Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1911-Jan 1912)

HOWARD MISSIMER, OF THE ESSANAY CO. When I was assigned to an interview with Howard Missimer, of the Essanay Company, I was delighted. "If he's half as funny off the stage as on it, I'll have a good time," I thought. I did not know just where he lived, but I knew the locality, so I rang a doorbell at random. An exceedingly thin female with a sharp, sour face opened the door and fixed a suspicious eye upon me, when I asked if Mr. Howard Missimer lived there. "No," she snapped. "Have you any idea where he does live?" I inquired, meekly. "No, and I know everybody in this neighborhood, except a man on the second floor next door. Maybe that's him." I caught eagerly at this suggestion, and asked whether she knew the man's business. "I dont exactly knoic," she said, "but the neighbors all think he is a gambler, and I presume they are right. He's all the time prowling in and out at unearthly hours. Good-by." The inhospitable door slammed shut, and I looked up dubiously at the "second floor next door." I decided to try it. Perhaps the neighbors were mistaken. Neighbors often are mistaken. So I climbed the stairs and rapped vigorously upon the door. "Come in," shouted a cheerful voice. I opened the door and stepped into the coldest atmosphere it has ever been my fate to encounter, indoors. Icy blasts from the wide open windows were howling thru that room just like I've heard the North wind howl down the chimneys of my grandfather's house in Vermont. An icy film formed on my glasses, and I was obliged to remove them before I could see anything. Then I saw that in the middle of the floor was a great white bearskin rug. The bear's head looked vicious, but the man who was seated cross-legged on the rug didn't look vicious at all. He was eating a long, tallow candle, with evident relish, and he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. "Is this Mr. Missimer?" I asked — my teeth were chattering so I could hardly speak. "Sure; who are you?" he queried. "I'm from The Motion Picture Story Magazine," I replied. "Oh, I'm glad to see you. Your magazine's a comer. Come, sit down and have a candle. I'm just breakfasting." "Thank you, I've just had breakfast," I stammered, trying hard to conceal my amazement, but it must have shown in my face, for Mr. Missimer chuckled. "You're just like all the rest of 'em," he declared, "you dont like my candles, and you're cold. Well, shut the windows, then, and we'll smoke, instead." I obeyed, gladly, and seated myself close to the radiator, surreptitiously turning on the steam, a little at a time, while we talked and puffed our cigars. "You see, it's in my blood," he explained ; "the candles and the liking for the cold, I mean. My father was an Esquimau, my mother a Scandinavian." "Then you were born up in the Arctic regions, I suppose." "Oh, no, in Millersburg, Pennsylvania. My parents came over for the Philadelphia Centennial. They were both on the Midway. They met, fell in love, married and settled down in Pennsylvania to live happy ever after." "And are you married?" I asked, prepared to hear that his wife was an Egyptian priestess, or a Zulu queen. But he thought, then answered, slowly, "I think I am.v Delicacy forbade further questions on this point. Perhaps a separation was pending ; this would account for the uncertainty. "Do you like your work?" I asked, to change the painful subject. "Yes, yes ; I love to rehearse, and I adore seeing my own pictures on the screen." "When do you think your best work is done?" "After dark !" was the prompt reply, and my mind reverted, uneasily, to the suspicions of the neighbors. "I have been interested in theatricals from childhood." Mr. Missimer continued, "When I was very young I played a Turk in a Jubilee, and many times I was in the anvil chorus. Then, when I was older, I was on the real stage, in Red Bank, N. J." 132