Little Me Page 8

  Owing to Mr. Barouch’s many connections, I was able to lease a very pretty apartment on Central Park South, decorated in the Renaissance manner, where Mr. Barouch was a constant visitor. I knew very little about his personal life but he was extremely filial and spoke often about his dear mother out in Yonkers—“my old lady” was his affectionate soubriquet. You can imagine then my stupefied horror when, after more than two years of the most cordial relations, Mr. Barouch’s body was dredged from the Harlem River. The circumstances surrounding his untimely death have ever been veiled in mystery. But I feel sure that it was a suicide. Some men are simply too brilliant to live.

  With Mr. Barouch no longer a part of my life, I continued to perform at “Winnie’s” Club Audubon. (One must do something to forget one’s sorrows.) As the name of the establishment suggests, ornithology was the leitmotiv of the Audubon and each of our elaborate “floor shows” dealt one way or another with our winged friends. They would be given titles such as Peacocks on Parade or Fine Feathers . The big winter gala of 1925 was called Birds of Paradiseand featured, as its star, a gifted female impersonator with the appropriate name of Ned Crow! In the grande finale I appeared as “The Raven” in an exquisite costume of jet black plumage inspired by the designs of the Viennese genius, Ernst de Weerth, for the fairies in Max Reinhardt’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and executed by a talented taxidermist in Hackensack. While “Winnie,” perched atop the piano, recited Edgar Allan Poe’s grand old poem, I did a neodramatic exotic dance number with a fierce fluttering of chiffon wings that quite “brought down the house.” As a production “number” it was unforgettable.

  One evening when I was in my dressing room, relaxing after the exhausting demands of my solo, I was surprised to see the door burst open. There stood a tall slim gentleman unbuttoning his faultless evening clothes. He had a long, thin, sensitive face reminiscent of the paintings of El Greco. He wore a beard and had an extremely high, intellectual forehead.

  “Oh!” he said.

  “Yes?” was my frosty reply. I was accustomed to countless admirers flocking to my dressing room after each performance, but they had always been considerate enough to knock before entering.

  “I’m most frightfully sorry,” the stranger stammered. “I was looking for the men’s room. Nothing here seems to be what I expected.”

  “And what did you expect?” I asked haughtily.

  He then explained that he was an English gentleman totally absorbed in the study of nature lore. He had mistaken “Winnie’s” gay club for the Audubon Society. In his confusion and total ignorance of American usage, he had not understood the witty chicken yard labels on the doors of the two rest-rooms and had wandered, hopelessly lost, through the basement of the building until coming to my dressing room door, upon which some “wag” had scrawled “water closet” because of a leak in the sewer main that sometimes caused my accommodations to be flooded during inclement weather. I explained his mistake, directed him to the proper portal and thought no more of the incident.

  But later that night, as I was going home, I saw the bearded Briton standing out in front of the Club Audubon. He was having an altercation with the doorman and a cab driver. He kept saying, “But I want to go to the Tolliver-Fanshaw, my good man. Tolliver-Fanshaw. It’s a large club on a very big square. I can’t remember the address.” When he saw me, he doffed his hat and then said, “I can’t seem to make you Americans understand anything.” I will admit that with his English accent and slight speech impediment, it was not always easy to get the “gist” of his every remark. However, I was more cultured than the underlings at the club and, in my usual friendly fashion, attempted to assist this stranger on our shores. Patiently, the British gentleman spelled out the address to which he wished to be taken. “Tolliver-Fanshaw,” he repeated. “T-a-l-l-i-a-f-e-r-r-o, Tolliver. F-e-a-t-h-e-r-s-t-o-n-e-h-a-u-g-h, Fanshaw. Tolliver-Fanshaw.” I recognized it as the forbidding men’s club (razed in 1929 to make way for a large apartment building) right next door to my own little place on Central Park South. I explained matters to the driver and soon we were chatting merrily in the back seat of the cab.

  This aesthetic English gentleman was named Cedric Roulstoune-Farjeon. Because I was the only person in New York who could understand him and because we were “next-door neighbors,” he became my constant companion for the next two weeks. Poor “Cedie,” he seemed so alone and lost and friendless in a huge metropolis like New York, not “speaking the same language,” living alone in a gloomy men’s club like the Talliaferro-Featherstonehaugh. He was not interested in life on the Gay White Way, in the nightclubs and “speakeasies” and fashionable restaurants. “Cedie” loved beauty and beauty alone—birds, nature, poetry and music. Perhaps his worship of beauty is what brought us together. We would take little strolls through Central Park or along the Palisades. Together we would visit the zoo, the Museum of Natural History, the Aquarium, poetry readings or the lovely dance recitals of Paul Swann. It was very restful.

  When “Winnie” inquired as to my whereabouts, I told her that I was seeing a good bit of Cedric Roulstoune-Farjeon. “Jesus,” she said. “And he’s an Honorable!”

  Knowing little of the British aristocracy in those faraway days of 1925, I said haughtily, “He certainly is. He’s never once laid a finger on me.” “Winnie” just laughed in that coarse way of hers and made a very crude remark. But I felt extremely touched and flattered that an English intellectual gentleman, such as Cedric Roulstoune-Farjeon, would be interested in me for my mind alone. Yet “Cedie” seemed to draw great spiritual strength from my mere presence, and there were times when we sat for hours on end in my little Renaissance parlor without uttering a single word. I had also acquired the gift of being a “good listener” and this was very important with “Cedie” as he was extremely shy and inarticulate which, coupled with his almost incomprehensible accent and defective speech, made listening a full-time job. But during the “lavender hour” one afternoon in 1925 “Cedie” timidly asked me—or at least I thought he was asking me—to become his wife.

  I cannot, even today, quite express my feelings for dear “Cedie.” I loved him, yes, but was I in love with him? He was so sweet, so gentle, so refined, so different from any of the men I had known. He could awaken the maternal feeling in my breast, but could he ever kindle the flame that guttered there? I frankly did not know. He went on to say something about being cooped up in the country a good deal of the time, about living on an allowance, about having very simple wants in life—poetry, music and nature. Of course I loved the country and cared little for pomp, circumstance and fashion’s folly. But did I really want to give up my promising career to start afresh in an alien land with a husband whom I barely knew? I repeat, I honestly did not know. As I bade adieu to “Cedie” at the door of my apartment I said, “Give me twenty-four hours to think it over.” He said—or at least I believe he said—that he would.

  Club Audubon was hectically gay that night with celebrities crowding every inch of space. “Jimmy” Walker was there as were “Al” Capone, “Legs” Diamond, Marilyn Miller, John Barrymore, Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, “Freddy” McAvoy, “Al” Jolson, Jeanne Eagles, Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Mistinguett and the fabulous Ruth Brown Murray. Also in the throng of festive celebrities were two insidious men who would never have been granted membership in such an exclusive circle. They were “Izzy” Einstein and “Moe” Smith, the notorious prohibition agents, who had disguised themselves as Roumanian diplomats in the entourage of Queen Marie and had thus—quite illegally! —gained admission to the club.

  I was in the midst of my Raven “number” when there was a piercing blast of a whistle and someone shouted “This is a raid!” I darted off the floor, raced to my subterranean dressing room and, using all of my strength, managed to escape, like the martyred Jean Valjean, through the sewer. When I reached home—clad only in my costume and a light evening wrap from Martial et Armand—I found a note from “Cedie.” But I was too exhaust
ed to read it. Like a weary animal, I tumbled into bed and slept until the following noon.

  Upon awakening I sent the elevator man out for some newspapers as I was curious to learn the exact fate of “Winnie” and her club. But upon opening the New York Graphic I was shocked to see a large photograph of none other but “Cedie.” The accompanying article stated that “Cedie’s” father, “the ninth Earl of Baughdie, and third richest man in the British Empire,” had passed quietly away, “leaving his enormous holdings to Cedric Roulstoune-Farjeon, his only son.” I realized then and there that I must marry dear “Cedie,” if only to be of some solace to him as companion and helpmate when he, poor, shy boy, took on the staggering burdens that went with the earldom. I telephoned his place of residence but learned that he had sailed for England that morning.

  With trembling hands I opened his note. It read: “Must return to England. Pater dead. Knowing you has been an experience. Farewell. Cedric.” Poor darling! He must have been beside himself with grief over what he imagined was my indifference when he wrote those few lines of farewell. Of course I could see it clearly. The only possible answer was Yes.

  Through an influential acquaintance at City Hall, who was able to cut through miles of “red tape,” I had a passport issued immediately (although the photograph did not do me justice and my age was put down incorrectly). I threw some things into a valise, telephoned the news of my engagement to the newspapers and raced down to the Cunard Lines. Just eleven hours after “Cedie” had set sail for our gracious ancestral seat, I was following. True love had come my way at last. I would sacrifice my career for the man I loved and for the ancient lineage of the proud Earls of Baughdie.

  In The Music Room-Park Lane

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE TOAST OF LONDON

  1925–1927

  Taking “Cedie” by surprise • “Gretna Green” • Little me as a Lady

  “Cedie’s” mother (Britannia, Lady Baughdie) • My new “empire” • The Baughdie Diamonds

  The London social whirl • My famous parties for famous people • Momma’s

  surprise visit • A mishap at the Sanctuary • My nervous breakdown

  BY A STRANGE QUIRK OF FATE, “Cedie” had taken the first ship sailing to England from New York, I had taken the fastest. Thus, landing at Southampton, I had ample time to run up to London, purchase a smart outfit—beige with fox trimming dyed to match—at Mme. Lucille’s, arrange for credit as the future Countess of Baughdie and notify the press of my forthcoming nuptials. Since the fabulously wealthy Earls of Baughdie had always created considerable interest throughout Great Britain, the reporters were more or less telling me of my plans. (The announcement of our engagement in the New York newspapers preceded me to London and had already caused quite a “stir.”) Besieged by reporters, I travelled to Liverpool to surprise dear “Cedie.”

  Always a poor sailor, he looked paler and sicker than usual as he tottered down the gangplank. The sight of me, waving up at him, was just too much for poor Cedric. He collapsed completely. While reviving him, I carried on the interview for both of us, and as soon as “Cedie” was able to get to his feet, we were whisked off to a quick civil marriage service at the nearest registry office. Once able to “shake” the reporters, we repaired to Claridge’s for our honeymoon.

  As a young girl—a child bride, if the truth were known—our “Gretna Green” elopement was not the sort of romantic wedding I had so long desired. For a member of the distinguished Baughdie clan, a magnificent marriage ceremony in Westminster Abbey, attended by the royal family and the “cream” of London Society, would have been my due. But, with poor “Cedie’s” late father barely cold in the family mausoleum, such ostentation seemed in the most questionable taste to me. My bridegroom was all but incoherent with sorrow, shock and mal de mer. And so it seemed wisest to wed as simply and rapidly as possible without taxing unduly his already overburdened mental capacities.

  That night, in our simple but attractive suite at Claridge’s, I put on my loveliest new négligée (a diaphanous creation also purchased from Lucille’s), sprayed myself liberally with Nuit de Noël, and prepared to give myself wholly to my virile new husband. It would be my duty to the Empire, I realized, to produce a male heir, and as quickly as possible. Such is the stuff of which we British noblewomen are made! “Cedie” still looked quite shaken when he saw me. I took his thin, delicate hand, placed it on my breast beneath which my heart was beating with excitement and expectation, and said to him, simply and eloquently, “Dearest husband, I am all yours. Do with me what you will.”

  Then Cedric paid me a beautiful, beautiful tribute merely mumbling: “We’ll muddle through somehow, old girl.” When I tiptoed timidly to our nuptial bed, he was fast asleep.

  We lingered on at Claridge’s for many weeks. My new husband was a great clubman and spent a good deal of every day and each evening in the vicinity of St. James’s in those exclusively male strongholds, the West End Clubs. When we were together he seemed scarcely able to grasp the fact that we were man and wife and that I was all his to do with as he chose. In his absence I was able to entertain myself by “snooping” about the many interesting shops which London has to offer—Asprey, Worth, Molyneux, Cartier, Boucheron—I was like a child in a toy store! As the new Lady Baughdie, it seemed my duty to have at least one full-length portrait painted so that if Country Life or the Tatler or British Vogue should telephone to request something for publication, they would not find me shorthanded. In order not to seem to “play favorites,” I commissioned likenesses of myself from Augustus John, Marie Laurencin, Boldini, Sir William Orpen and Eugene Speicher. John Singer Sargent, alas, had just passed away.

  When the paintings were finished there was simply not room enough in our tiny suite to hang them all. I was growing restive at Claridge’s, cooped up in six minuscule rooms, and wanted to settle down in a little place of our own—as what new bride does not? We had been wed for nearly two months and I had not yet been introduced to “Cedie’s” widowed mother or any of his family or friends. Whenever I mentioned this to “Cedie” he became uncommunicative, and distant, and usually departed for one of his many clubs. Nor had I been the recipient of any of the uxorial tenderness a “honeymooner” naturally expects. However, I waited patiently, knowing that “Cedie” would soon “snap out of” his nervousness and timidity.

  However, the occasion of my first interview with my new mother-in-law was not far off. Perusing the Court Circular in the London Times one morning, I observed that the Dowager Countess of Baughdie had moved into the family townhouse in Park Lane. I resolved then to pay a surprise call. Knowing how conservative would be the Dowager Lady Baughdie’s feelings about proper mourning, I chose for my “weeds” a somber and stunning creation all in black—a jet and fringe dress, black pearls, sheer black hose with jet clocks and a full-length monkey fur cape with muff and hat to match designed by Louiseboulanger. That I looked outstanding was abundantly evident. As I made my way on foot along Brook Street to comfort my bereaved mother-in-law, every head turned.

  I had not previously known of the existence of a town property among “Cedie’s” many holdings and I must admit to being awestruck by the façade of the Park Lane house. It was far more splendid than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams of richesse. Two footmen opened the door to me and Fidgets, the butler, took the visiting card which I produced from my Dorothy bag. He stared at the card, stared at me, lifted his eyebrows and seemed almost to stagger toward the reception room to which he led me. “How stunning this big old house would be,” I recall thinking, “if only it could be redecorated by someone like Ruhlmann or Joseph Urban.” I sat decorously on a fragile Hepplewhite settee and gazed across the room at a portrait of a woman who looked remarkably like my “Cedie.” She was wearing court dress of the Victorian period and a breathtaking set of diamonds—necklace, tiara, earrings and bracelets. “This,” I said to myself, “must be my dear husband’s mother. How I’m going to love her! And those mu
st be the fabulous old Baughdie Diamonds!” I had time to think no more. A tall, stately grande dame, the image of “Cedie,” swept into the room. Like little me, she, too, was in the deepest mourning. Upon seeing me, she swayed in the doorway and grasped at a tapestry to regain her balance, so overcome by emotion was she.

  “You?” she said in shaken tones. “My son married you? ”

  “Yes,” I said, rising with a sweet smile. “I am the little bride your Cedric chose in far-off New York. But you must call me Belle and I’ll call you Mum.” (“Mum” is very British and I was already speaking like an English aristocrat.) At that, my mother-in-law fainted dead away. Her physician was summoned and I was ordered from the house as I could be of little help in this emergency.