My Story

thinking.

“The man at the studio suggested Marilyn,” I said.

“That’s a nice name,” my Aunt said, “and it fits with your mother’s maiden name.”

I didn’t know what that was.

“She was a Monroe,” said Aunt Grace. “Her family goes way back. I have some papers and letters I’m keeping for your mother. They show that she was related to President Monroe of the United States.”

“You mean I’m related to a president of the United States?” I asked.

“Directly descended,” said Aunt Grace.

“It’s a wonderful name,” I said. “Marilyn Monroe. But I won’t tell them about the president.” I kissed Aunt Grace and said, “I’ll try to make good on my own.”

The assistant director said, “Now just walk up to Miss June Haver, smile at her, say hello, wave your right hand, and walk on. Got that?”

The bells rang. A hush fell over the set. The assistant director called, “Action!” I walked, smiled, waved my right hand and spoke. I was in the movies! I was one of those hundred to one shots—a “bit player.”

There were a dozen of us on the set, bit players, with a gesture to make and a line or two to recite. Some of them were veteran bit players. After ten years in the movies they were still saying one line and walking ten feet toward nowhere. A few were young and had nice bosoms. But I knew they were different from me. They didn’t have my illusions. My illusions didn’t have anything to do with being a fine actress. I knew how third rate I was. I could actually feel my lack of talent, as if it were cheap clothes I was wearing inside. But, my God, how I wanted to learn! To change, to improve! I didn’t want anything else. Not men, not money, not love, but the ability to act. With the arc lights on me and the camera pointed at me, I suddenly knew myself. How clumsy, empty, uncultured I was! A sullen orphan with a goose egg for a head.

But I would change. I stood silent and staring. Men were smiling at me and trying to catch my eye. Not the actors or the director and his assistants. They were important people and important people try to catch the eye only of other important people. But the grips and electricians and the other healthy looking workmen had grinning friendly faces for me. I didn’t return their grins. I was too busy being desperate. I had a new name, Marilyn Monroe. I had to get born. And this time better than before.

My bit was cut out of the picture Scudda Hoo, Scudda Hay. I didn’t mind when I heard about it. I would be better in the next picture. I’d been hired for six months. In six months I’d show them.

I spent my salary on dramatic lessons, on dancing lessons, and singing lessons. I bought books to read. I sneaked scripts off the set and sat up alone in my room reading them out loud in front of the mirror. And an odd thing happened to me. I fell in love with myself—not how I was but how I was going to be.

I used to say to myself, what the devil have you got to be proud about, Marilyn Monroe? And I’d answer, “Everything, everything.” And I’d walk slowly and turn my head slowly as if I were a queen.

One night another bit player, a male, invited me out for dinner.

“I haven’t any money,” I warned him. “Have you?”

“No,” he said. “But I’ve received a sort of invitation to a party. And I would like to take you along. All the stars will be there.”

We arrived at the Beverly Hills home at nine o’clock. It was a famous agent’s house. I felt as frightened entering it as if I were breaking into a bank. My stockings had a few mends in them. I was wearing a ten dollar dress. And my shoes! I prayed nobody would look at my shoes. I said to myself, now’s the time to feel like a queen, you dope—not when you’re alone in the room with nobody looking. But the queen feeling wouldn’t come. The best I could manage was to walk stiff legged into a large hall and stand staring like a frozen blonde at dinner jackets and evening gowns.

My escort whispered to me, “The food’s in the other room. Come on.” He went off without me. I remained in the hall, looking into a room full of wonderful furniture and wonderful people. Jennifer Jones was sitting on a couch. Olivia de Haviland was standing near a little table. Gene Tierney was laughing next to her. There were so many others I couldn’t focus on them. Evening gowns and famous faces drifted around in the room laughing and chatting. Diamonds glittered. There were men, too, but I only looked at one. Clark Gable stood by himself holding a highball and smiling wistfully at the air. He looked so familiar that it made me dizzy.

I stood as straight as I could and put on the highest class expression I knew. But I couldn’t enter the room where the laughter and diamonds were.

A voice spoke.

“My dear young lady,” it said. “Do come and sit by my side.”

It was a charming voice, a little fuzzy with liquor, but very distinguished. I turned and saw a man sitting by himself on the stairway. He was holding a drink in his hand. His face was sardonic like his voice.

“Do you mean me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Pardon me if I don’t rise. My name is George Sanders.”

I said, “How do you do.”

“I presume you also have a name,” he scowled at me.

“I’m Marilyn Monroe,” I said.

“You will forgive me for not having heard it before,” said Mr. Sanders. “Do sit down—beside me.”

“May I have the honor of asking you to marry me?” he said solemnly. “The name, in case you have forgotten, is Sanders.”

I smiled at him and didn’t answer.

“You are naturally a little reluctant to marry one who is not only a stranger, but an actor,” Mr. Sanders said. “I can understand your hesitancy—particularly on the second ground. An actor is not quite a human being—but then, who is?”

Mr. Sanders’ handsome and witty face suddenly looked at me, intently.

“Blonde,” he said, “pneumatic, and full of peasant health. Just the type meant for me.”

I thought he was going to put his arm around me but he didn’t. His voice sounded sleepy as he continued.

“Please think it over, Miss Monroe. I can promise you only one thing if you marry me. You’ll become one of the most glamorous stars in Hollywood. I’ll help you. Word of honor.”

Mr. Sanders put his glass down and dozed off.

I left him on the stairs and walked across the hall, out of the mansion door into the Beverly Hills night. I felt grateful to Mr. Sanders for having spoken to me. But out of the incident came my first Hollywood feud.

I’ll skip ahead and tell the feud story here. A year and a half later I was still broke and looking for jobs, but the first little buzz of success had touched my name. I’d been on the screen in The Asphalt Jungle, and audiences had whistled at me—just as the wolves on the beach had done the first time I’d worn a bathing suit. And though I didn’t seem able to land another job after my “great success,” the photographers were after me as a model.

Among these was Tony Beauchamp who was one of the more important camera artists in Hollywood. He was married to Sarah Churchill. I had been to his studio often to sit for pictures. One day he asked me to come to his home on Sunday afternoon “for cocktails.”

I was thrilled by the invitation and eager to meet his wife. I had always looked up to Winston Churchill as an oldish but very noble man.

The Beauchamp home was on the beach. I drove out alone dressed in a sweater and skirt. I hadn’t yet learned that “come for cocktails” meant a party. I thought the cocktails would be only for Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp and me.

When I entered the Beauchamp home I stood still and didn’t move. It was filled with people all drinking cocktails. The only person I knew was Tony Beauchamp.

“Make yourself at home,” he said and introduced me to his wife. I said how do you do and remained standing still. The Beauchamps moved on.

I noticed a commotion among the guests at the other end of the crowded room. A blonde with a funny accent was cutting loose about something. I couldn’t make out her words, but she was whooping away in unmistakable fury. I saw her take a tall man by the arm and march him out of the room. The tall man looked familiar.

Tony came up to me with a grin.