Hello, I Must be Going

by Charlotte Chandler

  “I tried her. I mean, I tried, but I didn’t get anywhere. She was so beautiful, everybody was stuck on her.

  “While she was married to DiMaggio, she went over to the Far East and did some shows over there. When she came back, DiMaggio said, ‘How did you do?’ She says, ‘You never heard such applause!’ He says, ‘Yes, I have.’ Because he’d been a star outfielder with the Yankees. Many were crazy about her.”

  One of the ladies in his life whom Groucho remembered most fondly was the only one who never laughed at his jokes. When he was awarded the special Oscar of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in 1974, he acknowledged his gratitude to this grande dame—or, as Groucho said, “great dame”—of the straight line by specifically mentioning her along with his mother and Erin Fleming as the most important women in his life. For Groucho, this was no offhand encomium, but a reflection of carefully considered enduring respect and admiration.

  Born Daisy Baker in 1889 in Atlanta, Georgia, Margaret Dumont was brought up in the home of her godfather, Joel Chandler Harris, creator of Uncle Remus, Brer Rabbit, and Brer Fox. Groucho talked about her at dinner with Arthur Whitelaw and me:

  ARTHUR WHITELAW

  How did you discover Margaret Dumont, Groucho?

  GROUCHO

  Sam Harris. She had worked in some show of his.

  ARTHUR WHITELAW

  She was really that lady offstage as well, wasn’t she?

  GROUCHO

  That was why she was great. But she never understood any of the jokes.

  ARTHUR WHITELAW

  The first time she appeared in a film with you, was she supposed to appear in just one film and then you continued on?

  GROUCHO

  In one film. She was so great that we used her in a lot of pictures.

  ARTHUR WHITELAW

  Was she really a wealthy woman?

  GROUCHO

  No. She didn’t have any money.

  ARTHUR WHITELAW

  She certainly played a lady with a lot of money.

  GROUCHO

  She wouldn’t go on my quiz show unless we gave her a thousand dollars. She wanted to get paid. Nobody got paid on that show. If they won money, that was all right. Peter Blatty went on one night and won $10,000. Then he wrote The Exorcist. She would have been great on my quiz show.

  Margaret Dumont was the widow of John Moller, Jr., son of a wealthy businessman and a member of New York’s 400. Her husband’s family “didn’t entirely approve of my return to the stage,” she used to say. She had been known as Daisy Dumont and was playing “Trixie Fluff” in a musical, The Summer Widowers, when she married Moller in 1910. Earlier she had appeared in Lew Fields’s The Girl Behind the Counter, in which a reviewer described Daisy Dumont as “tall, statuesque and beautiful,” in her role of “a forelady in a London department store.” Her big number was “I Want to Be Loved Like a Leading Lady.” Opera-trained, she had served her apprenticeship for two years as a showgirl in the music halls of England and France. She made her debut at the Casino de Paris, later playing with George M. Cohan on Broadway before joining the Marx Brothers in the stage version of The Cocoanuts.

  “She’d been a social lady, and her husband died, so she needed a job,” Morrie Ryskind told me. It was while she was playing the part of a social climber in The Four Flushers that Sam Harris, who was producing The Cocoanuts, cast her as Mrs. Potter, the first of her many comic trysts with Groucho.

  Lorayne Brox, one of the three Brox sisters who appeared in The Cocoanuts, also remembered Margaret Dumont as the same character offstage as she was on. “She was the perfect foil for Groucho,” she told me. “She was a wonderful elegant lady. That’s who she was. She was always indignant. She was always dignified.”

  Margaret Dumont once expressed her own conception of her inner and outer dignity:

  “It isn’t the gown or its fine material that makes a woman stylish or otherwise nowadays, but her carriage and the amount of clothing she has on beneath the gown.”

  As the straight woman in the Marx Brothers’ act, Margaret Dumont could expect no better than the wrong end of the slapstick, but offstage she did expect some respite from the onstage indignities she suffered. The Marx Brothers, however, never needed a proscenium arch to justify an impractical joke.

  “We took her clothes off once,” Groucho tells. The occasion was a trip in a Pullman car late at night during the Night at the Opera tour. The boys had wearied of cards and chorus girls, and were looking for a novel divertissement. “And we took off all her clothes. She screamed so loud you couldn’t hear the train whistle.”

  “After that first week with the Marx Brothers,” Morrie Ryskind recalled, “she was never the same. In fact none of us were ever the same.”

  MORRIE RYSKIND

  She hadn’t quite been used to this sort of thing. At most of the big dinners she’d gone to, they didn’t do that, you know. But she got used to them.

  GROUCHO

  She never understood any of the jokes.

  ERIN

  Did she really not understand?

  GROUCHO No.

  MORRIE RYSKIND

  She came to me one day, and I forget, but it was some scene about Rembrandt, but anyway, she got it mixed up, and so she said, “What’re they laughing at?” And I explained it to her. And she said, “Oh.” So the next night she said, in front center stage, “That was Rembrandt, and nobody gave a damn!” It was like an important announcement—here was the greatest joke of the ages, and she came back crying. She said, “What did I do?” I said, “You tried to punch it. Let it alone. You were doing all right.”

  GROUCHO

  She was a comedian but didn’t know it. We bounced laughs off her, like the bridge game where Harpo kicks her, hitting her in the stomach.

  One of Margaret Dumont’s most famous parts was as Mrs. Claypool in A Night at the Opera. Groucho described a scene between them that brought down the house during one of the live tryout performances:

  “We were sitting in a box, supposedly a box in an opera house, and the opening line was, ‘Well, toots, how do you like the show?’ I was nervous, and I said, ‘Well, tits, how do you like the show?’ The audience laughed for five minutes.” I asked Groucho if that was really an accidental ad lib. His only answer to me was an enigmatic raise of his eyebrows.

  Margaret Dumont herself was far from naïve about her contribution:

  “I’m a straight lady, the best in Hollywood. There is an art to playing the straight role. You must build up your man but never top him, never steal the laughs from him.”

  George Seaton, talking with Groucho and me over brunch at Hillcrest, remembered that the instance in which the Marx Brothers undressed Margaret Dumont was not unique, nor even a rare occurrence:

  “Harpo was just the dearest, sweetest man. I don’t think you can find anyone who has a bad word to say about Harpo. But he was a leprechaun, an elf. He used to do silly, wonderful things, like stealing Maggie Dumont’s wig. She was as bald as a billiard ball and always wore a wig. He’d take great delight in stealing her wig before we got off the train. In Chicago or someplace, here would come Maggie with a towel wrapped around her head, and on it it said ‘Pullman.’”

  To this Groucho added:

  “I enjoyed all my romantic scenes with Margaret Dumont. She was a wonderful woman. She was the same offstage as she was on it—always the stuffy, dignified matron. She took everything seriously. She would say to me, ‘Julie, why are they laughing?’

  “At first I’d try to explain, like the line when Chico and Harpo were stealing a painting in Animal Crackers. She and I came into the room, which was pitch dark. She said, ‘My, it’s so dark in here you can’t see your hand in front of your face.’ And I came back with, ‘Well, you wouldn’t get much enjoyment out of that.’ The audience laughed like hell, but she couldn’t understand why. She said, ‘Julie, what was funny about that? It was dark and I couldn’t see my hand.’

  “In A Night at the Opera, I’m
having a rendezvous with Mrs. Claypool, and when she arrives at my room, fourteen people come out. But she never understood what was funny. At the end of Duck Soup, we’re alone in a small cottage and there’s a war going on outside and Margaret says to me, ‘What are you doing, Rufus?’ And I say, ‘I’m fighting for your honor, which is more than you ever did.’ Later she asked me what I meant by that.

  “You know, people used to ask if we were married. A lot of people thought we were married.”

  Maureen O’Sullivan told me that Margaret Dumont actually believed that A Day at the Races was a serious picture:

  “I used to get a lot of fun out of Margaret Dumont. She had no idea why A Day at the Races was funny or even that it was funny. When we started, she told me, ‘It’s not going to be one of those things. I’m having a very serious part this time.’”

  The writer J. B. Priestley said of Margaret Dumont, “She could maintain her social presence and style while being fired out of a gun.” The Marx Brothers used her in seven of their thirteen films. Whenever she was absent from a Marx Brothers movie, the studio always received an avalanche of letters demanding her return. She worked in other pictures as well, but sometimes there were lean years even for a dowager. George Seaton remembered such a year:

  “I was doing a film—as a matter of fact, it was my first directorial effort. Zanuck wanted me to start with a small picture, and I said, ‘No.’

  “I wanted to do something very big, because I knew if I made a successful small picture, I’d be known as a good small picture director. So I chose a Betty Grable musical, and in it was a dream sequence. The character that Betty Grable played always wanted a mink coat, so she dreams that here she is in this beautiful mink coat. She’s going up this tremendous flight of stairs, and at the top is Mrs. Rich-Bitch, and all she had to say was, ‘Good evening, my dear. So good of you to come.’

  “So I was thinking, and I said to myself, ‘Maggie Dumont would just be perfect!’ I called Maggie, who lived at the Knickerbocker Hotel, and I had tea with her. She used to hold court there, and she would serve tea in the afternoon. I called her and I said, ‘I just hate to offer you this, Maggie, but if you would do it, it would be a great favor for me, because nobody could do it the way you do.’ She said, ‘Well, send me a script and let me read the character and see if I’m right for it.’

  “I sent her the script, and she called and said, ‘Yes, that’s quite an interesting small part. I’d be very pleased to do it. Who will design my clothes?’ Well, Charlie Le Maire, the great designer, who was at that time head of the Fox wardrobe department, had worked with Maggie back in New York. So I said, ‘Charlie, she hasn’t worked in a long while. Let’s do something for her.’ And he said, ‘Oh, wonderful!’ So he found three outfits in the wardrobe department. They were all there already, but he made sketches, new sketches.

  “We went to tea at the Knickerbocker Hotel and laid out the sketches for Maggie to pick the one she wanted, and she chose one. She said ‘How long will it take to have this made?’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll put on an extra crew. Don’t worry, it’ll be ready on time.’ Of course, he just took it off the rack.

  “My partner, Bill Perlberg, went right along with it. He said, ‘Let’s get the biggest trailer we’ve got, and we’ll put a star on the door—“Margaret Dumont”—and we’ll fill the place with roses,’ which we did. Now came the day. I tipped Betty Grable off, and Betty was just thrilled by it. She rushed in with flowers for Miss Dumont and said, ‘Miss Dumont, I’ve admired your work so much over the years. Please, if there’s anything you can do to help me with my performance, I would be only too happy to have you tell me.’ Maggie said, ‘It’s quite all right, girl. Let’s do it.’

  “Well, we came to shoot it, and Betty came up the stairs. Margaret Dumont said, ‘Do you mind if you step back just a little bit. Not quite so close, my dear child.’ So Betty said, ‘Yes ma’am.’ Then we did three takes, and Maggie said, ‘Now which take are you going to use?’ I said, ‘Well, I have to see the dailies first, but I’ll call you immediately after seeing them,’ which I did.

  “I said, ‘I thought Take 2 was the best, Maggie.’ She said, ‘Well, isn’t that strange? I thought Take 3 was better.’ So I said, ‘Well, I tell you, why don’t you come to the studio? We’ll run the three takes for you, and you select the one that you think is best.’ She saw all three of them, and she said, ‘No, I must agree with you. Take 2 is better.’ So she left in a blaze of glory. She was queen for a day.

  “At a party a couple of weeks later, I was sitting at a table with Groucho, and I told him this whole story. He said, ‘George, that’s the most wonderful thing anyone could do for that dame. You know, she hasn’t worked since the last Marx Brothers picture.’ Then he paused, and he said, ‘What am I talking about? I haven’t worked since the last Marx Brothers picture!’”

  Although she will always be remembered as the archetypal dowager of the Marx Brothers films, Margaret Dumont was a versatile actress. She herself was happily resigned to being typecast: “I’m always the Newport dowager, whether I’m reclining on a chaise longue or hanging from the top of a tent in my drawers.” In addition to seven of the Marx Brothers films, Margaret Dumont also appeared in sixteen other films, including Never Give a Sucker an Even Break, with W. C. Fields. In her last film, What a Way to Go!, she played Shirley MacLaine’s shrewish mother so convincingly that few recognized her as Mesdames Potter, Rittenhouse, and Claypool.

  Groucho told me about the last time he saw Margaret Dumont:

  “She was a tall, good-looking woman. She looked like she came from high society. I was in the last show that she ever did—on The Hollywood Palace.

  “I’ll never forget. After the show she stood by the stage door with a bouquet of roses, which she probably sent to herself. Some guy came along in a crummy car and took her away. A couple of weeks later she died. She was always a lady, a wonderful person. Died without any money.”

  Groucho and I entered the Beverly Hills Hotel one afternoon on the way to the Polo Lounge to have lunch with Jack Nicholson and Mike Nichols. In the lobby there were about twenty girls in long pink tulle dresses trimmed with rhinestones, with an equal number of young men in dinner jackets. Standing with the group of teenagers was a mature blond woman, also wearing a long pink tulle dress. She wore her straight blond hair pulled back tight from her face in a 1940s upsweep.

  The group observed Groucho’s entrance, and he observed them. Heading in their direction, he asked, “Who’s getting married?” The woman, who later explained that she was their chorus leader, answered, “I hope no one.”

  GROUCHO

  Why? What do you have against marriage? You must have been married.

  LADY

  I was, but not now.

  GROUCHO

  Oh, it didn’t work out? Or, it didn’t work in?

  Not a bit flustered by the giggles of the students, she continued in the same serious vein, announcing, “This is the Pasadena High School chorus.” Whirling back to the chorus, she began to direct them in a song. As the chorus of about fifty sang, everyone in the lobby of the glamorous Beverly Hills Hotel gathered about to witness a show that promised to rival the best moments in any Marx Brothers film. Behind us a woman was saying to her little girl, “This is a day you’ll remember all your life.” Groucho soon joined in, singing out “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” loud and clear.

  After the chorus ran through a brief repertory, Groucho explained to the teacher that he used to sing with a church choir in New York City, and that they used to pay him a dollar. “That wasn’t very much,” the teacher said.

  “It was quite a bit then,” Groucho said. “I could buy a pumpernickel for a nickel.”

  Then he raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, and thrilled the assemblage by doing the Groucho look. “Well, I must be going. But before I do…,” and his gaze focused hard on the prim and proper blond chorus leader, “…I’d like to kiss you. Is that all right?” Completely un
ruffled, she nodded affirmatively. Groucho swooped in and grabbed her, bending her way back and kissing her hard and long on the lips.

  As we went into the restaurant he explained to me, “She was a good straight woman. She reminded me of Margaret Dumont.”

  When Hugh Hefner invited Groucho to present Playboy’s Playmate-of-the-Year award, Groucho needed little urging. Of the event, he recalled:

  “It was some sight. The winners were beautiful and the losers were beautiful. They asked me to give the Playboy award to the most beautiful girl of the year, and they had these twelve beautiful girls, and they pointed to one and said to me, ‘You give the award to her.’ I got up and said, ‘You’re beautiful, but you aren’t more beautiful. All of the girls are beautiful girls. You’re just luckier.’”

  When I asked Groucho, “What were your hobbies?” he answered unhesitatingly, “Women.” “And, generally, what do you think of women, Groucho?” He answered with the utmost sincerity, “Always. I was girl crazy. There’s nothing more wonderful than a beautiful young woman.”

  I

  Alfred Hitchcock once told me a woman should be like a suspense movie, not revealing everything at once. The questions should be answered gradually. But you say that for you the questions never got answered at all.

  GROUCHO

  The more you think you know, the less you know. I’m old enough to know I don’t know anything. They get harder to understand, but I don’t care.

  I

  Then, considering all the problems and cost, monetary and otherwise, were girls worth it?