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by Julie Andrews

  Philip Burton, a Welshman who was Richard’s mentor and surrogate father, was brought in to take over rehearsals and to help direct whenever Alan was unavailable. Philip, a teacher, had discovered Richard as a youngster, giving him vocal coaching and inspiring his love for the theater. Richard, whose original surname was Jenkins, had taken Philip’s last name. It was Richard’s suggestion that Philip help with Camelot, and since we continued to be plagued with problems, Alan was anxious to give his star this added sense of security. No one in the company objected.

  After Tony and Tim left, I felt somewhat abandoned and very alone. I had no wish to be as social as Richard, and I was weary. On impulse, I bought myself a portable turntable and some wonderful albums: Rachmaninoff, Brahms, Chopin, Ravel. At the end of each day I found the music infinitely comforting, and helpful in reducing my stress.

  With no sign of improvement from Moss, our opening in New York was postponed a further week, and when we finally reached the city, we learned that advance sales were solid, despite the fact that word was out we were beset by problems.

  Joyce Haber’s Time magazine article was no help. She had been so affable in Toronto, but her story about the show was a bit of a hatchet job and it surprised and depressed us all. Many years later, she did several hatchet jobs on me and my husband, Blake, prompting my remark, which Blake loves to quote, “That woman should have open-heart surgery—and they should go in through her feet!”

  During our last week in Boston, Alan decided that Guenevere needed a new song to replace a protracted farewell scene with Lancelot. Alan conveyed to me that he wouldn’t have the time to write the lyrics until just before we opened in New York. He asked how I would feel about that.

  I am a quick study, and we had been adding to and subtracting from the show for so many weeks that I was now used to changing on a moment’s notice. Plus, I couldn’t refuse the chance of a lovely new song, and Alan was so stressed that I wouldn’t have made waves even had I wanted to. I asked him to try to get me the song as soon as he could.

  We had two paid previews in New York before our official opening, and the night before our first one, I received my song. It was called, “Before I Gaze at You Again,” and it was a beautiful, simple ballad. Fritz had already had it orchestrated, so I learned it, it was quickly staged, and it went in that night. It has always held a special place in my heart.

  Camelot opened on Saturday, December 3, 1960, at the Majestic Theater, New York. We limped into town and gave the show our best shot. Moss was unable to be with us, though by now he was out of the hospital and recuperating at home.

  The reviews were adequate, but not great. It is my opinion that had Camelot come before My Fair Lady, it would have had its own success. As it was, there were many inevitable comparisons with that great hit.

  Every critic had a different suggestion as to what Camelot needed. One thought it should have been treated more “vastly,” another wished the unhappy ending had been omitted. Most seemed disturbed or puzzled by the difference between the acts. To an extent, we understood the reviews, but we were saddened, because with all our recent problems, we had never been able to refine the show the way it deserved. However, we never felt a negative response from our audiences.

  After opening night, Alan came backstage and made us a promise. He told us that Moss was going to get better, and that he and Fritz were going to take a break. Within three months they would all come back and rework the piece. We believed him. We tried not to feel deserted, and we had just enough advance sales to see us through.

  FORTY-SIX

  TIM WHITE STAYED with us through Christmas, departing just before the New Year. Tony had moved his mass of paperwork and paints to a separate room in our apartment building, and Tim took over the study. It was great fun having him as a guest, and over the holidays he was like a child, opening his stocking presents, his beard quite soaked with tears as he delighted in every little gift.

  He had agreed to write an article for Vogue magazine, describing his feelings about the show, and America, and why he came to visit. He wrote that he understood the need for changes in Camelot, that he wished to be kind to all of us who had worked so hard, and that he had always wanted to learn what Americans were like.

  I’d never witnessed him in writing mode before. In anticipation, he paced and paced, not putting pen to paper until his thoughts were fully organized. When he finally began to scribble, the words poured out of him, and seldom needed correction.

  I peeked around the study door one day. Tim was at the desk, his glasses on his nose, writing furiously.

  “Just wondered if you’d like a cup of tea, Tim,” I whispered.

  He did not look up.

  “GET OUT!” he said sternly.

  I hastily shut the door, and never bothered him again while he was writing.

  Tim loved coming down to the theater, and he would watch the show from a chair in the wings so that he could witness the action onstage and off. He simply adored Richard, teasing him, calling him “a great ham.” He wrote a poem for him, which is a superb analytical assessment of the actor. He wrote one for me, too, in case I felt left out. At first, he intended to write a funny parody of Herrick’s poem that begins, “When as in silks my Julia goes,” changing it to rhymes about my knees and my nose. But then he changed his mind, not wishing to trivialize or hurt my feelings.

  Instead, he wrote a beautiful poem, which I treasure:

  Helen, whose face was fatal, must have wept

  Many long nights alone.

  And every night

  Men died, she cried, and happy Paris kept

  Sweet Helen.

  Julie, the thousand prows aimed at her heart

  The tragic Queen, comedian and clown

  Keeps Troy together, not apart,

  Nor lets one tower fall down.

  Camelot was still playing far too long each evening, and we all felt the strain, but working with Richard and Roddy and Robert was a total joy. Richard, like Rex in My Fair Lady, was such a consummate actor, and watching him, I learned something every night. We developed a gentle friendship.

  The opening of Camelot is a surefire scene to play. Arthur is miserable that he has never seen his bride-to-be, and she is due to arrive at any moment. He climbs a tree and witnesses Guenevere running away from her entourage, equally miserable at being married off before she has had a chance to experience life. Arthur is smitten, and they meet. He sings to her about the wonders of Camelot, and his identity is revealed when his knights come to find him. Arthur explains how he took the sword, Excalibur, out of the stone, thus becoming king. It is a marvelous speech, and Alan’s words brilliantly captured the tone of the original book.

  Arthur offers to escort Guenevere back to her entourage. She makes her decision and elects to stay, quoting his own words from the song “Camelot,” and they walk off to their future together.

  Richard would say to me, “Tonight I’ll make the audience cry when I do the big speech.” I would watch as he held the audience so spellbound you could hear a pin drop. Another night he would play the speech for comedy, and the audience would laugh, just as he intended. They were amazing exercises in control. Whatever Richard did onstage was magical. Even on the nights when he had imbibed too much, he managed to pull something out of his bag of theatrical wonders.

  It was well known that Richard was a heavy drinker. He seldom drank before a performance, but there were exceptions. One weekend was a case in point. Beginning on a Thursday, he stayed up all night on a bender. After the show on Friday he went and drank all night again. He came in and managed to do the Saturday matinee. With a few more drinks between shows, he could barely lift his sword during the evening’s performance.

  He worried us all, for he was weaving and a leg would buckle occasionally. But he played Arthur as if he was the most weary king, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I honestly don’t think anyone in the audience was any the wiser.

  Goulet was so taken by
Richard’s acting that he began to emulate his style, enhancing his own role with a Shakespearean tone here, a flourish there. Richard said to me one day, “I’ve suddenly become aware that Bob is doing my performance, so I’ve had to change the whole thing.” Not entirely true, but it made a good story.

  In truth, I suspect all the knights in the play became a little grander, a little more noble, by watching Richard.

  Bobby Goulet’s singing voice was a phenomenal instrument, and his good looks made him the epitome of a true matinee idol. I would sit onstage every night as he sang to me “If Ever I Would Leave You.” He was dressed in a royal blue leotard, tights, and boots, and while trying desperately to concentrate on my role, I found myself thinking, “My God! His legs are divine.”

  ALMOST THREE MONTHS to the day that Alan said they would return, he, Fritz, and our beloved Moss came back into our lives. How thrilled we were to see them, and how hard we tried to give the best show possible, knowing that Moss was in the audience once again.

  Moss acknowledged that the show still had many imperfections. “But at least it aspires,” he said, “and it has quality.”

  It was announced that we would now go back to rehearsals during the day while performances continued at night. Despite the extra work it meant for everyone, we welcomed the chance to make Camelot better. Two songs were cut, one of them mine—a rather hefty ensemble piece that Guenevere sang with the knights, entitled, “Then You May Take Me to the Fair.” I was grateful, for I had never truly succeeded in making it work. Alan did some rewriting. Moss managed to cut forty-five minutes from the show, so that it finally ran just over two hours. To my knowledge, it was the first time a Broadway show had been so substantially reworked after it had already opened on the Great White Way.

  It so happened that My Fair Lady was celebrating its fifth anniversary, and Ed Sullivan decided to devote a full hour of his famed television show to Lerner and Loewe. Richard and I appeared in it, and after several songs from their other shows were performed, a seventeen-minute excerpt from Camelot closed the televised evening. This coincided with the new changes that had just gone into the show, and there was a palpable electricity that night. The following morning, there was a line of people outside the theater and around the block, queuing for tickets. Sales rocketed skyward, and Camelot was, at last, a big hit. It was such vindication for our patience and hard work.

  Although the production was incredibly improved, I still feel it was never quite the show it could have been. So many evenings, long after we had reworked the play, members of the company would gather for a drink afterward and someone would say, “Do you think if I did this here, it would help? Or if I stressed this line…?” I’ve never known a company so in love with the potential of a piece. With Richard as our leader, we were fanatical about it, and, of course, we had Tim to thank for the magical book that inspired it all in the first place.

  RICHARD ATTRACTED HORDES of fans every night after the show, and there were always screams as he came out of the stage door. Mike Nichols and Elaine May were performing in the Golden Theater next to us, and late one night, Mike joined Richard backstage for a drink. When they finally exited together, the fans began surging toward Richard. One young lady was so overstimulated that she looked across at Mike and screamed, “Oh! Oh! I love him! I love him!…Who is he?”

  There were many hilarious moments during the run. My first entrance in the show was a beauty. I was dressed in a pale blue gown, with a long red chiffon cape on my shoulders and a small sparkling crown on my head. Because Guenevere is escaping from her escort, I ran onto the stage as fast as I could. The space in the wings was narrow, and I had to ensure that my costume never became caught, for it would tear instantly. I also had to gauge that there was nothing in my path that might cause me to trip. As I dashed across the stage, the red chiffon cape billowed out behind me, fluttering like a bright moth.

  The last thing I took into consideration was what might happen to me vocally when I stopped running and launched into my song. One evening I flew onto the set, managing everything quite perfectly, opened my mouth to sing, and on the first intake of breath, something caught in my throat and I choked. I sang the entire melody, desperate to cough, tears filling my eyes, but I got through it somehow.

  There were two dogs in the show that alternated the role of Horrid, King Pellinore’s old English sheepdog. You can imagine how Robert Coote milked his role with this dog in tow! One animal was not as smart as the other, and was more a standby. The smarter animal, used more often, was terribly neurotic. Almost every week he developed a nervous tummy. Cooter delighted in teasing me, popping his head around my dressing room door before the curtain went up, whispering, “Just thought you’d like to know…Horrid has the squitters again!”

  Our medieval costumes had swaths of material, long sleeves, capes, trains. Whenever Horrid relieved himself onstage, Richard, Cooter, and Goulet would have a fine time, winding their long cloaks over their arms and pointedly stepping over the difficult spots, knowing full well I would giggle at their antics. One night, Horrid chose to squat just before I sang “The Lusty Month of May.” The chorus boys were swinging me in their arms, and the ladies were dancing gaily with garlands and hoops. I could see my lyrics coming at me as clear as could be. May—the month when “everyone throws self-control away.” I simply couldn’t finish the line, and the boys nearly dropped me, we were all laughing so hard. If nothing else, Horrid was a master of timing.

  Bobby Goulet was a bit of a prankster. Lancelot and Guenevere never exchange a kiss in the play, but one night he grabbed me and kissed me passionately, simultaneously transferring a throat lozenge from his mouth to mine with great glee. I was furious with him for stepping out of character and doing something so unprofessional in front of an audience. The minute I got offstage I chased him all over the theater and down into the basement, saying, “How could you?” and whacked him as hard as I could. He loved every second of it and, truthfully, so did I.

  Roddy was, needless to say, always adorable. He loved to hold big soirees at his apartment. He had always wanted a piano, so Sybil Burton organized an evening party and every chum contributed the vast sum of $25 to buy him a lovely little upright. We all arrived early: Judy Garland, Noël Coward, Richard and Syb, Tony and me, Goulet, Tammy Grimes, Anthony Perkins, and so many other people who loved Roddy. He was just bowled over.

  There was a pianist for the evening, so everyone sang something. We sat around on the floor, having been sated with food and wine, and at some point, Judy got up to sing. I’ll never forget it. In that quiet setting, she was mesmerizing.

  After she finished, someone extended a hand to Noël Coward. He hesitated, then said, “I just completed the score of my new musical, Sail Away,” and he sat at the piano and played and sang songs from his brand-new show.

  Tony and I managed to obtain seats for the legendary Judy Garland concert in April at Carnegie Hall. She was everything we could have imagined—and more. A lot of her orchestrations were by the great Nelson Riddle, and when she finished his arrangement of “Come Rain or Come Shine,” I rose up out of my seat to applaud, as did everyone in the audience. At the end of the evening, she sat on the edge of the stage and quietly sang “Over the Rainbow.” It was a historic night.

  MY FAMILY CAME over to visit that summer. First Dad and Win, then Auntie and my mother. I had a good time showing them the city, getting them tickets for shows, and taking them on the boat cruise that circles Manhattan.

  One night, it was so hot that there was a power outage throughout New York. The elevators in our building ceased to function, and I had to walk down seventeen flights to get a cab to the theater, and climb back up again when I returned home. We had emergency power at the theater, but there were very few lights—we performed virtually in the dark, with no air-conditioning, and in our medieval costumes, were soaking wet within the first five minutes onstage. But the heroic audience remained with us throughout, fanning themselves noisily with their pr
ograms.

  Occasionally Tony and I entertained at our apartment on York Avenue. One night, Richard and his pals got so drunk that they went into our kitchen and, unbeknownst to me, competed with each other as to who could urinate the farthest distance. I didn’t notice it until the following morning, when I discovered the kitchen floor and ceiling saturated with beer and urine. I remember saying to Richard later, “You are disgusting. Sophomoric.”

  Fortunately, I had help from our sweet Lily Mae. She was a buxom, sassy lady, and she loved to dress up for the Sabbath. She asked Tony and me if we would do her the honor of coming to her church one day. It was a Baptist gospel church, way uptown, and we had one of the best Sunday afternoons of our lives. The pastor gave an inspiring sermon, members of the congregation shouting their endorsement of his words, and when the choir sang, the place rocked.

  ABOUT NINE MONTHS into the run, Richard suddenly began to behave in a very odd way. Up until this point, ours had been a good relationship—easy, friendly, both of us sharing the stage with joy, giving strength to each other. Our families were often social, and I never once sensed anything between us that was the least bit unpleasant.

  One evening, his demeanor onstage changed completely. He flinched when I touched him; he withdrew from me as if I were acutely distasteful to him. I was utterly thrown by his manner. I slammed on my brakes, so to speak, and continued the performance observing this strange attitude, puzzling as to what his problem might be. Had he had a row at home? Was he tipsy? Was he trying some new characterization to keep himself fresh? Was he just in a foul mood? But his behavior was almost calculatingly deliberate, and I became very angry, and deeply hurt. I felt demeaned in front of the audience, and embarrassed, for there was no mistaking his displeasure with me. I had no idea how to handle the situation. I admit that at that moment I had not the courage to confront him, especially since I didn’t know what was going on. As the final curtain came down, I made for my dressing room, and neither of us spoke about it.