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by Julie Andrews

  She was a honey of a dog.

  WHILE TONY AND I had been in New York, we had stayed in touch with the lovely ballerina Svetlana Beriosova. Once we returned to London, we received an invitation from her to attend her wedding reception.

  We were happy to go, and were immediately greeted by the groom, Mohammed Masud Raza Khan, whom we had never met. He welcomed us and ebulliently enfolded me in his arms.

  He was the son of a wealthy Pakistani land-owner. He was tall and strikingly handsome, with dark flashing eyes, a mustache, and a head of long thick hair. He had a full, slightly drooping lower lip, which was seductively pouty—a subtle indication perhaps of his addiction to cigarettes.

  Masud (or Sudi, as we later called him) could not have been more friendly or attentive. I had the uncharitable suspicion that his effusive overture was because he thought I was someone important in the theater since My Fair Lady was the hottest ticket in town.

  Sudi and Svetlana quickly became our close friends, and we saw them often. Sudi was a complicated man, a psychoanalyst of some brilliance and renown. He became a very important influence in my life, inspiring and encouraging me many years later to enter into analysis. He was gentle and kind to me, and as our friendship developed, I seemed to be the only woman in his life that he didn’t wish to tear to shreds. I suppose I wasn’t a threat. He could be quite abusive to Tony and to Svetlana, but they knew him well and took it all with good grace. Sudi was just being Sudi.

  We spent many evenings at their apartment in Knightsbridge. They lived in Hans Crescent, almost next to Harrods department store. The flat was a little dark, but had large rooms and very high ceilings. It was sparsely furnished. There were good lithographs on the walls and a few photos and a huge collection of books, which were Sudi’s passion. He would make trips to Paris and bring back his latest acquisitions with glee, spending a great deal of money on beautifully bound editions, which were proudly displayed in glass cases.

  Sometimes he and Svetlana would get into an almighty row, and Tony and I would wait patiently until they got themselves out of it. Svetlana would argue passionately, though she adored Sudi. I grew to realize that though brilliantly cerebral, Sudi was not always emotionally healthy. His personality seemed split right down the middle, as if he was totally trapped between the cultures of east and west; one half being the imperious son of a land-owner, the other a well-trained London-based analyst, a disciple of D. W. Winnicott, the great psychoanalyst whose papers he eventually helped to edit.

  In the years since his death, there has been considerable scandal surrounding his methods of work with his patients. His academic writings, however, are lauded throughout the psychoanalytic world, and I’m fairly certain that he was a better theorist than he was a practical psychoanalyst.

  Sudi did not believe in bathing. He felt it robbed the skin of its essential oils, so every day he cleansed himself by using oil on his body. He was always immaculately dressed, often wearing a velvet smoking jacket with slippers to match. A cigarette would droop from his soft, half-opened lips, and ash would spill all over his elegant clothes. As life went on, it seemed that he moved further and further out toward madness, but when we knew him, he was still powerful and relatively in control of himself.

  He told us initially that he was a prince—the love-child of his father’s thirteenth wife. Many years later, we discovered this to be untrue. He said that, as a child, if he didn’t win a card game he had the power to have his fellow players’ hands cut off. Tony and I were struck by this bizarre statement, and wondered if he invented his outrageous stories—and if so, why?

  Svetlana was loving and dear, her laughter nearly always present. She would supervise the simple fare at the table—mostly steak, vegetables, baked potatoes—cooked and served by their houseboy. She was everything that I yearned to be: dedicated, disciplined, with a pure, clear work ethic. She seemed to want for very little in life, and kept her needs to the barest minimum. She attended ballet classes every day; she never complained, never put on airs; and with her Russian, triangular face, she was exquisitely beautiful. A core of integrity was evident in everything she did.

  Whenever we could, we attended her performances. Several ballets were created for her by the great Kenneth MacMillan, then a young, up-and-coming choreographer. We saw her dance Giselle and Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake. She was always superb, a little more imposing than some dancers because of her height—and she was a good actress, as well.

  We had dinners with John Cranko, another brilliant choreographer, who created Prince of the Pagodas for Svetlana and later became Artistic Director of the Stuttgart Ballet.

  It was a heady time for us all. We were part of the young artistic scene in London, and we were drawn to each other for many reasons. I could think of no more wonderful evening than to attend a performance of the ballet at the Royal Opera House, then go to a restaurant or back to Svetlana’s and Sudi’s apartment for supper. Often other dancers from the Royal Ballet joined us, as well as writers, analysts, actors, and directors, and we would talk until all hours on all subjects.

  One day Sudi said to me, “When you next come to the ballet, you’re going to be sitting beside a great friend of ours. You will love her.”

  With some distrust I slid into my seat on the appointed evening and found myself next to an attractive dark-haired woman named Zoë Dominic. She was a photographer—for many years the exclusive photographer of theater, ballet, and opera for the London Sunday Times. Her work was brilliant. By the end of that first meeting we had, indeed, bonded. Zoë, Svetlana, Sudi, Tony, and I became inseparable.

  Sudi was shopping in Harrods one day. The store was crowded, and at the counter, a woman pushed in front of him. Sudi drew himself up to his full height and addressed her courteously.

  “Madame,” he said. “The good lord has given you an advantage over me. He has made you a woman. But if this salesperson serves you before he serves me, I shall personally tweak his nose.” It was classic Sudi.

  Svetlana and I were in Harrods one afternoon, when she asked if I would like to come back to her flat for some tea.

  It was tempting. “Oh that’s lovely of you, Svetlana,” I replied, “but I should probably just go home and have a rest and prepare myself for the show.”

  “How stupid of me, Julie,” she gasped. “I forgot you had a show tonight…and of course you must go home and rest. You must.”

  The implication in her words was that art must always be given the first priority.

  Maybe it was because the words were hers, or maybe they were simply spoken at the exact moment I was ready to hear them, but I suddenly became aware of a newer, deeper purpose to my craft and to what I was doing. I always appreciated that my singing voice was a special gift, to be acknowledged with gratitude, but now I felt that my whole being could be used to give something back—to share my appreciation for the gift more fully.

  Most of my early life, during those vaudeville years, my work was—well, work. It was what I did. And in my youthfulness, it never occurred to me that when I appeared onstage, I could perhaps make a small difference. I now began to develop a sense of fulfillment in the doing—in the attempt to convey joy and to bring pleasure to people; to help them transcend their everyday worries and problems for the few hours that they are a part of the theater experience. I was finding reasons, motivations, a deeper core—and an answer as to why I was given the gift in the first place. Whatever the inspiration, the small exchange with Svetlana that day was life-altering.

  FORTY

  TO DESCRIBE NOW what theater means to me, and what the work feels like, is difficult. One is usually so busy attempting to find answers and hone them into honesty, focusing on the moment and its progression, sending it out and finding the well of energy that it takes. My feelings about it shift and change on any given day.

  In the moments of preparation and the gathering momentum toward curtain time, there is a tingle of anticipation when the flute calls and the trumpet answers,
when voices are raised in practice and passages of song, when the Tannoy squeaks and disembodied instructions echo through the corridors, the orchestra moves into the pit and the musicians check their pitch.

  Backstage, midst all the hustle and bustle and the hum of chatter from an audience, there is a sudden moment of absolute silence, and one is aware that the conductor has raised his baton. The overture erupts; there is no turning back.

  Once in a while I experience an emotion onstage that is so gut-wrenching, so heart-stopping, that I could weep with gratitude and joy. The feeling catches and magnifies so rapidly that it threatens to engulf me.

  It starts as a bass note, resonating deep in my system. Literally. It’s like the warmest, lowest sound from a contrabass. There is a sudden thrill of connection and an awareness of size—the theater itself, more the height of the great stage housing behind and above me, where history has been absorbed, where darkness contains mystery and light has meaning.

  Light is a part of it…to be flooded with it, to absorb it and allow it through the body.

  The dust that has a smell so thick and evocative, one feels one could almost eat it; makeup and sweat, perfume and paint; the vast animal that is an audience, warm and pulsing, felt but unseen.

  Most of all, it is the music—when a great sweep of sound makes you attempt things that earlier in the day you might never have thought possible. When the orchestra swells to support your voice, when the melody is perfect and the words so right there could not possibly be any others, when a modulation occurs and lifts you to an even higher plateau…it is bliss. And that is the moment to share it.

  One senses the audience feeling it, too, and together you ride the ecstasy all the way home.

  There’s that word again. Home.

  Then I think there is no more magical feeling, no one luckier than I. It is to do with the joy of being a vessel, being used, using oneself fully and totally in the service of something that brings wonder. If only one could experience this every night.

  It is as great as sex…that moment before climax. It is as overwhelming as the mighty ocean. As nurturing as mother’s milk to an infant. As addictive as opium.

  IN FEBRUARY OF 1959, a second recording of My Fair Lady was made at Abbey Road Studios in London. The original Broadway album was recorded in monaural sound, since that’s all there was in those days, but stereophonic sound came onto the scene, and the record industry had to reinvent itself. It was essential that we make a new album of our show.

  The English company with, I believe, a slightly augmented orchestra, went into the studios—and I am so glad we did. I think Rex, Stanley, and I gave better performances on the second album. I had settled into my role, I knew what I was doing, and though there are still things that I wish I had thought to add, the stereo recording is light years better than the original, and is the one officially used today.

  REX DEPARTED FROM the show at the end of March. He and Kay threw a party for the cast after his last performance, and once again I was unhappy that he was leaving. There is always a subtle shift in a company when original members have to move on. Audiences still see the show they are meant to see, but within the company there are small changes in the balance of the whole, and there are adjustments to characters and their importance. There’s a slight feeling of abandonment for the people left behind.

  The actor Alec Clunes took over the role of Higgins, with all the attendant rehearsals to help ease him into the show.

  Tony was working hard. In 1959, he was involved in four theatrical productions in London, and I delighted in watching him create and develop them. The first was a play by Peter Coke, entitled Fool’s Paradise, for which Tony did both sets and costumes. It starred an elderly actress, Cicely Courtneidge. Tony would arrive home after her costume fittings, smiling and a little puzzled. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “I cannot fit her dresses properly. Her tummy shifts every single day!”

  He did scenic design for The Pleasure of His Company, by Samuel Taylor, and I had the enjoyment of watching a couple of rehearsals and sitting in the audience on opening night. Coral Browne starred in the play and I marveled at her style, wit, and glamour.

  Next came The Ginger Man, based on the book by J. P. Donleavy, and starring Richard Harris. In addition to designing the sets and costumes, Tony helped produce this play. We became friendly with Donleavy. He was a little wild in those days—athletic and mischievous, quirky, yet cagey. It was hard really to know him, though Tony saw much more of him over the years. He had a sort of country squire look and wore good Irish tweeds and jackets with leather patches on the elbows.

  The last production in 1959 was a revue called Pieces of Eight, for which, once again, Tony provided sets and costumes. Much of this revue was written by Peter Cook and Harold Pinter, with a song or two by an unknown composer named Lionel Bart, later of Oliver! fame. It starred the outrageously gay and funny comedian Kenneth Williams, much beloved by English audiences, and was directed and choreographed by a young man called Paddy Stone. I worked with Paddy myself several times over the years, most notably when he did the choreography for the films Victor/Victoria and S.O.B., in which he also appeared.

  To this day, I can recall and quote passages from some of the sketches in Pieces of Eight. Kenneth Williams, playing an old newspaper seller, is talking to his friend, the owner of a Chelsea bun-and-tea stall—one of those on wheels, with an awning. After chatting about everything under the sun, the newspaper seller declares, “So the Evening Standard was the last to go.”

  His friend, after a pause, says, “Then that went, did it?”

  “Yes…” Another, longer pause. “…like a shot!”

  In March, there was an exhibition of Tony’s work at the Hazlitt Gallery in St. James. When we arrived for the initial opening, Sir John Gielgud was there, strolling around looking at the art. His reputation for malapropisms was legendary in show business. I was a big fan of his, and having never met him, I approached him and explained that I was the artist’s fiancée and thanked him for coming.

  Gielgud recognized me.

  “Oh, how do you do?” he said, extending his hand. “You have often enjoyed my work. I mean…!”

  In a flurry of embarrassment, he exited the gallery.

  TONY AND I decided that May 10 would be our wedding date. Having been in My Fair Lady in London for a year, I was due a two-week vacation in May, which fitted in nicely with our plans.

  Charlie Tucker swung into action and booked me an appearance on The Jack Benny Show in Los Angeles, probably in order to obtain finances to pay for the wedding. I understood the necessity, and it made sense to use the trip to the U.S. as an excuse for a honeymoon.

  Contrary to tradition, I asked Tony if he would care to design my wedding gown. He said he would love to. He also designed my wedding band.

  Because of the impromptu nature of our engagement, I never had an engagement ring, but Tony had given me a beautiful little brooch while we were in New York, the same size as a ring, in the shape of a laurel wreath. My wedding band was an identical circle of laurel. It was made by Cartier and was engraved inside.

  I decided to ask Tony’s sister Carol and my sister, Celia, to be my bridesmaids, and I asked Aunt Joan to be my matron of honor. Noel Harrison, Rex’s son, was Tony’s best man. They had attended Radley College together and had been friends for years.

  WHILE WE WERE busy with our wedding plans, Charlie Tucker got it into his head that a painting of me as Eliza Doolittle should be commissioned. He chose Pietro Annigoni, who had done many portraits of members of the Royal Family.

  Annigoni was an arrogant man, the epitome of the temperamental artist. He demanded total dedication and punctuality.

  Photographs were taken of me wearing Eliza’s flower girl costume, and he placed them around his studio to study them while he worked, but he also needed several sittings with me. Since I was performing in the show, organizing the wedding, and having fittings for my gown, life was rather hectic, and
it was difficult to slot everything in.

  The inevitable happened, and I arrived late at his studio one day. He was so miffed that he locked me out on the street. I could see the curtain twitching at his upstairs window as he peered down at my discomfort, so I knew that he was home. Charlie Tucker had to phone him and beg him to continue the portrait.

  The finished painting of me as the flower girl is wonderful. Annigoni captured the essence of Eliza. What is rather extraordinary is that in the background there is a half-hidden poster with the words The Sound of… How prophetic!

  Charlie Tucker owned the portrait. It hung in his office for many years, but when he no longer represented me, he put it up for auction. By that time I was married to my present husband, Blake, and he arranged for a friend to go and bid on it. I heard that Charlie asked whether this friend was bidding on my behalf, and he seemed happy when the fact was confirmed. I am thrilled to own it, and it hangs in my home.

  RACHELLE WAS TO make my wedding gown, and she informed us that the best selection of material was to be found in Switzerland. Somehow we were able to make a brief trip to Zurich, and we chose a bolt of exquisite white organza sprinkled with embroidered white roses. We found as well some lovely water silk taffeta that was made into a pretty evening dress for The Jack Benny Show. Rachelle also made the dresses for the bridesmaids and the maid of honor, and they, too, were designed by Tony.

  My wedding gown was beautiful. It was ankle-length at the front and had a high roll neck and long sleeves. Tiny buttons secured it at the back, and there was a long train.