By Myself and Then Some (42 page)

We rushed back to the hotel. There was a crush of people, of the press – everyone’s face was drained and tense – there was noise, but it was the noise of desperation. The Governor appeared with his sons, his sister and her husband, the Dicks, and Bill Blair. He looked hurt and pale – tired and brave and very alone. ‘Someone asked me as I came in, down on the street, how I felt. And I was reminded of a story that a fellow townsman of ours used to tell – Abraham Lincoln. They asked him how he felt once after an unsuccessful election. He said he felt like a little boy who had stubbed his toe in the dark. He said he was too old to cry, but it hurt too much to laugh.’ I, along with everyone else, was dissolved in tears. It was a devastating time, yet the words he spoke suited the occasion perfectly, as his words always did. I sobbed my way back to our room, where poor Bogie, who had run out of quarters for the television set, was suffering with his virus compounded by my agony. He was upset – though clearly not as much as I – and relieved that the whole thing was over and he could go home. I told him the Gov had invited us to lunch. I was heart-broken – for the world and for myself. I adored Adlai Stevenson, I suppose I even worshipped him. He instilled that feeling in many – loyalty, adulation. He brought out the best in me, or at least I thought he did. He made me feel I knew more than I actually did, that I was valuable. He broadened my horizons – made me more aware of human dignity and the plight of people everywhere. Until Adlai Stevenson, I was a perfectly happy woman with a husband whom I loved – a beautiful
son and daughter – some success in my work – a beautiful home – money – not a care in the world. His entrance into my life shook me up completely.

I fell into an unhappy sleep and awakened early. Bogie felt better and was raring to leave, but he decided to take it easy until lunch. I went downstairs after packing, and Bill Blair walked into the hotel and asked me to come back to the Executive Mansion with him. I asked him how Stevenson was this morning and he said fine – as well as could be expected, up early and actively pursuing his gubernatorial tasks, plus many others resulting from the election campaign. As I entered the mansion the Gov was coming down the stairs. He put his arm around me and I said, ‘How are you?’ and he said, ‘More important, how are
you?’
I was a wreck, as he could plainly see. He asked if I had ever been to Lincoln’s tomb and house. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But you must go, you must see it. Take a car from outside and go – then come back and we’ll have lunch. Bill, see that she gets in the right car.’ Even then, on the morning after losing the Presidency, he could plan a sight-seeing tour for a constituent-admirer. So I went to the tomb of that great man, and to his house with its rocking chair, and I thought, though I was certainly in awe of Lincoln, ‘Perhaps Stevenson is as great a man, and perhaps America has missed its finest moment and will never know it.’

Bogie met me back at the mansion. We climbed the stairs for a preluncheon drink – only Bill Blair, Buffie and Ernest Ives, Jane and Ed Dick, and Stevenson’s sons were there. Mrs Ives had not seemed overly fond of me – she was very possessive of her brother, acted as his hostess in the Governor’s Mansion and would have done so in the White House. She could see how deeply I felt about him and perhaps felt that he might be susceptible. Drinks were a bit strained – what was there to talk about really? Life has to go on. The Gov kept the conversation going – talked to Bogie, who described his frustrating night with the coin TV – and we went into lunch, all but young Borden there. The only sign of testiness from the Governor came as we were all seated and in walked Borden, the Gov saying, ‘Late as usual.’ Adlai’s sons were good boys all – from what I could gather, the divorce had had its greatest effect on the middle son. Not a happy situation, and not easy for Adlai to deal with alone. We spoke of California, and Adlai wanted to know about Africa, and about how the film world had felt about his
candidacy. Purely social talk – but it was enlightening to watch his control, his ability to sit at the table for a fairly normal lunch on so totally abnormal a day. When it was time for us to leave, he said he hoped to be in California, and we invited him to stay with us any time, hoping it would be soon. We were at the top of the stairs. Bogie went ahead, having thanked the Governor and wished him luck. I said my goodbye and he hugged me. I got very teary and started down the stairs. At the foot I turned around and smiled and gave him my big wave. He was standing there smiling in return, saying, ‘Someday come again and we’ll put our feet up and talk.’ I was determined not to have him vanish completely from my life.

On the trip home I was far away from Bogie, my thoughts on the man I had left behind. I tried to imagine his life. I had found out as much as I could from his friends – anyone who had known him in the last few years. In my usual way, I romanticized. He needed a wife, obviously – his sister had taken the official place of one, but he needed someone to share his life with. I fantasized that I would be a longdistance partner – a pen pal – a good friend whom he could feel free to talk to about anything. A sympathetic, non-judging ear. It took me a long time to dissect my feelings, but at that moment I felt a combination of hero worship and slight infatuation. This campaign had disrupted my life completely. I was flattered to have been included – flattered to have been singled out by Stevenson as someone a bit special. I was, after all, just twenty-eight years old – I’d just had a second baby and had been preoccupied with domesticity for the last couple of years. My career was at something of a standstill. I needed to dream – I needed to reach out, to stretch myself, to put my unused energies to use. My choices up to then had been Bogie or work – now they had expanded to political life, to bettering the world and its people, or at least to advancing and being connected with a great man who was capable of doing something about it. It takes one person who cares desperately – who has real passion about something big – to unleash one’s own comparable passions. And Adlai was so articulate. He offered me a mentality that encompassed not just his world or my world, but all the world. That had never been offered before. It wasn’t that I was dissatisfied with Bogie or loved him any the less – it was that Stevenson could help a different, unknown, obviously dormant part of me to grow. Bogie was fully aware of my state – Stevenson had affected
him in somewhat the same way, except he was a man and – being a balanced, controlled human being – unlike me, he didn’t go to pieces. Nor did he revel in the fantasy life I have always lived, where anything or everything is possible.

It was not easy to come down out of the clouds and back to reality. Catching a virus of my own helped. I had to take to my bed for a couple of days. And Christmas was approaching – Mother and Lee coming out to see the new grandchild – Bogie’s fifty-third birthday party – Steve’s fourth birthday party. And Bogie was going back to work.

Our Christmas Eve party in the new house was a rousing success. Even Spence Tracy came. Everyone kidded me about Adlai – I not having been subtle at all. Strangely, many hinted that he had been taken with me as well. I did nothing to dispel the notion. Let them think what they liked – they would anyway – and besides, I was flattered.

George Cukor had told me about a play by Zoë Akins called
The Greeks Had a Word for It
. He said it was very funny and had a terrific part for me. As I had a new contract with 20th Century-Fox for a picture a year, I told Darryl Zanuck about it. He bought it, and gave it to Nunnally Johnson to write for the screen and produce. Nunnally called me at home one afternoon to say he knew I could play comedy, but there had never been film on me actually doing any; would I mind very much testing a scene so that Zanuck and he could see real footage? It was not a question of my ability and, of course, I’d get the part…. It was an awkward conversation – I was not thrilled at the idea of a test – but because it was Nunnally, I agreed. I remember hanging up the receiver and telling Bogie about it, and Bogie saying, ‘You’ll never have a friend as good as Nunnally. Don’t ever lose him – hang on to that.’

So I made the test, which Jean Negulesco directed, and got the part. The film was titled
How to Marry a Millionaire
, to be filmed in Cinemascope, a new widescreen process which Fox owned and which Zanuck intended to rock the movie business with.
Millionaire
was to start shooting around February of 1953 – at the same time Bogie would be in Italy for
Beat the Devil
. I wanted to go with him, but I would have to make
Millionaire
or forget my career altogether. Anyway, I’d agreed to do it. But it would be our first separation in eight years of marriage. We talked it over – he felt I should do the movie and join him when I
finished. He was very good about it –
Millionaire
was the best part I’d had in years.

B
efore Bogie left for Rome
we discussed the religious future of our children. As neither of us was a church-going practitioner of any religion, we hadn’t thought it important to make a choice. However, our decision to send Steve to Sunday School at All Saints Episcopal Church because his friend Scott Johnson went there had proved to be the right one – Steve really looked forward to going. But he couldn’t continue without being a church member. Bogie’s feeling was that the main reason for having the children christened was that, with discrimination still rampant in the world, it would give them one less hurdle to jump in life’s Olympics. I, with my family-ingrained Jewish background, bucked it – it felt too strange to me. True, I didn’t go to synagogue, but I felt totally Jewish and always would. I certainly didn’t intend to convert to Episcopalianism for the children, or to deny my own heritage. At the same time I knew how important it could be to a child to have a religious identity. So we agreed that as long as our positions were made clear to Reverend Smith of All Saints’, we’d go ahead and have it done. Bogie kept reminding me that I must put aside my feelings – that of course the children would know they were half and half, but their feelings were different from mine and always would be. So it was settled. We chose Ruth and Paul Zuckerman to be Leslie’s godparents, Ginny and Quent Reynolds and Louis Bromfield to be Steve’s. As they couldn’t fly out, Dorris and Nunnally Johnson were surrogates. If it had been allowed, they would have been godparents as well. Unhappily, Bogie was in Europe when the actual christening took place. It was a lovely ceremony. I held Leslie, six months old, who was perfect – fascinated by the stained-glass windows and silent throughout. Stephen, standing alongside me, was very funny. When Reverend Smith sprinkled water on his head, he said, ‘I don’t like the drops,’ and as the ceremony drew to a close, when Reverend Smith said, ‘He shall enter the house of the Lord,’ Steve spoke out loud and clear, ‘If he wants to come in – then let him come in.’ All ended on a happy note, but I still felt odd, church procedure being totally foreign to me. Yet I was glad about having done it for Stephen and Leslie – and determined that they would always be aware of their Jewish blood. In the light of
what we had to face four years later, I can only say thank God I did go through with it.

A
week after Stephen’s fourth
birthday party Bogie was to head for New York and Rome. I went as far as New York with him for a few days of our usual madness in ‘21,’ at the theatre with the Reynoldses, Zuckermans, O’Hara, the Harts, Kaufman – always keyed up and fun. And my family, whom Bogie did truly enjoy. At drink time our hotel suite was a constant flow of relatives and friends. We were invited to a cocktail party and dinner for Adlai Stevenson given by Ronnie and Marietta Tree, but the date was after Bogie’s departure. I was thrilled at the thought of seeing Adlai so unexpectedly soon, and was not at all sad to be the only Bogart present. I’d intended to stay on a few extra days anyway to see family and friends and to shop at Loehmann’s. Our parting was hard and sweet and filled with promises to write. ‘Take care of yourself.’ ‘Be good.’ ‘Be careful.’

The party and dinner for Adlai were a great success. He was in A-1 form – happy to be in New York seeing his new friends again. After dinner we sat in a small group. Marietta recited a beautiful poem. Bob Sherwood stood up, turned up the collar of his jacket, looked sadly round at us all, and gave his rendition of ‘Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?’ I used to do a joke imitation of ‘Wonder How It Feels’ from
South Pacific
, singing both parts, Pinza’s and Mary Martin’s. Either Bob or Mado Sherwood told me, ‘Do it for Adlai, Baby.’ Adlai waited with a smile and a bit of a taunt for me to deliver. So I did it – and was a much better Pinza than a Martin. I was terribly self-conscious and embarrassed. I’ve always marveled at people who can simply sing a song, even badly – make a speech – anything – in a room full of people, and not be bothered by it. I can do it from a distance, as an actress, but not as myself. Bob Sherwood said some words about Stevenson – what he had meant to us all – what great quality and spirit he had brought into the campaign and into public life. Adlai talked about how grateful he was to all of us, what his aims had been, how he had hoped to raise the level of political dialogue, how he hoped he had succeeded to some extent. All this was spoken very informally, with drinks in hand – we all were sentimental. And there was laughter and jokes, and finally Bob and Madeline and Adlai and I piled into one cab, stopped by the
Sherwoods’ for one drink, and then Adlai dropped me at my hotel. I wanted to talk with him alone, to talk personally, but there was no chance. Though I wasn’t certain that he would get that personal with me, the implication was that he would – he did like to flirt, and he did like to be admired, and he did know that I was very young and had a solid crush on him. I guess he was pleased – he did nothing to discourage it. I left him with the promise of seeing him in California the next month. He was coming out to raise money for the Democratic campaign deficit – it would be the jumping-off spot for his trip around the world. Bill Atwood, another new friend, thanks to Adlai, was accompanying him for
Look
magazine, as was Bill Blair, his friend and right hand. Something to look forward to.