Little Me Read online

  Being pretty and high spirited, the girls of the Cameo had no shortage of attentive beaux or “stage-door Johnnies.” Indeed, that very first evening Lola introduced us to two salesmen from a high-class St. Louis cloak and suit firm and told us not to hurry back to her little flat, as Mr. Flinchy would be calling upon her and she would not be lonely for company. The gentlemen took “Winnie” and me to their lovely suite in the Sherman House for a little supper of chicken à la king and sparkling burgundy and later that evening my particular escort presented me with a very modish green merino walking suit with coney collar and cuffs.

  The very next morning rehearsals began for the new show at the Cameo. Although good-natured “Winnie” thought of “hoofing” in the chorus as just a “lark” and a way to make enough money to “skip town,” as she put it, I was very serious about it, considering the experience at the Cameo the first step in my long career. And how right I was!

  Burlesque has been called the “commedia dell’arte of America” and rightly so. I would like to remind my readers that in the “good old days,” burlesque was not the tawdry spectacle of strippers, “bumps” and “grinds” and lewd so-called comedians, equipped with “blue” material and off-color jokes. At that time burlesque was both wholesome and refined, the training ground for some of today’s great, great performers, among whom I am proud and happy to include myself.

  Born with an almost ethereal grace, a sure sense of rhythm and a true, sweet soprano voice, I was both hurt and surprised when the maître de ballet or dance director, as such a person is called today, kept singling me out for especial criticism. “No, no, Belle,” he would shout, “with the left foot. Keep time, Belle, keep time! No, Belle, you’re singing it in F, the others are in G. No, Belle, now try it again—left foot, right foot, brush, step, brush, step. No, no, no! ”

  My heart was in my mouth when he asked me to stay behind after the rehearsal “broke.” I thought I would surely die if he fired me. However, I reasoned with him, promised to do better and suggested that I accompany him to his studio that evening for some intensive training. The following day, it was decided that I was too individualistic a performer to be relegated to the mere rank and file of chorines. Hence, I was promoted to a mannequin or “show girl,” where I would not be called upon to sing or dance but would, instead, lead the mannequins’ parade down the runway and pose as the central figure in the tableaux vivants and the artistic “living statues.” This work involved more lavish costumes, a higher salary and a prestige value just the other side of stardom. I was very pleased. Thus I was billed simply as “La Belle” (owing to my misunderstanding with the Chicago police, I felt it wiser to keep my last name a mystery) and under that simple soubriquet I paraded and posed happily as Queen of the Night, the American Beauty Rose, Aphrodite, the Motor Girl, Pocahontas and other timeless symbols of beauty and grace. If the ladies of the ensemble were jealous of me, they concealed that emotion admirably. In fact, a number of them told me that they were glad I was no longer in the chorus. Such was the camaraderie of show “biz” in those dear, dead days.

  Thus I worked through those blustery winter months of 1917. Worked? The term is laughable! Every moment of it was fun of the most unbelievable sort. Although the hours were long, what with doing three shows a day, often having to devote our mornings to rehearsals and always our evenings to the gallants who admired us from across the footlights, the winter flew by. A régime such as ours might have taken its toll of well-rounded figures and rosy complexions, but we were young and healthy and carefree, always ready for a fling. Ah, if the dressing room walls of the old Cameo Theatre could only talk and tell of the fun they’ve witnessed! There was always an air of excitement backstage—the hustle and bustle, the pungent odors of greasepaint and spirit gum, cold cream and hot hair tongs. Between shows we girls would visit back and forth, gossiping and joking, speculating as to the intentions of the many “stage-door Johnnies” who waited each night to “squire” us out to supper. We were forever attempting new experiments with our coiffures, stitching away on blouses or remodeling our old street clothes. Heedless of our waistlines, we would cook up great batches of fudge over the gas burners, order huge, fattening sandwiches and “crullers” from a nearby delicatessen. We would read aloud from romantic novels and love story magazines, and the fashion journals were always in great demand. I thought of nothing but clothes, clothes, clothes and—having started literally from “scratch”—I soon assembled a very stylish wardrobe, thanks to my frugal shopping habits, to my infallible sense of style and to the generosity of some of the gentlemen I met who were connected with the garment industry.

  And our nights were one mad whirl, as well. As first mannequin, I had my pick of escorts each and every evening. “Winnie” and I usually “double dated.” As soon as we could afford it, we moved out of Lola’s tiny apartment and took a room together in a refined boarding house on West Congress Street, within easy walking distance of the Cameo. (Unless we had beaux to pay for cabs, we always walked, mentally applying the saved carefare to some long longed-for hat or pair of gloves. As our suppers were always paid for by our admirers, we saved a great deal, as well, on meals.) And soon, even our rent was taken care of. We had met two gentlemen who were travellers in hardware. They had a lovely bachelor apartment out west on Chicago Avenue. As they were rarely in town, they asked us to move into it to keep an eye on things. The arrangement worked out splendidly for all concerned until America’s entrance into World War I took me quite unawares.

  I have always been a dedicated student of global politics. Nary an issue of Foreign Affairs, The Economist, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists appears without my sacrificing my “beauty sleep” to burn the midnight oil over the vital issues of the day. But in that exciting winter of 1917, I was simply too busy to notice the first World War, until, that is, President Wilson’s earth-shaking announcement of April 6. After that, what a difference!

  The streets of Chicago were suddenly swarming with soldiers and sailors. We were all singing songs such as “Over There,” “Keep the Home Fires Burning” and “Pack Up Your Troubles.” And we girls at the Cameo were right in the thick of it! Patriotically we gave four shows a day instead of three. Instead of tatting lace trimmings or making lingerie in the dressing rooms between performances, all of us were busily knitting socks, mittens and mufflers. Overnight the spring show, April Showers, was “scrapped” to be replaced by a whole new patriotic spectacle—a concept revolutionary to the world of burlesque.

  Where I had once posed as a classical statue, a flower or a famous beauty of history, I now did only rôles of deep martial significance—the ententecordiale with “Winnie” and one of the more mature danseuses, the Spirit of France (in which I wore a miniature Eiffel Tower, a tricoleur and fleurs-delys) or Fighting Uncle Sam. It was a challenge to my dramatic ability, but one which I accepted gladly. I was nervous and unsure at first, but from the shouts and whistles and applause that greeted my patriotic tableaux, I knew that I had not failed to “do my bit.”

  Nor did we girls continue to go out with men in civilian clothes, as of yore. Every night now, after the show, the tiny alley behind the Cameo was choked with boys in olive drab and blue serge. And it was at the stage door of the dear old Cameo that romance first entered my life. It was an unseasonably warm night in early spring. I was hot and tired, headachey and “out of sorts.” “Tonight,” I said to myself, “I’m going straight home to get a good night’s sleep. I won’t go out, no matter if General Pershing himself asks me.” But when I went out of the stage door, a dashing older gentleman stepped down from a shining, dark red Packard touring car. He wore the uniform of a colonel with burnished boots and spurs, Sam Browne belt and a swagger stick.

  “Good evening, Mademoiselle,” he said, touching his cap smartly, “you are Miss Belle, are you not?”

  “Yes,” I said impatiently.

  “Would it be expecting too much if I were to ask you to solace a lonely soldier, just back from th
e front, by having a bite of supper this evening?”

  How could I refuse? Colonel Smith—for that is the name by which he introduced himself—was an officer of the United States Army, a leader of men, a war hero recently returned from No Man’s Land. It was clearly my patriotic duty to accept his kind invitation. He took me to Jacques’ French Restaurant (a very fashionable rendezvous pour l’élite of Chicago), and the more Colonel Smith told me about himself the more my heart went out to this lonely bachelor, many times a millionaire, the owner of gold mines, oil wells, ranchlands and Manhattan real estate, with no understanding female to share in his many rich rewards. He smoked fine, long Cuban cigars, and I have always loved the aroma of a good cigar. Before the evening was over, I had breathlessly accepted his proposal of marriage.

  From Colonel Smith’s suite in the old Auditorium Hotel, I telephoned the Cameo Theatre early the next morning to give my notice and to say that I was renouncing my career as of that moment. Mr. Flinchy was furious but I felt that duty to my country came first. I next went to the Fair Store to purchase my bridal ensemble—a sweet white lace dress, a fetching hat, a sable scarf and a few other oddments that caught my fancy. As ours had been a whirlwind, wartime courtship, there was no time for the elaborate wedding of the sort I (and every other girl) always dreamed about—white satin, a large cathedral, “Winnie” as my maid of honor and the girls from the Cameo as bridesmaids. Instead we were married by an Army chaplain in Colonel Smith’s suite. Because of his high rank, he explained, witnesses and a license would not be necessary. He did, however, produce a lovely wedding band.

  The next few days were like a dream. As “The Colonel’s Lady,” I went on a mad round of shopping—diamonds and pearls from Peacock’s, glossy furs from John T. Shayne, dresses of every description from Field’s and Carson, Pirie, Scott with shoes to match from O’Connor & Goldberg. All of these purchases and dozens of others I had sent C.O.D. to the front desk of the Auditorium Hotel. I hadn’t intended to be extravagant but it seemed incumbent on me to dress and act the rôle of a multimillionaire’s wife. My old clothes I sold to “Winnie” at a fraction of their value, as she was finally leaving town. The Colonel didn’t seem to mind in the least, he merely puffed away on his costly cigars, nodded with approval at each new outfit and said, “Very pretty, baby, now let’s see how fast you can take it off.” He had a great sense of humor! In our week together, Colonel Smith refused me but one thing—he would not consent to pose for a wedding photograph, saying that he was “camera shy.” I was very disappointed. I am a notoriously slipshod correspondent and had not written to Momma since I left Venezuela to entertain at the Pharaohs’ Smoker in Streator. I wanted her now to see how I had grown and what a fine husband I had found. However, I went to Mr. Alexander (official photographer of the Cameo Theatre) and posed alone in my bridal attire.

  Returning to the hotel, I seemed to sense a slight difference in the attitudes of the doorman, the desk clerk, the elevator operator (like all creative artists I am highly intuitive and sensitive to the attitudes and feelings of others), but I thought little of it until I let myself into our suite. I peered into the sitting room, but there was no Colonel Smith puffing on his cigar in the easy chair. “Kittycat,” I called (my “pet” name for the Colonel), “it’s Pussykins.” There was no reply. Mystified, I decided that Colonel Smith might be waiting for me in the bedroom, as he sometimes did. The door was open and I walked in to find only the manager of the hotel ransacking my wardrobe.

  “What,” I demanded icily, “are you doing with my lovely creations? My jewels? My furs?”

  “Your jewels? Your furs?” he said horridly. “Hah!”

  Then in a vile torrent of abuse the awful truth tumbled out. Colonel Smith was not a colonel at all. Nor was he a millionaire. Instead he was a penniless buck private who had been absent without leave for weeks from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He had been apprehended that very afternoon charged with being “AWOL,” impersonating an officer, stealing an automobile (the lovely Packard touring car) and leaving a fortune in unpaid bills and bad checks across the entire Middle West.

  “Sir,” I said with great hauteur, “you are speaking of my husband and you lie!” The manager all but laughed in my face. The “marriage ceremony” he said had been performed by one of “Colonel” Smith’s miscreant cronies. It had been nothing more than a sham, a mockery of the beautiful marriage sacrament, and I was but one of many “Mrs. Smiths” who had been used and abandoned by a monstrous poseur.

  Miss Liberty!

  Before I could protest, I was thrust bodily out onto the pavement with nothing save the clothes I stood in. I had again been duped, once more the victim of a glib stranger and my own innocent, trusting nature. I had resigned my position at the Cameo Theatre. “Winnie” had bought my old clothes for a pittance, and even now she was on her way to an unknown destination. My new finery had been impounded by the Auditorium Hotel as its rightful property. Deceived, disgraced, destitute, that was the cruel destiny Fate had in store for little me.

  A chill wind sprang up from the leaden gray lake. A cold rain started to fall. Dazed, heartbroken—even hungry—I made my unsteady way, somehow, from Michigan Avenue to the corner of Wabash and Van Buren. I paused at the entrance of a brightly lighted saloon whence issued the raucous cries of soldiers and sailors. Then that capricious lady, Dame Chance, once more took the prerogative of changing her mind and thrust a savior into my arms in the person of a very young, very drunken “doughboy.” It was Fred!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE LOVE OF MY LIFE

  1917–1918

  Mutual aid • I become Mrs. Fred Poitrine • Our little home • A lifetime of bliss in a fortnight’s

  furlough • What the gypsy told me • Farewell, Fred. (Did I really know it was farewell forever?)

  The Armistice • The telegram • Fred’s insurance policy • Good-by, Chicago, hello, New York!

  SINCE THE DAWNING OF TIME, every fascinating woman has had one great love in her life. As Juliet had her Romeo, as Héloïse her Abélard, as Pola her Rudy, as Wallis her Edward, so had I my Fred.

  He had lurched into me, quite intoxicated, at the lowest ebb of my life. Being young, “green” and not quite himself, he had mistaken me for a woman of loose habits and asked me to accompany him to his hotel room. Aghast, I was about to rebuff him. Then I thought better of it. Here was a poor, lonely “doughboy” at loose ends in a hostile city. I, too, was alone—penniless and pathetic—and it was beginning to rain quite hard. How could I allow this poor, simple soldier to wander the streets of the “Loop,” a prey to heaven knows what sort of woman?

  “Come along, soldier,” I said. “I’ll see you safely to your room.”

  “Surest thing you know, cutie,” he kept muttering. “I’m the chicken inspector.”

  Fred’s hotel was in a clean but humble caravanserai on Clark Street, not at all the sort of address I was accustomed to. But beggars can’t be choosers, as the saying goes. As soon as I got the door of his room open, he stumbled in and collapsed on the bed. A second later he was dead to the world. Feeling sorry for the poor boy, I loosened his tight uniform, unwound his puttees and removed his heavy boots. There was still no response. Then, because I was both physically and emotionally exhausted, because I felt that this poor, lost lamb needed watching over and because it was by then raining in torrents, I removed everything save my corset cover and lay primly on the bed beside him.

  The next morning I was rudely jarred into consciousness by Fred himself. “Gloriosky!” he said. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Why, don’t you remember?” I asked.

  “Then are you one of . . . one of those?” queried Fred.

  “One of those what?” I said.

  “One of those hoor-girls?”

  Outraged, I sprang to my feet, but not before he had found his wallet and counted the contents. I was furious until I saw that he had more than five thousand dollars in it. The poor darling had wandered into a
“crap” game and, with proverbial beginner’s luck, had “cleaned up.” With a sigh of relief he said, “Well, at least you didn’t get at that.”

  I was too angry to speak coherently. “Of all the insulting ingrates!” I said. “Here you come staggering out of a saloon, make an indecent proposal to a lady like me and, instead of calling the police, I bring you back to your room, put you to bed, watch over you like a mother and now—after all I did for you last night—you have the gall to accuse me of . . .” I couldn’t continue. I burst into hysterical sobs and buried my head in the pillow. From the corner of my eye, I could see how abashed he was. In his clumsy way he tried to apologize and to comfort me, but I could know no solace. Seeing my abject grief, Fred spoke of himself as a cad and bounder, a rakehell, a devil with the ladies and a vile seducer of innocent girls. I had not the heart to contradict him. Through my racking sobs I could only repeat and repeat that I hadn’t the slightest idea that he had had any money on him at all and that now he was accusing me of being a thief, as well as a wanton woman. When he told me that he had been inebriated and had not realized that I was a virtuous young girl, I cried all the harder. And when he offered me ten dollars, I emitted a high, piercing animal shriek of indignation that had him begging for my silence. That morning I became Mrs. Fred Poitrine at Cook County Court House with a license, a marriage certificate and two paid witnesses to prove it. At last I was a bride! That very afternoon I arranged with Mr. Alexander for new photographs.

  As Fred had only five thousand dollars, I saw no need to squander it in that squalid hotel. Instead, we moved into a dear little two-room apartment, very prettily furnished, on West Lake Street, quite near the “El.” Fred carried me across our own little threshold and, after a delicious chop suey dinner, I gave myself wholly to him. Far from being the vile seducer he had claimed to be, I discovered that I was Fred’s first “conquest.” As with all great loves, there was something so honest, innocent, childlike and pure about ours that it made all lesser amours seem sordid and tawdry. All that night Fred kept reiterating how glad he was that he had saved himself for a girl as worthy as little me and all I could do was reply that I, too, was glad.