Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

John Gielgud was quite an extraordinary man. An avid reader – saw every play he could in theatres large and small – witty – a staunch friend. Very easy to adore. As the years went on, I got to know him better, became closer to him. In 1962, he directed Jason in a play called Big Fish, Little Fish with Hume Cronyn co-starring. I’ll never forget the sight of John sitting up front watching a run through of the play – his great head and profile, his hand to his chin in a Shakespearean pose, totally engrossed in what was happening onstage. He would often say to the actors, ‘Oh do go on yourselves you know so much more than I do.’ Not bloody likely.

He brought his one man show Ages of Man to New York, playing Shakespeare’s men from Hamlet to Othello to Macbeth to Lear, segueing into a sonnet or two – a performance of complete brilliance. And for once every coveted award went to the right person. Him. Then, during my two years living in London doing Applause onstage for a year in 1972-3, and filming Murder on the Orient Express in 1974, we saw each other more and more. Every day on the set of Orient Express , with the director’s chairs, with our names printed clearly, lined up next to each other – John Gielgud, Albert Finney, Ingrid Bergman, Wendy Hiller, Sean Connery, Rachel Roberts, Richard Widmark, Vanessa Redgrave, Jacqueline Bisset, Michael York and me – quite a gathering – all of us sat enraptured while John told us endless marvelous stories, anecdotes of theatre experiences and theatre greats. It was a once in a lifetime experience. And it was John who took me with him on a very special tour of the National Theatre before it was completed and officially opened. When we were taken to the backstage dressing-room area, John remarked, ‘Tiny dressing rooms, as usual, for the actors.’

Every time I was in a play or a musical, he came to see me. When he came to Applause , he came back and asked me how long I would be playing. I said one year in London after a year and a half on Broadway and a year’s national tour. He said, ‘Oh, you’re one of those actresses who stays in a play a long time.’ You see, in England they usually don’t, they have repertory theatres there. Actors have the great privilege of playing two different plays in a week. There’s much more variety, more basic training in the classics and Shakespeare in England than we do in America.

So many memorable lunches, dinners, hours spent together. Whenever I came to London, there were flowers with a handwritten note from John. There was laughter continually. He was a joy to be with. Always with a story or two. I remember we were in Israel making an Agatha Christie movie together. While waiting for the camera to be ready, John would be doing the Times crossword puzzle in ink no less. When we lapsed into conversation, he would look up, having remembered something, and I would hear a funny, bawdy limerick come from John. Limericks, memories, people, incidents just popped out. So much to draw from. He was unique. Theatre – work – was his life really. He always worried there weren’t enough roles for him to play. He told me once that someone, who was writing a book about favorite rooms, had asked him what his favorite was. John said, ‘I wanted to say my bedroom but then changed my mind because I realized that one day I’d wake up dead in it.’ He was the complete, perfect English gentleman – impeccably groomed, gold crested ring on pinky finger, cigarette case at the ready. When in the city, he could be seen walking down Piccadilly toward Fortnum and Mason with certainly two or three books in his hand having just left Hatchard’s, the best bookstore anywhere, that was just up the street. Never an idle moment – ever curious – ever interested – ever active – the brain never slept. That was John.

He had a partner, Martin – a very attractive man – who was devoted to John, made the garden beautiful, had painted the gold leaf molding in the living room of their home. He would never attend an opening or a party, always stayed in the background. I loved his company. He was extremely well read (had to be with John overflowing with knowledge), and fun. Quite a bit younger than John. Imagine the shock when he suddenly became ill and died. That was completely devastating to John. He was so dependent on him – so many years together – somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty, I would guess. That left John, at ninety-four years old, bereft, rattling around that large, beautiful house alone. A housekeeper and gardener/chauffeur were there, yes, but that was hardly of comfort to him. I would call him from New York, first to chat, see how he was, give him some local gossip. I’ve forgotten how much time had elapsed before John really began to sound frail, when talking on the phone became more and more difficult for him, until one day I informed him that I was coming to London to appear on a TV show and would descend on him almost on arrival. He sounded pleased – he was too polite to deny me the privilege of seeing him. I took my friend John Erman with me and down we went.

It was to be my last time. I found him moving more slowly, speaking with less gusto, but there was tea and there was cake. I regaled him with every bit of information I could garner on happenings in the U.S.A. and mostly the theatre. He became more interested, more alert, was genuinely glad to see me. But he was alone in this house that had always had people and life in it. Now it was sad and I hated to leave him.

Not long after my visit, on May 21, he died. The same date as my wedding to Bogie. A few weeks later I received a call from his lawyer telling me John had left me a ring and asking when could he deliver it. I couldn’t have been more surprised or more touched that John had done that and thought of me. The lovely jade ring arrived a few days later – oval jade set in simple gold. So lovely – so John – so treasured in friendship. I feel now as I felt when we first met, that I was lucky to have known him, lucky to be included in his life, lucky to have seen him so often on the stage. To think I actually heard him say to me about his friendship with Ralph Richardson as we left the Richardson home after an Easter Sunday lunch, ‘He is such a great friend to me. I never thought anyone like Ralph would like me’ – that alone tells you everything you need to know about that modest, lovely man, that great actor.

As if the loss of John were not enough, less than three months later came the passing of Alec Guinness, another brilliant actor who happily became part of my life and allowed me to enter his. We hit it off that evening I first met him in London in 1959 at a Royal Command performance of his movie, The Horse’s Mouth , but for some reason it was a long time before we really became friends. I always attended his theatre performances and went backstage after the show to see him and congratulate him. He was marvelous onstage – very rich and full of voice. When in New York I would see him, but it was in 1972, the beginning of my two years of living in England, that our friendship became more constant, more of a reality.

It’s funny but in England actors like John or like Alec have lovely lunch dates with no more than four people including themselves. It is a habit I am very fond of when traveling. Europeans take time for such pleasures. I almost never do it except when truly special friends come to New York. And I do mean special. Both of these supreme beings fell into that category. They were very different men and actors who led very different lives. Both quite fascinating – supremely intelligent – fun and funny, with over-the-top talent.

Alec was very proper and meticulous when he hosted a lunch or dinner. When I was playing Applause at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London, he invited me to dinner in a lovely restaurant on my day off. I always looked forward to his company. His wife Marella, a lovely, lovely woman, was present and I think Keith Baxter. He had ordered a special wine and when time came for the waiter to serve it – they didn’t have it. Alec was furious. He said, ‘I came down especially today to order our dinner and the particular wines to be served. I was told there was no problem. But now you say you don’t have it. That is outrageous.’ Of course the waiter and maitre d’ were flustered and apologetic but Alec would have none of it. Nevertheless, he ordered two different wines and the rest of the dinner went off without a hitch. But I was amazed, amazed that he had gone to the trouble of visiting the restaurant beforehand to make certain that the dinner would be perfect, and having been assured that it would be, was beyond annoyed that it wasn’t. He was right, of course. He didn’t make a scene, that was not part of his character at all. He just made it clear that he was displeased.