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Updated: June 11, 2025
Harrietta thought of that camera now as a cruel Cyclops from whose hungry eye nothing escaped wrinkles, crow's-feet nothing. They had been working two months on the picture. It was almost finished. Midsummer. Harrietta's little bungalow garden was ablaze with roses, dahlias, poppies, asters, strange voluptuous flowers whose names she did not know.
She had little money, a small stanch following, an exquisite technique, and her fur coat was beginning to look gnawed around the edges. People even said maddeningly: "Harrietta Fuller? I saw her when I was a kid, years ago. Why, she must be le'see ten twelve why, she must be going on pretty close to forty." A worshipper would defend her. "You're crazy!
An ample, big-hipped, broad-bosomed woman with an apron like a drop curtain and a needle knack that kept Harrietta mended, be-ribboned, beruffled, and exquisite from her garters to her coat hangers. She had been around the theatre for twenty-five years, and her thick, deft fingers had served a long line of illustrious ladies Corinne Foster, Gertrude Bennett, Lucille Varney.
In five years her deft comedy method had become distinctive; in ten it was unique. Yet success as the stage measures it in size of following and dollars of salary had never been hers. Harrietta knew she wasn't a success. She saw actresses younger, older, less adroit, lacking her charm, minus her beauty, featured, starred, heralded.
Lyddy signed her name to the contract Lydia Lissome in a hand that would have done discredit to an eleven-year-old. Harrietta told Ken about it, not without some bitterness: "Which only proves one can't be too careful about picking one's parents. If my father had been a hod carrier instead of a minister of the Gospel and a darling old dreamer, I'd be earning five thousand a week, too."
Harrietta looked at him for a long, long minute. Her lips were parted. Her breath came quickly. She spoke: "I say what?" "You say: 'Ah, there you are." "Never!" said Harrietta Fuller, and brought her closed fist down on her open palm for emphasis. "Never!" It was August when she again was crossing desert, plains, and farmlands.
In the advertisements of the play in which Harrietta Fuller might be appearing you never read: HARRIETTA FULLER In Thus and So No. It was always: THUS AND SO With Harrietta Fuller Between those two prepositions lies a whole theatrical world of difference. The "In" means stardom; the "With" that the play is considered more important than the cast. Don't feel sorry for Harrietta Fuller.
"Why don't you fire Irish Mary?" Ken had asked Harrietta during a period of stringency. "I can't afford to." Ken understood, but you may not. Harrietta would have made it clear. "Any actress who earns more than a hundred a week is supposed to have a maid in her dressing room. No one knows why, but it's true.
Spartans who rise regularly at the chaste hour of seven will now regard Harrietta with disapproval. These should be told that Harrietta never got to bed before twelve-thirty nor to sleep before two-thirty, which, on an eight-hour sleep count, should even things up somewhat in their minds.
It'll help preserve your looks. Don't marry the first man who asks you or the first man who says he'll die if you don't. You've got lots of time." That kind of advice is a good thing for the young. Two weeks later Harrietta married a man she had met on the train between Evanston and New York. His name was Lawrence Fuller, and Harrietta had gone to school with him in Evanston.
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