Lauren Bacall - By Myself and Then Some

Would I see George that evening? When would everybody be told? I’d have to call Mother and give her the bad news. All dreams shattered once more. When I got to the theatre, I found a letter in my box at the stage door. It was addressed to ‘Peggy Bacall,’ on Hotel Carlton stationery. It said,

Dear Peggy,

I suppose you know the play is closing until it gets fixed. I hope there will be another, or maybe this one all over again.

He didn’t know my name, but it was kind of him and thoughtful to write me a note. No one else got one. I would treasure it, right name or wrong name.

The cast was gathering onstage. The stage manager stood there and grimly announced that the closing notice would be put up tonight. There was going to be a rewrite of the play. Messrs Kaufman, Gordon, Sheekman, and the Goetzes were very sorry, thanked us all, and hoped we would all be together soon again. That softened the blow a bit – for a novice like me. There was at least hope, hope that it would all happen again and soon. The pros were not surprised, they said sure it might reopen, but who knew when? Better not count on it. Could it all fall apart so quickly, all that work, the sets, costumes, lighting, actors? All those people out of work so quickly? Yes, it could.

The drama of performing the play – a comedy in particular – knowing it was going to close. We had ten more shows. That’s what they meant when they said the show must go on. How valiant the actors were, I thought. The audience would never guess. The company was working just as hard, caring just as much. I realized then what a noble profession the acting profession is, what terrific people professionals are. What a dramatic situation for an imagination like mine! Smiling through tears, drama within drama within drama. Made to order for the likes of me.

Was it all over? I had taken so long, I thought, to get this part. Would it be another year before I got another?

We all went for a snack after the show, building each other up, rehashing what all those past meetings had meant, trying to be hopeful about the play being done again. It was still only the beginning of October, maybe there would be plays casting for January openings. Anything could happen! We said good night sadly, we all felt closer to each other. Nothing like disaster to bring people together.

In my room I went over and over what had happened. I read and reread George’s note, clinging to the hope of a new play or this one again. I would savor every day onstage for the next eight days and try not to feel totally defeated at the end of that time.

I called Mother, told her we were closing for a while, they thought it was wiser to rewrite the play and then call us all back, it probably wouldn’t take more than a few weeks. Being totally unknowledgeable about the theatre, she believed me, and I was so convincing, I did too. ‘Anyway, I’ll be home soon and I miss you.’ She was wonderful as always. She knew how disappointed I was, said, ‘Keep your chin up, you’ll be back at work in no time.’ So we buoyed each other up on mutual love and no reality.

The ten performances came and went. We packed up Saturday night – make-up, personal effects back at the hotel – but not heading for Boston, our next stop on the road to success. Instead, back home to our failure. Some of us promised to keep in touch, we’d see each other soon, after the rewrite, meantime good luck. Goodbye Washington, goodbye Roosevelt, goodbye Lincoln… goodbye hope. Hello despair.

At least I had been mentioned in a review. At least George had written me a personal note – that might help the next time around. Eighteen can be knocked down, but eighteen doesn’t stay down for long.

I arrived home, showed Mother my clipping, my note from Kaufman. I called Charlie and Grandma, they were loving and sweet. My family made me feel safe. Charlie was full of encouragement and his usual rhymes: ‘Don’t be disheartened, you’ve only just started, I can see from afar, you will be a star.’ I adored him.

The next day I went to Max Gordon’s office. He was warm, apologized for the way things had turned out, and said the play might come to pass again. He told me I had looked very good in the play and that everyone involved had liked me. But if a job came up, take it; Franklin Street would not be done again quickly. Keep in touch with him and his office, and let him know how I was faring. That was the end of that chapter

B ack to Walgreen’s, back to the casting lists in Actor’s Cue . Of course I told Betty Kalb and other friends that the play was going to be done again. I made it all sound more hopeful than it was, made my meeting with Buzz more dramatic, my conversations with Kaufman the same. I was the only one who had ever been on the road, after all – I knew things they didn’t know. That made me feel better. My fantasy world was a marvel. It allowed me to laugh and joke, to feel hope again.

Back to pounding pavements. I could not think in terms of going back to the garment center or ushering, though I surely would need the money soon. I had saved something from the tour – there hadn’t been much to save, but maybe it would get me through until the next job.

It was not easy being on the outside once more. Funny how you get the feeling that once you have a part in a play the work will never stop. Was that ever a wrong feeling – as I would spend the next thirty years discovering! At least I had one more credit – and a good one – when I went into producers’ offices, but that mattered not at all if there were no parts.

George Kaufman was casting a new play – Well, there must be something for me in it! I went charging up to Max Gordon’s office, asking where I could find George. Couldn’t I read the play, couldn’t I at least see him? He was never around when I was, so I had to content myself with leaving messages with everyone in sight. And hounding the office, making a general pest of myself.

One day I received a letter in the mail. The heading in red, center of the page:

Wednesday October 28

Dear Betty Bacall –

I’m not so hard to reach as all that – the Lyceum Theatre or a note here (above). There’s nothing near your age in the play, so there’s nothing I can do about that. But there ought to be another play sometime and I’ll always try hard.

The best of wishes, and cheer up. It can happen any minute.

That gave me such a lift, though it didn’t mean a job or even an audition; it did mean that he thought enough of me to write, and something might come along one day and he’d always give me a chance!

One Saturday morning in 1942, Mother and Rosalie took me to the Capitol Theatre to see a movie called Casablanca . We all loved it, and Rosalie was mad about Humphrey Bogart. I thought he was good in it, but mad about him? Not at all. She thought he was sexy. I thought she was crazy. Mother liked him, though not as much as she liked Chester Morris, who she thought was really sexy – or Ricardo Cortez, her second favorite. I couldn’t understand Rosalie’s thinking at all. Bogart didn’t vaguely resemble Leslie Howard. Not in any way. So much for my judgment at that time.

S ometime in November of that year I met an English writer named Timothy Brooke. He was very tall, very thin, very charming and funny – a good deal older than I, but we got along well. There was no attraction on my part, I just enjoyed his company tremendously, I’d never met anyone like him. He’d lived in America for many years, knew all sorts of people like Evalyn Walsh McLean, who owned the Hope Diamond, Mabel Mercer, Nicolas de Gunzburg, who was an editor of Harper’s Bazaar . That fact and his growing attachment to me started the chain of circumstances that would reshape my life. Timothy didn’t have much money, but enough to take me to Tony’s, a little club in the east Fifties where Mabel Mercer sang. It was a very popular club, and she was adored by Europeans, Americans, anyone who knew Paris, anyone romantic, all musicians. She would sit on a wooden stool with a piano behind her, a light on her, and bouquets and tables all around. That was my first taste of nostalgia.