“Those sissy ‘butts’? I’d rather smoke cornsilk,” Miss Divine scoffed. “Come on, Boozeboy, we could be there and back while we’re ‘yakking.’ ”
My protests did no good. Before I could stop them, the terrace doors banged open, furious winds bellying the curtains. “Come back!” I screamed, but my voice was lost in the gale. The last I saw of him, poor “Daddy” was lurching down to the beach with “Billie.”
“Billie’s” story, as she told it to the Coast Guard, the police, the coroner and the Park Avenue Social Review the following day, was that she had let go of Mr. Frobisher’s arm for just a moment and the next thing she knew he had been swept out to sea. Three days later my poor husband was washed up on Jones Beach—the only fatality in all of Southampton.
The lovely Labor Day lawn party I had planned was automatically transformed into a funeral for “Daddy,” attended by Southampton society and both Easthampton branches of A.A. It was a calm, placid, sunny day—our gardens looking as though naught but balmy breezes and gentle rains had ever ruffled their serene beauty. “Lead Us Not into Temptation” was the theme of the clergyman’s eloquent eulogy to Mr. Frobisher and, as I stood there, soothed by his resonant articulation and reassuring words, a far Greater Voice came to me from the general direction of Montauk Point. “Belle,” I heard It say, “what is done is done and what must be must be. Accept your fate and know that everything will be all right.” At that moment, a shaft of sunlight penetrated a
Sur la plage—Southampton
fleecy cloud, sending its radiance down upon little me—and only upon me— among the hundreds standing with bowed heads on my lawn. From the “rumpus” room the “hi-fi” struck up the exquisite chords of “Nearer My God to Thee.”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes! At last I have found Him! I have found God in Southampton!” He had singled me out as one of His favored children and, in this hour of despair, He had come to me in the garden and spoken to me. Despite the years of turmoil and hardship, in spite of my terrible sorrow, I knew now that God had found little me—and vice versa, of course—that from now on everything would be all right!
The rest of the details of that day are hazy but I am told that I wore a beatific smile of radiance all the way to the cemetery and at the cocktail party that followed. So ecstatic was I, with my newfound peace and tranquillity, that I positively beamed through the reading of the will which I had helped “Daddy” write. And when a delegation of Southampton’s oldest and most influential citizens came to me and offered to buy up Mr. Frobisher’s estate for double its value if Momma and “Billie” and I would prefer to move away from this house and this community of so many memories, I accepted their proposition without reservation. “This,” I said, “must be His will and I bow to it. When may I expect your certified check?”
Southampton, fabulous playground of the gilded rich, you may have robbed me of my beloved husband, but you gave me something even better in his place—you gave me faith!
Four generations of “Belles”-Momma (Lulubelle);
Little Me (Maybell); Baby-dear (Isabelle); and tiny
”Presh” (Christabelle), 1960
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FRANKLY FORTY
1960
Pastorale • The “golden years” on my Connecticut farm • Surrounded by my
loved ones • “Lance” Leopard, my protégé • “Billie” • My affairs in order
once and for all • My philosophy of Life • Down the sunset trail
MY COURSE IS RUN, MY RACE IS WON! At forty—and why try to “kid” anyone about anything as silly as age?—I have found peace and contentment here at Belledame Farm in dear, sleepy little Cyclops, Connecticut, the highest point in the state, where New York and Massachusetts meet the “Nutmeg State” in the rolling foothills of Bear Mountain. My house, once a sweet stone tithe barn, built in the seventeenth century, is commonly referred to as “one of the seven wonders of the state.” It was added to by the late Frank Lloyd Wright (under my supervision) and—after the untimely passing of that master builder and great visionary—finally finished by local artisans according to my own plans. It is a bit of tradition, a bit of modern and a bit of pure “fantasy.” On Sundays and on summer weekends the road between Cyclops and Salisbury is clogged with cars and “rubberneck” buses filled with sightseers who just can’t “believe” Belledame Farm. (See plan.)
I have everything a woman wants—security, quietude and the warm comforting companionship of my loved ones. My darling Momma is with me
still, a wonderful little old lady bustling about her own, spacious self-contained apartment here at Belledame Farm. Momma comes and goes as she pleases—little “jaunts” to Miami, Atlantic City, Las Vegas, wherever whim and Momma’s delightful sense of mischief dictate—but I always know that, sooner or later, she’ll be right back here with me! Momma turned eighty-five just last month. What a celebration we all had! Of course no one will believe her true age. She’s so pretty and gay and youthful that she’s more like a girl of sixteen than a great-grandmother in the eighth decade of her rich, full life.
And did I “let the cat out of the bag” by mentioning that Momma was a great-granny? Perhaps I did, but this is the best of all— I am now a grandmother!And at my age!
Yes, finally, Baby-dear came home to her Mommy with her sweet little daughter, Christabelle, although we all call her “Presh” (short for “Precious”). And so, after the many, many, many years that circumstances separated me from my own darling daughter, I now have my own little girl and her little girl right here with me at Belledame Farm. Baby-dear’s marriage to Bruce did not, I am sorry to say, work out well. Baby-dear was perhaps too intellectual, Bruce too fun-loving. Who is to say? My own feeling is that Bruce needed a more mature woman to channel his high spirits and animal energies. As is only right and proper, Baby-dear has custody of little “Presh.” For who can guide an innocent little girl past the reefs and shoals in the “Sea of Life” better than a devoted and understanding mother? However, “Presh” spends every August with her “Papa” at Watch Hill, and Belledame Farm is a silent and strange place during that long, long month without the clatter of her little feet, the laughter of her shrill, piping little voice.
And we still have our “head of the house” in blunt, good-natured “Billie” Divine. Dear old “Billie,” my faithful friend and constant companion. She has “stuck” to me like “glue” ever since Mr. Frobisher’s untimely passing. And how I have come to depend upon her! Having no head for financial matters, little by little I have placed the entire burden of handling Mr. Frobisher’s considerable estate on “Billie’s” broad shoulders. She has done her work well and, through clever “manipulations” and transactions on the “market”—deals so complicated that even hearing about them makes my poor head spin!—dear old “Billie” has increased the value of my “portfolio” by more than double since Mr. Frobisher’s will was probated. What would I do without her? Gradually she has simply taken over all of the onerous responsibilities connected with administering the estate. I simply gave her “power of attorney” and told her to “do her damnedest”!
And recently we have even acquired a very young, very personable and—I think—very talented “man around the house.” For what five females would want to live in a “harem” devoid of male companionship? This gifted youngster is named “Lance” Leopard. He describes himself as “sixteen going on seventeen” and as liking to “fool around with singin’.” I can, perhaps, go a bit further to “fill you in” on the facts. “Lance” is tall, personable, extremely well built, a bit shy and the unconscious possessor of a truly golden singing voice. I first “bumped into” him at a record store in Salisbury, “mooning” over the “discs” of Elvis Presley, Fabian, “Bobby” Darin, Paul Anka and other very youthful “pop” singers. In my estimation, “Lance” Leopard has them all “beat a mile” and has a voice we will all be hearing some day soon.
But what hope has a sixteen-year-old orphan boy
of being discovered in these tranquil northern hills? I sensed, immediately, that what “Lance” needed was the experienced guidance and advice of an older professional— one who had “been through the mill” of the entertainment business herself. And so, without quite knowing it at the time, I acquired a protégé whose career I can mould and develop. For the past six months “Lance” has lived here at Belledame Farm where I can look after him properly. His room adjoins mine so that any hour of the day or night he can come to me with his problems, his ideas, his desires or just drop in to “chin” with an understanding “pal.” I try to give him all the benefit of my long and varied career. We have elocution lessons (his accent and diction, once appalling, have come along beautifully—almost to emulate mine), exercises in grace and poise, and plenty of practice in “putting over” a popular tune. Every day I am reminded more and more of that long-ago and far-away time when I found a young “nobody” named Letch Feeley and turned him into a star overnight.
“Billie” is, of course, very scornful of “Lance” and his “rusty pipes,” as she calls them. She refers to eager, earnest, young “Lance” as that “hillbilly jail bait” and is barely civil to the poor, motherless boy. Her overpowering jealousy is something I’m afraid she simply never will outgrow.
I am still besieged with offers to return to the stage, make another film, record some of the songs I made famous and even to have a weekly television hour of my own. I am often tempted, but I steadfastly refuse. I have retired
With “Lance” Leopard, my protégé-youth will be served!
from the “hurly-burly” and have found contentment here in high hills with my little family, my work and my God. As mischievous “Connie” Talmadge once said, “Leave them while you’re looking good.”
The deep and unswerving faith that found me in a moment of bereavement and desolation has never once left me. It has become my comfort, my friend, my guiding light through life’s darkest moments. From it I have developed a true philosophy of life.
If anyone were to ask me my rules for a happy, rich and successful modus vivendi—and people often do—I think I would offer these few “pointers” for leading a truly beautiful life:
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Nothing is accomplished by being spiteful and vengeful. If you set others the example of your truly Christian conduct, they will quickly follow suit.
No matter what others say about you, always think and speak kindly about them. For example, I have it on good authority that Magdalena Montezuma is spreading it around town that I still drink to excess. This is patently untrue! But far be it from me to tell you how much that Spic lush can “guzzle” at a single sitting! By holding good thoughts about her, she cannot wound me with her vicious lies.
Never be greedy or “grabby.” If you give in gracefully on the little things, the big things of life will naturally come your way.
Be scrupulously truthful with others and with yourself. No lie—even a little “white” one—can go long undetected. The truth will inevitably come to the surface so, as I have always done, respect it from the very beginning. It is bad enough to try to “kid” others, but to deceive one’s self is the equivalent of suicide or self-mutilation. “T. T. T.” (“Tell The Truth”) should be everyone’s motto.
Be a ruthless critic. Not of others (charity, love and understanding should be the “keynote” there), but with yourself. Always ask “Where have I failed?” and answer with brutal honesty. I realize now that, when certain of my films were not “boffo,” the fault lay not with others, but with little me. They were ofttimes ten or fifteen years “ahead of themselves,” too intellectual for both public and critics. In refusing to lower my standards, the blame was exclusively mine.
Think not of material rewards but of spiritual gains. Costly possessions such as furs, jewels, fine raiment and lavish surroundings are nice to have, but they are nothing compared with “peace of soul.” Through living my entire life on a higher spiritual plane than most, I have achieved both. A rare and rewarding accomplishment.
Always keep faith—faith in others (and they will not let you down— as a rule), faith in yourself and faith in Him. When all has looked darkest in my life, I simply turned to Him and He saw little me through to ultimate victory.
With these simple rules, religiously adhered to, no one can fail. This is the advice which I give freely and gladly to all who seek it. Take it with my blessings!2
Mine has been a good life. I revel now in its rewards. Last week dear “Billie” made a complete inventory of all my “holdings.” I was most pleasantly surprised at her final tabulation. At her insistence I have drawn and signed my last will and testament. I am at peace with the world, at peace with myself and at peace with my Lord. My house is in order.
What a funny expression that one is! If you could see my house at almost any time, “disorderly” would be the only adjective. At the moment “Lance” Leopard is in the shower singing “Polecat Kitty Dontcha Make a Monkey Outa Me” (one of his quaint “country” ballads). Baby-dear is in the library rereading The Anatomy of Melancholy . I tell her that she doesn’t get out enough, that life will pass her by while she sits with her “nose in a book” ruining her lovely eyes. Precious “Presh” is in the big bar practicing on her clarinet, the high, pure strains of “Flow Gently Sweet Afton” penetrating every nook and cranny of the house. Momma, I suppose, is seated at her fire, a hot toddy warming her brittle old bones and going over her “papers,” albums and scrapbooks.
It snowed very heavily last night and the high hills and mountains surrounding this peaceful valley look like a lovely Christmas card by “Grandma” Moses. My senses tingle just to see it! Sheer Drop Cliff—one of our favorite walks—is a veritable “mountain of glass” today.
“Billie” has just come in and suggested a bracing hike into the hills. I am of two minds about going. It is bitterly cold and ever so slippery underfoot. The shadows are lengthening, for the days are growing shorter. It would be very nearly dusk by the time I got into what “Presh” calls “Granny’s snow-suit” and hiking booties. But “Billie” has been acting so odd and “moody” for the past week or so that I suppose I’d better go along with her, if only to “keep peace” in the family. Besides, the air will do me good.
Yes, my course is run, my race is won. My little book is finished. Now to drink the hot buttered rum “Billie” has just prepared and then off to the hills! The answer to the challenge is always Yes! My life has been one long beautiful adventure. Who knows what the future holds in store?
THE END
Belledame Farm
Cyclops, Connecticut
December 13, 1960
1 A few hundred thousand of these 8˝ X 10˝ “glossy” prints are still available. Interested readers can secure copies by sending $10.00 to cover cost of handling to: Belle Poitrine Enterprises, Belledame Farm, Cyclops, Connecticut.
2 A more detailed analysis of my philosophy of life, entitled He and Me (98 pages) by Belle Poitrine with an introduction by “Billie” Divine, bound in genuine simulated leatherette, is available from the Divine Press, Belledame Farm, Cyclops, Connecticut, at $5.00, postpaid. Please specify color (eggshell, turquoise, lime, scarlet or shocking pink).
INSIDE BELLE POITRINE
Miss Jeri Archer, who appears throughout this book not only as Belle Poitrine, but also as four generations of herself—Momma, Baby-dear and little “Presh”—is a lady of many talents as well as many faces.
As a dramatic and musical comedy actress she made her debut on Broadway in a role created especially for her by George Abbott, Betty Comden and Adolph Green—that of Mitzi Green’s sidekick in the musical Billion Dollar Baby. She was featured with Bert Lahr and Jean Parker in the Broadway revival of Burlesque and caused something of an international furor when she appeared as “Britannia,” the famous nude, in Sir Laurence Olivier’s New York production of John Osborne’s play The Entertainer.
Television audiences have seen her on Playhouse
90 productions, The United States Steel Hour, Phil Silvers’ Sergeant Bilko series, Nightbeat and many, many others.
The owner of even more voices than faces, she has played—like Belle Poitrine herself—Cleopatra, a mother superior, a juvenile delinquent, a night club singer and dozens of other roles (including male ones) on such beloved old radio thrillers as Gangbusters, Counterspy,Top Secret Files, Treasury Agent and others and was last heard—but, needless to say, not seen—as the dulcet voice of an angel food cake on a television commercial touting a margarine.
She has been the same size—39–25–35—since reaching the age of twelve (some of the costumes which she designed and made at that tender age appear in the pages of Little Me), so that her career as a model has been long and profitable with no end in view. She has modeled everything from bikinis to ballgowns for painters, photographers, the mass market manufacturers and the exclusive one-of-a-kind collections. As a cover girl she has run the gamut of magazines from frosty sirens gazing disdainfully from high-fashion journals to the folksy housewife on the front of the Saturday Evening Post. In addition she has taught modeling, cast and directed the shooting of pictures for magazines and catalogues and performed in seven of the annual Society of Illustrators’ Shows. She has also designed dresses and hats for some of New York’s biggest garment manufacturers as well as for some of its most awe-inspiring custom shops.
Undoubtedly born with squirrel blood in her veins, she has never knowingly thrown away a stitch of clothing and is the harassed owner of a wardrobe—bursting closets, bulging trunks, bags of fur and feathers, oil drums overflowing with hats—of twentieth-century clothes rivalled only by the costume collections of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Brooklyn Museum and the late Collyer brothers (who are now out of the running and don’t really count). Nearly half the coats, suits, hats, dresses, movie and stage costumes worn by Belle Poitrine in this book have sprung full-blown from the Archer Archives of Outlandish Outfits.
Little Me Page 25