ALTHOUGH MY CONTRACT in London was for eighteen months and I was due to leave the show in October 1959, I actually left on August 8, two months early, because by then I was exhausted and as neurotic about my voice as I could possibly be.
I was seeing Dr. Musgrove on Wednesdays and Saturdays, taking injections of vitamins, having “diathermy” on my throat (a method of heating tissue electromagnetically and ultrasonically for therapeutic purposes), having the poison in my tonsils suctioned, trying in every way to keep myself going.
Performing for two years in New York and sixteen months in London—not to mention all the rehearsals and being out of town—had been a marathon. I never knew on any given day whether my voice or stamina would hold up for me. Most of the time it did, but I was always a basket case of nerves.
We received word that Annie Rogers was back in town after her tour of the U.S. in My Fair Lady. She had already been contracted to take over from me, and Charlie Tucker ascertained that she would be willing to start a little sooner if we could arrange it.
Charlie and I went to see Binkie Beaumont.
My guess was that he would say that I had to stay in the show and fulfill my contract, but I underestimated him. The case was put to him; since Annie was willing to begin, could I possibly depart two months early? He looked at me and he looked at Charlie. Finally he said, “Look, I will grant you this permission, but…” He stabbed a finger at Charlie. “I do not want you making that young lady work for the next three months. I want you to promise that she will have every chance to really rest and recuperate.”
I felt as if the cavalry had arrived, and I hugged him. How dear of him to so completely understand.
When I finally ended my run in My Fair Lady, it was as if I emerged from a long, narrow tunnel into the bright sunlight. The world was suddenly in Cinemascope, and I had a life once again. I had tremendous affection and fondness for the show, and I received a wonderful send-off from the company…but the relief was overwhelming.
Like Rex, I threw a party for the company, and my diary entry for that week simply says, “Lovely, loverly end to show—very sad but very glad, too. People so sweet and kind.”
The experience of that show will forever remain in my bones. There is a line from the song “Just You Wait,” in which Eliza imagines the King declaring, “Next week, on the 20th of May, I proclaim ‘Liza Doolitle Day.’” Every May 20, I still receive cards from friends and fans.
Often I am asked how I felt about not landing the role of Eliza in the film version of My Fair Lady. I know Alan hoped that Warner Bros. would cast me, but eventually the role was given to Audrey Hepburn. At the time, I completely understood their choice. Warner Bros. needed a big name for the marquee, and although I had starred on Broadway, that was a very small pond compared to the rest of America and the world. In later years, I did wish that I had been able to record my performance somehow, somewhere, for posterity—or at least for my grandchildren. Audrey and I became good friends, and one day she said to me, “Julie, you should have done the role…but I didn’t have the guts to turn it down.”
A FEW MONTHS prior to my departure, Alan and Moss asked me to read an extraordinary book based on the Arthurian legend, called The Once and Future King, by T. H. White. They hoped to make it into a musical, and asked if I would play the role of Queen Guenevere.
Tony and I read it cover to cover, adored it, and embraced the idea, though I couldn’t imagine how Alan and Fritz could manage an adaptation, since the book was actually a compilation of four complete novels.
It seemed a monumental task, but nevertheless it was scheduled for production a year hence.
Charlie almost kept his promise to Binkie, and for the next two months I did not work. I saw friends and family, went shopping, had my hair done. We went to the theater and to the ballet—but mostly I just took it easy.
That month we received the devastating news that Kay Kendall had died from leukemia. It was sudden, and deeply sad that such a bright light had left us so soon.
We escaped to Paris for a weekend in October and, later, went down to Oxford for a week, where Pieces of Eight was doing a pre-London tryout.
IN LATE OCTOBER of 1959, I began work on a four-part series for the BBC called The Julie Andrews Show. We would tape one show a week. Pauline Grant was the director, Kenneth MacMillan the choreographer, and Tony designed the settings. It was decided that not only would I sing and entertain, but I would also try some celebrity interviews. My guests included Vic Oliver, Richard “Mr. Pastry” Hearne, the comedian Kenneth Williams, and Pietro Annigoni.
While we were brainstorming ideas, Pauline said, “Why don’t we try to get the author T. H. White for an interview?” Since I was contracted for Camelot, it seemed like an absolute must.
We heard that Mr. White was a recluse, living on the remote Channel Island of Alderney, and that he probably would not consider coming to the mainland for something so trivial. The offer was made anyway, and to our astonishment and delight, he accepted. (Later, when we asked him why he agreed to appear, he said it was because he knew nothing about television and wanted to learn how the cameras worked and what happened on the set.)
It was arranged that I would pick him up after he had checked into his hotel. I remember driving him around Hyde Park Corner, by Apsley House. As usual the traffic was going in all directions, and he said, “My goodness, London is busy. How do you drive through all of this?”
Living as a hermit on his little island, I think he was amazed and bewildered at the crazy tumult of London life.
Within days, Tony and I fell in love with this endearing, professorial man. He looked almost exactly like Ernest Hemingway, though Tim was taller. His beard was a little yellow from cigarettes. He had a fine head of white hair, and his wardrobe was mostly corduroy and casual, though he often sported a startling red bow tie.
He came onto our studio set and pottered around, and when we finally did the interview, he sweetly put up with my asking him some pretty banal questions. I was nervous about interviewing people, and wasn’t very good at it. He really seemed to be enjoying himself, however, and even if he wasn’t, he would never have shown it. Tim had a personal code of honor that required him to behave as decently to everyone as the medieval knights in his wonderful book.
I mentioned to him that I was soon to have my tonsils removed.
“You must come and stay with me!” he cried. “The sea air will be great for your recuperation. Please come to Alderney—I would love that!” We promised we would try.
We ended up with four fairly good shows, the final episode airing on Christmas Eve. Also in December, I appeared in a midnight gala at the Lyric Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, to raise funds for the thousands so calamitously affected by the collapse of the Malpasset Dam in Frejus, France. It was an all-star lineup, with American and British stars.
Those who could sing or dance did so. The actors made the introductions, and it was my good fortune to be introduced by Sir Ralph Richardson. We had never met, but I admired him enormously.
When it was time for my appearance, he made a fairly grand speech, then announced in his unique voice, “On these ‘Lyric’ boards it is my pleasure to now introduce the one, the only, the sublime…Miss Julie Anderson!”
There was dead silence as the audience tried to fathom who this person might be. I walked onstage, lamely whispered “Andrews,” and sang whatever I was supposed to sing.
The next day I received a small bouquet of violets from him and a letter written on a large piece of stationery with just two words per line.
“Dear Miss Andrews,” it said in the smallest handwriting, “I am so sorry that I did not introduce you correctly last night but my car was towed away and I’m afraid I was not my usual self. Please accept these flowers as my apology.”
The year ended with another performance of Cinderella—but this time I was happily attending Prokofiev’s ballet at the Royal Opera House and Svetlana was dancing the title role. The evening was unforgettable.