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ARCHIE LEACH by Cary Grant My family name is Leach. To which, at my christening, was added Archibald Alexander, with no opportunity for me to protest. For more than half my fifty-eight years I have cautiously peered from behind the facade of a man known as Cary Grant. The protection of that facade proved both an advantage and a disadvantage. If I couldn't clearly see out, how could anyone see in?I was born in the provincial city of Bristol, England, but have avidly frequented the brightest capitals of the world ever since, and now keep a permanent residence in the so-called, through misnamed, glamour capital of Hollywood.I had no sisters, was separated from my mother when I was nine years old, was stammeringly shy in the presence of girls; yet have married three times and found myself making love on the screen -- in public, mind you, in front of millions of people -- to such fascinating women as Ingrid Bergman, Doris Day, Mae West, Irene Dunne, Deborah Kerr, Eva Marie Saint, Sophia Loren, Marlene Dietrich and Grace Kelly.I was an only child, and first saw the light of day -- or rather the dark of night -- around 1:00 a.m. on a cold January morning, in a suburban stone house which, lacking modern heating conveniences, kept only one step ahead of freezing by means of small coal fires in small bedroom fireplaces; and ever since, I've persistently arranged to spend every possible moment where the sun shines warmest. My father made no more than a modest living and we had little money. Yet today I am considered, except among the wealthy, to be wealthy. I received only a sketchy education by most scholastic standards, lacked confidence and the courage to enjoy life, but on the screen seem to have successfully epitomized an informed, capable and happy man. A series of contradictions too evident to be coincidental. Perhaps the original circumstances caused, created and provoked all the others. Perhaps they can all be reconciled into one complete life, my own, as I recall each step that led to each next step and look back on the path of my life from this older and, I trust, more mature viewpoint.I have spent the greater part of my life fluctuating between Archie Leach and Cary Grant; unsure of either, suspecting each. Only recently have I begun to unify them into one person: the man and boy in me, the hate and the love and all the degrees of each in me, and the power of God in me.I've read many paragraphs, many articles, many books about many people in many professions, and I've read about myself. And it's seldom that I can say on reading such information, "I know that man or woman." Indeed, often, when I read about myself, it is so not about me that I'm inclined to believe it's really about the writer. Much of it is fantasy, exaggeration, drivel or further embellished retellings of past inaccuracies. For instance, hardly a week goes by that I don't read about my proficiency in yoga, my fanatical attention to diet and my regular swimming workouts. In truth I know little or nothing about yoga, and had it not been for my second wife, Barbara Hutton (whose ability to sit peaceably for hours in the lotus position gained my admiration but, I lazily admit, not my imitation), I might never have known anything at all about even the basic yoga positions. My diet is extraordinary perhaps only from the viewpoint of my close friends, who have named me "the scavenger" because, after finishing every morsel of my own meal, I look around to purloin whatever little delicacies they've left uneaten on their plates. Being a good leaver is practically a requisite for any friend who is invited to luncheon or to dine with me, I can tell you. And about the only regular swimming I do is in my head around each April fifteenth, when I'm confronted with those astronomical income-tax figures.Now if those sorts of exercises -- or lack of them -- keep me fit, then I've got the right system. On the other hand, if I happen to drop dead tomorrow, then I've obviously been doing it wrong. Autographs: Hmmmm. Once in later years I spotted Charles Chaplin in a drugstore near Times Square and, watching from an unnoticed distance, saw person after person contrive to talk to him or approach him on some pretext or another or, too often, to ask for his autograph. What do people do with autographs? It’s a harmless enough pursuit, but with what useful objective?I have written thousands upon thousands of autographs. The daily stream begins with the first showing of one’s face in the morning and ceases only at night in the privacy of one’s rooms. The gratification of just one request brings the next watchful person toward me, resulting in an endless chain, as newcomers arrive to see who is in the middle of that group over there. By the time I’ve escaped, the original requester is home comfortably tucked in bed. I’ve been stuck in hotel lobbies, restaurants, airports, washrooms, and parking lots. I’ve been backed up against walls, and conspicuously pinned in the middle of traffic and theater rows; an innocent blight to all who had the misfortune to be seated near me. Well-abiding citizens regard me with baleful eyes as the cause of the blockade or disturbance that whirls around them. According to them, I’m to blame. Not the autograph seeker. No, the fact of me is to blame. If I refuse to sign, I’m mean. If I agree to sign, I’m a menace What to do?Except for children, whose requests I try to fulfill whenever practical, the people I would like most to know are those least inclined to approach me. Instead I am often confronted by the aggressive type. Their tactless trespassing as I lift a fork to mouth is accompanied with remarks such as “My children will kill me if I don’t bring home your autograph†or “My wife won’t believe I saw you if I don’t get your signature.†Such opening gambits trouble me about the status of their family relationships. I get indigestion. I burp.It has been written that I am rude to autograph seekers. That’s not true. I am rude only to rude autograph seekers.Still, there are compensations, and the ceaseless daily bother is forgotten when occasionally some considerate person comes quietly alongside me to say “Mr. G., I just want to thank you on behalf of my family and myself for the many happy hours you’ve given us.†I want to embrace him or her before they slip from my view, leaving me aglow and breathing easily again. The Accent:Eventually, of course, I learned to risk hearing the sound of my own voice in front of an audience; and later, in films, to accepting its accent resounding in the immense amplification of our modern movie theaters. I’ve also reluctantly grown accustomed to the tremendous size of my face in close-ups; to accepting the magnification of all my imperfections. All there. The way I sound. The way I move. The way I look. All magnified to the very bags under my eyes. It’s quite easy for everyone else to think it’s easy; buy could you bear such magnification? Seeing yourself as others see you is not only ‘orribly revealing, it’s downright masochistic, that’s wot it is.Until only a few years ago I had a recurring vocational nightmare stemming from my early fears in the theater. In the dream I stand on the lighted stage of a vast theater facing a silent, waiting audience. I am the star, and I am surrounded by a large cast of actors, each of whom knows exactly what to do and what to say! And I can’t remember my lines! I can’t remember them because I’ve been too lazy to study them. I can find no way to bluff it through, and I stand there, inept and insecure. I make a fool of myself,. I am ashamed. I try to speak, but don’t know what I am talking about. Now, actually, in life, I don’t mind not knowing what I’m talking about. It’s just that I don’t want anyone else to know that I don’t know what I’m talking about.The meaning of my dream would be clear to any amateur psychologist. Even though now well established in my profession, I often feel insufficiently prepared, insufficiently knowledgeable; fearful of appearing foolish and publicly shamed. Coney Island on Stilts: In 1922, Coney Island was clean, freshly painted and well dept. There was little or no traffic on the main avenues, and people dressed in their carnival best. With a great new boardwalk and a great new hotel it was heralded to become the great new Eastern seaside resort that it never became. After extolling its past glories while driving there a few years ago with a friend of Spencer Tracy’s and mine, a distinguished Boston physician, I was shocked to come upon its dilapidation and decadence. I imagine the good doctor was too; perhaps he thought I needed a doctor! Still, to an eager, ambitious 18-year-old Englishman with, possibly, the blood of Vikings in his veins, it looked like this must be the place.I presented myself to Mr. Tilyou for the job at his Steeplechase Park and he, true to his word, presented me with a doorman’s uniform: a bright-green coat with red braid and a bright-green jockey cap with read peak. Well! I supplied the long tubelike black trousers — specially made, too; cost a bomb — and stilts to go with them, and there I was, high in the air, striding slowly up and down, up and down, up and down, advertising the place. I wore no placards, just that resplendent uniform and an unstiff upper lip.You see how everything we learn comes in handy? If I hadn’t been badgered, cajoled, dared, bullied and helped into walking those high stilts when I was a boy in the Pender troupe, I might have starved that summer — or gone back to Bristol. And this might never have been written. You lucky people.I got $40 a week. P-retty good in 1922, when it bought so much more than it buys today. Five dollars a day except for Saturdays and Sundays. I got $10 for each of those two days, due to occupational unpredictablities. Y’see, with the children out of school roaming around looking for something educational, my tall figure presented a tempting target for aspiring Jack the Giant-killers. Saturdays and Sundays were hazardous. No doubt about it.There were all sorts of opening moves, and from my altitude I could follow the beginning of each maneuver, the strategy and deploy. I could predict the concerted rush, and spot the deceptive saunter resulting in the rear-guard shove; or the playful ring-around-the-rosy, with me as the rosy, beaming daffily down on the little faces of impending disaster. I dreaded the lone ace who came zeroing in out of the sun, flying a small bamboo cane with a curved handle. One good yank as he whizzed past and he’d won the encounter hands down (my hands down), with full honors and an accolade from admiring bystanders.After a few graceful air-clutching staggers, it still took about three lifetime seconds for me to topple — TIMBER! — and by the time I was spread-eagled on the street, those frolicsome urchins were yards away, innocently pointing at airplanes that weren’t there.Still, I occasionally outwitted them by grabbing a nearby awning, wile parrying with an elongated wooden leg; but often some sturdy young squirt, joined quickly by volunteers of his cowardly gang, and sometimes even a crazy stranger or two, would grab the stilt’s foot and tug steadily. It became an interesting speculation which would come away first — the awning, or me. Usually I came away first, resulting in an entirely different, much more entertaining, sort of flailing parabolic descent, known as the backward high gruesome.Well, that job didn’t last long, I can tell you. Money: Habitually, I’m a man who examines and totals the restaurant check. And so should you at today’s prices; but if you’re afraid to, disinclined to, or too embarrassed to, then that’s up to you. I indulge in no such insecurities. I examine my bills. Just as any other sensible man would when doing business at any other place.Which reminds me that Time magazine recently claimed I still have the first nickel I ever made. I really should look for it. A nickel of that vintage ought to be a collector’s item by now and worth quite a bit more. Perhaps, like all those bartenders who keep the first dollar they take in, I could frame it so that the income-tax department would always know where to find the four and a half cents they collect from each five I earn. Of course, I’d prefer they didn’t, but if they didn’t, then I might not be able to write with such freedom or in such safety.Time also reported I counted out change to one of my wives. Now isn’t that odd? Especially since I don’t remember giving any of them any change at any time. I was more intent upon getting theirs for my piggy bank.I like money. Anybody know anyone who doesn’t? You do? He’s a liar.When it comes to income tax, I have little knowledge of its ever-changing regulations and complexities, and leave such matters to men who specialize in them. I have the ability to earn large sums and trust they will be properly, fairly and legally used and administered. Hundreds of letters asking for personal help reach me weekly from scattered hopefuls. But aside from the nationwide charities, the local Community Chest, and certain other organizations which receive annual donations from me, my advisers insist I give to none of them.There has recently been an extraordinary rash of people eager to make easy pin money by compiling a cookbook of celebrities’ recipes. I’ve given up answering them. There’s an even larger accumulation of mail from people who’ve decided to hold auction sales of “little personal items†from celebrities. It is no longer possible to answer each request. It would take a larger office staff than I now possess and my home would be empty of belongings and I would be broke and, in turn, unable to retain either the home or the office. First car: In 1928 I bought an automobile. Bought it before I could drive it. A Packard. At that time the finest of American-made cars. There was almost no chromium in those days, and all shiny parts had to be polished with metal polish. An arduous task, but for me a work of love. I washed, polished, scrubbed, waxed, patted, doted upon, and finally even learned to drive, that car. It was a phaeton, called a touring car; a model no longer made. It had a 143-inch wheelbase, which made it difficult to lumber around corners. On my first day out for a spin in the country, having only just called for two young ladies, who sat demurely in the back, I began to make a nice wide turn, but couldn’t properly manage to alternate my foot between the gas and brake pedals, and plowed slowly and steadily into a bright new car that a surprised middle-aged gentleman had just finished parking. Well, he got out. And I got out. The girls remained in the car.I told him how sorry I was and explained that I was unaccustomed to driving such a long car and indeed, in lower tones, unaccustomed to driving any kind of car, and only trying to impress those two young ladies who sat over there in the back seat. He looked at me for a long, silent moment, then bade me good-day with a smile of forgiveness and a raise of the hat. I’ve often wondered about that man. Rare. Probably French. Only the French have that sense of the romantic. Personally I would have blown my top. Women and marriages: Well, there you are. That was my trouble. Always trying to impress someone. Now wouldn’t you think that with a new, shiny, expensive open car, and an open-neck shirt, with a pipe in my mouth to create a carefully composed study of nonchalance, sportiveness, savoir-faire and sophistication, I would cut quite a swath amongst ladies? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you? Nothing of the sort.There’s no question about aesthetics being only surface deep. In all those years in the theater, on the road and in New York, surrounded by all sorts of attractive girls, I never seemed able to fully communicate with them.Most of the young women with whom I formed attachments eventually made it evident that I was, from their point of view, impossible. And I was. I’m not too possible even now. But enough deserved kicks in the rear over the years finally caught my attention and, looking back upon the bruises — quite a contortion in itself — I’ve finally learned to appreciate the lessons they ought to have taught me at the times they were so painfully received. The trouble about my formative years is that the forming, or rather reforming, has been a slower process than it might have been had I paid attention.And if I had paid attention I might have found contentment in marriage.Looking back, it doesn’t seem possible that I was married and, alas, divorced, three times.My first wife was Virginia Cherrill, the beautiful girl who made such an impression as the blind heroine in Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights. We were married in 1934, at Caxton Hall, a London Registry Office, amidst a flurry of photographers, newsmen and serio-comic adventures; and separated seven months later. I doubt if either of us was capable of relaxing sufficiently to trust the happiness we might have had. My possessiveness and fear of losing her brought about the very condition it feared; the loss of her.My second wife was Barbara Hutton, grand-daughter of F. W. Woolworth and heiress to his fortune. We were married in 1942, at the Lake Arrowhead home of my manager, Frank Vincent, who, until he died, was one of the happiest influences on my life. It was a quiet ceremony attended only by those closest to Barbara and me; we separated two years later.Our marriage had little foundation for a promising future. Our backgrounds — family, educational and cultural — were completely unalike. Perhaps that in itself was the initial attraction; but during war years and my absences from home on Army-camp, USO-entertainment and hospital tours, we had little opportunity to discuss, or to learn from and adjust to, each other’s divergent points of view; and, by that means, to close the wide gap between our individual beliefs and upbringings. It could have benefited us both.I doubt if anyone ever understood Barbara. But then I doubt if Barbara ever understood herself. But I remain deeply obliged to her for a welcome education in the beauties of the arts and other evidences of man’s capability for gracious expression and graceful living.My third wife was Betsy Drake. We were married in 1949, on Christmas Day, in a small, charming ranch house near Scottsdale, Arizona, to which we were flown by Howard Hughes, the best man: a man who may never know the fullness of my gratitude for his trouble and unquestioning expression of friendship. It was an extraordinary day. A day that would take chapters to relate; thoughtfully planned by an extraordinary mind.Betsy and I separated 10 years later. Besty was good for me. Without imposition or demand, she patiently led me toward an appreciation for better books, better literature. Her cautious but steadily penetrative seeking in the labyrinths of the subconscious gradually provoked my interest. Just as she no doubt intended. The seeking is, of course, endless, but, I thankfully acknowledge of constantly growing benefit.For more than 30 years of my life I had smoked with increasing habit. I was finally separated from the addiction by Betsy, who, after carefully studying hypnosis, practiced it, with my full permission and trust, as I was going off to sleep one night. She sat in a chair near the bed and, in a quiet, calm voice, rhythmically repeated what I inwardly knew to be true, the fact that smoking was not good for me; and, as my conscious mind relaxed and no longer cared to offer a negative thought, her words sank into my subconscious; and the following day, to my surprise I had no need or wish to smoke. Nor have I smoked since. Nor have I, as far as I know, replaced it with any other harmful habit.Soon after that night, in proof of the adage that those who help others help themselves, which should especially apply in a marriage, my wife also found herself no longer attracted to smoking, and gave it up. The drone of her voice at that late hour, just as prayers said at such times, had evidently impressed itself upon her own subconscious as well.I’ve never clearly resolved why Betsy and I parted. We lived together, not as easily and contentedly as some, perhaps; yet, it seemed to me, as far as one marriage can be compared with any other, compatibly happier than most. I owe a lot to Betsy.But only recently have I learned that love demands nothing and understands all without reproach. I could write a long book about any of my marriages. For that matter, I suppose a long book could be written about just one short moment of life. Or an apple. Or a pair of shoes.Why do I write even this much? Is it in order to tell the truth as it seemed to be; because truth itself shifts in perspective and may be colored by the need to impress and affect; or is it with a wish to believe that circumstances were as I write rather than what they actually were?No, I think I wrote this much because so many journalists have made it their profitable business to mind my business by writing what they think I believe, and how, according to them, I feel. Most interviewers are stimulating; I enjoy talking with them, though frequently wonder why they care to sit listening to my chatter. I’m a garrulous fellow. Yet, with the exception of Joe Hyams, of the New York Herald Tribune Syndicate, who arranged for this story to be printed, and Roderick Mann, of the London Sunday Express, a valued friend, I’ve shared no really intimate thoughts with any other interviewers.I am not proud of my marriage record. It was not the fault of Hollywood, but my own inadequacies. Of my own inconstancy. My mistrust of constancy. I doubt if Hollywood lists any more divorces than most other tows of equal population in the English-speaking materialistic world. Nor do I know whether the right to divorce is right or wrong. It is probably both. Like everything else.Since our separation and Betsy’s subsequent divorce from me, I’ve read about myself being “out with†all sorts of ladies: some I’ve never met, some whose names are unknown to me, and some who don’t even exist.One eager reporter from a London rag, and believe me that have two or three â€beauts†over there, had merely seen me lunching with Mrs. Tom Montaque Meyer, a mature happily married woman whose face and talents as writer and painter under the name Fleur Cowles are recognized in most international circles, yet he chidingly began to question me about the different young girls with whom, according to his own unreliable paper mind you, I was “always,†that was his word, being seen; exactly, of course, what he himself would have loved to be doing; although how he was ever able to reconcile my friend Fleur and that word “always,†in his mind, was beyond me. Anyway, later, in the car, as I was letting off steam, my amused chauffeur, an adjusted home-loving man with three children, said, “Never mind, Mr. Grant. Just think. It would be much worse if they printed you were out with a different young boy every night.â€Last year a local party gossip sweetly snorted that I received letters from 15- and 16-year-old girls ... tsk, tsk ... as if, with some telepathically immoral intent, I’d induced them to write me. Certainly I receive letters from 15- and 16-year-old girls; and 10-year-old girls, and 20-, 30-, 40-, 50-, 60-, and 70-year-old girls, and what is wrong with that? Perhaps I should have a clairvoyant secretary divine which mail comes from 15- and 16-year-old girls and return all of it unopened to the puzzled young senders, just to please that honey-mouthed harridan.I get hundreds and hundreds of letters; and I’m delighted to get them all. You can write too, fellows, if you wish. If it makes you feel better to pen a few thoughts to another human, then by all means direct them at me. It’s unlikely I’ll be able to write back. I haven’t enough time to acknowledge even all my present mail; but any reasoning person will understand and excuse my inability to answer. But write, if you care to write; all you wish. I welcome the thoughts of others. How else can I learn?In closing: I have made over 60 pictures and lived in Hollywood for more than 30 years. Thirty years spent in the stimulating company of hard-working, excitable, dedicated, loving, serious, honest, good people. Casts and crews. I recognize and respect them. I know their faults and their insecurities. I hope they know and forgive mine. Thirty years ago my hair was black and wavy. Today it’s gray and bristly. But today people in cars, stopped alongside me at a traffic light, smile at me!I feel fine. Alone. But fine. My mother is quite elderly. My wives have divorced me, and I await a woman with the best qualities of each. I will endow her with those qualities because they will be in my own point of view.As a philosopher once said, “You cannot judge the day until the night.†Since it is for me evening, or at least teatime, I can now look back and assess the day. It’s been a glorious adventure up to here — even the saddest parts — and I look forward to seeing the rest of the film. Just as I did in 1932 when I sat in that Paramount Studio office. I took up the pen and wrote for the first time “Cary Grant.†And that’s who, it seems, I am. Well, as some profound fellow said, “I’d be a nut to go through all that again, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.†And that goes for this autobiography.