In Spite of Myself

by Christopher Plummer

  The weather was stormy; the sky heavily clouded; the darkness … profound…

  … It was across this maze of leafage, and in absolute darkness, that the butterflies had to find their way in order to attain the end of their pilgrimage.

  Under such conditions the screech-owl would not dare to forsake its hollow in the olive-tree. The butterfly … goes forward without hesitation … So well it directs its tortuous flight that, in spite of all the obstacles to be evaded, it arrives in a state of perfect freshness, its great wings intact … The darkness is light enough…

  Guthrie presided over the gathering like some great pasha—a Cheshire cat who had just swallowed a dozen canaries; Stanley Gilkey stood as usual, smirking in the background; Oliver Messel, present with his muy elegante costume and set designs accompanied by his nephew Tony Armstrong-Jones (yet to meet HRH Margaret); John Williams, debonair, polished light comedian (British and a poppet), who would become a dear friend; Tyrone Power, looking exactly as a Hollywood film star should, about to attempt the principal role of Get-tner, a role I coveted more than life; and apart from the surrounding cast, retainers and numerous staff whispering in hushed tones—Miss Cornell herself, her tall frame reclining à la Madame Récamier in what could have been a throne, graciously offering her cheek for anyone who felt so inclined to kiss. But sadly, no Gertrude Musgrove this time ’round. She had tired of me by now and the prospect of giving up the theatre for marriage to an old staunch friend she had known for years separated us for good. I missed her dreadfully—she had stolen an enormous chunk of my heart. Gertie was so kind to me, so caring, and for a short while had been one of the most powerful romantic influences on my life, and I’ll never forget her.

  Me as Count Zichy—the hard-set jaw line shows how much I want the “other” role.

  My supporting role of Count Zichy was a damn good one and I

  should have been grateful, thankless twerp that I was. But I was dying to get my tongue around those word gems Mr. Fry had given Ty Power to declaim, so after some whining and pleading I was made Mr. Power’s understudy as well (a closer, more convenient position for a hit man) and had I not been so fond of Ty, who was such a gent, I would gladly have had a contract out on him. Of the two guards cast to keep Gettner prisoner, one was a young Sydney Pollack, a warmhearted chap with a lightning-quick mind and a terrific dry humour whom I liked enormously and who, since he has become in our present time one of the screen’s top directors (Out of Africa, Tootsie, etc.), has not once offered me a job—the mensch! What did I ever do to him?

  There was also Don Harron for good measure again—I couldn’t believe it! Pundit, wit, author, actor, Harron had been a crackerjack student with a staggeringly high IQ and a Rhodes Scholar to boot. Because in the world of theatre I had chalked up a few more national tours across the continent than he, Don patronizingly dubbed me the “Road Scholar.” I was glad he was going to be around, not just for moral support, but because he was great fun in a cryptic sort of way, though his penchant for puns could at length drive one bananas. He had just invented his hayseed farmer from the sticks—his alter ego, Charlie Farquharson, that rustic master of malapropism who suffered from a “mis-spelled youth.” (My wife, Valeda, “was a Drain on her father’s side.”) One day Charlie would become a national figure on the lecture circuit, a permanent fixture on Hee Haw and a shedder of new light on the history of the Bible.

  THE BOOK OF JENNYSEZ

  The Moon and Stars worked nights and the Sun was put on the day shift.

  God thot that set-up should work out all right.

  That was yer fourth day.

  God sed, Look here there’s nothin’ doing in these waters.

  Better stir things up a bit, git some creechers moving.

  Air’s kind of empty too. Might as well fowl it up.

  Don or “Charlie” was always good for a touch. He helped me out of many a scrape, and with a great deal of sufferance, he allowed me to borrow his makeup. His daughter Martha’s biography of him has a running gag throughout, a series of montages of me stealing Don’s “five and nine,” which he kept in an old cigar box town after town. She was right. In my whole damn life, I’ve never owned one. I thought a cigar box was for cigars! Where is it now when I need it?!

  Tyrone Power—as Gettner—a true gent!

  Rounding out the group was the Bad Influence himself—Michael Laurence (a principal understudy) a tall, lanky Irishman from the Abbey and the Dublin Gate—lugubriously cynical and wickedly tongued. Raffish and oh so evil, he was like the trouble-stirring fox in Disney’s Pinocchio, and I was his willing accomplice. When we were not busily occupied in painting “chaque ville a vivid rouge,” he would lead me with great care into the kingdoms of Joyce, Synge, O’Casey, Desmond McCarthy, Eliot and Auden. You had to forgive him for that. Being Irish, he had, from birth, fallen in love with language. So had all our company. It’s as well we took advantage and indulged while we could, for the demise of Mr. Fry’s poetic reign was sadly just around the corner. All too soon his wit would be extinguished—his brilliant verbal extravagance a victim of change.

  Off we rumbled, once again across North America’s vastness—a questionable little band of pioneers on luxury wagon wheels. Familiar towns flashed by, having been regaled with heady verse, now far behind us, more confused, more provincial than ever. Only when we hit the high spots—Chicago, Frisco, Los Angeles—would snorting Ol’ Guthrie come aboard to amuse us and keep us from going spare. In Los Angeles, we spent more time, our run being somewhat longer. On my nights off, I would sometimes visit my friend, the actor Robert Brown, whose house was just down the beach. In those days, Malibu was wonderfully uncrowded and unspoiled; there were at least fifty or seventy-five yards of plage between houses. Bob owned two enormous concert speakers from London’s Albert Hall, which he had acquired at an auction. We would have dinner and then play classical records at full mind-blowing volume, sipping our stingers as the Pacific surf rolled in unheeded.

  One night, while we were indulging in all this sound, there was a loud knock on the door. A man who looked somewhat familiar politely asked if we could turn the music down as he and his friend were practicing for a concert and couldn’t concentrate. We stood openmouthed—it was Jascha Heifetz! The penny dropped. Of course—the next house belonged to the renowned cellist Gregor Piatigorsky! We turned everything off, grabbed our container of stingers, ran down the beach and spent the rest of the night sitting on the sand, listening to two of the world’s greatest musicians as they serenaded us with their glorious Bach. Even the surf had subsided to a peaceful calm, no doubt out of sheer respect.

  During our Los Angeles engagement, one realized the extraordinary drawing power the double-star combination of Power and Cornell possessed, for all of “haute” Hollywood came through that stage door—Cary Grant, Brian Aherne, Ronald Colman, the Hollywood “cricket team” (the British contingent with its captain Sir C. Aubrey Smith), my coz Nigel “Willie” Bruce (who I still hadn’t nor ever would meet), and Basil and Ouida Rathbone. There was Gladys Cooper, Doug Fairbanks, Jr., his stepmother, Mary Pickford, and one glorious night the great Garbo herself.

  Then all glamour would vanish and back we would hipoccata-poccata to the next set of towns. Charlie Strakosch, Miss Kitt’s tour manager, a tough old hombre, crustier than Long John Silver, had been terrorizing the theatre and opera world since the days of Chaliapin and Caruso. Between bouts of poker on the endless rides, the stagehands teaching me how to cheat, Charlie would have one too many and tell the same story over and over again; how he buried the famed old opera star of yore, Madame Nordica, at sea during a vicious transatlantic storm. She had died en route and because there was little room, Charlie and the captain were forced to lower her into the potato hold. The image of that grand old diva, Nordica, with her voluminous poitrine lying in regal state among all them spuds, has kept me smiling ever since.

  Our rails now bore us shakily across the border into Toronto the Good almost right up to t
he very stage door of the Royal Alex itself. As I renewed my acquaintance at lunch with Herbert Whittaker, now major critic for the Globe and Mail, I exuded a repellent confidence. One of the few critics then in Canada to be genuinely proud of any of his young countrymen’s success on foreign soil, Herbie had given me a glowing notice. Nevertheless, thankless git that I was, I had the gall to insinuate how far superior I would be at filling Ty Power’s shoes—in fact, I practically performed the entire bloody role for Herbie right there in the restaurant—how gauche! Suffering no fools, Herbie smiled compassionately as if humouring some escaped inmate.

  The Toronto sojourn came to an abrupt end and, packing to leave, I realized to my horror, I couldn’t reenter the States—I had no visa! I never had one to begin with! Oh Christ! I’m caught—this is it. I’m not only finished—I’m illegal! So I confessed this to the partner and lifelong friend of the McClintics—a wonderful lady called Gert Macy. She promptly called her closest relative, Harry Hopkins, who just happened to be a close adviser to the president of the United States, and in a few high-powered seconds my reprieve was granted. Adequately armed, I could skip jail and pass go! From a distance, however, I noticed that Miss Kit began to be watchful, concerned. Could God have possibly sent her yet another wayward son?

  The tour resumed. Guthrie visited an understudy rehearsal, saw me do Gettner—grudgingly admitted he was proud—gave me the high sign. I glowed!—but with the kind of flame that promised to spread out of control. Ah, will this unattainable role ever be mine? Every line of the part carried with it, for me at least, a stabbing, personal message:

  GETTNER: For how much longer, I wonder, am I to be Kept standing in the pillory?

  While the prospect of Gettner distanced itself further and further, Ty and I became really good pals. The glass of fashion and the mould of form, he was a prince among men. How annoying! How awkward! But what could I do? He invites me to supper with his lady friends and always makes sure I have a date. Ironically, this Beau Brummel’s taste in ladies was always a mite off-colour—all statuesque courtesans, all beauties, but a trifle on the gamey side. He sent for them in every town and as swiftly as they gratified him—just as swiftly he discarded them. Some fell for him hopelessly and lingered behind, seeking me out for consolation. A few tears on my shoulder—and lucky me—I’ve inherited his castoffs! But I’m a real Eve Harrington. I had to wear his shoes as well—I had to get Gettner’s garter! There was no contest—the dude had to go.

  John Williams, Mike Laurence “the Fox,” Harron and I plotted murder plans that would make Agatha Christie and P. D. James seem like amateurs, but these sessions had the habit of always ending in hilarity and anyway how the hell could we ever harbour such thoughts?!

  Little things began to irritate in performance. A well-respected American actor, Arnold Moss of stentorian vocal powers had a quirk that drove me crazy—he enunciated everything he spoke in the same pompous, heavy-handed manner. No matter how I changed my readings or lowered my voice to bring him down to some level of intimacy, it was in vain—he would shout louder than ever. Williams whispered in my ear, “A roaring Moss gathers no tone” and I almost collapsed on the stage. One night while spouting a particularly lyrical passage, Ty Power belched in my face midphrase. Ever the gent, he promptly said with the same projection, “Excuse me,” disastrously breaking up Mr. Fry’s precise meticulous meter and my poor self, totally unable to go on.

  Everything started to fall apart—the boredom and frustration of the tour caused me to stay up nights later than ever—the Fox, my constant companion, screeching passages from Finnegans Wake or “J. Alfred Prufrock” as we crawled from bar to bar.

  Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

  The muttering retreats

  Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels.

  It all came to a crunch in Seattle—that culture-loving town I shamefully hadn’t the time for, being too busily occupied on the longest binge of my short life. I had not slept since I’d arrived— indeed, quite sleepless in Seattle. I remember sitting at a bar in broad daylight, my only company some feline, dark-haired creature I wasn’t getting anywhere with, who eventually turned out to be the bartender’s dog: booze was clearly beginning to affect my eyesight. I had long ago in the distant evening given up scotch and was nursing what was probably my seventh Bloody Mary, mostly vodka—feeling decidedly cosmic. I thought I could just make out a somewhat familiar form looming over me in a kind of mist. It was Keene Curtis, the stage manager, no less! What was he saying? Something to do with the fact that it was very late in the morning, that because Guthrie had praised my Gettner, Miss Cornell had come to the understudy rehearsal to see for herself but I wasn’t there was I? and if I didn’t come with him now, I would miss the matinée as well! I struggled to my feet, I could hardly stand. Keene propelled me across to the theatre. It was way after the “half hour” when we arrived—did I even have time to get into my costume?! The first person we bumped into was Guthrie, purple with rage, who growled some indecipherable invective, jerking his thumb in the direction of Miss Kit’s dressing room. Ty’s door was open as we passed and the dear man winked ominously and with fingers crossed gave me a good-luck sign that didn’t hold much hope. Keene pushed me on. My legs turned to jelly as we finally reached the boss’s door.

  It opened. There she sat, as in a painting, robed, dignified, before her mirror—the perfect chatelaine. Her maid, Evelyn, was furiously combing her long, dark tresses. I’d never known Miss Kitty had so much long hair, reaching right down her back, and for a moment I was pleasantly distracted. Keene had left and I was alone now in the doorway staring into her eyes—those huge, slanted eyes that belonged to some wild Tartar queen. Her face, which seemed pulled back through tiredness, gave her an unusually vulnerable appearance and those famous, broad, voluptuous lips of hers were quivering with hurt and rage. Not just the Magyar countess alone was to pronounce sentence upon me. I had roused the ire of Candida—I would feel the strength of Masha, the wrath of Antigone—I would bow in shame before the Serpent of the Nile.

  She began to speak. Her tone was low, quiet and deadly. Her voice, always beautiful and rich, seemed distant as if it came from another room. As she spoke, Evelyn’s brushstrokes became more rapid. I was electrified. I’d never seen Miss Kit like this before. This was a revelation. She was straightforward, direct, utterly simple—intensely and marvelously real. Her looks cut to the quick; her words pierced my gut.

  She was letting me know in no uncertain terms of her great disappointment; that she ran a family of professionals and I had let them down; that my behavior was unforgivable, my discipline nonexistent; and that under the circumstances, she could not take me to Broadway and that after this very matinée, in fact, I would be replaced!

  When she had finished, an interminable silence fell upon the room. I found it difficult to breathe. Evelyn had long since ceased her brushing. In fact, nobody breathed; nobody moved. Only the Hungarian snow began to fall softly about us. I felt suspended as one does after witnessing some magnificent performance. A sudden flood of admiration and wonder rushed through me and I wanted so much to blurt out, “You’ve never been better,” but I couldn’t of course because, although I didn’t know it, I was crying. I heard myself stutter some inane useless apology, but the axe had truly fallen, and I moved away from the door, carrying my severed head up the stairs.

  In my modest cubicle in the sky, someone poured coffee down my throat. I was made of rubber and it took me forever to pull on my boots. Not for the world could I think what I was going to say. Ah well—it didn’t matter; it was too late anyhow. I found the stage. Each entrance I made, the boss stood in the wings to watch me make a fool of myself. Though I went through the motions and mouthed the lines I was hearing someone else, someone I didn’t know playing my part. I hadn’t a clue where I was. At last the curtain came down on that horrid afternoon. What was I to do now with my life?! I wasn’t trained for anything else. The Fox had cleaned out m
y dressing room, good scout that he was, and had packed all my things into a satchel. All I wanted was to see no one, say no farewells, just get out that’s all—out! As we descended the stairs, I heard Gettner’s lines in my head:

  I shall go back to the journey I was making

  In no direction in particular

  Where the dark makes no false promises…

  And this time ride through the nightmare and not turn back

  Your days are well rid of me, and so, goodnight.

  We reached the ground floor. Miss Kit’s door was ajar. She was entertaining visitors. Like two cat burglars, we tiptoed past so as not to be heard or seen. “Oh, Mr. Plummer?” said a voice. One of the cat burglars turned around. “Thank you, I so enjoyed your performance.” It was a friend of Miss Kit’s—but I wasn’t looking at her—I was looking beyond, at that tall, imposing Amazon smiling broadly in agreement and when, with her thumb and forefinger, she made that little circle of approval in my direction, I knew she had forgiven me.

  I rushed out into the street and threw my arms around Michael in relief and joy. One more pardon! One more chance!

  “Let’s have a drink to celebrate,” wisecracked the wicked fox.

  “Tea anyone?” I rather prudishly suggested.

  NOW FOR THE EAST—just two more stops before Mecca. I was back in the fold, a pack member once again. The long train ride rocked me to sleep at last, the sleep of the dead. I woke in Baltimore, overwhelmed by excruciating pain and nausea. In my hotel room, drained from nonstop vomiting and diarrhea, I was sure I was dying. Some kind Samaritans rushed me to Johns Hopkins, where I was told I had the severest form of infectious hepatitis—not so curable back in ’54. I would be grounded three weeks to a month—if lucky, bedded down—out of the show, no chance of opening. My punishment had come. On the third day, my bottom a pink pin cushion from all the hypodermics and my body covered with more tentacles than a giant octopus, from the intravenous tubes they’d attached me to, I slowly came round. I had the vague impression of a nurse standing over me. “You have a lady visitor,” she said. Then I heard the unmistakable footsteps echoing down the corridor toward me.