A Connecticut Yankee Holds Her Own Court

What does become a legend most?

It’s a concept I’ve batted around a bit over the years, trying to figure out the difference between celebrity and talent, wondering what exactly it is that catapults an illustrious personality to mythical status, and why these heroes seem to matter so much in American culture.

The real stuff of legends, I think, is glorious from the inside out. The real stuff of legends is about ethical tenacity, focused achievement, influence that transcends generations. Fame can be unrelated to fortune. Traits of personality are bundled into a dynamic, fill-the-room-up presence, an arching aura. And living legends are in a league all their own, winners of some magical Golden Glow Award radiating vitality even despite the flicker of waning years.

Which brings me to Katharine Hepburn, and the emotions felt during an hourlong visit with her one cloudy afternoon last spring in the East Side Manhattan townhouse she has called home for more than 50 years. Sitting across from her in a cozy second-floor sitting room, overlooking a luxurious garden courtyard characteristic to the four-story brownstones of her historic Turtle Bay district, I was thrilled by the experience of having dropped in on her highly protected world.

Her notorious inaccessibility and her fierce independence have been among the most alluring aspects to her mystique, and the reality of having broken through that patrician reserve with jovial conversation and laughter not only made me feel privileged, it inspired me in some way. It was during our meeting that day when I decided what a legend is: You know you’re with one when you realize that just by sitting in his or her company, you’re using up at least nine of your own 15 minutes of fame.

She was smaller in stature than expected, slightly stooped yet stylish in her distinctive early J. Crew look, an athletic ensemble much as I had predicted: baggy khaki pants, black turtleneck, red sweater tied around her neck, sporty black tennis shoes, flaming red socks.

Her skin is rashed and mottled from years of swimming and sun. Still, the signature cheekbones, envied by generations of female moviegoers, remain enviable, and the familiar knot of grayish red hair was clumped as usual on top of her head. And though time may have dimmed the sculpted luminescence we remember as Tracy Lord from “The Philadelphia Story” or Tess Harding from “Woman of the Year,” her shiny blue eyes beamed intriguingly, bright as spinning marbles.

She alternated between being perturbed and puzzled by the encroaching failure of her physical dexterity--a badly damaged right foot and ankle from a car accident years ago, the constant pain of a malfunctioning shoulder--yet she was doggedly insistent about “carrying on as usual, beating the bore of how your whole body becomes affected.”

Ignoring the other ailments, she went on to explain about her bad foot in telegraphic snippets and a raspy drawl. “Smashed it to smithereens. Have had it operated on three times but it just doesn’t recover. I can walk fast but can’t run or play tennis. Miss the game terribly.”

Bad foot or no bad foot, this magnificent 85-year-old, this Connecticut Yankee fit for any court, is definitely in charge. She is highly intelligent, an icon of integrity, polite, unpredictable, inquisitive, candid, modest, non-reflective, extremely witty, as confident as a well-heeled thoroughbred and brilliantly in control.

And this was the command post, her favorite black leather recliner, the adjacent table brimming with chunks of crystal, petrified wood, cannonballs, her magnifying glass and a black rotary phone she always answers herself. From the ceiling hung a carved wooden goose, its neck arched in honk-ready irritation, which belonged to Spencer Tracy. I can still hear the resounding tone in the way she said “Spencer.” Like their 25-year relationship, it was eloquent and private, authoritative and affectionate.

Late-afternoon light streamed through the windows of the well-worn parlor where the bright Turkish carpets contrasted with the white slipcovered sofa and chairs surrounding the sturdy wooden coffee table and sideboard. There was pre-Columbian sculpture on the hearth, and an ornately carved wooden mantle over the fireplace showcased a clock given to her by Ethel Barrymore, antique candleholders from her father, and a collection of mementos and small bronze figurines--some autobiographical, some relating to film roles--sculpted by the actress.

In the corner was a vase of fresh wildflowers, loosestrife, yarrow, and her favorite, Queen Anne’s lace, picked near her family’s original country home three hours north of New York in Fenwick, Conn., where she retreats each weekend for gardening and swimming and to be with family members who still live in the area.

Hanging on the walls throughout the room--mixed in with several Hirschfeld prints and various portraits of Hepburn by such artists as Myfannwy Pavelick Spencer--was an impressive selection of her own watercolor landscapes and small oil still lifes. They shared a sense of strong physicality, much in the tradition of Cezanne. When I asked her about them, she dismissed them as “amateur nothings, really. Little kid stuff, and I can’t draw decently any more than I can paint.”

A bit more nudging, though, about a Georgia O’Keeffe-like study of a white-walled bedroom from her years in California, and soon she was leading me into an adjacent high-ceiling parlor, “the front room,” where a stack of framed and unframed canvases were propped casually against a sofa.

The reason I was there was to interview her about all these paintings (some of which may be turning up in charitable auctions as donations to Hepburn’s pet causes. A minimum bid of $75,000 was required recently by the North American Wildlife Assn. for one of her oils. When I read about that last month, I grinned to myself, remembering what she told me when I asked if she ever would exhibit her work: “You exhibit to make money. Because I am a curiosity, people might buy one, and I might get a pretty good fee. But I wouldn’t deserve it.”).

My entry into her domain had been achieved through a combination of circumstances: a brief meeting backstage at the Ahmanson Theatre in 1976; the ongoing if infrequent letter correspondence that followed; a Christmas card sent last year with a photo of my bearded collie puppy named “Hepburn.” When I wrote that I would be in New York in May, she agreed to see me but couldn’t commit to a definite day; she simply sent her private telephone number and dashed a note off asking me to “please call when you get to town.”

When, one Monday morning, I did just that, I received an abrupt reply. “This is a terrible week, things are every bit confused and up in the air. Call back at noon,” she said and hung up. I was devastated but determined to be positive. When I left my room, I brought along my tape recorder and notes.

Finding a quiet phone at Bloomingdale’s at high noon was tricky at best. This time, Miss Hepburn’s phone was answered by her 37-year secretary and companion Phyllis Wilbourn, who seemed to know about my earlier call and was cheery, but who informed me that Miss Hepburn had gone out. “Best time to catch her will be at half-past 3,” she said in her lovely English accent.

I spent the next three hours stroking a combined uncertainty and anticipation as to what would happen next. I began the quiet-phone quest around 3 and ended up at a library on West 53rd. Miss Hepburn answered irritably; I braced myself for bad news. “Even if you are prepared with some brief questions about my paintings, I’m not sure I want to talk about that just now. So many things are going on and I just don’t have time for chatty interviews.”

Suddenly I was haunted by her often-repeated quote: “The best thing about death would mean no more interviews.” Still, my reply was steady, straightforward, as much of a surprise to me now as it was then: “Would it make any difference to you if I said that the main reason I came to New York was to meet with you as invited?” The pause seemed endless before she snapped back: “Where are you now? Can you be here in an hour? You know the address between 2nd and 3rd Avenue? It’s a house.” Click.

Well, if you’ve done your homework at all, you know that to Katharine Hepburn, punctuality is next to godliness. I waited under an awning across the street for the proper time to arrive, and I watched as the Hepburn kitchen door open simultaneously with its neighbor’s. The boy next door turned out to be composer Stephen Sondheim, who reached over the railing for a bundle of bright flowers handed to him by a woman in a cook’s uniform. I had read about the Fenwick bouquets faithfully delivered to neighbors and friends each Monday afternoon, and I was delighted to witness the enchanting scenario firsthand.

I rang the bell at the front door. Instead, that same kitchen door opened, and I was greeted by Miss Wilbourn and the flower-bearing cook, Norah Moore, who at first seemed to throw a few too many bewildered gazes my way. I glanced around at the brightly lit room with its built-in corner nook, cushioned benches for seating, assorted drawings and prints on the walls. Wonderful smells from the pot of simmering soup assured me that the kitchen was the household hangout.

Just as Miss Wilbourn began to lead me toward the stairs for the last leg of my journey to the great Kate, Norah (who has been with Hepburn 18 years) finally smiled and winked, saying in a low voice: “You have no idea how unusual it is that you are here. Miss Hepburn just doesn’t allow visitors like this.”

Sunday night, CBS-TV will air what Katharine Hepburn says is her farewell movie, “The Man Upstairs,” co-starring Ryan O’Neal and written by her longtime friend James Prideaux, who wrote and co-produced both her previous TV movies, “Laura Lansing Slept Here” and, perhaps my favorite of all of her films, the obscure “Mrs. Delafield Wants to Marry.”

Reports have it that she had to be coaxed, even arm-twisted into tackling this Burt Reynolds production, which required a move to Vancouver for most of last summer to meet the demands of the shooting schedule. Sources say she was concerned about her health, whether she would be up to the long hours, whether she could handle a role that involved a lot of stair climbing and driving an automobile (she hadn’t driven since her bad accident nearly a decade ago). Perhaps she didn’t want to be any less “Hepburn” than she’d been before.

After my trip to New York, I learned that the time of my May visit, the “terrible week” when I stumbled into her life, had been at the apex of her anxiety over this project. Lately, I have contemplated the serendipity of it all, even wondering if the way she lit up to my praises of Prideaux’s “Delafield” script had given her any encouragement to take this new part, which he’d written with her in mind. Someday, I would love to know if I’d been able to give something back for all she has given me.