The First True Story of Irene Dunne's Baby!

Look who's writing about babies! Aren't you surprised? But of course. Babies and I haven't had anything in common in quite some time. (Though if you think I'm going to tell you how turn of the century it was you are really crazy.) Now I have nothing against babies really. I think they are a good idea. And I think they are here to stay - but never do see them first. Honestly, I don't go about pinching babies, though there have been times I've been sorely tempted; and I don't break their toys and steal their candy, but there just seems to be a general understanding among the little folk that I am not one of them. They have ganged up on me brutally, and I am completely baffled by it all. When introduced by their fond mamas, they either burst in tears, (really now, I can't be that freightening), or they look through me as if I were just so much as cellophane, or worst of all they want to play games, and as we don't seem to play the same games we don't get very far. (Before you start quoting that old one about children and dogs I'd like to inform you that dogs adore me, they follow me im packs. So there Ya-Ya.) Naturally when anything gives you a terrific inferity complex you avoid it as much as possible, so quite naturally I avoided babies. Until I met Missy.

 Missy is seventeen months old, rather tall for her age, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and a sense of humor. The only sense of humor I have ever found in a baby. When I met her she collapsed right in the middle of the floor and almost died laughing, just as if she and I were sharing the biggest joke in the world; then she put her hand in mine and said "Walk." It got me. I have spent hours with Missy since. She never bores me. But what is more to the point, I never seem to bore her. Unfortunately , oh most unfortunately, because I think she and I could have hit it off very well - unfortunately, Irene Dunne saw her first.

 Irene got her first glimpse of Missy last winter in New York City. Missy wasn't Missy then, and she was just a little baby in a huge office of a doctor friend. But it was Missy who took one look at glamorous and chic Irene Dunne of the cinema and threw back her little head and simply roared "Ha-Ha-Ha." (I regret to tell, dear reader, that Missy, the little minx, uses the same technique on quite a few people.) Now Irene with all her beauty and success and silver fox doesn't take herself seriously. Being a motion picture star isn't the most important thing in the world to her. She is one of the few glamour girls who can laugh so when Missy laughed Irene laughed back, and it wasn't long before she was adopted by Dr. and Mrs. Francis D. Griffin. Her name was changed to Mary Frances Griffin, and soon afterwards shortened to Missy (which I suspect is the Louisville, Kentucky, coming out in Irene.) With her nurse she arrived in Hollywood just in time to help her parents celebrate their first Christmas in their new home in Holmby Hills.

 Strangely enough Santa Claus brought her a piano. (Irene would think of that.) They laughed when she sat down to play - Missy laughed too - but they didn't laugh when she started to sing. Missy, they discovered to their complete amazment, has a voice. Uh-huh, competition for Irene. Now of course Missy is much too young to know anything about music, composition, lyrics and all. She's no child prodigy, thank heavens. But like most children who are not dull, (the type who snub me), she has a decided gift for mimicry. If she doesn't grow up to be a diva she'll be comedienne. Irene, she has decided, is about the most fascinating person in her life and she will sit entranced for hours, (imagine one of those squirmy babies doing that), on the floor near the piano in the living room listening to Irene sing. 

 "She's decidedly my best audience," says Irene. But not only does she listen, she watches intently every movement Irene makes with her hands and lips. And then when Irene has finished, she mimics her. It's quite the funniest thing you have ever seen. Missy thinks so too.

 Irene and Dr. Griffin weren't so sure about Missy's voice at first; it couldn't be that good, they thought; it must be parental pride on their part; but one afternoon a friend of theirs who had formerly sung at the Metropolitan and who has a clear lyric soprano, dropped in for tea, and simply to amuse Missy played and sang for her on her little piano. When she had finished Missy sang for her - and went her an octave higher! Yes indeed, it looks an awful lot like a little music lover, (personally I'm holding out for a comedienne), has come to Holmby Hills. Irene is making plans. But not the kind of plans you think. Nuts to octaves. If Missy wants to study music when she grows up, all right, but not just because she has a flair for it now is no reason why she should have it pushed down her throat. "Lessons," says Irene, "that's all I remember of my childhood. My parents wanted me to be a singer. Whenever I wanted to play with the neighbourhood children I had to practice. There were lessons, lessons, always lessons. Even when I grew up and went to New York there were lessons. I don't want Missy to have lessons. I want her to have fun." And if I know Missy as well as I think I do, she's going to have plenty of fun. 

 In her gay casual little way, with never a pout or a tear, Missy has completely uspet Irene's well-ordered life. And Irene, much to the surprise of everyone, loves it. Screen stars, as you know, have hours for this and that - a voice lesson at ten, a rehearsal at two., a fitting at five, a massage at six, and so on; there's something most important for every hour of the day. Since she went on the stage in New York Irene has been methodical and conscientious about the business of being an actress. She can make a schedule for the day and keep it to the final dot. She was never late at the theatre, and never late at the studio. No one ever accused Irene of holding up production. Her life and her home ran as smoothly as clockwork - until Missy arrived. She fixed all that. Now Irene relaxes and wonders what will happen next.  

 "There's such a to-do in the kitchen," Irene says, "over purees and spinach and stewed fruit and the proper timing and heating, that I'm lucky these days to get dinner at all. The cook wouldn't dream of keeping Missy waiting a moment!"

 All on account of Missy! It seems that there was Easter. Missy's first Easter in Hollywood. The cook said, "The little darling must have Easter eggs. I'll color some for her and hide them in the nursery." "No," said the maid, "You are too busy. I'll dye the eggs." "I'll color them," said the nurse, "I know just how to do it."

 So they all rushed around Hollywood to buy pretty dyes, glaring like mad at each other. When Irene heard about it she nearly had a fit. "Good heavens," she said, "I want to color the eggs. All my life I've wanted to color Easter eggs. After all, Missy is my baby, and I am going to dye the eggs." You've never seen such sulking as went on.

 The cook and the maid and the nurse were rather distant to Miss Dunne on Easter morning when Missy stuck one of Irene dyed eggs in her mouth and was a little bit sick. She could have sucked their dyed eggs all day and never felt it.

 But the greatest change Missy has brought to the Dunne-Griffin homestead it the breakfast hour. When Irene is working on a picture she wakes at six-thirty, has breakfast and a bath, and all is very dismal because six-thirty is not a very happy time no matter how you look at it. The house used to be quite as a tomb at six-thirty with Irene cross and ready to snap and wondering why the devil she ever chose a screen career with such ungodly hours. The staff went around on tip-toes with long faces. But no more. Missy is an early riser, and is at her very best at six-thirty in the morning. Her tray is brought into Irene's room and the two of them breakfast together merrily. Missy jabbers away in her double talk and when Irene laughs she out-laughs her. It's like a gay party. No tip-toes and no sour faces, and not a cross look out of Irene even when Missy shoves a piece of buttered toast in her face and upsets milk on the bed. When she is dressed and ready to leave for the studio Irene will say, "Missy, come kiss Mummy goodbye." But Missy won't come. Missy is a smart kid. She knows that the longer she refuses to kiss Mimi goodbye the longer she can keep Mummy with her. But finally, cornered she gives in, and Irene with a nice sticky kiss on her cheek dashes for the studio - stopping in the driveway of course, and then in the road in front of the house, for frantic goodbye waves. She who used to be so prompt is now rarely on time. The studios are thinking of writing Missy a letter. 

 Irene tries so hard not to show that she is proud of Missy - but Dr. Griffin makes no bones about it, he is bursting with pride. Irene will tell you that she doesn't think people are interested in other people's babies, but no matter how hard she tries, the conversation eventually works around to one of Missy's latest escapades. She is keeping a baby book of all of Missy's "firsts," and very sadly just the other day pasted Missy's first engagement ring in it. A friend of the family in Chicago, it seems, sent Missy a small diamond ring, asking her to be his future bride.

 Irene can hardly wait to get home from the studio these nights to find out what Missy has been up to during her absence. What her new picture "High, Wide and Handsome" is about she's a little vague. She has to be before seven to see Missy eat her puree.

 No she isn't proud of Missy - not much she isn't.

(Screenland, June 1937)

Thanks to Catherine for this article!