My Story (16 page)

But I still couldn't marry him. Joe Schenck argued with me to do it.

“What have you got to lose?” he asked.

“Myself,” I said. “I'm only going to marry for one reason—love.”

He asked me, “Which would you rather marry—a poor boy you loved or a rich man you liked?”

“A poor boy I loved,” I said.

“I'm disappointed in you,” Mr. Schenck said. “I thought you were a smart girl.” But Mr. Schenck seemed to like me more after our talk.

Johnny Hyde died. His family wouldn't let me sit among them at the funeral. I sat in the back of the church among Johnny's acquaintances. When I passed by his coffin I felt such a sadness for Johnny Hyde that I forgot myself. I threw myself on the coffin and sobbed. I wished I was dead with him.

My great friend was buried. I was without his importance to fight for me and without his love to guide me. I cried for nights at a time. I never regretted the million dollars I had turned down. But I never stopped regretting Johnny Hyde—the kindest man in the world.

 

 

One evening I was listening to two friends of mine having an argument. We were having dinner in a small Italian restaurant. One of my friends was a writer. The other was a director.

The argument was whether Botticelli was a finer painter than Leonardo da Vinci. I kept my eyes wide with interest although I couldn't understand anything they were saying. To begin with I didn't know who Botticelli or da Vinci were.

“We're boring Marilyn,” said the director. “I can always tell when she's bored to tears. She opens her eyes wide and parts her lips slightly with bogus eagerness.”

“Let's talk about something closer to her than the Renaissance,” said the writer. “How about sex?”

“At least I'll know what side you're on,” I said.

But I didn't. The discussion about sex sounded completely unfamiliar. It had to do with Freud and Jung and a few other characters who seemed to me pretty mixed up.

Something occurred to me, however, as I sat listening to my two gay friends. I realized that about two-thirds of the time I hadn't the faintest idea of what people (even women) were talking about. There was no hiding from it—I was terribly dumb. I didn't know anything about painting, music, books, history, geography. I didn't even know anything about sports or politics.

When I arrived home I sat in my bed and asked myself if there was anything I did know. I couldn't think of anything—except acting. I knew about acting. It was a way to live in dreams for a few minutes at a time.

I decided to go to school. The next day I enrolled in the University of Southern California. I subscribed for an art course.

I went to school every afternoon and often in the evening. The teacher was a woman. I was depressed by this at first because I didn't think a woman could teach me anything. But in a few days I knew differently.

She was one of the most exciting human beings I had ever met. She talked about the Renaissance and made it sound ten times more important than the Studio's
biggest epic. I drank in everything she said. I met Michelangelo and Raphael and Tintoretto. There was a new genius to hear about every day.

At night I lay in bed wishing I could have lived in the Renaissance. Of course I would be dead now. But it seemed almost worth it.

After a few weeks I branched out as a student. I started buying books by Freud and some of his modern disciples. I read them till I got dizzy.

But I didn't have enough time. There were acting lessons and singing lessons, publicity interviews, sessions with photographers—and rehearsal of a movie.

I finally decided to postpone my intelligence, but I made a promise to myself I won't forget. I promised that in a few years after things had settled down I would start learning—everything. I would read all the books and find out about all the wonders there were in the world.

And when I sat among people I would not only understand what they were talking about. I'd be able to contribute a few words.

 

 

I met Joan Crawford at Joe Schenck's house. She was an impressive woman. I admired her during dinner. I hoped that when I was her age I would keep my looks as well as she had.

Some movie stars don't seem like stars when you meet them, and some seem more like stars off the screen than on. I don't know which is better, but Miss Crawford was definitely the latter type. She was as much the movie star at Mr. Schenck's dinner table as she could have been electrifying a courtroom in a movie drama—even a little more.

I was pleased to see I had made an impression on Miss Crawford. She said to me after dinner, “I think I could help you a great deal if you would let me. For instance that white knitted dress you're wearing is utterly incorrect for a dinner of this kind.”

It was the only good dress I owned. I wore it evenings as well as daytimes when I was going any place important, and I cleaned it myself everyday.

I looked at Miss Crawford's beautiful evening gown and understood what she meant.

“Taste,” Miss Crawford went on, “is every bit as important as looks and figure.” She smiled very kindly at me and asked, “Will you let me help you, my dear?”

I said I was flattered to have her offer to. We made a date to meet Sunday morning in church. It turned out that Miss Crawford and I went to the same church.

After the church service Miss Crawford said as we met coming out, “I'm so glad to see you. But you mustn't come to church in flat heels and a gray suit with black trimming. If you wear gray you must wear different gray tones, but never black.”

It was my only suit, but there was no sense defending it on that ground.

“Would you like to come to my house with me?” Miss Crawford asked.

I said I'd like to very much, and it was arranged that I should follow her car in mine.

I was excited at what I thought was going to happen. Miss Crawford, I felt pretty sure, was going to offer me some of her old ball gowns and ensembles that she'd grown tired of.

The house was very beautiful and elegant. We had lunch in the kitchen with Miss Crawford's four children and a beautiful white poodle.

After lunch Miss Crawford asked me to come upstairs to her room.

“Brown would look very good on you,” she said. “I must show you the things I've been knitting.”

She showed me a number of knitted dickies in different shades of brown and explained that they were to be worn under different shades of brown suits.

“The main thing about dressing well,” Miss Crawford explained, “is to see that everything you wear is just right—that your shoes, stockings, gloves and bag all fit the suit you're wearing. Now what I would like you to do is to make a list of all the clothes in your wardrobe, and I'll make a list of all the things you need to buy and see that you buy the right things.”

I didn't say anything. I usually didn't mind telling people I was broke and even trying to borrow a few dollars from them to tide me over. But for some reason I couldn't tell Miss Crawford that she had seen my wardrobe in full—the incorrect white knitted dress and the wrong gray suit.

“It's so easy not to look vulgar,” Miss Crawford assured me, when I was ready to leave. “Do make out a list of all your things and let me guide you a bit. You'll be surprised at the results. And so will everyone else.”

I don't know why I called Miss Crawford up again, except that I had promised I would. Maybe I was still hoping she would present me with some of her discarded ball gowns. I think, also, I had some intention of telling her the truth about not being able to buy any fancy clothes.

But when I heard Miss Crawford's voice on the phone, I had to start palavering as I'd done before. Had I made out that list of my wardrobe? No, I hadn't. That was very lazy of me. Yes, I knew. And I would make the list out in a few days and call her up again.

“Good,” said Miss Crawford. “I'll be expecting to hear from you.”

I didn't call Miss Crawford again. In fact, the next time I heard from Miss Crawford was in the newspapers. This was a year later. I'd gone to work at 20th Century-Fox again, and the Marilyn Monroe boom had started. I was all over the magazines and movie columns, and the fan mail at the studio was arriving in trucks.

Among the honors that were now showering on me was the privilege of presenting one of the Oscars to one of the Award winners at the Academy's annual affair.

I was frozen with fear the night of the Academy Award Ceremonies. I waited tremblingly for my turn to walk up to the platform and hand over the Oscar in my keeping. I prayed I wouldn't trip and fall and that my voice wouldn't disappear when I had to say my two lines.

When my turn came I managed to reach the platform, say my piece, and return to my table without any mishap.

Or so I thought until I read Joan Crawford's remarks in the morning papers.

I haven't saved the clippings, but I have sort of remembered what she said. She said that Marilyn Monroe's vulgar performance at the Academy affair was a disgrace to all of Hollywood. The vulgarity, she said, consisted of my wearing a dress too tight for me and wriggling my rear when I walked up holding one of the holy Oscars in my hand.

I was so surprised I could hardly believe what I was reading. I called up some friends who had seen me at the ceremony and asked them if it were true. They laughed. It wasn't true, they said. They advised me to forgive a lady who had once been young and seductive herself.