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I
N JULY AND
November of 1956, I made two appearances on
The Ed Sullivan Show
, the biggest weekly variety show on television at the time. Sullivan’s ratings were so high that he attracted top performing talent from all over the world.

I certainly wasn’t a headliner, and my appearances were not particularly noteworthy, but they were important for two reasons: I was exposed to a vast viewing audience across the country, and, more importantly, I sang songs from
My Fair Lady
. These, together with scenes from
Camelot
, which I performed on his show in 1961 with Richard Burton and Robert Goulet, are the only filmed records that exist of my performances in both musicals.

Nowadays there is always archival material taken of any show on Broadway, but for so many years, nothing was recorded on film or tape (except for bootlegged footage that no one will own up to). The tiny snippets of shows that were captured on television in that era are like gold dust to people who are interested.

I made a brief appearance on a television special with Rex called
Crescendo
. It featured an amazing cast—Ethel Merman, Peggy Lee, Benny Goodman, Diahann Carroll, and the great Louis Armstrong. Our paths crossed briefly. I had completed my segment and Louis was just commencing his. His energy seemed boundless. He clasped the famous trumpet, wiped the sweat from his brow with a big white handkerchief, and grinned at me. He said, in that delicious growl of his, “I seen you in that
My Fair Alligator
.” Made perfect sense to me.

IN
1957
I
made two record albums. One was for Angel Records, and was called
Tell It Again
, a collection of unusual children’s songs composed and arranged by a blind eccentric named “Moondog.” He was the equivalent of an English “busker,” playing various instruments on the corner of 54th Street, near Broadway. He was brilliant, funny, and a little daunting—for he sported a long beard and dressed in loose robes, open toed sandals, and a Viking’s helmet. He also carried a spear. He was definitely not crazy, but certainly unique. His music was sophisticated and original. Some of his rhythms were in five-fourths and seven-eighths, which I found challenging, never having sung them. Martyn Green, a man famed for his performances in Gilbert and Sullivan, shared the album with me.

The second album I made that year was for RCA Records and was entitled
The Lass with the Delicate Air
. Irwin Kostal was the arranger/conductor, and it was the beginning of an extended collaboration. We made another album together, and later he was arranger/conductor for the films
Mary Poppins
and
The Sound of Music
.

The Lass with the Delicate Air
was a collection of English ballads, and though I think RCA hoped I would choose pieces that were more popular, I was very keen to record the songs, since I had an instinct that there would come a day when these sweet minor classics would not be as easy for me to sing.

IN MARCH, I
had an altogether different experience. I was invited to play the title role in a live broadcast on CBS of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
Cinderella
. This was an original musical created basically for me, and I felt incredibly fortunate. It coincided with a two-week vacation that was due me from
My Fair Lady
.

A wonderful cast was assembled. The legendary theater couple Howard Lindsay and Dorothy Stickney were to play the King and Queen; Edie Adams, the Fairy Godmother; the hilarious Kaye Ballard and Alice Ghostley would play the Ugly Stepsisters; Ilka Chase would be the Stepmother; and a newcomer at the time, Jon Cypher, was to play the handsome Prince.

Our director, Ralph Nelson, had a fine reputation for many presti
gious shows, but his concept for
Cinderella
seemed a little odd. He hoped to make the story appear as real as possible, which was unusual given the fairy-tale nature of the piece and the endless possibilities he had for magical effects—pumpkin-to-coach, Cinderella’s transformation from rags to riches, and so on. He may have been limited because we were, after all, doing
live
television; the night we performed was the night we aired across America, and trick photography would have been difficult.

I thought the songs were very pretty. I loved the ballad “In My Own Little Corner,” and a song called “Impossible,” which I sang with Edie Adams.

Edie had an air of sparkling sweetness about her. She was dating the great comedian Ernie Kovacs at the time, and they subsequently married.

Kaye Ballard and Alice Ghostley were wonderful foils for each other. Kaye’s character was so strong and bossy, and Alice’s so giggly and silly. Jon Cypher was very good-looking, and had a pleasant singing voice.

Howard Lindsay and Dorothy Stickney were the dearest couple. Married in real life, they had been the stars of one of Broadway’s longest running plays,
Life with Father
. On lunch breaks they would sit on the set, side by side on their scenic thrones, and eat their sandwiches out of brown paper bags. Howard was an effervescent, diminutive man, and Dorothy was pretty and equally diminutive. Tony and I became great friends with them.

They owned an exquisite mill house in New Jersey, close to the Pennsylvania border, and they invited Tony and me to stay with them one weekend. We drove out in their car, which Dorothy’s cook had stocked with fruit pies and wonderful casseroles.

We arrived in the cool of the night at this beautiful stone cottage. The property had a rustic charm, and there was an herb garden ringed by a white picket fence. Hammocks were strung between the trees and a bubbling brook made sweet music. Everything about the place was comfortable. There were glowing table lamps and soft couches covered in floral patterns. There was a screened patio, and one could eat alfresco and not
be bothered by mosquitoes. Tree frogs, crickets, and cicadas would buzz and hum.

We visited Howard and Dorothy several times, and they were wonderful hosts. Tony and I would rest, read, and take leisurely walks. Howard would disappear into his study to write. Dorothy would putter in her kitchen.

Eventually the Lindsays allowed Tony and me the use of the cottage for a quiet vacation. I remember one weekend when we walked midst the riotous colors of autumn and the far-off hills were covered in a misty haze. Deer came down to the little stream to drink, and rabbits scampered in the grass beneath the trees. It was a safe and lovely haven.

REHEARSALS FOR
CINDERELLA
progressed, and we soon brought the production to the floor of the television studio from which it was to be aired. There were technical problems to be resolved, many cameras to be rehearsed, and for the actors, there was much waiting around.

I chatted a lot with our floor manager, a charming, shy, and extremely capable young man. I asked him what he would be working on after
Cinderella
was finished.

He said, “Actually, I don’t think I will be doing television much longer.”

When I inquired why, he said that he was close to realizing a long-held dream of providing free Shakespearean performances in Central Park for the general public. I thought of the hard work he must have done to get something so unusual off the ground. I also wondered if his project could ever be successful. I remember wishing him luck. His name was Joseph Papp.

His vision, of course, soon became a proud reality at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park and at the Joseph Papp Public Theater in New York.

ONE DAY I
was waiting in the wings of our set, and I happened to be whistling. (When I am nervous, I always whistle. I’m good at it, and directors have used it from time to time…I whistled in
Mary Poppins,
and in
My Fair Lady
and
Camelot
.) I was standing there and, I do not know why, I whistled a few bars of a song called “The Last Time I Saw Paris.”

A voice behind me said, “I really meant that when I wrote it, you know.” I turned around and was face-to-face with Oscar Hammerstein.

“Oh gosh, Mr. Hammerstein,” I stammered. “I’m ashamed to say I had no idea that was
your
song.”

He said, “I was so devastated when Paris fell to the Germans during the war, and remembering the city as I once knew it, I felt compelled to write that lyric.”

I realize now that in those days I walked with giants: Alan, Fritz, Moss, Rodgers and Hammerstein, Joe Papp…Why didn’t I think to ask the hundreds of questions that haunt me today whenever I think about them? I suppose I was too busy finding out who
I
was.

LIVE TELEVISION WAS
daunting. We were performing a musical show, yet, unlike theater, there were cameras doing a slow dance around us at all times (and in those days, they were much bigger); people were pulling cables out of the way, and we were trying to ignore all the chaos of a working crew while attempting to convince our audience there was no one around but us actors. That’s where Joe Papp was so helpful, because he smoothly directed traffic on the floor, cued the actors in terms of where we had to be, how long before we were on camera, and which camera was being used.

The most difficult part for me was the transformation scene when Cinderella, clothed in rags at one moment, is wearing a beautiful ball gown the next. Since Ralph Nelson wasn’t using magical effects, this was achieved by a camera panning down to my foot to reveal my sparkling shoes. Then, while someone was furiously pinning a new hairpiece and crown on my head and draping a cape around my shoulders, the camera slowly panned back up. By the time it reached my face, the transformation was complete. It was risky, especially on live television. There were so many people working on me, and I was trying hard to stand still and accommodate them, yet make it work for the cameras so that it all looked appropriate and effortless.

The coach to the ball was actually half a coach, so that cameras could
appear to be inside it. The whole contraption was rocked back and forth as Edie Adams and I bounced our way to the ball singing “Impossible.” It was one of the highlights of the show.

There were commercial breaks, which helped with some of the costume changes, but once on-air, it was a pretty hectic all-or-nothing exercise.

Two days before the airdate, we recorded a cast album with a twenty-eight-piece orchestra for Columbia Records, which was to be released the day after the telecast. I have no idea how the albums could have been pressed and made ready so quickly.

Robert Russell Bennett created the lovely musical arrangements, and it was thrilling to work once again with the man responsible not only for creating the arrangements for
My Fair Lady,
but also the great spacious sound so evident on many Rodgers and Hammerstein shows—
Oklahoma, South Pacific, Carousel.
The orchestra rehearsal was a total joy.

We filmed our two dress rehearsals as a backup in case of some disaster or major breakdown.

The night of the telecast, just before we aired, some “good friend” said to me, “You realize that possibly more people will see this show on one night than if you played in
My Fair Lady
for fifteen years.” It was not exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.

I was later told that more viewers watched
Cinderella
than any other show in television history. The evening went fairly smoothly, and we all did the best we possibly could, but for me, it felt a little lopsided: too rushed, and without the smooth polish we could have had if filmed and edited for a later date. It was an incredibly hard job, but a great learning experience. It took me years to realize the enormity of what we actually pulled off that night.

M
Y FINAL PERFORMANCE
in
My Fair Lady
on Broadway was on February 1, 1958. Although my contract in New York was up, I had by this time agreed to play Eliza for another eighteen months in the London production. Rex and Stanley would be recreating their roles as well. We were to begin rehearsals on April 7.

Before I left New York, however, I did two more television guest spots in January and February:
The Big Record
hosted by Patti Page, and
The Dinah Shore Show
. Dinah was warm and welcoming. I did a number from
Showboat
called “Life Upon the Wicked Stage” with Dinah and Chita Rivera, who was also a guest.

We were choreographed by an endearing, energetic man called Tony Charmoli who, nearly twenty years later, choreographed my own television series,
The Julie Andrews Hour
. Crazy world!

SALLY ANN HOWES
was to take over the role of Eliza on Broadway, and Anne Rogers, who had created the role of Polly in
The Boy Friend
in London, was scheduled to play Eliza with the American National Tour of
My Fair Lady
.

As my contract drew to a close, there was a big fuss from Actors’ Equity Association about Anne being granted a work visa in the United States. Tony and I knew Annie fairly well because of our shared paths in
The Boy Friend.
It transpired that one of the people creating the problem about Annie’s permit was a British actor—albeit a U.S. resident—playing a minor role in
My Fair Lady
.

The rumor flew around our company, and dislike for the perpetrator was pretty intense. If true, we couldn’t believe that someone so blessed to be in the U.S., and who was enjoying its wonders and those of
My Fair Lady
, could be so tough on a fellow performer. Happily the problem was resolved and Annie duly arrived.

She’s a North Country lass, wonderfully spunky and forthright. Tony and I embraced her immediately upon arrival, and she went into rehearsals and then out on the road with the touring company.

I was filled with mixed emotions during my last week on Broadway. I was saying good-bye to dear friends and to New York City. I had no idea when or if I would be back. I was relieved to be free of the tremendous pressure of eight performances a week. I was tearful yet grateful, exhausted yet exhilarated.

FOR TAX REASONS
, Charlie Tucker advised that I not enter the United Kingdom until the first of April, when the new fiscal year would begin. Because I so badly needed a vacation, it was decided that I would spend six weeks traveling in Europe, beginning in Paris.

Packing up was chaotic. There was much to sort, clear, and organize, many shows to catch up on, farewell dinners, and the final departure from our odd little apartment. Two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, I flew to Paris.

Tony stayed behind, as he still had work to do, and he moved in with some friends for a few extra weeks. We planned to meet in Europe as soon as possible.

I could not believe the feeling of instant ease that Paris gave me. I felt as if my temples were being gently massaged, and that harmony and balance were being restored to my world. I remember asking Tony later, “What
is
it about Paris that is so soothing?”

His answer surprised me. “I think it’s to do with the proportion to your eye,” he said. “In New York, everything is above you—you’re in the canyons, so to speak. In Paris, you look out over rooftops—you can see your world, feel on top of it, be in control.”

The sense of his words resonated even more when, years later, I lived in Switzerland and, again, experienced the feeling of tranquility looking
out over the chalet rooftops and watching the toy-like trains run up and down the mountains.

Paris certainly was the perfect city in which to recover from two years of hard work. I reveled in it, luxuriated in it.

Charlie Tucker met me there, bringing Mum and Pop with him. Donald had just joined the merchant navy, and Chris was still at school. We stayed at the small Hotel Castiglione on the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré. We went sightseeing and had long, elegant lunches and dinners. We took the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and saw Versailles. Mum and I went to a Dior fashion show and had fun shopping on the boulevards.

One evening we went to see Edith Piaf in concert. She came onstage wearing a simple black dress and flat slippers, no makeup, frizzy hair. The moment she began to sing, she was mesmerizing.

Charlie Tucker and Pop departed, and Mum left a couple of days later, having had a lovely time. We got on famously, and her recent displeasure with Tony seemed to have vanished. I was sad to see her go. Dad and Win, Johnny, and Celia came over in her place. The English rugby team was on their flight and about to play a big international match with France. Dad was ecstatic—more thrilled to meet the team than he was to see me, I believe! He had struck up a conversation with the English captain, Eric Evans, and offered him house seats to
My Fair Lady
in London—already impossible to come by in the skirmish over the advance sales—in exchange for six tickets to the match. He had a deal!

Unfortunately, our tickets were in the French section of the Colombes Stadium, and we were rooting for the Brits. I was screaming my head off, yelling, “Go, England!” and Dad kept nudging me in the ribs because we were getting terrible glowers from the French supporters all around us.

The family and I climbed the 365 steps to the top of one of the towers at Notre Dame, where we had a spectacular view of the city. We got tickets to the Lido and saw a glittering revue. We strolled around the vast Louvre Museum. What a glorious holiday it was.

When they returned home, Pauline Grant arrived. She and I went to Zurich, then on to the tiny country of Lichtenstein, where we walked and rested.

Tony finally joined us, and we spent a few days in Arosa. Pauline
returned to London, and Tony and I journeyed on to Venice, seeing the famed city for the first time.

We stayed at the wonderful Hotel Danieli; took gondolas along the canals; explored the Basilico San Marco; visited the galleries, where we saw exquisite Canaletto and Guardi paintings; ate at Florian’s; and admired the gem of an opera house, the Teatro La Fenice. Venice could not have been more beautiful, and we marveled how, in the blustery March weather, it seemed to adjust its coloring—pink, terra-cotta, and white in the sun, and mauve, blue, and gray when it was overcast.

In that most romantic city, I developed a large fever blister on my lip, which dampened our ardor and ruined every photo Tony tried to take of me!

We ended our holiday in Klosters, Switzerland, where we met up with Tony’s family for one last week, returning to England on Easter Sunday, April 6.

The very next day, rehearsals for the English production of
My Fair Lady
began. We had about four weeks to pull the show into shape.

OUR PRODUCER, IN
partnership with Herman Levin, was a gentleman called Hugh “Binkie” Beaumont, the head of H. M. Tennant. His shows always reflected style and class. He was sophisticated and witty, probably the most powerful producer in the West End, and his knowledge of theater was impressive.

Charlie Tucker felt that I could not commute every day from Walton-on-Thames, as it would have been too exhausting for me. So during the rehearsal period, I stayed at the Savoy Hotel, which was within walking distance of the famous Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in which
My Fair Lady
would be playing. I had a small, enchanting suite overlooking the Thames and the Houses of Parliament.

While there, I did an interview for a theater magazine with a bright and charming young man by the name of Leslie Bricusse. Today he is the award-winning composer and lyricist of such classics as
Stop the World—I Want to Get Off
,
The Roar of the Greasepaint—the Smell of the Crowd, Doctor Dolittle, Goodbye, Mr. Chips
…and of course
Victor/Victoria,
to mention but a few. Our professional and personal lives have continued to
overlap throughout the years, and he and his beautiful wife, Evie, remain two of Blake’s and my closest friends to this day.

ONE OF THE
first things I had to adjust to, once
My Fair Lady
was up on its feet, was a slightly different pitch in the sound of our orchestra.

“Pitch” is the perceived fundamental frequency of sound, and our musicians seemed to play the score of
My Fair Lady
with a slightly brighter, shinier resonance; not a different key, but a lifting of sound, perhaps to give it greater clarity. This could have been something to do with the acoustics in our theater, or perhaps our conductor, Cyril Ornadel, preferred that particular tonality.

I was actually told by Alan Lerner that I was singing a little flat, which really irritated me since I was proud of having a good ear and I believed I
never
sang off-key. In this case, though, the songs I had been singing for the past two years felt as if they had been transposed a whole tone higher. I had to really listen to myself, and the orchestra, and eventually I adjusted to the new frequency—but for the first couple of weeks, it was quite distracting.

If memory serves, rehearsals were at the Drury Lane Theatre itself, the very place where, seven years before, I had seen the production of
South Pacific.
The theater and the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, are two of London’s historic structures, and they lie almost within a stone’s throw of each other.

Strolling to work each day from the Savoy Hotel through the old Covent Garden market was a joy for me, seeing the sheds and the booths and the tall desks where the clerks stood to negotiate prices for their produce: fish, vegetables, flowers.

In those days, the market was a hive of industry, especially in the middle of the night when the growers sold to retailers, who then rushed the fresh goods to their own establishments in time for the morning shoppers. The entire wholesale market was relocated to Nine Elms in 1974, and Covent Garden is now a very upscale area.

When I walked there on a matinee day, there were always still a few barrow boys tidying up, wheeling their carts amid piles of debris left from the predawn selling. Sometimes they would recognize me and smile and
wave, calling, “Welcome back, Julie” or “Hello, girl!” It felt good to be home.

Tony and I decided that, since I was probably going to be in the theater for the next eighteen months, we should make my spacious, high-ceilinged, and wainscoted dressing room as charming and comfortable as possible.

Charlie Tucker gave us a modest budget and we went shopping, purchasing a good dressing table and matching stool, a big, long couch, plus some George Moreland prints in gilt frames—which were much too expensive, but which looked lovely on the damask-covered walls.

There was a little mirrored alcove in the room that had been converted into a small bar, and in the months that followed, I delightedly watched my dad take charge of it, playing the grand squire—as if to the manner born—when his friends came to see the show.

The advance word on
My Fair Lady
was tremendous, and we all felt that we could not possibly live up to it. The press was talking about the musical as the biggest, best, and most extraordinary ever to hit London, and we worried we might be riding for a fall.

Moss, Alan, and I were walking away from the stage one day, after a rehearsal. I was a little ahead of the men, and Alan suddenly said, “I wonder what hidden depths lie within our Julie?”

I looked back at him. He was smiling at me, teasing, in a way. I think he was implying that though he knew me, he didn’t really know me. I supposed I still appeared a little glacial at times.

I managed a jokey reply, but inside, I was yearning to say something pertinent and truthful. I wanted to let him know, “I’m in here, Alan. Believe me, I hear you. I’m in here.”

Kitty Hart did not fly over to join us until rehearsals were well under way. Moss drove to the airport to meet her, with his brother, Bernie Hart, accompanying him.

Bernie told us later that the moment Moss and Kitty embraced, they just stood in the middle of the busy crush of people, oblivious to everyone, their heads together in silent communion. He thought it one of the most loving, tender moments he had ever seen.

Sadly, Fritz Loewe did not make it to London for the opening. He
had suffered a severe heart attack a week prior to the commencement of rehearsals and was not fit enough to come. Fortunately, he who so loved life and all its delicious temptations, recovered well, and the setback did not cramp his style in any way.

Our preview performances were packed, and audiences responded enthusiastically.

The night before we opened, Tony and I exited the stage door at the end of the evening well after midnight and were surprised to see a long line of people going all the way around the theater, with bedding and chairs on the pavement.

I asked, “What’s happening here?”

“We’re queuing for the opening night gallery seats…,” “They go on sale in the morning!”, “We have to queue now if we want a good seat,” they replied.

Tony and I stood and chatted with them for a while, and as we departed, I called out that I hoped they would enjoy the show.

The following evening, April 30, my dressing room was so full of flowers, I could barely move. There was an extraordinary bouquet from Charlie Tucker that was the most magnificent azalea plant I have ever seen, but the most endearing gift of all was a simple wooden Covent Garden flat tray, filled to the brim with bunches of dewy, fresh, sweet-smelling English violets—Eliza’s flowers. My lucky flowers.