Less and More Than Demure: The Independently Glamorous Life of Kay Laurell

Dec 1919 Shadowland Magazine

Born in North East, Pennsylvania as Ruth M. Leslie in 1890, Kay Laurell's star-quality was recognized at an early age and she eventually made her way to New York City and became a regular in the Ziegfeld Follies before going on to star in motion pictures and on Broadway.

For a decade, Kay Laurell was one of the best known Broadway starlets and silent film actresses in the country. This "reigning queen of the Bohemian world" was also, as theatrical writer William Johnston noted in 1924, as "verdant a small-town girl as ever came to Broadway."

She was born Ruth M. Leslie on June 28, 1890 (sometimes incorrectly listed as 1894) to George and Adela Hall Leslie, one of four children alongside her older brother Raleigh and younger twin sisters Mary and Agnes. In 1898, then living in New Castle, the family experienced tragedy: George died by suicide. Soon after, Adela relocated the family not far from her hometown of Wattsburg to a home on Poplar Street in North East, then a town of about 2,000 residents.

At North East High School, Ruth was active and well-liked. She read the class poem at her graduation ceremony in 1909 and gave a toast at the banquet titled "Old Friends." She was already dreaming of New York City, but more than anything, she just wanted to be successful at something. Anything. She struggled with self-doubt. Despite being a quick learner, she felt she lacked any marketable skills. Yet, as an 1930 exposé read, "an ambition flamed inside her."

So, she worked and she saved. In 1911, she left North East for Detroit followed by Chicago and then Cleveland. There, she lived with an aunt and worked an office job, but eventually quit and moved back home after a man in her office kept aggressively insisting that she marry him. Back in Erie County, she secured employment as "telephone exchange girl" and then a stenographer in the city.

During these years, Ruth was described as "winsome, appealing, and sympathetic" towards others. Personally though, she was deeply dissatisfied. "I know there is something I can do better than all this," she believed. She decided that only in New York City could she truly discover herself.

In 1914, she moved to Manhattan. En route, she said goodbye to Ruth Leslie and reinvented herself as Kay Laurell. She promptly stumbled into a modeling gig, becoming a muse for famous artists such as William Glackens, Howard Chandler Christy, James Montgomery Flagg, and Harrison Fisher. "All the great names in America's roster of art found inspiration in her," one 1915 article declared.

This was when Broadway's Florenz Ziegfeld Jr., credited by some as "the man who created show business," discovered Laurell. He immediately offered her a role as one of his "Ziegfeld Girls" in his popular Broadway institution: the Ziegfeld Follies.

The Follies was an extravagant yearly Broadway show that Ziegfeld started in 1907. These shows were a combination of vaudeville and variety show with the singing and dancing Ziegfeld Girls (and their often elaborate and risqué outfits) being center stage. While the Manhattan critics preferred more serious productions, the shows still played to sold out crowds at the New Amsterdam Theatre at 214 W. 42nd St.

Laurell was an immediate star. One friend later argued that while she wasn't the most talented on stage, she was a "tigress of a woman" and "one of the great femmes fatales" of Broadway. She was magnetic. The audience couldn't take their eyes off her.

"[W]hatever unkind critics may at times say, Mr. Ziegfeld still possesses a certain genius for selection," stated Vanity Fair. "Miss Laurell is an impressive and delightful figure."

"Until a few weeks ago, Miss Laurell had never appeared on any stage. Now she has eminent rank in the beauty chorus of the Ziegfeld Follies," reported the Pittsburgh Press. These stories almost always objectified Laurel's physical appearance and her role as the "most beautiful of the Ziegfeld girls." Columnist Winifred Van Duzer went as far as calling her "the most beautiful chorus girl in the history of the stage."

"Her features are absolutely perfect," Ziegfeld himself said. "Of all the women I have engaged for my companies, and I have specialized in beauty for many years, I believe Miss Kay Laurell deserves to be called the most beautiful." Ziegfeld entered her photograph into an "America's Loveliest Women Contest." She placed fourth, winning $250. As described in The Washington Times at the time, she then entered a beauty contest in the city winning out against 100 others and netting a $5,000 prize before winning another beauty contest in Chicago for the same amount — an astronomical amount of money at a time when the average working man was netting under $700 yearly.

As for Laurell, outwardly at least, the objectification didn't bother her. She was savvy and quickly capitalized on her newfound fame. With her contest winnings and a weekly pay of $50 (the equivalent of about $1,500 today), this was far more money than this small town girl from Erie County ever could have imagined, enough that she was always able to send some home for her mother.

By early 1915, Laurell was appearing in advertisements, on calendars, in an exercise column, and being asked for advice by fashion columnists. Once, she went out in public wearing an ankle watch. One columnist wondered if wristwatches would soon be an accessory of the past. An account from 1926 even claimed that Laurell was responsible for the popularity of the short bob haircuts among the young flappers of that era. Then there were the gossip columns. They couldn't get enough of her either.

While she did engage in the city's nightlife, she still spent a lot of her free time alone. She read often. Her personal library eclipsed 500 books. She studied French and Spanish, took classes on manners and etiquette and formal speech, and spent hours learning to golf and ride horses. "She dreamed of mingling in international society," one biographer noted. "She wanted to be able to meet anyone in the world and feel at ease."

She embedded herself deeply in the New York cultural and social scenes. According to famed writer and acquaintance H.L. Mencken, she also could be very guarded. Once one was in her confidence though she, much to his amusement, became "a walking encyclopedia of the town scandal."

"She had all of the equipment needed in her profession," Mencken continued. She was also, he said, an "extremely shrewd judge" of men, an important instinct for a young woman in the city. To the countless men, many of them very wealthy, who pursued her, she often came off as "cold and single-purposed," one biographer wrote. Mencken recounted a time that an affluent American man, enormously rich from the Cuban sugar boom, tried to seduce her with "gorgeous inducements" to run off to Cuba with him. "She was, of course, not inclined to anything of the sort, but she managed to get a ruby worth $30,000 out of him," explained Mencken. He said that she, quite brilliantly, had an ongoing deal with a nearby Tiffany's: she'd sell the extravagant gifts she received from men at top dollar and then she'd wear imitations knowing most people couldn't tell the difference. While Mencken described her as a person of great character, he also added that she had no ethical qualms over swindling her "rich admirers."

"She once told me that any woman … could get money out of men by sleeping with them, but that she thought it took real skill to get the money and evade the sleeping," he recalled. "[S]he wanted to demonstrate her virtuosity, even if only to herself."

"She wasn't very sentimental, but I thought she was marvelous," actress and friend Helen Hayes recalled. "She was authentic. The skull and crossbones were right out there on the label for all to see."

Laurell, while not inventing it, helped popularize the term "gold digger." While sitting in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton Hotel with playwright and friend Avery Hopwood, she waved to another friend, playfully saying, "Hello, gold digger!" As described in Brian Donovan's 2020 book American Gold Digger, Laurell meant this as a self-aware joke, not an insult.

"That's what we call ourselves!" she told Hopwood, who'd never heard the term. "You men don't give something for nothing — why should we?" Hopwood enjoyed the exchange so much that he spent five weeks writing the script for The Gold Diggers about three showgirls living in Manhattan. It ran for nearly 300 performances on stage, grossed nearly $2 million, and was adapted as a motion picture.

Soon, Laurell began prepping for her second year with the Follies. An elaborate set was built with the spectacular sight of a pool of water flanked by thick shrubbery and two large golden elephants. Emerging from the water was Laurell as Greek goddess Aphrodite.

She was also now making considerably more money. When rumors circulated that she was getting married, she denied it. "Why should I?" she asked. "Mr. Ziegfeld gives me $500 a week. I have my own apartment, my own car, my own maids — well, that's enough."

In 1916, after the closing of the latest Follies production, she was offered $500 a week (around $14,500 adjusted for inflation) to appear on stage in England. That May, while living in London, she shocked many of her friends and fans: Laurell had married. His name was Winfield R. Sheehan, a former reporter who was now managing the newly formed Fox Film Corporation. They had known each other casually, but the relationship had progressed when he'd been in London on business.

Kay Laurell inspired many in different ways, but her beauty was often a muse – for example, in this portrait by artist William James Glackens entitled Café Lafayette (Portrait of Kay Laurell), completed in 1914. When Laurell initially moved away from North East, one of her first jobs was modeling for artists. (James Glackens - Café Lafayette (1914) - Portrait of Kay Laurell)

"Well, we've got to give up hope about Kay Laurell, boys," penned the editor of the Tacoma Times. "She's married,"

Upon returning stateside, she didn't join any productions. She told the Erie Daily Times while visiting her mother that she'd simply been living a private life at their Upper West Side home at 210 W. 90th St. She was considering doing a motion picture though, perhaps influenced by her husband's new job.

In reality though, the marriage was troubled from the start. After word spread of their surprise matrimony, Julia Beaubien, another Broadway actress, sued Sheehan for $75,000 over a "breach of promise" that he was to marry her. She'd stopped working, as per his request, and they'd even had a wedding date. The betrayal was a tabloid sensation. While there was some villainization of Laurell, mostly she too was portrayed as a victim suffering "personal grief" over Sheehan's actions. It was settled out of court for a "substantial sum."

Sheehan revealed his true colors at home too. He was increasingly jealous and possessive of Laurell. He also became violent. The final straw was in June 1917 when he chased her around their apartment, threatening to "cut out her eyes and disfigure her face," before he "severely and violently struck and beat [her] about the head and face, knocking her down with great violence and rendering her unconscious." She left him and petitioned the court for a divorce. In her complaint, she alleged severe cruelty and "unkind, harsh, and tyrannical conduct" and argued that her life was in danger if she stayed with him.

Laurell suffered a nervous breakdown. She spent a few weeks at a mineral springs resort in West Virginia where she decided she must get back on stage. After returning to the city, it was announced with much excitement that Laurell would rejoin the Follies for their 1918 show.

With the United States now fighting in the Great War, Ziegfeld decided to center the production around patriotism. The dancers all wore flags of America's allies and he recruited big names like W.C. Fields, Will Rogers, Eddie Cantor, and Ann Pennington.

Ziegfeld also decided he wanted one of the dancers to be topless, exploiting a loophole in the law that permitted a woman to show her breasts on stage as long as she was standing still. Laurell volunteered. The show opened with the stage lit from darkness with Laurell portraying the Spirit of the Allies, standing still on top of a massive rotating globe as soldiers beneath her charged across No Man's Land and the chorus girls portrayed Red Cross workers. There were a few negative reactions to the nudity, but it received rather warm reviews from critics who described it as "gorgeous entertainment" with "humor, beauty, [and] color skillfully blended."

Laurell also returned to socializing with a diverse and eclectic group. She began casually seeing Edgar Selwyn, a gentle-natured actor turned stage manager. As explained by Mencken, Selwyn desperately wanted to marry Laurell, but her divorce wasn't finalized nor was his — and, although she cared for him, she wasn't too interested in marriage. In fact, in one tabloid, Laurell outright said that some women shouldn't bother getting married at all.

Others in her circle included socialite Reginald Vanderbilt and esteemed lawyer Clarence Darrow. She appeared in the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald, who recalled a memorable time he rode in a Fifth Avenue taxi cab with a "wistful" Laurell and magazine editor George Jean Nathan. In one tabloid, they posted photographs of her in Miami where she was "mingling with a number of other celebrities" at a popular resort.

As for the Follies, while the productions were very popular spectacles and gave her a successful career, Laurell desired to be viewed as an actress, not just a performer. She soon got her big break in Hollywood. In 1919, she was cast in Rex Beach's The Brand — "a drama of stormy passions and frozen trails" — about Laurell's character struggling in an Alaska mining town and clashing with an evil gambler. In Erie, this played at the Aris Theater in a double-bill with Charlie Chaplin's Easy Street. Reviews were very positive. "She is both graceful and beautiful and shows promise as an actress," read one.

Kay Laurell starred alongside Russell Simpson in the 1919 film The Brand. One critic noted that she was "graceful beyond description," and she went on to star in two additional major motion pictures before she decided to return to Broadway. (J. Willis Sayre Collection of Theatrical Photographs - University of Washington)

"Graceful beyond description, Miss Laurell does not present the conventional figure of the motion picture actress who only pretends to dance and sing," another critic wrote. "She entertains the crowd of miners [in the film] as if her life depended on it." Indeed, never known as a great dancer on stage, when she discovered that she'd be dancing in the film, she went all-in to prepare.

That same year, she also had a supporting role in The Valley of the Giants, a romantic drama about two rival logging companies. Her third and final picture was 1921's drama Lonely Heart, in which Laurell was again the lead and demonstrated her "dramatic ability."

After this though, Laurell desired to return to New York and focus on the stage. Broadway, she told the Erie Daily Times was "far more interesting" and she liked how "you have a greater chance to improve your work" over the run of a production. She joined Avery Hopwood's Ladies' Night, a three-act comedic sex farce that pushed boundaries. Reviews of her performance were positive, but were mixed for the show itself. One critic called it "hackneyed," while another agreed that it was "obscene," but also "ridiculously funny."

Many took notice of the new direction in Laurell's career too. "[It] was not her desire to remain merely a Follies beauty," a story in the Washington Times said, adding that she was coming to "full fruition" as an actress having "devoted her[self] assiduously to the study of her art."

In February 1922, she joined the production of The Naughty Wife at the Colonial Theater. It was described as a well-written comedy, but reviews of her performance were harsh. The New York Star described her acting as "peculiar" and "nervous." Variety published that the play "serves as a vehicle for Kay Laurell," but that she was "merely "parroting lines" and "moving mechanically." Back home, the Erie Daily Times defended Laurell from these critics, saying that she "received more publicity as a girl with a perfect figure and a divorce than she has received in honest criticisms as an actress."

Around this time, Laurell herself wrote a newspaper column about the "maelstrom" many Broadway actresses faced, from the temptations to the predatory behaviors. She didn't mince words. "[Many are] victims of drugs, drink, and other vices that sap them until the very end," she said. "They fell into the pitfalls ... but [were] mostly victims of circumstance of the connivance of scoundrels ... from the fatherly old men called 'daddies' to the slicked haired lounge lizards." These men were, she wrote, "human parasites."

Laurell likely felt she had something to prove too. In early-1923, she joined the stage production of Kate McLaurin's Whispering Wires. Reviews of this performance were glowing. One of the critics didn't hide his shock with backhanded compliments.

"Little did I dream, when I used to see (and see so much of) Miss Laurel in the 'Follies,' that one night I should be sitting in a front row more or less excitedly measuring her qualifications as a clothed and serious actress," he wrote. "Demure? No, that is not the word. She is less and more than demure. She is earnest rather than shy; she is trustful of her role rather than suspicious; she is as real as a girl can be or ought to be in this kind of play. … I will go the length of saying that Kay Laurell adds a new name to my unlengthy list of actresses whose work is honest and personality persuasive."

That April, she starred in a drama called Cobra at the Apollo Theatre. One critic complimented her "young rascality" in a performance that was "sordid, kindly, [and] intense." She then traveled to Washington, D.C. where she acted in a brief production of Up in Mabel's Room, a comedy that received a favorable reception. After that closed, she joined an acting troupe alongside Peggy Wood where they traveled to Paris to perform American productions for a few months.

She visited Erie County when she could. In May 1924, she came home for the birth of Agnes' twins, Sheila and Carolyn, at St. Vincent Hospital. Billy Charles, in the Erie Daily Times, noted how easy she was to interview and how all she wanted to discuss was the newborn twins. He also admired how when she was back in town, it was as though she'd never left. He complimented her as "humble" and "very soothing to the optic" as well as "graceful, pretty, and well-mannered" with her shining bright blue eyes. He seemed surprised that she had arrived at the hospital dressed rather plainly, only with a "clever little hat" that hid her flapper-esque bob.

"[N]ever let anybody tell you she is a pretentious young lady just because her name has been featured in the theatrical world," he said. A few months later, she was back in Erie when her nephew Richard, the "treasure of her life," was struck by a car and broke his leg. She stayed by his bedside at Hamot Hospital during his weeklong recovery.

"[I]f we take it from the hardened metropolitan critics, she's a real theatrical find," the Erie Daily Times boasted after her next performance on a stage in Boston. She had worked persistently over the past decade to get where she was, they added. Next up was the Broadway production of F. Tennyson Jesse's comedic play Quarantine at the Henry Miller Theatre. This was a huge hit, running from December 1924 through April 1925 with 150 performances. She then joined Henry Stillman's Nocturne at the Punch and Judy Theatre, which didn't find the success of Quarantine, but was still listed in one publication as one of the best plays of the year.

After that, she sailed back to Paris for her next show. Here, the story gets murky. At some point, she ended up in London, living out of the luxurious Carlton Hotel. She then abruptly withdrew from the public eye. Friends tried to convince her to get back on stage, but the increasingly reclusive Laurell refused. She wouldn't return to performing until she could do so on her "usual terms," she said.

Then, on Jan. 31, 1927, Laurell, at age 36, died. According to reports, she'd made "frantic phone calls" to friends from her hotel room, but was unable to get in touch with anyone. She told hotel management that she was fearing "impending death" and they summoned a doctor. Only he and a few of the hotel staff were present at her bedside. It took days for many to find out. She'd been checked into her hotel as Kay Leslie, not Laurell, and that was initially how her death was reported. Within a few days though, news had traveled. Her death was first said to be from a blood clot while other publications cited pneumonia.

Now, there was the matter of settling her estate. Rumors circulated in the tabloids that she'd died penniless. They were wrong. Laurell had been exceptionally wealthy. From the start, she'd been careful with her money and investments. Her siblings initially petitioned the court that this inheritance should go to their mother — who was so sickly that they chose to keep the death from her, fearing the effects of such grief. When their mother died only a month later though, that complicated things.

Raleigh, now residing on Erie's Holland Street, insisted that his sister's divorce with Sheehan had been finalized, but he was unsure of the details. Meanwhile, a will surfaced in London. It was a brief six sentences long, finalized just days before her death. She left her property in England to Joseph Whiteside Boyle Jr., a businessman, and son of Klondike Joe, the famous Canadian adventurer. She'd been privately seeing him in the year leading up to her death while they awaited his divorce to be finalized.

It was then discovered that she left a separate fortune in the United States too, of which her will had made no mention. The battle over her stateside estate — valued at over $80,000 (roughly $1.5 million adjusted for inflation) — quickly made headlines. Raleigh determined legally he and his sisters were eligible to inherit it rather than her ex-husband or her boyfriend. Agnes, still living in North East, and Mary, now residing in Girard, agreed.

During this litigation, it became more clear why Kay Laurell was so reclusive in her final months. She'd been pregnant. Her death wasn't from a blood clot or pneumonia. She'd died in her hotel room giving birth to her son: Joseph Kay Boyle. Joseph Whiteside Boyle Jr. was the father.

The siblings were blindsided. It wasn't until 1930 that this news became public, meaning young Joseph was already nearly three years of age. He'd been living in the care of Ethel Anderson in Bangor, England. Coincidentally, just weeks before Laurell's death, an English law had also passed stating children born out of wedlock were eligible as heirs. Not knowing this, she'd left her money for Boyle to ensure her son's security. But now young Joseph himself had a legal claim to her English fortune — although the stateside fortune was another matter to settle.

Raleigh took the lead. He was determined to ensure that his nephew received the full inheritance. He and his lawyer traveled to England to investigate. "He returned satisfied that Boyle had from the time of the child's birth sought to care for it and that furthermore, he had no wish to claim any part of the fortune," it was reported. "[Raleigh's] chief anxiety was that the child be cared for."

The court agreed. The fortune was placed in a London bank as a trust for Joseph. "[When Joseph] looks at a picture of the mother he never knew in life, he will see a beautiful and tragic woman ... [who] assured his comfort in the future," an account in the New Britain Herald stated.

"Happiness eluded Kay Laurell despite her success," penned another. Perhaps though that was not true. As she matured, it always seemed to be more about people than the money or the stage or the fame. It was about her friends, her family, and those she loved.

Once while visiting Erie, she lost her purse. It had $50 cash, some gold jewelry, a gold knife, and her lipstick. She offered the money, a sizable sum, as a reward to anyone who found it. "I do not care about the purse or the money," she told the Erie Daily Times, "but it is so annoying to lose your address book, don't you know."

Jonathan Burdick runs the public history project Rust & Dirt. He can be reached at jburdick@eriereader.com