Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

Then, too, there was my political awakening with the appearance of Adlai Stevenson and my devotion to him. Since Roosevelt I had not heard anyone in public life speak like that. Though I was a staunch admirer of Harry Truman and brought up in a Democratic family, I was never so active as I was with Adlai Stevenson, during which time my friendship with Arthur Schlesinger, Jr and Alistair Cooke began and flourished. Stevenson opened sections of my brain that I had been unaware I had, with his straightforward honesty, brilliance of mind and, my favorite trait, unending wit even in bad times. I think he made me more of an activist since then than I might have been.

Then there was Bogie’s illness and prolonged fight against cancer. I remember every moment from the first diagnosis, through the surgery, to every up and down instance during that yearlong climb – one step forward, three steps back. I never really faced the fact of his illness being terminal. I just went day by day going along running the house, playing with my children, welcoming friends – as if that was the way it would continue forever. That’s the way he wanted it. Those days, that year, will be with me for the rest of my life. Though I most definitely do not dwell on them, I lived them and they are very much a part of me.

I learned to deal with death (if that were ever possible) at the age of nineteen with the death of my grandmother – and the deaths that followed of my beloved Uncle Charlie, my Aunt Rosalie and Uncle Jack, all in the course of a ten- or twelve-year period, and all too young. The shrinking of my family. The shock of my friends dying came later. All of these pictures appear before me. The pain of the loss of my beloved mother is with me every single day. I will carry that with me until the end. When you’re young you never think of death – I didn’t. Then you get a little jab here, another one there. Suddenly a friend is in the hospital with a heart attack. That would be Mark Hellinger, an old and great friend to both Bogie and me. We went to see him, of course. Suddenly he was gone and we, together with John Huston, were in a car going to his funeral. He was forty-four.

Those losses insidiously work their way into your head – a way of preparing you for what’s to come, I guess. Up to then I was not one to anticipate disaster. The losses did that for me. I was lucky to have my two small children when I was young. They had my focus, they held my interest. They were my raison d’être. They helped me to laugh. But they were in their beds by eight o’clock. It was the nights that were brutal. That’s when you need your strength. Those quiet, dark, empty nights when you are stuck with yourself, when the nightmares become routine. I am not and was not morbid. It’s just that my sinking time was always at night or in the early morning. Though that is the norm for anyone, I think, who goes through those distressing times. You do not travel this life scot-free.

I find that through the sad times, work is what made my continuing, not breaking down, possible. In work, I was always someone else and I subconsciously reveled in that. I literally could not be me – I was back reading those fairy tales with a blanket over my head. Holding a flashlight on the book so my mother would think I was asleep. The fairy tales were my reality, especially during Bogie’s last few months – from rising at 6:00 a.m. to heading home after 6:00 p.m. I thought I was dealing intelligently with everything – conversations made sense, being with my children made sense – yet I was out of it. We were playing a game with the grim reaper ever present.

People always ask, ‘Are you happy?’ or, if I’m working, ‘You must be happy.’ I wish I knew what ‘happy’ means. I was happy when I was nineteen, and when my life began at twenty. I was happy then, though something always shook me up in the middle of my joyous time. So my life has been very much a seesaw.

It’s funny how things go. Hal and Judy Prince – people I had known for years yet never spent a great deal of time with, for no reason except work taking us in different directions at different times – invited me on a cruise they were taking in the late summer of 1999. They had always over the years been there for me, from the gypsy run through of Applause in late 1969, but it is only now, after those seven or eight or ten days of constant togetherness, that I feel we are forever bound. Anyway, I love them and can never see enough of them. So there you have it. Proof positive joy can enter one’s life at later stages.

Living on my own as I have for the last twenty-five years can be lonely at times, but I am a loner, generally speaking, though I can’t explain why. I suppose it has something to do with being brought up by a divorced mother working to support me. I did not think in terms of sharing my life with a man. I felt I would rather travel alone to reach my goal and never plan on permanence. That’s the way my life has turned out. The one relationship, that with Bogie, which I thought would last forever was cut short by disease and death. I was alone once more but with two small children to care for. My second relationship of major importance, with Jason, I hoped would last, but unfortunately was cut short by bad luck and alcohol. Some lives go that way and I must say that now I am not lonely. I have Sophie to look after – to come home to. You may laugh – but if you’re in my position, just try it and see if I’m right. I’m sure you’ll agree there is nothing like having a companion who never questions you, who gives you unconditional love and is always glad to see you. Of course, there are times she wants to play and I don’t, but then nobody’s perfect. Not even Sophie.

The fact that I can still, and do, continue to work keeps me in high spirits and keeps my motor running – though not quite as fast as it used to. I still want to go to India once more. I’ve never been to Greece or Turkey or Russia and want to go badly, and I’ve never been to South America, to Rio where they dance in the streets. Twenty-five years ago I would have joined them – even now, if I have the opportunity to go, I would still join them. That is not because I think I could move at full tilt but rather because as long as I can walk and talk I’ll try almost anything. I say ‘almost’ because the high wire is definitely out. So my curiosity is still alive. So I’m lucky – the work is still on the horizon. My goal is to stay healthy. So far – I’m hanging in. As I wander through the last twenty-five years and more, I realize that I’ve lived a long time, but still not long enough to suit me. I’ve made many a mistake and though I’ve learned from them, it’s still not enough for me to stop making them. Also, I see clearly how trusting I have been – believing that some of the movie agents I had years ago were really going to work hard for me, not challenging advice which was iffy at the time and plain bad on reflection. But listen, if you’re the kind of person I was – I still am – what really matters is that I matter to myself. My self-confidence, though still a bit shaky, is a lot stronger than it was. Progress has been made on many fronts. I am finally facing my age – the fact of it – though I still find it hard to believe. How has it happened so quickly? How have my children reached the ages I once – I think – was?

I clearly will never be offered the kind of parts I wanted, yearned for when I was younger, nor from time to time a part I would have liked to have been offered lately. The climb has been tough but mostly upward, and I’m still climbing. The life has been lucky and unlucky – happy sometimes. We all, if we’re worth our salt, have monkeys on our backs.

But my life has had meaning, with the friendships full and valuable and essential to me. My children, Steve, Leslie and Sam, are all different – all first rate human beings with high standards – whom I completely and unequivocally adore – don’t always agree with – but always admire and respect. They all have wit and a sense of humor and, thank God, I have hung on to mine.