“No.”
“See?”
“Mr. Marx—”
“Don’t call me Mr. Marx.”
“What do you like to be called?”
“Sally. I’ve read some of the things you’ve done.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” He looked me over again. “You’re too thin. Whoever you are, you and your wife should come to my house tomorrow night for dinner. Eight o’clock. And don’t be late again.”
I introduced Jorja to Groucho and there was an instant rapport. That was the beginning of our lifelong relationship with Groucho.
At Groucho’s dinner parties, there were always some of Groucho’s lines for his guests to quote: “I find television very educational. Every time someone turns it on, I go into the other room and read a book.”
“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
“I had a wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.”
“Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?”
Once, he had to visit a doctor. A beautiful young nurse came up to him and said, “The doctor will see you now. Walk this way.” Groucho looked at her swaying hips and said, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t have to see a doctor.”
We saw Groucho often and as we got to know him, I realized that people didn’t really understand him. When he insulted them, they thought it was funny. They felt rather proud to be the object of his wit. What they didn’t realize was that Groucho meant everything he said. He was a misanthrope and was completely honest about his feelings.
He had had a bitter childhood. He was pulled out of school when he was seven and he and his brothers went to the stage. The Marx Brothers made fourteen pictures together. Groucho made five more on his own.
Groucho and I were walking down Rodeo Drive one day and a man came running up to Groucho and said, “Groucho, do you remember me?”
Typical of his attitude toward people, Groucho turned on him. “What have you ever done that I should remember you?”
Groucho had a very successful television show that was on the air for an incredible eleven years. It was called You Bet Your Life. It was a hit because no one knew what he was going to say next.
One night, a contestant on the show told Groucho that he had ten children.
“Why so many?” Groucho asked.
“I like my wife.”
Groucho said, “I like my cigar, but I take it out sometimes.”
One day, Groucho’s daughter, Melinda, who was then eight, was invited to a country club by a classmate. They put on bathing suits and went into the swimming pool.
The manager of the club came running up and said to Melinda, “You’ll have to get out of the pool. We don’t allow Jews here.”
When Melinda ran home, crying, and told her father what had happened, Groucho got the manager of the club on the phone.
“You’re being unfair,” Groucho said. “My daughter is only half Jewish. Is it all right if she goes in the pool up to her waist?”
Groucho was married to Eden Hartford, a young actress, and Jorja and I were supposed to have dinner with them one night. Eden had an early call at the studio the next day, and Jorja also had an early call.
Groucho telephoned me. “It’s just the two of us for dinner. How do you want me to dress?”
I said, “Groucho, we’re going to a nice restaurant, so don’t embarrass me.”
“Right.”
When I picked him up at his house and rang the bell, he opened the door wearing Eden’s skirt and blouse and high-heeled shoes and smoking his cigar. I didn’t take any notice of it.
He said, “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
I said, “Fine.”
We went into the den and Groucho mixed drinks for us. The doorbell rang. What he had forgotten was that he had a date with some television executives to talk about his show. He opened the door and invited them in and we sat chatting for a while and they left.
“I’ll change,” Groucho said.
And we went out to dinner.
Everyone in show business has the same problem—what to say to a friend whose play or performance we hated. Over the years, a few solutions have worked:
“You’ll never be better . . .”
“That was a play . . .”
“I have no words . . .”
“You should have been out front . . .”
“I’ve never seen anything like it . . .”
“People will remember this evening for a long time . . .”
Dream Wife would not be released to theaters for several months and I decided this was the perfect time to take Jorja on another European vacation.
Jorja was as excited about the trip as I was. We sat down and discussed where we would go. London, Paris, Rome . . . In the middle of our planning, there was a phone call. It was Ladislaus Bush-Fekete, calling from Munich. I had not heard from Laci since the closing of Alice in Arms, which was almost ten years earlier. Since that time, Kirk Douglas had become a major star. I was pleased that I had not destroyed his career.
“Sidney,” Laci said, in his thick Hungarian accent, “how are you? Marika and I miss you.”
“We’re fine, Laci. I miss you, too.”
“When are you coming to Europe?”
“As a matter of fact, we’re leaving next week.”
“Good. You must come to Munich and visit us. Can you do it?”
I thought about it for a second. “You bet we can. I want you to meet Jorja.”