I found myself with forty others hidden in different parts of Bogart’s house as a surprise for his birthday.  ‘Betty’ Bacall was the perfect mate for Bogie…beautiful, fair, warm, talented and highly intelligent, she gave as good as she got in the strong personality department.  Women and men love her with equal devotion.   Someone had been delegated by Betty to keep Bogie busy at the studio to give us all time to arrive and hide.  When Bogie finally appeared, it was apparent how his busy day at the studio had been spent.  He was loudly abusive and cries of ‘who needs these bums!’ and ‘get the bastards outta here!’ reverberated from the front door.  For a few nervous minutes it was touch and go whether he would throw all forty of us out into the street, but Betty placated him, or rather, answered him loudly in the same vein and the party became a success after all. 

Bogart was quite alarming to meet for the first time with his sardonic humor and his snarl that passed for a smile.  It took a little while to realize that he had perfected an elaborate camouflage to cover up one of the kindest and most generous of hearts.  Even so, he was no soft touch and before you were allowed to peek beneath the surface and catch a glimpse of the real man, you had to prove yourself.  Above all, you had to demonstrate conclusively to his satisfaction that you were no phoney…Betty was the perfect wife and companion for Bogie.  I don’t know how long she knew he was seriously ill but she was courageous and dedicated throughout the whole heartbreaking period.  I had heard his nightly coughing bouts on my last trips with him on the Santana but he said it was just his smoking, nothing more.  Then, he began to lose weight but he never had been much interested in food. Suddenly, there was an emergency seven-hour operation and the slow slide began.  ‘If I put on weight—I’ve got it licked,’ he told me. 

I went away to Rome for three months and then to Sweden.  From there, I brought back the radical plans and specifications of a new yacht that I thought might interest Bogie and brought them to his house.  I was shocked at the change.  We spent a day aboard Santana, but she remained tied up alongside her dock.  She never put to sea again with Bogie.  He no longer referred to his illness and with Betty in permanent attendance, preserving somehow, God knows how, her marvelous gaiety and fun, he slowly wasted away.  When he became too weak to make the trip downstairs for his ritual evening drink with his friends — now invited only one at a time and carefully selected by Betty—they converted the little service elevator, took out the shelves, and sharp at six o’clock, Bogie would have his terribly emaciated frame carefully dressed and lowered below, sitting in his wheelchair.  One of us would always be waiting — Huston, Sinatra, Harry Kurnitz, among others.  At four o’clock one morning, Betty called us and said very quietly, ‘My darling husband is gone.’ —David Niven