The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows (16 page)

—Not entirely true. When the lights went out, I immediately froze. And then I felt Cornelia’s hand on mine. She whispered, “Stay right where you are”, and began improvising lines about the San Francisco power failure and the beauty of mother and daughter sharing moments in the dark. She knew the characters inside and out, so she wasn’t in any danger of running out of ideas. The one thing she didn’t do was pose a question, out of fear that this novice might attempt an answer. When the lights were restored, she just picked up the scene as if nothing had happened
.

Out-of-town tryouts give companies the advantage of audience reaction and insight from local critics. It is the period when last-minute—and often major—changes in the production are made and, as a result, the most exhausting time the players face. During the New Haven and Boston tryouts,
The Pleasure of His Company
went from a three-act to a two-act play. This necessitated long daily rehearsals to take out and put in dialogue Samuel Taylor had written late the night before. The changes would be performed before the audience that night. Then more discussions occurred after the show, and additional changes were made. Her nightly letters continued:

George and I would hear Cyril, Cornelia and Walter speak about their “crust” and the fear of losing it. We had no idea what they meant. Cyril later explained that they were on guard to falling prey to becoming too involved on an emotional level. If that happened, he said, “the souffle wouldn’t rise, and if the crust crumbles, there will be no edge to the performance.” That sophisticated “crust” apparently is what makes the show funny. George and I aren’t as worried as they. Maybe we aren’t old enough to have a crust.

Last night, when the play still had three acts, Cyril and I had just started a scene in the second act when I realized that he was doing a scene from Act III. Or at least I thought he was. He was so confident that I assumed I must be mistaken and continued along. When we were backstage he realized what had happened and oh, the relief I felt. He was human after all. I asked him what we would do in Act III and he said, “The Act II scene—they won’t notice.” And they didn’t.

   
Oh, remember the “semen” laugh? I thought it was my delivery that was responsible for it. Wrong. It’s Cyril’s reaction.

I planned to go to New York for the opening, and as the date grew near we were on the phone nightly making plans. Luckily, the three-hour time difference worked in my favor. She was the night owl. I was the one who retired early. She told me that she was getting last-featured billing in the ads and on the placards. I was not happy. I don’t think it’s too much to expect that billing be appropriate. Dolores’ role was a major one and warranted commensurate billing. But the decision had been made, and she felt it was too late to ask for a change. I begged her to ask that her name be the last in the lineup
—“and
Dolores Hart”—as even big stars were getting in movie ads
—“and
James Mason as Rupert of Hentzau”. I stressed that she also ask for a box around her name and larger type than Peppard’s and Fujikawa’s.

I had been to New York City only twice before, but I knew a handful of places that I wanted to share with Dolores: Charles à la Pomme Soufflée, courtesy of Carol Burnett, where the pommes exploded in your mouth in tiny puffs; Frankie and Johnnie’s, where you entered through the kitchen; a tiny club called The Baq Room, thanks to Tony Perkins and Gwen Davis, to hear the wonderful Janice Mars.

The place Dolores was eager to show me was the Cloisters, a museum devoted to the art and architecture of medieval Europe. Overlooking the Hudson River, the building incorporates portions of monastic chapels dating from the twelfth century. There are thousands of pieces of art, but the most famous are the seven Unicorn Tapestries.

I had been drawn to the unicorn since Sister Dolores Marie told me the legend of a princess who brings a unicorn into her garden. She leaves it alone, and hunters kill it; but she plants a tree where the unicorn dies, and the animal comes back to life. Then the princess binds the unicorn to the tree with a golden chain
.

The Unicorn Tapestries depict scenes from the hunt for this elusive, magical being, its death and its resurrection. I responded instinctively to the purity of the unicorn’s image and wanted to share the experience with Dick
.

The seventh tapestry
, The Unicorn in Captivity,
is the most famous. In this tapestry the unicorn is miraculously alive again, and I had been told that the risen unicorn is symbolic of the risen Christ. Dick didn’t buy that because the animal, though resurrected, is chained. I tried to reason that the unicorn, like Jesus Christ, is forever tied to life everlasting, but Dick insisted upon being literal
.

Mostly we walked around the city, which Dolores preferred to taking taxis because it was good exercise and so my ego wouldn’t be subjected to her superior cab-catching skills. My polite, rather timid raised arm was no match for that piercing whistle of hers.

At the theater I got my first glimpse of the placards in the lobby, with major stars Ritchard, Skinner and Ruggles above the title; below it, the top-billed costar, Abel; and featured players Peppard and Fujikawa followed by—in letters no larger and unboxed—“and Dolores Hart”. It looked ridiculous considering that on the corner of Forty-Eighth and Broadway, half a block away from the Longacre Theatre, a giant billboard trumpeted four stars in huge print above the title of
Lonelyhearts
. Dolores Hart was one of them.

—And you were surprised that I was unhappy.

   
But, Dick, I got the “and”
.

The Pleasure of His Company
opened at the Longacre Theatre on October 22, 1958, just two days after Dolores’ twentieth birthday. It rained on opening night, but inside the Longacre it could not have been sunnier.

It was buoyant—like moving through space—crowned by the triumphant moment when we knew we had won our audience. Whatever the critics might say, there was no doubt when the curtain came down that
The Pleasure of His Company
was an audience-pleaser
.

It is traditional for Broadway companies to party on opening night to give them something to do while waiting for the newspaper reviews, which in those days always appeared in the next morning’s early editions. The opening night party was held at Cornelia Otis Skinner’s townhouse. I got my first taste of the tension that lies beneath conviviality as the cast dined and drank and laughed while keeping an eye on the front door. When it finally burst open, someone was waving a copy of the
New York Times
with not only the first review of the night but also the most important one, that of Brooks Atkinson, the dean of theater critics.

As the youngest member of the cast, Dolores was called to read the
Times
review. She took off her shoes, and I helped her onto a chair in the middle of the now silent room. She read the notice, which was an unqualified rave for everyone involved. With each superlative mention—“Mr. Ritchard is in great form”, “Miss Skinner gives her best performance”, “Charlie Ruggles is wonderfully droll”—the room exploded. Perhaps the biggest ovation came when she read, “Dolores Hart, a fresh young actress with a magnetic personality, is excellent as the mercurial Jessica.”

As I helped her off her perch, my slightly dazed girl leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Who is Brooks Atkinson?”

For her Broadway debut, Dolores could not have wished for a warmer welcome. Douglas Watt, in the
New York Daily News
, anointed Dolores “a superior ingenue in all respects”. John McClain, in the
New York Journal-American
, called her “a most entrancing lady”. Walter Winchell, in the
New York Mirror
, said she was “one of the most believable actresses” he had “ever seen”. The
New York World-Telegram
’s Frank Aston simply called her “a sugar plum”.

The
Herald-American
’s Elliott Norton again tipped his hat: “Dolores Hart has had a good deal of success in pictures. That is no guarantee that she can act on the stage for the theater demands a different kind of performance. But she is just as much at home and as convincing in her way as is Charlie Ruggles, the comic veteran.”

Each notice was met with her surprised smile, but there was a question in her eyes. She finally asked what I thought. I was able to tell her, in all honesty, that her Jessica Poole was everything she was meant to be: lovely, bright and altogether enchanting. In truth, she was even better than I expected she would be. When I left New York a few days later, I knew that night had been one of the happiest of my life. Fifty-five years have passed, and it still is.

Harriett was also at the opening and the party and was one happy—and well-behaved—mother, nursing a single glass of wine the entire night. She came to New York bearing a birthday gift—a pure white, pedigreed toy French poodle, which Dolores immediately christened Pogo, after Cyril Ritchard’s character in the play.

I had never seen such a belligerent, determined animal in all my life. In spite of his size, barely six inches long, he would challenge every dog in Central Park. Each order I gave became a fight. I was sure that making him mind would be a full-time job
.

But Pogo surprised me: he would soon be my obedient companion and a welcome guest at the Algonquin. He accompanied me wherever I went, even to the theater, where he stayed absolutely quiet in the dressing room while the show was on. Pogo was my unseen date at Manhattan restaurants and galleries and other no-pets-allowed venues. I had a large pocket sewed inside a coat into which Pogo easily fit. Pocket time meant sleep time
.

Dolores got another surprise a few nights after the opening. Her father sent a note that he was in the audience and wanted to come backstage. It had been almost two years since she had laid eyes on him. The two went to supper after the show, a father and daughter reunion, which was coincidentally the theme of the play. But Dolores noted with some irony that Bert was no Pogo Poole. He now seemed quite seedy, and a blowhard. He told her he had come back to collaborate on her career. He wanted to be her manager.

I thought the Lord must have a black sense of humor. It made me sad, but no way did I want him in my professional life. I just reminded him that the people responsible for my career had contracts that I couldn’t break and gave him an out
.

At the end of the evening, Bert found he couldn’t pay the check and asked if she would, insisting he would pay her back.

Apartment hunting became a number-one priority for Dolores and Winnie. By virtue of her freer schedule, Winnie took responsibility for finding a flat. They settled on a place on West Forty-Fifth Street, a large apartment whose two rooms were separated by glass french doors, giving the appearance of being one huge room—with a bathroom, of course, but no kitchen or closet and not a stick of furniture. The rent was $150 a month, which they split. At that time Winnie was making more money as a stewardess than Dolores was as a Broadway actress. Upkeep was not fifty-fifty. Dolores didn’t like cooking or cleaning; Winnie did. So the actress chipped in a little more for food and such, and the stewardess took on the household chores.