin. I panicked inside and called Dr Spivek, who said it sounded like a hernia – keep him quiet until he got
there. When he arrived, he examined Steve, saying, ‘This will hurt a little, so hold his arms and legs.’ He had to try to push the hernia back up to see if it would pop down again. I held Steve’s arms, Bogie his legs. The poor baby was screaming – Bogie could not look at him, turned green as he had in the labor room with me. I thought he would be sick. The hernia did drop down again and Dr Spivek told us Steve would have to have surgery. Not my baby – who’d ever heard of a three-year-old with a hernia? It’s very rare, a weakness some few children are born with. Dr Spivek said we could not wait – it was the kind of hernia that could strangulate. The following morning we took Steve to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital, the place of his birth, trying to explain it to him so he wouldn’t be terrified. The hysterical gibberish all frightened parents speak. Poor Bogie – it seemed even harder on him than on me. Thank God he was working. Steve was very brave. Scared and brave. When he was wheeled into the operating room, I thought my life would end. To see this tiny body on one of those tables with a sheet up to his chin – they had the grace to attach a large red balloon to the table to distract him. After what seemed an interminable time but was actually about an hour, Dr Spivek came out of the operating room to tell us everything was fine – operation a success – and it had been necessary. I thought that table would never come out, but it did – with the red balloon still flying. We rushed over. Steve opened his little eyes and smiled – ‘Hello, Mummy, hello, Daddy’ – and we walked to his room, me suddenly shedding tears of relief, Bogie in control but with an expression on his face I had come to know well. When moved, he would make a funny, almost chewing motion – a way he had of keeping himself in check, I think.

On the day I was to bring Steve home, there was a terrible rainstorm. It had started the night before, but I was determined to get him out of that hospital. So we went, and the ambulance managed to make it to our house. Bogie had stayed in the Beverly Hills Hotel for fear of not getting to work, but was due home that night. There was a party at Louella Parsons’ – he would stop by, then come home. Ha! He stopped by all right – a couple of hours later she called and told me Bogie was fine and not to worry. Then Bogie called, said he couldn’t make it up the canyon. I said, ‘Funny, Aurelio made it.’ Bogie had got a little looped and stayed bravely near Sunset Boulevard, helping cars that were stuck get unstuck. I was furious – but Bogie was Bogie. He knew
Steve and I were safe, so he had his small moment of adventure. He was a totally dependable man on ordinary days and in a crisis, but once the crisis was over, the relief he felt was so great that he had to have a drink.

Actually, he’d been drinking less and less, but he was still unpredictable – that way I was a little off balance, could never be quite sure what he would do. He hated to be taken for granted and had no intention of allowing it. He had spoiled me so much, had given me freedom to grow – he knew so much better than I did how continual exposure to new people and atmospheres would change me. For instance, I went through a period of enjoying parties. I liked getting dressed up. Kept buying new clothes – Christ, I had to wear them. And I loved to dance. As my security in life grew, so did my sense of self. Once when we were going to a big party at Sylvia and Danny Kaye’s, Bogie was very angry with me and when we arrived, he pulled in the brake, slammed his fist on the dashboard, and said, ‘Damn it, I am not an escort. I’m not here just to take you to parties and take you home. Get it straight – I’m your husband.’ That must have been a moment when I’d gone too far, when I did take him for granted. Not consciously, never consciously.

1952
found me pregnant again
, and Bogie, Katie, John, and
The African Queen
being nominated for Academy Awards. Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh were also nominated for
A Streetcar Named Desire
.

As Award time grew closer, friends joked more and more about Bogie’s acceptance speech. They were certain he would win. He was just as certain Brando would. But he played along with Swifty Lazar, Mike Romanoff, Niven, Dick Brooks, Spence and Katie. He was going to announce that he owed nobody nothing – if he’d got the Award, he’d got it only because of his own hard work and paying attention to his craft! He had been nominated before, but this time it seemed different. I was convinced he’d win, though harboring a tiny corner of doubt because of Brando. Katie and I had a replica of the tiller of
The African Queen
made for the big night and had it inscribed with one of her lines in the film:
‘“Nature, Mr Alnutt, is what we are put in this world to rise above –” Baby, Rosie.’

When the big day came, all our pals were as keyed up as we were. The idea of awards was diametrically opposed to Bogie’s concept of
non-competitive acting. He said so loud and clear in the press, because such things are meaningless for actors unless they all play the same part. But let’s face it – you still want to win. As long as it is the highest accolade one’s profession can bestow, it is an honor – public recognition by one’s peers. That night seemed endless until they got to the best-actor award. What would I do if he lost? I was in my fourth month, but had managed to squeeze myself into the only original Christian Dior dress I would ever own. Finally Greer Garson came onstage to present the best-actor award –
Streetcar Named Desire
had already won best supporting actor and actress, Vivien had won best actress. Poor darling Katie, I had so wanted her to win. Greer started calling the names – Marlon Brando, Humphrey Bogart, Fredric March, Montgomery Clift, Arthur Kennedy – and the winner is – I was squeezing Bogie’s hand so hard and holding my breath – Humphrey Bogart, for
The African Queen!
A scream went up in the audience. I leaped into the air – thought I’d have the baby then and there. Bogie kissed me, walked to the stage amid really wild, enthusiastic applause and hurrahs, and said, ‘It’s a long way from the Belgian Congo to the stage of this theatre. It’s nicer to be here. Thank you very much.’ And then proceeded to thank John, Katie, Sam, the crew, saying, ‘No one does it alone. As in tennis, you need a good opponent or partner to bring out the best in you. John and Katie helped me to be where I am now.’ He was very emotional, and very humble. He had really wanted to win, for all his bravado – when push came to shove, he did care and was stunned that it was such a popular victory. He had never felt people in the town liked him much and hadn’t expected such universal joy when his name was called. Bogie had everything now – a happy marriage, a son, another child on the way, an ocean racing yawl,
Santana
, success, and the peak of recognition in his work. We called Katie when we got to Romanoff’s. After all they’d been through together, and the way they worked together, it would have been wonderful if they both had won. She was adorable and sunny and as good a sport as anyone could be, a woman who would never let you down. It was a night to celebrate for Bogie.

A
s I had proved with
Steve, I was not your average expectant mother. Again it was not pickles at four in the morning that I wanted
- this time it was another house. We didn’t have room for the new baby in Benedict Canyon, we would have to build on a room, so as Bogie threw his hands in the air, I went house-hunting and fell in love with the most beautiful house – French colonial, whitewashed brick, beautiful rooms, balconies, trees, and a tennis court. No pool, but plenty of room for one. It was much grander than anything we’d had before or hoped to have, for that matter, but once I’d seen it I could think of nothing else. Bogie thought it was beautiful too, but much too rich for our blood – it was not a house one would expect to see actors in. ‘However, if you want it, if Morgan Maree says it’s okay, it’s okay with me.’ We bought the house – see what I mean by spoiling me? By this time my taste in furniture was totally for antiques – French or English. Only the upholstery could be modern. (Bogie insisted on comfortable chairs to sit in – with our gang, it wouldn’t do to have to worry about the fragility of the furniture.) I went to work with almost demonic energy.