Little Me Read online

  “Oh, sir, how can I ever apologize?” I cried. “Remove your suit immediately and I shall ring for the steward to have it cleaned and pressed.”

  “Can wait,” he said philosophically.

  “Not a second,” I said, propelling him toward the bedroom. “Take it off at once while I ring for the steward. I insist!”

  Protesting, Mr. Buchsbaum went into the bedroom and closed the door. Having not a moment to spare, I ran my hands frantically through my perfect coiffure and, gritting my teeth, tore at the delicate lace bodice of my Paquin dress. I then overturned several chairs, our glasses and a vase of Fuji “mums.” When the room seemed in perfect disorder, I then pressed all the bells summoning the steward, the stewardess—anyone who would come. “Help,” I screamed dramatically, “help!”

  The timing was extraordinary. Mr. Buchsbaum appeared at the bedroom door clad only in the suit of one-piece “B.V.D.’s” just as the staff appeared at the entrance to the Verandah Suite.

  “So!” Mr. Buchsbaum shouted, “you think a poobliker like you can pull such a trick on Morris Buchsbaum? Throw this tramp out,” he directed the steward. Imagine!

  “If you please, sir,” I said, “I am an English lady.”

  “Already I got all kinds ladies—English, French, a Gallician Polska, a Spanierin. Back home by Beverly Hills they all try this—blondes, brunettes, redheads, young boys, old men. Anything for a seven-year contract. But a koorveh like you . . .” His speech was halted by the singing of metal. A glistening knife flew through the air, removing the tip of Mr. Buchsbaum’s ear and imbedding itself into the tulipwood panelling. “ Oi weh! ” he gasped. “Turkishers! Goyim! ” There, standing in the open doorway, were Nadir and Faik Sofa. I became Mrs. Morris Buchsbaum in a simple ceremony at sea, performed by the captain a few minutes later with the Sofa Brothers, quite mystified and protesting loudly in Turkish, as our witnesses. After that Morris always called me his little Turkish Delight.

  Once joined in matrimony, Mr. Buchsbaum was placed in the ship’s hospital to have his wounded ear treated. He was faint from loss of blood. In the interests of safety, I had the Sofa Brothers confined to the “brig” and I saw to it that the purser who had been so unspeakably forward was dismissed.

  With the Verandah Suite all to myself, I found the balance of my journey pleasant in the extreme. As we passed the Ambrose Light, my new husband was just able to get out of his hospital bed and become acquainted with his little bride, and no words of mine can suitably describe his reaction when I imparted to him my exact ambitions as a motion picture actress. However, Mr. Buchsbaum—dear Morris—sighed deeply and said, “If only we should get off this boat you could be Rin-Tin-Tin and I’d die a happy man already.” (One has only to recall what an enormous “draw” at the box office the late Rin-Tin-Tin was to appreciate the profoundness and flattery of Morris’ tribute to his blushing bride.)

  There was a great reception by the press awaiting us at the pier. (I had had the foresight to radio the Public Relations Department of Metronome Studios to prepare an ovation as Morris Buchsbaum had not only discovered a fabulous new star, but had married her.) After the photographs and interviews were over, Morris and I were driven to the Plaza, where he attempted to carry me over the threshold in the grand old tradition. But it was not Morris’ lucky day. He wrenched his back terribly and had to be put into traction at Mt. Sinai Hospital.

  However, I was able to while away the lonely hours of my honeymoon getting acquainted with such beloved old sights as Saks, Bergdorf Goodman, Jessie Franklin Turner, Tiffany’s and the Central Park Casino. By the time my darling husband was able to be moved, I felt like a new woman. And indeed I was a new woman. I was Mrs. Morris Buchsbaum, wife of the most important, most influential producer in all of Hollywood!

  A quiet evening with Morris

  CHAPTER TEN

  MARRIAGE AND MOTHERHOOD

  1929

  My lovely home • Casa Torquemada • Nesting • I discover my

  interesting condition • Momma rushes to my side • A bride in April, a mother

  in September • Baby-dear’s premature birth • A modern madonna

  OUR ARRIVAL AT LOS ANGELES was met by an even greater ovation than the one which greeted us in New York. As dear Morris was still strapped to a stretcher, it was agreed that we would steal off the train in darkest anonymity at the Pasadena station. Therefore I arranged with Manny, the “P.R.” man for Metronome Studios, to have the press and all available “extras” meet us there. It was a glorious sight! The Metronome Philharmonic and Massed Chorale were on hand to sing the triumphal cantata especially written to greet me as “first lady” of the Metronome “lot.” It started out almost as a hymn: “Welcome, Belle, come to be our lady fair . . .” and then turned into a rousing anthem of praise and devotion to Morris and little me. I was presented with the keys to Pasadena, Altadena, Hollywood, Beverly Hills and downtown Los Angeles. Morris was then put into an ambulance from the Pines of Rome Hospital, while I was helped into an exquisite phaéton by none other than Dudley du Pont, one of the leading male stars of the Metronome Studios, and driven in cortège to our lovely home in Beverly Hills, while being pelted with roses and oranges. In the end both of us were carried over the threshold—Morris on his stretcher and I by two assistant producers.

  With Morris safely bedded down under the constant surveillance of male nurses, there was naught for me to do but explore the wonders of my new home, Casa Torquemada. It had served as dear Morris’ bachelor quarters for many years and was rivalled in splendor only by “Doug” and Mary’s “Pick-fair” and “Falcon’s Lair,” home of the late Rudolph (“Rudy”) Valentino. After my years as a “bird in a gilded cage” at Baughdie House, the Casa Torquemada seemed ridiculously small and cozy to me with its fifty pretty rooms, but this pleased me greatly. I had had my day as the lofty English châtelaine and what pleasure had it given me? None! I was, after all, American through and through, fun-loving and democratic and always ready for a “lark” in the traditional “Yankee” way, whether it be a dinner for fifty in our quaint Sala Alhambra, a plunge in our pool (copied from the famous Spanish Baths of Caracalla) or a quiet game of mahjong in our casual Hacienda Méjicana playhouse. I called Casa Torquemada my “castle in Spain” (although I thought of it privately as my “cottage” in Spain). To me it represented the place where darling Morris had spent so many lonely years before I happened into his life, and I was determined to bring the California sunshine, as well as the spirit that is me, into its gloomy rooms.

  Having exerted an enormous amount of creative effort into improving the décor of my English husband’s properties, and having received nothing for my pains but scorn, criticism, abuse and the wine of “sour grapes,” I resolved to leave my new home just as Don Jaime Jesús y María Gonzáles y Fitzsimmons (famed Panamanian “set” designer for Metronome Studios) had planned it. A cheery smile, a buoyant spirit, the crystal shimmer of laughter were to be my only improvements on the interior decoration. But not long after we were married I learned to my great surprise that at least one room would have to be remodeled—a nursery!

  The occasion of my great discovery that I was going to have a baby (I call it “B-Day”) was the celebration of dear Morris’ return to the “lot.” Finally able to be on his feet after six weeks of excruciating pain, my beloved husband and I were fêted at a banquet luncheon held in the producers’ dining room at Metronome. All of the studio’s top-ranking stars and executives were in attendance. Morris was seated at the head of the long table (decorated in ferns, orchids, baby grapefruit and festoons of film) between that so-called “Spanish beauty” Magdalena Montezuma and lovely Helen Highwater, while I was flanked by dashing Dudley du Pont and “Tex” Lonestar, the cowboy hero. All of the studio “top brass” made toasts and charming speeches of welcome which went on for several hours. The day was extremely warm and I had, perhaps, been wrong in choosing to wear my pink-dyed fox coat with the blue broadtail lining. But the colors were certain
ly appropriate! I had asked the Public Relations Department to prepare a little extemporaneous speech of thanks for me to deliver to the studio “family,” and had committed it to memory perfectly. But I never got to make my speech. When I heard my name called I tried to rise and found that the banquet hall was spinning around my head. I took a final sip of my Orange Blossom to steady myself but it did no good. I felt myself falling, falling, falling, and I landed right in the lap of Dudley du Pont! When I “came to” the studio physician said very simply, “Congratulations, Mrs. Buchsbaum. You are about to provide Metronome with the answer to Jackie Coogan.” I was so overcome with the news that I was not able to speak but only to offer up a little prayer of fervent thanks. “Jesus,” I said. Then everything went black again.

  With the knowledge that a new little life was stirring beneath my heart, everything about me changed. I had always lived—if it could be called “living”—with a constant, gnawing fear of motherhood. That is to say, fear that I could never become a mother. Because the life of my beloved first husband was snuffed out by the senseless horrors of war after so brief a time together, I had been denied even that one living, breathing, smiling souvenir of dear Fred Poitrine—his child. And, as eager as I had been to provide a tiny heir to the Baughdie title and estates, the coldness and indifference of Cedric had made the thrill and pride of maternity impossible for me. But now, in this lush land of klieg light and Vitaphone, my fondest wish was soon to be gratified— sooner even than I had expected—and I was about to become a mother. I dreamed now of being a kind of Roman matron bearing sons, sons to carry on the family name and to take over the burdens of the studio like the Warner brothers. I was absolutely numb with joy, and as for Morris’ emotions, they were indescribable. All he could say was “I can’t figure it out. How could I be such a schlemiel?” (In moments of overpowering feeling dear Morris often reverted to the picturesque language of his Central European birthplace and delivered his many little endearments in the romantic Magyar tongue of old Hungary.) Needless to say, I was given the very finest medical advice, as the little unborn Baby Buchsbaum was widely considered one of the most astonishing and noteworthy phenomena of the film colony. A brilliant Viennese physician, whose name was later to be made nationally famous by the Fleischmann’s Yeast Company, took complete charge of me. Because I was so delicate and very, very young to become a mother, he advised the greatest caution and said, “At your age this won’t be easy.” But I was prepared.

  It was during the long summer of my pregnancy that I received a precious visitation. While serving tea to Helen Highwater, Dudley du Pont and Carstairs Bagley in the garden, I heard the muffled roar of a motor and there, coming up the driveway, was a familiar sight—Momma’s old red “Rolly-Polly”! My hand went to my heart. “Oh, my God, no!” I breathed, and shut my eyes tight. But when I opened them again, there was Momma. She had found me once more!

  The bond between a mother and her daughter is a wonderful, mystifying thing. I am always amazed at how darling Momma never fails to find her “baby” and rush to my side. Although we can be the width of the world apart, although years may pass without even the exchange of a post card, a Mother Always Knows, and whenever one of my marriages is mentioned in the newspapers—no matter how casually—sooner or later Momma always appears. Because I am a trained actress, I was just able to control my emotions, to introduce Momma to my new friends and to suggest that she might enjoy staying at the Ambassador or the Garden of Allah. But naturally Momma would hear none of it. Her place was by my side as My Time drew near, she said, and she vowed that she would sooner sleep on a billiard table at Casa Torquemada than let her “little baby daughter” out of her sight once again. Morris’ face was a study when he returned from the studio that evening and was introduced to his brand new mother-in-law.

  With Momma—expecting

  As she always does, Momma simply took over. Like the mothers of such stars as Mary Pickford, Mary Astor, Jackie Coogan and Mary Miles Minter, she soon became a Hollywood legend. What a godsend she was in helping me plan for the arrival of our “little producer,” as we called my unborn baby. Because I was very ill during my pregnancy, and because I was utterly inexperienced in motherhood, darling Momma was able to do everything—even to preparing the baby’s nursery. Momma’s sense of style is rivalled only by her sense of economy, and it was she who got the baby’s quarters redecorated in the most unusual taste, without costing anything except for her commissions. Metronome had just released its first all-talking costume drama, a life of Beau Brummel called Gorgeous George, starring Basil Thyme as Brummel, Vivienne Vixen and lovable Carstairs Bagley as the Prince Regent. Because there was a dear little nursery setting used in the film, Momma had it all crated up and moved from the studio to the Auto-da-Fé wing of Casa Torquemada, which was rechristened the Regency Room. Although I had anticipated something more along the lines of pink, and maybe commissioning Walt Disney to paint some cute murals on the walls, I agreed with Momma that no other baby in America would have anything like my baby’s nursery (incidentally, the “set” designer won an Academy Award that year, but for a different picture and at the Pathé Studios). Helen Highwater and Carstairs Bagley personally supervised the refurbishing of the suite in Pines of Rome Hospital where my precious baby would be born. There was nothing to do but wait.

  But the waiting period was not to be long. Although my baby could not reasonably be expected until Christmas time (the perfect gift for Morris—a man who had everything), I felt my first twinge during the gala première of Magdalena Montezuma’s first talking picture, The Loves of Ethelbert Nevin. I had felt uncomfortable all evening long but I bravely tried to keep my jangled nerves in check. However, just as Magdalena appeared on the screen to sing Nevin’s beautiful “My Rosary” (her voice was so untrue and her “Spanish” accent so thick that naturally the whole song had to be “dubbed” by a cousin of the late Grace Moore) but just as Montezuma appeared, something inside me snapped. I stood bolt upright and screamed. All the lights went on and the premièrewas at an end. I was rushed to the Pines of Rome in the very nick of time.

  The agony and indignation I suffered giving birth to my precious child are indescribable. But what mother would not go through it again and again and again if only for the ecstasy of holding for the first time her own dear little cuddly “bundle from heaven”?

  After nearly half an hour of the most excruciating torture in the delivery room, my screams became so unendurable to the kindly obstetrician that he said, “For God’s sake, shut her up.” A mask was put over my face and the next thing I recall was being eased gently into my bed as the pearly dawn began to peer through the palm fronds outside my window. It was a perfect September morn.

  “My baby,” I whispered to the nurse. “Where is my baby? It’s not . . .”

  “Oh, no, honey,” the nurse said cheerily. “She’s just fine. One of the biggest, healthiest kids we’ve ever delivered.”

  But of course this kindly “Lady with the Lamp” was only trying to allay my fears. Morris and I had been married in April. Here it was only September. How could my treasured child be anything but a poor, wizened premature baby with hardly the strength to exist? I found out later—for I am one who insists on the truth no matter how great the cost—that my poor tiny tot weighed but eleven pounds at birth, hardly big enough to survive the cruel shock of being born! The child was placed immediately in an incubator and kept there, hovering between life and death, for nearly three-quarters of an hour.

  Then at last, as I could hear the breakfast trays clashing discreetly in the corridor outside my suite, my nurse came into my room, her plain, wholesome face radiant with joy. “It’s a beautiful little baby girl, Mrs. Buchsbaum,” she cried, “and she’s going to live!” I fell back onto my pillows in a torrent of relief and slept all the rest of the day.

  BABY-DEAR AND I (actually our daughter was named Isabelle, but to me she will always be Baby-dear) went home to Casa Torquemada and the Regency Room a month l
ater, when Baby-dear was strong enough to be moved. She then weighed nearly thirteen pounds and was pronounced “out of danger” by the retinue of pediatricians whom I had insisted on retaining. They felt that she had a good chance of survival. Mademoiselle, her governess, was installed and we were safe and sound at last. “Just Morris and me and Baby makes three,” I kept humming.

  I decided that Baby-dear would be raised in the simple high Anglican faith that had been such a comfort to me during my turbulent years as Lady Baughdie—at least I had got that from the ruins of my English marriage. For her spiritual mentors, I chose dear Carstairs Bagley as godfather and my adorable Helen Highwater as godmother for a beautiful, beautiful christening, just as soon as Baby-dear and I would be strong enough to face the ordeal. (Unhappily poor Helen had just returned from the Keeley Cure Rest Home at the time of the ceremony and was forced to have her stand-in hold Baby-dear during the ceremony while her attendant held her.)

  Baby-dear’s christening-we thought Epicipull was nicest. far left: “Helen’s stand-in”; middle: “Helen”

  A modern madonna—Little Me, Baby-dear and Mademoiselle

  Now I had everything—or almost everything—any woman wants: a beautiful home, a devoted husband, a darling baby daughter. I could rest on my laurels now and devote my entire energies to the one thing all women desire but few achieve—a career in motion pictures.

  My triumphal return to Metronome

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MY NAME IN LIGHTS!

  1930–1931

  My triumphal re-entrance at Metronome as Mrs. Morris Buchsbaum • Early “talkies”

  Elocution lessons • Poitrine speaks! • All work and no play • Famous stars I have known • Stardom