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Richard had a personal dresser on the show, who was a good friend and had worked with him before. His name was Bob Wilson. He was a stunning looking man, tall, quiet, tactful, decent. He knew all Richard’s idiosyncrasies. Bob’s wife, Sally, was a dresser also, and since I, too, needed someone to help me in the theater, it made great sense to all concerned that she come aboard and work for me. Sally was a godsend, a calming presence who kept my life sane.

Tony managed to fly up to Toronto for the last tech rehearsal, and the opening night. But, alas, he had to leave again immediately, to return to
his own opening of
Valmouth
in New York City. He then flew to London, where he had designed a sequel to the revue
Pieces of Eight
, this one entitled
One Over the Eight
, again starring Kenneth Williams.

Moss made several attempts to cut our show before we opened, but even so, the first performance of
Camelot
ran almost four and a half hours. The audience was exhausted, and so were we. Tim’s huge book was proving more difficult to condense than anyone thought. The following day, Moss, Alan, and Fritz made even deeper cuts.

Hanya Holm had created a superb ballet in the second half, a dance of the animals in the forest scene. Tony Duquette had designed the costumes for this, and he had chosen mostly earth tones, mustards and oranges, and the radiance of the show was suddenly diminished by the drab colors. Moss ended up cutting the ballet altogether, but even that did not lessen our running time by much, and we continued to play overlong.

Our press in Toronto was not overly enthusiastic, but most seemed to agree that the show looked and sounded grand and had potential, and that Burton was perfect as King Arthur.

People flew up from New York to see us, and word soon spread that our musical was more than a little top-heavy, but our company still felt optimistic. A show out of town is a work in progress, and we knew that we had something very special to offer.

A young lady by the name of Joyce Haber came from
Time
magazine to do a cover feature article on Lerner and Loewe. This was their first stage musical since
My Fair Lady,
though they had brilliantly conceived the film musical
Gigi
in the meantime. There was acute interest as to whether they would strike gold again.

Joyce Haber was friendly. She wanted interviews with all the principals, which she got, and she stayed with us for the better part of two weeks to observe and note every detail of the out-of-town process. Led first and foremost by Richard, we opened our hearts and welcomed her into the company.

Moss extended an invitation to Richard and me, Roddy, Mel Dowd, and Robert Coote, to come to his hotel suite one evening after the show. He explained that he had been writing his autobiography, and asked if we would indulge him and listen to a couple of chapters. Would we!

I remember sitting on the floor in his suite, my back propped against a sofa, listening to Moss, who was perched stiffly on a dining chair in front of us all, reading the first chapters of his wonderful memoir,
Act One.
I marveled at his writing style and his ability to capture the spirit of the thirties on Broadway, about which I knew relatively nothing.

On subsequent rereadings of his book, it occurs to me that what he read that night was almost identical to the version that was eventually published. He hardly changed a word.

WE CONTINUED TO
work hard in Toronto, rehearsing and adapting to Moss’s cuts almost daily, as well as performing our regular eight shows a week. Franz Allers drilled the orchestra and chorus mercilessly, and the results showed. We all continued to shape our characters and tried to help the potentially lovely musical fall into an easy rhythm and a seamless whole.

Then disaster struck.

Alan was suddenly hospitalized for internal bleeding from a perforated ulcer. It is surprising that none of us was aware of his problems at the time, though Moss must have known. We were all so preoccupied and busy with the show.

We later learned that Alan had been suffering a great deal of stress, due to the failure of his fourth marriage and the fact that his wife had taken his beloved young son, Michael, to Europe. There was the added strain of working at all hours on
Camelot
, and because of the necessity to keep going at all costs, Alan had taken medication for depression and anxiety, and the results had wreaked havoc with his intestines. He was in the hospital for ten days.

Moss held the fort in Alan’s absence, and announced to the press that our opening on Broadway would be delayed by two weeks, due to Alan’s indisposition. Moss was always an inspiring presence, but I remember that he, too, did not appear to be his usual creative and ebullient self.

On the day Alan was discharged, he was standing by the hospital elevator and saw a patient on a gurney being wheeled into the room he had just vacated. To his horror, he was told that it was Moss, and that he had just suffered a heart attack. It was devastating.

This was not Moss’s first attack. He’d had one several years earlier. Now it was likely he was going to be in the hospital for quite a while. The company was not made fully aware of just how sick Moss was. We were told that he was in the hospital, and I believe we thought he had a serious case of the flu. We hoped he would be well enough to join us again by the time we arrived in Boston.

Moss sent a message to Alan, asking him to take over the reins of the production. Alan spoke to Fritz, who felt that a new director should be brought in immediately, thus freeing Alan to proceed with the necessary rewrites.

Alan spoke to Richard, and then to me. Richard and I both felt that Alan was the appropriate person to take the helm until Moss was better. Having just come out of the hospital himself, Alan was on the horns of a dreadful dilemma. He wanted to honor Moss’s request. He felt fragile, and knew how much work the production needed. How could he continue to rewrite and direct as well?

Fritz kept pushing him to consider bringing in an outsider. I’m sure he, too, was feeling a little fragile.

We had one more week to play in Toronto, and Alan wisely decided to give himself and the company some breathing space. He let us play the long version of
Camelot
for the rest of its engagement in the city, and vowed to continue work on it once we were in Boston. Meanwhile, the search began for a director who might understand our immediate problems, but ultimately the idea proved to be impractical, since the hope was that Moss would soon be well enough to return to us.

The
Camelot
company was heroic. Spearheaded by Richard and his amazing charisma, and helped, I hope, by my own demeanor and optimism, plus Roddy’s professionalism and Robert’s enthusiasm, we all struggled and forged ahead without complaining through the last difficult week. We were tired and frazzled; we were worried about Moss; we supported whatever Alan thought best. We wanted our production to win out in the long run. There was an incredible bond within the company; everyone had such a decent heart and believed in the message of Tim’s wonderful book.

The production closed in Toronto, and we moved on to Boston. We
had a few days’ rest while our huge sets were trucked down and stuffed into the smaller space of the Shubert Theater there. The principals were mostly lodging in the Ritz Hotel, at the edge of the Common. Richard held a party in his suite nearly every evening. I think he had problems being alone, and there were several regulars within the company only too ready to bolster him and to drink with him every night, and sometimes into the wee hours. Plus, of course, a lady or two to dote on him, and hang on his every word.

I’m grateful that Richard remained professional with me, and didn’t press his luck until much later in the run. In all honesty, had he turned his considerable charms on me early in rehearsals, I do not know what my reaction would have been. He was
that
attractive.

A
FTER THE IMMENSE
size of Toronto’s O’Keefe Centre, Boston’s Shubert seemed very small. We began rehearsals again, working in the lobby of the theater, or in the bar downstairs while the setup and technical work continued onstage. Alan gave us more cuts, and his assistant, Bud Widney, rehearsed with us when Alan had to write. We did not see much of Fritz, and I understood later that a nasty rift was developing between him and Alan. Luckily, we were all so busy with the show that we weren’t aware of it.

How difficult it must have been—first for Moss (not to mention his distraught wife, Kitty) and then for Alan, who had to withhold so much information in order to keep optimism high in the very large company.

Tony was due to return to New York from London with Tim White. I’d been talking about Tim to the company for such a long time, and everyone was excited that he was coming to visit. I knew that he would be royally welcomed and spoiled. It was understood that Tim would not see the show until it was in proper shape, perhaps not until our formal opening night at the Majestic in New York. But, by an absolute fluke, Tony and Tim’s plane was diverted to Boston’s Logan Airport because of bad weather on the very day we opened there. Tony called to give me a heads-up, since, obviously, he and Tim would be in town overnight.

I phoned Alan. He very kindly understood the situation and suggested they come see the show that evening. With all that was going on,
we seemed destined to fail in Boston, but an amazing thing happened. Because we had spent so many weeks projecting into the vast auditorium of the O’Keefe, our performance at the Shubert was strong and vibrant, and the show dazzled everyone.

We received favorable notices, which gave us all a much-needed lift. The company made a great fuss over Tim. He was very generous about the show and was in his element, stomping about backstage with all the pretty ladies of the chorus loving him up.

Alan had forewarned Tim that converting his beautiful and evocative tome to a two-and-a-half-hour show was “less a matter of dramatizing incidents than capturing the spirit.” Tim was very supportive and gave Alan permission to do whatever he thought best. The following day, Tim and Tony set off for New York. I would be joining them in fairly short order.

Philip Burton, a Welshman who was Richard’s mentor and surrogate father, was brought in to take over rehearsals and to help direct whenever Alan was unavailable. Philip, a teacher, had discovered Richard as a youngster, giving him vocal coaching and inspiring his love for the theater. Richard, whose original surname was Jenkins, had taken Philip’s last name. It was Richard’s suggestion that Philip help with
Camelot,
and since we continued to be plagued with problems, Alan was anxious to give his star this added sense of security. No one in the company objected.

After Tony and Tim left, I felt somewhat abandoned and very alone. I had no wish to be as social as Richard, and I was weary. On impulse, I bought myself a portable turntable and some wonderful albums: Rachmaninoff, Brahms, Chopin, Ravel. At the end of each day I found the music infinitely comforting, and helpful in reducing my stress.

With no sign of improvement from Moss, our opening in New York was postponed a further week, and when we finally reached the city, we learned that advance sales were solid, despite the fact that word was out we were beset by problems.

Joyce Haber’s
Time
magazine article was no help. She had been so affable in Toronto, but her story about the show was a bit of a hatchet job and
it surprised and depressed us all. Many years later, she did several hatchet jobs on me and my husband, Blake, prompting my remark, which Blake loves to quote, “That woman should have open-heart surgery—and they should go in through her
feet
!”

During our last week in Boston, Alan decided that Guenevere needed a new song to replace a protracted farewell scene with Lancelot. Alan conveyed to me that he wouldn’t have the time to write the lyrics until just before we opened in New York. He asked how I would feel about that.

I am a quick study, and we had been adding to and subtracting from the show for so many weeks that I was now used to changing on a moment’s notice. Plus, I couldn’t refuse the chance of a lovely new song, and Alan was so stressed that I wouldn’t have made waves even had I wanted to. I asked him to try to get me the song as soon as he could.

We had two paid previews in New York before our official opening, and the night before our first one, I received my song. It was called, “Before I Gaze at You Again,” and it was a beautiful, simple ballad. Fritz had already had it orchestrated, so I learned it, it was quickly staged, and it went in that night. It has always held a special place in my heart.

Camelot
opened on Saturday, December 3, 1960, at the Majestic Theater, New York. We limped into town and gave the show our best shot. Moss was unable to be with us, though by now he was out of the hospital and recuperating at home.

The reviews were adequate, but not great. It is my opinion that had
Camelot
come before
My Fair Lady
, it would have had its own success. As it was, there were many inevitable comparisons with that great hit.

Every critic had a different suggestion as to what
Camelot
needed. One thought it should have been treated more “vastly,” another wished the unhappy ending had been omitted. Most seemed disturbed or puzzled by the difference between the acts. To an extent, we understood the reviews, but we were saddened, because with all our recent problems, we had never been able to refine the show the way it deserved. However, we never felt a negative response from our audiences.

After opening night, Alan came backstage and made us a promise. He told us that Moss was going to get better, and that he and Fritz were going to take a break. Within three months they would all come back and rework the piece. We believed him. We tried not to feel deserted, and we had just enough advance sales to see us through.