On Thanksgiving Day 1937, Paul invited Mother, my sisters, and Ware to lunch with us at the Cotillion Room in the Pierre Hotel. We were amazed to find ourselves the only people being served in this magnificent room. Our table was right in front of one of the huge windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. My sisters kept getting up and standing at the window, their faces pressed against the glass, thrilled to be able to watch the Macy’s Parade go by at such close range.
During lunch, Paul surprised us by saying he had just bought the hotel, but that wasn’t his only announcement. He said that because Ware had done such a great job handling publicity for the Museum of Natural History, he had invited him to become head of public relations for the Pierre. Ware was happy to accept.
The Pierre was—and still is—an elegant hotel that stood forty-two stories high on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 61st Street, overlooking Central Park. Having fallen into bankruptcy with the Depression, its suites were half empty, there were no patrons in the Cotillion Room, and it had a bar no one could find. Even in its run-down condition, as soon as Paul saw it, he realized its potential. He also realized that it was a bargain. Built in 1930 for $15 million, Paul paid $2.5 million for it.
The changes he made after he took ownership turned the Pierre into one of the smartest hotels in the city, on a par with the Plaza, the Sherry-Netherland, and the Ritz. At Ware’s suggestion, a new door was installed on the corner of Fifth and 61st, making the bar accessible from the sidewalk. Soon everyone who was anyone became regulars of the Cafe Pierre. The once-deserted Cotillion Room became the most sought-after spot in the city for dinner dances, coming-out parties, and charity galas. Suddenly, reservations became hard to come by, as Hollywood stars and the cream of society from around the world flocked to the hotel. At last, the Pierre came into its own.
Around Christmastime, Mother gave an engagement party for Paul and me at her home in Greenwich. She was planning to take my sisters out to the coast for the rest of the winter, and wanted to do this for me before she left. I suppose it was kind of old-fashioned, considering we didn’t expect to be married for a year, but Mother thought it the right thing to do. All of our closest friends, among them boys I’d dated in my childhood, came to meet Paul, “the mystery man” from California.
Among the guests was Bill Gaston. Originally, he was a friend of Betzi and Fred, then Betzi had introduced him to Jean. Now Jeannie was mad for him. Bill was everything she’d dreamed of in a man. He lived on an island in Maine in the summer, and in an apartment overlooking the East River in the winter, and roamed the world in between. He was handsome, rugged, intelligent, charming, and a rebel, like Jean. We were all happy that she was so in love, even though we weren’t too sure about Bill. A Harvard man from a good family, he’d already been married twice. Both of his exes were actresses. He had a bit of a reputation for playing the field, and I didn’t want Jeannie to get hurt.
Bill was an old friend of Paul’s, too, and the day of Mother’s party, Paul, Bill, and Jeannie drove together to Greenwich. As Jean told me later, the three were talking politics most of the way. All of them were staunch Democrats, and Paul said he wanted to be of use to the Roosevelt Administration. Bill, who was a great friend of James Roosevelt, suggested that Paul might be an excellent ambassador to Iran, but Paul wasn’t interested. Somewhere along the Merritt Parkway, Paul changed the subject. “Bill,” he said, “do you think I’m doing the right thing, marrying Teddy?”
Bill started to laugh. “Friend, you better make up your mind right now, because we’re only ten minutes away from Belle Haven.” I was shocked when Jeannie told me this—I never realized how close I was to being dumped. I guess Paul suddenly got cold feet. Luckily it was temporary.
I thought it was great that Mother was taking Nancy and Bobby to California for the winter. After Dad’s suicide, a change of scenery and some warm, sunny weather would be good for all of them. As Paul and I were leaving that night, he asked Mother where she and the girls were planning to stay. “Laura Isham, my cousin, has invited us to spend the first two weeks with her,” Mother replied. “That will give me time to look for a house to rent. Laura has a very old, rather magnificent house on Bellefontaine Street in Pasadena, built by the famous Greene and Greene architects.”
“Well, I have a house at Wilshire and Irving boulevards in Los Angeles,” Paul said, “near Hancock Park. It’s empty, needs furniture, and I’d be happy for you and the girls to stay there. Be my guests, of course, if you wish to decorate it. Naturally, just send the bills to my office.”
“Thank you, Paul, but I don’t think—” Mother began.
“Don’t say no, Louise,” he cut in, “till you see it. You might like it.”
The result of this offer was that Mother did go to see it. She took one look at its grandeur, its twenty-two rooms, its tennis court and gardens, and decided to take a small house in Pasadena instead. She did write Paul a thank-you note. Years later, it was the one used by Billy Wilder as Norma Desmond’s house in Sunset Boulevard.
As soon as Mother; my sisters; and Pat, our Irish terrier, had left for the coast, I started preparing to go to England. I made arrangements to give up my apartment, put things in storage, and read up on transatlantic crossings. I had saved enough money, I thought, for a month’s stay in London. One wintry afternoon in early January, Paul and I met at the Plaza. Instead of going into the hotel for tea, however, we took a carriage ride. Drawn by a very-slow-moving horse, we toured Central Park with its now snow-covered lawns. The swans and ducks had gone, leaving a thin layer of ice on the lakes and ponds. Snow lay lightly on the walkways, marked by footsteps of children, who had been playing with sleds and making the year’s first snowballs. I sat close to Paul under a blanket supplied by the liveried driver, whose silk hat sported a bright red rose. His back was a huge, black silhouette against the white background, and he held his head down as he let his ancient horse walk slowly along the familiar route. It was an enchanting, still afternoon in the New York we had come to love.
We huddled closer, hypnotized by the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. We were alone together in a city of millions. Paul finally broke the silence. “Teddy, dear, I’ve been thinking about you and your trip, and I’m a little worried about you going to England alone. What would you say if I asked Jeannie to go, too? I’d feel much better knowing there was someone with you.”
I looked up at him and smiled, thinking what a terrific idea it was. What fun it would be to have Jeannie with me, dashing around London when I wasn’t studying! I didn’t answer him right away. My first thought was of Jeannie. She was in love with Bill Gaston. How could I ask her to leave?
“Paul,” I finally said. “You’ve done enough already . . . I’ll be fine.”
“Damn it, Teddy, why are you so independent? Don’t you know I planned to pay for your lessons and your apartment? After all, I got you into doing this, and we are going to be married.”
“But we aren’t yet, Paul, so stop planning. Just come over as soon as you can, so we can be together. As for Jeannie, I’m sure she’ll say no. She’s in love.”
On February 4, 1938, with my passport in hand, I stood on the upper deck of the SS Europa as she edged her way out of her berth into the frigid, murky Hudson River. It was a midnight sailing. Bells were ringing and the ship was ablaze with lights. Paul, Ware, Betzi, and Fred were all waving and calling good-byes to me from the pier. But no Jeannie. I guessed she was with Bill. I wanted to wave back, but I was holding tightly to my passport with one hand, and trying to hold on to the huge bouquet of red roses that Paul had thrust into my arms as he kissed me good-bye. With the crowd waving to their loved ones, I was pinned against the rail and couldn’t move. So I just screamed “Bye!” until my byes became sobs.
As we slowly headed out to sea, I took a big breath and, turning away from the rail, bumped into Jeannie. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there she was, standing right next to me.
“Paul arranged it. He wouldn’t let me tell you,” she yelled over the noise of the crowd.
“What about Bill?”
“I can’t think about him right now. I’m too excited about going with you.”
“Oh, Jeannie, so am I. I can’t believe Paul did this.” We both started laughing and hugging each other in a little dance around the deck. After throwing kisses to the twinkling New York skyline slowly receding in our wake, we went to find our cabin.
The Europa was a German flagged ship, and one of the fastest in the north Atlantic. Years later, my friend Sandy Gould would tell me that the hairdresser on board in the ladies’ salon was a famous Nazi spy. Sandy’s father, a federal undercover agent, was the one who had broken the code and caught her. Had I known it at the time, I would have died of shock, since she was the one who did my hair on gala night.
On our arrival in London, we checked in at the Grosvenor House Hotel. I phoned Paul to say I had arrived and planned to call on Marchesi the very next day. On February 10, 1938, I stood before the door of her house at 75 Lancaster Gate. As I rang the bell, I wondered if she would really accept me. The door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been waiting inside. Indeed, someone was. There stood a small Italian woman with long black hair, dark brown eyes, and an ample figure. On seeing me, she cried out excitedly, “Madame, l’americana è qui.” I knew then she must be Zenia, Marchesi’s maid. Carrying my Tosca and Carmen scores under my arm, I followed her into the foyer. Beyond, I heard the rich, mature voice of Marchesi, coming from what I presumed was her salon.
“Come in . . . come in, my child, and welcome.”
Standing in the center of a well-furnished room, aided by a cane, was an elegant lady who reminded me of Queen Victoria. Marchesi was dressed in a black gown with a full bodice of lace, covered with many medallions and other awards, over which she wore a bright green shawl. Around her neck was a velvet choker, and I noticed she wore many rings and a brooch. Her abundant light-gray hair was piled high on her head in the classic Victorian style. She had great elegance about her, and an aristocratic air. Her portrait, a charcoal by John Singer Sargent, hung on the wall over the fireplace behind her. I was fascinated.
She was elderly, yet there was a sparkle of youth in her eyes as she smiled and said, “So you, my child, want to sing opera. Well, we shall see. Take off your hat and let me look at you. Yes, Paul was right. You are very beautiful. He is so in love with you.” I smiled shyly, thinking how Paul must have talked about me to her. “Let us see whether you also have what he said you had—those beautiful golden notes.”
I watched as she slowly moved toward the piano, upon which stood silver-framed, signed photos of Liszt, Brahms, and many crowned heads of Europe. I moved to give her my hand.
“Don’t touch me!” she almost screamed. “I can manage. Now, turn around, please.”
Before doing as she asked, I saw that she walked in great pain. Whether from illness or extreme weight, I didn’t know.
“I hate ugly things,” she said. “Old age is an ugly illness. Now come, let us sing.”
I handed her my two scores. “Place them over there, my child. We might get to them in two years.” Feeling deflated, I put them down on a table, almost upsetting an autographed picture of Puccini.
“Now, come over to the piano,” she said, striking the first note. Her elegantly shaped hands, classic in contour and quite young looking, captured my attention.
“Now, take a breath and let’s use the diaphragm.”
As I was about to start, a chill of excitement ran through me. I realized I was actually standing in the same position at the same piano where Nellie Melba and other famous opera singers had stood when they studied with Marchesi’s mother. Paul said that when he was taking his ten lessons with her, she had told him how, as a child, she had hidden under this very piano to listen, while the great Brahms played his music for her mother. I felt so humble.
Then she said, “Take a big breath and control it, my child. Now, let me hear you say ‘Ah.’ ” She urged me on, a smile of interest on her face. When I reached the last note, I stopped and looked at her. She studied me for a moment, and then said, “I shall be honored to have you as a pupil.”
“Oh, thank you, Madame, but do you really think I have the voice to sing opera?”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “You have a lovely dramatic quality, and you will make a magnificent operatic coloratura contralto.”
When the session ended I stood on her doorstep, stunned and disappointed. Coloratura contralto. My voice, according to her, was much lower than Paul thought it would be. “You are a dramatic soprano,” he had always said, as had Gene Burton. I walked home feeling sad. If she was right, I would never be able to sing Tosca.
Brokenhearted, I called Paul in New York and relayed what Marchesi had said. “Study with her, Teddy, darling. Stick it out for the moment. I still think she has your voice misplaced, but maybe we are both wrong and you really are a contralto. After all, she is the great Marchesi.”
Less than a week after arriving, I found a charming, furnished flat just right for Jeannie and me in the nicest part of Mayfair. It was on the top floor of Chesterfield House on South Audley Street. I quickly settled into a routine. Every morning, I walked across Hyde Park to Lancaster Gate. From ten to noon, I sang with Marchesi. Then, after lunch, I studied with Miss Squires, who came to the apartment and sat at my little rented piano. We worked all afternoon on the roles and arias—I had so much to learn: the languages, the music, and the repertoire. When I thought of all my friends having fun going to parties, dating, traveling, marrying, and having babies, I was tempted to give up and go home. But I stayed and studied and hoped and prayed that I was doing the right thing.
Shortly thereafter, I wrote to my mother to tell her what great progress I was making, and to let her know that Paul was due in London in a matter of weeks. In the meantime, I was studying every day to be ready to sing for him. I expected to have several roles under my belt so I could audition for a small part at Glyndebourne or Salzburg before going back to the States. That was my dream.
As soon as Paul arrived, we knew that, despite months of separation, we were still very much in love, even if the path of love did not always run smooth. One evening, after attending the opera, Paul invited Lady Glamis and her daughter, Nancy, and some others to supper with us at the Ritz. The music began while we were being seated, and Paul turned to Nancy and asked her to dance. I was shocked, and more than a little insulted. I thought he should have asked me, his fiancée, first. I was furious.
I hardly spoke to him during the rest of the evening, but in the taxi going back to my apartment, where he was to drop me off, I cried, “This is it! The end.” And with that, I took off my engagement ring and threw it at him. He looked down at the floor of the cab, where it lay sparkling.
Slowly, he picked it up, examined it, and then, holding the ring in his hand and putting his arm around me, said, “Teddy, dear, I love you very much. But you must understand that in England, according to protocol, one always asks one’s guests to dance first, especially when they are of the royal family.”
“Well, American families are pretty royal, too. And when we go to a dance, the boy asks the girl he brought to dance first. So, when you’re with me in England or anywhere, I expect you to ask me to dance first.” He didn’t answer, just smiled. I was still pouting. “And anyway,” I continued, “I don’t think an engaged man should act that way.”
Paul started to laugh. Suddenly, I realized how ridiculous I was, and I laughed, too. He stopped me with a kiss.
The taxi driver, who looked like he had just stepped out of Madame Tussauds wax museum, turned and said, “Can I be of any help to you, Govn’r?”
By this time, we were in each other’s arms, and he could see Paul was doing quite well all by himself.