She is one of the world’s great sex symbols — and now Sophia Loren has written her explosive memoirs. Yesterday, in our exclusive serialisation, she told how she fought off Marlon Brando’s amorous advances and survived prison. Today, she reveals how she suffered the heartbreak of two miscarriages before fulfilling her dream of becoming a mother at last…
By the time I reached the age of 29, my desire to have children had become an obsession. I simply loved children. On the sets of my movies, I’d befriend the child actors and then stay in touch with them long after shooting had finished.
Recently, the little girl who acted with me in Houseboat in 1957 wrote to say she’d just become a grandmother.
But in 1963 — when 29 was considered old to be a first-time mother — I was wondering if it would ever happen.
Coincidentally, I started getting what seemed like pregnancy symptoms while playing a mother-of-seven in a film being shot in Naples.
For a few days, I put them down to the fact I was playing a mother and identifying so much with my role.
But finally I went to a doctor, who did some tests — and they came back negative. However, my strange feeling wouldn’t go away. Next, a supposed expert from Rome arrived, carrying a dark leather briefcase. When he opened it, I jumped: it contained a tiny green frog which was staring at me, his eyes bulging with fright.
To my horror, the doctor injected it with some of my urine, saying: ‘If the frog dies, it means you’re pregnant . . .’
It wasn’t long before the frog started moving around erratically, as if it had been hit on the head. But it didn’t die. Disgusted, I got rid of the doctor and went out for a walk, releasing the poor creature into a pond.
‘Too bad,’ I said to myself. ‘For a moment there, I thought I was pregnant.’ Incredibly, I was. I was desperately happy, happier than I’d ever been before, and couldn’t wait to look my own child in the eyes. But that’s not how it turned out. The following days were among the saddest and darkest of my life. I could tell something wasn’t right.
I went to see another doctor, who reassured me but told me not to travel by car so I headed to Milan, the movie’s next location, by train.
Unfortunately, my first scene took place almost entirely in a stage car mounted on a hydraulic arm to simulate the bumps. It was much worse than any real car.
That first night in Milan, I felt a terrible pain. As I got into the hotel lift, I almost fainted. I can still see myself lying on that hospital bed, under strip lighting, surrounded by white walls, and with the smell of disinfectant penetrating my every cell and piercing my heart.
My most painful recollection of that night was the scornful look on the faces of the nurses — who were nuns. They all seemed to blame me.
Like the rest of the world, they knew that I wasn’t married to my partner, the film producer Carlo Ponti. (His first marriage had broken up years before but divorce was still illegal in Italy.)
Of course, those nuns thought they knew the real story, but they didn’t know anything about me, my desires and my fears. They were insensitive, inhumane, devoid of feeling. Their gratuitous humiliation of me was spurred by prejudice and ignorance.
I lost the baby.
Afterwards, I went straight back to work. But I felt gutted. It was as if the world had been turned off for ever. I could see nothing to look forward to, nothing that could ever console me.
My life as a star felt like nothing compared with the happiness of the new mothers I’d glimpsed at the hospital, getting ready to breastfeed their newborn babies.
Four years later, I got pregnant again while making More Than A Miracle.
I was more prepared: at the first signs, I called Carlo to say: ‘I’m pregnant. But this time I’m going to be careful; I don’t want to take any risks.’ I forced myself to stay in bed. I did nothing: I didn’t read, didn’t watch TV, I even spoke as little as possible and avoided touching my stomach in case it bothered the baby.
But a little voice inside was telling me that the same thing was happening all over again.
At the first signs of the pain that I remembered all too well, I was at home with my dear friend Basilio at our beautiful villa in the Roman hills, while Carlo was in London for work. It was Basilio who called the doctor: ‘Come quickly, please. She’s having contractions, she’s as white as a ghost and she feels faint.’
But my great and mighty doctor said with arrogant self-confidence: ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Have her drink some chamomile; we’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
Despite this, we rushed to the hospital — and happened to run into the doctor, who was about to leave for a cocktail party. Before leaving, he gave me a strong sedative.
‘It’s just a passing crisis,’ he declared, his white coat fluttering over his cashmere sweater. ‘Now, try to get some sleep.’
The contractions were getting worse, as if I were in labour, and my face was as yellow as a lemon. At this, my mother — who’d just joined us — pounced on him with all her strength. ‘Can’t you see her face? She’s having a miscarriage!’ she cried.
But nothing doing. The great man’s cocktail party couldn’t wait.
When my pains suddenly stopped at 4am, I knew it was all over. The doctor was called but took two hours to get to the hospital. ‘Signora,’ he told me, ‘you no doubt have excellent hips, and you’re a beautiful woman, but you will never have a child.’
His scathing words dashed all my hopes, making me feel powerless, barren and deeply inadequate.
‘Now I can go back to the set and finish the movie,’ I said to Carlo as soon as he arrived. I was trying to lighten the blow, to show him how strong I was.
His smile turned into a grimace; it was obvious that he felt totally helpless. Only at that moment did I let myself go, crying my heart out.
In the desperate months that followed, a sense of failure spread to every corner of my soul. Even Carlo — a solid, concrete businessman — became depressed. He could hardly work, talk or smile.
Luckily, fate led us to an unexpected discovery. The wife of an Italian film director had gone through an odyssey similar to mine, but she’d chanced upon an internationally renowned expert who’d helped her carry to term.
His name was Hubert de Watteville, and he was the director of the gynaecology clinic at Geneva Hospital in Switzerland.
Tall and very thin, de Watteville was about 60, with a beaklike nose and a somewhat aristocratic, detached air.
My heart sank: I’d hoped he’d be more of a sympathetic father-figure.
But I was mistaken in my first impression. He hadn’t had any children himself, and he’d poured his desire for fatherhood into his work, so that the children he helped come into the world were in some ways his.
After studying my case, he told me: ‘There’s nothing wrong — you’re a very normal woman. The next time you get pregnant, we’ll monitor you closely.’
So, in early 1968, when I got pregnant for the third time, I moved to Geneva. I chose a hotel close to the doctor’s office, took to my bed and waited patiently for him to perform a miracle
He concluded that my body wasn’t producing enough oestrogen, which was stopping the egg from attaching to the uterus. This, however, was easily solved with oestrogen injections.
Meanwhile, I had months of forced idleness on the 18th floor of the Hotel Intercontinental.
To distract myself, I spent hours recreating the recipes from my Naples childhood — and years later, published them as a cookbook. Finally the day came when I was due to have a C-section. I hadn’t slept a wink the night before; the truth is that I didn’t want my pregnancy to end.
And I was scared. I didn’t want to share this child that was all mine with anyone else. A few hours later, Carlo Jr. was born — the greatest, sweetest, most indescribable joy I had ever experienced. I was completely overcome by emotion when I held him in my arms.
Afraid that I might wake up from my marvellous dream, I proceeded to shut myself off from the world. It was warm in my hospital room, and I felt safe, me and Carlo Jr, alone together, in a soft cocoon of endless gazes and caresses.
As the days passed, I was afraid to leave my room, worried that my little one might catch a cold. And I simply didn’t feel like going home.
So I grew increasingly rooted to my clean white room, where I was shielded from all danger, and refused to think about tomorrow.
After 50 days, which seemed to go by in a flash, my doctor told me: ‘Sophia, you can’t stay here for ever. Life is waiting for the two of you out there . . .’ I just looked at him, terrified at the thought.
But, finally, after nine months of barely being able to move, and almost two months of cocoon-like existence in my hospital room, I agreed to go forth and face reality.
Four years later, in 1972, I became pregnant for the fourth time while shooting Man Of La Mancha with Peter O’Toole. This time, the movie dressmaker gave me the oestrogen injections I needed, and I didn’t stop working until I was in my fifth month.
Then I took a plane to Geneva to be near the clinic and wait out the remaining months in peace. And I made room inside my heart for the arrival of another great love.
Edoardo was born on January 6, 1973. After having my first child, I’d thought life couldn’t get any better. But Edo actually doubled my happiness. It was, I realised, one of those unfathomable mysteries of motherhood, Daily Mail informs.
