This is a fan letter – you are superb. No one is more pleased than I at your success and in an unaccountable way I take quite a little pride in it.
George Kaufman
He finally got my first name straight – was a bit chagrined at his faux pas, but joked about it. After that we never came to New York without seeing George. I never stopped looking up to him.
We went to the theatre – fans outside the hotel day and night – professional autograph seekers, photographers and press dogging our moves – it was all new to me and I must admit I liked it. I couldn’t truly relate it to myself, but it was fun. Yes, I liked it. And why not? To have left New York anonymously less than two years before and return with everyone after me all the time was quite a change. I was well aware that Bogie was responsible for most of it, but that didn’t make me enjoy it any the less.
He wanted to see every old friend he’d ever had – all the people he’d been unable to see because of Mayo.
He took me to see Clifton Webb one afternoon. Beatrice Lillie was there, as well as Clifton’s mother, Maybelle. The stories about her were myriad. It was said that when Clifton was a baby she used to carry him around with a lace cover over his face so he wouldn’t be contaminated by the air. That she was tough about his contracts and stood outside the theatre when he was opening in a show to make sure the light bulbs spelling his name were screwed in above Ethel Waters’. Bogie said Clifton had been in love with Mary Hay, a dancing partner, and would have married her had it not been for Maybelle. She had a hen-cackle laugh, wore pearls, walked with a stick, and stayed up at all parties with all his friends – really must have wanted to be his wife. Clifton had undergone analysis for eight years and this day said that the doctor had told him his problem was his mother, to which Bea Lillie replied, ‘We could have told you that years ago and saved you a lot of money.’ Clifton told me that first day how happy he was to see Bogie happy at last, that he’d known Bogie since the Twenties – he, Noel Coward, Marilyn Miller, Jeanne Eagels had all been friends – and that Bogie was always a gent. He’d never believed any of the stories he’d heard about him during his last wild marriage. From that afternoon on, Clifton became a constant source of friendship, and remained a part of my life until he died.
Bogie’s first wife, Helen Menken, was having drinks and hors d’oeuvres for a group of Navy men who’d been wounded, and invited us both. Bogie told me not to worry, she was a nice woman, they were friends, and she was looking forward to meeting me. That’s more than I could say about meeting her. But we went, and she was attractive and friendly. I remembered spending much of my childhood listening to her on a radio soap opera. She told me it was not Bogie’s fault their marriage failed – it was hers. She’d been a fool, but now she was overjoyed he’d at last met someone who could make him happy. Years later his second wife, Mary Philips, told me the same thing. So in the eyes of all ex-wives except the third, he was a gent.
Warners had arranged for me to go to the National Press Club luncheon in Washington. Because I wanted to be with Bogie and had his backing, I refused. I took on his tone with them very early on. My refusal brought my first telegram from Jack Warner:
Dear Lauren, very surprised to hear you declined to go to Washington. According to arrangements made by our New York publicity department I think you should play ball. And know you will do this after my asking you to cooperate. Hope you having lovely time. Kindest personal regards, J. W.
It was the first of many play-ball-and-cooperate wires I was to receive from Warner over the next seven years. Charles Einfeld was in New York, would go with me and would get me back by nightfall. I liked him, so did Bogie, and deep down I really felt I should go, so I did. It was fun to be in Washington again – this time a hit. I had a good time with the press. The club was jammed that day – Vice President Truman was coming over. When he was introduced – after me! – he sat down to play the piano, which had conveniently been placed onstage, Charlie, who was standing off to one side on the floor, edged toward me on the corner of the stage and said, ‘Get on the piano.’ I felt a bit silly, not being Helen Morgan or even close, but I did it. Cameras started flashing. The Vice President and I exchanged a few words, and the resulting picture hit front pages all over the world within a few days. Charlie Einfeld was worth every cent and more that Warner paid him. Truman was not wild about the picture after he became President, but I loved it.
During the wild Baby publicity initiated by Bogie, Alex Evelove of the Warners publicity department sent a wire to Bogie saying he was very upset about it all, considering that Bogie was, after all, a married man, etc., etc. To which Bogie wired back: ‘Perhaps you’d like me to return to help you with your Errol Flynn problems.’ Errol at that time was being sued for rape by two under-age girls who’d been on his boat. Unsavory publicity in those days. The morals clause in all actors’ contracts could give any studio an out if it so chose. As Flynn was a big star and his problem was in keeping with his glamour and reputation as a dashing lover, Warners ignored it.
It snowed one night in New York, and Bogie and I left the hotel after everyone thought we’d retired. We walked along Fifth Avenue, then did something I’d wanted to do since I was a child. We took a hansom-cab ride through Central Park. It was the only time during those two weeks that we were not followed.
Louis Bromfield and George Hawkins had been in New York with Bogie and stayed on a few days after my arrival. They left ahead of us, as the plan was that we stop at Malabar en route to California. I couldn’t wait for that.
My return to New York had been triumphant, much more than I could have dreamed. I saw all my old friends – Fred Spooner, Betty Kalb, Joanne Tree, who had become close my last year of pavement pounding. Had a drink with Max Gordon, who was so pleased for me that he might have done it all himself. Betty K. came up to the hotel one afternoon – I could only see her and my other friends between interviews and Bogie and family. She had married an actor named Gene Barry and was madly in love with him. They had no money, so she was doing everything – cooking, laundry – but she loved him, knew he’d make it one day, and was happy.
One of the big events was my trip to Loehmann’s. My old saleslady, Ruth Rothman, had spoken to Mrs Loehmann, who had gone to Norell and others to get models for me. At 7:00 a.m. Mother and I took off for Brooklyn – Bogie was horrified, but it was the only way, the store opened at nine and mayhem always followed. Three racks were put around me, the fourth wall held a mirror, Mother sat in a chair. Ruth had everything lined up and I started putting on and taking off – like old Seventh Avenue days. The buys were fantastic, and for once I could afford some things I wanted. I still was limited financially, but compared to two years earlier I was Barbara Hutton. That trip became one of my favorite things each time I was in New York. It was like going to old friends. I wish it all still existed – it was warm, cozy, crazy, totally un-chic, and it always brought me back to my origins. Mrs Loehmann sat upstairs in her rooms, and I’d go up to tell her what I had bought and have a cup of coffee with her. I never wanted to let go of that part of my life, because it was mine, and because it’s impossible to have times like that after success. Success gives and takes away. I just tried as hard as I could to hold on to what was being taken away.
My time with my family was not enough. On departure day they all came for farewells, and I hated to leave them. I had a really fantastic set of uncles and aunts – they more than made up for my having no father.
From the moment the Life cover story and other big stories were released, my father started to give interviews. He was living in South Carolina – I hadn’t known till the newspapers told me. During The Big Sleep he sent me a wire telling me not to marry a man so much older than I, and his interviews were full of his disapproval of Bogie. I was upset, naturally, and I suppose the old childhood hurt and resentment surged to the fore – it took fame for me to hear a word from him. Mother was always upset when his name was mentioned in the press, but there was nothing we could do – he wante
d recognition and he took it. The confusion about my last name was revived, but there was nothing I could do about that either. Howard must have learned about all this and felt I had deceived him.
We took the train to Ohio, where George met us in an old station wagon. It was cold and the ground was snow-covered. We drove to Lucas, a tiny town, and on to Malabar Farm. The house was filled with beautiful antique French country furniture and seven boxer dogs and one cocker spaniel – and Louis, larger than life, his wife, Mary, their three daughters, and his white-haired matriarchal mother. Mother and I were put into one room, Bogie another, and I divided my time between the two. Malabar was more beautiful than Bogie had described it in his letters. I was agog. The food was wonderful, the atmosphere really back-to-the-earth. There was rationing because of the war, but one couldn’t tell with the fresh eggs and great slabs of butter that the day started with. Louis had really been an innovative farmer. It was he who invented contour plowing and who believed so strongly and worked so hard for soil conservation and six inches of topsoil. The world of agriculture thought very highly of him. There were roaring fires, screaming games of hearts, Bogie and Louis’ affectionate ribbing of each other about Hoover and Roosevelt. There were dog fights under the table during dinner and boxers breaking wind at all times.
Louis took me all around the farm, and in a barn, for the first and only time in my life, I saw a calf being born. It was a happy, healthy, peaceful way of life. I envied them all. That time was so happy – free from care and pressure – one of the most totally blessed periods I have ever known. George and Louis insisted that when the time came we must be married in that house. What a lovely idea! They took Mother and me in as their own. I hated to leave, but I carried away with me the picture of a house Bogie and I would build and live in one day on that farm. The picture was complete with me in apron carrying milk bucket. My imagination was always unchained.
Mother and I returned to the quiet and calm of Beverly Hills. Quite an adjustment after the mad three weeks we’d just spent. Bogie was comfortable in his new Garden of Allah digs. He was spending much of his time meeting with Morgan Maree and his lawyer. He would see Mayo only a few times more – all but once in the presence of lawyers. The once was to confirm that she was going to Reno for a divorce. He knew the spilling of the beans in New York had not helped, and he wanted to antagonize her no further. He was also beginning to prepare for an April start on The Two Mrs Carrolls with Barbara Stanwyck. The rest of his time was spent introducing me to more of his friends. As I divided my time between the Garden of Allah and Reeves Drive, meeting them was easy. I couldn’t spend every night with Bogie, but I did spend some. We still had to be damn careful, do nothing to upset Mayo. There was no telling what she might do – in her paranoia, anything was possible, and if his adultery became public, no divorce for seven years. California law then, I believe. And Mayo had to be kept sober so that she’d stay the six weeks in Reno without a break. Mayo’s mother and Bogie liked each other, and that helped.
Among the unforgettable characters I met at this time was the great humorist Robert Benchley – funny, kind, and vulnerable. He could be seen early mornings heading for the studio in his derby and black overcoat, briefcase under his arm, clearly trying very hard to walk in a straight line and not fall in the pool, thereby revealing the terrible hangover which everyone knew he had anyway. One night Bogie and I returned to the bungalow after dinner, with him wide awake, wound up, and wanting company. ‘Let’s call Benchley.’ ‘But it’s too late, for God’s sake – it’s after midnight. He’ll be asleep.’ Just then the phone rang. ‘I was just thinking about you,’ Bogie enthused, ‘we were just going to call you. You’re the one person we wanted to see. Am I glad you phoned! We’ll be right over, Bob.’ We crossed the pool to Benchley’s bungalow, knocked on the door. When the familiar voice said, ‘Come in,’ we opened it to find Bob sitting in his favorite chair with one yellow light burning. He looked at us with tears in his eyes. ‘What’s the matter, Bob?’ said Bogie. ‘Didn’t you want us to come over?’ ‘Of course I did, but I didn’t expect you to. If I hadn’t intended to see someone, I would have spoken with the same enthusiasm you did when I called.’ What a sad and telling comment on the life of that funny and generous man. He was lonely – it was that simple. Bogie said that as a drama critic, Benchley had never been cruel to actors. No Woollcott or Dottie Parker barbs. Bob never wanted to hurt anyone. The Garden of Allah was the perfect background for a drinking bachelor. There were always pals – almost always someone to call or see. When all the displaced New Yorkers gathered in one place, it was fascinating to me – Dorothy Parker (who disarmed me by speaking softly and sweetly), Johnny McClain, Benchley, Butterworth, Thornton, Delehanty – freelance magazine writer. They all liked each other, all had much in common; they wrote, had wit, drank, were all lonely, all a little sad. There was never a feeling of competition – I remember what struck me was their mutual enjoyment, their camaraderie. They laughed a lot, and their hands never held an empty glass. There were nights I wanted to go to sleep, but no – Bogie wanted to stay up. They laughed and laughed – I laughed too – I wanted to go to bed, but I wouldn’t have missed their agile, quick, original, witty dialogue for anything. It did cross my mind that the reason they laughed so much was that they drank. Not falling-down drunk – they just drank steadily. How on earth was I going to cope? For all my flaming youth, the simple fact was that I couldn’t keep up with them.
The first time Bogie took me to Sam and Mildred Jaffe’s house (Sam Jaffe the agent, not the actor), Mildred almost fainted from shock when I said I didn’t drink. She’d never seen Bogie with a non-drinking woman. The Jaffes were two great and immediate pluses in my life. Mildred was a great beauty – black hair pulled tight in a bun, high cheekbones, large sloe eyes, a mysterious, half-Asian look. They really knew and cared about art – painting and sculpture – and were the first to make me aware of it. They were the great family in Bogie’s life – everything was built around each other and their girls. Sam was Bogie’s agent and friend.
It had been so long since Bogie had been able to have friends to his house that now he wanted it all the time. Not parties – just the ease of people sitting around talking, drinking, without ashtrays flying through the air.
Mayo was to leave for Reno at the end of March, which meant that with any luck the divorce would come through at the beginning of May. Hurrah! Morgan Maree, whom Bogie loved because he was totally honest and trustworthy (rare in that town), had worked the settlement out fairly. It was costing Bogie a lot, given California’s community-property law, but he thought it was worth it. He was a worrier about money and not a spender. He was not instinctively extravagant. The boat was his only luxury – expensive, but it meant his health and peace of mind. He relied on Morgan to see there was enough money for it. He wanted no details.
Jack Warner decided he wanted to put me in a picture called Confidential Agent with Charles Boyer – the director was Herman Shumlin, who had directed only Watch on the Rhine on film before, as well as having done it on the stage. I was not mad about the script or my part – Bogie didn’t think much of it either, although he thought a lot of Boyer. But to cast me as an aristocratic English girl was more than a stretch. It was dementia. However, I decided to let Jack Warner make the decision. He wouldn’t want to put me in anything bad, he cared about my career – anyway, it was a test: I’d see how much he cared. So I started to prepare for it, though there wasn’t a chance that this New York-bred girl who’d been hacking around the garment center and Broadway could ever really prepare to be that English aristocrat. I just didn’t know enough, hadn’t a clue as to how to be British, and Shumlin never gave me a clue. So I remained my awkward, inexperienced, miscast self.
Bogie, about to begin The Two Mrs Carrolls, took me down to his boat one weekend. He couldn’t wait for me to meet all his sailing friends and be a part of the life that meant so much to him. I wanted to love it, to do it all right – I wanted eve
ryone to like me. There was so much to learn – cooking, for instance, about which I knew nothing. The boat people, or I should say the Yacht Club people, were mostly nice and friendly – all firm, long-standing Republicans – what Bogie called ‘private people.’ All wealthy, and almost all of them thought actors were freaks. I was a curiosity and looked upon with some disfavor by the wives. The husbands were always happy to see a new young girl – that’s why I was looked upon with some disfavor by the wives.
With Steve on Blood Alley location, 1955
Our Christmas card the year Bogie died, 1957
With Leslie in a dancing mood, 1958
Vogue magazine by Louise Dahl-Wolfe, 1957
With Frank Sinatra, 1957
With Slim Hayward and Ernest Hemingway in Spain, 1959
With Jason before our wedding, 1961
And then with Sam on the set of Jason’s film A Thousand Clowns, 1965
With Leslie, Malibu, 1965
With Robert and Ethel Kennedy backstage at Cactus Flower, 1967
With Yves St. Laurent on my 1968 television special – the start of a valued friendship
Applause- 1970
My second Life cover, 1970
Receiving my first Tony -for Applause – from Walter Matthau, 1970
Katharine’s gift to me on winning my first Tony Award, 1970
Murder on the Orient Express, 1974
With Sam, Jardin de la Climitation, Paris, 1974
With darling Peter Stone -first day of rehearsal for Woman of the Year, 1981
Our first night down there consisted of boat talk – Bogie showing off his ‘Baby’ – me trying to find something in common with someone. This was really foreign territory. The evening wore on, the drinking continued, the talk got muddled – finally we got into the putt-putt and rode out to his boat, anchored in front of the yacht club. It made me apprehensive when Bogie drank a lot. I continued to talk to him as if he were sober – being reasonable, expecting him to be. I don’t know what happened this time – when or how the click in his brain took place – but suddenly he was fighting with me. I got more and more frightened. He started slamming his fist on the table, crying ‘You goddamn actresses are all alike.’ The more I tried to cajole and pacify him, the worse he got. I started to cry. He shouted, ‘Don’t give me that crap. The hell with you – I’m leaving.’ And he got off the boat. As I heard the outboard motor chugging away, I cried even harder. I didn’t understand why he had lost his temper – I went over and over the whole evening and still couldn’t latch on to any reason. I’d never seen fury like his – unreasonable, lashing out. I hated it. I was trapped on the boat, and I was terrified that someone might have heard us shouting. I couldn’t bear to live like this, but I just didn’t know what to do. How can anyone explain what drink can do to people? You just have to live through it and figure it out for yourself as you go along. I cried half the night, solving nothing.
By Myself and Then Some Page 20