Next up on the essays shelf:
Life Stories: Profiles from The New Yorker
Life Stories is a collection of “profiles” from The New Yorker, edited by David Remnick.
A gigantic essay, which (if I understand correctly) was originally published in a series over a couple of months in 1932, ‘The Education of a Prince’ is so read-able, so chatty and confident in tone, so FASCINATING, that I could read an entire book on the subject. Alva Johnston, the Pulitzer-Prize winner is the author, and his subject is “Prince Mike Romanoff”. This was an individual who grew up in a series of orphanages and institutions before completely re-inventing himself as a lost relative of the now-downfallen last Czar of Russia, Nicholas Romanov. The story “the Prince” told changed and morphed over the years. Sometimes he was a cousin, sometimes he was a half-brother, sometimes he was related to the person who killed Rasputin, and I think, on occasion, he said that he was there when Rasputin finally died. It’s hard to keep the lies straight. But this Romanoff fellow, although an impostor and a con-man in many respects (he wrote bad checks with a flourish across the United States), also was somewhat of a lovable guy, and even the people he conned often came to his aid to bail him out. The attitude appeared to be, “Yes, he is clearly not who he says he is, he can’t speak Russian first of all, so how could he be a Romanov … but we find him entertaining, we like having him around, and really, what harm has he actually done??” He had powerful friends who would come to his aid, even after he had used their name for crooked purposes, or passed him off as one of the entourage of the visiting royal family, or whatever.
He made a couple of trips out to Hollywood. His pals in New York knew he was not who he said he was, but they also felt (rightly) that he clearly had a gift for characterization, self-belief, and lying, all things which actors must have in spades. Why didn’t he try his hand out in Hollywood? So off he went. He was hired as an “expert” on a couple of Hollywood films, because of his fantastical claims of his background … and then, of course, when it came time for him to unveil his expertise, he revealed himself as knowing absolutely nothing about the subject at hand. There were lots of Russian emigres in Hollywood, who had fled the Russian revolution, and the pogroms and all that, and of course everyone assumed that “Prince Michael” would love to meet his fellow Russians! These meetings never went well. Prince Mike would huffily refuse to speak in Russian (because, yeah, he didn’t speak a word of it), and the real Russians would know that something was not right. Hollywood, which took itself more seriously than New York did, did not look kindly on being taken for a bunch of fools, and sent him packing. He did return, however, as we shall see. Prince Mike traveled across the country, leaving a trail of bad checks bouncing across the land. Eventually he was imprisoned in Ellis Island – and he freakin’ escaped. Showed up in a speakeasy in Manhattan the next day. But he was constantly being deported to other countries, and then he’d stow away on ships and turn up in New York again. He was a shape-shifter, he could con anyone. He would meet some rich person who would then turn into his benefactor, and finance him for a while, until, eventually, he would do something stupid and burn that bridge. Temporarily, though, only temporarily. People seemed to legitimately care about about him, even with (or maybe because of) all his shenanigans.
What is even more interesting is what happened to this guy after the events described in the article. If you Google him, you will find a wealth of information about him. Even with all of his criminal activity, and the fact that he was really just a hardscrabble orphan kid who had lived on the streets, people seemed to have an affection for him. He never dropped the gag that he was who he said he was. He later went on to open up a restaurant in Beverly Hills called Romanoff’s, where he presided in glory over the celebrities who flocked there in the 40s and 50s.
Here is a piece about Romanoff’s, the supper club. Great pictures, too!
I wish Alva Johnston had gone on to write an entire book on this fascinating guy.
But here is just a small excerpt from what is a huge piece. Listen to the voice that Johnston uses. The whole piece reads like that. It reads like a bat out of hell, frankly. The prose rollicks. It’s such a fun piece.
Life Stories: Profiles from The New Yorker
By living the Prince Michael role for years, Mike developed a Romanoff psychology. He was not a lunatic on the subject, like the Napoleons in the asylums. He could shed the Romanoff identity and assume other aliases, and he could, in order to pass through Ellis Island, stoop to be the low-life Harry Gerguson that he really is. Nevertheless, Mike had steeped himself to the depths of his personality in the imperial purple; his very soul was emblazoned with Romanoff heraldry. When he had a room of his own, it became a gallery of Romanoff photographs. Showing a blurred spot in a picture of the family group, he would say: “This is I.” Mike caused the dynasty’s coat-of-arms to be emblazoned on the doors of a topless Ford touring car with red wire wheels, in which he drove about New York, wearing a top hat, monocle, and white gloves, and maintaining a regal dignity, even when hooted at from Fifth Avenue buses. “Chuck this Romanoff business,” a friend once advised him. “With your talent you can become rich in any legitimate line.” “But,” replied Mike, “I am a Romanoff.” Even Mike’s wit had an imperial tinge. In a New York night club, someone told him that a button was missing from his coat sleeve. “Oh, these souvenir-hunters!” he exclaimed. When another Russian prince once left a table at which Mike was sitting, Mike was asked if the man was a genuine prince. “Yes, after a fashion,” said Mike. “He’s one of those Georgian princes. Everybody who owns four cows is a prince in Georgia.” Mike’s opinion was asked about Mme. Tschaikowsky, who claims to be Anastasia, daughter of the murdered Czar. “Confidentially, old man,” said Mike, “a colossal fraud.”
Mike had certain traits that go with the sceptre. He loved to reward merit. Once, on a night shortly before Christmas, after witnessing some gallant rescues by firemen in an apartment-house fire, Mike lifted a holly wreath from a peddler’s stand and presented it to the battalion chief. “With the Mayor’s compliments,” said Mike. It pleased the Romanoff in him to exercise absolute power. Once, during Grover Whalen’s commissionership, the Prince, immaculately dressed, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, walked briskly along in front of Police Headquarters and summoned several policemen with his walking-stick. “Have those removed,” directed Mike, pointing his stick at a row of wooden stands on which Centre Street merchants were displaying lathes, drills, vices, and other second-hand machinery. The policemen hesitated for a moment, and then, as the Prince’s brow darkened, went to work with a will. The proprietors came rushing out, claiming the stands were there by legal authority. “Remove them,” commanded Mike. As the hardware clanked on the sidewalk and the stands were detached from the storefronts, Mike cried: “Good work, my men,” and started north in a taxicab. Another time, holding the Jews responsible for the misfortunes of the Romanoffs, Mike started a crusade against them, and spent ten days in the workhouse for mounting a soapbox at Fourteenth Street and Avenue A and making an anti-Semitic speech to a Jewish a udience. One of Mike’s bloodiest fights was fought for the honor of the dynasty; he battled a delicatessen keeper and two waiters because they tried to palm off whitefish eggs on him as Romanoff caviar. Mike was locked up for a few hours in the East Side prison, but the matter was arbitrated, the tradesman accepting a promissory note for fifty dollars from Mike to cover the damages. When the man asked payment, Mike said: “Lock that note away in your safe and forget it. Some day that autograph will be worth many times fifty dollars.” But one incident shows more vividly than all the rest how thoroughly the Romanoff idea had worked itself into Mike’s brain. At dawn one day. Mike was put to bed in the Great Northern Hotel. Mike rarely drank too much, but this time he was in a bad way, and he wanted milk to straighten him out. At that hour, the nearby restaurants were closed, and a bellboy was sent out in search of milk. The bottle finally arrived. Friends propped Mike up in bed. His eyes fell on the label. He smashed the bottle against the wall. “What the hell!” he cried. “Grade B milk for a Romanoff!”
