By Myself and Then Some (31 page)

Then all hell broke loose with the press. Cameras were whipped out, the outsiders were let in, the cake was brought out – three beautiful tiers, with a bride and groom standing under an arbor on top – and we were photographed from all angles – cutting the cake with Louis watching, me feeding Bogie a piece, George and I, Mother with both of us, all of us together. Some newsman asked if I was going to continue my career or stay home and raise a family. Bogie said, ‘A lot of people would like to know that, including Warner Brothers.’ ‘And what do
you
think about it, Mrs Bogart?’ ‘Oh, I love you,’ I said, ‘you’re the first one to call me Mrs Bogart.’ Champagne was flowing – we all went outside for more photos – Louis finally could stand the blue suit no longer and changed into his dirty, old-man-of-the-soil corduroys – and newsreel cameras followed us around the farm. The Judge got very emotional – wished us a really happy life – told us to never forget the words of the service, and, with tears streaming down his face, gave me his Phi Beta Kappa key. The only shadow cast that day was from the trees. It was clear blue sky all the way – as I was sure our life would be. I couldn’t forget Bogie’s tears. Every time I looked at him I welled up. How had I lived before him? I couldn’t remember my life before him
– it all ran together, like watercolors. It seemed that everything that had ever happened to me had led to this day with him. I don’t know whether it was his particular personality, his strength and purity of thought, or whether all brides feel that way. Probably a combination. I had no doubt that this happiness would last forever. I could not imagine living a minute without him. From now on I would not have to – we were together now, like the man said, ‘till death do you part.’

The day continued on that high. We eked out every last drop of Midwestern air and sky – of farm and cooking smells – boxer dogs. Prince, who had calmly lain on the Judge’s feet during the ceremony, had knocked up Folly, Bogie’s bed companion on his first trip to Malabar without me earlier in the year. One of the puppies was to be our wedding present from Louis. That and one acre of land. I’d tossed the bouquet from midway up the stairs – Hope had screechingly caught it. Carolyn called from California to congratulate me – having had a fight with Buddy. She, having been with him for two years, was still unmarried – and here I was, after little more than a year, Mrs Bogart! Wires from family kept arriving – the excitement never ended.

We hated having to leave, but the following day, after profuse thanks to family and staff and one last look, with a promise to return soon, we left for our train. There was so much ahead that it was probably the only time in my life I was able to leave a place that housed people I loved without a wrenching pain. So the newlyweds headed back to California united at last and ready to live happily ever after.

B
ack in California, I faced
fully for the first time that I was a big girl now and really was not going to live with my mother anymore.

The Garden of Allah was primed for our return. Benchley, Butterworth, McClain, Delehanty, and Parker had bought a cake, and once again the champagne flowed. A pile of telegrams greeted us. And phone calls from the studio – Bogie’s work call and my wardrobe call. A sentimental lot. Wedding presents were being sent to the new house, which we’d be getting into permanently in about a month’s time.

It was fun to be at the Warners studio as man and wife. Everyone we passed congratulated us – there didn’t seem to be anyone even slightly against our union. Except Howard, of course, from whom we heard nothing. I visited Bogie on his set when I wasn’t working. I couldn’t go
through a whole day without seeing him. We were a happy, laughing pair.

Confidential Agent
started shooting. Charles Boyer was a marvelous man, a first-class actor, but plagued with insomnia. If he had four hours’ sleep, it was a celebration. He led a quiet private life, but liked chess, so when Bogie came on the set they played. Herman Shumlin would take no advice from anyone – he even tried to tell Charles, an expert, how to play a love scene. He would not allow me to see the rushes and gave me none of the help which I desperately needed. One would have thought – hoped – that someone, somewhere, would have cared whether I conveyed some sense of the character I was playing, but there was never a suggestion from Shumlin that I alter my speech, change an inflection, convey a particular attitude. From ‘You know how to whistle’ vamp to British upper-class girl might have been achieved by Lynn Fontanne, but sure as hell not by me. At twenty, I was far removed from either character, but the wry, earthy girl of
To Have and Have Not
had humor, which was always a part of me – whereas the British broad was totally straight and dreary. No way – no way possible to deal with her. I was one unhappy girl. After two pictures with total protection, I was on my own. One small problem: I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. The facts were that I was a novice – had no experience – had everything to learn. I had come to Hollywood with only what I was born with, and Howard had known how to use it. Between him and Bogie I was submerged in tender loving care. But with Herman Shumlin – much ego and no communication – it was hopeless. I tried to reach Herman, but couldn’t – didn’t know how to ask Charles – only Bogie’s visits to the set gave me any sense of myself. I knew the result would be negative. And I was furious that Jack Warner had been so careless with me. By this time Howard and Charlie Feldman had sold the other half of my contract to Warner Bros. for a purported million dollars, so I was really isolated. I was still able to beef to Charlie, who was always kind and remained my agent – he promised to keep an eye on the film and talk to Shumlin and Warner.

Bogie’s sister Pat was coming out of the hospital and at last I would meet her. With my imagination I assumed that anyone who had had a breakdown would look peculiar. Despite assurances to the contrary, I was apprehensive. Pat was coming to the Garden of Allah to spend the
day with us. Arrangements were always made by her doctor for her to live with an ex-nurse and friend of Pat’s whom he knew. That way she felt secure, and any sign of deterioration would be recognized and dealt with before harm could be done. Frances Bogart Rose, known as Pat, was a tall, strongly built woman – easy to visualize on a horse – who bore a strong resemblance to her brother. She was very shy, totally sweet, and totally normal in her behavior. My fears were unfounded – I couldn’t have been more wrong. Bogie was tender and gentle with her and she adored him. She was so happy that he was happy at last and that she had a sister.

I spent most of my time watching and listening – not completely at ease. But she was quiet and gentle – and, with all her size, somewhat delicate and obviously vulnerable. Bogie kept her informed about her daughter Patricia, when he knew something. Patricia was about my age – she and Pat corresponded, and Pat lived for the day she might see her. She dealt with her anguish in extraordinary fashion. The hurdle between us was jumped easily and she always spent a good deal of time with us when she was out of hospital, but she never lived with us. Bogie did not believe in in-laws living with husband and wife, and he didn’t believe in anyone dropping in, relatives, even mothers, included. His rule was absolute: Call before and wait for an invitation. His home was sacred, and privacy to be respected.

There was the house to get ready and look forward to. Bogie’s cook, May Smith, who’d worked for him on Horn Avenue, wanted to stay with him. Aurelio Salazar, his gardener, felt the same, and a Jamaican butler named Fred Clark, who was more British than Peter Sellers doing the Lord Chancellor. What a group to inherit – but I jumped in with both feet. I never knew how to deal with servants as such, never felt I was better than they – but I did feel they should do what they were paid to do, just as I did. In that I was demanding and, I suppose, a pain in the ass more than once.

So we moved into our honeymoon house in King’s Road. To me it was heaven. May was a great cook and helped teach me menus. A tall woman who always wore a pink camellia over her left ear and a large smile, she’d raised two sons – one was a musician, one worked for the police department. She was independent – never complained, gossiped, criticized – she was like a second mother to me and I adored her. She really loved Bogie, knew his culinary tastes, which were
limited, and only wanted to please. Her pride and personal dignity were tremendous – you had to respect her. Fred insisted on calling us M’Lord and M’Lady with a half-smile on his face. He was star-struck – bright, sunny, sometimes fresh, but would never remain a butler; just vamping till ready to make his move. But he was fun – he’d pick up Bogie’s secretary, Kathy Sloan, every morning on Sunset and drive her to the house to deal with the mail, phone, anything Bogie might want. Kathy was a nice woman, worked hard, was devoted to Bogie. Her one peculiarity: she never walked into the kitchen – insisted on having her lunch on a tray.

Life fell into a semblance of routine. We finished our respective films and Bogie planned his big moment – showing me Catalina. I was filled with anticipation – I so wanted to adore it all. A beautiful summer weekend and off we went. Food was bought – I was going to cook a great dinner. I asked May how to cook string beans – twenty minutes in boiling water, I was told. I couldn’t wait. I loved playing house, alone – just the two of us at sea in the moonlight, surrounded by silence – so romantic. We left Newport – the trip would take about two hours. Bogie showed me how to steer the boat. I fixed lunch down below, which was fine for the first five minutes – then, with the ocean swells and the motion of the boat, my stomach was visited with just a touch of queasiness. Please, God, don’t let me be sick. I brought the lunch topside and I was all right – on small cruisers the stove is often in a corner of the main cabin near the door leading to the deck, so some air is always traveling through. I ate – my first mistake. Waves of nausea began to overtake me. I was tense, afraid Bogie would notice – and that made it worse. Finally I just sat in the open air in the stern, gas fumes floating past my nose, turning greener and greener, with Bogie at the wheel showing me glorious Catalina. I couldn’t be too enthusiastic – afraid to move or say much for fear of throwing up – so I sat with a sickly smile on my face till we got in the lee of the island and the ground swells stopped. Finally the nausea passed. Poor Bogie – this meant so much to him, and, like all things that one builds too high in one’s mind, it was a letdown. We moored in Cherry Cove – pretty, well protected, very calm. It had a small beach. Pat and Zelma brought their boat over – there were a couple of sailboats moored – I handled the boathook while Bogie handled the boat. There was much boating terminology to learn. (That was the year I learned everything
at once: how to be a wife, run a house, sail a boat, cook, and not trust Jack Warner.) As soon as we moored, Bogie would have his first drink, that was custom. So we sat in the sun with the boat very gently moving – I wished it would stay still – and Bogie telling me that once I got used to it, once I had my sea legs, I’d feel terrific. I hoped he was right. He was Navy-trained – hurricanes didn’t bother him.

I prepared the string beans – put the water on to boil – and when it did, I turned the fire off and twenty minutes later announced dinner. What a fiasco. That remained a joke for years. Bogie did finally face the fact of my squeamishness, but went on believing that I’d improve with practice. Once I was there I always loved it – it was just the getting there I hated. Bogie taught me to keep my eye on the horizon – if you did that, the nausea would pass. Stare at an immovable object. God knows I tried, and it did get better after a time. I only wanted to be with him anyway, and I was determined to enjoy everything he enjoyed.

N
ovember brought the release of Confidential Agent
. It was a disaster. The critics said they’d made a mistake – I was not Garbo, Dietrich, Hepburn, Mae West all rolled into one, as they had thought. I was just terrible me and should be sent back where I came from. As brilliant, exciting, and glorious as I had been just a few months ago, that’s how amateurish, tedious, and just plain bad I was now. At the same time George Kaufman had directed a play in New York called
The Next Half Hour
and he was creamed by the critics. I ought to send him a wire, I told Bogie, saying we’d make a great pair. Bogie said, ‘Do it.’ Great not to lose one’s sense of humor about oneself. Thank God I had Bogie. Well, Moss Hart had been dead right – I fell from the top of that ladder with a resounding crash. And it was the last time Jack Warner made a choice for me.

I wonder if critics realize how destructive they are. Imagine if I had not been a happy new bride – with that distraction and the support and guidance of my experienced husband. If I’d been alone, I could never have survived. Lucky for me I threw myself so violently, so single-mindedly, into the big things of life. If I hadn’t been so consumed by Bogie, the thrusting of me onto the national scene with such a vengeance would have been uncopable with. Not having really hit that
higher-than-a-kite high, I didn’t have quite so heavy a crash. I realized early on how limited the critics’ knowledge of actors is, how they do not recognize where an actor’s contribution begins or ends. I remember that when
The Big Sleep
was released a year later they said: Ah, that’s more like the first Bacall we loved (they hate to be wrong) – she’s good in this one – we like her again – let’s not judge too quickly – we’ll see what happens. What they didn’t know, of course, was that
The Big Sleep
was made before
Confidential Agent
. At the time, I didn’t realize how much damage had been done, but after
Confidential Agent
it took me years to prove that I was capable of doing anything at all worthwhile. I would never reach the
To Have and Have Not
heights again – on film anyway – and it would take much clawing and scratching to pull myself even halfway back up that damn ladder.