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T
O DESCRIBE NOW
what theater means to me, and what the work feels like, is difficult. One is usually so busy attempting to find answers and hone them into honesty, focusing on the moment and its progression, sending it out and finding the well of energy that it takes. My feelings about it shift and change on any given day.

In the moments of preparation and the gathering momentum toward curtain time, there is a tingle of anticipation when the flute calls and the trumpet answers, when voices are raised in practice and passages of song, when the Tannoy squeaks and disembodied instructions echo through the corridors, the orchestra moves into the pit and the musicians check their pitch.

Backstage, midst all the hustle and bustle and the hum of chatter from an audience, there is a sudden moment of absolute silence, and one is aware that the conductor has raised his baton. The overture erupts; there is no turning back.

Once in a while I experience an emotion onstage that is so gut-wrenching, so heart-stopping, that I could weep with gratitude and joy. The feeling catches and magnifies so rapidly that it threatens to engulf me.

It starts as a bass note, resonating deep in my system. Literally. It’s like the warmest, lowest sound from a contrabass. There is a sudden thrill of connection and an awareness of size—the theater itself, more the height of the great stage housing behind and above me, where history has been absorbed, where darkness contains mystery and light has meaning.

Light is a part of it…to be flooded with it, to absorb it and allow it through the body.

The dust that has a smell so thick and evocative, one feels one could almost eat it; makeup and sweat, perfume and paint; the vast animal that is an audience, warm and pulsing, felt but unseen.

Most of all, it is the music—when a great sweep of sound makes you attempt things that earlier in the day you might never have thought possible. When the orchestra swells to support your voice, when the melody is perfect and the words so right there could not possibly be any others, when a modulation occurs and lifts you to an even higher plateau…it is bliss. And that is the moment to share it.

One senses the audience feeling it, too, and together you ride the ecstasy all the way home.

There’s that word again. Home.

Then I think there is no more magical feeling, no one luckier than I. It is to do with the joy of being a vessel, being used, using oneself fully and totally in the service of something that brings wonder. If only one could experience this every night.

It is as great as sex…that moment before climax. It is as overwhelming as the mighty ocean. As nurturing as mother’s milk to an infant. As addictive as opium.

IN FEBRUARY OF
1959, a second recording of
My Fair Lady
was made at Abbey Road Studios in London. The original Broadway album was recorded in monaural sound, since that’s all there was in those days, but stereophonic sound came onto the scene, and the record industry had to reinvent itself. It was essential that we make a new album of our show.

The English company with, I believe, a slightly augmented orchestra, went into the studios—and I am so glad we did. I think Rex, Stanley, and I gave better performances on the second album. I had settled into my role, I knew what I was doing, and though there are still things that I wish I had thought to add, the stereo recording is light years better than the original, and is the one officially used today.

REX DEPARTED FROM
the show at the end of March. He and Kay threw a party for the cast after his last performance, and once again I was unhappy that he was leaving. There is always a subtle shift in a company when original members have to move on. Audiences still see the show they are meant to see, but within the company there are small changes in the balance of the whole, and there are adjustments to characters and their importance. There’s a slight feeling of abandonment for the people left behind.

The actor Alec Clunes took over the role of Higgins, with all the attendant rehearsals to help ease him into the show.

Tony was working hard. In 1959, he was involved in four theatrical productions in London, and I delighted in watching him create and develop them. The first was a play by Peter Coke, entitled
Fool’s Paradise
, for which Tony did both sets and costumes. It starred an elderly actress, Cicely Courtneidge. Tony would arrive home after her costume fittings, smiling and a little puzzled. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “I cannot fit her dresses properly. Her tummy shifts every single day!”

He did scenic design for
The Pleasure of His Company,
by Samuel Taylor, and I had the enjoyment of watching a couple of rehearsals and sitting in the audience on opening night. Coral Browne starred in the play and I marveled at her style, wit, and glamour.

Next came
The Ginger Man
, based on the book by J. P. Donleavy, and starring Richard Harris. In addition to designing the sets and costumes, Tony helped produce this play. We became friendly with Donleavy. He was a little wild in those days—athletic and mischievous, quirky, yet cagey. It was hard really to know him, though Tony saw much more of him over the years. He had a sort of country squire look and wore good Irish tweeds and jackets with leather patches on the elbows.

The last production in 1959 was a revue called
Pieces of Eight
, for which, once again, Tony provided sets and costumes. Much of this revue was written by Peter Cook and Harold Pinter, with a song or two by an unknown composer named Lionel Bart, later of
Oliver!
fame. It starred the outrageously gay and funny comedian Kenneth Williams, much beloved by English audiences, and was directed and choreographed by a young man called Paddy Stone. I worked with
Paddy myself several times over the years, most notably when he did the choreography for the films
Victor/Victoria
and
S.O.B.,
in which he also appeared.

To this day, I can recall and quote passages from some of the sketches in
Pieces of Eight
. Kenneth Williams, playing an old newspaper seller, is talking to his friend, the owner of a Chelsea bun-and-tea stall—one of those on wheels, with an awning. After chatting about everything under the sun, the newspaper seller declares, “So the
Evening Standard
was the last to go.”

His friend, after a pause, says, “Then that went, did it?”

“Yes…” Another, longer pause. “…like a
shot
!”

In March, there was an exhibition of Tony’s work at the Hazlitt Gallery in St. James. When we arrived for the initial opening, Sir John Gielgud was there, strolling around looking at the art. His reputation for malapropisms was legendary in show business. I was a big fan of his, and having never met him, I approached him and explained that I was the artist’s fiancée and thanked him for coming.

Gielgud recognized me.

“Oh, how do you do?” he said, extending his hand. “You have often enjoyed my work. I
mean
…!”

In a flurry of embarrassment, he exited the gallery.

TONY AND I
decided that May 10 would be our wedding date. Having been in
My Fair Lady
in London for a year, I was due a two-week vacation in May, which fitted in nicely with our plans.

Charlie Tucker swung into action and booked me an appearance on
The Jack Benny Show
in Los Angeles, probably in order to obtain finances to pay for the wedding. I understood the necessity, and it made sense to use the trip to the U.S. as an excuse for a honeymoon.

Contrary to tradition, I asked Tony if he would care to design my wedding gown. He said he would love to. He also designed my wedding band.

Because of the impromptu nature of our engagement, I never had an engagement ring, but Tony had given me a beautiful little brooch while we were in New York, the same size as a ring, in the shape of a laurel
wreath. My wedding band was an identical circle of laurel. It was made by Cartier and was engraved inside.

I decided to ask Tony’s sister Carol and my sister, Celia, to be my bridesmaids, and I asked Aunt Joan to be my matron of honor. Noel Harrison, Rex’s son, was Tony’s best man. They had attended Radley College together and had been friends for years.

WHILE WE WERE
busy with our wedding plans, Charlie Tucker got it into his head that a painting of me as Eliza Doolittle should be commissioned. He chose Pietro Annigoni, who had done many portraits of members of the Royal Family.

Annigoni was an arrogant man, the epitome of the temperamental artist. He demanded total dedication and punctuality.

Photographs were taken of me wearing Eliza’s flower girl costume, and he placed them around his studio to study them while he worked, but he also needed several sittings with me. Since I was performing in the show, organizing the wedding, and having fittings for my gown, life was rather hectic, and it was difficult to slot everything in.

The inevitable happened, and I arrived late at his studio one day. He was so miffed that he locked me out on the street. I could see the curtain twitching at his upstairs window as he peered down at my discomfort, so I knew that he was home. Charlie Tucker had to phone him and beg him to continue the portrait.

The finished painting of me as the flower girl is wonderful. Annigoni captured the essence of Eliza. What is rather extraordinary is that in the background there is a half-hidden poster with the words
The Sound of…
How prophetic!

Charlie Tucker owned the portrait. It hung in his office for many years, but when he no longer represented me, he put it up for auction. By that time I was married to my present husband, Blake, and he arranged for a friend to go and bid on it. I heard that Charlie asked whether this friend was bidding on my behalf, and he seemed happy when the fact was confirmed. I am thrilled to own it, and it hangs in my home.

RACHELLE WAS TO
make my wedding gown, and she informed us that the best selection of material was to be found in Switzerland. Somehow we were able to make a brief trip to Zurich, and we chose a bolt of exquisite white organza sprinkled with embroidered white roses. We found as well some lovely water silk taffeta that was made into a pretty evening dress for
The Jack Benny Show
. Rachelle also made the dresses for the bridesmaids and the maid of honor, and they, too, were designed by Tony.

My wedding gown was beautiful. It was ankle-length at the front and had a high roll neck and long sleeves. Tiny buttons secured it at the back, and there was a long train.

I had no wish to modify the gown once the wedding was over, so I carefully packed it away, hoping that perhaps one day it might be used by a daughter. I remember Olive Faigan helping me fold it into a box with sheets of tissue and many mothballs, and I hoped it wouldn’t become yellowed. It survived well, and many years later, to my delight, all the buttons and the lovely embroidered roses were incorporated into our daughter Emma’s wedding dress—which Tony also designed—when she got married.

Tony and I wished to be married at St. Mary’s Church, in the parish of Oatlands, near Walton and Weybridge. The church is picturesque—the prettiest in the area. Its lichen-covered gate has a little V-shaped roof over it, and a country path leads up to the church doors.

Our minister, the Reverend Keeping, was a charming man, kind and gentle in our meetings with him.

On one occasion we were introduced to the organist who would be playing at the ceremony. He announced proudly that he had “the finest organ in the south of England.” Tony and I couldn’t look at each other, and later relayed the story with relish.

It wasn’t enough that I was born in the adjacent village; I had to prove residency in the parish of Oatlands in order to obtain the permit for us to be married at St. Mary’s. We decided that I would move into the nearby Oatlands Park Hotel for the better part of six weeks.

Charlie Tucker was none too happy that I was getting married. I think he felt that Tony wasn’t old enough, sophisticated, or wealthy enough for
me. Some rather unusual things began to happen which left me feeling a bit paranoid. I can’t prove that Charlie had anything to do with them, but I’m fairly certain that he did.

Out of the blue, a gentleman called Carl Lambert contacted me. He was a psychiatrist with offices on Brook Street in Mayfair, and he claimed he had been commissioned to write a series of articles on the subject of fame for
The Times
of London. After several persistent phone calls, and Charlie assuring me it was a good thing to do, I agreed to the interview.

I met the doctor occasionally for lunch. He was Austrian, charismatic, elegant, and erudite. Our conversations covered many subjects. For our final interview he asked me to go to his office, where I lay on his patients’ couch. I remember that I wept copiously, telling him a little about my early life. He touched my forehead gently when the session was over. In spite of all our meetings, no articles were ever published.

About two weeks before the wedding, Charlie Tucker held a supper party at the Savoy. Pauline Grant was there, and I was invited to join them.

At the table was a dynamic young man who went out of his way to be attentive. I’d never met him before, but it seemed that he was more than interested in me, and I confess he was a fascinating dinner partner. His focus was on me throughout the entire meal, and afterward he escorted me to the elevator as, for some reason, I was staying in the hotel overnight. He kissed me—quite deliciously, I might add—and said, “I wish you weren’t marrying Tony.”