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.
Stephen 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 to
gether, 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.
As 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.
I felt less well than I had with Stephen – my feet and ankles swelled and I tended to feel faint – but I never had any real trouble and was very happy with my new house. Bogie always said all he needed was one room, anything more than that was beyond him. He’d had his early theatre training in hotel rooms – that’s where he began his lifelong habit of tucking his trouser cuffs in a bureau drawer so that they’d hang straight and not need a press. That always made me smile – he did it as neatly and naturally as his morning shave.
I went into labor late in the afternoon of August 22. The drama that preceded Stephen’s birth was not to be repeated. Bogie was nervous, but not quite so bad as the first time. I hugged and kissed my cherished Stephen and told him the next time he saw me I’d be home with a brother or sister for him – he expected one his age or at least his size. So down we trotted to good old Cedars of Lebanon Hospital and went through much the same routine, except that this time Bogie did not join me in the labor room. The second Bogart was a little slower in coming into the world and the anesthetic was a little slower in being given – always the case with second children, so as not to stop the contractions. At 12:02 a.m. Leslie Bogart arrived – Bogie and I had decided that a girl would be named after Leslie Howard, his first mentor and my imagined love. We kept the first name and eliminated the last. So we had a beautiful daughter. Bogie was awed once more by the magic of childbirth and filled with admiration for my female capability. His joke had been ‘Be like the peasants – give birth in the fields – toss the kid over your shoulder and keep going.’ Spoken aloud to make him feel it was all going to be easy – as much for him as for me – and to still our anxieties. Afterward he said, ‘And you are called the weaker sex!’
Bogie’s reaction to a girl was not the same as to our boy – he was always gentle, but he looked at Leslie as if she were a fragile flower. He was almost afraid to touch her. Bogie had never thought he’d have children, much less a wife he loved who loved him. I knew he was thinking these things. There he was with a son and daughter, and the wonder of it was humbling – a far cry from his early analysis of marriage: ‘I sometimes wonder if the fucking you get is worth the fucking you get.’ I always wanted to make a needlepoint pillow with that on it. His progeny gave him yet another reason for life and work – there was so much he wanted to teach them, to show them. I had proved to him that I was right, that he was not too old to be a father. You never are. And they were lucky to have him.
Leslie and I returned to our new home, where Steve gave Leslie a curious look, but wasn’t that interested. Whenever I fed Leslie he’d come in and watch, but he wasn’t wild about the attention being paid her. We had a nurse for Leslie. I never believed in not taking care of our own children, and yet if I’d done that, I’d never have done anything else. And I suppose I didn’t really have the patience. I was with them a lot, but every day, all day? I couldn’t have done it. I guess I was still too itchy to be moving in my own life. There were still too many unexplored areas.
A few days after Leslie and I came home, Mildred and Sam Jaffe came to visit. We started on politics – it was Presidential election year. Dwight Eisenhower had been the man each party wanted for its candidate, and Bogie and I had been among many who had gathered in Madison Square Garden to encourage him to return from Europe, where he was Commander of NATO. I, along with the rest of America, liked Ike; I wanted him on our – the Democrats’ – side. But it was not to be. Then there was talk of a new man on the Democratic horizon – the Governor of Illinois, Adlai Stevenson. He’d been singled out by Truman at a Jefferson-Jackson Day dinner and besieged by the press with the usual questions. Are you going to be a candidate? Has President Truman asked you to be the nominee? We watched the Democratic convention, saw him nominated, heard him make his speech. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in politics since F.D.R. – a cultured voice and perfect diction. But I still was disappointed that that great father figure, Ike, was not to be our candidate. Now Mildred Jaffe sang the praises of Stevenson. She urged me to read John Bartlow Martin’s book on Stevenson, and a few days later she brought it to me. It painted a picture of a man of enormous integrity, purpose, and wit – and I was always a sucker for anyone who could make me laugh, laughter being the best sound there is. Adlai Stevenson had humor and seemed to apply it to politics as well as to life, and the level of his humor was high. The book made me want to know more about him.
Dore Schary, Don Hartman, and Bill Goetz were giving a garden party in September when Stevenson was due in California. Its purpose – to introduce him to film folk and to see who would support him. I accepted the invitation to meet him. Bogie did not. At the party, Stevenson stood on the receiving line. One by one, we were led up to him, and as we reached him, the flashbulbs would go off to record the Historic Moment. I said a few nondescript words – he said something witty – we laughed and had our picture taken. He was friendly, open, warm, on first meeting.
I remember a very well known producer saying to me that afternoon, ‘If you’re smart, you’ll keep your mouth shut and take no sides.’ It was five years after the House Un-American Activities Committee investigation, but now, with the McCarthy fear, Hollywood seemed terrorized. I had never considered myself particularly brave, but I thought then, ‘What have we come to if I can’t voice my preference for Adlai Stevenson? Would it be worth living here if I couldn’t stand up for him?’ He was the candidate I was going to support, Eisenhower smile or no Eisenhower smile. Bogie was still for Ike and was due to go to Denver with Darryl Zanuck for a Republican rally. I was sent a wire asking if I would appear at a rally in San Francisco for Stevenson and do a day’s campaigning in the environs. I thought about it and answered yes. I wasn’t working, my children were thriving, nothing seemed as important as the election. People were fiercely taking sides. Many of our friends were for Eisenhower, and it was hard to argue against him, but instinctively I knew Stevenson was special – a rarity. Something was happening inside my head. I had to go to San Francisco. Bogie began to waver, and then a few days before I was off to San Francisco, he made up his mind, called Zanuck, and told him he was going with Stevenson. Darryl wrote Bogie a letter saying:
My old friend Wilson Mizner once explained to me the futility of combating the inevitable – he also said that one single strand of golden hair from the head of a beautiful woman is stronger than the Atlantic Cable.
Love and XXX Francis
It was the first time I had made a strong decision that went against my husband. We’d disagreed – had our fights like everyone else who lives with anyone else – but I’d never gone off on my own so definitively on an issue so public.
From the day we went to San Francisco, my life and I myself began to
change. I was insanely caught up in the excitement of campaigning – lunches, rallies, motorcades, platforms, college campuses. We were assigned to a car a couple behind Stevenson’s. Crowds waving and screaming – it made me feel I was running for office myself, I got very pushy: no one who didn’t have to be was allowed ahead of me in the motorcade! We flew back to Los Angeles on the Governor’s plane, me talking to him all through lunch. His press secretary, William McCormick Blair, asked if we’d be able to campaign in the East, and I said yes before Bogie had a chance to hesitate. We had a week at home with Stephen and baby Leslie and I put on my own campaign to try to sway people, get them to switch to Stevenson. I sold tickets in Romanoff’s to raise money, which Mike in his most royal tones asked me not to do in the restaurant – Mike was a pure Eisenhower man. But I had no patience with anyone who was not for Stevenson – everyone had to be. I became fierce – I was obsessed – he had to be elected. I could think or talk of nothing else. We’d listen to his speeches, hang on every word, cut out any quote from the newspaper. There was none of the usual campaign hyperbole. For example, when Eisenhower said, ‘I will go to Korea’ – and many thought he won the election right there – Adlai told me he had thought of saying that too, but felt it would be too much of a grandstand play.
Our job was to help attract crowds, as Stevenson was still relatively unknown in much of America. I was sure that the more people saw and heard him, the more would vote for him. I didn’t believe for a moment that he spoke over the heads of the ‘ordinary man.’
We flew East for the final lap of the campaign in New York and Chicago. At every speech from the beginning – every platform, breakfast, lunch – Stevenson would catch my eye and wave and smile at me. To my fantasizing mind he seemed so vulnerable – so passionate about people and their needs – everything both Bogie and I believed in. Clifton Webb said he looked like Dwight Fiske. Fiske, I gathered, was a society piano player, somewhat effeminate, before my time. I didn’t find that funny. Fun was also made of his wave – and they had a point about that, though I would never admit it. It was his built-in modesty, he just held up his hand slightly modestly and halfway and waved, while Eisenhower raised both arms and looked sure and great and like a winner. Everything went just right for Eisenhower – even when Nixon’s finances came into question. The Democratic National Committee published proof that Nixon had access to funds provided by friends – less than a week later he vindicated himself on national TV, talking about his dog, Checkers, and his wife, Pat, with her Republican cloth coat, and proving to the American people’s satisfaction that he was an honest man. Ha! Eisenhower went beyond that – even beyond Joseph McCarthy – on his train at a whistle stop in Chicago, not defending his great friend and former commander, General George C. Marshall.
By Myself and Then Some Page 29