Gas masks were issued—everyone in London was supposed to have one. Madame Marchesi refused. When the civil defense workers arrived at her studio, she turned them away. “I didn’t wear one in the First World War,” she declared, “and I refuse to wear one now.” Most of Marchesi’s students had left, but I still went to her every day.
I was walking home through Hyde Park. It was later than usual because Marchesi had asked me to stay for an early supper, and Zenia’s spaghetti alla bolognese was too much of a temptation to refuse. As a result, I was only halfway home when it grew dark. I became a little frightened and started to run. I ran right into a tall man in a dark suit who seemed to have come out of nowhere. He was wearing a homburg and carrying a briefcase, which flew out of his hand, as did all of my music. He excused himself, speaking English with a definite German accent. I became terrified; my heart almost stopped beating. What is this German doing in Hyde Park? I thought. And in such a hurry? He looked me over, then quickly leaned down and started picking up my music.
“Young lady is a singer?” he said with a smile, as he handed me my scores.
“Yes,” I replied as calmly as I could. “I’m an American.”
“So . . . and I am Austrian. My name is Rudolf Lothar, and I am afraid I am lost in Hyde Park.”
Thanking God he wasn’t a Nazi, I asked him where he wished to go. “Lancaster Gate,” was his response.
“I’ve just come from there,” I replied. “Take the path to your right. You can’t miss it. What number are you looking for?”
“Seventy-five,” he said.
“Why, that’s Marchesi!” I almost screamed.
“Yes! Her son is my best friend,” he said, smiling.
“Well, Madame is my teacher.”
“You are then a fortunate young lady, and good luck,” he added, then picking up his briefcase he turned. “I must hurry . . . Good-bye, Miss America.”
“Take care,” I called out to him, and he was gone.
Marchesi told me at my next lesson that he had called on her with news of her son, Baron von Poppa. Lothar was the librettist of the opera The Queen of Cyprus, which he’d written with the composer Eugene d’Albert. She reminded me that she had already given me the exciting aria “Medieval Hymn to Venus” from that opera. How strange, our meeting in the park . . . I never saw him again, nor did she.
I reached my apartment just as Jeannie arrived back from visiting friends in Scotland, and was I happy to see her! We spent the rest of the night talking about the war . . . Was it really coming? Was it safe to stay in London? Suddenly she asked, “Where’s Paul?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He told me he’d call back in a few days. He was on his way to Switzerland, then Germany.”
“How long has that been?”
“Almost a week.”
“Teddy, you’re mad. He probably can’t get through to you. We’d better get out of here.”
“No, Jeannie, if Paul said he’d call, he will.”
And that night, he did. Over a poor connection, he shouted, “Teddy, get out of London! At once! I’ve a seat for you on the KLM flight leaving for Amsterdam at ten tomorrow morning. Get to that plane and get on it! I’ll meet you there.”
“But, Paul, there are no taxis.”
“Then walk to the airport!” he ordered. “And get on that plane!”
“I can’t leave Jeannie. She just returned from Scotland.”
“Well, bring her with you. I’ll get her a seat. Just come.” He sounded frantic.
Luckily, the next morning we found a taxi, boarded the plane, and in a matter of hours were flying over the countryside of Holland with its canals, dykes, and fields of flowers. So many tulips . . . so much beauty . . . so peaceful . . . so helpless. It was hard to imagine, if war really came, how much terror and devastation this little country would suffer. Our plane arrived on time and I was in Paul’s arms, safe again.
While driving to the Amstel Hotel in the center of Amsterdam, Paul told us what happened to him. He had been staying at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, and had heard Hitler’s saber-rattling speech at the Sportpalast. Right after that, friends warned him to leave Germany. He quickly packed his bags, paid his bill, filled the gas tank of his car, and headed for Holland.
Just before he crossed the border, several German plainclothesmen leapt onto his car, showed their badges, and ordered him to the police station at the frontier town of Bentheim. Paul was held there for hours. He was searched, as was his car and his luggage. Then he was released with an apology. “Times are unusual,” the police explained. They sent him on his way over a mined bridge into Holland.
That evening we dined at the home of a charming Dutch couple, friends of Paul’s. The entire conversation was, of course, war and the fear of it. Later that very evening, October 1, the news came over the radio that Hitler had marched unopposed into Czechoslovakia. No one knew where he would go next . . . nor could anyone stop him.
The underlying hysteria was incredible. One could feel it everywhere, yet the proud people of Holland were seemingly unafraid. The next morning, to keep Jean and me from being frightened, Paul took us to the Rijksmuseum, where we spent thirty minutes in front of Rembrandt’s magnificent Night Watch. It was cold and windy when we walked together later in Rembrandt Square. The only movie house open was showing a German film, but we wouldn’t see it. At dawn, we drove twenty miles to picturesque Volendam and Veendam, where Hollanders, dressed in quaint costumes, posed for pictures in front of their thatched homes. Paul presented each of us with a pair of wooden shoes.
Our last night at the Amstel Hotel, we dined with a crowd of happy and carefree young couples and danced to the music of a very American-sounding orchestra. After visiting Rembrandt’s studio, we drove out of the city among hundreds of bicyclists on their way home from work. We headed for The Hague, then Antwerp, and finally Paris. By ten that night we were safely in a suite at the Hotel Lotti.
Paul took me to the Bal Tabarin, but Jeannie spent the evening on the phone, trying to get passage on the next ship leaving for New York. She’d figured out that it was Bill Gaston, not war, that she longed for.
That night is one I will remember forever. The Bal Tabarin was jammed with people who acted as though it might be their last night on earth. Fear seemed to sweep across the dance floor, but I felt safe when Paul took me in his arms and held me close. We didn’t speak, just danced, and then he took me back to the hotel. Jeannie was gone, having left a note on my night table. She was on her way by train to Le Havre; the Queen Mary was sailing at dawn.
Paul and I ordered breakfast sent up, and I climbed into his bed. We were in the middle of a world gone mad with the threat of war. No one really knew what was going to happen, or when it would happen, but everyone was certain that war was inevitable . . . and Paris was wild with rumors and predictions.
Three days later, Paul decided it was safe to return to England. I knew Paul was leaving soon for New York, but I couldn’t go with him, much as I wanted to. I couldn’t—I’d only been studying for eight months. I simply had to stay and finish that year with Marchesi. I felt honor bound. After all, I had been given a great opportunity by Paul, and I loved what I was doing. I wanted to be the best that I could be, not only for myself, but also for him.
I think Paul realized I was truly serious. I think he admired that quality in me, my determination to reach my goal. He himself set a great example, working sixteen or more hours a day, many times canceling dinners, dates, parties. Instead, he’d go back to his apartment or hotel room and work on a project through the night, or until his desk was cleared. I knew he hated failures, and I didn’t want to be one.
He also hated tardiness, and transportation fascinated him. He noted exact times of arrivals and departures, and what trips were like. He couldn’t understand why trains, ships, and planes issued exact schedules, and then were invariably late. He sailed on the Normandie in mid-October, but called me every day during the crossing. After he left, I think he missed me al
most as much as I missed him.
CHAPTER 15
PAUL’S MOTHER
I kept working with Marchesi until I left for the holidays. I arrived in New York on December 22, 1938. Paul met me, and we drove immediately up to the Vineyard to be with my mother and my darling sisters for Christmas. Paul went on to the coast to be with his mother for New Year’s, and to see his sons. I stayed with my mother and sisters for three wonderful weeks, and then joined Paul in Los Angeles. It was time for me to meet his mother.
Mrs. George Franklin Getty was in her late eighties when we first met. She was a woman of medium height and a strong personality. She was gentle, yet firm of manner, and she greeted me with the natural appraisal of a woman concerned with her son’s happiness. She too had been married to a man obsessed with business, and I could see that she was hopeful that Paul had finally made a permanent attachment to someone he not only loved, but someone who loved him enough to put up with his way of life.
I believe it helped quiet her fears knowing we were only engaged and not yet married, and that I was seriously pursuing my own career in music. She smiled when I told her this, and when she smiled, her whole face lit up and her eyes twinkled—just like Paul’s.
Several afternoons, we had tea alone together in her upstairs living room, and it was over tea that Mrs. Getty startled me by asking, “Has Paul mentioned your signing a prenuptial agreement before you marry?”
“No, he hasn’t,” I replied. “Why?”
“Because his lawyers have made it clear that it is necessary this time. You must realize you will be his fifth wife. In case you divorce, you will already know what to expect in the way of support.”
“Oh, but Mrs. Getty, I’ve supported myself ever since I left home, and Paul has already given me all that I need—his belief in my accomplishing the goal I had already set for myself, long before we met.”
“Then you will sign? I think it is important for you both.”
“Then I will.”
“Good,” she replied, looking greatly relieved.
Mrs. Getty lived at the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and South Kingsley Drive in the same lovely English Tudor that she, her husband, and Paul had called home for many years. At our last meeting, she asked me to drive with her to the Getty beach house in Santa Monica, and then up the coast. We passed the Miramar Hotel, overlooking Santa Monica Bay, and drove down the ramp to the sea, with palisades on one side and the wide expanse of the blue Pacific before us. At the base of the ramp, a row of fine-looking houses hugged the curve of the shoreline all the way to Malibu. The whole scene was so beautiful I could only hope that one day I’d return.
Driving along, we spoke to each other as two persons who loved the same man. I wanted her to know how much I cared for Paul, how much he meant to me. “Please, don’t take my son from me,” she pleaded.
I reached over and took her hand in mine. “I couldn’t take your son from you, Mrs. Getty. What I want for both of us is to be here with you,” and I leaned over and kissed her cheek.
We returned to her home, and as I left, she pressed an envelope in my hand. I slowly walked down the stairs and said good-bye to Paul’s cousin, Ruth Richardson, who lived in the house with Mrs. Getty as her companion.
Once on the sidewalk, I opened the envelope. A check for $25 was enclosed, with a note. It read:
My dear Teddy:
This is just a small token of my affection and good wishes for you. Buy some little thing for yourself in New York. I am wishing only the best for you always.
My love,
Sarah Getty
Paul was waiting for me across the street in his fabulous green classic Duesenberg, with its mahogany and silver dashboard. We took Sunset Boulevard all the way to the beach. Then, just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, we turned south. As we passed his beach house, he pointed out the elegant homes of Marion Davies, the Jesse Laskys, the Sam Goldwyns, the Louis B. Mayers, and the Darryl Zanucks. This was the Gold Coast, as it was known in those days. Only a few of those grand estates remain today.
Suddenly, the lights on the Santa Monica Pier loomed up out of the approaching darkness and, drawing nearer, we could hear the sounds of the organ coming from the merry-go-round grinding out the strains of “The Skater’s Waltz.” A mile farther on we turned seaward and ended up at Jack’s at the Beach, a famous eating place.
After ordering dinner, Paul turned to me. “Teddy,” he said, “there’s something important I must discuss with you.” His voice sounded so serious that for a moment I felt like a child who had misbehaved, and inwardly I panicked.
“What is it?” I asked defensively, wondering what I’d done. This made him laugh out loud and he leaned down and kissed me.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he said, putting his arms around me. “It’s just that I want some very important people in the music world to hear your voice, and I’ve arranged for you to sing for them at the Temple on Wilshire Boulevard. It’s the largest hall I could find. If you can fill that auditorium, you can fill any opera house in the world.”
“When will I sing?” I asked.
“Tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
At ten the next morning I stood dead center on a very large stage, looking out over miles of empty seats, and then at the faces looking up at me. In the center of the auditorium sat several formidable critics—Valentin Pavlovsky, accompanist for the great cellist Gregor Piatigorsky; Dr. Edouard Lippe, Nelson Eddy’s voice coach, who had once told Paul he would be delighted to train me before I chose London; four members of the editorial staff of the leading music journal Musical America; several important men from the music department of MGM; and California’s greatest impresario, Lynden E. Behymer.
I took a breath, nodded to my accompanist, tried to remember everything Marchesi had taught me, and smiled once at Paul. Then I began to sing “Non piu di fiori,” a beautiful aria from Mozart’s La clemenza di Tito. When I finished, I knew I had done my best and I walked off the stage.
There was a long moment of silence—too long, I thought—and then my critics burst into enthusiastic applause. Paul, businessman that he was, addressed the group. “Gentlemen,” he asked, “do you agree with me that she is concert and operatic material?”
The “yea’s” were unanimous and wholehearted. Then Paul asked, “Do you agree with me that she should return to Marchesi and prepare her repertoire?”
“Indeed! Indeed!” was the response.
Well, that definitely did it. Paul was jubilant as he put me in his car. I was excited, too, excited that I had done well, and that I hadn’t disappointed him. Thank God for Marchesi . . . and thank you, God.
Paul leaned over, kissed me, and said, “Teddy, dear, you were terrific, and I’m so proud of you.”
“You are?” I turned and looked at him. His eyes said it.
“You know I am . . . and that was a truly difficult piece. They loved you . . . and so do I. Are you hungry?” he asked as he put the car in gear.
“Always,” I replied and we both laughed.
“Then let’s go to the Brown Derby and have breakfast.”
Seated in a secluded booth, Paul hurriedly ordered, then started to tell me more. MGM wanted to test me right away. Dr. Lippe had said, “Tell her to prepare her roles.”
“Mr. Behymer assured me that when you are ready, he will arrange your concert,” Paul continued. “Darling, when you drill for oil, you may know that it is there . . . but the big question is . . . how much is there? You don’t know till you drill and see it pouring up out of the earth—a tremendous gusher. Well, I’ve always known, since the first night we met, that your voice was beautiful. It had a certain warm, luscious quality. And you sang with such feeling that I felt you would make a fantastic Carmen or Tosca. Still, I never was sure it was strong enough to fill an opera house. But when you sang this morning in that immense auditorium, sang with such power and authority, I knew I was right . . . you could do it. As Pavlovsky said, you were a tour de force.
So, you see, you are on your way!”
“Do you really think so?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” he answered.
“Well, then, I must go back to London right away. There’s so much more I have to learn, and so little time.”
“But not yet,” he said vehemently. “You still have to see the California desert. Palm Springs is so beautiful at this time of year, and I want to take you there. So don’t leave, darling, please!” His voice was so persuasive I almost laughed, but I really wanted to cry, because I too wanted to stay with Paul and have fun. After all, I’d been in California for such a short time. We drove to Palm Springs in his divine Duesenberg, top down under a full moon, with the most wonderful, soft desert wind blowing my hair all around.
We arrived at the Desert Inn just before midnight. Leaving our luggage in the suite reserved for us, we walked through the gardens, so fragrant with desert flowers, and I marveled at the spectacular palms standing like sentinels along the paths. Returning to our suite, we found a table filled with chicken sandwiches. A bottle of champagne had been placed right beside the couch in front of the fireplace, which Paul immediately lighted. It was a night I shall never forget. We ate, made love, then fell asleep after making plans to be married at Herstmonceux Castle in England when Paul came over in the spring. We went swimming, lay in the sun, had breakfast in town, then drove to Idyllwild up in the mountains. It had snowed there the day before, and it looked just like a picture postcard of Maine, with its log cabins and pine trees. For the next few days and nights, except for Paul’s business calls, we cut ourselves off from the world.
Then Paul drove me to the railroad station in Pasadena, where the Santa Fe Super Chief was waiting to take me on my first leg of the long trip back to England. I had a stateroom, with bags and music piled high. Paul kissed me twice, stood in the doorway looking at me, then came back and kissed me again. “I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t forget that, and be a good girl.” He smiled and was gone.
As the train pulled out of the station, I had a premonition of danger. I felt, even though we had made plans, that I might never see him or my homeland again. I had a sudden desire to stay, a struggle between the woman in me and the singer. Paul and I were always meeting and leaving each other. It seemed endless, yet there was this drive in me that I knew Paul admired. He, himself, gave up everything and everyone for what he felt he had to accomplish. That came first, even before love. It wasn’t his fault. Hard as it seemed for me to leave him, I had to do what I set out to do. But I did it for love!
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 9
