Little Me Read online

  Madonna and child and “Rowdy”

  In my spare time I was very much the lonely dreamer, disdaining the childish games of my classmates (who, by the time I was twelve, were all much younger than I was) to revel in my make-believe world of fantasy. Much of the time was spent in Momma’s gracious little drawing room daydreaming over the well-thumbed pages of mail order catalogues from Sears, Roebuck and Montgomery Ward or surreptitiously trying on Momma’s many dazzling evening gowns and posing as a grown-up lady in front of the cheval glass. Although I was only twelve, I noticed that I was different from the other girls in school for already I was becoming endowed with tantalizing curves and swellings which Momma’s décolleté creations did nothing to conceal. With a bit of cochineal on my lips and cheeks, with my langorous eyes outlined by a burnt match and my face liberally dusted with poudre de riz, I felt that I could pass as a young woman of eighteen or so. And this must have been true, because even in my prim little school dresses visiting “drummers” would give me the “onceover” as I walked along the quiet streets of the town.

  But what really opened my eyes was the opening of the Argosy Nickelodeon right in the heart of Venezuela in 1911. There for the first time I witnessed the magic of what was locally known as “shifting pictures.” Every time I came into a nickel—and I am afraid that I will have to admit that sometimes I even “raided” Momma’s purse—I would run down to the nickelodeon and sit spellbound at such grand films as The Great Train Robbery, The Reception, UncleTom’s Cabin and other “thrillers” of that ilk. I knew right then and there what Fate had intended me to be—a great dramatic actress. From that moment on I had but one aim in life—to perform, to bring joy and laughter, heartache and tears to the American public. But I knew that some sort of training in the art of the drama would be essential to bring out my natural endowments as an actress, and where, oh where, would I find the necessary money for my training?

  Then, as if by magic, it came to me, right in the Argosy Nickelodeon. Sitting there in the darkened auditorium one evening I suddenly felt a hand on my knee. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my neighbor. To my surprise it was none other than kindly old Mr. Caruthers, the leading citizen of Venezuela. Mr. Caruthers owned not only the box factory and the pickle bottling works, but also much Venezuela real estate, including all of Drifters’ Row. He was chairman of the board of the local bank and had vast holdings in farmland throughout Marshall, Woodford, La Salle and Putnam counties. Not only the richest man in town, Mr. Caruthers was also the most respectable—a true civic leader. He was a deacon of the church and an outspoken crusader against any form of vice. (He had even gone so far as to hint that Madam Louise’s lovely home was a “blot on the escutcheon” of Venezuela!) In fact, he had been so vehement against the very existence of the Argosy Nickelodeon that I was amazed to find him sitting next to me.

  Joy

  In addition to his many good works on behalf of the underprivileged, Mr. Caruthers was widely known for his interest in young people. Only the year before he had been most active in organizing the town’s first Boy Scout troop and a group of Campfire Girls (into which, by some oversight, I had not been invited), and on almost any balmy afternoon he could be found at the abandoned quarry watching the young blades of the town disporting themselves in the “ole swimmin’ hole.” I could sense now that Mr. Caruthers was beginning to take a deep interest in little me. “Perhaps,” I thought, “just perhaps . . .”

  At the end of the reel a sign was flashed on the screen. “Ladies,” it read, “If Annoyed While Here, Please Inform the Management.” Screwing up my courage, I turned to my neighbor and said, “Please, Mr. Caruthers, would you read that to me? I’m only eleven.” (In point of fact I was thirteen, but I have never had a “head for figures.”) I have never seen a gentleman quite so excited. Over a strawberry soda in Guernsey’s Ice Cream Emporium, I poured out my little heart to kindly old Mr. Caruthers. I told him of my hopes and dreams, my desire to receive dramatic coaching, and mentioned once or twice how very surprised I had been to find him sitting right next to little me at a place like the Argosy. By the end of the evening we had worked out an arrangement concerning my future that was to bring profit and pleasure to both of us. As Mr. Caruthers found it necessary to journey to nearby Ottawa on business twice each week, it was agreed that I would accompany him to take instruction in elocution and dramatical attitudes from a Miss Neida Anderson who taught there, returning on the late train to Venezuela with Mr. Caruthers.

  Sorrow

  Thus it was that Mr. Caruthers became a sort of “patron of the arts,” and for the next year that affectionate old gentleman and I travelled to and fro on the Rock Island Line. I was on my way to fame and fortune in the theatre!

  CHAPTER TWO

  MY ALL FOR MY ART

  1915

  I meet Mr. Musgrove, the new photographer in Venezuela • Mr. Musgrove is interested

  in my career • My introduction to the cinema • Making my first film with the Houlighan

  brothers • My first personal appearance at the Pharaohs’ Smoker • A rude shock • Mr. Hooper

  A Peoria interlude • Mr. Hooper learns the facts • My first folding money. • Flight!

  THE STORY OF MY LIFE would not be complete—nay, could not even begin—without mention of Mr. George Jerome Musgrove and his “little black box.” For it was he who introduced me not only to artistic photography but also to the mysteries of the cinematograph.

  In all of its history, Venezuela, Illinois, had never had a photographic studio of its own. From time to time various itinerant camera artistes would ride over from nearby towns such as La Salle, Peru, Streator or Ottawa to take cabinet photographs, wedding pictures and group “shots” of graduating classes and so on. When the people from “The Bluff” wished to be immortalized on film, they usually entrained to expensive studios in Chicago or Peoria. But never before had our town had its own resident photographer. Therefore, you can imagine the excitement when Mr. George Musgrove “set up shop” in the Caruthers Arcade.

  As usual, the citizens of Venezuela were highly suspicious of Mr. Musgrove, as they were of all newcomers. I, however, remained free of prejudice. I had already been photographed many times in my dramatical attitudes while studying under Mr. Caruthers’ patronage in nearby Ottawa. I had been told so many times that I was possessed of a beautiful face and a comely figure that I took this information quite for granted, as one accepts having blue or brown eyes. I also understood that actresses were accustomed to “sitting” for their portraits. Thus, I determined to meet Mr. Musgrove and perhaps work out some arrangement whereby I might acquire some artistic “stills” of myself to use in furthering my career on the “boards.”

  So one afternoon, when Momma had left for Madam Louise’s place, I took the liberty of borrowing her red duvetyn tailleur with the soutache embroidery, her “Merry Widow” hat and her burunduki muff—the gift of an admirer who travelled in furs—applied a touch of color to my face and, feeling very grown up, made my way down Main Street to the studios of Mr. Musgrove, mindful always of the admiring glances that came my way.

  I found Mr. Musgrove all alone in his “digs” behind the studio. (Indeed, Venezuela, always wary of strangers, had not yet “accepted” him.) What shall I say of the man Musgrove who was to play such a vital role in my turbulent life? He was a bachelor of thirty summers or so, neither tall nor short, trim of waist and—I could not avoid noticing—of muscular build. His clothes were dapper and “citified” in the extreme, his hair glistened with a sweet-scented brilliantine and he wore sweeping moustaches in the manner of former president William Howard Taft. To an unspoiled country girl such as I, Mr. Musgrove exuded all the glamour I had always connected with the “big city.”

  Feeling nervous and extremely shy, I hesitantly inquired as to Mr. Musgrove’s rates and I was horrified to learn that he charged a dollar per study. I knew then that I would never be financially able to avail myself of Mr. Musgrove�
�s professional services. Murmuring a hasty, almost inaudible, apology, I prepared to take my leave of his studio when Mr. Musgrove made a counter offer. In addition to cabinet studies, Mr. Musgrove explained, he was also a specialist in “artistic” poses and had not been able to secure the services of a suitable model in Venezuela. Would I, perhaps, be interested? He had, he explained, a flourishing mail order business in such studies which he supplied to professional artists and others and acquired therefrom a major part of his income. He then proceeded to show me a part of his large collection. There were beautiful young ladies clad only in filmy garments in a series of most tasteful classical attitudes. In some of the studies Mr. Musgrove had, himself, appeared as Atlas, Hercules, Mercury and other pagan “deities.” I was immediately impressed by his splendid physique and the superior quality of his work. Diffident at first, I was of two minds about posing in a state of semi-nudity. (In my childish dreams I had always fancied that actresses were photographed in pearls and chinchilla and large feathered hats.) When displaying my dramatical attitudes before the camera, I had always worn veilings of theatrical gauze that were modest in the extreme. However, Mr. Caruthers, who was a “pillar” of the church, had told me on many occasions that God had given me my body—that I was a “masterpiece” of the “Great Sculptor’s”—and that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Mr. Musgrove was most persuasive.

  Thus began my career before the camera. The afternoons when I was not with Mr. Caruthers in Ottawa studying for my career were spent posing for Mr. Musgrove—usually alone, sometimes with an older lady from nearby Utica who was named Rowena and, on certain memorable occasions, with Mr. Musgrove himself.

  George Jerome Musgrove

  Pygmalion and Galatea

  I felt that I was learning a great deal about my best camera “angles,” and Mr. Musgrove was a most stimulating companion—worldly, sophisticated, urbane but also tender and kind, or so I thought at the time.

  Knowing my all-absorbing interest in the cinema, Mr. Musgrove said to me one day, “Belle, my mail order business has been so good that I have been able to invest in a moving picture camera. Would you be interested in doing a one-reeler?” Would I be interested! I was so thrilled to think of being at last in a motion picture that my heart almost stopped beating.

  “Ooo, I’d love to, Mr. Musgrove!” I cried. “Tell me, what is the story about?”

  Mr. Musgrove explained that his was to be an artistic film—a “ pastorale,” he called it. The plot concerned a young girl who is taking a stroll in the country. It begins to rain. She runs to the shelter of a barn where she removes her dress to let it dry. There she meets two young farm boys who are also seeking sanctuary from the storm. She is mortified at being seen in her shift but they soon overcome her shyness. The sun comes out again and the girl goes on her way. It didn’t seem a very exciting story to me, but at least Mr. Musgrove’s film would provide a suitable background for my talents. When I asked about the costumes I would need, Mr. Musgrove explained that they would be furnished to me. He explained that he had engaged a “studio” out in the country where there would be plenty of privacy and light and that we would “shoot” the very next afternoon. Would any aspiring young actress have refused?

  All that night I dreamed of being a motion picture star like Mae Murray, Lillian Gish or Clara Kimball Young. But the next day—what a shock! Mr. Musgrove drove his camera equipment and little me out into the country in an old wagon. His studio proved to be a deserted corncrib, and my fellow players were none other than the notorious Houlighan brothers!

  The Houlighan boys were simply not in my set. They were brawny, boisterous troublemakers, constantly in “hot water” with the local constabulary. Drunken and vile-mouthed, they came into Venezuela every Saturday night doing their best to create disturbances. Madam Louise had once refused to admit them to her social club, and they retaliated by throwing a live skunk into her lovely parlor! I have never understood why she did not summon the police immediately. At any rate I found them both coarse and uncouth and I was loath to appear with them even on the silver screen. However, Mr. Musgrove reasoned with me and told me that all great artistes must make sacrifices in the name of art.

  The film began very quietly. Clad in a sweet white dimity dress and sun-bonnet, I tripped prettily along a winding road. Following Mr. Musgrove’s direction, I held out one hand, palm upward, feeling for rain. I looked toward the heavens and arranged my features in an expression of anxious concern. Then I ran in the direction of a deserted barn (the corncrib) where I removed my dress very artistically. Suddenly the Houlighan brothers appeared and from then on all direction ceased. Never have I been so humiliated! Needless to say, neither brother had had any dramatic training, and they didn’t seem to be in the least concerned with the artistic qualities of the film—although Kevin, the younger Houlighan boy, was a far more accomplished performer than his older brother Rory. Oh! The liquor on their breaths!

  When the ordeal was over and the Houlighans had dressed and departed, I told Mr. Musgrove in no uncertain terms how extremely annoyed I was, and that if my artistic career depended on associating with such social inferiors as Kevin and Rory Houlighan, then I would prefer not to appear in the cinema. Strong words, indeed!

  I was very angry with Mr. Musgrove and determined not to pose for him again. Say what one would about Mr. Caruthers, he was at least a gentleman and would not subject a young innocent girl to the distasteful pawings of two drunken louts.

  However, dear old Momma found a splendid opportunity for me to make my début as an actress in the town of Streator, about twenty miles distant from Venezuela. The Pharaohs’ Lodge there was celebrating its silver anniversary with a banquet and smoker. My role was to conceal myself in a large pasteboard “birthday cake” and then, at the evening’s end, to leap out and dance down the length of the table. The work was easy, Momma said it would be “good experience” and it paid five dollars and round-trip fare. I was ever so excited and even helped Momma to fashion my costume—a modish two-piece affair of bugle beads and fringe. It showed me off to the best advantage.

  At last the big night arrived. I travelled to the Pharaohs’ Lodge, was shown to my dressing room, changed into my costume and was waiting in the wings for my appearance, which was to be the climax of that gala evening. While anticipating my grand entrance, I was a trifle concerned about the “tone” of this meeting. From what I could hear of the off-color stories and risqué songs issuing from the meeting room, I received the distinct impression that the Pharaohs were not the benevolent brotherhood I had always understood them to be. Suddenly the lights in the hall were extinguished. I could hear the whir of a motion picture projector and then clapping, stamping and hooting. Always a devotee of the cinematic art, I peered out to see what was being shown. And there, projected onto a sheet hastily tacked up on the wall, was little me with those odious Houlighan brothers, quite nude save for our shoes and stockings! What I had assumed to be a milestone in cinema artistry had turned out to be nothing but a revolting and obscene performance!

  Seething with rage, I marched to the back of the hall and, exerting all of my strength, picked up the hot projector and flung it into the smirking face of my false friend George Jerome Musgrove. Then I burst into tears and dashed to my dressing room where I cried as though my little heart were broken.

  How long I remained there, I do not know. I was interrupted only by the entrance of a Mr. Hooper, Corresponding Secretary of the Pharaohs’ Lodge. He was angry at first that I had failed to emerge from the cake and called me horrid names for having ruined the evening. But when, racked by sobs, I explained to him how I had been duped by Mr. Musgrove and that it was little me who had appeared in that unspeakable film, his manner changed abruptly. He became most solicitous, affectionate and sympathetic. With a keen insight, he said that I was much too fine and virtuous a girl to be so reduced and that he would like to help me. I was in need and Mr. Hooper was a friend indeed. He said that Mr. Musgrove was a bounder a
nd that my shame was such that it would be wiser for me not to return to Venezuela at all but to go to a strange city and start out afresh under a new name. That very night we boarded the train for Peoria, where Mr. Hooper was kind enough to allow me to share his hotel room. He could be so comforting.

  I had never been in a big city before and I adored everything about Peoria. The time passed ever so swiftly, shopping for pretty dresses and furbelows, attending that city’s fine film “palace” (with Mr. Hooper I saw my first twelve-reel motion picture, Quo Vadis? What a thrill!) and having little suppers à deux in Mr. Hooper’s room. I felt that Mr. Hooper and Peoria were all a beautiful dream and I never wanted to awaken.

  But, alas, I was jolted back to earth when, at the end of our third day, Mr. Hooper imparted the information that he was not of Peoria but that he had a business and a wife in Springfield, the state capital. Almost speechless with shock, I was just able to blurt out my true age to Mr. Hooper. Then I burst into tears and said something barely coherent about wanting to telegraph Momma. Mr. Hooper seemed even more shaken than I had been. However, he arranged to cash a check, to buy me a one-way ticket to Chicago and to give me a small amount of money to get started in the “Windy City.”

  I never saw Mr. Hooper again, but I shall never forget him for, without our chance encounter at the Pharaohs’ Smoker, who knows where I might have ended up? Boarding the sleeper for Chicago that night, I thought—as I have thought so many, many times since—“Life is strange.”

  Little Me at 15