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An excerpt from Barbara Leaming's biography on Katharine Hepburn.
On-screen, Katharine Hepburn played a feisty beauty who always walked off with the leading man. But her real-life romances never ended so neatly. In this moving excerpt from her new biography, Barbara Leaming traces the arc of Hepburn’s life; from the trauma of a family suicide to her final days with Spence.
Katharine Hepburn was 13 in the spring of 1921, when her brother Tom’s marked nervousness led Dr. and Mrs. Hepburn to attempt to “divert” him with a five-day trip to New York City in the company of Kathy and his godmother, Mary Towle. Two days after Easter, Aunty, as Towle was known to the family, went with Tom and Kathy on the train from Hartford to New York.
Photographs of Tom in this period show a broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome 15-year-old on the brink of young manhood. He assumed responsibility for his sister at the outset of their Greenwich Village holiday. In New York, he purchased two parlor-car tickets for the return trip.
Downtown at Aunty’s little red brick house at 26 Charlton Street, Tom carried his suitcase up three flights to an attic storeroom. Beneath a sloping roof, a freshly made cot filled a tiny alcove. Kathy slept in a room on a lower floor with Aunty.
On Friday evening, Tom seemed to be in high spirits when Aunty took the young people uptown for a screening of a new silent film based on A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. In the dark of the movie theater, however, Tom’s mood shifted violently when the image of a hanging flashed on-screen. Deeply shaken, Tom confided to Kathy that the scene had given him “the horrors,” and she understood perfectly. The year before, she and Dr. Hepburn had discovered Tom hanging by the neck from a noose at home. The boy had insisted he was only trying a mock-hanging stunt Dr. Hepburn had often described from his own youth. Any parent would likely be appalled by the sight of a child playing with nooses—especially a child of Tom’s nervous temperament. In a family with a history of three suicides (Dr. Hepburn’s brother had jumped from a window to his death, and Mrs. Hepburn’s father and uncle had shot themselves), the incident should have set off alarm bells. But the Hepburns tended to avoid speaking of their most troubling thoughts and emotions. Eager to accept Tom’s explanation, Dr. Hepburn instructed the boy not to try the stunt again.
After Tom, Kathy, and Aunty left the cinema, Tom struggled to regain his composure. On Saturday night, he played his banjo and sang with Aunty and Kathy in the living room. To Mary Towle’s relief, “the horrors” appeared to have evaporated. They all went to their rooms at 10 o’clock.
The next morning, Kathy enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with Aunty. At nine, Aunty sent Kathy to see what was keeping Tom. When he failed to respond, Kathy tried the doorknob, but the garret was locked. Alarmed, she forced the door. She brushed against something, turned, and screamed. Tom was hanging by the neck from a rafter. Evidently he had ripped up a bedsheet and braided the strips of cloth to improvise a rope. He tied one end to a large metal bedspring lying on the floor. He fashioned a noose, tossed the rope over a rafter, and fitted the noose to his neck. He climbed up on a packing case and jumped. The rope was too long; his feet hit ground. Bending his knees and pitching his weight forward, Tom applied all his strength to pull at the metal bedspring and tighten the noose. He died of slow strangulation. Since his feet always touched ground, there was nothing to prevent his stopping at any time—except the determination to destroy himself.
Alerted by Kathy’s scream, Aunty raced up the three flights. Hysterical, she sent Kathy to fetch a neighbor, who told Mary Towle to notify the police.
Finally the Hepburns arrived. Dr. Hepburn staunchly denied that Tom could have committed suicide. On Tuesday morning, April 5, his statement appeared in The New York Times under the headline SAYS SON’S HANGING WAS BOYISH “STUNT.”
In the year that followed, it seemed to Bob Hepburn, eight, that his sister Kathy was acting strangely. Now 14, she went to bed early each night and rose at 5:30 A.M. Whenever Bob got out of bed, he knew he would find Kathy bent over her desk, “furiously attacking her studies” with a “great seriousness” she had never before shown for schoolwork. Bob wondered about Kathy’s relationship with their parents. Whatever had happened in New York had created a mysterious bond that seemed to exclude the other children.
The Hepburns had produced their family in carefully spaced pairs: Tom and Kathy, Dick and Bob, Marion and Peg. In Tom’s absence, the dynamics shifted drastically as Kathy formed a new grouping with Dr. and Mrs. Hepburn; they spent time together in ways that set them apart from the rest of the household. Kathy seemed to crave solitude. The gaunt, unreachable, suspicious girl forced most people to keep their distance. Watching his sister, Bob sensed that somehow she was trying to become Tom.
Eventually, there was talk that Kathy planned to become a doctor, as Tom would have had he lived. Lest there remain any doubt about her intentions, Kathy abandoned her May 12 date of birth, appropriating Tom’s November 8 birthday for her own. In the aftermath of Tom’s death, Kathy became her father’s clear favorite.
Kate Hepburn, as she came to be known at Bryn Mawr, gradually emerged from the solitude in which she had enveloped herself after Tom’s suicide. The inability to master a basic chemistry course, coupled with poor grades, led her to abandon her plans to be a doctor in favor of a stage career. At school Kate became a much-talked-about talent in dramatic productions. Getting started in the New York theater, however, seemed agonizingly slow at times. In 1928 she was understudying a socialite named Hope Williams in Philip Barry’s play Holiday. “How are you feeling tonight?” Kate would ask whenever Williams peered out of her dressing-room door. Kate’s eagerness only strengthened the resolve of Hope and her friends to keep the understudy from ever going on.
Perhaps sensing that nothing would give Kate greater pleasure than to walk out of the show, Ludlow Ogden Smith, her rich, handsome beau of the moment, pressed her to marry him. And Kate shocked Arthur Hopkins, the play’s producer, with the sudden announcement that she was giving up acting to marry Smith.
Tall, with rosy cheeks and thinning black hair doused in tonic and brushed straight back, Luddy, as the well-connected young Philadelphian was known, had been madly pursuing Kate since Bryn Mawr. She appeared to enjoy bossing him about. It seemed to Bob Hepburn that Luddy, so sweet and eager to please, was no match for his sister, who was a “natural boss” like Dr. Hepburn. To get Kate to marry him, Luddy had even agreed to change his name when she balked at the prospect of being known as Mrs. Smith. He rechristened himself Ogden Ludlow. Mrs. Hepburn worried that Kate, indeed the entire family, would “run roughshod” over the poor besotted fellow.
When the couple returned from their honeymoon in Bermuda, they looked at stone farmhouses along the rural fantasy of Philadelphia’s Main Line. Suddenly, Kate was stricken. “What am I doing?” she asked herself. “I couldn’t live here!” The house hunt was abruptly canceled, and Kate told Luddy that she needed to return to New York at once. Instead of offering a protest, Luddy cheerfully agreed to follow. Kate went directly to Arthur Hopkins’s office. “Yes, of course,” said Hopkins. “ I expected you.”
Kate was clearly of two minds about Luddy’s readiness to give in. Strong-willed like her father, she expected to get her way. Perhaps only her family could see that even as Kate gleefully bossed Luddy around there was part of her that longed for him to react “strongly.”
By any standard, the newlyweds led an unusual life in New York, where Kate went back to work as Hope Williams’s understudy. Hardly would Luddy have returned from his job at a Vanderbilt Avenue insurance-brokerage house when Kate would sweep out of their East 39th Street brownstone apartment and jog crosstown to the Plymouth Theatre. In his wife’s absence, Luddy tinkered with an elaborate miniature railroad he had spent years constructing. The music of Debussy, Stravinsky, Wagner, and the other composers in Luddy’s vast record collection blasted on the Victrola. Many of Kate’s colleagues in the theater never even knew she was married.
In 1932, after playing only three notable Broadway roles, Hepburn went to Hollywood to make her first picture, A Bill of Divorcement, directed by George Cukor and co-starring John Barrymore. This tearjerker was a great success, and the following year she began an affair with the dazzling Hollywood agent Leland Hayward. That relationship spelled an end to life with Luddy, who, even after Kate divorced him in 1934, would remain for years like a member of the family. Kate would never marry again. Instead, she would devote much of the remainder of her life to two of Hollywood’s most difficult and self-destructive geniuses.
Many years later, Hepburn realized that close as she had been to John Ford and Spencer Tracy, both redheaded Irishmen, she had never really understood either one. She was drawn to the identical quality in both men, which she called an oversensitivity to life. Like her brother Tom, Ford and Tracy were capable of being devastated by the world. This raw sensitivity was part of what made them such powerful artists, but it also wreaked havoc with their lives.
Several years before Hepburn knew either man, Ford and Tracy had met in New York. It was the spring of 1930. John Ford, then 36, was already one of the most revered directors in Hollywood. A tall, pensive, intimidating figure who walked with surprising grace, he wore a battered felt hat pulled down over his forehead and small round glasses. He wore Irish-tweed jackets and yellow or white flannel trousers—always of the finest quality—until they were ready to rot. Often he rolled his trousers up to the ankles and looped a necktie around his waist instead of a belt.
Ford went to New York in search of an actor for Up the River, a prison picture then in preparation at the Fox Film Corporation. On his first night in town, he saw the death-row drama The Last Mile, starring Spencer Tracy as a condemned man who stages a bloody prison mutiny. One look at Tracy’s high-pressure performance and Ford decided.
“I’m not handsome and I can prove it,” Tracy joked when Ford visited him backstage. The actor’s laugh had a wounded quality that Ford found beautiful. Although “Spence” was only 30, lines webbed his forehead. An insomniac, Tracy liked to stay out all night, belting the brew and visiting brothels; among madams he was known as a mean drunk who had beaten up a prostitute in a bordello called Lu’s. His friends would often have to carry him home at dawn to the apartment he shared with his wife, Louise, and their deaf six-year-old son, Johnny.
Offered $800 a week to appear in a single film, Tracy brooded about whether he deserved the big break Ford was giving him. His nature was deeply pessimistic. In Hollywood, Ford became Tracy’s mentor and father figure. Ford knew how to handle Tracy’s bouts of raging insecurity. When Fox nearly canceled Up the River on account of a rival prison picture, MGM’s The Big House, starring Wallace Beery and Chester Morris, Tracy went wild. Ford laughed and told him not to worry.
Ford deftly turned his story into a comedy, launching the apprehensive Tracy as a film comic. Spencer was a natural, Ford declared. Tracy may not have been comfortable in his own skin, but he certainly appeared relaxed in front of a camera. Ford admired Tracy’s technique because it was barely perceptible. The successful completion of Up the River did little to assuage Tracy’s self-doubt. Ford, for his part, did everything to put Tracy at ease.
Ford’s overtures to Tracy included frequent invitations to bring Mrs. Tracy and their son, Johnny, to the Santa Monica beach house Ford rented for his wife, Mary, and children, Patrick and Barbara. Mrs. Ford was a dark, formidable figure with heavy eyebrows and a large aquiline nose. Her thick black hair was knotted in a huge bun at the nape of the neck. She wore a slash of crimson lipstick. To Ford’s friends and associates, Mary was known as “the lion tamer.” Shrill and argumentative, she relished cutting this larger-than-life figure down to size. Ford always seemed a little frightened of Mary. Rough-and-tumble fellows such as John Wayne tiptoed around her.
Although Mary had grown up a poor relation shuffled between family members in New Jersey, she made much ado of her aristocratic North Carolina background. She accused her husband of being weak and unmanly. She mocked his “shanty Irish” background. Ford, in turn, brooded about the fact that Mary, a Scots-Irish Presbyterian, was a divorcée whose first husband was still alive. That had made it problematic for them to marry in the Roman Catholic Church, which, to a devout Catholic such as Ford, meant that they were not really married at all. At times, Ford regarded this as a shame and disgrace to them both; at other times, the lack of a Catholic ceremony offered a ray of hope that someday he might escape the unhappy marriage once and for all.
In the spring of 1932, Ford met Kate Hepburn, then appearing on Broadway in The Warrior’s Husband, which Fox was interested in filming. Two years after he had discovered Spencer Tracy on Broadway, Ford was back in New York, shooting a screen test of Hepburn. She selected a scene from Philip Barry’s The Animal Kingdom. She appeared with a touch of lipstick, her hair parted on the side and pulled straight back off her face. Ford marveled at her ability to seem sophisticated one moment, like a child of 8 or 10 the next. He described her as “a split personality, half pagan, half Puritan.”
For all of Ford’s excitement, the test did not result in a movie offer. Years later, Ford and George Cukor would often joke about which director had really discovered Hepburn. Ford may have seen her first, but it had been Cukor who, on the basis of his screen test, persuaded David Selznick to bring Hepburn to Hollywood to make A Bill of Divorcement. By the time she worked with Ford, on Mary of Scotland in 1936, she had made eight other pictures and was a major star who had already won her first Academy Award, for Morning Glory in 1933.
With actresses, Ford tended to be courtly. If a man used vulgar language in front of a woman, Ford would instantly banish him from the set. Yet at times he could hardly conceal his lack of pleasure in directing women. He was a man’s director and proud of it. For all that, to those who had worked often with Ford and knew him best, he seemed a different man in Hepburn’s presence. Ordinarily at lunchtime he would disappear to a portable dressing room, where he took off his shirt and snoozed for 45 minutes. But on Mary of Scotland, Ford regularly presided over a big, noisy table in the RKO commissary. Hepburn, in jodhpurs, sat at his side. They joked, sang, told stories, baited, teased, and insulted each other mercilessly. Ford’s cronies treated Hepburn like one of the boys, and she appeared to love it.
“You’re a hell of a fine girl,” Ford assured her. “If you’d just learn to shut up and knuckle under, you’d probably make somebody a nice wife.” Her fearlessness enchanted him. He loved that she was irreverent and violently opinionated. He respected her intelligence and thirst for knowledge about every aspect of filmmaking.
One day during the shooting, Hepburn and Cukor went sailing with Ford and some of his friends on the Araner, the double-masted 110-foot ketch named after the Aran Islands, birthplace of Ford’s mother. The Araner was very special to Ford; he had grown up around ships in Maine and loved the sea. For his wife, the $30,000 yacht was a treasured status symbol. But for Ford, the Araner was a place to relax, to feel “loose as a goose.” And it provided a means of escape.
When a film was done, Ford sometimes stocked the Araner with cases of Irish whiskey and sailed to Mexico. He hired a mariachi band to follow as he made the rounds of whorehouses, where he drank and soaked in the atmosphere. Eventually, when he was too drunk and sick to go ashore, he would order the band to play continuously on deck or in the mahogany-paneled main saloon. For days on end, he lay alone in a tiny, cramped cabin, preferring that to the master suite, whose ornate fourposter marriage bed he usually assigned to John Wayne or some other pal.
Cukor was well aware of Hepburn’s feelings for Ford and what that must mean for her ongoing relationship with her agent lover. When Cukor signed the Araner guest register on April 12, he wrote in the remarks column, “Poor Leland!”
That day, Hepburn wore a white T-shirt under a navy cardigan sweater and brief navy shorts with a white stripe down each side. Except for a trace of lipstick, she wore no makeup. Chin-length hair blew back off her face as she sat cross-legged on the polished deck. Ford perched in a chair as Hepburn vigorously massaged his feet.
Hepburn’s background as a tomboy in a house full of brothers made it easy to fit into Ford’s masculine world. Life with Dr. Hepburn had also taught another lesson; watching her mother, Kate had learned to defer to the male. Ford was a profoundly unhappy man—and stubbornly self-destructive. In 1934 his doctor had diagnosed an enlarged liver and other symptoms attributable to alcohol. Ford drank in search of oblivion. He was a periodic alcoholic who exercised control over when he hit the bottle: never during a picture, always after.
Ford religiously went on a binge when he finished a movie. But Mary of Scotland would be different. By the time the day trip on the Araner ended, Hepburn and Ford had discovered another shared passion, the sea. Hepburn wanted Ford to experience the Fenwick, Connecticut, waterfront where she had spent her summers growing up. Vowing not to disappear to Mexico with the boys, he promised to accompany her. John Ford was in love.
When Ford completed work on Mary of Scotland on April 23, he and Hepburn headed to New York, where she met with the Theatre Guild to discuss appearing in a stage version of Jane Eyre in the 1936–37 season. When Hepburn signed a contract, she anticipated that after a Broadway run Ford might do a film of the play with her in the starring role.
They went to see Hepburn’s family at Fenwick—always an indispensable stop in her relationships—and Dr. and Mrs. H
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