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<h1 class='c000'>LIFE AND LILLIAN GISH</h1></div>
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<div>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</div>
<div><span class='small'>NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS</span></div>
<div><span class='small'>ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO</span></div>
<div class='c001'>MACMILLAN & CO., <span class='sc'>Limited</span></div>
<div><span class='small'>LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA</span></div>
<div><span class='small'>MELBOURNE</span></div>
<div class='c001'>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</div>
<div>OF CANADA, <span class='sc'>Limited</span></div>
<div><span class='small'>TORONTO</span></div>
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<ANTIMG src='images/illus-008.jpg' alt='“Helena”' class='ig001' />
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<p>“HELENA”</p>
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<div><span class='xlarge'>LIFE AND LILLIAN GISH</span></div>
<div class='c001'>ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE</div>
<div class='c001'><i>New York</i></div>
<div>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</div>
<div><i>1932</i></div>
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<div><span class='sc'>Copyright</span>, 1932,</div>
<div><span class='sc'>By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.</div>
<div class='c001'>All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reproduced in</div>
<div>any form without permission in writing from the publisher,</div>
<div>except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief</div>
<div>passages in connection with a review written</div>
<div>for inclusion in magazine or newspaper.</div>
<div class='c001'>Set up and printed. Published October, 1932.</div>
<div class='c001'><i>Printed, in the United States of America by</i></div>
<div><span class='small'>J. J. LITTLE AND IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK</span></div>
</div></div>
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<p class='c002'>“Tranquilly, Lillian Gish sits, dressed in white organdie, her ash
blond hair down her back, relaxed on the window seat, looking out for
hours into the depths of the California night.</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘What are you looking at, Lillian?’ Mrs. Gish has asked for years.</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Nothing, Mother, just looking.’”</p>
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<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Allene Talmey.</span></div>
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<p class='c003'>“She is an extraordinarily difficult person to know, and if I hadn’t
gone to live with her ... and been with her through some of the
most trying times of her life, I doubt whether our casual contacts at
the studio would have brought me any intimate knowledge of her.
There seems to be a wall of reserve between her and the outside world,
and very few people ever get through that wall.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The little things of life simply don’t worry her at all. Gales of
temperament can rage around her—she remains undisturbed.... I
have seen her at a time when anyone else would have been distraught
with anxiety, come quietly in from the set, eat her luncheon calmly
and collectedly (for first of all, Lillian believes in keeping fit for her
work), then pick up some little book of philosophy and read it
steadily until they sent for her.</p>
<p class='c002'>“She refuses to believe that there are people in the world who are
jealous of her and want to harm her. I remember someone once remarking
that a certain person was jealous of her and hated her, and
I can still see the look of utter surprise on Lillian’s face. But it never
made any difference in her treatment of that person. In fact, I doubt
whether she remembered it when she met her again.</p>
<p class='c002'>“She is intensely loyal to those who have helped her along the path
of success. She likes to be alone. She has an inexhaustible fund of
patience, and a quiet sense of humor.”</p>
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<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Phyllis Moir</span></div>
<div class='line'>(secretary to Lillian, 1925-27)</div>
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<div><span class='large'>CONTENTS</span></div>
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<table class='table0' summary=''>
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<col width='82%' />
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<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='2'>PART I</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>I.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch01'>A Girl Child, Born with a Caul</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>II.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch02'>Life and a Little Girl</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>III.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch03'>On Nat Goodwin’s Shoulder</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch04'>“Theatre People”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>V.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch05'>A Little Trouper</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch06'>Adventures of Dorothy</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch07'>Mary Pickford in the Scene</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch08'>“Down the Line”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IX.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch09'>“Her First False Step”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>X.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch10'>Dorothy’s Tree</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch11'>“Supporting Bernhardt”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch12'>Massillon Days</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch13'>Where the “Road” Ends. Nell</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XIV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch14'>A Convent School. Typhoid</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch15'>Shawnee</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XVI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p1ch16'>It Sounds Like Heaven</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='2'>PART II</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>I.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch01'>“Mr. Biograph”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>II.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch02'>Griffith’s Group of Players</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>III.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch03'>Belasco Delivers a Verdict</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch04'>A Studio on Pico Street</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>V.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch05'>The Path to Stardom</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch06'>“Home Sweet Home”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch07'>“The Birth of a Nation”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch08'>“Intolerance”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IX.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch09'>There Were No Love Affairs</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>X.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch10'>The Nightmare of War</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch11'>Under Fire</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch12'>France</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch13'>“Hearts of the World”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XIV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch14'>“Broken Blossoms”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch15'>“I Work Such Long Hours”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XVI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch16'>Director Lillian</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XVII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch17'>“Way Down East”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XVIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch18'>Sad, Unprofitable Days</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XIX.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p2ch19'>Picturing the Reign of Terror</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='2'>PART III</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>I.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch01'>Italy</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>II.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch02'>“The White Sister”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>III.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch03'>“Romola”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch04'>Also, the Intelligentsia</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>V.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch05'>“La Bohême”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch06'>“The Scarlet Letter”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch07'>“The First Lady of the Screen”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch08'>“Wind”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IX.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch09'>Good-bye California</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>X.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch10'>Reinhardt</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch11'>The Shadow Speaks</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch12'>On the Flying Carpet</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>XIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p3ch13'>“One Romantic Night”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='2'>PART IV</td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>I.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch01'>“Uncle Vanya”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>II.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch02'>“Helena” in New York</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>III.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch03'>“The Penalty of Greatness”</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>IV.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch04'>Working with Lillian</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>V.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch05'>“Uncle Vanya” Takes the Road</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VI.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch06'>Reliving The Years</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch07'>A Few Notes</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class='c006'>VIII.</td>
<td class='c007'><SPAN href='#p4ch08'>L’Envoi</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
</table>
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<div><span class='large'>ILLUSTRATIONS</span></div>
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<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus008'>“Helena”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus065'>A Scene from “Her First False Step”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus073'>Lillian and Dorothy Gish</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus109'>David Wark Griffith</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus141'>Lillian and Dorothy, During the Griffith Period</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus155'>Lillian as Elsie Stoneman, in “The Birth of a Nation”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus161'>Mrs. Gish and “Her Girls,” Mary Pickford, Mildred Harris, Dorothy and Lillian</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus179'>Lillian Gish and Richard Barthelmess in “Broken Blossoms”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus195'>“Anna Moore”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus201'>The River Scene in “Way Down East”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus233'>“The White Sister”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus245'>“Romola”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus263'>Mimi at the Pawnshop ... “La Bohême”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus277'>Miss Gish as Hester Prynne, in “The Scarlet Letter”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus289'>“Wind.” Letty, Burying the Man She Had Killed</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus313'>“The First Lady of the Screen”</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td class='c005' colspan='1'><SPAN href='#illus351'>“Camille”</SPAN></td></tr>
</table>
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<div><i>PROLOGUE</i></div>
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<p class='c002'>(Scene: Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya”—end of second act.
Lillian Gish as Helena)</p>
<p class='c002'><i>First Woman in Front of Me</i>: “They say she’s been playing
over twenty-five years.”</p>
<p class='c002'><i>Second Woman in Front of Me</i>: “Goodness! How old is she?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“The piece I read said about thirty or so....”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, began as a child; is Gish her real name?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I believe so; the piece said....”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Do you like these Russian plays?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I like <i>her</i>, in anything. I <i>loved</i> her in ‘Broken Blossoms,’
though it nearly killed me.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I wonder why she left the movies.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, lots of ’em do; the piece said....”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Do you suppose that is all her own hair?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, I think so; the piece said....”</p>
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<div><span class='xlarge'>LIFE AND LILLIAN GISH</span></div>
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<div><span class='large'>PART ONE</span></div>
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<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch01' class='c008'>I<br/> <br/>A GIRL CHILD, BORN WITH A CAUL</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>When Lillian was six, she found herself with a company
(one night stands, mostly), “trouping” through the
Middle West— ... the golden-haired child actress who
supplied the beauty and pathos in a melodrama variously
known as “The Red Schoolhouse” and “In Convict
Stripes.” All of which had come about reasonably enough—as
reasonably as anything is likely to happen, in a world
where nothing seems at all reasonable until we begin taking
it to pieces.</p>
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<p class='c002'>On an evening in October—the 14th, to be exact, 1896—in
a very modest dwelling, in Springfield, Ohio, May
Gish—Mary Robinson Gish (born McConnell)—waited
for her first child. She was barely twenty, and it was
hardly more than a year earlier that James Gish, a travelling
salesman—young, handsome, winning—had found her
at Urbana, and after a whirlwind wooing, had carried
her off, a bride, to Springfield.</p>
<p class='c002'>No one knew very much of Gish. From that mysterious
“Dutch” region of Pennsylvania, he had drifted into
Springfield, made friends easily, and found work there,
with a wholesale grocery. He might be Dutch himself;
“Gish” could easily have been “Gisch”; or French—a
legend has it that the name had once been “Guise” or
“de Guise” ... all rather indefinite, today.</p>
<p class='c002'>On the other hand, everybody in Urbana knew about
pretty May McConnell, whose Grandfather Robinson had
been in the State Senate; who had a President, Zachary
Taylor, and a poetess, Emily Ward, somewhere in her family;
whose father was a very respectable dealer in saddlery
and harness, with a spirited dapple-grey horse in his big
show window.</p>
<p class='c002'>Oh, well, it is all so “accidental” ... even though
some of us do not believe in accidents, and talk knowingly
of a Great Law ... of a Weaver who sits at the
Loom of Circumstance....</p>
<p class='c002'>Still, it was natural enough that now, within a year
from her marriage, pretty May Gish should be looking up
from her window at the thronging stars, wondering how
a baby soul could find its way among them to her tiny
room.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>A girl child, born with a caul ... supposed to mean
good fortune, even occult power. Mary Gish did not much
concern herself with this superstition; she had been rather
strictly raised; when she gave her daughter the name of
Lillian, and added Diana—Lillian because she was so fair,
and Diana because a big moon looked into her window—she
thought it a happy combination and hoped well for it—no
more than that.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch02' class='c008'>II<br/> <br/>LIFE AND A LITTLE GIRL</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>The little household did not remain in Springfield. At
the time of his marriage, or soon after, James Gish gave
up his position as a salesman, and opened a small confectionery.
Candy-making may have been his trade; at all
events, he worked at it now, sometimes leaving “Maysie,”
as he called her, to tend shop while he went to nearby
fairs and celebrations. Had he persevered, he might have
done well enough. As it was, when Lillian was about a
year old, he gave up Springfield for Dayton, to which
prosperous town Father McConnell had already taken his
saddlery and harness business, including the smart dapple-grey
horse for the show window. Dorothy Gish, who was
born in Dayton, still remembers the impressive horse in
Grandfather’s window. Lillian, a fair, sedate little lass,
was delighted when Dorothy arrived—fat, rosy, red-haired—full
of fun and mischief, almost from the
beginning.</p>
<p class='c002'>So different, these two. Lillian had been a pensive baby—one
to lie quietly, looking at nothing, as one thinking
long thoughts—possibly of a pleasanter land, so recently
left behind. Dorothy’s arms and legs were perpetually in
action ... impossible to keep the covers on her. When
she could creep about, then walk, it was necessary to
grab quickly for one’s possessions.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian had a doll, probably a tidy rag-doll, or a very
small china one, and a little rocker, which she sometimes
sat in, holding her doll and singing to it. She never really
cared for dolls. Ruddy-haired Dorothy was lovelier than
any doll. When Lillian held her, as she did, often, they
made a dainty picture: one doll rocking another.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>A tragic thing happened. Lillian sat in her chair alone,
one day, when a terrible object looked in the window. It
was a workman, who had put on a false face, to frighten
her. He succeeded. The terrified child screamed and went
into spasms. Always, after that, she was subject to nightmares,
from which she awoke, screaming. In later years
they came during periods of prolonged rehearsal. Usually
they took one of two forms: She was in a wood, at evening ... the
trees became sinister, drew their roots from the
ground and pursued her.... Or in a field, where there
were many red poppies ... large ones ... the California
kind. They became very tall, and threatening, like
the trees.... They came up and slapped her in the face.</p>
<p class='c002'>In summer time Mrs. Gish took her little girls to visit
her sister Emily, who had married and lived at Massillon,
in the eastern part of the state. It was a happy place for
children. There was a green dooryard, with chickens, a cat
asleep on the porch, a dog—a kindly dog who would not
hurt a little girl and her baby sister.</p>
<p class='c002'>And in the house was a wonderful cupboard, where a
number of interesting things were kept, including a bottle
of Castoria. Lillian was not meddlesome, but she had a
complex for Castoria. She would even dose herself with it
surreptitiously. Her aunt put the bottle on an upper shelf,
but Lillian with a chair, a high-chair if necessary, would
manage to reach it. It became a kind of game. Her aunt
took a Castoria bottle and secretly half filled it with cod
liver oil, which certainly was not playing the game fairly.
There it stood, in plain view; even a low chair would reach
it. A good swallow—saints above! What an explosion,
what a spitting, what a grabbing at the poor punished
tongue! Lillian was naturally very honest. Castoria had
been the one temptation she could not resist. Her character
was now perfect.</p>
<p class='c002'>But she did love baked beans. She could almost never
get enough of them. One day—this was in Dayton—her
father took her for a walk. The drinking-saloons of Dayton,
like those everywhere, had swinging doors, with free
lunch inside, spread at the end of the high bar. Gish
pushed open a pair of these swinging doors, perched the
little girl on the high counter, close to a great platter of
beans. A man wearing a white apron handed her a plate
and a spoon: “Help yourself,” he said. Lillian did not know
what became of her father, but by and by Grandfather
McConnell appeared, rather frantic, and shocked, and
took her away.</p>
<p class='c002'>One other thing she loved—ice cream—her taste for it
amounted to a passion. Her father did not sell it, but
there was a place just down the street that did. When in
funds, Lillian haunted the ice-cream counter. But one was
so liable to be bankrupt. Reflecting on these things, she
had a startling idea. One did not need money to buy
things! More than once in her father’s shop she had seen a
customer pick up a package, and with the magic words,
“Charge it, please,” walk out. Why, of course—she could
do that, too. Ten minutes later she was finishing her second
dish of vanilla and chocolate mixed.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Charge it, please.”</p>
<p class='c002'>The young man regarded the slender little vision, who
had just stowed away two saucers of his stock in trade.</p>
<p class='c002'>“You’re Mr. Gish’s little girl, aren’t you?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Yes, thank you,” said Lillian, who was nothing if not
polite.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, all right.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Such a nice man, to know who she was.</p>
<p class='c002'>On the way home, she noticed a little green cap in a
window—just what she had wanted.... She stood on
tiptoe, to look over the counter, at the grisly man who
sold things.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I want to buy that little green cap in the window—and
charge it, please.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh—why, you’re Jim Gish’s little girl, ain’t you?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Yes, thank you.”</p>
<p class='c002'>He held her up to the glass, the tiny cap a green jewel
on her crown of gold. And presently at home she was
explaining all the wonder of her system to Mama, who
also did some explaining, very gently, which put the system
in a new light. Lillian was then about three.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch03' class='c008'>III<br/> <br/>ON NAT GOODWIN’S SHOULDER</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>In the case and circumstance of James Gish, there is an
element of mystery. He had the gift of friendship, of
popularity, even of prosperity ... without material increase.
It may be that the swinging doors were too handy
to his confectionery ... a spoiled child ... and
heredity is always to be reckoned with. It may be that he
was not quite a reality ... a good many of us are like
that.... He closed his business in Dayton and removed
his family to Baltimore, where he arranged some sort of
partnership with a man named Meixner. Did he put up his
experience against Meixner’s capital? Grandfather McConnell
probably helped.</p>
<p class='c002'>The firm of Gish and Meixner must have prospered, in
the beginning. Mary Gish allied herself with the church of
her faith, the Episcopal, in which both she and her children
had been baptized. Gentle and lovely, she made
friends. The children, neatly dressed, went to Sunday
School. Mary Gish was one of God’s fine souls. She had a
beautiful spirit, and she had exquisite taste. Whatever her
circumstances—and the time was coming when they
would be hard enough—she would manage, through some
sacrifice, to get a scrap of dainty material, a bit of real
lace, for her children’s clothing. Lillian and Dorothy were
much noticed—she must not fail them. In her husband’s
shop, by day and often in the evening, she nevertheless
made every garment with her own hands—those tiny,
marvelous hands that could draw and embroider, could
put up bonbons, and gift packages, as no one else could
do it—mended and laundered and ironed when the others
were long abed.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The Gish children found their Sunday School an interesting
place. Sometimes there were entertainments, “exhibitions”
they called them, and there was an Empty
Stocking Club that filled stockings for the less fortunate,
at Christmas time. Lillian’s first public appearance, at one
of the exhibitions, was not an entire success.</p>
<p class='c002'>She had been chosen to speak a piece, some verses of
welcome, which daily she faithfully rehearsed at home,
going over them time and again, just as in later years she
would prepare for her rôles. Little Dorothy, playing about
the room, apparently gave slight attention, perhaps not
realizing herself how the lines were being drilled into her
brain.</p>
<p class='c002'>The afternoon of the performance came, and Lillian,
all white and gold, rose and spoke the lines faultlessly.
There was applause, of course—and something more.
Dorothy, shining like a jewel, jumped up and waved her
hand to the superintendent:</p>
<p class='c002'>“May I speak a piece, please—may I speak a piece, too?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Why, of course, my dear, you may; come right along.”</p>
<p class='c002'>And Dorothy, fair and undismayed, marched to the
platform, and repeated Lillian’s poem of welcome, word
for word.</p>
<p class='c002'>Poor Lillian! The audience, at first puzzled, broke into
applause. Her heart was broken. She thought she had
failed—recited badly. She struggled a little, and found
relief in a welter of tears. Which meant grief for Dorothy,
who adored Lillian—set her up as a kind of queen.</p>
<p class='c002'>The Empty Stocking distribution was quite another
matter—a real event. It was held at Ford’s Theatre, where
Nat Goodwin and Maxine Elliot were playing that week,
on an afternoon when there was no matinée. The big tree
was set up in the center of the stage, and the stars were
invited to take part. Maxine Elliot offered to fill stockings;
Nat Goodwin agreed to be Santa Claus. When a particularly
angelic child was needed, to perch on Nat Goodwin’s
shoulder and distribute the stockings, Lillian Gish was
chosen, and so made her first stage appearance—rode into
the drama—on the shoulder of one of the best-known
actors of the day.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Dorothy and Lillian were near enough together to be
playmates. Lillian was not so good at play as Dorothy.
Long afterwards she wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I envy this dear, darling Dorothy with all my heart,
for she is the side of me that God left out....</p>
<p class='c002'>“All my life I have wanted to play happily, as she does,
only to find myself bad at playing. As a little girl, I was
not much good at playing, and I find that, try as I will, I
don’t play very convincingly today.”</p>
<p class='c002'>They were good little girls—Lillian especially so. They
had been taught to say their prayers, and would as soon
have omitted their little nightgowns as their prayers. If
Dorothy made a scramble of hers, while Lillian offered her
petition to the last word and syllable, and overborne by
some ancient melancholy prayed regularly that she might
wake up in Heaven, it was only as Nature had intended
them to be from the beginning.</p>
<p class='c002'>Different as they were, then and always, they had one
great interest in common: their mother. They thought her
the best and most beautiful person in the world. Dorothy
loved to think that she looked like her, and cried when
told that Lillian “looked more like Mama” than she did.</p>
<p class='c002'>From the beginning, almost, Lillian was inclined to be
orderly, tidy. Dorothy—well, Dorothy was different. Even
in that early day, when Lillian was no more than five, she
carefully removed her clothes and laid them neatly together.
Dorothy did not remove hers. She dropped, or
flung, them off, and where they fell they remained. It was
said—this was much later—that you could at any time
find Dorothy by following her clothes.</p>
<p class='c002'>By day, Lillian was inclined to sit in her little chair and
reflect, while Dorothy tore about the house, escaping to
the street if not watched, and perpetually had her knees
bruised and scratched, from falls. She also liked to sample
any food or liquids that were in handy reach, and once
went on a genuine debauch. Lillian had come down with
an attack of croup, her medicine being a tasty toddy,
which, upon experiment, Dorothy found that she liked.
Lillian was dozing, and she continued her experiment.
Then she laid aside the spoon and picked up the glass. Her
mother found her, staggering down the hall, “making
whoopee.” Mary Gish got a whiff of her breath, and sent
for the doctor. Next day Dorothy went through the
tortures that go with a bandaged head, and usually come
later in life.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch04' class='c008'>IV<br/> <br/>“THEATRE PEOPLE”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>The world was not kind to James Gish. Perhaps those
wise ones who know all about the world, and human nature,
and the free-will to choose, will say that he was not
kind to himself. One must admire those people; they know
things with such a deadly certainty. I never in my life
knew a thing so certainly as a man who once told me that
I could always do the right thing, if I only wanted to.
Apparently I didn’t want to.</p>
<p class='c002'>Nor, as it seemed, did James Gish. When, after less than
two years in Baltimore, he sold out to Meixner, he had
very little left. Part of that little he gave to his wife; with
the rest, he went to New York, where he would find employment
and send remittances.</p>
<p class='c002'>For a time the remittances came; then they dwindled,
skipped, ceased. Mrs. Gish worked, but the money she
earned was not enough for the little family. Meixner lent
her small sums, then advised her to join her husband, advancing
money for her fare and for immediate needs on
arrival. Meixner appears to have been a good soul.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>In New York, Mary Gish took an apartment—small,
but large enough to accommodate two boarders. It faced
West 39th Street, up one or two flights of stairs. She
needed more furniture and bought it on installments. She
also took a job—demonstrating, in a Brooklyn department
store. She was twenty-five, handsome, capable, determined
to make her way. Up at five, she set her house in order,
got breakfast for her family and the two boarders—theatrical
women, who had their luncheons outside. Leaving
the children in the hands of a colored girl, she was off
for the day. Back at night, she got the supper; then
worked at the making and mending and laundering of
the family clothing.</p>
<p class='c002'>Gish was there, and may have been employed at times,
but his help was negligible. Less than that. As she saved
from her modest pay, she gave him sums, trusting soul, to
pay on her furniture. But then, one day, when she came
home from her job in distant Brooklyn, more distant then
than now, the dealers who had sold it to her had come and
taken it away. Her husband appears to have vanished
about the same time. Later, she sought and obtained legal
separation.</p>
<p class='c002'>Kind-hearted, weak—James Gish was only one of
thousands. That he loved his family is certain. When a
year or two later, Mary Gish and little Dorothy were on
a theatrical circuit, he was likely to turn up any time,
appearing mysteriously in distant places. Hungry for the
sight of them, he must have watched them enter and leave
the theatre—perhaps went in to see the play. Sometimes
he confronted them on a street in a far-off town. Always
in Mary Gish’s heart was the dread that he would take
one or both of her children from her. She knew he was a
Freemason, and in her lack of knowledge, thought he
might in some way invoke that secret agency. He seems
never to have attempted anything of the sort, and if he
secretly followed Lillian, she did not know it. Probably it
was Mary Gish herself that he most wanted to see. Those
wise ones who know all about the world will not fail to
explain that he deserved his tragedy....</p>
<p class='c002'>Night and day the Loom of Circumstance weaves its
inevitable pattern. The filaments proceed from a million
sources, stretching backward through eternity. Incredibly
they unite, and once united the gods themselves cannot
change the design.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mary Gish’s fortunes were at low ebb. Her unfurnished
room would presently be on her hands. The two actresses,
who owed her money, were willing to bunk on the floor,
but the theatrical season would open shortly, and what
then? Such jewelry as she owned was pawned, even to the
last piece—even to her wedding ring. The actresses had
likewise parted with their valuables. One of them, who
called herself Dolores Lorne, had taken a great fancy to
little Dorothy. There came a momentous afternoon. Mary
Gish, arriving from Brooklyn, was met by a startling
proposal:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I can get a good part in Rebecca Warren’s ‘East Lynne’
Company,” Dolores Lorne excitedly announced, “if I can
get a child to play ‘Little Willie.’ Dorothy would do it,
exactly. They will pay her fifteen dollars a week, and
we’d have a week’s salary in advance. I could pay you;
and I know a woman who can get a part for Lillian, too.
A lovely woman, Alice Niles, in a ‘Convict Stripes’ Company.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Mary Gish stared at her, dazed, staggered. She could not
grasp it. Her little girls ... going away ... motherless....
Poor little Dot, hardly more than a baby ...
and Lillian, barely six ... on the road with theatre people
... what would the folks at home say?</p>
<p class='c002'>Theatre people! She had not even dared to confess that
she had them in her house. Dolores was a good soul ...
but little Dot ... and Alice Niles—who <i>was</i> Alice Niles?
A stranger! And Lillian, so frail ... on the road ...
with a stranger!!! James Gish’s wife, who had borne up
in the face of everything, gave way, wept as if her heart
would break.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dolores Lorne comforted her ... later, Alice Niles.
She believed them good women, both of them. They
promised to take a mother’s care of her little girls. They
painted life on the circuit as happy—just a long pleasure
trip. If they forgot the broken nights on wretched trains,
the scanty, stale food, the dragging weariness of delays
... oh, well, they were human. Lillian and Dorothy became
excited. They had never been to a theatre, except to
the Christmas-tree performance in Baltimore. That had
been beautiful. Especially Maxine Elliot. Now, they were
going to be beautiful, like Maxine. Tearfully Mary Gish
began to assemble two little wardrobes—scanty little
wardrobes, of a size to go into two cheap little telescope
bags.</p>
<p class='c002'>Also, there were the rehearsals. Mary Gish taught her
children their brief lines, which they rehearsed at the
theatre. Lillian went at her task in her obedient, thorough
way, and became a favorite. Dorothy, who perhaps had
ideas of her own, was invited to repeat, and repeat, until
both Mr. William Dean, the kindly manager of her company,
and herself, were a trifle worn and critical. Finally,
when Mr. Dean became really quite fierce, and peremptory,
Dorothy, aged four, whispered, her lips trembling a
little:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Please, Mr. Dean, if you let me alone for a few minutes,
I <i>know</i> I’ll be able to do it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish, meantime, had a new and quite definite plan.
She would herself become an actress! Very likely her people
would cast her out, but never mind. Acting could not
be worse than the long hours in Brooklyn. She would
equip herself to be with one or both of her children. Alice
Niles introduced her at a theatrical agency, and Mary
Gish—determined woman that she was—was rehearsing
for a small part at Proctor’s almost as soon as the two real
actresses of the family had said their heartbreaking good-byes.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch05' class='c008'>V<br/> <br/>A LITTLE TROUPER</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Stage children of that day took whatever name was
offered them, usually the name of the woman in whose
charge they traveled. Dorothy readily learned to say
“Aunt Dolores” and accepted the name of Lorne. Alice
Niles became “Aunt Alice” to Lillian, and she herself
“Florence Niles.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It is not certain where Dorothy’s company opened, but
“In Convict Stripes,” with “Little Florence Niles, the
loveliest and most gifted child actress on the American
stage,” opened at Risingsun, Ohio, in a barn. Barns and
upstairs halls were often used by the one-night-stand companies,
though a larger town sometimes had an “opera
house,” with real seats, not just boards for benches.</p>
<p class='c002'>Risingsun was accounted a very good town of the barn-and-board-seat
variety. It had a stage with side slips, and
something in the nature of scenic effects. After a long
night ride on the train—a night when one did not undress
and go properly to bed, but slept part of the time on a
seat, part of the time leaning against Aunt Alice—a journey
which was not altogether a pleasure trip—the “Convict
Stripes” Company arrived at Risingsun in time for a
rehearsal before the performance.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was a stone quarry in the play, and some papier-maché
rocks, probably carried by the company. At the
climax of the third act, the villain—there was always a
villain—places the child at the bottom of the stone quarry,
then lights a fuse to explode a charge of dynamite which
will hurl rocks, and the poor innocent child, into the air.
Is the child killed? Dear, no! In the nick of time, the hero
swings out upon a rope, swoops down into the pit, seizes
the child and swings himself and his precious charge to
safety, just as the dynamite explodes.</p>
<p class='c002'>Inasmuch as a delicate, real flesh-and-blood, child might
not stand the wear of being handled in that reckless way,
a neatly made dummy-duplicate of Lillian was placed in
the pit for the hero to grab. Lillian had been carefully
taught to creep to safe hiding behind some of the papier-mâché
rocks before the explosion, and knew just how to
do it. They practiced now on the barn stage, and it went
off perfectly. They forgot one thing, however: They forgot
to tell the “lovely and gifted Florence Niles” that the
explosion would make a sudden and very big noise. In the
rehearsals, somebody had merely said “BOOM,” which
wasn’t at all the same thing.</p>
<p class='c002'>Evening came, and the big barn was filled with farmers
and townspeople, a breathless audience. Florence Niles,
aged six, lay safely behind a stout papier-mâché rock, waiting
for somebody to say “Boom!” But then, just at the
instant when the villain or somebody <i>should</i> have said
“Boom!” something else, something very terrific and
awful, happened: a real <i>BOOM</i> in fact—one that fairly
shook the barn, and made the audience jump and say
something. The gifted Florence Niles did not stop to see
what became of her double, but with a shriek, shot out
from behind the rock and across the stage as fast as
her legs could carry her, while the audience shouted for
joy.</p>
<p class='c002'>Never again would the climax go off as well as that.
When the curtain fell, and Lillian—that is to say, Florence
Niles—on the hero’s shoulder, passed in the procession before
it, they received a great ovation.</p>
<p class='c002'>And this was not so far from that modest house in
Springfield, Ohio, where just six years earlier Mary Gish
had waited for her first-born.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>I do not know what the next stop was, and it does not
matter, any more. The family likeness among one-night-stands
was strong. The child actress presently did not mind
the explosion—not so much—she only stopped her ears
for it, and always she took the curtain call on the shoulder
of the big hero, who adored her, and would have swung,
regardless of explosions, into any quarry, any time, night
or day, to save her.</p>
<p class='c002'>How kind they were, all of them! Aunt Alice especially.
She had a round, smiling face, and a round, soft, motherly
body. Just right for the character part she played ...
just right for a little girl to snuggle up to, those nights on
the train when there was no empty seat where one could
really stretch out and sleep. Any of the company would
gladly have given a shoulder to that golden head, and did,
in turn, but no one except Aunt Alice had such a nice,
soft shoulder, with such a good smell—no tobacco or anything—just
Aunt Alice.</p>
<p class='c002'>But the nights were quite hard, sometimes:—hard ...
and strange. Even when she got a seat all to herself and
was covered by somebody’s coat, and sound asleep, it did
not last. At any station a crowd of noisy people might
come in, and a fat woman, or a thin woman with
a baby, or somebody, would need the seat; and struggling
to get her eyes open, and almost dead, Lillian
would shrink back into her corner, and start at the
rest of the company, huddled into the unusual attitudes
of sleep.</p>
<p class='c002'>The train did queer things to people. Such remarkable
people ... when one was awake to notice. Men—women,
too—with funny faces. Country-jakes and their
girls. Boys who stared at her, and if she turned on them
suddenly, acted so crazily ... babies—that mostly cried
... fat people ... thin people ... dirty people ...
even clean and pretty ones.</p>
<p class='c002'>Sometimes faces and people were there very uncertainly—perhaps
not really there at all—just a part of some
dream. One dreamed and dreamed, especially if one was
not very well. Sometimes she woke with a dry, feverish
mouth, and staggered down the aisle for a drink. Sometimes
she was awakened by being bumped and jerked,
this way and that, switching, with engine bells that swept
by with a watery sound.</p>
<p class='c002'>Faces ... faces—one could even invent faces, especially
just as one was going to sleep ... or they just
came of themselves ... like the train boy, who brought
a strong smell of oranges. Sometimes Aunt Alice would
let her buy one, and a lemon stick to push into it. That
was heaven. One could suck the lemon stick and dig into
one’s corner and go to sleep. Or press one’s cheek against
the glass and watch the snow or rain or solid dark go by,
with sometimes a light ... far off, or perhaps quite
near. Somebody would be where the light was—somebody
lived there. On clear nights there were stars—even a moon
that made the snow fields very white, and traveled with
the train, no matter how fast or far it went.</p>
<p class='c002'>So much snow: fields of snow, hills of snow; villages
with snow on the roofs, and in the dooryards, looking
white and deserted in the moonlight. And tunnels—long,
terrible, gasping tunnels; and big towns where the train
slowed down with a great clackety-clack of wheels, and
there was confusion—shouting, and rumbling baggage
trucks, and where probably one had to change and sit in
a station, or work one’s way through the iron arms that
divided up the seats, so one could stretch out, and really
sleep a little, at last. Not long, of course, for the other
train would soon come shrieking in, and Aunt Alice or the
hero, or Corinne, the soubrette, or somebody, would drag
her through the iron divisions, and maybe carry her onto
it, and if she didn’t remember that she had gone to bed
before, she was apt to say her “Now I lay me” over
again, and “God bless Mama and Dorothy, and keep them
safe and well, and please, God, let me wake up in Heaven,”
which she always added. And then, if there were no more
changes that night, almost right away it was morning,
with coal-dust, and cinders, and gray outside at first ...
with perhaps a streaky sky ... or dull and drowned
with rain ... or caught up in a whirl of snow; and the
train boy came through and sold her a sandwich for
breakfast; or maybe they had reached the next show-town,
and she went scurrying down the platform, holding
Aunt Alice’s hand and lugging the little telescope bag,
to a lunch counter where there might be something warm....
Not really a “pleasure excursion,” but long afterwards
she did not regret it—she even found something
“rather beautiful” in it.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>They did not really “put up” at hotels. They merely
“put in,” at a cheap one, for the day. Aunt Alice would
get a room for fifty cents, until theatre time. Then the
two soubrettes—good-hearted, even if rather tough, girls—would
come to “call,” to share the room, each paying
ten or fifteen cents. All stretched out on the bed, the sofa,
anywhere, to catch up with their sleep. They only got up
to eat—something they brought in, or at a restaurant, a
cheap one (oh, worse in that day than now!)—or for a
matinée.</p>
<p class='c002'>If they were awake and there was nothing else to do,
Aunt Alice taught her charge from a little book, and told
her about a number of useful things. For one thing, it was
quite wrong. Aunt Alice said, to kill animals, and not
really healthy to eat their flesh. Vegetables, bread, milk
and eggs had in them all that was good for human beings.
Aunt Alice was a vegetarian, and advised Lillian to become
one. Lillian liked the sound and size of the word,
and could not bear the thought of killing anything—animals
especially. Besides, at the places they ate, one could
get more vegetables than meat for one’s money. One
could get quite a lot of potatoes for a nickel, or a dime;
other things, too—baked beans, which she still loved, and
rice. They were not always good—sometimes greasy and
tasteless, but they filled up. Often the butter was bad,
especially. Still, if one could have a piece of pie at the end
... or a plate of ice cream—a five cent plate ... she
became a vegetarian.</p>
<p class='c002'>All the actors paid their own expenses, except train
fares. Unlike Dorothy, Lillian received only ten dollars a
week, but by close economy could send more than half of
it to her mother. Perhaps the economy was too close, the
physical foundation she was laying too slender.</p>
<p class='c002'>And there was more than the need of food and sleep.
A child—the wistful, heart-hungry child that she was—needed
more than even the kind-hearted care of Aunt
Alice: ... Companions, play ... the comfort of a
mother’s arms.... Darkness gathering in a lonely hotel
room—a little figure crouching at the window, staring
into the night.</p>
<p class='c002'>“What are you looking at, dear?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Nothing, Aunt Alice—just looking.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Always her reply would be the same—always the same
heart-hunger behind it. A dozen, twenty years later, a
slender, white figure on a window seat, staring into the
depths of the California night.</p>
<p class='c002'>“What are you looking at, Lillian?” her mother asks.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Nothing, Mother; just looking.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Sometimes when the town was quite large and they
played more than one night, she got to sleep in a real bed,
could take off her clothes and have a bath—how splendid!
Sometimes the paper in such a town had a piece in it
about the play, even once or twice with her picture. The
others thought this very fine, especially where their names
were mentioned. They bought a lot of the papers, and cut
out the pieces. Lillian did not value the notices very
highly; what the paper said was not always true. The
picture was of the same sad-faced little girl she saw every
morning in the glass when Aunt Alice combed her hair.
When one of the company gave her a clipping for herself,
she politely said “Thank you,” and put it away in her
little telescope, but she seldom looked at it.</p>
<p class='c002'>One performance was like another; but then came one
which brought her a special and rather wide publicity. In
the play was a prison scene, where a guard, a lame guard,
Cliff Dean, carried a rifle, loaded with a blank cartridge.
During the performance at Fort Wayne, Indiana, the unfortunate
guard dropped his gun, and it went off. Lillian,
close by, received the charge in her leg, and was badly
powder-burned. No burn hurts worse than that. She
screamed and ran off the stage. The leading man, the hero,
was going down some steps that led to the dressing-rooms.
He picked her up and carried her down, soothing and
comforting her. Others not in the scene gathered to help.
The wounded leg was bathed and bandaged. The play upstairs
did not stop. The audience may have thought the
incident just a part of it.</p>
<p class='c002'>The next act was the last one, and Lillian’s share in it
important. She was suffering terribly, but she said she
would go on, and did. Few, if any, of the spectators knew
what had happened. When, after the show, the facts were
known, they crowded the lobby of the hotel and watched
the doctor pick the powder grains out of the tender flesh.
It was torture, but Florence Niles, the child actress, refused
to cry. Some of the powder had to stay under the
skin and remain there permanently, like tattoo.</p>
<p class='c002'>Alice Niles did not write to Mary Gish of the accident,
but of course it got into the Western papers. Grandfather
McConnell, in Dayton, saw it, and sent her a clipping.
Certain of the family may have regarded it as a kind of
retribution for permitting one of her own to follow such
a calling. The biblical-minded can always identify punishment,
even when it falls on the innocent child, or flocks,
of the transgressor. The fact that her children and herself
had become play-actors was for years not mentioned by
Mary Gish’s family to their friends—nor discussed among
themselves.</p>
<p class='c002'>The company did not perform on Sundays—nor always
travel—but stayed in a hotel room; shabby, but how luxurious!
Aunt Alice mended their clothes—washed them.
Florence Niles, the child actress, helped. All the others
were doing the same. Sometimes they dropped in, to visit.
Among them they taught her to read. The patter of the
stage and much general information she picked up unconsciously.
Nothing that was evil—certainly nothing
that she recognized as such—neither then nor ever. More
than twenty years later she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>Stage children are in most cases more sheltered than those who
go to school. They constantly associate with older people who
are, as a rule, most careful what they say in front of them.</p>
<p class='c002'>In after years, she remembered that once a stage hand
had knocked another one down because he swore in front
of her. Some of the company may have been a bit dissipated,
even dissolute; if so, it was outside of her knowledge.
There would come a day when she would realize
that the soubrettes probably had been as “tough” off as on
the stage—that some of the others were not saints. But to
her, then, they were, and in her memory would always
remain, the best people in the world.</p>
<p class='c002'>And talented; they said so themselves. All, including
Lillian, looked forward to playing New York. The others
because it might mean a Broadway engagement where
their talents would be appreciated. Lillian, because New
York would mean her mother ... better meals ... a
bed to sleep in at night. Considerately, she did not mention
these things, but looked out of the window, thinking long
thoughts. And this picture I am trying to present is not
only of that first year, but of the years that followed it,
one so nearly like another—except for the parts she took
and the rapidly increasing length of her slim legs—that
in later years she found it by no means easy to distinguish
them.</p>
<p class='c002'>Two events remembered from that first far-off engagement
were particularly tragic, both connected with running
for trains. Always they seemed to have been running
for trains. Every night after the performance there was
the same scramble, even though they had to wait for hours
in a station that was too hot or too cold, with only those
divided benches to sleep on, or the telegraph desk, when
the station agent took pity on a tired little theatre-girl.</p>
<p class='c002'>And often it seemed to be raining, or snowing, when
they started for the train, and there were single-board-crossings
over the ditches, where you could not hold to
Aunt Alice’s hand and stay under her umbrella, and where
it was not easy for someone to pick you up, because all the
talented company carried their baggage, every fellow for
himself.</p>
<p class='c002'>So it happened that on one of those rainy nights, when
she was running behind Aunt Alice, across a narrow foot-bridge,
lugging her little telescope bag—there, right in the
middle of the bridge—the treacherous strap gave way, and
all her possessions—her little nightgown, her little extra
stockings and underwears, her press-clippings, everything—disappeared
in the black, rushing torrent below. She did
not stop—no time for that, and no use, anyway—but
raced on after Aunt Alice, holding fast to the useless little
strap of the telescope, and crying—oh, crying. No money
to send home that week—so many things to buy.</p>
<p class='c002'>The other event, scarcely less tragic, was also of the
night and rain. She was wearing the little white furs that
once an uncle had bought for her, and that she so dearly
loved. All about were mud puddles, and by some misstep
she plunged into one, and the precious furs could never
be the same again. Rain! Rain! Once in the South, on the
Seaboard Air Line, it fairly poured, and the rickety old
day-coach leaked. The whole company had to sit holding
umbrellas, to keep from getting soaked. Lillian always
remembered that, as something different.</p>
<p class='c002'>Christmas that year she remembered, too. A little present
had come from Mother—very precious—but there
was still more to this Christmas than that—a good deal
more. All day they were on a freight train, a train that
lumbered and bumped along, and stopped for what
seemed hours in the towns, and ran up and down, pulling
and pushing all kinds of freight cars, in and out and
around, sometimes slamming them into your part of the
train, until it seemed your head must certainly come off.
You had to ride in the caboose, not at all a nice place—just
long, dirty benches on the side, and grimy train men
coming in, leaving the doors open, to let in the cold.</p>
<p class='c002'>But then came a stop at quite a big town, where there
was certain to be a lot of switching and backing, which
would take a good while. A good many of the company
“went ashore,” and when by and by they came back they
brought, of all things, a Christmas Tree! A little, green
tree that they set up right in the old, dingy caboose;
and then they opened packages and hung balls and candy
canes on the little tree, and even presents. And all the rest
of that day, the gay little tree rode and rode, and the old
caboose wasn’t dingy any more, and one’s heart could almost
break with happiness over a thing like that. Surely
in all the world there was never such another Christmas
Tree!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch06' class='c008'>VI<br/> <br/>ADVENTURES OF DOROTHY</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>If Dorothy had a Tree that Christmas, there is no
memory of it today. A very remarkable one was on its
way to her, a little farther down the years, but “Little
Willie of East Lynne” appears to have had other entertainments.</p>
<p class='c002'>Life in Rebecca Warren’s “East Lynne” Company was
probably less strenuous than in a “Convict Stripes” combination.
They made larger towns, had fewer one-night
stands. Sleep and food could be more regularly counted
upon, and may easily have been of a better quality. Besides,
Dorothy—light of heart, plump, dimpled—was
fairly worshiped by Dolores Lorne, who lay awake nights
planning how she might keep her always, and asked nothing
better than to hold her and carry her and shield her
from every possible trial of the road. She even planned to
steal her, and might have done so, had she not been a
devout Catholic.</p>
<p class='c002'>She was rather rigid in the matter of Dorothy’s conduct.
She took her to early Sunday morning Mass, and
taught her to tell her beads, to pray with a rosary. It was
something new, and Dorothy rather liked it. Especially as
Aunt Dolores often had candy in her pockets. She was
willing to adopt any new and profitable faith. She became
a “rice Christian.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Auntie Dolores could be severe. Dorothy had a queer
habit of picking the stitching out of the hem of her dress.
Miss Lorne had tried all sorts of ways to correct this, for
it meant that she must sit down and restitch the little
garment, by hand. Finally, she said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“You know, Dorothy, you don’t like to wear the little
trousers that go with your part.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy didn’t. She hated them, and said so. She cried
every night, when she had to put them on. Aunt Dolores
regarded her very solemnly.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Very well,” she said, “the next time you pick out the
seam of your dress, you will have to wear the little trousers
to the hotel.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy didn’t believe her. A grown person couldn’t do
a thing like that to a child—especially Aunt Dolores, who
loved her so.</p>
<p class='c002'>She did, though. Dorothy picked out the hem again,
and that night when the play ended, the little trousers
were not taken off. She wept, but it was of no use. Auntie
Dolores hardened her heart. Dorothy set out for the hotel
in the hated trousers. Her little coat nearly concealed
them, and she scrooched as much as possible, but the disgrace
was there—she could not forget it. It was a terrible
punishment, but effective. Dorothy did not pick out the
seam again.</p>
<p class='c002'>One more correction she remembered in after years.
The Company had reached Cleveland, where Miss Lorne
had relatives. They stayed with them, and somebody made
a pudding—a wonderful pudding, with raisins on the top.
It was set out on the back porch, to cool. Dorothy, playing
out there, found it interesting. Then fascinating. Then
she picked off a raisin. Then all the raisins. Then Auntie
Dolores came out and asked for an explanation.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy shook her head: She had seen some blackbirds
about the yard ... perhaps they had picked off the
raisins. “Perhaps,” agreed Aunt Dolores. There was a raisin
in the ruffle of Dorothy’s little dress. Perhaps the blackbirds
had left it there.</p>
<p class='c002'>Aunt Dolores took Dorothy on her knee and explained
in good, Catholic fashion what happened to little girls
who did such things, and then told stories about it. Presently
reduced to a freshet of tears, Dorothy confessed. She
was forgiven; but Auntie Dolores found it necessary to
wash out her mouth, with soap.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Dorothy as a “baby star” had been a success. It is true
that her attention sometimes wandered during a rather
long speech, when she was supposed to be listening, and
Miss Warren devised a plan, something with a jelly-bean
in it, plainly visible to Dorothy, who knew if she looked
at it steadily, it would be slipped to her when the speech
ended. Also, there had been a night that she went to sleep,
when she was supposed only to be dead, and rolled off the
narrow, improvised couch, nearly breaking up the performance.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy’s first season closed rather late, when Lillian
was already with her mother, in New York. A telegram
came that Dorothy, in care of the Pullman conductor,
was on her way to them. Mrs. Gish, anxious at the thought
of the little girl traveling alone, wild to see her, was at the
station long before train time. With Lillian she waited
... then at last the train was there, and looking down
the platform, they saw Dorothy—not walking in charge
of the conductor, but riding high on the shoulder of a
very large man, one of a delegation of Elks, who had been
captured by the child actress with sunlit, red-gold hair.
They had heaped riches upon her—her arms were full. A
moment later, and her mother and Lillian had her in their
embrace.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, Dorothy,” said Lillian, “I’m a vegetarian!”</p>
<p class='c002'>“That’s nothing,” said Dorothy, “I’m a Roman Catholic!”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch07' class='c008'>VII<br/> <br/>MARY PICKFORD IN THE SCENE</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>At the apartment, Dorothy found her family considerably
increased. A very nice lady was there, also two girls,
somewhat older than herself, named Gladys and Lottie,
and a boy about her own age, named Jack, who fell in
love with her at sight. Their names were Smith, some day
to become Pickford, which is a later story.</p>
<p class='c002'>It had come about in this wise: Lillian’s Aunt Alice
Niles had severed her engagement with the “Convict
Stripes” Company, and had written to say that she would
leave it at Buffalo, and come to New York. The season was
not ended, but Mrs. Gish, not wishing to leave Lillian with
a stranger, wired Miss Niles to bring her in. The manager
of the company, remembering that young Gladys Smith
had played the part in Toronto, where the play had been
called “The Little Red Schoolhouse,” promptly arranged
to have Gladys join the company in Buffalo. Mrs. Smith
decided to bring all the children to Buffalo, and after
getting Gladys established, to keep on with the other two,
to New York.</p>
<p class='c002'>The meeting between the two little girls, destined to
become world stars, was neither formal nor memorable.
More than twenty years later, in an article in <i>Photoplay</i>,
Mary Pickford wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>Neither of us, I am sure, remembers our first meeting. We
were too young to be impressed by the event. I do recall a fleeting
glimpse of Lillian when I went to Buffalo from Toronto to
take the part of little Mabel Payne that she had been playing
in Hal Reid’s famous old melodrama, “The Little Red Schoolhouse.”
Lillian was just leaving the theatre as I came in, and we
waved. She could not stop to talk, because she was being
whisked away to catch a train for New York.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Mary! How little either of them guessed,
that day, that within no more than a dozen years, the
names and faces of those little yellow-haired, waving girls
would be familiar, and beloved, in the world’s far corners.</p>
<p class='c002'>Alice Niles and Lillian rode with Mrs. Smith and Lottie
and Jack to New York. Lillian’s mother, at the train to
meet her, took them all to her apartment, established Mrs.
Smith and her children there for as long as they would
stay—a kindness which Mrs. Smith, a stranger in New
York, never forgot. Mrs. Gish, by this time quite a professional,
also introduced her to theatrical agencies, with a
view to future engagements. In a word, they joined forces.
And thus began an association which was to last many
years, and become historic in the theatrical world.</p>
<p class='c002'>Whether Lillian went out again that season may only be
surmised. At some time in the days of her beginning, she
had a “Little Willie” part in another “East Lynne” Company—Mabel
Pennock’s, and long preserved the little
trousers she wore. It was a brief engagement, and she had
no clear picture of it, later. She seems to remember that,
like Dorothy, she went to sleep one night and rolled off
the little bench during Madame Vine’s long scene, but this
is most likely a confusion. Lillian would be too conscientious
and well-trained to do a thing like that, even in her
sleep.</p>
<p class='c002'>The end of the dramatic season found two mothers,
four girls and a boy in the Gish flat, a combination that at
times could produce something resembling a riot. They
were a happy family. They went in for two things: peace,
and economy. Lillian’s influence had much to do with the
former—her unearthly beauty and gentleness. Mrs. Smith
told her children that she looked “like an angel dropped
out of Heaven,” and with the old Irish superstition that
the good die young, they expected any moment to see a
long arm reach out of the sky and take her home. Gladys,
especially, refused to be left entirely alone with her, fearing
it might happen at such a time. Certainly she was not
always melancholy. Life was a serious matter—from the
beginning, apparently, she had known that; also, that
Heaven was indeed a desirable place to go to—to wake up
in, some morning, quite soon. Yet she enjoyed the company
of the others, especially when they went on little
excursions. Once at least, they all went to the theatre.
Mary, in her article, tells of this:</p>
<p class='c010'>What fun we youngsters had! Never will I forget the day we
went to the American Theatre on Eighth Avenue near 42nd
Street. At that time, the American was one of the important
legitimate theatres. Now it is a picture house, I think. A
Shakesperian play was on; I cannot recall its name, but it seems
to me that it was “King Lear.” At any rate, it was very heavy
and tragic, and we all sat in a row, looking very important and
pretending to understand every word. I remember how I went
up to the manager in a very sober and dignified manner, and
presented my card, saying: “Do you recognize the profession?”
There we were, five of us—Lillian, Dorothy, Lottie, Jack and
I—and to the manager we must have looked very much like the
family of the old Mother Goose lady who lived in the shoe. He
smiled amusedly, and assured us that he most certainly did
recognize the profession, adding: “Have you got ten cents
apiece for the Actors’ Fund?”</p>
<p class='c010'>This threw us into a near panic, for a hasty survey of our
resources disclosed that among all of us we had only eight
pennies and one had a hole in it. The manager, however, finally
relented and passed us in, telling us that we could give him the
money for the Actors’ Fund some other time. What a task it
was to pay that debt! For weeks and weeks, it seemed, we were
running to that box office every time we had saved a few
pennies.</p>
<p class='c002'>The combined housekeeping made for economy, and
here, too, Gladys Smith was a leader and a force. Even the
mothers listened to her advice. On the kitchen table, at
night, with a grubby little pencil and a scrap of paper,
she audited the accounts.</p>
<p class='c002'>Those were very meagre, but really very happy, days.
When Mrs. Smith was called to Toronto by her mother’s
failing health, Mary remained undisputed head of the
Smith family, and dealt out counsel, rewards, even punishments,
with a fair but firm hand.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch08' class='c008'>VIII<br/> <br/>“DOWN THE LINE”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>With money saved from her own and the children’s
earnings, Mary Gish opened a candy and popcorn stand
at the Fort George amusement grounds. Her six or seven
years of candy making and business experience came in
very handy, now. She hired an assistant—one strong
enough to pull the taffy she made—Don, a handsome,
good-hearted boy, with whom Dorothy fell desperately in
love. It was a joy to Dorothy to stand on the counter or
on a chair and “ballyhoo” for Don’s taffy and popcorn.
“This way for the best taffy and popcorn in New York!
This way, this way!” Lillian would do it, too, but from a
sense of duty, and much less riotously. Mary Pickford
recently said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I can still hear Lillian’s timid little voice saying:
‘Would you like to buy some popcorn?!’”</p>
<p class='c002'>To the Smith (Pickford) family, Mrs. Gish’s stand at
Fort George was in the nature of a diversion. Often in
high season, they went up there, to help. In the early
morning, the two families rode up together on the streetcar,
the two younger ones discussing their rights to the
“outside seat.” Jack was dead in love with Dorothy, but
there is a limit to love’s sacrifice.</p>
<p class='c002'>Arriving at Fort George, everybody helped. The corn
had to be popped and put in bags; the candy had to be
wrapped in paraffined paper, a good deal of a chore. Mrs.
Gish let them eat what candy they wanted, and in the
beginning their by-word was “Wrap one and eat two.”
Then presently they were just wrapping, for the charm
of a candy diet is fleeting. There was a place “down the
line” where one got marvelous German-fried-potatoes, at
a nickel a dish. About noon, armed with a nickel apiece,
they went down there. Those heavenly fried potatoes! If
one might only get a job with the potato man. Or the
milk-shake man....</p>
<p class='c002'>An interesting place, the “line”: Stands of several sorts;
a variety of shows, and a merry-go-round. The children
found it fascinating. There was a place where they had
ponies, and the man there on slack days let Lillian and
Dorothy ride. They learned quickly, and went tearing up
and down, their astonishing hair flying out behind. They
really rode like mad—good training for those “picture”
days ahead, when as Indians, or cowboys, they would go
racing among the hills behind Los Angeles. The pony man
declared that they rode like monkeys, and the lovely spectacle
they made undoubtedly brought him business.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy came to grief. One day her pony swerved, or
stopped, or something, and Dorothy didn’t. So she broke
her arm, a thing so terrifying to Lillian that she scrambled
quickly from her horse and hid behind the merry-go-round.
The alarm reached the Gish taffy stand, and Dorothy’s
beloved Don came on a dead run and bore her in
his arms to her mother. Don, so noble and brave and
beautiful—how heavenly—worth breaking one’s arm for.
Then there was the ride to the hospital in the clanging
ambulance, with everybody getting out of the way!</p>
<p class='c002'>Nobody seems to have thought of Lillian; yet she needed
comfort almost as much as Dorothy. Often she fainted at
the sight of suffering. If anything was to be done that
meant physical pain, like the drawing of a tooth, she was
promptly sent from the room. Even then, the knowledge
of the fact was almost too much for her.</p>
<p class='c002'>She was more self-contained than Dorothy, who would
do almost anything on the spur of the moment. One day
at the apartment, two girls came along below the window,
where Lillian and Dorothy looked out.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Come down to us,” one of the girls called, holding out
her arms—“Jump!”</p>
<p class='c002'>And though the distance was several feet, Dorothy was
ready to do that—the girl who called was so beautiful.
Her name was Evelyn Nesbit.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>There was not much time for cooking in the Gish flat,
and anyway the weather was hot—too hot to bend over
the kitchen stove after a day on the “line.” The younger
members, the five of them, would go out foraging for cool
things.</p>
<p class='c010'>We used to love to buy our dinner in the delicatessen shops
[Mary Pickford writes]. The five of us would troop in and
order pickles and turkey to take home.</p>
<p class='c002'>One can imagine that little row of future stars ranged
along the fat delicatessen man’s showcase, coveting all the
good things in it, agreeing at last on a modest purchase of
pickles and turkey. Any one of them could have eaten
every bit of it. Sometimes they extended themselves on a
bit of dessert—ice-cream, <i>always</i>—who does not love ice-cream?
They had an ice-cream complex. If they were in
funds, they bought a little dab to take home, and had their
own dessert in advance—ice-cream soda. The Greeks over
there sold ice-cream soda for five cents. When, one day,
they raised it to ten, it was the end of the world.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch09' class='c008'>IX<br/> <br/>“HER FIRST FALSE STEP”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>None of these children can be said to have had any
real childhood. Those summers together (there appear to
have been two of them) provided about all they ever had
in the way of playmates of their own age. The opening of
each amusement season found them back on the road,
trouping, with grown-up players as companions. Naturally,
they did not go to school—not during those earlier
years—but picked up such rudiments of instruction as it
was possible to acquire in stuffy, badly-lighted, dressing
rooms, in jolting day coaches and in casual nooks and
corners of the world’s worst hotels. I cannot speak for the
others, but I am sure that Lillian and Dorothy had very
little in the way of regular schooling until they were in,
or near, their ’teens. Had it been otherwise, they would
have been quite certain, I think, to remember.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was during this period that the Gerry Society became
their bogey man. They did not know what it was, but
only that it was something likely to grab them in any
strange city, in a dark hall or alley, as they entered or left
the theatre. It would take them out of the theatre, they
were told, so they would not be able to earn money any
more, and maybe put them into an “Institution,” which
was a terrible sounding word. To Mary Gish it was a very
real menace, for she knew that she would have hard work
convincing the Gerry officers that her children were getting
proper care and education, playing six nights and two
matinées a week, sleeping and eating in that sketchy fashion
of the road. They did not linger on the street, they did
not show themselves more than necessary, especially in the
larger towns. Lillian, many years later, wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>Before I could understand what it was all about, I knew of
subterfuges and evasions and tremendous plottings to keep myself
and my sister acting, so that the very necessary money
might be earned....</p>
<p class='c002'>Their safety lay in their obscurity. Had they been with
important companies, playing finer theatres, they would
hardly have escaped.</p>
<p class='c002'>The season of 1903-4 remains to Lillian and Dorothy
the most memorable—for a very good reason: they were
together, and their mother was with them. For the time,
at least, Mary Gish’s dream had come true: she had secured
parts for her little girls and herself in the same company.
Her own part and Dorothy’s were small, but would more
than pay expenses. Dorothy was a news-girl, who sold
“Evenin’ pipers!” Lillian’s part was a very good one; their
combined salaries were forty-five dollars per week!</p>
<p class='c002'>The play was “Her First False Step,” another fierce
melodrama; only, in this one, Lillian, instead of being
nearly blown up was within an ace of being devoured by
savage African lions, being rescued by the brave hero,
barely in the nick of time!</p>
<p class='c002'>There were two of the lions, and they were really
savage, for later when they were sold to a circus, one of
them tore out a keeper’s arm. There was a provision, however,
against accidents: The lions were in a cage in which
there was a sliding division, so cunningly arranged that
even those who sat in the front rows could not see it. At
the instant when the noble hero leaps into the cage and
drags out the little victim—child of the woman he loves—while
every eye is riveted on this deed of daring, the invisible
partition is drawn back from behind, the lions
rush in, roaring and leaping about, wild at being deprived
of their prey, for at that very instant, too, the cage door
is slammed shut. It was truly a terrible spectacle. Women
in the audience sometimes fainted.</p>
<div class='figcenter id002'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-058.jpg' alt='“Dodger” advertisement' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>Small “dodger” scattered about the towns before a performance.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Once, when the safety slide had not yet been slipped
into place, one of the lions took up a position at the wrong
end of the cage, and refused to budge. The villain, with
Lillian in his arms, had twice vowed he would fling her to
the beasts, and was ready to vow again, when somebody
behind the scenes had an inspiration. Two men from the
wings rushed upon the villain, and while the fierce struggle
for the child held the audience, the stage-hands persuaded
the lion to be reasonable.</p>
<p class='c002'>The heroine in “Her First False Step” was a tall, handsome
woman, Helen Ray. Lillian and Dorothy played her
two little girls. In one scene Dorothy and her “mother”
are out in the snow, as Lillian rushes in, to find them. She
has a lollypop for Dorothy, who claps her hands with joy
while Lillian kneels by Miss Ray, saying: “Oh, mother,
what are you doing out here in the cold snow?” Often it
was cold enough, too. The air, not the snow. The latter
was swept up every night, to be used at the next performance.
Sometimes other things were swept up with it,
and were likely to hit them on the head—nails, bits of
wood, a little dry mouse.</p>
<p class='c002'>A real romance goes with the “False Step” season—one
with a “happy-ever-after” ending. In one of the larger
towns, a young actor from another company came to a
matinée and was much struck by the beauty of Helen
Ray, whom he had never met. That night he managed to
come again, and next day at rehearsal time was lingering
around the stage entrance. Dorothy, with a beloved
Teddybear, was playing just outside. He struck up an
acquaintance with her, and was invited in, to see her
other possessions. A very few minutes later he had met
Helen Ray. When the season had ended, they were married.
At last accounts they were still married—and happy—after
more than twenty-five years.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy, at the theatre before the others,
had diversions of their own. Both dearly loved lemon sticks,
especially if oranges went with them. To suck
orange juice through a lemon stick was pure delight.
They would run across the dressing-room and jam their
oranges against the wall.</p>
<p class='c002'>In a corner of the first-act-set, they would set up a
play-house. They did not play at “acting,” like other children.
They would put on long dresses, and play at “keeping
house”—having a home. When it came time for the
performance, they hurried, not very eagerly, to change
into the costumes required for their parts. They were not
unhappy. They did not reflect much whether they liked
what they were doing, or not. They just did it. The parts
they played were always sad—pathetic, but not more so
than their lives. They did not know that, but their mother
did.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>If one might have looked into Mary Gish’s heart at this
time, just what would one have found there? Chiefly, of
course, devotion to her children—thought of their immediate
welfare and needs. After that? Was it to equip them
for the career of actresses—a life which, unless they were
at the top, was hardly to be called enviable, and even at
its best was one of impermanent triumphs and fitful rewards?
She knew pretty well that with their special kind
of beauty, which each day she saw develop—their flair for
subtle phases of human portrayal—given health, they
could count on at least reasonable success. Did she greatly
desire that? I think not. I think she considered it, but
that her real purpose was to keep her children and herself
on the stage only until by close, the very closest, economy,
she had saved enough to establish herself in a permanent
business which would give them a home, where they could
go to school and grow into normal, or what she regarded
as normal, womanhood. I think the old prejudice which
she had shared with her family as to the theatre, did not
die easily, and that for years she felt herself more or less
“beyond the pale,” willing to stay there only because it
meant a livelihood, with the possibility of something better,
something with a home in it, not too far ahead. We
shall see the effort she made in this direction, by and by,
and what came of it—how the web of circumstance had
its will with her, as with us all.</p>
<div id='illus065' class='figcenter id003'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-065.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>A SCENE FROM “HER FIRST FALSE STEP”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Whatever her plan, Mary Gish saw that she must educate
her children. Herself reared in a town that rather
specializes in education, she had known the advantage of
excellent public schools. That her children should have
less than herself was a distressing thought. From little
books, at every spare moment, she taught them. In every
town of importance, she made it her business to learn what
she could of its history, its population, its industries, and
of these she told them in as interesting a form as she could
invent. In the South, she told them of the war; when it
was possible, showed them landmarks, often taking them
on little excursions.</p>
<p class='c002'>In one city she had a special interest: Chattanooga,
where an uncle, a Captain McConnell, had been killed in
the battle above the clouds. When she found they had
time there, she took the children for a drive up Lookout
Mountain, telling them the story as they went along. And
then a remarkable thing happened: they came to a tablet
by the roadside, and paused to read the inscription. It was
a tablet to Captain McConnell, commemorating his
bravery.</p>
<p class='c002'>She did not hold them to schoolbooks. She read them
story books, or allowed an actor named Strickland—“Uncle
High” in the play, because he was so tall—to read
to them—from “Black Beauty,” which was their favorite,
and Grimm’s and Andersen’s Fairy Tales. In a seat on the
train, when all were awake at once, or during a wait in a
station—oh, anywhere—Uncle High was faithful, and
those little girls never ceased to remember it.</p>
<p class='c002'>Uncle High was really very tall—“six feet six, and
skinny as a blue-racer” according to one of the notices.
In the play there was a house-warming, at which he was
one of the guests. When Uncle High entered, Lillian, the
“golden-haired grandchild,” was moved to examine him.
They stood just at the footlights, and very deliberately she
looked him up and down until the snickering audience
was still. Then very gravely: “Grandpa, what is he standing
on?” a line, according to Uncle High, that was “always
a scream.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Uncle High” further remembers that “no matter what
time of night Lillian and Dorothy had to get out of a
warm, comfortable bed to catch a train, or how many
times they had to be awakened to change cars, no one ever
heard a whimper or complaint from either, and I cannot
recall one instance where they ever found any fault with
anything, and I never heard their mother speak a cross
word to either of them. Lillian was just like a little mother
to Dorothy, and looked after her all the time. Her whole
life seemed to be to watch that nothing happened to her
little sister. And Lillian <i>only eight years old</i>.” She was, in
fact, considerably less.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish’s skillful handicraft included drawing. She
had received no art instruction but her pen sketches were
exquisite. She thought them poor, and destroyed them.
There remains only a water-color interior—subtle in tone,
atmospheric—of a quality that commands immediate
attention.</p>
<p class='c002'>It seems curious that she should also have had a taste for
mechanics. Delicate mechanics. She enjoyed taking a clock
apart and putting it together again. A clock that did not
go was her delight. Once that winter, when they were all
together, a clock in their room had gone out of commission.
Mary Gish examined it, then set to work. In a brief
time she had it on the operating table, the pieces here and
there. Dorothy’s deep interest may have had something to
do with the fact that when she came to assemble them,
two insignificant bits seemed to be missing. Never mind,
the clock would go without them. It would go, but with
a gay indifference to time, and every little while made
queer noises in its inside. Lillian and Dorothy, in bed in
that room, laughed themselves to sleep, listening to its
complaints.</p>
<p class='c002'>They found amusement where they could—the situation
was so often barren enough. Once, remembering,
Lillian said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Sometimes the theatre was very poor, and the dressing-rooms
nearly always bad (even to this day they could be
better). Some were worse than others. At a theatre in
Chicago, a theatre of the second or third class, a good way
out, the dressing-rooms were in a kind of cellar. There
was water on the floor—we had to walk on boards. I remember
the big, black water-bugs. Mother had to shake
out our dresses, before we put them on.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The Gerry Society was very strict in Chicago. We
hardly dared to show ourselves outside the theatre and
hotel. Four or five years later, when I was perhaps twelve,
and we were there again, Mother put me into long skirts
and high heels, so that I could look sixteen, and reduce the
risk. I felt very proud to be grown-up in that sudden
way.”</p>
<p class='c002'>But the winter travel was hardest. One town they were
to play could be reached only from a junction, six miles
distant. That night a terrible blizzard came up, and the
company, quite a large one, had to be driven cross-country
in big farm sleighs, bedded with straw. It was terribly
cold, their feet became ice. And when they arrived, the
train was five hours late! The place was just a telegraph
office; the little girls were allowed to stretch out on the
desks, which were sloping;—members of the company
took turns, holding them from rolling off.</p>
<p class='c002'>The problem of food was a serious one, especially in the
smaller towns of the Middle West. Dorothy was robust,
and seemed to thrive on anything; Lillian needed better
fare.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Dorothy and I lived, when we could, on ice-cream and
cake. Mother would give us fifteen cents, and we would
spend ten cents for ice-cream, half vanilla and half chocolate.
With the other five we bought lady-fingers. We
mixed the cream, stirred the two kinds together, and
made ‘mashed potatoes’; then we spread it on the lady-fingers.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It does not seem very substantial, nor an over-plentiful
allowance. They were being very economical, trying to get
a little money ahead. At one wonderful restaurant—in
some Western town—they were able to get a meal for ten
cents! Just one place like that: soup, meat, potatoes, and
a piece of pie! Perhaps it was not very good, but it seemed
good, to them.</p>
<p class='c002'>And two places in the South—good negro cooking:</p>
<p class='c002'>“At Richmond and Norfolk, we went to boarding-houses,
where we had chicken and ham at <i>one meal</i>, and
sweet potatoes, and gingerbread! Nothing could be better
than that. We were always happy when we were going to
those places; and there was a park in one of those towns
where there were squirrels. We bought peanuts, and they
would hurry up to be fed.</p>
<p class='c002'>“There was another place—it was in New Haven—that
Dorothy and I looked forward to. In the hall next
the dressing-rooms, was a small sliding door, or window,
and beyond it an ice-cream salon. We could knock on the
magic door and it would open, and a chocolate ice-cream
soda be handed through. You can’t imagine how wonderful
that seemed to us ... like something out of Fairyland.
Then there was a place in Philadelphia—an automat—the
only one we had ever seen. It was the delight of our
hearts. We were willing to walk miles, to get to it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Philadelphia was remembered for another reason. A
considerable number of newsboys attended a matinée of
“Her First False Step,” and hissed the villain and cheered
the brave hero and the two little heroines in good, orthodox
fashion. At the end of the play, the delegation hurried
out and assembled at the back. When Lillian and Dorothy,
in velveteen hats and coats and patent leather shoes,
stepped from the stage door, they were waited upon by a
meek and almost speechless committee of two and presented
with two rare bottles of perfume, the best “five-and-ten”
that money could buy. The stars bowed and
spoke their thanks. After which, there was something
resembling a cheer, and an almost uncanny disappearance
of their admirers.</p>
<p class='c002'>A very serious thing happened: At Scranton, Dorothy
awoke one morning with what proved to be scarlet fever.
It was not a severe case, but the company, knowing the
certainty of quarantine, fled at once, bag and baggage,
taking Lillian with them. The hotel faced the station platform,
a high one, almost on a level with the windows of
Mrs. Gish’s room. Lillian, waiting for the train that would
take her away from them, could see her mother and
Dorothy at the window, waving a tearful good-bye. It
seemed as if her heart must break.</p>
<p class='c002'>How long they were separated is not remembered—possibly
not more than a fortnight. Dorothy’s part was
abandoned. Later, she was given the part that had been
played by Lillian. And this is curious: Lillian herself had
never been at all afraid when she was thrust into the lions’
cage, but now that Dorothy had the part, it made her
almost frantic when she heard the lions roaring, and knew
that her little sister was being put in there.</p>
<p class='c002'>The season appears to have closed in Boston, and for
whatever reason—possibly Dorothy was not yet over-strong—Mrs.
Gish went by day-coach to New York, putting
Dorothy and Lillian into an upper berth, in the
sleeper. They had with them a small dog—a Boston bull
puppy, which the stage-hands had given them—and all
night long, they took turns sitting up with it. One slept
while the other watched, with more or less success. Then,
next morning, they were in New York, tired but triumphant.
They were returning from a long season—forty
weeks!—and on the whole, a successful one. Two little
actresses! They were beginning to realize what their work
meant.</p>
<p class='c002'>It seems unnecessary to speak of the quality of their
acting. We really know nothing of it; we can only assume
that, like the majority of actors, old or young, they did
just about what they were told, and through repetition,
and because they were intelligent, learned to do it well.</p>
<div id='illus073' class='figcenter id004'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-073.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>LILLIAN AND DOROTHY GISH</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>They had begun too early to be either awkward, or
frightened, after the first one or two performances. The
people beyond the footlights did not bother them at all.
They scarcely knew they were there. Lillian, later:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I had very little consciousness of the audience, in those
days. When they applauded or laughed, I hardly noticed
it. I remember wondering what they were laughing about.
To become an actress, one cannot begin too soon.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch10' class='c008'>X<br/> <br/>DOROTHY’S TREE</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Again that summer Mary Gish had a taffy and popcorn
stand at Fort George. Probably not after that, though
each summer found her busy. Alert, handsome, familiar
with business, she never failed of employment. Lillian remembers
that there were summers when she took a clerkship,
and let the little girls go to their aunt, in Massillon,
for the cleaner life there, and for schooling—a summer
term. A teacher in Massillon recalls having Lillian in the
Fourth Grade—year uncertain. Also, that she “never had
a lovelier or sweeter pupil; wonderful in art, but could
not get mathematics.” Poor Lillian! to her, as to another
little girl a hundred years earlier—little Marjorie Fleming—“seven
times six was an invention of the devil, and nine
times eight more than human nature could bear.”</p>
<p class='c002'>That she could write quite as well as the average child
of her age is shown by a small pencilled note to Mell
Faris, manager of the “False Step” Company when the little
family had been together. She had been out a season
“on her own” since then, and was with Dorothy, now, at
Aunt Emily’s “having a fine time, playing in the yard. I
do wish we could get into a ‘conpany’ with you next
season.” But the spelling is for the most part perfect.</p>
<p class='c002'>Another teacher remembers having her in the Seventh
Grade, in 1907, so it appears that in spite of recurring
theatrical seasons, she made progress. In the summer of
1907 she was not yet eleven years old. I do not know
whether that is the right age in Massillon for the Seventh
Grade, or not. The wonder is that she was able to maintain
any grade, under the circumstances.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy was better off. Lillian had her mother but the
one time; Dorothy, during five straight seasons: the one
just ended; another “False Step” season, and three seasons
with Fisk O’Hara, the Irish singing comedian, a happy
soul, who gave her a broken heart, among other things,
for she forgot the heroic Don, and fell in love with him.
He promised to wait for her, and then, one day, in an
absent-minded moment, married his leading lady.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish kept her part during the second season of the
“False Step” Company, and had something in each of the
Fisk O’Hara plays. The company was a very good one,
made good towns and played in good theatres. The papers
paid a good deal of attention to Dorothy. Her dimpled
face looked out from dramatic columns; the little scrapbook
which her mother kept for her contains notices of
the “dainty child actress, who risks her life nightly in a
lions’ den,” or “ably supported Fisk O’Hara in ‘Dion
O’Dare.’” False Fisk O’Hara! We hope he has been properly
punished for not waiting for her.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was during the second season in “Her First False
Step” that Dorothy had her Christmas Tree. In the last
act of the play, there was a Christmas scene—no tree, but
Dorothy, looking into the wings, had to pretend to see
one. In his book, “To Youth,” John V. A. Weaver,<SPAN name='r1' /><SPAN href='#f1' class='c011'><sup>[1]</sup></SPAN> gives
this incident in verse better than anyone could hope to
do it in prose. Here is the latter half of it:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Of course, we never carried a Christmas tree,</div>
<div class='line'>But she was supposed to act like it was there.</div>
<div class='line'>Well, then, we get to Fond du Lac, Wisconsin,</div>
<div class='line'>And, bein’ it’s really Christmas, the rest of the troupe</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>They get a bright idea. They’re goin’ to give</div>
<div class='line'>The kid a celebration, to make her happy.</div>
<div class='line'>So then, Dorothy’s goin’ along, as usual,</div>
<div class='line'>Doin’ her stuff real good. And the third act,</div>
<div class='line'>She starts to gallop on in her big scene—</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And there’s a real tree standin’ on the stage,</div>
<div class='line'>Lit up with candles, and hung with all the fixin’s!</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>She takes three steps—and her eyes start to pop.</div>
<div class='line'>She stops dead in her tracks, tries to go on</div>
<div class='line'>Sayin’ her words—and gives a couple of gulps,</div>
<div class='line'>And busts out cryin’. And she cries, and cries,</div>
<div class='line'>Watchin’ the tree. And the audience all laughin’,</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>And me dried up, with lumps stuck in my throat....</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Finally, they have to ring the curtain down.</div>
<div class='line'>I tell you, it ain’t fair to have a little</div>
<div class='line'>Yellow-haired kid puttin’ things in your head,—</div>
<div class='line'>Things you gave up many’s the year ago.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>It was a season or two later, when they were with the
Fisk O’Hara Company, that Dorothy woke one night in a
hotel in Toledo, to find her mother very ill indeed, with
high fever and delirium. The day before, she had complained
of a cold, and Dorothy had bought her a bottle of
some mixture, chiefly persuaded by the picture on the
label. Apparently it had not helped. The frightened child
crept down the hall to summon help.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish had intermittent fever, and Dorothy next
day had to leave her and go on with the company. There
was nobody to take her part. She was only too kindly
treated, but during the days before her mother joined
them, she was a sadly worried little girl.</p>
<p class='c002'>Once—and this has to do with another Christmas—the
Fisk O’Hara Company laid off in New Orleans, and
went one night to see “The Lion and the Mouse,” at the
theatre they would occupy the following week. On the
way out, Dorothy noticed a purse in one of the back rows.
She took it to the box office, to the manager, who knew
them. He said: “If nobody calls for it, it will be yours.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Nobody did call for it, and the next week he gave it
to her. It contained $21.00, a sum which they could have
used very handily, but instead they went out and spent
it on a gold watch to send to Lillian, for Christmas.</p>
<hr class='c012' />
<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c002'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r1'>1</SPAN>. </span>Published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.</p>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch11' class='c008'>XI<br/> <br/>“SUPPORTING BERNHARDT”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>There is some difficulty as to the sequence of Lillian’s
story. As we have seen, she did not go out with her mother
and Dorothy that second season of “Her First False Step.”
She had a part in another play—“The Child Wife,” or
“At Duty’s Call,” it is not quite certain which came first.
The little trouper did not know that she was making
history—did not consider a time when it all might need
to be arranged. She did not keep a scrapbook, and had
no one to keep it for her. She probably did not think of a
diary, and in any case would have been too tired to set
down what, to her, was the humdrum routine of trains
and towns and waits and scanty meals. Later, it was all
a good deal of a blur. A few things stood out, because
they were unusual, but even these did not always fall into
their proper setting, as to time. There are spaces not easy
to bridge, pieces difficult to fit into the picture-puzzle
of the years. She remembers the tragedy of finding at
the beginning of one season that she could no longer
squeeze herself through the iron divisions of the station
seats. She remembers that for a time she took lessons in
dancing—stage dancing. Both she and her mother had
realized the value of this: one able to dance could often
get a better part. Sarah Bernhardt came to New York
that winter, and seeking a child dancer to brighten some
scene in one of her plays, went to a dancing teacher, and
from his class selected Lillian.</p>
<p class='c002'>Bernhardt was over sixty at this time, but was still the
“divine Sarah, with the voice of gold.” Her engagement
at the Lyric Theatre began with a very grand opening,
December 15, 1905. Plenty of attractions along Broadway,
just then. At Wallack’s, William Faversham, in “The
Squaw Man”; David Warfield at the Bijou, in “The Music
Master”; Maude Adams at the Empire, in “Peter Pan.”
The little Gish girl had distinguished company in all directions
for her first Broadway appearance. Perhaps that was
a good omen.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s recollection of that engagement is chiefly a
mental picture of a tall and beautiful woman—Sarah—who
each night in the wings, as they waited to go on, laid
her hand on her head and said, tenderly, something in
French—“Le petit ange aux beaux cheveux d’or,” if one
may hazard a guess. Then, with another little girl, she
danced. She was deeply impressed by the fact that the
stage was covered with canvas, for the actors to walk
on. The stages she had known were not like that—oh,
not at all. And did somebody appear and carry her off,
quite suddenly—kidnap her? She has that impression, but
cannot be certain.</p>
<p class='c002'>Long afterwards, when she herself had become famous,
Madame Bernhardt sent her affectionate messages.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s memory was never very good as to events and
surroundings. She memorized her parts easily enough, and
her lessons, because she worked very hard at any task.
At the beginning of each season came a period of rehearsing—with
many new “sides” (pages) to be learned,
if the play was a new one. Absorbing things, these. Other
matters—the daily round, the people she met, the
details of an environment—interfered little with the
cadences of her thoughts, left but a drifting impression
on that fairy mind of hers. While still a child, she had
seen too much, and too many—of everything. And it had
all been just a pursuit of sleep and desirable food, and a
longing for the shelter of a mother’s arms. That last, especially—when
one was not well ... nights ... days,
too ... oh, yes, and the ache of homesickness ... is it
any wonder that more and more her face took on that
wistful look that one day would be regarded almost as its
chief charm?</p>
<p class='c002'>There were happier things—even another Christmas
Tree, quite a big one! In Detroit, the stage entrance of
the theatre where “At Duty’s Call” was playing, opened
on an alley, and just across was a store where automobile
parts were sold. The men who owned it went to the play,
and took enough interest in the “child star” to go to the
manager and offer to have a tree for her, in their back
room. All the company was invited, and came. Such a
beautiful tree, with so many nice things on it! A grateful
little girl was quite overcome; especially by a handsome
sled which the company had bought for her. Everybody
said that it must go with her, on the road. And they saw
to it that it did. Always, after that, when there was snow—even
if only just a little snow—they pulled her to the
station on it, after the performance.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch12' class='c008'>XII<br/> <br/>MASSILLON DAYS</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Seasons changed ... the years went on. From the
train window, Lillian saw the snow come, then go, leaving
only lines along the hedgerows, or white tracks across the
watery meadows to show which way winter had passed.
Then flowers, bits of blue and white and yellow ...
after that, summer, and New York, or maybe Massillon.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian realized that she was growing tall ... too tall,
almost, for the parts she was playing. She supposed that
presently she would have to give up the stage, and go
to school regularly, or at least until she was old enough
for the more grown-up parts. Perhaps that would be in
New York ... more likely in Massillon. She hoped it
would be Massillon. She liked it there, at Aunt Emily’s
place, which they called “the farm,” (though it was not
really that,) especially when Dorothy was there, too. They
helped Aunt Emily with her housekeeping, and when that
was done, they could run in the fields, not far away.
Buster, the dog, ran with them, and insisted on following
Dorothy, like Mary’s lamb, to a little school she went to,
and nearly broke up the classes. The teacher was like
Mary’s, too. She turned Buster out, and when he “lingered
near,” threatened to do terrible things to him.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was an old bicycle at Massillon, a rusty old thing
without tires, but it would go. It was too big, of course,
but Lillian had got it out of the woodshed and lowered
the seat, and had been able to get on it, and fall, and get
on and fall again, and by and by to get on and stay there.
She had really learned to ride it—that was something.</p>
<p class='c002'>Almost anything was likely to happen at “the farm”—mostly
pleasant things, but not always. There was
an insane asylum in Massillon, and when one of the inmates
escaped, which happened every little while, the
asylum whistle blew, and timid people locked their doors.
Aunt Emily at such times sent her nieces to the attic, or
cellar. They did not like those places, and were not afraid,
anyhow. They were more afraid of a cow that had chased
them from a back field.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian reflected that once she had been really quite
wicked: A black thundercloud was rising in the west, just
as she was starting to see her friend, Marion Benedict,
down the street. Lillian never minded lightning, but her
aunt was terribly afraid of it and begged her not to go
and leave her.</p>
<p class='c002'>“But I told Marion I would come!”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But you can go later—afterwards.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But I want to go now.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, dear, I believe you love Marion Benedict better
than you do me.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Yes, I do.”</p>
<p class='c002'>How awful to have said such a thing to dear Aunt
Emily, who was so shocked that never in the world would
she forget it! Perhaps it had been the lightning in the air.</p>
<p class='c002'>Once, a cousin had come to see them—a second cousin,
named Leonard Hall, about her own age. Their mother
was there, and had dressed them up for the occasion—white
dresses, their hair loose, with big pink bows; they
had been almost as nice as dolls. She had thought her boy
cousin quite nice, too, for a boy—and boy cousins were
so scarce. She had hoped he would play with them ...
but he would hardly even look at them—edged away, and
then ran, almost as if something were after him ... and
didn’t come back any more. She wondered why. They
had on all their prettiest things, and Dorothy at least had
been a perfect picture.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian reflected on these matters as she rode along, or
looked from a hotel window. If she went to Massillon this
summer, would she see her cousin again? And Buster, and
Marion Benedict? Would she stay there, now, and go to
school, or go back to the road for another season? She
thought dreamily of these and other things. She did not
trouble much, about the future, or the past—then, or
later. She followed a kind of magic path, that opened before,
and closed behind her as she passed along.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>There came a season when the theatrical business was
poor. The road companies, especially, suffered. Their
profits became more than ever precarious. Motion picture
shows were cutting into their business. One-night-stand
theatres were being converted into “picture palaces,” and
“nickelodeons,” that offered pretty good entertainment
at ridiculously low prices, and had very light “overhead.”
The combinations, the smaller ones, with their salaries and
railroad fares, could not compete. Lillian went out with
quite a pretentious company, and a play which was “sure
to get to New York and make a hit on Broadway.” It did
not get much further than Washington, where it opened.
At Baltimore, or Richmond, it came to grief. The company
had trouble getting home. At a later time, Lillian
wrote: “When we were ambitious and went into better
productions, the plays seemed to fail.” But this was due
rather to the new conditions in the amusement world,
than because of the plays themselves. The “movies” had
filed a claim on the melodrama. One could scorn them, as
many did in the beginning, but the handwriting was on
the wall.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mary Gish wondered what was best to do next. She
had saved some money, but with nothing coming in, how
quickly it would go.</p>
<p class='c002'>For one thing, she must have a new dress. The children
said so, quite insistently, and she knew they were right.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We begged her to buy a new one. Finally, one day, she
bought some Alice-blue material and made herself a gown.
She always made all the clothes, herself. Then we begged
her to get a new hat. So she went to the five-and-ten-cent
store, and bought a frame for a little toque, and covered
it with little five-and-ten roses. She looked so pretty in
her new things—and we were all so happy. We thought
everything so beautiful. She was not to wear them until
Easter.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We lived in furnished rooms over by Eighth Avenue,
away up I don’t know how many flights, next the roof.
Mother put her dress on a hanger, and hung it in a closet,
with the hat over it. We all gathered to admire it. It was
such an event for mother to have a new dress.</p>
<p class='c002'>“That night there came up a terrible rain, and the roof
over the closet leaked. The water came through in streams,
and ran down over mother’s new hat, and the color came
out of the lovely five-and-ten roses and dripped all over
the new Alice-blue dress. It was ruined. We all cried over
it; it was a real tragedy.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch13' class='c008'>XIII<br/> <br/>WHERE THE “ROAD” ENDS. NELL</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>News came to Mrs. Gish that a brother in St. Louis
had died, leaving a widow. She took the children to Massillon,
went to St. Louis, and with her sister-in-law,
opened a confectionery and ice-cream parlor, in East St.
Louis, a rather drab railroad town across the river.</p>
<p class='c002'>The business started off very well. Railroad men were
good wage-earners, and East St. Louis was full of them.
In a way, it was what Mary Gish had been looking forward
to: her children would no longer be wanderers; they
would go to school.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy, in Massillon, probably did not suspect
that their day as child actors was definitely over.
Nor that they were among the last of their race. Their
little world had come to an end—“A curious, romantic,
gypsy world,” Lillian called it later, “and rather beautiful,
I think.”</p>
<p class='c002'>But this was long after. They did not think of it as
beautiful, then, and would have concealed their connection
with it, if they could. The children in the Massillon
school shouted “Play-actor! Play-actor!” at Dorothy, and
“Do what you used to do on the stage!” They did not
harry Lillian in this way: she was older, and taller, and
there was something about her face ... they stood in
awe of her. Someone named her the “chameleon girl,” because
she seemed to change the “coloring of her personality
(her mood) in the flash of an eye.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian does not remember where she first met “Nell”—Nellie
Becker, a sweet-faced, happy-hearted girl, somewhat
older than herself. Lillian was tall for her years, and
serious-minded—the difference did not count. What did
count was their instant attraction to each other. Beginning
in what school-girls know as a “crush,” it presently
ripened into something less fleeting, something that was
to stand the wear of years. Each was the other’s ideal—the
companion of which she had dreamed. They shared
their hearts’ secrets, read books together. A fine young
fellow, named Tom, was going to marry Nell one of these
days; a boy called “Alb,” for short—a very proper boy,
particular about his umbrella and overshoes—appears to
have been wishfully interested in Lillian, who, being of a
sober turn and not yet thirteen, was not too violently disturbed
by his attentions. Whatever romantic love she had,
she gave to Nell. When, at the end of the summer, she
joined her mother in East St. Louis, she wrote frequent
letters, though letter-writing was always her bane.</p>
<p class='c002'>Not many girls of her age would have set out on a long
railroad trip, with changes, but rail travel had few terrors
for the child actress, who for six or seven years had known
little else. She stopped over in Dayton, to see her Grandfather,
and her first letter, with its very plain, school-girl
writing, some uncertainty as to spelling, and a large indifference
to punctuation, is dated from there: September
12, 1909:</p>
<p class='c010'>Well dear I am away from Massillon once again, but feel as
if I had left something behind this time that I never left before.</p>
<p class='c010'>I arrived here at 4:05 yesterday afternoon and have been on
one continual trot ever since then, and I leave here tonight at
11:25, and when I wake up I’ll be in St. Louis, as this is an
awfully fast train....</p>
<p class='c002'>[An all-night ride in a day coach, but what was that
to her?]</p>
<p class='c010'>Poor Dorothy what did she do when I left? I could hardly
keep the tears back, and I couldn’t say a word for the lump in
my throat.... I do hope she won’t be homesick. You know
that feeling....</p>
<p class='c002'>“<i>You know that feeling</i>”—who knew it better than
herself? The letter ends, “Your loving make-believe sister.”
It bears her East St. Louis address: 246 Collinsville
Ave.</p>
<p class='c002'>A week later she wrote, “How is my little fat sister?
Does she seem to be satisfied? Bless her old fat heart, she
is bad but I love her.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She tells of a day’s trip to a small town in Illinois, and
how, when she got back to the store, they were “awfully
rushed, so of course I had to help.” In another letter, we
hear of a girl named Mertice, who is going to give a party
for her, “at a big Hall.”</p>
<p class='c010'>They have ordered an automobile, seven passenger—45 horsepower,
but it won’t be here until March. Oh, I wish you would
hear her talk about all the trips we are going to take. She knows
all about you, Nell. She couldn’t help but know if she is
around me very long.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch14' class='c008'>XIV<br/> <br/>A CONVENT SCHOOL. TYPHOID</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian never got to ride in Mert’s 45 horsepower car.
Almost immediately she found herself shut safely in a
convent school across the river—The Ursuline Academy—not
for anything she had done, or was likely to do, but
because this plan seemed to offer special advantages. Her
mother lived in a tiny room, near the store. It was in no
sense a home, and working as she did, twelve or fourteen
hours a day, she could give a daughter very little care.
A public school would mean that Lillian’s free hours would
have to be spent in the store, on the street, or with her
aunt across the river. No place for play, no place for
study. The Ursuline Academy provided board and tuition
for twenty dollars a month, and was thought to be very
good.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was not at first greatly interested in the convent
idea, especially when she learned she could leave it but
once a month. It was just another kind of those dreaded
“Institutions.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She changed her mind about all that, later. It seemed
to her that at last she had reached a place of peace and
rest. No troubles, no dangers, any more. She was a natural
<i>religieuse</i>, and found a vast and nameless comfort
behind the high walls and closed windows. The place might
have been in the midst of the Sahara, for all that could
be seen of the outer world.</p>
<p class='c002'>The convent régime was not especially severe. Only the
early rising was hard. They rose at 5:30, and had breakfast
by candlelight—mild coffee and thick slices of bread.
At ten came a between-luncheon, bread and jam; a hearty
luncheon at noon, with bread and jam again at four; then
supper, so they really ate five times a day. There was
plenty of work: lessons, piano practice, French ... but
one could walk in the little garden, and there was a tennis
court, and trees. And something more: to Nell she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>We are going to have a play and an opera, and what do you
think, they wanted me to play Kate’s father in “The Taming
of the Shrew.” Can you imagine me taking that part and singing
in a real low voice? But I told them I could not, and so
they are going to give me a part in the play.</p>
<p class='c002'>They knew nothing of her stage life—an episode always
carefully suppressed. Baggage labels were scraped off when
they left New York. The stage door was slammed to. But
she could not disguise her technical knowledge—not altogether.
They gave her Bianca in the opera, and a leading
part in the play, as soon as they saw her rehearse.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian confessed later that her ambition at this time
was to be either an actress or a nun—or a librarian. She
had a passion for reading, and thought as a librarian she
could gratify it. To Nell, she wrote: “I am not going out
for a month and will have to write all my letters on the
sligh,”—which was a sin, though spelling it in that way
seems to modify it a good deal—“and carry them in my
stocking until mother comes and mails them.” Oh, dear,
and in a convent, where she thought she would like to
remain forever, and become a sister, like Mother Evaristo,
whom she loved very much indeed! To another sister,
teacher of elocution and dramatics, she confided her wish
to take the veil, and was advised against it—<i>advised to go</i>
<i>on the stage</i>—which led to penance, on the part of the
sister, a dear soul.</p>
<p class='c002'>Each Sunday her mother came to see her, with news of
the outside world, and once a month, with the others, she
was allowed to pass the gates—a privilege she valued less
and less. She might so easily have become a nun; and in
the tragic “White Sister,” made fourteen years later, we
have seen just what sort of a nun she would have become.
That picture was really a pendant of her earlier experience,
which she never remembered but with a peculiar
affection, and a sense of peace. During the eight or nine
months she was with them, the sisters made no attempt
to influence her religious views, but they were always
tenderly kind to her, and always later felt that she belonged
to them.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>School ended ... Dorothy came from Massillon. They
lived with their St. Louis aunt, boarders, going each day
across the river, to help. A narrow hall ran along one side
of the shop, dividing it from a “Biograph” moving-picture
place. They did not know the word Biograph. They
thought it the name of a man—probably a rather kindly
man, for his doorkeeper let them cross the hall and enter
by a side door, free. They did it often, when trade was
dull, and found the pictures good fun, though of course
they would never <i>act</i> in anything like that—no real actresses
would. When they grew up, they might go back on
the stage, but never into the movies. And the Weaver who
sits at the Loom of Circumstance smiled faintly, it may
be, observing from his pattern that in exactly two years
these young scorners were to be making pictures for that
same “Mr. Biograph.”</p>
<p class='c002'>There came a day when Lillian felt barely able to creep
out of bed in the morning; when at the shop she could
hardly hold up her head, or lift her feet. She had to drive
herself to keep going. She knew that she was ill—but said
nothing; her mother was too busy to bother with a sick
child. Finally, one day when she crept home with Dorothy,
to her aunt’s, she could go no further. She fell across
the bed, unable to undress, even to take off her shoes. A
doctor came. It was typhoid fever.</p>
<p class='c002'>Disordered days ... black, fantastic nights, a fire of
unquenchable thirst ... a river at which one lay down
and drank and drank ... and then the river ran dry
... she was burning up, but this was torture ... not a
river but a tub—a bathtub of cool water. Oh, quiet and
sleep ... an awakening to a possession of terrible hunger—a
feeble pleading for food ... just a little....</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy, unable to resist, brought her something from
her own luncheon ... but, then the fever again ...
relapse ... semi-recovery ... relapse again. Surely she
could never live through this.</p>
<p class='c002'>Somehow the frail constitution stood the test. Dorothy,
permitted one day to enter the room, found Lillian with a
wish-bone in her hand. Struck with terror, Dorothy
started toward her, to take it away. But the patient, a
staring little ghost, all eyes, put it to her lips. If Dorothy
came closer, she would eat something, and surely die. Each
time Dorothy started toward the bed, the bone went to
Lillian’s lips. She hurried out to tell the others about it—and
was told that Lillian was better—much better, this
time—the wish-bone was just a bone—nothing on it, not
a thing.</p>
<p class='c002'>The convalescent noticed that her mother was with her
a great deal, and vaguely wondered how she could be away
from the store. One day they told her. The store was not
there any more. Fire from the Biograph place had destroyed
the building. There had been no insurance. Mary
Gish was once more starting at the bottom. Worse. She
had not enough to pay all the expense of Lillian’s illness.
Somehow she was able to get the children to Massillon.
Through connections she secured a place as manager of a
confectionery-and-catering establishment—in Springfield,
where she had begun; good enough salary,—long, long
hours. The children were to remain at Massillon, with
Aunt Emily, and go to school. Blessed Aunt Emily!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch15' class='c008'>XV<br/> <br/>SHAWNEE</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>But now from Shawnee, Oklahoma, came a letter from
an uncle, Grant Gish, saying that his brother, James Gish,
was in a sanitarium, in broken health. Lillian decided to
go to him. This was near the end of October, 1910, when
she had just turned fourteen. She went quite alone. To
Nell, on arrival, she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'><i>My dear little sister</i>:</p>
<p class='c010'>I arrived safe yesterday morning and went to the hotel and
slept until about ten o’clock & then I came right out here, and
they are awfully nice to me, but Oh! dear how I wish I were
home with you and we were reading “John Halifax”! I hope
we will soon be able to finish that together....</p>
<p class='c010'>I didn’t want to come, dear, but I thought it was my duty.
It’s awfully hard to do your duty sometimes, and you know
that I met with opposition on all sides but I have done what I
think was right and I am glad that I did it....</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>With love love love</div>
<div class='line'>from <span class='sc'>Lillian</span>.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='lg-container-l c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>201 N. Park St.</div>
<div class='line'>Shawnee, Okla.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>How lightly she treats her arrival in Shawnee—not to
distress Nell, or those who would inquire. It was really
very different. Shawnee, twenty years ago, was rather unlike
the thriving town it became later. It was two in the
morning when Lillian got off on a desolate platform, and
found nobody to welcome her. A light from across the
street showed a lone cowboy, in chaps, and “ten-gallon
hat,” curiously regarding her. It was exactly such a scene
and situation as the pictures have used, time and again.
She had never seen a cowboy before, and regretted that
she saw this one. She does not remember whether she
asked the way to the hotel, or whether it stood right there,
facing the tracks. She does remember that it was an indifferent
hotel, compared even with the hotels she had
known on the road.</p>
<p class='c002'>The room they showed her was probably as good as
any they had, which is the best that could be said for it.
She was disheartened—frightened. She wished she had
listened to those persons who had told her not to come.
Old trouper that she was, she had never seen so poor a
room, and she had never slept, in any room, alone. She
was distinctly scared. She put a chair against the door,
and did not take off her clothes. Then she heard a scampering
or scratching, or something—rats, no doubt. Or
somebody breaking in.</p>
<p class='c002'>A single light hung by a string from the ceiling. She
did not turn it out, and she did not get into bed. She got
<i>on</i> it, on her knees, and said her prayers—several times—improving
them, and inventing new ones. It was only
when daylight came that she decided to risk a little sleep.
It is easy to believe that she slept then till ten o’clock, as
she wrote Nell.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian thinks that her father was not in Shawnee itself
(the town in that day could hardly have had a sanitarium),
but that he was in Oklahoma City, some thirty-five
miles distant. She did not go to see him; he came to see
her—not more than once or twice. She has a mental picture
of him in her uncle’s dooryard, talking to her as she
sat on a horse. “Be careful, pet,” he said to her; “Don’t let
that pony go too fast.” Pet had been his old name for her.</p>
<p class='c002'>There must have been more than that, but that tricksy
memory of hers let the rest go, and what it kept is perhaps
sufficient. She had not seen him for years, but he
looked as she had expected to find him. Apparently, his
physical health was good enough; his trouble had become
mental. He did not die until the following year, when she
had returned to Ohio.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s aunt and uncle persuaded her to stay in Shawnee
and go to school. She could help her aunt with the
housekeeping, for her board, and be company for her.
Her uncle, a locomotive engineer, was away a good deal
of the time.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian thought well of the idea. She rather liked Shawnee,
once she got used to it, especially the riding. Soon
she got to know an Indian girl, who rode with her and
had plenty of ponies. A wonderful girl—she rode as if
she were a part of the horse. There were Indians, of course,
everywhere—“civilized Indians,” whatever we may mean
by that; also, cowboys and other romantic features. Then
she found she could get a place in a doctor’s office—work
after school and on holidays—answering the telephone and
marking down appointments. For this she was to receive
two dollars and a half a week—all clear.</p>
<p class='c002'>The school part was the hardest. She had made a mistake
in the beginning: When she was asked about her
grade, some imp prompted her to promote herself. She
was accepted at her own valuation, but keeping up to it
nearly killed her. She could do it all but the mathematics.
Advanced arithmetic was just a jungle of terrors, algebra
an uncharted sea from which daily she must be rescued as
she was going down for the third time. What with one
thing and another, her punishment seemed almost more
than she could bear....</p>
<p class='c002'>Her face took on an added wistfulness; she became
more than ever like a spirit. Gladys Fariss, her schoolmate,
watching her come down the evening hillside, the sunset
in her hair, could think only of Saint Cecilia....</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian, her memory blurred by her mental struggle, had
no clear picture of Shawnee in later years. Fortunately,
Gladys has preserved it for us.</p>
<p class='c010'>Lillian Gish! How often have I dreamed of her—heard her
musical voice from out the purple distances. What a joy to
recall her in my classes of Shawnee High.</p>
<p class='c010'>We were in the English class together. She especially enjoyed
literature.... I sat and watched the door each day for
Lillian’s coming from her previous class. Classmates, the teacher,
the class work, have long since passed into oblivion, but photographed
in my memory is the picture, framed by the doorway.</p>
<p class='c010'>She had recently recovered from typhoid fever. Her hair
was a golden halo, alive with newness, about her oval face. It
was worn caught loosely back and with a black ribbon bow.
At the Junior-Senior dance we sophomores were invited guests ... Lillian
dressed in filmy white was dancing ... classically,
romantically, as with enchanted feet, an ivory statuette, in a
world of chiffon and moonlight.</p>
<p class='c010'>She sang in the choir of the Episcopal Church. She was spiritual
and philosophic, a dreamer, quiet and far-seeing. She was a
listener, never outspoken. She was somewhat retiring, yet not
abashed. She talked very little of her life. I never remember
her mentioning the stage.</p>
<p class='c010'>She loved the out-of-doors—the sunshine, which seemed to be
a part of her.... Upon returning a borrowed book, I shall
never forget her graciousness of manner and kindliness of
words....</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c010'>In the English class one day, we exchanged themes for a
remembrance. This theme of hers has always been my most
prized possession. It is a graphic and beautiful description of her
mother, and incidentally somewhat of herself.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c013'>
<div>“<i>The Face Most Familiar to Me.</i></div>
</div></div>
<p class='c010'>During the thirty-five winters that have passed over her dear
head, she has learned to know life’s vicissitudes. Instead of hardening
her, they have made her a patient, sympathetic, God-fearing
woman, who seems to make the burdens of life easier
for those around her. She is settled and reserved in manner,
and she is to be distinguished by her low, soft voice which
seems to go with her dignity of motherhood. She is of medium
height and size. Her hair is of a golden brown, streaked with
gray, and her large, steel-gray eyes seem to see into the depths
of everything. Her nose and chin are slightly pointed and her
lips are closed in a way that suggests a smile. Her short, quick,
decisive step shows the magnanimity of her nature. It is my
most sincere wish that I may grow to be a counterpart of her.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Lillian Gish.”</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c010'>March 27, 1911</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c010'>I entered a picture-show one afternoon, some years later,
and while watching the film “The Mothering Heart,” Lillian
appeared on the screen. I instantly recognized her. Waiting for
the return of the first reel, with the listing of the cast, I was not
mistaken—her name was there.</p>
<p class='c010'>Instilled into Lillian’s soul were some of the finest of human
qualities: loyalty, moral courage, patience. Hers was beauty of
spirit, beauty of thought, beauty of perfection, Christ-like
beauty of innocence, of sinlessness; she was unspoiled, unselfish,
meek.</p>
<p class='c010'>She was never too busy to help, never too sad to smile, never
too weighed down with care to glimpse a higher vision. When
I think of her, it is like stepping through darkness into the
light, for I have never known a more patient, gentle and lovable
character, nor a more highly intellectual girl. Someone has said
of her: “Hers is the charm of a vanishing strain of music, the
haunting lyric that will neither satisfy, nor let you be—the
fragrance of the flowers that perfume dreams.”</p>
<p class='c002'>In word portraiture, it would be hard to find a more
exquisite picture than this school-girl memory of Lillian
at fourteen.</p>
<p class='c002'>One other bit of evidence remains out of that Shawnee
school life: Lillian’s “Botany Notebook”—a thick little
book, and probably one of the neatest school-girl documents
in existence. Every other page of it is covered with
her small, meticulous writing, descriptive of plant growth,
and facing each, a page of very careful pen-drawings of
the “parts”—leaves, petals, rootlets, many of them delicately,
daintily tinted. She took pride in her botany book,
a pride not altogether out-grown to this day. Botany had
been an antidote for that poisonous arithmetic and
algebra.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p1ch16' class='c008'>XVI<br/> <br/>IT SOUNDS LIKE HEAVEN</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian’s school-days were over. Just when she left
Shawnee is not certain. She thinks she did not wait for
the end of the term. She had finished the last page of her
Botany Book, and believed she could struggle along without
any more mathematics. Her mother in Springfield was
working very hard—she could help.</p>
<p class='c002'>And so the days of childhood had slipped by, and were
gone. If we have taken a good many pages to tell of them,
it is because most of the romance of life lies in its beginnings.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish was truly working hard, but happily. Her
employer, his health damaged by over-work, had turned
over his comfortable home for her use and left Springfield
for an indefinite period. Lillian remembers that her
mother had taken up the rugs and laid down papers for
them to walk on. To Nell:</p>
<p class='c010'>... A porch with a large swing (big enough for four),
also a barn, and a touring car. They said we could use it if we
could get someone to drive it, but Mother said we would do
fifty dollars worth of damage to it the first time out.</p>
<p class='c010'>If you were here I believe I could make you get fat, because
Mother sends out a quart of cream every day and all the ice-cream
we can eat!</p>
<p class='c002'>Is she really writing about Springfield? It sounds like
heaven. Nothing like that had ever happened to Lillian
and Dorothy before. Ten cents’ worth of ice-cream, two
kinds, chocolate and vanilla, to stir into “mashed potatoes”
and spread on lady-fingers! Their entire luncheon! Had
they really ever been as frugal as that?</p>
<p class='c002'>The glory of having all the ice-cream one could eat
dimmed a little. Lillian went into the store and the hours
were long. To Nell she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>I started this, this morning, but had to stop. You see dear I
have to be here from seven in the morning until nine at night,
and eleven on Saturday night....</p>
<p class='c010'>Yes, I pray for you every night before I go to bed, and for
Tom also.</p>
<p class='c002'>And then, at the end of autumn, Nell and Tom were
married. In December, Lillian wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>Dear Brother and Sister: I am so glad you are so happy.
How beautiful to have your heart’s desire, and to know that
you will always have it.... My hours are shorter, now, from
nine to six. Then I take long walks and talk to myself. Sometimes
I pretend that you, Nell, are with me, and we have our
heart talks once more; then I wake up.... I am lonesome,
or homesick.</p>
<p class='c002'>She was not very well, not equal to the long hours. That
terrible ravage of typhoid had told on her. By the first
of the year she was in Massillon again, always a haven in
any stress. She busied herself with the housekeeping—added
to her knowledge of cookery. “I must get dressed
now, and make my bread down.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Saint Cecilia making bread! And neat! Even for a saint;
to her aunt it seemed that she spent most of her spare
time pressing her clothes.</p>
<p class='c002'>Also, there were parties:</p>
<p class='c010'>I had the club Wednesday eve—the girls seemed to enjoy
themselves and stayed until 10:30.</p>
<p class='c002'>Which was verging on dissipation. There were dances,
too. Especially the Masons’ Washington’s Birthday Ball,
an incident of which is still remembered in Massillon.
Aunt Emily writes:</p>
<p class='c010'>Among the guests was a man, David Atwater by name. He
must have been seventy-five, at least. During the evening, somebody
suggested that he dance the minuet. He said he would be
glad to do it, if they could find a partner for him. No one
seemed to be able to dance it but Lillian.</p>
<p class='c010'>We often speak of it. It was a lovely sight to see this old
man, courtly and handsome, with gray hair, and the slender,
beautiful young girl, with golden hair, perfect manner and
bright, youthful apparel, dancing the stately minuet. We
called it “Winter and Spring.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy was at a girls’ boarding-school, in Alderson,
West Virginia. Lillian to Nell, in May: “I expect to leave
here the 20th for Springfield and then Mother and I will
go to Alderson, then the three of us will proceed to Baltimore—thence
to New York—then it depends upon the
wind.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Upon the wind!” Again the Weaver who sits at the
Loom of Circumstance may have been slightly amused—may
have reflected that this being the year 1912, a tall,
large-nosed man, in a moving-picture studio on Fourteenth
Street, New York, would have something to say
in the matter—apparently—would seem to direct, not
only pictures, but numerous human destinies.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' /></div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='large'>PART TWO</span></div>
</div></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch01' class='c008'>I<br/> <br/>“MR. BIOGRAPH”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>They brought Dorothy from Alderson to Baltimore,
and visited their old friends, the Meixners. One day they
dropped into a “movie.” The picture was “Lena and the
Geese,” a Biograph film, and when Lena walked out on
the screen, behold it was Gladys Smith! So Gladys had
fallen. At first it was a shock, but later in the day they
considered the idea of falling, too. Especially Dorothy.
Gladys was probably getting well paid for her surrender.</p>
<p class='c002'>They went to New York, presently, took rooms and set
out to find a theatrical engagement. Their hearts were set
on Belasco. They knew that William J. Dean—the same
who, ten years earlier, had rehearsed little Dot so strenuously—was
associated with Belasco. Dean was their white
hope. They found him at the Belasco Theatre. He remembered them ... who
wouldn’t?</p>
<p class='c002'>He took them into Mr. Belasco’s private office—a weird
place, full of statuary, all in white summer dress—introduced
them, and left them there.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy were distinctly frightened. Each
tried to propel the other in the direction of the great man.
Belasco himself used to tell how each in turn got behind,
to push the other forward, until they had backed halfway
across the room.</p>
<p class='c002'>When the interview finally began, he told them he was
putting on a fairy play, called “The Good Little Devil,”
and that Mary Pickford and Ernest Truex were engaged
for the leading rôles. Neither name was familiar to them.
Gladys Smith had become “Mary Pickford” the winter
before, but they had lost sight of all the Smith family.
Belasco said further that he needed one more fairy, and
that he would engage Lillian for the part. It was a small
part, but the best he had.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was delighted, Dorothy disappointed but not
discouraged. They visited other managers, and some agencies.
They decided to look up Gladys Smith, to see what
could be done in that direction. Sure enough, the telephone
book had it: “Biograph Co., 11 E. 14th St.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Hello, hello! Is this the Biograph Company?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“That’s right. What’s wanted?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“We’d like to speak to one of your actresses, Gladys
Smith.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Sorry—no such person here.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But we saw her in a picture of yours, in Baltimore.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“What picture?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Lena and the Geese.’”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, that was Mary Pickford.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh—oh, all right—can she come to the telephone?”</p>
<p class='c002'>So that was who she was—Gladys ... so much the
better. Gladys, who was now Mary, came to the telephone,
and after a brief period of wild greetings and inquiries,
arranged to have them come to the studio.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy, at the top of the outer step at 11
East 14th Street, found themselves in a wide hall, confronting
a great circular heaven-climbing stairway that
ascended to the unknown. A tall man with a large hooked
nose was walking up and down, humming to himself. A
boy took in their names, and presently Mary, brighter
and prettier than ever under her new name, appeared and
flung herself into their arms. The tall man continued
walking up and down, and now added some words to the
tune he was humming: “She’ll never bring them in—she’ll
never bring them in,”—a suggestion to Mary, who
declined to take any such hint.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Mr. Griffith,” she said, “these are my friends, Lillian
and Dorothy Gish. They were on the stage for years, in
child parts, just as I was; I know you’ll have something
for them, here.”</p>
<p class='c002'>David Wark Griffith, director of the Biograph Company,
stopped singing, shook hands and looked at
them.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Won’t you come in?” he said.</p>
<p class='c002'>They found themselves in quite a large room, in a violet
glare of Cooper-Hewitt lights—weird, ghastly lights, that
made living persons look as if they were dead—had been
dead for some time. At one end of the room a group of
people had assembled.</p>
<p class='c002'>“You can begin right away,” Mr. Griffith said, “as
extras. We are arranging an ‘audience.’ You can be part
of the audience.”</p>
<p class='c002'>And so in that casual way, their motion picture career
began.</p>
<p class='c002'>They “sat in the audience,” and then sat in it again, and
again and again, for it seemed that Mr. Biograph Griffith
was not satisfied with just doing a thing once, and made
you do it over and over until he was sure it could not be
any better, even if he had to keep you at it most of the
night.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy got five dollars each, for that
day, and felt very proud of it. Dorothy especially. She
had a grown-up feeling. Five dollars a day—a real job.
But, alas, early next morning Lillian took her to a department
store, and when the saleslady appeared, said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Have you a suit that would fit this little girl?”</p>
<p class='c002'>But of course Lillian <i>was</i> a good deal taller, and then
she was “going on sixteen.”</p>
<p class='c002'>That day they had their first parts as regulars. At the
studio, Griffith said he would rehearse them a little. He
took them upstairs, and chased them here and there about
a room, firing off a revolver. It seemed unusual, but did
not alarm them. They had been through too much rehearsing,
for that. Griffith wanted to see how they reacted
under fire. “All right,” he said when they came down,
“but they don’t know what it’s all about.” The picture
he was making was “The Unseen Enemy.” At the climax,
two sisters are trying to telephone for the police, while
burglars in the next room are firing at them through a
stove-pipe hole.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy must have given a good account of
themselves, for they were at the studio daily, after that,
absorbing a new technique. They had no parts to learn.
Mr. Griffith stood by the camera man and told them what
to do. Just what to do. Every minute. That was altogether
a novelty. On the stage you had to learn your part before
you began. If you forgot your lines, a prompter helped
you out, but he didn’t tell you what to do ... never
shouted at you, like Mr. Griffith, who on the whole was
kindly ... even amusing. He tied red and blue hair-ribbons
on them, to tell them apart, though the resemblance
was not striking ... a fleeting thing ... momentary.
Lillian was “blue,” Dorothy “red,” because he
said she was the spunky one ... would talk back. Anyway,
it was easier to call out directions to “Blue” and
“Red.” They got in three days on their first picture, and
an extra night. Eighteen dollars apiece. That was riches.
They lived in furnished rooms, at 424 Central Park, West.</p>
<div id='illus109' class='figcenter id005'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-109.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>DAVID WARK GRIFFITH</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch02' class='c008'>II<br/> <br/>GRIFFITH’S GROUP OF PLAYERS</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>The “silent drama” had gone a good way by 1912, but
had still a good way to go. There was not much yet in the
way of “sets,” elaborate construction of scenic effects.
Griffith had invented, or perfected, the “fade-out,” the
“cut-back” and other devices still in common use, but
he had built no castles or walled cities, no Bethulias or
Babylons, had marshaled no battling armies. The Fourteenth
Street studio was just a room, where one rigged
up, as simply and inexpensively as possible, the hastily
knocked together properties required at the moment. The
costume wardrobe was notable for its scantiness—a collection
to be picked over hopefully, and “made to do,” or
supplemented from a costumer’s. Griffith had a curious old
collector-man, always on the look-out for “good things,”
which were not always convincing. Too often the players
had the appearance of being “dressed up” in whatever they
happened to have, which was precisely the fact. It did
not matter. Neither the public nor the producers took
the “movies” very seriously, as yet ... nor would they,
for a year or so to come. They were still a cheap form of
entertainment; something to be seen for ten or fifteen
cents—even in the nickelodeons. The French were doing
it better, then. Some of their films, their farces especially,
were very good—light, chic—they were miles ahead of us
in costume, scenario, settings, everything, until it became
a question of money ... ah, there we had them. And
then the War came.</p>
<p class='c002'>But I digress—an ancient sin. This is not a history of
the motion picture, but only the story of a little girl, who
grew up in a kind of dream ... a land of make-believe
... who wandered at last into a still more shadowy
realm, became a picture player ... by and by a <i>grande
artiste</i>, with the world at her feet ... who one day, in
the fabric of her life, found me waiting to tell about it,
and said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, very well, if you think it worth while”; and I did,
and do, think it worth while, and will let it go at that.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Sometimes Griffith took them out “on location,” and
those were joyous days, for it meant green fields and running
brooks, and wooded hillsides, though sometimes the
work was strenuous, even wet, when one had to fall into
the cold water and be rescued, especially when it had to
be repeated a dozen times or so, to get it just right. On
the whole, those were good days—picnic days.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith’s group of players was a notable one. Besides
Mary, Lillian and Dorothy, he had Blanche Sweet, “the
Biograph blonde,” a real star, melting, luscious; Miriam
Cooper, Mary Alden, Robert Harron, Henry Walthall,
Lionel Barrymore—most of them young twenty years ago—<i>had</i>
to be, to play anything like youthful parts, for all
the indoor lightings were from overhead, the shadows were
harsh and black—every line and wrinkle showed. There
could be no retouching of the tiny film faces—the screen
presented them not only as they were, but worse than
they were, their defects magnified. Young girls like Mary
and Lillian, even Dorothy, took grown-up parts:—the
fairer and smoother their skin, the better the general
result.</p>
<p class='c002'>Slender youth had its disadvantages. Lillian was one
day cast for the part of a vigorous young woman. The
later, popular “boy form” was not yet appreciated. The
public demanded a certain opulence in its heroines, especially
in what was irreverently known as their “upper
works.” Griffith regarded Lillian thoughtfully.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I’m afraid you’re too young,” he commented; “not
filled out quite enough.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It was just luncheon time. The girls said nothing, but
presently dashed out, and down Fourteenth Street, to a
place where, in a show-window, they had noticed the desired
contours for sale, substantial ones, firm and ample,
of buckram.</p>
<p class='c002'>A bite to eat, a trip to the dressing-room, and they were
ready. Griffith, considering his cast, took another look at
Lillian, rubbed his eyes, decided that after all she would
do.</p>
<p class='c002'>Thus was wrought the miracle of Fourteenth Street.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch03' class='c008'>III<br/> <br/>BELASCO DELIVERS A VERDICT</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Nell wrote that she was to become a mother. Lillian,
awe-struck, replied:</p>
<p class='c010'>I can’t talk to anyone about it, not now. I want it all to
myself for just a little while....</p>
<p class='c010'>I am with the Biograph, but none of my pictures have been
released as yet; will let you know the names of them. I have
signed with David Belasco for next season, and we open here in
New York on Christmas Eve at Belasco Theatre. Although it is
a good company, I have a very small part. I am going to do pictures
on the side, so that is some help.... Well, I must get
supper.</p>
<p class='c002'>But she could not carry the Biograph work with her
rehearsing. In November she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>I was worked to death my last days at the Biograph, and then
I was so excited when I started to rehearse in this new play
that I couldn’t even eat. The name of the play is “The Good
Little Devil.” It is a fairy play, and we open December 10, in
Phila. and Xmas night in N. Y. I play Morgane, a fairy....</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian enjoyed rehearsing when it did not last too long.
There were some half-a-dozen of the fairies, and they
flew—flew wonderfully, suspended on wires, pulled from
somewhere below by eighteen strong Germans. She loved
the flying sensation—so much that she would go before
rehearsal-time and rehearse a little on her own account.
She tried all the wires, and the big Germans delighted in
sending her soaring into the air. In the play, she was the
“Gold Fairy,” that flew highest. And there was one scene
where she rested on a wall. Belasco, watching the rehearsals
one day, was asked by a reporter what he thought of her
looks. Belasco sent a glance at the slender figure on the
wall, at the unearthly face surrounded by a tumbling
mass of gold.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Most beautiful blonde in the world,” he said, and
next day that label found its way into print and general
circulation.</p>
<p class='c002'>Not long ago—a month or two before he died—Belasco
qualified—a little: He had not then, he said, seen <i>all</i> the
beautiful blondes in the world. Perhaps he should have
said: “<i>One</i> of the most beautiful.” But as Belasco had
seen a very great number of beautiful blondes—probably
the pick of them—the verdict will be allowed to stand
as reported, especially as it was never questioned. Lillian’s
beauty was not then what it became later:—as revealed
in “The White Sister,” for instance, in “Romola,” in “La
Bohême,” and more recently in “Uncle Vanya.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>“The Good Little Devil” did not follow any of the announced
dates. It opened successfully in Washington, or
Philadelphia, and was in Baltimore for Christmas. They
gave two performances that day, during the second of
which there was an accident—serious enough, though it
might have been worse.</p>
<p class='c002'>In the act where she landed on the wall, she left it with
a step-down of six feet. The wire, of course, lifted her
down, but in this performance something was wrong, and
she literally stepped into space. The sickening, helpless
feeling of expecting support and finding none! The fall
made her quite ill; her understudy had to finish the play.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I cried all night,” she wrote Nell, “I was so lonely and
broken-hearted.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She was apparently not injured, but terribly shaken;
and then, the audience had laughed. Mr. Belasco hurried
to her dressing-room to comfort her. The audience was
not laughing at her, he said, but at the incident. She must
not mind that; everything was going to be all right. It
was, but the shock had weakened her.</p>
<p class='c002'>Back in New York, with another hard siege of rehearsing,
before the opening there. Griffith, as was his custom
each winter, had taken his company to Los Angeles, Dorothy
with them. Lillian, to save money, lived in a tiny
room at the Marlton Hotel, in 8th Street, and with a
Sterno lamp, cooked her food, which consisted of tinned
things and tea. Weakened as she undoubtedly was by her
fall, this was but poor nourishment on which to meet
Belasco’s strenuous rehearsals. January 8 (1913), she
wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>It is now 3:30 in the morning of Wednesday, and I have just
returned from a dress rehearsal. We open tonight, and everything
has to be just so; we rehearsed until 4:30 yesterday
morning.</p>
<p class='c010'>Nell, I don’t know how to thank you for what you have
offered me. You both can’t know how wonderful it is to have
someone offer me a home, and how I would love to follow the
desire of my heart and come to you. But I can’t. I can’t, because
I have to make my way in this world from now on. Mother has
worked all her life; surely, it’s my turn, now....</p>
<p class='c010'>The picture you painted for me in your letter made me cry,
because I was reading it in my dressing-room, and I happened
to glance up at a mirror, and there I sat, all false, with paint
and cosmetics covering my face, and it came to me what a distance
it was from my life to yours.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mary was getting a good salary, and had bought her
mother a car. Lillian said to her, one day: “How happy
you must be, Mary, to be able to give your mother so
much.” Her own weekly twenty-five dollars went such
a little way. The room—one had to have a decent address—took
so much of it ... and clothes—one must make
a decent appearance—and the extras! A new coat ... a
mistake ... it looked well, but was not warm enough.</p>
<p class='c002'>She was far from well, and knew it. Mrs. Pickford and
Mary insisted on her seeing a doctor, who told them that
she was threatened with pernicious anemia, and would
die if she did not change her mode of living. They spoke
about it to Belasco, who offered to send her to Florida at
his own expense. When he learned that Griffith had offered
her work on the coast, at double her present salary, he
at once agreed to pay her fare to Los Angeles.</p>
<p class='c002'>She hung on until the end of January—postponed until
she was warned that unless she went at once, it would be
too late. They did not tell her, but they were by no means
certain that it was not too late already. So she surrendered.
Belasco bought her ticket to Los Angeles; her mother was
already on the way out there. Dorothy wrote of glorious
California sunshine. It made her better to think of it.</p>
<p class='c002'>And then, at the end, a tragedy: The eighteen strong
Germans who pulled the wires, and adored her, went to
the train with their own little brass band, to say good-bye.
Ah, me, she had somehow told them the wrong station ...
a heartbreak ... one that could not be
mended.</p>
<p class='c002'>She traveled by the Los Angeles Limited, and for the
first time in her life, knew the full luxury of a Pullman.
On the way, she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>I am going on and on, with miles upon miles separating us,
it seems, but it is not so, dear, as we are just as near to one
another now as we were in the old days, when we used to take
“John Halifax” and go to your room, and read. Can you ever
forget those days, and will they ever come back again?</p>
<p class='c010'>... I am going to work hard out there, and next summer
or fall, I am going back to Mr. Belasco.</p>
<p class='c002'>But she would never go back—either to Nell, or Belasco.
Four days later, she was in Los Angeles, earning a salary
of fifty dollars weekly. The hard days were over.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch04' class='c008'>IV<br/> <br/>A STUDIO ON PICO STREET</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>California sunshine, California Zinfandel—doctor’s
orders, fifty cents a gallon—open air and exercise—worked
their miracle. The pictures were made out-of-doors—even
the interior sets were on an outside stage, with daylight
illumination—and there were many “Westerns,” with
riding.</p>
<p class='c002'>In no time, Lillian, like Dorothy and the others, went
racing over the hills behind Los Angeles—an Indian, a
cowboy, a settler, a pursued heroine—sometimes all of
those things in one day; for there was no star aristocracy
in Griffith’s troupe. One might be a star one hour, and an
extra the next, and nobody cared, and everybody was
happy, and Lillian grew well, and physically hardened to
the demands of picture making—by no means light.</p>
<p class='c002'>Her riding practice with the Indian girl at Shawnee
came in handy now. A horse, even a wild one, had no
terrors for her. In one of the early pictures, Lillian, with
two men, Raoul Walsh and George Siegman, were chosen
for some special riding. The horses were range ponies—one
of them looked dangerous. The men regarded him
doubtfully. Lillian said, “I’ll take him.” He seemed to her
no worse than those she had ridden in Oklahoma.</p>
<p class='c002'>They swept by the camera beautifully, but they were
supposed to turn and do it again. The others turned, but
Lillian’s horse went on. His nose was toward the ranch.
There were some trees and bushes, and he tore through
them, to get her off his back.</p>
<p class='c002'>Now, it happened that an Indian, a real Indian, named
“Eagle Eye” lay asleep among the bushes, and the pounding
hoofs awakened him. A real Indian knows what to do
under such circumstances. He leaped straight from his
nap, caught the mad pony’s bridle, and the heroine was
saved.</p>
<p class='c002'>In another picture, she had to jump from a buckboard,
behind a runaway team, to a cowboy’s arms. Christy
Cabanné was the director, and Bobby Burns, of the Burns
Brothers who did most of the dangerous riding, was the
cowboy rescuer. Lillian had no fear of the jump—her
faith in Bobby was perfect—but the pony he was riding
sank beneath the suddenly added weight, and nearly went
down. “Closest and most dangerous thing I ever did,”
Bobby said when it was over.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian loved California, and why not? It had given her
a new freedom, and with it, her health. News came of
the arrival of Nell’s baby. Incredible to think of Nell with
a baby! “Oh, Nell, does it really belong to you?” And a
few lines further along, “This is a wonderful country!
How I wish you could be here; it would do you so much
good. It is just like summer, and they have wonderful
mocking-birds and beautiful nights.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>I do not know the name of Lillian’s first California picture,
nor the sequence of those that followed. Nobody
today seems to remember these things, and they are not
very important. There was a good deal of sameness about
the Westerns, and most of them were that. “A Misunderstood
Boy” was among the titles, “Just Gold,” and “The
Lady and the Mouse”; but as Griffith was turning out pictures
at the rate of one, or two and even three, a week—short
films, in those days—these titles suggest no more
than brief stages of preparation for the day a year or
two later when he would begin to write the Greater
Picture story across the screens of the world.</p>
<p class='c002'>But they did something for Lillian and Dorothy: They
taught them the technique and mechanics of film photography,
in and out of doors, and their alert minds absorbed
it as by instinct. It was only a little while until Griffith
discussed his pictures with them, asked their suggestions.
And something more: The public recognized their faces
from the pictures of the previous summer, and began to
inquire who they were.</p>
<p class='c002'>One day Lillian was interviewed. Surely this was “coming
on.” The reporter had heard of Belasco’s verdict; it
had run ahead of her, and was known and repeated in
California almost as soon as she arrived. The reporter
wrote about Belasco, and then on his own account called
her “Lillian, the adorable.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It was pleasant, of course, to be written of like that,
but she wished he had said more about her pictures. She
led the next reporter around to them, explaining that
her work was the important thing. He asked her what
one must do to be a screen actress, and quoted her as
saying:</p>
<p class='c002'>“To play for the pictures is mostly a matter of
the face, and the inside. You have to learn to think,
inside.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Being a young reporter, he was willing to believe that
it was a matter of the face—<i>her</i> face: “A tea rose” he
called it, “reflected in a moonlit mirror.” Also he spoke of
ivory, and pale jade, and of other things not closely related
to acting.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was no Hollywood in that halcyon day, no picture
Hollywood. That “particularly irrational” corner of
the universe had as yet neither name nor fame. The Biograph
studio was in Los Angeles, on Pico Street, a building
thought to be rather large, being one hundred or one-hundred-and-fifty
feet long—a narrow shack, used chiefly
as a carpentry shop, and for dressing-rooms—one each,
for men and women.</p>
<p class='c002'>As before mentioned, the photography was done on a
stage set up outside, by daylight. There were sliding curtains
above, like those in a photograph gallery, which is
about all it was. The curtains controlled the sun, but the
wind blew in and candles flickered, tablecloths waved
ghostily, and occasionally something blew off the shelf,
even in a “perfectly still” room. When it rained, they
went into the carpentry shop and rehearsed. Often, the
younger ones rehearsed while the older ones watched them.
Always they rehearsed on rainy days. They spoke whatever
words came into their heads, except during “silent
rehearsals,” when they were supposed to convey the meaning
in pantomime.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith wrote most of his own plays—scenarios—a
good many more than he needed. He could not afford to
have them tried out by expensive people, so he used helpers—extras,
stage-hands, anybody—for preliminary rehearsals.
Sometimes it happened that a very humble servitor
put astonishing life and conviction into what he, or
she, was doing, and Griffith was just the person to recognize
it. Bobby Harron, a property boy, had been like that.
And there would be many others, including Constance
Talmadge, Wallace Reid, and Valentino. It was Dorothy
who suggested giving a part to Valentino. Griffith demurred,
on the ground that he didn’t believe he would
be popular with women—too “foreign-looking.” Amazing
conclusion! But “Rudy” was cruder, then. Perhaps
Mencken’s “catnip to women” would not have been so
neat a turn.</p>
<p class='c002'>They were a busy crowd in the Pico Street studio.
Griffith had a vacant lot out back, and those not in the
scenes were sent there to limber up—to practice running
and walking, arm movements, a variety of gymnastic
work, all in the direction of a better expression of emotions.</p>
<p class='c002'>Long hours. For many of the pictures, they had to get
up in the dark, to be “on location” by sunrise. Hard days
in the field, home late, hot, hungry and ready for bed.
And always, those not in action were rehearsing, rehearsing,
rehearsing, or prancing up and down that deadly lot,
making muscle for the next job.</p>
<p class='c002'>They ate how and when they could. Something was
taken along by those who went to the field. The others
grabbed a sandwich or a plate of soup, or pie and milk,
from the White Kitchen, a tiny nearby shack. Abbreviated
luncheons were sometimes brought to the set—“studio
food”—that is, something not messy, nor especially
appetizing. Experimental luncheon-places were
tried in the studio, but not very successfully.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was nothing resembling dissipation among the
Biograph group. On the contrary, there was an atmosphere
of earnest study and thought. Stimulated by Griffith, himself
a voluminous and inclusive reader, the young women,
especially, rather put on airs in their devotion to research
and philosophy: Nietzsche, Strindberg, Schopenhauer,
Spinoza—these were their favorites. What time they found
to read them, it is difficult to see, now—nights and Sundays,
perhaps. At all events, they did read them, or read
at them, and discussed them feverishly during any spare
moments. Blanche Sweet, Mae Marsh, Lillian and Dorothy,
Miriam Cooper, Anita Loos—these chiefly were the students.
Anita Loos was in the scenario department, and
very keen, one of the best-posted. Anita discussed so much,
and so capably, that Griffith called her “Madame Spinoza.”</p>
<p class='c002'>When it happened that they made a picture that
touched upon anything historic or geographic, they tried
to “read up” for color, costume, background. Lillian
reveled in such research; swiftly, eagerly, she added to her
knowledge of the past, of life in general. The others were
like that, too, more or less.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Did those girls have sweethearts?” I asked Griffith, a
little while ago.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I don’t know; I don’t remember any. I don’t see where
they would have found time for them. Today, stars and
others make one big production, and have long waits between.
We had nothing like that. We were producing
every day. The demand was good, and not many companies.
It was a different world.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Such a little while ago ... less than twenty years ...
just yesterday! But thinking of it now, and of all that has
come, and gone, since then, it seems, somehow, a Golden
Age.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>I like to think of Lillian in that truly lovely environment,
that “garden between dawn and sunrise,” among
those wholesome, beautiful girls and those strong, handsome
young men, all busy at a work which, however crude
and inconsequential it may seem today, brought cheer and
comfort to the millions, then. I like to think of her and
Dorothy dashing along the hillsides, on range ponies, as
painted Indians, or whooping cowboys; I like to think of
them with their mother, in their apartment at the Brentwood,
digging into the books which now for the first time
they could afford to buy—making up, as far as might be,
for the insufficient years.</p>
<p class='c002'>How starved they were for books! They would drop
into a book shop for one, and come out with an armful.
Before they knew it, they were acquiring a library. Life
was becoming worth while. Lillian to Nell: “The world
unfolds itself to me more and more every day, and sometimes
it seems so bright; then it changes ...”</p>
<p class='c002'>For the most part she thought herself very well off—in
a world where no one is more than passably happy—and
increasingly devoted herself to her work.</p>
<p class='c002'>She began to train her facial muscles to obey her, to
reflect her thoughts. “You must think inside,” she had told
the reporter, by which she meant, I suppose, that one
must do one’s own thinking, rather than merely reflect the
thought of the director, must persuade one’s muscles—all
of one’s muscles and members—unconsciously to obey the
inward thought. “Think inside and your trained body will
take care of itself,” might have been her creed. Not all
players could adopt it. Some could hardly be said to think
at all. Thought, the director’s thought, filtered through
them. Griffith found her always willing—eager—to listen—but
not pliable.... More and more he left her alone.
Lately he said—to the writer:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Dorothy was more apt at getting the director’s idea
than Lillian, quicker to follow it, more easily satisfied with
the result. Lillian conceived an ideal, and patiently sought
to realize it. Genius is like that: the ideal becomes real
to it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>From his lofty hotel window, David Wark Griffith
looked out across the tops of Babylon. Reflectively, he
added:</p>
<p class='c002'>“She is the best actress in New York—the best I know.
She has the most brains. Joseph Medill Patterson once said
to me: ‘Lillian Gish has the best mind of any woman I
ever met.’ But I knew that, already.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch05' class='c008'>V<br/> <br/>THE PATH TO STARDOM</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian to Nell:</p>
<p class='c010'>I want you to see “A Mothering Heart” ... I cried and
lost so much sleep over that picture, that I am sure you would
like it.</p>
<p class='c002'>When the picture was an important one, she rehearsed
the whole night, sometimes, alone in her room, going over
the scenes again and again. She never required “glycerine
tears”—she lived the part too vividly. A good many years
later, she wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“The first important picture in which I appeared was
‘The Mothering Heart.’ This was noteworthy, not only
because it was in two reels, but because the vast sum
of eighteen hundred dollars had been spent in the
making.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“A Mothering Heart” received gratifying notices: “Her
best picture, thus far”; “Her lack of so-called acting is
the secret of her success”; “Mr. Belasco said very little
when he called her ‘the most beautiful blonde in the
world’”; “The hit of her career.” All of which would
indicate that those nights and days of rehearsal had not
been wasted; also, that a picture “career” bore no very
close relation to elapsed time.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was some reason in this: fame of a sort had come
to her with astonishing suddenness—the fame that comes
to a striking face and personality, interestingly presented
in a thousand towns and cities. It was like magic. She had
really done nothing of importance, yet she had a “career”—her
name and face were widely familiar.</p>
<p class='c002'>There began to be a sifting-in of “fan” letters—rather
a new thing in the picture world. Admirers did not always
know where to write. And there was something remote,
something baffling, in the idea of writing to a picture;
something suggestive of the bibulous young man, waiting
at the back door of a movie-house “to take Mary Pickford
home.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Then, more and more, the notices and the magazines
gave addresses; the name of the producing company appeared
on the title flash of the film itself, though it generally
vanished and was forgotten before one had a chance
to fall in love with the star. Still, the letters came, and the
sift became a drift that in time would become an avalanche.
Some were from children.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian to Nell:</p>
<p class='c010'>Tomorrow we start on our last picture out here, “Judith and
Holofernes,” from the Bible story, a wonderful theme.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Judith of Bethulia,” as they finally called it, was
Griffith’s most pretentious undertaking up to “The Birth
of a Nation,” of which it was the forerunner. He took
his players up to Chatsworth Park, a desert place in the
hills, and set up an ancient walled city, engaged an army
of extras, men, women, children, even babies. Also, expert
riders and trained horses, and went into strenuous daily
rehearsal. The “Park” was a place of sand and rock and
cactus, a good way from Los Angeles. They went by street
car, then train, finishing the trip by hay-wagon. They
got up at four or five o’clock, in order to be on the
ground, dressed and made-up when the sun rose. Bottles
of snake-bite antidote were issued to the players, for rattlers
were very common there. An actress saw a coil
of rubber tubing on a stump, and started to get it. It
behaved curiously, and she lost interest—lost it at the rate
of several miles an hour, until she was safely with the
others.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was June—the weather was blazing hot. They
worked all day in the sun and dust, sweltering in Oriental
garments, through the longest days of the year. When
they got back to Los Angeles, it was dark, and they were
hardly in bed before they had to get up again. As soon
as the desert scenes were finished, Griffith packed up his
players and set out for New York to finish the studio
scenes there. In this picture, Blanche Sweet had the part
of Judith, Henry Walthall was Holofernes. Lillian had a
small part, a little Mother in Israel.</p>
<p class='c002'>Only a little while ago, with Lillian, in a small New
York projection-room, I saw “Judith and Holofernes” on
the screen. I was amazed, and I think she was, at how good
it was. The photography was excellent, would pass as such
today: soft, brown in tone, with little of the jerkiness that
came of the slow camera. Furthermore, the story was
beautifully conveyed.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was terribly dry, hot and dusty there, which took
nothing away from the realism. The clouds of dust that
rose from a battle scene gave a magnificence and mystery
to the effect—a reality that was stirring, even today. It is
easy to believe that an audience which had not yet seen
“The Birth of a Nation,” was awed by the spectacle.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was a great deal of fine horsemanship. Horses
trained to fall, their riders flung far and wide, were not
then so common. Blanche Sweet made a perfect Judith.
Lillian’s part, though small, was quite lovely. She was a
little mother, running about, seeking water for the baby
held always close to her breast. There were other babies
in the picture. Babies were easy to get, then. There was
no enforced law about it, and one could pick them up by
the dozen, in Los Angeles, or anywhere—Mexican babies—with
a little girl to look after them when not in use.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The studio scenes of “Judith” were not made in the old
Fourteenth Street place. During the winter, the Biograph
Company had built a vast, new studio uptown, at 175th
Street, great floor space, and dressing-rooms for all. They
had thought their crowded dressing-rooms in California
inconvenient—just one for women and another for men,
rather scrambly and messy ... long tables, with mirrors
back to back, in the center ... one side for the regulars,
the other for the extras. Everybody thought the new place
was going to be fine, but it wasn’t. All the fun, the cozy,
intimate comradeship, was gone.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Griffith was restless. Primarily, he wanted to get out of
picture making, and write. He had written his way into
pictures, now he dreamed of writing his way out of them.
He was a poet at heart. He had a poem and a play to his
credit, besides dozens of scenarios. All the time he wanted
to settle down to writing.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was no use. He couldn’t settle down, even if they
would let him, and they wouldn’t let him. He was too
good a director for that—the best—much the best in the
field. Settle down! Preposterous! But he quit the Biograph
Company. They were niggardly about expenses; sometimes
(often, in fact), he used his own money—and they had an
economy complex in the matter of salaries. The Reliance-Majestic,
a more recent organization, offered him a
free hand. He went to them in October. With him went
the Biograph players, almost in a body. A few were tied
by contract, but the others went, Lillian and Dorothy
among them.</p>
<p class='c002'>Those young people had faith in Griffith, and loved
him. Loved him when he raised their wages, loved him
and were still faithful even when the day came, as presently
it did come, when he was wading so deeply in the
tide of battle and Reconstruction that attended “The
Birth of a Nation,” that he could not find enough to go
around. They knew he would pay to the last penny when
it was possible, and he always did. With or without wages,
they would stand by.</p>
<p class='c002'>The Reliance-Majestic Company had a studio on the
Clara Morris estate, Yonkers; another at Sixteenth Street
and Union Square, West. It is said that in less than an
hour after Griffith had closed the Biograph door behind
him, he was directing on Union Square a scene for a new
five-reel picture, which he made in six days and nights,
working constantly—all day and night. Perhaps he wanted
to make a showing to the new company. Perhaps there
was a need of quick money—usually there was.</p>
<p class='c002'>In this new picture, “The Battle of the Sexes,” Lillian
was cast for the leading part: a daughter who suffers, and
brings an erring father to repentance. In the beginning,
it was called “The Single Standard,” and in that pre-war
moment, was thought to be rather risqué. Today, it would
be a Sunday-school picture, dramatically and morally
suited to Third Avenue, New York’s remaining stronghold
of respectability.</p>
<p class='c002'>The cast included, besides Lillian, Mary Alden, Donald
Crisp, Bobby Harron, Fay Tincher, and Owen Moore. In
one scene, the climax, Lillian has a sixshooter ready for
Fay Tincher, the vamp who has broken up the family.
Her finger, however, refuses to pull the trigger. Her
father, entering, finding her in this dubious association,
asks: “You, my daughter, what are you doing here?” And
the devastating reply: “You, my father, what are <i>you</i>
doing here?” gives him something to think about. A notice
says: “The sets were lavish, but above all, they were true
to the higher social sphere.” Third Avenue would adore
it. “The Battle of the Sexes” was Griffith’s first release for
the Reliance-Majestic. There was a prologue and four
reels; longer than “Judith of Bethulia.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch06' class='c008'>VI<br/> <br/>“HOME, SWEET HOME”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Griffith had far greater battles in his mind. In January
he severed regular connection with the Reliance-Majestic,
but arranged, under their auspices, to produce a
Civil War picture, based on Thomas Dixon’s book, “The
Clansman.” Then, early in February, he took his entire
group of players to the Coast, and began, not that picture,
but pictures that would earn money for the undertaking.
No one, not even Griffith himself, guessed the size
of that undertaking, but better than the others, Griffith
knew that it would require an overhead which would
cause, among his backers, an outbreak of apoplexy, if they
got even a hint of it.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Griffith had a bent for melodrama. Also, he knew there
was money in it, and money was very necessary just now,
in view of the big project ahead. It occurred to him that
John Howard Payne’s “Home, Sweet Home” had a more
universal appeal than any similar composition in the nation’s
history. A story of the author’s life, followed by a
set of scenes using that old heart-throb as a call to the
erring wanderer or comfort to the heavy-laden, would be
irresistible. Walthall would be cast as Payne, Lillian as his
sweetheart; at the end, a spiritual transition, as in “Uncle
Tom.”</p>
<p class='c002'>At the Reliance-Majestic, or Fine Arts studio, on Sunset
and Hollywood Boulevards, the work was pushed forward
rapidly, to have the picture ready for Spring release.
In a full-page announcement of the big, new feature, we
read:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Twenty-five famous screen stars will participate in
the play, which will be a very ‘portentous’ one.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Whether the printer meant to set “pretentious” or “portentous,”
is of small consequence. It was both. Griffith
meant to make it the former. Payne, had he been consulted,
would have voted for the latter, for in the picture,
he dies and goes to Hell. That a poet, author of an immortal
song, could have been sent to Hell, even temporarily,
as late as the Spring of 1914, shows how far we
have traveled since then. A newspaper symposium had
abolished Hell a good while before that time, but perhaps
Griffith hadn’t heard of it yet. Griffith made Payne abandon
his sweetheart, so doubtless it was proper that he
should have a taste of Hell, even in 1914.</p>
<p class='c002'>Then follow the “episodes”: A young Easterner is about
to forsake Mae Marsh (“Apple-pie Mary”), when the
strains of “Home, Sweet Home” on an accordion, win him
back to her “calico-covered arms.” A business man’s wife
is about to “step out,” when a “great musician” in the
flat below strikes up “Home, Sweet Home,” and a wife’s
honor is safe. The fact that great musicians so seldom
play “Home, Sweet Home” as a pastime, did not trouble
Griffith. His did.</p>
<p class='c002'>The picture ended in a manner no longer to be taken
seriously. Payne (Walthall), dying in sin, goes promptly
to an impressive Hell, a chasm in the mountains, where,
arrayed in an astonishing costume, considering the climate,
he is given a disagreeable time by certain devils wearing
the falsest of false faces. His sweetheart (Lillian), dying a
saint, had gone straight to Heaven—a sort of grown-up
Little Eva. Must Payne remain in Hell? Not above a week,
at the longest. “Little Eva,” suspended on wires, as when
she had been the Gold Fairy of Belasco, descends in a white
robe, and her poor renegade lover, seizing the folds of that
immaculate garment, is borne upward and outward to
Paradise, backing away from the audience, so that their
faces may never be lost. Probably only the beauty of
Walthall and Lillian saved such a scene, even in that remote
time, from the shouts of joy which would surely
greet it today.</p>
<p class='c002'>Seventeen years later, in the little projection room on
Seventh Avenue, I watched, with Lillian, an unreeling of
this ancient film. It seemed to me, as, I think, to her, pretty
crude:—in places, childish. The costumes had been selected
from an assortment something more limited than
the old Biograph wardrobe, and were either amusing or
pathetic, as you happened to think. The acting was not
much better. I don’t quite know what was the matter
with it, but it conveyed the impression of being amateurish,
though all the actors were, in effect, stars. Lillian’s
half-hysterical “Wasn’t I terrible?” expressed one’s general
feeling as to all of them. Mae Marsh in a comedy part, was
the best of the lot. The photography was on a par with
the rest of it. Yet it followed “Judith of Bethulia” by
several months. What <i>was</i> the matter?</p>
<p class='c002'>And since we have been speaking of “Little Eva,” perhaps
this is as good a place as any to state that Lillian had
never, at any time, played that part. She might have done
so, had there been any “Uncle Tom” combinations when
she was a child trouper. “Uncle Tom” had died permanently,
by that time. Interviewers, however, when they
looked at her, could not believe, when she told them that
she had played “Little Willie” in “East Lynne,” that she
was not saying “Little Eva in ‘Uncle Tom,’” and they
so often printed this statement that in time she almost
believed it herself. I am making a special paragraph of
this denial to set the matter straight—for all of us.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Busy days, these. Under one director and another,
Griffith kept Lillian and Dorothy going, usually in different
pictures, though sometimes, as in “The Sisters,” together.
They made an attractive pair, but Griffith could
not afford to waste them on small pictures—“program”
pictures—besides, it was not easy to get stories—picture
stories—to fit.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy became a star on her own account, with
Walthall in “The Mountain Rat,” a Western; and in
“The Mysterious Shot,” with Jack Pickford, who had
joined the movie forces. Jack, apparently, had conquered
his old infatuation, for we hear nothing further of it.
“The Rat” was Dorothy’s first star part, and a very good
one of its kind, being that of a red-light girl, considered
then rather a daring portrayal for a girl of sixteen. All
these were pot-boilers, while preparations for the great
Civil War spectacle went forward.</p>
<p class='c002'>They also kept the names and faces of Griffith’s stars
before the public—an important matter, for the field was
getting full of producers—stars were being created almost
overnight. Nor did Griffith let them get into a rut by
working always under one director. Lillian, alternately
under Christy Cabanné and Jack O’Brien, was receiving
liberal training.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Which would you rather work under?” a reporter
asked.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Both. Their methods are entirely different; I learn a
great deal from each.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Interviews were very frequent, now, the reporters kind.
They referred to Lillian and Dorothy as the “darlings of
the screen,” and they rarely failed to remember Belasco’s
verdict, which found its way even to Massillon. “MASSILLON
GIRL CALLED THE MOST BEAUTIFUL
BLONDE IN THE WORLD” made a three-column
headline, with a picture of Lillian to prove it; as if everybody
in Massillon hadn’t known that, long ago.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch07' class='c008'>VII<br/> <br/>“THE BIRTH OF A NATION”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>David Wark Griffith was the son of a soldier, and
had been brought up on war tales. He believed the time
had come when the talk that had been so vivid to his
childhood, should be given form and motion—that the
bitter struggle of four years, with its rankling sequences,
should be presented on the screen.</p>
<p class='c002'>From Thomas Dixon’s “The Leopard’s Spots” and “The
Clansman,” he outlined his scenario, and began work. The
latter title was to be the name of the picture. The new,
and far greater, title, “The Birth of a Nation,” was not
used until the film had been actually finished and shown.
The story of this achievement—the first, and still, in many
respects, the greatest, of war pictures—has many times
been told. One or two paragraphs, however, from Robert
Edgar Long’s biography of Griffith, may not be out of
place:</p>
<p class='c010'>Six weeks of constant rehearsals preceded the taking of the
first scene, and throughout the next six months required to
complete the spectacle, so many things happened it would require
an entire volume to enumerate them.</p>
<p class='c010'>Among the most notable scenes in the finished production
were the battle of Petersburg, fought by eighteen thousand
men on a field five miles across; the march of Sherman to the
sea, culminating in the burning of Atlanta; the assassination
of President Lincoln in the crowded Ford’s Theatre in Washington;
the wild rides of the Ku Klux Klan, and the session of
the South Carolina Legislature under the negro carpet-bagger
régime.</p>
<p class='c002'>Had Griffith guessed that the World War was coming,
he would hardly have had the courage to begin. He had
to assemble a vast horde of extras, horses, thousands of
uniforms and Ku Klux gowns; arms; he had to construct
breastworks, trenches—all the front of war; he had to
do all this when a real war was sweeping Europe, and all
prices, especially of the things he needed, soaring to the
sky. Horses were the hardest. I do not yet see where he
got them, when European agents were everywhere in
search of just the horses he wanted.</p>
<p class='c002'>And then the money: The treasurer of the Reliance-Majestic
company must have believed that Griffith thought
him the treasurer of the United States, the way he drew
on him. Of course, there was an end to that: Griffith had
to go outside for money and credit. One may imagine
him buying all the white cotton in Los Angeles to make
those Ku Klux gowns, most of it on credit. Long says:</p>
<p class='c010'>It became a battle for dollars, and it is told that the determined
Griffith himself actually went begging among the merchants
of Los Angeles to get the final one thousand dollars with
which to complete his work.</p>
<p class='c002'>Most of Griffith’s players went into the cast, as the
rôles seemed to fit them. Of the female parts, Mae Marsh
was supposed to have the best. Blanche Sweet was still held
to be Griffith’s chief star and as the part of Elsie Stoneman,
the Northern girl who becomes the sweetheart of the
Southern Colonel (Walthall), did not seem quite big
enough for her, Griffith gave it to Lillian. At least, that
is the way it is remembered, now. I think there were other
reasons: In the first place, Walthall was of small stature,
which accounts for his being dubbed the “little Colonel”
in the play. Blanche was of ample proportions; the two
were not a good match. For another thing, Griffith knew
that Lillian’s frail loveliness set against the big mulatto
features of the villain of the piece, the man bound to
possess her, would move the audience as would the face
of no other member of his company. It is also just possible
that Griffith, in the beginning, did not realize how big
the part of Elsie Stoneman was to be. He had a fashion
of making his play as he went along. Fifteen years later,
he only said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“When I gave Lillian a part in ‘The Birth of a Nation,’
I merely thought she could play it, without considering
how well, or at least without thinking she would make
anything special out of it, though of course, by that time,
I knew she would do it in her own way.”</p>
<div id='illus141' class='figcenter id006'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-141.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>LILLIAN AND DOROTHY, DURING THE GRIFFITH PERIOD</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>The field work of the “Birth” was done at the Universal
Ranch, a place of diversified scenery outside Los Angeles.
The play itself was made at the Fine Arts studio, which
consisted of an exterior stage like that on Pico Street—only,
instead of a large building, a lot of little shacks
served as temporary, very temporary, dressing-rooms. Any
player so inclined could build one for his or her own use,
and trim it and decorate it according to fancy. The roof
was merely a piece of canvas, held in place—also according
to fancy. It rarely rained.</p>
<p class='c002'>At one side of the lot, was constructed the “street” on
which fronted the Cameron Southern home, about which
most of the play centered. There was not much in the
way of scenic designing. A stage carpenter, Huck Wortman,
one of the old-fashioned kind who chewed tobacco
and cocked up his eye, was equal to most things. If Griffith
wanted a village street, with a vine-covered cottage; or a
Southern mansion; or a hospital; Huck cocked an eye,
shifted his quid, and said, “Aw right,” and it was so.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>As a Civil War spectacle, “The Birth of a Nation” will
probably never be outdone. The battle-field, with its miles
of hand-to-hand fighting; the assembling of the Klan—hundreds
of them in white robes, mounted;—Lincoln’s
assassination—these things were more impressive than even
the reality could have been, for no one of them was ever
viewed in its entirety, or with deliberation, and it seems
impossible that they should ever have been more real.
Stirring, appropriate music, fitted by Griffith to the scenes,
added a final thrill.</p>
<p class='c002'>The negro aspects of the picture were not entirely
fortunate ... within the facts, but hardly within the
proprieties. It attached no blame to the negro for the
abuses of Reconstruction, but presented him in an unfavorable
light. Negro political domination in the South
was an evil growing out of the war—a war and an evil
for which the negro was the last person to be held responsible,
the last person to be reminded of them.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The Clansman,” as if was first called, was shown publicly
at Clune’s Auditorium, Los Angeles, on the evening
of February 8, 1915, all the film colony of Los Angeles
being present. Reports had been spread that there would
be negro rioting, and the police were out in force. There
was no trouble. The theatre was jammed. Here and there
in the audience were negroes.</p>
<p class='c002'>Following this presentation, a print of the picture was
hurried to Washington, and shown to President Wilson,
members of the Cabinet, and their families. A few days
later, February 20, this print was run in New York, for
the censors, and others concerned. Thomas Dixon, author
of the story, was present, and declared excitedly, to
Griffith: “‘The Clansman’ is too tame a title for what
you have done. Let’s call it ‘The Birth of a Nation,’”
which became its title, then and there.</p>
<p class='c002'>On March 3, the picture was shown at the Liberty Theatre,
New York City, at two dollars a seat, the first time
a motion picture ever became a full-sized theatre attraction.
Even so, it was in for a record run.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s success as Elsie Stoneman was a complete surprise
to her, for she had not liked the part, and then it
had dragged on so long. But when the notices poured in,
she must have begun to wonder if anybody but herself
and Walthall were in the picture. Their faces together, or
hers alone, looked out from every page. From New York,
Thomas Dixon wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'><i>My dear Miss Gish</i>:</p>
<p class='c010'>I don’t care to tell you all the beautiful things I’d like to say
about you and your exquisite work in our picture....</p>
<p class='c010'>Between the acts, last week, a distinguished young man of
letters—editor of a great magazine—found me in the lobby,
dragged me one side and whispered “For God’s sake, tell me
quick, who is the glorious little girl playing Elsie?” I answered,
“Miss Lillian Gish.” “I want to meet her right away! Where is
she?” he gasped.</p>
<p class='c010'>He’s only one of many hundreds. How can I ever thank you
for such work? Believe me it belongs to the big things in life
for which money never pays. I am your debtor for services, for
which I not only could never pay but don’t know how to
thank you....</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Sincerely,</div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>Thomas Dixon</span>.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy fortunately had no part in “The Birth of a
Nation”—fortunately, because she was overtaken by an
accident when the picture was well under way. Of course,
it was just a coincidence that a fortune-teller, only a little
while before, had warned her against an automobile accident.
Anybody could do that. Nevertheless, he <i>had</i> warned
her—and she <i>would</i> walk across the street where automobiles
were passing. On that particular day—it was Thanksgiving—she
had been lunching with Griffith and Mae
Marsh and Miriam Cooper, and coming out of the restaurant,
held to Griffith’s coat, demanding that he buy her
something.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, Mr. Griffith, please buy me some candy, Mr.
Griffith. Please buy me some chewing gum. Oh, Mr.
Griffith—please——”</p>
<p class='c002'>They were crossing a street just then, the Boulevard,
crowded with cars—the others a little way in advance of
Dorothy. She never knew quite what happened, but in the
wink of an eye, she was down on the ground on her face;
a car that had struck her in a variety of places—was
standing with its front wheel between her feet, one of
which it had crushed.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy’s disaster was not all sorrow. Lillian was with
her most of the time. Friends were willing to entertain
her steadily. Griffith had a miniature screen installed, with
a projection machine, and gave her a private view of so
much of “The Birth of a Nation” as was then complete.
No damaged young queen had ever been so royally entertained.
In a reasonably brief space, she was on her feet—limping
for a time, but otherwise as well as ever.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch08' class='c008'>VIII<br/> <br/>“INTOLERANCE”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>The Griffith lot was at 4500 Sunset Boulevard, on the
edge of Hollywood, then a residential suburb, named for
one of the earliest homes there. Hollywood residents observed
with curiosity, but with no special alarm, the interesting
picture-making plants that were appearing here
and there in their neighborhood. California has a taste for
publicity:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Ladies and gentlemen, since there seems to be nothing
further to be said for the Dear Departed, I should be glad
to make a few remarks about California.”</p>
<p class='c002'>That Griffith, on the very edge of Hollywood, had made
the great picture then sweeping the country, was something
on which to “make a few remarks,” though it is
unlikely that even the most sanguine residents guessed that
within a comparatively brief time, their little suburb would
become the center of one of the world’s richest industries;
a collection of amazing architectural construction; a
strange, irrational region, in and about whose environs frail
cities and quaint villages, fair palaces and weird ships and
oceans, would appear and vanish, beyond the dreams of
all the fairylands of time and change; that with these
things would assemble an exhibit of feminine loveliness
and masculine perfection, of human freaks and human
vanities, such as probably no other planet could show.</p>
<p class='c002'>The change began quickly enough, now. There was
money to be made in Hollywood—not only by producers,
but by actors. On Broadway, men and women with lean
parts, or no parts at all, turned their eyes westward. The
exodus set in. The word “Hollywood” began to be passed
about like some magic bauble, a talisman. Once more,
California held out to men and women a lure of gold.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The little group of players on Sunset Boulevard hardly
knew what to make of the first incursion of “real actors”
that swept in upon them. They had two ideas about it:
they wondered if they would be able to keep their jobs,
and if so, would they learn how to act. They realized,
presently, that it made very little difference to them. They
did keep their jobs, and they did not learn how to act—not
in the stage way. It was the newcomers who had to
learn—if they stayed.</p>
<p class='c002'>Most of them did stay—adapted themselves. Producers
with new, big undertakings, were all about. Griffith himself,
returning from first showings of the “Birth,” began
on what promised to be a still more important, more expensive,
picture.</p>
<p class='c002'>It started as rather a small venture, with Mae Marsh
and Bobby Harron in the leading parts. It was to be called
“The Mother and the Law,” based upon a famous murder
case, wherein an innocent man, through intolerance—man’s
inhumanity to man—was brought to the foot of the
scaffold.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was not to have a part in this new play. For one
thing, she was working in another picture—as Annie, in
“Enoch Arden”—one of the best of her early films—and
in Richard Harding Davis’ story of “Captain Macklin.”
And then, Griffith perhaps did not think it wise to push
her forward too fast.</p>
<p class='c002'>But one night, after a day of hard rehearsal, he picked
up a copy of Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” and his
eye caught:</p>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line in2'>... endlessly rocks the cradle,</div>
<div class='line'>Uniter of Here and Hereafter.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>He saw a picture: a girl—Lillian—endlessly rocking the
cradle of humanity, binding the ages together—ages of
human intolerance.</p>
<p class='c002'>Feverishly, he mapped out a new scenario, far-reaching,
comprehensive, covering the great episodes of intolerance:
back through the religious wars, with the Massacre of St.
Bartholomew, through the Crucifixion, back to the days
of Belshazzar, tyrant of Babylon. Beginning with the
modern story, he would lead it through episodes of
tyranny and bloodshed, down to the blind cruelty and
intolerance of today. And always, between, that young
mother, endlessly rocking the cradle of the child who,
in every age, must pay the price.</p>
<p class='c002'>The preparations for “Intolerance,” as the new production
was now called, were architecturally far more pretentious
and costly than those for “The Birth of a Nation,”
or for any spectacle play up to that time. Gigantic
plaster elephants rose a hundred feet above the street level;
the towering buildings of Babylon stretched, a profile of
ancient Asia, across the sky. Nubian lions roared; a motley
assemblage of Persians, Egyptians, Babylonians, priests,
dancing-girls, charioteers, and fifty-seven other varieties,
gathered for rehearsal. Says Griffith’s biographer:</p>
<p class='c010'>The luncheon hour “on location” composed one of the most
picturesque sights ever witnessed by human eyes. At times
there were as many as fifteen thousand men, women and children
scattered about the various lots during the noon hour.
Thousands of horses and sheep grazed along the green enclosures,
their shaking heads mingling with the flashing swords and
helmets of the fighting-men.</p>
<p class='c010'>When the great mob scenes were being photographed, it
seemed as though the entire population of Los Angeles had
come out to Griffith’s place, to take part in the various pageants
and mighty rushing armies. Actors from other studios—many
of them prominent stars—joined in the scenes.</p>
<p class='c002'>The writer assures us that in spite of the fierce conflicts
waged on the parapets and walls and towers, only sixty-seven
players were injured, and these but slightly; also
that a modern field hospital, with surgeons, nurses and
ambulances, was maintained.</p>
<p class='c002'>Actors whose names were well known, or have since become
so, first appeared on the screen in “Intolerance”:
Count Erich von Stroheim, Frank Bennett, Tully Marshall,
Constance Talmadge. Constance was an extra, used
at first for rehearsal, but presently—in the “Mountain Girl
who worshipped Belshazzar from afar”—Griffith could
see only Constance, so gave her the part.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith had money to work with, now, and spent it
like Belshazzar himself. “Intolerance” required a year and
a half to make, and an expenditure of nearly two million
dollars.</p>
<p class='c002'>Some of the items are impressive: A jeweled costume
for the “Princess Beloved” cost seven thousand dollars;
the dancing-girls at the feast of Belshazzar, twenty-thousand—a
good deal more than they ever cost that early
Belshazzar, even in his palmiest days, but of course these
were war prices.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Intolerance” was shown for the first time at the Liberty
Theatre, New York, September 6, 1916. Its magnificence
impressed the public. What wouldn’t Griffith do
next? On the night of April 6, 1917, Griffith personally
presented “Intolerance,” at the Drury Lane Theatre,
London.</p>
<p class='c002'>On that day, the United States entered the World War.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch09' class='c008'>IX<br/> <br/>THERE WERE NO LOVE AFFAIRS</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian did not consider that she was really in the new
picture. To Nell she wrote: “I am not in it in person, but
my heart runs all through it—and it seems more to belong
to me than all my other work together.” As of course it
did—the mother who, through the ages, rocked humanity’s
cradle.</p>
<p class='c002'>She had made a number of smaller pictures, meantime—very
good pictures, if we consult the notices, which
even sometimes forgot to remember that she was the “most
beautiful blonde in the world.” How tired she had become
of that phrase! “If they want an angel on a wire, they
send for me,” she told one reporter, who managed to omit
Belasco, though he did call her “a young goddess” and a
“daffodil.” You couldn’t stop them.</p>
<p class='c002'>The pictures she made at this time were important only
as they were steps of development—program pictures, little
remembered today. “Diane of the Follies,” in which
she played a kind of vamp and wore remarkable costumes,
was more memorable.</p>
<p class='c002'>“But Diane was very easy to play,” she said afterwards.
“Anybody can play a character of that sort—it plays
itself. It is the part of a good woman, whose colorless life
has to be made interesting, that is hard.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Her own life could hardly be said to be exciting. There
were no love affairs. Plenty of opportunities, but she was
always too busy for such things, or for the social life, of
which there was now a good deal. “I was not gay enough
for the parties; Dorothy was sought, for those. They
didn’t care much about me.” And once she wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“When Dorothy goes to a party, the party becomes a
party: When I go to a party, I’m afraid it very often
stops being a party.... She, as I once heard a girl described
in a play, is like a bright flag flying in the breeze.</p>
<p class='c002'>“All music, even the worst, seems so beautiful to her.
All people amuse her.... I have fun, too, but it is only
the fun I get out of apparently never-ending work.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It was true, though: Work was her “fun”—work and
study—always a book under her arm: often a French one.</p>
<p class='c002'>And being kind to those about her—that was fun, too.
She never failed to acknowledge the smallest service—from
the electricians, the stage-hands, the humblest property-boy.
A friend of those days writes me:</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was not only that Lillian was courteous to the electricians
and the rest; many actors are that ... she was
just another workman. She happened to be before the
camera, that was all.”</p>
<p class='c002'>The little Gish family had never lived in a house, always
in an apartment: in the Brentwood Apartments, and
in the La Belle. But in the autumn of 1915, they leased
Denishawn, home of the dancer, Ruth St. Denis, fitted
for a school, plainly furnished, with dancing-floor, horizontal
bar and other equipment, all of which strongly
appealed to Lillian, who had been studying with Miss St.
Denis, and could continue her work there.</p>
<p class='c002'>The owner had left the beginnings of a menagerie,
which they completed. At Christmas time that year, most
of Lillian’s friends gave her live things. A partial census
shows an owl—one-eyed, gray—eight Japanese finches,
two parakeets, love-birds, two or three canaries, one little
poll-parrot; another, “John” (who, in 1932, still survives);
also, squirrels, a pair of golden pheasants, and a
pair of peacocks that Miss St. Denis had left.</p>
<p class='c002'>They did not remain in Denishawn; the next paragraph
explains why. Lillian to Nell:</p>
<p class='c010'>We have moved from that huge house I told you about. We
were there eight months, and during the last four, we had four
burglars. One was so bold as to come in through the dining-room
window, all the way upstairs into Mother’s room, at the
improper hour of 2:30 in the morning.</p>
<p class='c010'>Being an old house with many squeaks, Mother knew all
about him before he made his appearance, and greeted him with
two bullets, the first of which hit the ceiling (she would have
been terrified if she had hit <i>him</i>), and the second went through
the railing in the hall. However, the man ran away, and the
police never did catch him. All this time I was out on the
sleeping-porch, petrified—could not utter a sound or move an
inch. Oh, I am very brave. Imagine, Nell, being awakened from
a sound sleep by your Mother tearing through the house, shooting
a gun.</p>
<p class='c002'>So they went back to apartments, permanently, as they
believed.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish was not very well, and wanted only to have
peace. She was something of a financier; her business experience
partly accounted for that, though she was a natural
economist.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Your salaries,” she told Lillian and Dorothy, “are not
income, but merely an exchange in money for your natural
capital of youth and health. Salaries are capital, and
all above actual needs should be invested as such. The
returns you get from investment are income.”</p>
<div id='illus155' class='figcenter id007'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-155.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>LILLIAN AS ELSIE STONEMAN, IN “THE BIRTH OF A NATION”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy were making very good salaries.
The day of spectacular earnings had not yet arrived, but
two hundred and fifty or three hundred dollars a week
left a margin for banking. The little troupers who had
received ten to fifteen dollars a week, and lived on less
than half of it, began to feel themselves capitalists. This
friend and that suggested wonderful “buys,” and exhibited
dividend slips. Then the “olive grove” epidemic broke out.
Everybody was investing in olive groves, certain that every
ten dollar share of stock would be worth hundreds within
a few years. Lillian considered this prospect, with prayer
and palpitations. The beautiful gray-green olive groves
were certainly very nice. She had a balance of three hundred
dollars, and one day hesitantly subscribed for that
amount of stock. The palpitations grew worse. Olive
groves! Why, it would take ages, and there would be so
many olives, nobody would buy them. Besides, Lillian
found she needed the money. She went to the office of
the olive growers, and stated her case. A stout, good-natured
man there listened quietly, regarded her thoughtfully,
and returned her investment. What an escape—the
others did not get their money back, and to date, dividends
are shy.</p>
<p class='c002'>By and by, when the three hundred had grown to as
many thousand, another epidemic was in the air. Oil!
Everybody caught it, including Bobby Harron, who was
terribly in love with Dorothy and anxious to make the
whole Gish family rich. Mrs. Gish shook her head. There
was a tract of land which she thought promising. Lillian
took a look at it, and was unfavorably impressed. It was
just dirt—unbeautiful with weeds, and depressing tin cans.
Bobby’s oil stock looked valuable, and had an attractive
name, something patriotic, like “Uncle Sam,” or “Union
Jack.” There is a superstition that any such name is a
hoodoo, but Lillian and Bobby did not know this—not
then. When Bobby pulled out his next dividend, Lillian
fell.</p>
<p class='c002'>That was about all: dividends hesitated after that,
finally forgot to arrive. The stock that she had bought
around 60, was quoted around 3. Bobby said it would
“stage a grand come-back,” but to date it has not done
so. Bobby was a sweet soul, and they thought none the
less of him. “John,” the Gish parrot, to whom they had
vainly tried to teach some proper things to say, acquired
for himself the disconsolate wail: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
Oh, dear!”</p>
<p class='c002'>“<i>Why</i> do you suppose he does that?” Lillian asked
Harry Carr, a Los Angeles newspaper man, of whom we
are likely to hear again.</p>
<p class='c002'>“That’s easy,” said Carr, “he is discussing oil stock.”</p>
<p class='c002'>And the land? The dirt? Well, a lot of foolish people
began to buy it and to cover up the weeds and things
with houses, which made a lot of other foolish people
want it, until its price increased ten, twenty, an-hundred-fold!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch10' class='c008'>X<br/> <br/>THE NIGHTMARE OF WAR</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Griffith, in England, wrote that he had wanted to
enlist, but was being urged by English officials, Lloyd
George and others, to do a war picture as propaganda. He
might send for Lillian, soon.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Intolerance” had made a stir in London, and the war
situation had made a stir in Griffith. Like his ancestors,
he wanted to carry a gun—to go into the trenches and
pull a trigger. Lord Beaverbrook said to him:</p>
<p class='c002'>“That is nonsense. You can do a thousand times more
for the cause by making a picture that will show the need
of American intervention on the largest possible scale.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith already had a story in mind—one he had
planned on a night when he had been reading of the German
desolation of Belgium and the French frontier.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We will help you,” Lloyd George and other high officials
told him. “We will give you the use of our soldiers
and training camps; we will put you on the front lines in
France.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith was ever a wary person. Never one to close a
door behind him ... to make an irrevocable decision, to
fire until charged and primed. He wrote Lillian that he
was looking for a location in Paris, guardedly adding that
he would not begin work until the war ended. On the
strength of which, Lillian, by this time in New York, paid
a brief, happy visit to Nell, then living on the “Blue Dog
Houseboat,” at Miami.</p>
<p class='c002'>Two weeks later, with her mother, she was on her way
across the Atlantic. In eight days they were in Liverpool
where they sat down to wait for Dorothy. It was not
decided when they sailed that Dorothy was to have a part
in the new picture.</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy sailed May 28. With her was Bobby Harron;
also, Griffith’s faithful camera man, Gottlieb Wilhelm
Bitzer, a terrible name to carry into England and France.
The ship was the <i>Baltic</i>—General Pershing and staff
aboard.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Tell me,” Pershing said to Dorothy, “how one can
learn to face calmly a moving-picture camera.” Everyone
is afraid of something.</p>
<p class='c002'>The <i>Baltic</i> zigzagged across the ocean in thirteen days.
Lillian and her mother became frantic, waiting. Dorothy,
arriving, was shocked at her mother’s appearance. Her
face was haggard with anxiety. Then, presently, they were
on their way to London.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was the first time any of them had been abroad.
England in June: the tiny fields, the trim hedges, the
stately trees, the thatched villages—picture-book land. At
London they went directly to the Savoy Hotel, and were
given a room on the Embankment, overlooking the
Thames. Little did they guess what they were to see from
those windows. All seemed quiet enough. They did some
sight-seeing.</p>
<p class='c002'>A few days later, they had a call from a post-office official,
concerning a package from America. A courteous
man, they asked him about the raids, on London. There
would be no more, he said. The Zeppelins had proved easy
targets, the Germans would not send them again. And he
added: “Don’t mind if you should hear gun-fire at eleven
o’clock; that will be our anti-aircraft gun practice.”</p>
<div id='illus161' class='figcenter id008'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-161.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>MRS. GISH AND “HER GIRLS” Mary Pickford, Mildred Harris, Mrs. Gish, Dorothy and Lillian</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Barely were the words out of his mouth, when there
came a far-off boom from the eastward. He looked at his
watch. “Very extr’ord’nary,” he said, “they are beginning
the practice half-an-hour ahead of time.” A moment later,
he was gone.</p>
<p class='c002'>The firing kept up. Lillian and Dorothy ran down the
corridor, to a balcony. A waiter, passing, told them that
the East End was being raided. He let them look through
his binoculars. High in the air, to the eastward, one could
make out a small, black speck—eighteen thousand feet up,
he said.</p>
<p class='c002'>They hurried down and got into a taxi, to see the raid.
On the way to Whitechapel, they came to a post-office
which had been struck. A corner of it was blown off—a
number of persons killed. A great crowd had collected.
They were told that much greater damage had been done
in Whitechapel. They found there a schoolhouse, where
ninety-six children had been killed. Crazed mothers
swarmed about, looking for fragments of their dead.</p>
<p class='c002'>Other bombs had fallen in the neighborhood. People
were insane from grief. A schoolmaster carried out his
own child. A woman standing near had just discovered
that her boy was among the victims. Her face was distorted—it
was as if someone had pulled it out of shape.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch11' class='c008'>XI<br/> <br/>UNDER FIRE</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>With the one thought of getting out of London, Mary
Gish and her daughters went to Cambridge. But Cambridge,
too, had been raided. At night, streets and houses
were pitch dark. No anti-aircraft guns. No protection of
any sort.</p>
<p class='c002'>Two nights satisfied them. They returned to London,
where for ten days it was quiet enough. Then, one morning,
Mrs. Gish, Lillian and Dorothy, were awakened from
sound sleep by a terrific explosion. They ran to the windows.
Coming up the Thames, in perfect formation, were
twenty German planes, flying in what seemed a slow and
majestic manner, dropping bombs as they came. They
were so low that one could distinguish the crosses on the
under side of their wings. Mrs. Gish and her daughters
watched them, fascinated.</p>
<p class='c002'>Were they afraid? Undoubtedly they were: with death
hovering in the air, likely to come plunging down at any
moment, not many of the race—a race blessed, or cursed,
with imagination—could be wholly indifferent. The rest
of the party—Griffith, Bobby Harron and Gottlieb Wilhelm
Bitzer—came crashing in.</p>
<p class='c002'>They supposed the planes would drop bombs on Waterloo
Station, and especially on the Hotel Cecil, headquarters
of the English Flying Corps, its roof covered with
anti-aircraft guns. The Cecil was near them—next door.
Nothing of the kind happened. The German planes, undisturbed
by the shells fired at them, circled slowly around
the Houses of Parliament, without dropping a bomb;
then, turning, left London. This was on Saturday, July 8,
1917. The papers next morning reported thirty-seven
dead, one hundred and forty-one wounded—numbers
probably minimized. The Griffith party was shaken, dazed.
It seemed incredible that in a world supposedly civilized
such things could happen.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was no longer any rest. Raids came at night, and
in relays. One followed another—two and three in one
night. They were meant to break the English morale.</p>
<p class='c002'>The first night raid was by glorious moonlight. Mrs.
Gish, Lillian and Dorothy, sitting in their apartment
about ten, heard a distant booming, then a far-off voice
calling: “Take cover—take cover!” They merely sat there,
while the bombing came closer and closer, with aircraft
guns going. By and by it was over. Next morning, they
heard that less damage had been done than before, but
enough.</p>
<p class='c002'>About two nights later, as the girls stood in front of a
dressing-table, in their nightgowns—Mrs. Gish already in
bed—there came from just under their windows such an
explosion as could not be described in words. The electric
lights in the bathroom went out—windows were shattered.
They rushed into the hall. All on that floor were there, in
wild confusion. They called to one another that the hotel
had been struck. Then, from outside, came a man’s
scream. They had never realized how terrible a man’s
scream could be. Cries and groans followed. They stared
their inquiry into one another’s faces.</p>
<p class='c002'>The bomb, they learned, had struck just by Cleopatra’s
Needle, a few yards distant. It had hit a tram and killed
eleven persons, wounding many others. The conductor
had had his legs blown off. It was he who had screamed,
no doubt. Other bombs had fallen nearby. One on the
little Theatre on Adelphi Terrace; another at the Piccadilly
Circus; still another by Charing Cross Hospital. They
had heard none of these, because of the concussion in their
ears from the one that had fallen beneath their windows.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian and Dorothy crept into one bed, shaking, unable
to sleep. At four they got up, dressed, saw the dawn breaking
over London—workmen going to their jobs. On the
street, they found that many windows had been blown
from shops, the glass so finely shattered that it was like
snow. The girls said little, but listened to the comments
of the working people—comments not pleasant to hear.</p>
<p class='c002'>The raids now came regularly. The nights became
hideous nightmares. Lillian and her mother seemed to get
their nerve back. When the raids came, they would take
their pillows and go into their little foyer, to try to get
away from the noise. Dorothy took her pillow, too, but
she did not sit on it—she hugged it. Finally, it was September.
They had been there three months!</p>
<p class='c002'>“... You cannot imagine, Nell, what terrible things
those big things in the sky are, dropping death wherever
they go. If this war would only end.... I am still here,
and will live to see you and Tom and the babies again, in
spite of it. So don’t worry.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian went out a good deal, and, as was her habit, made
a study of the people ... to see how they acted under
the stress and agony of war. She went to the Waterloo
Station, to watch them saying good-bye. Always she was
watching ... on the street ... everywhere.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch12' class='c008'>XII<br/> <br/>FRANCE</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Days ... nights ... they seemed to have passed out
of any world they had ever known, into a sinister, topsy-turvy
world, where murder and destruction ruled.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith down on the Salisbury plain, where there were
great camps, was already making portions of the picture.
Returning, at last, to London he escorted his little party
down to Southampton, to take boat for France. It was a
transport, crowded with soldiers. Mrs. Gish and the girls
were in one tiny room, two in one bunk. Twice they
started, and were sent back because of floating mines.
Finally they were at Havre, and next evening at Paris, at
the Grand Hotel.</p>
<p class='c002'>Paris was dark—a place where almost anything could
happen—but Griffith and the girls somehow managed to
grope their way about, to the river and elsewhere. By daylight
they did some shopping.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith got the papers that would permit them to go
to the fighting area; then, one morning, with Mrs. Gish,
Lillian and Dorothy, and Bobby Harron, set out in an
automobile, passed through the gates of Paris. In an article
for a home paper, Lillian described their journey:</p>
<p class='c010'>Paris still has gates, just as you read about in the romantic
novels. There is a particular gate that leads to the war zone
and not a single, solitary human being can go through it unless
he is a soldier, or one who has business in the zone.</p>
<p class='c010'>Can you imagine how important you feel when you go
through that gate? You find it very hard to believe that you
are not just acting in a “movie,” in a Los Angeles background
that Mr. Huck, the man who builds the moving-picture sets, has
built—the road and everything.</p>
<p class='c010'>And how you do go! By tall poplar trees, by long fields of
France. France! Why, the very name is a poem and a romantic
novel, all by itself. Lombardy poplars! It sounds like an old-fashioned
song.</p>
<p class='c010'>Through the fields are the long lines of barbed wire. That
is where the trenches are. The very trenches that used to defend
Paris. Then, after fifteen minutes’ ride, you are where the
French stood in defense of Paris.... This is where the Germans
were. They came this far. This very road ... these very
trenches are where the men were.</p>
<p class='c010'>But now you see the first town that the Germans bombed.
You come to the same kind of houses, blown all to pieces, wreck
and ruin everywhere. In one second-story, there was part of a
bedstead still left, and pieces of bed-clothes, that no one had
taken the trouble to pick up, after the French had come back.
I can write about it, and I can talk about it, and you can read
about it, until you are old and gray and sit in a rocking-chair,
but you could not understand it unless you saw it. Just streets,
muddy and deserted, and little graveyards of houses, hundreds
of them.</p>
<p class='c010'>You may not know it, but if you have been in one raid, or
one bombardment, where you hear the explosions coming closer
and closer, and you shake and shake and tremble and get sick
at your stomach, and dizzy, and lose your mind with fear, every
moment, you can imagine what it was to these people who had
to endure it for hours and days, and finally had their whole
places blown away.</p>
<p class='c010'>Were they running down the road we have been on, when
this happened? Sometimes they would not leave, because they
did not know where else to go. They could not believe it was
true, anyhow, and they stayed and stayed on.</p>
<p class='c002'>The farther they went, the greater the desolation. They
worked in Compiègne and Senlis, and anyone who visited
that neighborhood, even as late as 1921, can form a dim
idea of what it must have been in 1917. Ruin everywhere,
broken homes; furniture in fragments, and scattered.
Pieces of everything; clothing, little playthings, bits of
lace, scraps of another existence.</p>
<p class='c002'>To the eastward, the guns were always going. All that
part of France was still subject to bombing raids. There
were days when it was necessary to take refuge with a
little French family, in a bomb cellar. Lillian wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>I have been in cellars myself, with a lot of other people
around, frightened to death, sitting close to Mama and Dorothy,
who had the shakes and whimpered as she used to when she
was a baby, because it was so terrible.</p>
<p class='c002'>They learned a number of things: they learned to tell
enemy planes, to know shrapnel by its gray drift of smoke.
They did not remain long in that sector—only long
enough to get the required pictures. Griffith went to the
front line, and made trench scenes—in the line itself. Then
directly they were all back in London, in the raids again.
Apparently they had not stopped ... they would never
stop.</p>
<p class='c002'>One night when the planes had been over three times,
the noise was so terrific that Dorothy suggested they go
down into one of the ballrooms. They found English
officers and ladies strolling about, calm in their English
way, apparently not greatly concerned by the raid which
was still going on. Dorothy, nervously watching, saw a
lovely girl about her own age, come in. They looked at
each other, at first without speaking. Then the girl said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“You are an American, aren’t you?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Yes.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“So am I,” and they fell into each other’s arms.</p>
<p class='c002'>They spoke of the horrors of the raids—of the one then
going on. Finally, Dorothy said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“One thing I’m thankful for, I’m soon going back
home, and will get away from all this.”</p>
<p class='c002'>The girl’s eyes grew big. She said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“You are going back! And you are not afraid?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Afraid? After all this? At least, if one is hit by a
torpedo, it’s direct, and sure, and soon ended. In a raid
like this, you never know.”</p>
<p class='c002'>But the girl said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I can never imagine crossing the water again.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Why?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I was on the <i>Lusitania</i>, coming to England with a
chaperon, to meet my fiancé. I clung to a deck-chair for
four hours. My chaperon was drowned right beside me.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Dorothy, telling of it afterwards, said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I did not know her name—I do not know it now. She
never knew mine. She had a look in her eyes she will carry
the rest of her days.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch13' class='c008'>XIII<br/> <br/>“HEARTS OF THE WORLD”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>October found them safely home. After all their wish
to get there, America seemed a poor place: uninteresting,
flat, tepid, futile—its people had little idea of what was
going on, “over there.” No wonder the returning soldiers
could not settle down to a humdrum life of work. It was
a thing next to impossible.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mary Gish and her daughters found their nerves on a
tension. Blasting in the street made them jump. The strain
had been terrible. Mrs. Gish had lost thirty-five pounds—she
would never be quite the same again. Dorothy, by her
own statement, had lost ten pounds. “Lillian is brave; besides,
she couldn’t afford to lose. She gained a whole
pound.” Lillian had no desire to go back, yet was sorry
it was all over. Sometimes, looking back, it seemed to her
that she had been dreaming.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Hearts of the World” was shown for a tryout at Pomona,
California, on Monday, March 11, 1918, and during
the rest of the week at Clune’s Auditorium, Los
Angeles.</p>
<p class='c002'>Both Lillian and Dorothy had studied and worked very
hard for this picture, and it had been obtained at the risk
of their mother’s life and their own. It deserved success,
and it had it. Lillian, as the heroine of the story, captured
and mistreated, gave a beautiful and pathetic presentation
of her part. Dorothy, “the Little Disturber,” a strolling
singer, had a rôle suited to her gifts. A lute under her arm,
she romped through the war scenes with a jaunty swagger,
which, set to music, was irresistible. A London street-girl
had provided the original. Lillian discovered her one day,
and followed her about, to copy her artistic points. Bobby
Harron was the hero-lover of the story—a very good
story, on the whole—though it was the ravage and desolation
of war that was the picture’s chief value.</p>
<p class='c002'>On April 4, “Hearts of the World” was presented at the
44th Street Theatre, before an invited audience. When, on
the following evening, the theatre was opened to the public,
seats sold by speculators brought as high as five and
ten dollars. There were long runs everywhere. In Pittsburgh,
the picture broke all records for any theatrical
attraction in that city.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The writer of these chapters saw the film at this time,
and again, with Lillian, in 1931. A good deal of it was
remembered vividly enough. It had been the first World
War picture, and it remained one of the best. The trench
fighting was terribly realistic. There were scenes taken on
the field that were war itself. Always, the action is swift.
Toward the end of the picture, where Lillian and Bobby
are defending themselves against a German assault, it becomes
fairly breathless.</p>
<p class='c002'>Throughout, the picture has a tender quality, in spite
of its cruel setting. But there are exceptions to this, one
especially: Lillian in the hands of a German, whipped because
she cannot handle a big basket of potatoes.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Did the beating hurt?” I asked.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Terribly. I was padded, but not nearly enough. My
back bore the marks for weeks. Mother was fearfully
wrought up over it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She approved the picture, as a whole. Thought it better
than many of those made today. She was not far wrong.
There was more sincerity of intention—more earnest
work. At one place, the heroine, through the shock and
agony of war, becomes mentally unhinged. Lillian’s portrayal
of the gradual approach of this broken condition
was as fascinating as it was sorrowful.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch14' class='c008'>XIV<br/> <br/>“BROKEN BLOSSOMS”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian was entering a period of super-effort and success.
Effort, especially—at first. The indefatigable and
relentless Griffith kept them going, night and day. Hardly
had he launched one war picture till he made another. He
had much war film left, and he built another story around
it. Two, in fact, though the second came somewhat later.
While in England, Queen Alexandra and a number of
titled women had lent themselves to the cause, by posing
in arranged groups before the Griffith cameras. In “The
Great Love,” these films were used. “The Romance of a
Happy Valley,” and “True Heart Suzie” followed, idyllic
countryside pictures, with Lillian in tender comedy parts.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith no longer directed her—not really. “I gave her
an outline of what I hoped to accomplish, and let her
work it out her own way. When she got it, she had something
of her own. Of course, she was imitated. A dozen
actresses would copy whatever she did. They even got
themselves up to look like her. She had to change her
methods.”</p>
<p class='c002'>What a joy to work for Griffith! At night, in bed, you
thought out your part, and mentally rehearsed it—over
and over. Then, next day, you tried it, and when at last it
was “shot,” you eagerly looked, a day or two later, for the
“rushes,” to see what you had done. Sometimes it was
pretty bad—not at all what you had expected. Never
mind, that was the advantage of playing for the pictures:
you could see yourself, and correct your mistakes. You
could do it over and over—Griffith was never stingy with
film. He nearly always made twenty times what he used.
He would let you try, and keep trying, until both you and
he were satisfied. He knew that you had studied the lights,
and angles, and groupings—that you had something definite
in mind. Often, he consulted you—sometimes let you
direct a scene.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was during the summer of 1912 that Lillian had
begun work with Griffith, at the old Biograph studio on
Fourteenth Street. Now, almost exactly seven years later,
she arrived at what may be called the crest of her film
career. Not suddenly: she had been climbing steadily,
working like a road-builder, almost from the first day.
Now she had reached the top, that was all.</p>
<p class='c002'>In an article for the <i>Ladies’ Home Journal</i> (Sept.,
1925) she said:</p>
<p class='c010'>When anyone asks me to pick out from the many I have
been in, the picture I like best, I answer without much hesitation,
and without much thought, “Broken Blossoms.” I say this
not because the picture was an artistic picture, which it was.
I say this not because it was a compelling or tragic story with
no clearing-away, no laying of tracks, no getting ready for the
tragedy—it was exactly all this; but because the picture was
quickly and smoothly accomplished. It took only eighteen days
to film.</p>
<p class='c002'>She does not say that it was her most notable characterization,
and in the broader sense, it may not rank with
some of her later work: with Mimi, for instance, in “La
Bohême”; with Hester Prynne, in “The Scarlet Letter.”
Nevertheless, it is the film rôle for which she will be longest
remembered, the part that for artistic conception and
delineation and sheer beauty has not been surpassed, either
by herself, or by any other. To this day, the magazines
reproduce flashes from the now immortal closet scene of
“Broken Blossoms,” as the “highest example of screen realism.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Broken Blossoms,” a poetic tragedy of the Chinese
slums of London, was a film adaptation of “The Chink
and the Child,” from Thomas Burke’s collection entitled
“Limehouse Nights.” Griffith and Lillian recognized its
possibilities, and what she could make of the part of the
“Child.” She at first thought the part too young for her,
but agreed to try it.</p>
<p class='c002'>The story is that of a brutal father, a pugilist, who beats
and browbeats his twelve-year-old daughter until she has
become a terrified, trembling little creature, a stunted
human semblance, with a pathetically lovely face. A young
Chinese, drift of the quarter, out of pity and adoration
for her loveliness, one day gives her shelter, when, after a
beating, she staggers into his poor shop. The ending involves
the tragic death of all of them, the final scene being
one of exquisite art. This is Griffith’s version, but the character
of Lucy Burrows is the same in both. This bit is from
Burke’s story:</p>
<p class='c010'>... always in her step and in her look was expectation of
dread things; ... yet for all the starved face and transfixed
air, there was a lurking beauty about her, a something that
called you in the soft curve of her cheek, that cried for kisses
and was fed with blows, and in the splendid mournfulness that
grew in eyes and lips.</p>
<p class='c002'>In the world of drama, there are rôles which the competent
artist “creates”—well, or less well—and makes his
own; there are rôles—oh, rarely enough—which are his
from the beginning, created <i>for</i> him: “Disraeli,” for
George Arliss—“The Music Master,” for David Warfield.
I have told my story very badly if the reader does not
recognize that for Lillian Gish, the character of Lucy
Burrows offered such a part: a part such as would not
come to her during more than another ten years, and
then, not for the screen.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>To a young man named Richard Barthelmess, lately a
graduate of Columbia College, Griffith gave the part of
the “Chinaman,” because he was rather small, very good-looking,
with a face that could make up “Chinese.” To
Donald Crisp, an Englishman (he had been General Grant
in “The Birth of a Nation”), he gave the part of Battling
Burrows. Crisp was a realistic person, and had a face that
in full war-paint was a thing to put fear into the stoutest
heart.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was just over the influenza—not equal to the
strenuous Griffith rehearsing. Carol Dempster, who had
been a dancer in “Intolerance,” rehearsed the part under
his direction. Lillian rehearsed with Barthelmess, earning
his gratitude.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was my first important picture,” Barthelmess said
recently, “and I was anxious to do it well. Lillian had had
six or seven years’ experience, and she was the soul of
patience.” Reflectively, he added: “Lillian, Dorothy, and
Mary Pickford are the three finest technicians of the
screen. I learned more from Lillian than from any other
person, except Griffith.”</p>
<p class='c002'>The labor of production began. Lillian had been promised
that she could work short hours, with nine hours each
night for sleep. But of course, Griffith could not stick to
that. He could not keep away from the studio; nor could
the others.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was during this strenuous period that Lillian evolved
what Griffith calls “the one original bit of business that
has been introduced into the art of screen acting.” In his
ghastly preparation for beating Lucy, Battling Burrows
pauses, and commands her to smile. Griffith and Lillian had
discussed how this could be done most effectively. Then, in
the midst of the scene, Lillian had an inspiration: Lifting
her hand, she spread her fingers and pushed up the corners
of her mouth. The effect was tremendous. “Do that
again!” shouted Griffith, and they repeated the scene until
they got that heart-wringing bit of technique to suit
them. Griffith couldn’t get over it.</p>
<p class='c002'>Another classic bit is where the cringing Lucy, to arrest
her father’s hand, looks up in an agony of pleading terror:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Daddy, your shoes are dusty!” And flings herself forward
to clean them.</p>
<p class='c002'>The closet scene was the climax—the terrible moment
where Lucy’s father is breaking in, to kill her. Nobody
could rehearse that for her. For three days and nights, she
rehearsed it almost without sleep. Small wonder, then, that
the hysterical terror of the child’s face was scarcely acting
at all, but reality. It is said that when the scene was “shot,”
there was an assemblage of silent, listening people outside
the studio, awe-struck by Lillian’s screams. Griffith,
throughout the scene, sat staring, saying not a word. Her
face, during the final assault and struggle, became a veritable
whirling medley of terror, its flashing glimpses of
agony beyond anything ever shown before or since on the
screen. When it was ended, Griffith was as white as paper.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”
he asked, shakily.</p>
<div id='illus179' class='figcenter id005'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-179.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>LILLIAN GISH AND RICHARD BARTHELMESS IN “BROKEN BLOSSOMS”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>“What impressed us all,” writes Harry Carr (he had
become Griffith’s assistant), “was that all her reactions
were those of a child. Her wild terror in the closet scene—the
finest example of emotional hysteria in the history of
the screen—was the terror of a child.” Carr further remembers
that she had been to several hospitals, to study
hysteria, and to inquire how one would be likely to die,
from beating.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Griffith was not quite sure what to do with “Broken
Blossoms.” He believed it a great artistic success, but it was
unusual, tragic: It might win great and instant approval;
it might be an utter failure. Harry Carr and Arthur Ryal,
the latter a well-known press agent, urged him to take it
to New York. Griffith agreed, and took everybody with
him. Morris Gest, who saw it at a private showing, “went
quite mad” over it: “Greatest picture the world has ever
seen—charge what you please for it. You can pack the
house at any cost.” They agreed that two and three dollars
would be the proper figure.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch15' class='c008'>XV<br/> <br/>“I WORK SUCH LONG HOURS”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>“Broken Blossoms” was first shown as the initial offering
of Griffith’s “repertory season” at the George M.
Cohan Theatre, New York, May 13, 1919, before as distinguished
an audience as had ever assembled in a Broadway
theatre. There was not a hitch anywhere. The film
was mechanically perfect; it was accompanied by special
haunting music. The Chinese scenes showed an effect of
pale blue lighting. Griffith, Lillian and Barthelmess were
present. When the picture ended, its success assured, Morris
Gest darted back stage, kicked over chairs, waved his
arms, wept and laughed hysterically. The Sun, next evening,
called it the “most artistic photoplay yet produced.”
The Tribune said: “<i>It is the most beautiful</i> motion picture
we have ever seen, or ever expect to see. When it was
over, we wanted to rush up to everyone we met and cry:
‘Oh, don’t miss it, don’t miss it!’” There was a great deal
more in the same strain, echoed by every critic. The elder
Schildkraut said of it: “I have seen every actress of Europe
and America during the last half century. Lillian Gish’s
scene in the closet, where she is hiding in terror from her
brutal father, is the finest work I have ever witnessed.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>And Lillian: if she had been no more than widely popular
before, she was indubitably famous now. All day long,
reporters and photographers waited outside her rooms at
the Commodore. Invitations piled on her table. What a
commotion!</p>
<p class='c002'>“Life,” she wrote Nell, “is just one long photograph and
interview.” Was she all they said? “Queen of the Silent
Drama”? “Duse and Bernhardt of the Screen”? How
could anyone be both? And why must she be anybody but
herself? Still, it was rather fun to have them say those
things; gratifying, too. Was she the little girl who such a
brief while ago had lost her little telescope bag, running
for a train, and slept on the station benches—tired, so
tired?</p>
<p class='c002'>She was tired, now. And there seemed no resting place.
Almost immediately back in Los Angeles, she was writing
Nell:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I work such long hours. Sometimes I don’t even see
Mother for days. Can you imagine us living in the same
house and hardly seeing one another?</p>
<p class='c002'>“I must go to the studio, now, to have what I hope will
be my last interview for years. I certainly was not made to
be famous, it is beginning to get on my nerves.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Somewhat later, she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>Nell, we don’t belong to that set where they think they buy
happiness with dollars. I think that is why I didn’t like New
York, this time—though of course I shouldn’t say that, as they
were wonderful to me, both the press and the people....</p>
<p class='c010'>The studio gave a party for Mr. Griffith, Saturday night; all
the stage-hands, electricians and working men, their wives and
families, and of course the actors, and such. It reminded me of
Massillon—was just such a party as we would have there—bright
studio, all decorated with lanterns, and music playing,
dancing, sandwiches, <i>baked beans</i>, ice-cream.... Madam (the
colored lady who cleans the place) sang and danced. Dick,
Dorothy and Bobby acted the fool—it was just a foolish party.</p>
<p class='c002'>Her taste was for her friends, her work—the simple,
daily round. Did she sometimes stop to look back over the
way she had come, and along a royal road that stretched
before? I think not often. She was not a dreamer in that
sense. When fan letters praised her to the skies, when the
newspapers labeled her “The World’s Darling,” she was
pleased, no doubt, but kept her balance; and sometimes,
about three in the morning, she found it no trouble to remember
that “the world’s darling” was just a frail, little
figure, huddled in the dark, trying to get to sleep.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch16' class='c008'>XVI<br/> <br/>DIRECTOR LILLIAN</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Griffith now took an important step. He removed
himself and his players from California to New York,
really to Mamaroneck, on Long Island Sound, where he
had leased the old Flagler mansion and grounds, and contracted
for a studio, soon to be completed. The mansion
itself would serve for the executive offices, possibly for
occasional scenes of grandeur. Lillian and her mother made
the transcontinental journey with Harry Carr, now
Griffith’s right-hand man. Their train passed through Massillon,
but at lightning speed. Carr remembers that all the
way across the country, Lillian looked forward to this
splendid moment, and though very late, refused to go to
bed until it had passed.</p>
<p class='c010'>She was greatly excited, and kept trying to point out things
to me, though you couldn’t see anything but the ticket office.
I was impressed by how much of the child she had.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian, with her mother and Dorothy, established themselves
at the Hotel Commodore, to be handy to the Grand
Central Station, and thus within thirty minutes of Mamaroneck.
It was costly, and sometimes they planned to
have a farm near the studio: “five acres, with pigs, cows,
chickens, horses.” At least, it was something to dream
about, for Spring.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith, having got his new studio about ready, conceived
the notion of making two pictures in Florida,
neither of them with a part for Lillian—a great disappointment,
for Nell still lived on the Blue Dog houseboat,
at Miami.</p>
<p class='c002'>However, there were compensations: Griffith wanted a
picture made in his absence, and agreed to let Lillian direct
it. To direct had been her ambition.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I have changed my career,” she wrote Nell, “—am a
director; yes, am directing Dorothy’s next picture; will
start Friday—have the story all rehearsed, and will start
taking, then.”</p>
<p class='c002'>They had done the story themselves, she and Dorothy.
It had been partly inspired by a piece of “business” that
Dorothy had found in a comic magazine: A husband had
complained to his wife that she wore such dowdy clothes,
no one would notice her on the street. When they went
out again, the wife walked a few steps ahead and made
faces at every man she met, with the result that all looked
at her, much interested.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We decided to make a picture around that situation”—Lillian
telling the story—“and call it ‘She Made Him
Behave.’ We were always looking for picture possibilities—particularly
for leading men. James Rennie was at the
moment in New York, disengaged, and was very glad to
get the part—his first picture. When I first proposed directing
a picture for Dorothy, Griffith said: ‘Why do you
want to break up your happy home?’ meaning that Dorothy
and I would fall out over it. We took the chance, and
he went away and left us.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“He went away and left us!” She was barely twenty-three.
However well-versed she was in the technique of
picture-making, she had never directed an entire picture.
She was taking over a new and untried studio; she was
assuming the responsibility of spending what was at least
a modest fortune. Moreover, Griffith had never seen the
script of the picture, for with Harry Carr to help, they
made many incidents and scenes as they went along. The
fact that Griffith was content to go away and leave the
venture in her hands, implies two things: First, that his
confidence in Lillian was large; second, that the motion-picture
business is conducted on less rigid lines than other
important enterprises. Both conclusions are warranted:
Griffith did know Lillian, and the motion-picture industry
is conducted like no other business on earth.</p>
<p class='c002'>To begin with, it is not really a business at all—not
merchandising. You are not buying something which you
are to sell again. You are creating something—painting a
canvas, doing it with human beings. Your accessories are
mechanical, but even here, the personal element is a chief
factor—the enthusiasm and good-will of the photographers,
the electricians, the stage-hands. Griffith believed
that Lillian could shape these to her taste. On the set, they
were her friends. She called them by their intimate studio
names: “Slim,” “Whitey,” “Joe,” and so on, and never left
a set that she did not go to each one, and in her grave,
dignified little way, thank him for the help he had been
to her.</p>
<p class='c002'>But let Lillian continue:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I believed that no director had brought out Dorothy’s
sweetness, especially her comic sense. I believed I could do
it. Of course, I had been in pictures a number of years,
and knew something about directing, but nothing at all
of practical mechanics. I knew nothing of the measurements
for a set, and was afraid the company would lose
respect for me if they found it out. I went home and
paced the floor of my room, measuring the number of
feet, to try to get some idea of what I wanted to talk
about when I got back to the studio. As a result, I ordered
a room that was too big for the height of it. The camera
couldn’t get far enough away, without shooting over the
back wall. The camera-man, who had come from the war
with a case of shell-shock, would walk up and down and
throw his hat on the floor, and declare he couldn’t stand
it. But he was really very kind, and we learned something
every day.</p>
<p class='c002'>“But then the worst developed. Mr. Griffith had bought
an engine to transform alternating to direct current, and
when we were ready to shoot the picture, we didn’t have
enough ‘juice’ for the lights. We had to put a wire all the
way from Mamaroneck, on poles, a costly job. Still it
wouldn’t do. We were promised the power, but we didn’t
get it. Sunday was my big day. Our picture had a wedding
party, and I could get extras from Mamaroneck,
thirty or forty of them, at two dollars a day; then, when
we were ready, our lights failed us. It would be six o’clock
in the evening before we could do anything. Perhaps not
even then.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Desperate as was the situation, she appears never to have
lost her nerve. In a letter from Harry Carr, always present,
we gather that her mechanical assistants were most
concerned.</p>
<p class='c010'>The kindness she had shown to the rough-necks came ripe.
They almost worked themselves to the bone for her. When
anything went wrong, they looked ready to faint in a body.
Lillian would sit hour after hour, alongside the camera, waiting
for the lights to come on. One day she sat there uncomplainingly,
from nine o’clock in the morning until eleven at night,
without a flicker of light.</p>
<p class='c002'>Uncomplainingly, but what must have been going on
inside. There was a small studio in New Rochelle, the
Fischer studio. It was a poor thing, but at least there were
lights. The Mamaroneck electric people promised that if
she would work there a few days, everything would be all
right when she got back. So they carted themselves and
their sets to New Rochelle, and began again.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was certainly a poor place,” Lillian remembered;
“Damp, the cellar full of water, no heat, and being late
November and into December, it was very cold. Often,
the actors had to hold their breath so it wouldn’t photograph.
The next Sunday we all moved back to Mamaroneck.
The lights, they told us, were all right, but that was
a mistake. Back we went to the Fischer studio. In all, we
moved back and forth three times. I very nearly lost my
mind.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Of course, I was responsible, and spending money—oh,
by the thousands. Mr. Epping, our business manager,
every night brought me the items of what we had spent
that day. I am not much at figures, but I could read the
total, which was not cheerful. But everybody stood by
me, the ‘boys,’ as we then called the electricians and property
men, especially. The actors, too—everybody.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The last day’s work had to be done on Fifth Avenue,
New York. It happened to come on the day before Christmas,
and I didn’t want to postpone it. We engaged a bus,
from which Dorothy had to look down and see her ‘husband’
ride by in a cab with another woman. To work on
the street without a permit laid us open to arrest and fine,
with a good chance of spending Christmas in jail. To get
a permit would take time, which we could not afford.
‘Will you take a chance?’ I asked those who were going
to do the scene. They agreed that they would, but things
had a dubious look.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Nevertheless, we got our bus and our taxicab, and
started. I was on the bus with the camera-man—George
Hill, now a famous director—Dorothy at the other end,
the taxi just below. We had not gone a block when an
enormous policeman started over, to see what it was all
about. Then he took a good look at me and stopped,
placed his fingers at the corners of his mouth and ‘put up’
a smile.</p>
<p class='c002'>“You remember the scene in ‘Broken Blossoms,’ where
the brutal father commands his terrified daughter to smile.
I knew right away the big policeman had seen it. He really
smiled, then, and so did I. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said. ‘Yes,
and this is my sister, Dorothy, and we’re trying to finish
a picture before Christmas.’ ‘Go right on,’ he said. Farther
up the Avenue, another policeman called out: ‘What do
you think you’re doing up there?’ I put up the smile myself,
that time, hoping he had seen the picture. Evidently
he had, for he laughed and waved us along. I thought it
safer not to break any new ground, so we turned and
made the circuit. We made it several times, and were not
troubled again, but helped.</p>
<p class='c002'>“That night we knew we were done, and everybody
was so happy, and so sorry, weeping on one another’s
shoulders. By the time Mr. Griffith came home, our picture
was nearly all cut, and ready. When he saw and
approved of it, I was very happy, but it had nearly
killed me.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian decided that directing was not for women. “Remodeling
a Husband,” as the picture was finally called,
turned out a financial success. She had spent fifty-eight
thousand dollars, and twenty-eight days, making it, but
it netted a profit of a hundred and sixty thousand dollars,
and doubled Dorothy’s picture value. She was proud of all
that, but did not care to try it again. A little while ago
David Wark Griffith said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Lillian directed Dorothy in the best picture Dorothy
ever made. I knew she could do it, for whenever we were
making a picture I realized that she knew as much about
it as I did—gave me valuable ideas about lights, angles,
color, and a hundred things. She had brains, and used
them, and she did not lose her head. You see what confidence
I had in her to go off to Florida and leave her to
direct a picture in a new studio, with all the problems of
lights and sets, and a thousand other things a director has
to contend with. I know how her lights failed on her, and
all the complications that came up, and how she handled
them, and how, out of it, she got that fine picture. One
of the best. She didn’t tell me, but Carr did.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch17' class='c008'>XVII<br/> <br/>“WAY DOWN EAST”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Griffith now began work on his greatest melodrama.
“Way Down East” had been successful as a book and a
play, and was precisely the sort of thing he could do best.
From William A. Brady, for a large sum, he secured the
picture rights, and plunged into production. There were
to be two great outdoor scenes: a blizzard, in which the
heroine, who has been inveigled into a mock marriage—and
is, therefore, under the New England code, fallen and
outcast—is lost; and the frozen river, which, blinded and
desperate, she reaches, to be carried to the falls on a cake
of ice. There was very little that was artificial about such
scenes, in that day: the blizzard had to be a real one, the
ice, real ice—most of it, at any rate. Griffith began rehearsing
some scenes at Claridge’s Hotel, in New York,
continuing steadily for eight weeks; but all the time there
was an order that in case of a blizzard, night or day, all
hands were to report at the Mamaroneck studio. Lillian
had taken Stanford White’s house on Orienta Point. Reading
the play, she knew it was going to be an endurance
test, and went into training for it. Cold baths, walks in
the cold against the wind, exercises ... she had faith in
her body being equal to any emergency, if prepared for it.
In a magazine article, a few years later, she wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>The memorable day of March 6th arrived, and with it a snow-storm
and a ninety-mile-an-hour gale. As I was living at
Mamaroneck, near the studio, I quickly reported, and was made
up as Anna Moore, ready but not eager for the work to be
done. The scene to be taken was the one just after the irate
Squire Bartlett turns Anna out of the house into the storm.
Dazed and all but frozen, she wanders about through the
snow, and finally to the river.</p>
<p class='c002'>The Griffith studio was on a point or arm well out in
Long Island Sound. The wind swept this narrow strip
with great fury. The cameras had their backs to the gale.
She had to face it.</p>
<p class='c002'>She had been out only a short time when her face became
caked with snow. Around her eyes this would melt—her
lashes became small icicles. Griffith wanted this, and
brought the cameras up close. Her lids were so heavy she
could scarcely keep them open.</p>
<p class='c002'>No need of spectacular “falls.” The difficulty was to
keep her feet. She was beaten back, flung about like a toy.
Her face became drawn and twisted, almost out of human
semblance. When she could stand no more, and was half-unconscious,
they would pull her back to the studio on
a little sled and give her hot tea. A brief rest and back to
the gale. Griffith had invested a large sum in the picture,
and she must make good. One could not count on another
blizzard that season. Harry Carr writes:</p>
<p class='c010'>That blizzard scene in “Way Down East” was real. It was
taken in the most God-awful blizzard I ever saw. Three men
lay flat to hold the legs of each camera. I went out four times,
in order to be a hero, but sneaked back suffocated and half
dead. Lillian stuck out there in front of the cameras. D. W.
would ask her if she could stand it, and she would nod. The
icicles hung from her lashes, and her face was blue. When the
last shot was made, they had to <i>carry</i> her to the studio.</p>
<p class='c002'>A week or two later, they were at White River Junction.
Vermont, for the ice scenes. Griffith took a good
many of his company, and they put up at an old-fashioned
hotel, a place of hospitality and good food.</p>
<p class='c002'>White River Junction is at the confluence of the White
and the Connecticut rivers. There is no fall there, but the
current moves at the rate of six miles an hour, and the
water is deep. The ice was from twelve to sixteen inches
thick, and a good-sized piece of it made a fairly safe craft,
but it was wet and slippery, and <i>very cold</i>. It was frozen
solid when they arrived; had to be sawed and dynamited,
to get pieces for the floating scene. Lillian conceived the
idea of letting her hand and hair drag in the water. It was
effective, but her hand became frosted; the chances of
pneumonia increased. To the writer, recently, Richard
Barthelmess, who had the star part opposite Lillian, said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Not once, but twenty times a day, for two weeks,
Lillian floated down on a cake of ice, and I made my
way to her, stepping from one cake to another, to rescue
her. I had on a heavy fur coat, and if I had slipped, or
if one of the cakes had cracked and let me through, my
chances would not have been good. As for Lillian, why
she did not get pneumonia, I still can’t understand. She
has a wonderful constitution. Before we started, Griffith
had us insured against accident, and sickness. Lillian, frail
as she looked, was the only one of the company who passed
one hundred percent perfect—condition and health.</p>
<p class='c002'>“No accidents happened: The story that I missed a signal
and did not reach Lillian in time, and that she came
near going over the falls, would indicate that she made
the float on the ice-cake but once. As I say, she made it
numberless times, and there were <i>no falls</i>. Lillian was
never nervous, and never afraid. I don’t think either of us
thought of anything serious happening, though when I
was carrying her, stepping from one ice-cake to another,
we might easily have slipped in. I would not make that
picture again for any money that a producer would be
willing to pay for it.”</p>
<div id='illus195' class='figcenter id009'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-195.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“ANNA MOORE”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>At the end of the ice scene, there is an instant when
the cake, at the brink of a fall, seems to start over, just as
Barthelmess, carrying Lillian, steps from it to another,
and another, half slipping in before he reaches the bank.</p>
<p class='c002'>The critical moment at the brink of the fall was made
in summer-time, at Winchell Smith’s farm, near Farmington,
Connecticut. The ice-cakes here were painted blocks
of wood, or boxes, and were attached to piano wire. There
was a real fall of fifteen feet at this place, and once, a carpenter
went over and was considerably damaged. In the
picture, as shown, Niagara was blended into this fall, with
startling effect.</p>
<p class='c002'>Barthelmess remembers that Lillian kept mostly to herself.
She took her work very seriously—too much so, in
the opinion of her associates. But once there was a barn-dance
at the hotel, in which she joined; and once she and
Barthelmess drove over to Dartmouth College, not far
distant, with Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Clifton, to a dinner
given them by Barthelmess’s fraternity. After dinner, they
heard a great tramp, tramp, and someone said to Lillian:
“It’s the college boys, coming to kidnap you.” They sometimes
did such things, for a lark.</p>
<p class='c002'>But they only wanted to pay their respects. They gathered
outside the window, which Mr. Clifton opened, and
both Lillian and Barthelmess spoke to them through it.</p>
<p class='c002'>The summer scenes of “Way Down East” were made at
Farmington and at the Mamaroneck studio. Griffith had
selected a fine cast, among them Lowell Sherman, the
villain; Burr McIntosh, as Squire Bartlett; Kate Bruce, his
wife; Mary Hay, their niece; and Vivia Ogden, the village
gossip. The scene where Squire Bartlett drives Anna Moore
from his home, was realistic in its harshness, and poor Burr
McIntosh, a sweet soul who long before had played Taffy
in “Trilby,” and who loved Lillian dearly, could never get
over having been obliged to turn her out into the storm.
Often, in after years, he begged her to forgive him.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>A few minor incidents, connected with the making of
“Way Down East,” may be recalled: Griffith had spent a
great sum of money for the rights—$275,000, it is said—and
was spending a great many more thousands producing
it. He was naturally on a good deal of a tension. All were
working to the limit of their strength, but they could not
hold the pitch indefinitely. When Barthelmess, who is
short, had to stand on a two-inch piece of board, to cope
on terms of equality with Lowell Sherman, Sherman, who
was a trained actor of the stage, could, and did, make
invisible side remarks which made Barthelmess laugh.
Whereupon, Griffith raged at the waste of time and film,
and everybody was sorry, the villain penitent. “Stop that
laughing! Turn around and face the camera,” were sharp
admonitions perpetuated by a right-about-face in the picture
to this day.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was harsh in form, rather than by intention. They
did not resent these scoldings. They believed in Griffith,
knew something of his problems, wanted him to make
good.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was one scene during which Griffith had no word
to offer—the scene in which Anna Moore (Lillian) baptizes
her dying child. Harry Carr writes:</p>
<p class='c010'>The only time I ever saw a stage-hand cry was in the baptism
scene in “Way Down East.” It was made in a boxed-off corner,
with only D. W., Lillian, the camera-man, a stage-hand and
myself there. Everybody cried. It never made the same impression
on the screen, because it was necessary to interrupt the
action with the sub-titles. You saw her dripping the water on
the baby’s head; then a sub-title flashed on, saying: “In the
Name of the Father, etc.,” and the spell was broken.</p>
<p class='c002'>Carr, Lillian and Griffith would sit far into the night,
watching rushes from the scenes made the day before. It
was a drowsy occupation—so many of the same thing—and
after a day in the open, it was not surprising that
Carr should nod. Across a misty plain of sleep, Griffith’s
voice would come to him: “Which shot do you like best,
Carr?”</p>
<p class='c002'>It is noticeable in the baptism scene, that Lillian sits
relaxed, her knees apart; that when she leaves the house,
she walks with a dragging step, as one who had recently
experienced the struggle and agonies of child-birth. It has
been suggested that she had visited a maternity hospital
for these details. When asked, she said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“No, I did not do that. There was an old woman connected
with the studio, who had borne a number of children.
She told me all that I needed to know. I learned
something, too, from pictures of the Madonna, by old
masters. I noticed in all of them that the Madonna sat
with her knees apart. I felt that there must be a good
reason for painting her in that way.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She had studied out every detail of the scenes she was
to play. Many actors, even among the best, work by another
method. They absorb the feeling of the plot, fling
themselves into a scene, depending upon an angel to kindle
the divine fire. This method never was Lillian’s. To her,
the bush never of itself became a burning bush. She lit
the fire and tended it. She knew the effect she wanted to
produce, and found no research too tedious, no rehearsal
too long—no effort too great, to achieve her end.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>“Way Down East” was shown in October. Griffith, with
Lillian and Barthelmess, were present in person, in the
larger cities. It was like a triumphal tour. To present the
“world’s darling” in scenes of actual danger, on the screen,
and then have her appear in person, was to invite something
in the nature of a riot. Reporters indulged in the
most extravagant language. And there was a freshet of
poetry, and of letters—love-letters, many of them, but
letters, also, from persons distinctly worthwhile. David
Belasco, whose “most beautiful blonde” verdict had long
since gone into the discard, démodé, wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'><i>Dear Lillian Gish</i>,</p>
<p class='c010'>It was a revelation to see the little girl who was with me
only a few years ago, moving through the pictured version of
“Way Down East” with such perfect acting. In this play, you
reach the very highest point in action, charm and delightful
expression. It made me happy, too, to see how you and your
name appeal to the public.</p>
<p class='c010'>Congratulations on a splendid piece of work, and good wishes
for your continued success.</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Faithfully,</div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>David Belasco</span></div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>John Barrymore went even further, when he wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'><i>My dear Mr. Griffith</i>:</p>
<p class='c010'>I have for the second time seen your picture of “Way Down
East.” Any personal praise of yourself or your genius regarding
the picture I would naturally consider redundant and a little
like carrying coals to Newcastle....</p>
<p class='c010'>I have not the honor of knowing Miss Gish personally and
I am afraid that any expression of feeling addressed to her she
might consider impertinent. I merely wish to tell you that her
performance seems to me to be the most superlatively exquisite
and poignantly enchaining thing that I have ever seen in my
life.</p>
<p class='c010'>I remember seeing Duse in this country many years ago, when
I imagine she must have been at the height of her powers—also
Madame Bernhardt—and for sheer technical brilliancy and
great emotional projection, done with an almost uncanny simplicity
and sincerity of method, it is great fun and a great
stimulant to see an American artist equal, if not surpass, the
finest traditions of the theatre.</p>
<p class='c010'>I wonder if you would be good enough to thank Miss Gish
from all of us who are trying to do the best we know how in
the theatre.</p>
<p class='c010'>Believe me,</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>Yours very sincerely,</div>
<div class='line'><span class='sc'>John Barrymore</span></div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Mrs. Gish, who was not a motion-picture enthusiast,
made a single comment:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Well, young lady,” she said, “you’ve set quite a high
mark for yourself. How are you going to live up to it?”</p>
<div id='illus201' class='figcenter id003'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-201.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>THE RIVER SCENE IN “WAY DOWN EAST”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>“Way Down East” was one of the most popular and
profitable pictures ever made. Net returns from it ran
into the millions. It has had several revivals, and at the
present writing (Winter, 1931), is being shown at the
Cameo Theatre, New York, “with sound.” Its day, however,
is over. Taste has changed—has become what an
older generation might regard as unduly sophisticated, depraved.
This, with mechanical advancement—the talking
feature, for instance—tells the story. A picture of even
ten years ago—five years ago—is without a public.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Way Down East” is a melodrama, but one that at
moments rises to considerable heights. Putting aside the
spectacular features of the picture—the blizzard and the
ice-drift, where melodrama is raised to the nth degree—the
scene where the villain reveals to his victim that their
marriage was a mockery, the scene where Anna Moore,
about to be turned out into the storm, denounces her
betrayer, and the baptismal scene, already mentioned, are
drama, and, as Lillian Gish gave them, worthy.</p>
<p class='c002'>And, after all, what is, and is not, melodrama—and
cheap. Cheap—because it is human. That is why we have
invented for ourselves a hereafter—a place away from it
all—of rest by green fields and running brooks. Very well,
let us agree that the play was cheap, especially the comedy,
which was low comedy and about the record in that direction.
But if Lillian’s acting was cheap, and poor, then
there is very little to be said for any acting, which, God
knows, may be true enough, after all!</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch18' class='c008'>XVIII<br/> <br/>SAD, UNPROFITABLE DAYS</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian to Nell, June 30, 1920:</p>
<p class='c010'>Do you know that I am leaving Mr. Griffith? “Way Down
East” that we are on, will be my last. I go with the Frohman
Amusement Company, between the 1st and 15th of August. I
am to make five pictures a year, for two years. If I make successful
pictures, I shall make a lot of money. If I don’t, well,
kismet—it’s all a gamble, anyway.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was more of a “gamble” than she knew. Strictly
speaking, there was no such thing as the “Frohman Amusement
Company.” No Frohman—no <i>amusement</i> Frohman—had
anything to do with it. That was just a part of the
gamble. Griffith, apparently, thought it all right, and so
did his brother, for it was the latter who made the connection.
Had Lillian made inquiries on her own account,
her eyes might have been opened sooner, and less expensively.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith and Lillian parted on the friendliest terms.
Griffith said to her:</p>
<p class='c002'>“You know the business as well as I do. You should be
making more money than you can make with me.” He did
not say: “Stay with me and share in the prosperity which
you have brought, and will bring me. No one can be more
successful than we two together.” To a simple-minded
literary person, this would seem to have been the wisest
course. Lillian thinks he had perhaps grown tired of seeing
her around.</p>
<p class='c002'>She did not make five pictures for the Frohman company,
or even one. She did begin one, “World’s Shadows,”
by Madame de Grésac, who claims here a word of introduction:</p>
<p class='c002'>Somewhat earlier, Lillian had met this gifted French
lady, god-daughter of Victorien Sardou, wife of the
singer, Victor Maurel, herself a dramatist who had written
French, English and Italian plays for Réjane, Duse, Marie
Tempest, and others of distinction. Familiar with the best
literary and art circles of Paris, considerably older than
Lillian, small, red-haired, quick of speech—French, in the
best meaning of the term—she was a revelation to the
younger woman, who in spite of her years on the stage
and screen, was a good deal of a primitive as to world
knowledge, and art in its less obvious forms. The two
were mutually fascinated: Madame de Grésac, dazed and
delighted by Lillian’s gifts and innocence; Lillian, stirred
and awakened, and sometimes shocked, by the French-woman’s
brilliant mentality, her knowledge of life, her
freedom of expression. In a brief time, they were devoted
friends, confidantes.</p>
<p class='c002'>When the so-called Frohman company wanted a picture
for Lillian, Madame de Grésac agreed to prepare one.
She did so, but about the time rehearsal was under way,
Lillian’s first (and only) salary cheque from the company
was returned from the bank, unpaid—“No funds.” They
explained to her that certain backers had disappointed
them. It may be so. At all events, there was a hitch somewhere,
in this particular gamble. Lillian carried on, as a
number of players had come with her from the Griffith
staff, and as they seemed to be getting their money, she
could not leave them in the lurch. But, of course, the end
came. Their pay, also, stopped. The thing that had never
really existed, ceased to function. It was all a fiasco—a
tragedy ... so many tragedies in the show business.</p>
<p class='c002'>“World Shadows” was discarded. It made no difference
between the two friends. If anything, they were closer
than before. The day was coming, not so many years
ahead, when they would combine in another play—a
success.</p>
<p class='c002'>Madame’s husband, Victor Maurel, besides being a
singer, had a passion for painting, and persuaded Lillian to
pose for him. Lillian, with a view of sometime going back
to the stage, greatly desired voice culture. They agreed
that in exchange for half an hour’s posing, he would devote
half an hour to training her voice. She had then
finished “Way Down East,” which Maurel seemed to love.
He watched it, time and again; then he had her go into
a separate room, a dark room, and convey the feeling of it—paint
the picture, as it were, with her voice. This was
priceless training. It gave her voice a quality and value it
had not possessed before. “From Maurel,” she said afterwards,
“I got my consonants.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Except for the triumph of “Way Down East,” a triumph
not easy to understand in this more crowded, more
inattentive day, that year of 1920 was hardly a cheerful
one. For one thing, Mrs. Gish was in poor health. Dorothy
had taken her to Italy, which might have been well enough
but for the circumstances of their return.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was the tragedy of Bobby Harron that brought them
back. On September first, alone in his hotel room, Bobby
shot himself. For years, he had been as one of the family.
From the days of the Biograph company, he had taken
part in pictures with both Lillian and Dorothy; he had
shared the hardships and dangers of those days and nights
of bomb and shrapnel, in London and France. He had
been a brother to them—to Dorothy, for a time, at least,
something more. Now, he was dead.</p>
<p class='c002'>Exactly what happened will always be a mystery.
Lillian, in Philadelphia, where they were opening “Way
Down East,” wrote Nell:</p>
<p class='c010'>These have been terrible days—the worst I have ever known.
You have heard about it by this time, I imagine—about Bob:
He was in his room, unpacking an old trunk, when a pistol fell
out and exploded, the ball going through his lung. That was
Sept, 1st, at 10:30 in the morning. He was taken to Bellevue,
where he seemed to improve—we all held such high hopes—until
Sunday morning, at 7:55, he breathed his last. Mother and
Dorothy were some place in Italy—could get no word to them
until Wednesday. They are taking the first boat home, which
leaves today.</p>
<p class='c002'>Bobby had been a Catholic, and when his mother and
sister arrived, not knowing that he was dead, it fell to
Lillian, with a priest, to meet them and break the news.
Later, she took them home and looked after them for several
weeks.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p2ch19' class='c008'>XIX<br/> <br/>PICTURING THE REIGN OF TERROR</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian was in a position to make a new start. She made
it with Griffith, who was having troubles of his own getting
a group of players together for a production suited to
his Mamaroneck studio. He wanted to do “Faust,” but
Lillian prevailed upon him to do “The Two Orphans,”
which would give Dorothy a good part, as Louise, the
blind sister. Griffith agreed, and rehearsing for the new
picture was soon under way. Lillian’s salary was now a
thousand dollars a week. The bark of the wolf, which had
become noticeable, died away.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Orphans of the Storm,” as it was finally called, began
as a rather close picture version of Kate Klaxton’s old
play. Two sisters set out for Paris by stage-coach, to
obtain cure for the blind Louise. One of them, beautiful
Henriette, is kidnapped on arrival, by a dissolute roué, the
other is picked up by the terrible Madame Frouchard and
compelled to beg in the streets. In the picture, the rescue
and reunion of the sisters is brought about through a
handsome young aristocrat who, under revolutionary ban,
is sentenced to death on the guillotine. Henriette (Lillian)
herself is involved, and narrowly escapes—being on the
scaffold with her head under the knife at the moment of
rescue. The revolutionary feature was a Griffith addition
to the original play.</p>
<p class='c002'>Griffith spent great sums on the settings of this picture.
He was never one to be sparing in such matters while his
money held out, with the result that he was likely to be
brought up with a round turn, at the end. For the guillotine
scene, he required a great number of extras, and he
could not afford to assemble them more than once. One
morning he called up all the weather bureaus, and even
an old man who had the rheumatism, to find out if it was
going to rain. All said that it would not, and he got out
the big crowd for the guillotine episode, as big as he could
afford. And it didn’t rain, but it was cloudy. Never mind,
he would make the picture anyway. He could not assemble
that crowd again.</p>
<p class='c002'>Interesting things happened during the making of the
picture. Harry Carr recalls that a certain actor, fresh
from Broadway, with the tricks not unfamiliar there, had
the habit of easing back from the camera in his scenes
with Lillian, so that she would have to turn her face to
speak to him. She did not complain, but “Whitey,” head
electrician, came to Carr, pale with anger:</p>
<p class='c002'>“You tell that kike,” he said, “that the next time he
does that, us boys will drop a dome light on his bean. Lots
of accidents happen in studios, and one is about to happen
now.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Carr passed along the information, with the result that
the offender made no more mistakes—was almost afraid
to leave his dressing-room. According to Carr, Frances
Marion, the distinguished scenario writer, once said:
“There is plenty of real chivalry in motion picture studios,
but it’s all to be found among the juice-gangs.” Carr adds:</p>
<p class='c010'>Griffith had a way of rehearsing plays until everybody wished
himself dead—chairs for horses—tables for thrones, etc. He
rehearsed with anybody who happened to be around. Kate
Bruce was rehearsed weeks on end, for a part that she very
much wanted, but which Griffith, with his dread of the irrevocable,
had never really assured her she could play. Lillian
at last cornered him, just before the picture actually began.
He reluctantly said that he supposed “Brucie” would get the
part. “Then please let me tell her,” pleaded Lillian. “All right,”
assented D. W., and Lillian ran to her like a little girl. Brucie
was sitting in a chair on the set. Lillian almost picked up her
frail little body. I don’t know what they said, but they stood
there, crying in each other’s arms. They both realized that it
would probably be Brucie’s last big part.</p>
<p class='c010'>When Lillian got a new part, she flung herself into it completely.
She wanted to know what such a girl would eat; what
she would do on her holidays; what colors she would like. Making
“Orphans of the Storm,” Lillian turned herself into French.
She read French books, and did everything to avoid talking,
even to us, who might drag her out of the picture.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Orphans of the Storm” was finished in time to open in
Boston about the end of the year 1921. Lillian and Dorothy
accompanied Griffith to the first showing; also, to
other first showings in the larger cities—as far South as
New Orleans, as far West as Minneapolis and St. Paul.
Everywhere they were fêted and entertained; in New Orleans
the railway station was crowded when they arrived;
the news correspondent says that a procession with a “real,
honest-to-goodness brass band led the way to the City
Hall, where the Mayor of New Orleans gave Lillian and
Dorothy Gish a warm welcome and the freedom of the
city.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Perhaps there were not brass bands everywhere, but
always a crowd, always entertainment, always a reception
on the stage after the picture, with demands for a speech,
which Lillian had to make. In Washington, they were
given a special luncheon by President and Mrs. Harding,
with great boxes of flowers which, with Griffith standing
between them, Lillian and Dorothy were obliged to hold
while they were being photographed. The papers spoke of
the “democracy of these two celebrities, who were so
cheerfully willing to meet in a ‘closeup,’ in the lobbies,
after their appearance on the stage, proving the bigness of
their characters.” True enough, but there was another side
to it: Lillian to Nell:</p>
<p class='c010'>We have been going around the country on the “Orphans”
tour. It is all so nerve-racking. I would rather do anything else,
but if it helps Mr. Griffith, of course I could not refuse, and I
suppose it is a good experience. You can’t be a hermit all your
life, though I do not enjoy crawling out of my shell.... I
was never made for this life—if they would only let me go by
unnoticed.</p>
<p class='c002'>She could not hope for that. They had her back in
Boston, to ornament the hundredth showing, and the celebration
was greater than ever. Miss Crabtree, once the
adorable “Lotta,” was there. Lillian went into a stage box
to see her. The little old lady, darling of a former generation,
kissed her affectionately, and taking her hands, sat
stroking them. Presently she said, softly: “Take care of
your beauty, dearest—it goes so soon—so very, very soon.”</p>
<p class='c002'>In an interview, Lillian expressed a belief that colleges
might give moving-picture courses, thereby improving the
standards of both acting and morals in productions of the
future. This was seized upon by the Harvard Dramatic
Club, and she was urged to speak at the Harvard Union.
She had spoken briefly at a number of churches, during
her travels, and presently we find her addressing an audience
of several thousand, at the Chelsea Methodist Episcopal
Church, in 178th Street, New York. The burden of
her purpose, as to the pictures, she conveyed in these
words:</p>
<p class='c002'>“The industry needs the development that the people
of the church and the educators can give it. We players
are doing our very best to get rid of all objectionable elements,
but we want outside help.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The time is coming when educational pictures will fill
library shelves, exactly as books do now, and the universities
should anticipate library educational advance. This
is a great reason why cinema courses should be given in
colleges.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She did not write her speeches. She carried in her head
a few main points, and spoke extemporaneously. Her
clear, trained voice, reached every part of the great edifice—a
treat for those who heard her. One of them, a woman,
wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>If I were a poet, I suppose I might make a lovely poem about
you; or I might, were I a painter, try to put on my canvas
something so glorious that it would speak to everyone of what
an inspiration and delight you are; but I am nobody at all—nobody
except your sincere admirer.</p>
<p class='c002'>And it was another woman who wrote of “Orphans of
the Storm”:</p>
<p class='c010'>I cannot get over your acting: I never feel the reality of a
character so keenly as when you portray it. And there is no
raving. Why, I have watched you play emotional scenes in
which you scarcely moved a finger, and still, as someone said:
“Your silence is as golden as the voice of Bernhardt.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Which brings us back to the picture itself.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was a beautiful and successful production. Some of
the sets were especially fine: The garden picture, for
instance, with its setting of palace and fountain and richly
costumed guests, its magnificent outer gates.</p>
<p class='c002'>The court scene, the sinister tribunal of the Revolution,
was terribly realistic; the ghastly guillotine climax was
quite as horrible as it was intended to be, with only the
usual fault of such picture episodes, that the suspense was
too prolonged—prolonged to a point where the horror
evaporated.</p>
<p class='c002'>The finest scene in the picture is where Dorothy, as
the blind Louise, is singing in the street, while Lillian, in a
room above, absorbed in the narration of Louise’s mother,
hears and gradually recognizes her sister’s voice, and then
is unable to reach her. The awakening recognition, gradual,
tender, startled, in Lillian’s face, compares with the
best of her screen work.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The old stage-coach in which Lillian and Dorothy drove
to Paris ... whatever became of it? It was too good to
go the way of old properties. “Orphans of the Storm” was
worthy of Griffith and of Lillian. It seems fitting that
their long association should finally end in this distinguished
and happy way.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' /></div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='large'>PART THREE</span></div>
</div></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch01' class='c008'>I<br/> <br/>ITALY</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Life, always a serious matter to Lillian, became more so.
Mrs. Gish underwent a major operation—was in grave
danger. Lillian, at work on the set in Mamaroneck, was
likely at any moment to be summoned to the Presbyterian
Hospital in New York. When the patient was able to be
moved, they brought her by ambulance to a house they
had taken in New Rochelle. Later to an apartment on
Park Avenue—three moves within a year, seeking comfort
for the sufferer.</p>
<p class='c002'>Spring was saddened by the death of Victor Maurel,
who had done so much for her voice. His funeral services
were held in New York. Lillian attended with his widow,
Madame de Grésac, and there met Madame Calvé, who
had been his pupil. In the carriage on the way to the
grave, Madame Calvé told the others how she had been
in Boston, knowing nothing of his danger. Suddenly she
had felt that something was wrong with him. The feeling
was so strong that she had taken the train for New York.
He was dead when she arrived.</p>
<p class='c002'>A few weeks after the funeral, Calvé asked Madame de
Grésac and Lillian to come to her apartment, a beautiful
place in the Hôtel des Artistes, on Central Park. She sang
for them. Her voice was so enormous that it seemed as if
it might burst the walls. She said that Victor Maurel’s
training had made it what it was. She danced for them—the
peasant dances—until the people downstairs sent up
word that their chandeliers were about to come down. She
was so eager to divert the little widow. Too eager for her
own good: she danced so hard, that night, and so long,
that next day she could not start on her tour.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was unsettled as to what she should do. Again,
Griffith agreed with her that she should be making more
money, and perhaps it did not seem to either of them that
any picture they could do together would make enough
for both. He was an extravagant producer, and her financial
obligations had become very heavy. In March she
wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“My next picture, if all goes well, will be made by
myself, so if it makes money I may get some of it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She had been negotiating with the Tiffany Company,
considering an offer of $3,500.00 a week, to make four or
five pictures a year, when her representative, Frederick
Newman, was approached by the president of a new producing
company, a meeting which marked the beginning
of an episode wholly different from anything she had
known.</p>
<p class='c002'>Her old fellow-player, “Dick” Barthelmess, was already
with the new company, and had produced “Tol’able
David,” directed by Henry King, a success of which all
his friends were proud. Lillian had not been much impressed
by the Tiffany offer, mainly for the reason that
they seemed to be doing circus pictures, and she did not
fancy the idea of being cast for something with a slack-wire,
or a trapeze, in it. She agreed with Newman to meet
the chief official of the new company, and a few days
later, lunching at the Ritz, the three discussed picture
possibilities and terms. The new producer was a convincing
talker. Lillian was favorably impressed, especially as
he agreed to take Dorothy, who would play with Barthelmess
in two pictures, with Lillian in two pictures, after
which she would be given a contract of her own.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s contract, which she signed that summer
(1922), gave her $1,250.00 a week, and an added 15%
after a certain amount had been earned. She thought this
a highly satisfactory arrangement, as it made her returns
depend largely upon the quality and success of the pictures.
Recently, she said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“All that summer I was looking for material for my
first picture. We had two women read all the heap of
things submitted. Whenever they found something they
thought Dick or I might use, we read it. I nearly read my
eyes out. One of the women, Lily Hayward, one day
brought me Marion Crawford’s ‘White Sister.’ It struck
me immediately as good picture material.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Ever since my winter at the Ursuline School in St.
Louis, I had thought of the nuns as earnest women, hard-working
and kindly. My memory of them was an affectionate
one—romantic. There had been a time when I
fancied I might have a vocation for the veil. The cloister
has appealed to so many who later became actresses. I have
regretted, sometimes, that I did not follow that early
inclination.</p>
<p class='c002'>“There was another special reason why the book appealed
to me as picture material: I saw a chance to get
in a scene showing the ceremony of taking the veil—a
scene not really in the book at all.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She met with plenty of opposition. Everybody, it
seemed, objected to the story, on the ground that it was a
religious picture, “the one thing motion pictures would
be wise to let alone”—everybody but Griffith, in whose
studio she made some tests. Griffith thought it a beautiful
story. Her producer also believed in it, because, as he said,
he had faith in her judgment. Henry King, who had
directed Barthelmess, was not enthusiastic, at first, but
warmed to the prospect of a trip to Italy.</p>
<p class='c002'>By October they were ready to go—all the players engaged
except the leading man. James Abbe, a photographer,
gave up a good business in New York to become
their “still” man, and to assist in other ways. Abbe was
valuable. One morning, quite excitedly, he called up
Lillian, saying he believed he had found a man for the
lead. His name, he said, was Ronald Colman, playing with
Henry Miller and Ruth Chatterton, in “La Tendresse.”</p>
<p class='c002'>They arranged to have a test made in Abbe’s studio,
that same afternoon. Lillian went down; King directed the
test. All privately agreed that Colman was what they
wanted; next morning, when they saw the tests, they were
sure of it. Colman declared himself willing to go, and
everybody voted “Yes—if we can get him.” Henry Miller,
when he learned the situation, generously agreed to release
him from his part, which, though not the lead, was important.
This was not only to oblige them, but to give
Colman the opportunity he wanted. It was on Thursday
morning that they saw the tests. On Saturday of the same
week they sailed—twenty-four of them—on a Fabre Line
steamer, bound for Naples.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was raining when we left Brooklyn,” Lillian remembers,
“and very dismal and disheartening, especially as I
was leaving Mother and Dorothy behind—Mother being
still in the Catskills. Dorothy and Mary Pickford came
with me to the ship—a great comfort.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It was hardly a lazy voyage. Colman knew nothing
about playing before the camera. Director King rehearsed
him in his parts with Lillian, and with the whole company,
as soon as they got their sea-legs. The Providence
has a little after-deck, which the captain ordered enclosed
in canvas for their use. It was a very busy place during
several hours of every day. The Providence was a good
ship, and the Southern route is nearly always delightful.
It was never too cold to rehearse, and afterwards, one
could sit drowsily in a deck chair and pretend to read,
or lean over the side, looking at the bluest of blue water,
or watching bits of skimming silver that were flying fish,
and the big, black, graceful bodies that were porpoises.
One never ought to cross by that friendless Northern
route.</p>
<p class='c002'>On the ship with them, by great good luck, was Monseigneur
Bonzano, high prelate of the Church, then on his
way to Rome to be made a Cardinal. Lillian quickly became
acquainted with him. They put in much of their
spare time discussing the picture she was to make—ways
and means for its accomplishment. It was easy to realize
that the churchman was won to the idea when he mentally
associated the face before him with the part of the White
Sister. And Lillian, regarding Bonzano, was infinitely impressed.
His personality, his attainments, his human understanding,
went far beyond anything she had ever
known.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I think he had the most beautiful face I have ever
seen. He had traveled in many countries, and lived a long
time in China. He spoke Chinese and any number of other
languages and dialects. He had an understanding of all
races. It was destiny that he should have been on that boat.
Without him, we could hardly have made our picture. We
were between the Church and the Fascisti. Through him,
later, the doors of all Catholic Institutions were opened
to us. When we stopped at Palermo, he took us through
the great church where the mosaics are. He had us shown
the treasure, and the jeweled robes. It was early November
in Palermo, and very lovely. We landed at Naples.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Italy! All the way to Rome, Lillian looked out the
window. She was tired, but no matter. It was evening,
there was a mist on the field—the vines trailing from tree
to tree, Italian fashion, were like wonderful great spiderwebs.
She would never forget that vision. It was eleven
when they reached Rome.</p>
<p class='c002'>Rooms had been engaged at two hotels, the Excelsior
and the Majestic. Lillian and her companion, Mrs. Marie
Kratsch, of Massillon, were at the former. Very tired, they
went promptly to bed. Then it seemed that almost immediately
they were awakened by an astonishing sound—the
bells of Rome! Never in her life had she heard anything
like that. Why, they were right in the room!</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>In Rome they found a small studio—sunlight, and four
little Klieg lights, when they needed at least fifty, possibly
a hundred. They ordered them from Germany, but did
not sit down to wait for them. Lillian rehearsed the company
while Director King looked for locations. Now and
again she visited convents, forty or more, to decide what
Order to use. She finally chose the Order of Lourdes.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We also began building our sets.” [Lillian remembering.]
“We used the Villa d’Esti, as the convent, and built
all the interiors, the chapel, etc. We built the most beautiful
interiors I had ever seen. Our library walls were of
solid carved wood, so beautiful that we wanted to put
walls around them, and live in them. I think no other
moving picture sets were ever as beautiful as those we
built in Rome and Florence. This had to be so, because
they were to match up with a real hall or corridor. Construction
was far cheaper than in America, but that was
not all—oh, by no means! We got there a feeling that it
is impossible to get here: the workmen had a love for what
they were doing and expressed it in the carving, or whatever
the work was.”</p>
<p class='c002'>So many of the critics had likened her acting to that
of Duse. Yet she had never seen Duse ... hardly expected
to, now. She was to have her chance, however.
Soon after her arrival in Rome, Duse was given an engagement
at the Constanta Theatre.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I gave a party for the occasion—Mr. King and his
wife, Mrs. Kratsch and myself. The play was ‘Ghosts.’
You may remember Gordon Craig once designed scenery
for it, especially for her. Isadora Duncan tells of it in her
‘Life.’ It saddened me to find the house not more than
half filled. I was told that this was not unusual in Italy,
where the young, fresh actress is always the favorite over
one who has seen her best days. She fascinated me. I could
not get enough of her. And then, at the end, a single white
wreath, the flowers beginning to droop, was handed over
the footlights. It was like a funeral offering.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Every night while she was there, I saw her, and
through a mutual friend we exchanged affectionate messages.
I was to have called on her; but then I heard that
she was ill, and I said they must not let me come. A year
later, during her last visit to America—when she died in
Pittsburgh—I saw her, in New York. It was in ‘The Lady
from the Sea,’ and they gave her an opening night at the
Metropolitan Opera House. It was a great triumph. It
made up, I thought, for her neglect at home. I have never
seen any theatre so packed as that was. Every seat, every
standing-space ... Morris Gest had floored over the
orchestra pit and placed chairs there.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I was very busy, and did not know that I could attend.
When I found I could get away, I telephoned to Mr. Gest
and asked him if he could possibly get me in, anywhere—in
the wings—anywhere. He said that he would take care
of me, and when I got there I found that he had placed a
chair in front, on the floor he had built over the orchestra,
so I got to see her at that close range.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Long after, in Pittsburgh, where I was playing in
‘Vanya,’ a newspaper woman, Mrs. Parry, told me that if
anyone ever died of humiliation, Duse did ... her life
had known so many heartbreaks. I have a very precious
souvenir. When Duse died, the King of Italy sent a wreath
of white roses, to be laid on her casket. John Regan, a
ship-news reporter, one of my good friends, obtained a
bud from it, put it into a small Italian box, of carved
wood, with a little Botticelli reproduction, ‘The Three
Graces,’ on the cover, and sent it to me. It is one of my
priceless possessions. It always stays on a little table at the
head of my bed.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s early weeks in Rome remain among her happiest
memories. The little girl who once had been dragged
through a sordid succession of one-night stands, with such
interest as smoky towns and sodden fields could provide,
was having her innings at last. They visited the Pincio,
drove out the Appian way, and saw the Coliseum by
moonlight. What a night it was! There was music all
about—at one place, someone was playing a violin. Farther
along, someone was singing.</p>
<p class='c002'>And the churches—she tried to visit them all! There
are said to be three hundred and sixty-five churches in
Rome, and if one makes a wish on one’s first visit it is
almost sure to be granted. She made wishes all over Rome,
and left candles burning for her mother’s health.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was not very long after their arrival that the grand
ceremony, where Monseigneur Bonzano and others were
made Cardinals, took place at the Vatican. All the players
were asked to attend, and were much excited. They had to
rise at five-thirty, to be there on time. The hour set for
the ceremony was six-thirty—ladies to be in black, high-necked
dresses, black veils over the head (not face), men
in full evening dress, long coats, white ties.</p>
<p class='c002'>The guards were costumed in the dress designed by
Raphael, the ambassadors all in the most gorgeous array.
Lillian thought them very handsome, chosen, no doubt,
for their physical appearance. Two actors—Mr. Charles
Lane, who played the part of Lillian’s father, and Mr.
Barney Sherry—Monseigneur in the picture—were so distinguished
looking, so imposing, with their white hair and
fine faces and stately figures, that they were mistaken for
ambassadors and ushered into the room where the ceremony
took place. The Pope came in a golden chair, carried
by twenty-four men, accompanied by the Sistine Choir,
the gorgeous ambassadors, and the scarlet and ermine clad
cardinals.</p>
<p class='c002'>On Christmas Eve, she went with Mrs. Kratsch to Midnight
Mass. That was beautiful, too, and very strange. So
many things in the church. Some of the people had
brought their dogs, or cats, even a goat. Two young people
were making love. Leaving the glory of the great altar for
the street, was to go to the other extreme. A little way
along, was a stable. Looking in, they saw a mother leaning
against a donkey, nursing her baby. It might have been
the Manger at Bethlehem.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The lights came from Germany, but there was still
trouble. All Rome could not supply enough “juice” to run
them. Mamaroneck over again. Eventually an engine was
brought from Civita Vecchia. They had expected to finish
the “White Sister” in three months, at the longest. It
would take double that time, or more.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch02' class='c008'>II<br/> <br/>“THE WHITE SISTER”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>The story of “The White Sister” is not an unusual
one. A beautiful young girl, defrauded of her fortune,
pledges her love to a young army officer, who almost immediately
goes to Africa, whence presently comes the
news that he has been massacred with a detachment of
his men. Broken-hearted, but clinging to hope, the bereaved
girl becomes a lay sister in a Catholic institution—a
hospital—and after long years of waiting, takes the vows
of the Order, becomes a nun. Of course, at once, the
soldier, who all these years has been a caged prisoner,
returns, sees her, demands that the Church give her up,
even kidnaps her, temporarily in the belief that she will
require her freedom at the hands of the Pope. In the book,
he gets her as a reward for unexampled bravery in a
catastrophe. In the picture, he is even braver, but has to
rely on Heaven for his reward, for Angela (Lillian) remains
true to her vows, and in any case, Giovanni (Colman)
does not survive the catastrophe.</p>
<p class='c002'>The tragic ending was thought better for the picture,
with something more spectacular than a mere explosion
of a powder magazine for the catastrophe. Henry King
was for a flood; Robert Haas, art director, for a volcanic
eruption. In the end, they had both, also an earthquake—to
start the flood. Of course, that meant changing the
scene of the story. It was too costly, even for a motion
picture magnate, to bring Vesuvius to Rome, so they
moved Rome to Vesuvius—that is to say, they moved
Angela’s convent to a town on the slopes above Naples,
where the volcano would be handy. A laboratory, an important
feature in the picture, they likewise built on the
Vesuvian slope, but as Vesuvius could not be counted on
to erupt on schedule, Haas built a miniature and dependable
volcano in the studio.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We worked very late,” Lillian remembers, “and I can
still see Bob Haas, those nights when we were all tired
out, sticking his head from the crater of his pet property,
with some inane remark that would set us all off in a gale
of wild laughter.</p>
<p class='c002'>“During our stay in Naples, I was given a room in the
Excelsior Hotel, with a window that looked out directly
on Vesuvius. At that time of year, the sun seemed to
rise from the crater. It was a room that Duse had once
occupied.</p>
<p class='c002'>“In Rome, our studio was on the outskirts. From my
dressing-room, I could see the dome of St. Peter’s in the
distance. We ate our luncheon in a little detached house,
where the caretaker and his wife lived. The room was
small, and all gathered round one table ... simple food,
spaghetti, sardines, cheese, and always red wine with
water. And then the Italian bread! A sandwich of Italian
bread and sardines, with red Italian wine—nothing is
better than that! We named our projection-room ‘The
Catacombs,’ for it was a kind of cave, and had the same
atmosphere. Our studio being small, we occupied every
corner of it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Soon after the first of the year, they began “shooting”
the picture. They had trouble at the start, getting extras,
and workmen. Italians will not drop what they are doing
and come to a stranger, even at double price. Finally,
when they decided that the picture-makers were reliable—and
sane—they came in droves, and remained.</p>
<p class='c002'>One day, Count and Countess Carlo Frasso (she had
been American) came out to see the work. It was where
Giovanni is going to war: the lovers embrace, and Angela
weeps. The Count and Countess expressed surprise that
“Angela” shed real tears. They did not know that tears
could be turned on in that way. She was invited to their
palazzo, to dine. A duke of the royal house was there, a
large, handsome man, to whom the ladies made beautiful
curtsies, after the custom of the Court. The room was
enormous, with many ambassadors in their splendid uniforms.
Lillian was much impressed by the height and
grace and physical beauty of the upper class Italians.</p>
<p class='c002'>Through Cardinal Bonzano they secured the assistance
of the Church. Priests even came to the studio, to supervise
the scenes, to see that no mistakes were made in the
appointments and ceremonies. The company was given an
audience with the Pope, and Lillian saw him several times
afterwards. All the things she wore in her part he
blessed.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian loved Rome, and tried to enter into the spirit of
the people and the Church, for the sake of her part. She
studied Italian, and little by little, learned to speak and
understand, pretty well. She wanted to think and feel as
Angela would think and feel ... to know Rome as Angela
would have known it—its ancient monuments, its
social aspects, its religious ceremonies, its feast days. Rome
at Easter Time ... the Sancta Scala, where one ascends
all the steps on one’s knees; Saint Paul’s on Good Friday,
for the Gregorian Chants; Saint Peter’s on Easter Morning,
where all the world goes by ... the spirit of the
Church, of Rome, of Italy, were in these—and in the
market places, the streets, the beggars ... everywhere.</p>
<p class='c002'>Henry King got up his flood at Tivoli, near Rome.
There is a fall there, and in some way the engineers
held the water until the moment when the volcano
and the earthquake were supposed to cause a dam to
break and flood the little city that was on the slopes of
Vesuvius.</p>
<p class='c002'>The “eruption,” we made at the little town of Rocca
di Papa, above Rome. They took up great airplane
propellers to make the wind. Before an eruption, there
comes a great hush—then wind with lightning, then the
earthquake. The people of the village were engaged to be
the panic-stricken crowd. They had no need of stage
direction. When the big propellers started, they were
frightened enough without being told. The wind those
propellers made was terrific. The place became a bedlam
of swirling dust and frantic people. Dust flew that had
not been moved for five hundred years. A real eruption
could hardly have frightened them worse.</p>
<p class='c002'>“That day, and the next, were killing days for me.”
Lillian remembered. “From eight-thirty in the morning,
in the sun and dust, making scenes and bits that were
a part of the great eruption; then back to the studio, and
after a bath, make-up and costume, the great scene where
Angela takes the veil. I should have been in perfect condition
for that scene, and I was in about the worst possible.
We kept at it steadily through the night, until nine-thirty
next morning, twenty-five hours at a stretch, without
sleep. Then I was allowed two hours and a half of rest. I
slept some of it, but right away jumped into work again,
and kept at it until eleven that night, when I was put into
an automobile with Mrs. Kratsch and motored to Florence,
stopping for a brief rest at Orvieto.</p>
<p class='c002'>“At Florence I saw the studio, costumes, sets, etc., that
had been partly arranged for, to be used in ‘Romola,’
which we were going to do the following winter. Nobody
works harder than motion picture players—in the heat
and glare of blazing lights, in all kinds of weather—twelve,
fifteen, twenty-four hours on end.</p>
<p class='c002'>“From Florence to Paris, and to Cherbourg. On the
ship, I got into a cabinet bath, and then went to bed. I
did not know when we sailed, and I slept the clock twice
around without a break. I started with a terrible cold, but
the bath and the rest cured it.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We had begun ‘The White Sister’ in November, and it
was now June. In New York King and I worked at the
cutting, all through the summer, until the last of August,
getting twelve reels ready for the big theatres. At the
same time we were putting ‘Romola’ into shape to picture.
King presently went back to Italy to begin work on
it, while I remained to cut ‘The White Sister’ down to
nine reels, for the road, a difficult and anxious job.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>“The White Sister” made its first appearance, “World’s
Premiere,” at the 44th Street Theatre, New York City,
Wednesday evening, September 5, 1923. There was a
special souvenir program, tied with a blue cord, with
Lillian’s picture on the outside and a message from Doug
and Mary within.</p>
<p class='c002'>The crowd poured in. Behind the curtain, on a soap
box, Lillian and Dorothy anxiously waited the public
verdict. Lillian wore a new ivory velvet dress, ordered for
the occasion. She had been going to wear one of her old
gowns, but Dorothy and the others had shamed her into
buying a new one. She was certain to be called on, they
said, and what a disgrace to appear at less than one’s best.
So the new gown had been made on short notice, and now
draped itself around the soap box, while the reels that told
the story of Angela and Giovanni unwound, to lovely
music, and their figures flickered silently across the screen.
Two sisters, that twenty years before, night after night,
had waited much in the same way to “go on” in their
childish parts. Did they remember that? Probably not—they
were too anxious, too expectant, and when presently
the applause came roaring through to them, they hugged
each other, for it seemed to mean success.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was a long waiting, nearly two hours, but it was over
at last, and there came a great final uproar, Lillian
was summoned, and in the glory of her ivory velvet, appeared
before the curtain, and when the deafening burst
of greeting had subsided, made a brief speech, and the
great first night was at an end.</p>
<p class='c002'>She had arranged a small supper at her apartment in
the Hotel Vanderbilt, just the family. A telegram from
Mrs. Gish, by this time in California, had come:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Mother wishes you all success possible in your new picture.
I know that you will be sweet and dear in it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Her health was much better. She would go with them
to Florence, for “Romola.” Probably the two years or
more of Lillian’s Italian picture episode would not show
another night as happy as that one.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The White Sister” proved an undeniable success.
Lillian’s ethereal presentation of her part would insure
that, and even when some random critic raised his voice
in timid protest as to the artistic structure of the edifice,
his accents were drowned in the chorus of applause: The
picture was unique. It had been made with the sanction
and aid of the Church. The Vatican had fixed upon it its
seal of approval. That settled that.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Now that seven years and a day have gone by, one seeing
“The White Sister” again, as the writer of these chapters
has seen it, rather recently—may, perhaps, speak of it with
a steadier pulse. There could be no question as to Lillian’s
part in it. At more than one moment in the sequence
she rose to great heights, and at no time was her performance
less than distinguished. At one instant—it is
where she is prostrated by the shock of Giovanni’s reported
death—the spasmodic twitching of her cheek—the
result of long rehearsal—was hardly less than miraculous.</p>
<p class='c002'>As a whole, however, she had done better work than in
“The White Sister.” In “Broken Blossoms,” for instance—and
she has done immeasurably better work since: in “La
Bohême,” in “The Scarlet Letter,” in “Wind,” in her part
of Helena in Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya,” her stage play of
1930. Also, a good deal of her personality was lost in “The
White Sister”—had become mere costume. Of all people,
Lillian is the last to be standardized by uniform.</p>
<p class='c002'>The picture itself was hardly a structural triumph.
Briefly, its beginning and its middle seem not very logical,
its ending hopelessly disproportionate. A volcanic eruption,
an earthquake and a flood, for no better reason, when
all is said, than to kill a poor soldier who had already spent
five years shut up in a rabbit-hutch. Nothing he had done
warranted his being drowned like a rat in a flooded ditch.
If all of us who have been tempted to kidnap the woman
we loved, in, or out of the Church, deserve drowning,
then it’s high time to invite a return engagement of
Noah’s flood. If Ronnie Colman—Giovanni, I mean—had,
perforce, to renounce his heart’s desire, surely a simpler
and less unbeautiful way than that might have been invented.
A volcano, an earthquake and a flood—such a
rumpus, only to bring death and redemption to one unhappy
soldier! To have let him ride or sail out of the
picture, going back to Africa, would have been infinitely
less expensive, and even more heartbreaking, assuming
that this was what the picture intended to be. At any rate,
it caused the shedding of many tears. In Germany, it was
immensely popular—in no other land are tears such a
luxury.</p>
<p class='c002'>It had been Lillian’s wish to dedicate the picture to the
Sisters of the Ursuline Academy in St. Louis, her old
school, and she hoped to go back there and run it for
them, but was never able to carry out this purpose.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>From the Director of Entertainments at Sing Sing
Prison, Lillian received an invitation to appear before the
prisoners, on the occasion of a showing—not of the new
picture, but of “Broken Blossoms,” which, it appears, had
strangely enough become their favorite picture—for five
years had been voted as such.</p>
<div id='illus233' class='figcenter id009'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-233.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“THE WHITE SISTER”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>She hesitated. She thought it could only be a sad occasion,
but she could not refuse. A day was arranged, and
she made the beautiful drive through the free air and sunshine,
to a community where the outer scene was limited
to prison walls. She was met by the Warden and one other
official. Then they left her, and the prisoners were assembled.
She found herself alone with them. At first, it
was strange, uncanny, then delightful. All were so courteous
and interested. After the picture was shown, she
talked to them. She told them how the play was made.
They regarded her with deep attention, hanging eagerly
on every word. When she had finished, they gathered
about her. One among them had been a friend of Thomas
Burke, who wrote the story. By the time she was ready
to go, she had forgotten they were prisoners, and at the
door asked her escort:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Aren’t you coming with me?”</p>
<p class='c002'>He smiled a faint, sad smile.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Only so far, Miss Gish, and no farther.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Speaking of it, she said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I believe criminals are only mentally and morally ill.
The State employs judges to send them to prison. Why
not employ doctors, to diagnose and treat them?”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch03' class='c008'>III<br/> <br/>“ROMOLA”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Reports from “The White Sister” showed that it was
going to make record runs—that returns from it would be
very large. Catholics and Protestants alike approved it.
Father Duffy, of the Fighting Irish 69th Regiment, of
New York, wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>I wish to nominate “The White Sister” for a high place on
the White List of dramatic performances.... It is religion
struggling with human passions, as in real life, and gaining its
victory after storm and stress.</p>
<p class='c002'>Chicago society deserted the opera on the opening night
of “The White Sister,” and similar reports came from
elsewhere. Lillian’s personal tribute—her “fan” mail—assumed
mountainous proportions: offers of engagements,
protection, marriage, requests for loans ... what
not?</p>
<p class='c002'>Meantime, one must get on with the next picture. King
was already in Italy, making a pirate ship scene. Lillian
finished cutting down “The White Sister,” for road use,
an arduous, delicate work, and with Mrs. Kratsch, sailed
in November. Dorothy was to be in “Romola,” and with
her mother had sailed a little earlier.</p>
<p class='c002'>To Genoa, then Florence, where they put up at the
Grand Hotel on the Arno, with an outlook on the Ponte
Vecchio, all that the heart could desire, if the weather
had only been a little more encouraging.</p>
<p class='c002'>It began to rain, and it continued to rain—“about nineteen
days out of twenty,” Dorothy said. Dorothy thought
the rain not very wet rain—not at all like English and
American rain—not so solid—light, like ether. But one
evening, the rain stopped, and when they woke in the
night, there was a strange silence. In the morning, there
was another sound—also strange—strangely familiar.
Dorothy looked over at Lillian.</p>
<p class='c002'>“If we were in America, I should say they were shoveling
snow.”</p>
<p class='c002'>They hopped out of bed, and to the window. It <i>was</i>
shoveling, and it <i>was snow</i>. “Very unusual,” they were
assured later. But then, winters in Southern Europe quite
often are unusual. Even sunshiny ones.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The picture of “Romola” follows the main incidents of
George Eliot’s novel. Lillian, of course, had the part of
Romola, Dorothy that of Tessa, Ronald Colman that of
Carlo Bucelline. To William H. Powell was assigned the
part of Tito; Herbert Grimwood was given the part of
Savonarola, and looked so much like him that when he
walked along the streets of Florence, children would point
him out. Altogether, the cast was a fine one.</p>
<p class='c002'>They had expected to use a number of real scenes in
Florence—the Duomo, the Piazza Signoria, etc., but found
that modern innovations—telegraph wires and poles, street
car tracks, and the like—made this impracticable. On
their big lot in the outskirts of the city, they built an
ancient Florence, a very beautiful Florence, of the days of
Savonarola. They did use the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient
bridge, though a second story had been added a generation
later than the period of their picture. And they used the
Arno in several scenes.</p>
<p class='c002'>Rain or no rain, their lot became a busy place. They
brought the “White Sister” equipment from Rome, and a
small army of artisans and laborers began to work wonders.
In a brief time, a quaint old street sprang up—along
it shops of every sort, just as they might have been four
hundred years before ... real shops, in which were made
every variety of paraphernalia required for the picture:
costumes, harness, basketry, hats, footwear, furniture—everything
needed to restore the semblance of a dead generation.
They even set up a little restaurant, and ate their
luncheons there. Animals—dogs and cats—walked about,
or slept in the sun. Flocks of pigeons were in the air, or on
the house-tops. During the brief visit of the year before,
they had asked that these be raised on the lot. It was all
realistic, and lovely. Wood-carvers were at work on the
rich interiors, some of them more beautiful, even, than
those of “The White Sister”: a great church interior, and
a banquet hall, for Romola’s wedding. At one side of the
lot were small buildings, where the distinguished artist,
Robert Haas, with his staff, worked at the drawings. For
the great wedding feast, they could not get period glasses
in Florence, so sent a man to Venice, and had them specially
blown. Lillian remembers the banquet hall as very
rich, exquisite in detail—the scene as a whole, one of
peculiar distinction.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We had for it a lot of titled people of Florence, who
were eager to be in the picture. We had very little trouble
to get anything we needed in the way of extras. In some
of the scenes, we had hundreds of them.</p>
<p class='c002'>“One thing we did not get so easily: For the wedding,
we needed 15th Century priest robes. We heard of some
up in the hills, but we could get them only on condition
that we engage four detectives to guard them, two by
day, two by night.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We had to guard ourselves, for that matter. Florence
has many Americans, and they have not much to do. If
we had let in all who called, we should have had a perpetual
sequence of social events, with very little work.
We had many invitations, but could not accept them. I
think we went out just once, for dinner. When we had a
little time in the afternoon, we liked to go to Doni’s, for
tea, or to shop a little, for linens and laces. Whatever of
such things we have now, Mother bought that winter in
Florence.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Every night we literally prayed that the next day
would dawn clear and bright, so that we might make up
our lost time. But no! Maybe, as Dorothy said, the Italian
‘dispenser of weather,’ didn’t understand English.</p>
<p class='c002'>“One cannot too highly praise the Italian workmen.
Over and over, ours would work on a set that it might
be the exact replica of a 15th Century design. Italian
workmen are willing to be told, and possess an astonishing
ambition to do a thing exactly as it should be done.”</p>
<p class='c002'>They began “shooting” the scenes. They had no regular
scenario. They worked, as it were, inspirationally. They
did not know very exactly what they were going to do
when they began a scene, and they were not quite sure
what they had done when they finished it. The element of
accident sometimes produces happy results, but it is unsafe
to count on it. “Romola” developed into a kind of
panorama—a succession of lovely pictures, without very
definite climaxes.</p>
<p class='c002'>They worked hard. For one thing, they were experimenting
with a new film, the panchromatic, which had
never been used for an entire picture, and they did their
own developing. One of the chief beauties of “Romola”
is the richness of its photography.</p>
<p class='c002'>What with the weather and all, the making of “Romola”
was hardly what the French call “gai.”</p>
<p class='c002'>There were lighter moments: In the scene where Dorothy
is supposed to drown in the Arno, she tried for an
hour to sink in that greasy, unclean river. She couldn’t
swim, so it had to be done in shallow water. She didn’t
like to pop her head under, either, but they told her if she
would fill her lungs with air and hold her breath, there
would be no danger. She was plump, and her bones were
small. Being filled with air made her still more buoyant.
Also, she had on a little silk skirt that got air under it and
ballooned on top of the water. Dorothy simply couldn’t
drown. When she popped her head under, the little skirt
stuck up in a point like the tail of a diving duck. Such an
effect would never do for a picture like “Romola.” From
their window in the Grand Hotel, Mrs. Gish and Lillian,
watching through a glass, laughed hysterically at Dorothy’s
efforts to drown. Dorothy finally struck: she could
stand no more of the Arno water. The scene was finished
one chilly day in America—in Long Island Sound. Dorothy
had a cold at the time, and they thought she would
contract pneumonia. But that was a poor guess. When
she came out of the water, the cold was gone. Clean, salt
water, Dorothy said.</p>
<p class='c002'>In the picture, Dorothy, as Tessa, has a baby. They borrowed
the cook’s baby, the youngest of nine, a fat, robust
bambino, strapped to a board, Italian fashion; easy enough
to carry, properly held, but not handy for cuddling.
Juliana was her name, and as lovely as one of Raphael’s
cherubs—lovely, even among Italian children, all of whom
have little madonna faces, because for generations expectant
mothers have knelt ardently before altars and wayside
shrines. Lillian and Dorothy became fond of Juliana, took
walks with her, carrying her, board and all—a burden
which increased daily as Juliana got fatter and fatter.
They wished Juliana would not grow quite so fast; there
were scenes where they had to run with her. Italian babies
are seldom warm, in winter. One day, Juliana broke out
with a rash, which at first they thought was measles, but
was only the result of the studio heat, heat from the great
Klieg lights.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian had a maid named Anna, a large, lovely soul, but
a menace. If one got an ache or a pain, Anna came running
with an enormous Italian pill, the size of those on
the Medici coat-of-arms. After a day at the studio, in the
strained “Romola” poses, Lillian once mentioned having a
back-ache. Anna commanded her to undress and lie down.
A very little later she came bringing a bath towel, and a
flat-iron, the latter quite definitely warm. Then, turning
the world’s darling face down, she spread the towel on
her back and proceeded to iron her. It was drastic,
but beneficial. The ironings became a part of the daily
program. Anna decided that her mistress needed blood,
and cooked for her apples in red wine. They were delicious.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Romola” was finished near the end of May. The last
scene was the burning of Savonarola, terribly realistic.
Lillian got so near the fire that she was scorched. A few
days later they saw the rushes and she was ready to go.
The great Italian episode was over. It was unique, and
remains so. Big companies do not go on foreign locations
any more. They build Italy or any part of the universe
on their lots in Hollywood.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian in America found that she had been chosen by
Sir James Barrie for the picture version of “Peter Pan.”
No one could have been better suited to the part, and it
greatly appealed to her. But there were complications.
Regretfully she put it aside.</p>
<p class='c002'>Pleasant things happened: Dimitri Dirujinski and Boris
Lorski modeled busts of her; Nicolai Fechin did her portrait,
as Romola. The last was given a special exhibition in
the Grand Central Art Galleries, with a reception to Lillian
and the artist under the patronage of Cecelia Beaux
and New York’s social leaders. It was bought by the Chicago
Art Institute and today hangs in the Goodman
Theatre of that city.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>“Romola,” released through the Metro-Goldwyn Company,
had two great premières: at the George M. Cohan
Theatre, New York, on Monday, December 1st, 1924,
and at the Sid Grauman Theatre, Hollywood, on the following
Saturday. Lillian and Dorothy, with their mother,
managed to attend both. The Los Angeles opening was so
much more a part of the “picture” world that we shall
skip to it, forthwith.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was unique. Manager Grauman had stirred up all Los
Angeles and Hollywood over the return of the Gish girls
with a new picture.</p>
<p class='c002'>They had anticipated no reception at the train. King
was already in Los Angeles; he might be there ... a few
friends, maybe, not more. But when the train drew in,
they noticed a great assembly of expectant people, most
of them wearing badges—a rally of some sort, a convention.
Lillian and Dorothy stepped to the train platform,
and were greeted with a shower of rose-buds, thrown by
gay little girls who had baskets of them; a vigorous and
competent band struck up; a siren began to blow; everybody
shouted and pushed forward; all those badges had
on them the word GISH; all the battery of cameras that
began to grind was turned on them; the rally was their
rally—a welcome—welcome home to Los Angeles.</p>
<p class='c002'>Producers and directors were there. Irving Thalberg,
handsome, youthful-looking, pressed forward. Mrs. Gish,
thinking him from the hotel, handed him her checks, and
a moment later was apologizing. But he said it was all
right—he was always being taken for his own office boy.
John Gilbert was there, and Norma Shearer, and Eleanor
Boardman, and ever so many more. A crowd of students
from the Military Academy rallied around; also, a swarm
of “bathing beauties” from the Ambassador, and a fire
engine came clanging up, for the Fire and Police Departments
had been called out. A news notice says:</p>
<p class='c010'>A squad of motorcycle policemen and fast cars of the Fire
Department, made an escort for the automobile provided for
Lillian Gish, Dorothy and their mother, through the downtown
district. Sirens and bells added to the noise of welcome.</p>
<p class='c002'>Not much like the old days, when with Uncle High
Herrick, they had landed with “Her First False Step” at
a one-night stand.</p>
<p class='c002'>They drove to the Ambassador Hotel. Mary Pickford
had not been at the train, but they found her standing
in the middle of their “flower embowered drawing-room”—never
more beautiful in all her life, Lillian
thought.</p>
<p class='c002'>By and by, Mary, Lillian and Dorothy, motored out to
the old Fine Arts Studio, where “The Birth of a Nation”
and so many of Griffith’s other pictures, had been made.
They found the old place hidden behind a brick building.
“Intolerance” had been made there, and “Broken Blossoms.”
Douglas Fairbanks and many others had begun,
there, their film careers. They recalled these things as they
looked about a little sadly, at what had once been their
film home.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Manager Sid Grauman had gone to all the expense and
trouble he could think of to make this a record occasion.
“Romola” was following Douglas Fairbanks’ “Thief of
Bagdad.” It must not fall short.</p>
<p class='c002'>“<i>A première without a parallel. A night of all nights.
The most gala festivity Hollywood has ever known. An
opening beside which other far-famed Egyptian premières
will pale into insignificance.</i>” These are a few bits of Manager
Grauman’s rhetoric, and he added: “Every star, director
and producer, will be there to pay homage to Lillian
and Dorothy Gish.”</p>
<p class='c002'>They were there. The broad entrance to the Egyptian
was a blaze of light and gala dress parade. The crowds
massed on both sides to see the greatest of filmland pass.
Doug and Mary (who had already run “Romola” in their
home theatre), Charlie, Jackie ... never mind the list,
they were all there. High above, the name of LILLIAN
GISH blazed out in tall letters. When she arrived, and
Dorothy, and their mother, their cars were fairly mobbed.
Cameras were going, everybody had to pause a moment
at the entrance for something special in that line. Manager
Grauman was photographed between the two stars of the
evening, properly set off and by no means obliterated,
small man though he was, by the resplendent gowns.</p>
<p class='c002'>After which, came the performance. Manager Grauman
had fairly laid himself out on an introductory feature.
There were ten numbers of it, each more astonishing
than the preceding: “Italian Tarantella,” “Harlequin and
Columbine,” “The Eighteen Dance Wonders,” but why
go on? It was a gorgeous show all in itself.</p>
<p class='c002'>After which, the beautiful processional effects of
Romola’s story.</p>
<div id='illus245' class='figcenter id005'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-245.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“ROMOLA”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>There was no lack of enthusiasm in the audience. When
the picture ended and the lights went on, and Lillian and
Dorothy appeared before the curtain, the applause swelled
to very great heights indeed. And when a speech was demanded,
Lillian, in her quiet, casual way, said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Dear ladies and gentlemen, both Dorothy and I do so
hope you have liked ‘Romola.’ If you have, then, dear,
kind friends, you have made us very happy, very happy
indeed ... and you have made Mr. King, who directed
‘Romola,’ very happy, too.”</p>
<p class='c002'>From the applause that followed, it was clear that there
was no question as to the importance of the occasion—all
the more so, had they known that, for Hollywood, at
least, it was the last public appearance of these two together.</p>
<p class='c002'>The critics did not know what to make of “Romola”—did
not quite dare to say what they thought they felt.
To William Powell, as Tito, nearly all gave praise; some
regretted that Ronald Colman did not have a better part.
Dorothy, as Tessa, had given a good account of herself,
they said, and Charles Lane, as Baldassare. Of Lillian’s
spirituality and acting there was no question, but there
were those who thought the part of Romola unequal to
her gifts.</p>
<p class='c002'>As to the picture, one ventured to call it “top-heavy,”
whatever he meant by that. One had courage enough to
think it “a bit dull.” Another declared that it contained
all the atmosphere and beauty of the Florence of Lorenzo
de Medici. “Romola” was, in fact, exquisite tapestry, and
the dramatic interest of tapestry is a mild one.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch04' class='c008'>IV<br/> <br/>ALSO, THE INTELLIGENTSIA</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>A brief lawsuit in which Lillian was involved at this
time added greatly to her prestige. In October (1924),
for what she felt to be just cause, she had broken off
relations with her producers. Suit for breach of contract
followed. At the trial, held in a small, crowded room of
the Woolworth Building, the chief executive of the picture
corporation testified to a number of remarkable
things, among them that Miss Gish had engaged herself
to marry him, all of which notably failed to convince
Judge Julian W. Mack, who, on the second or third
morning of the trial, rose and summarily dismissed the
case against Lillian, and after a few well-chosen words to
her accuser, held him “to bail in the sum of $10,000”
(I quote the minutes) “to answer to the charge of perjury.”
He was indicted, but Lillian, with no wish, as she
said, to send anyone to prison, declined to appear against
him, and the case was dismissed.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s following was now enormous ... of the
whole world, for in no obscure corner of it was her face
unfamiliar, or unwelcomed.</p>
<p class='c002'>There was something almost magical about this universal
homage. Men and women alike paid tribute. Reporters
ransacked dictionaries for terms that would convey
her elusive loveliness—likened it (one of them) to
“the haunting sadness of an old Spanish song, heard as
the light fades from the evening sky.”</p>
<p class='c002'>What heaps of letters! And if, as has been said, she was
wanting in sex-appeal, why all the marriage proposals?
Why so much poetry? Just one young man wrote eleven
little volumes of poetry—pretty good poetry, if there is
such a thing, even if not entirely sane (what poetry is?)—and
it was printed by hand with the utmost care and
beauty.</p>
<p class='c002'>Also, she was being discovered by the “intelligentsia,”
whatever that word means. If, as appears, it has to do
with intelligence, it would seem to apply to the great
masses who had hailed her as an artist and raved over her,
almost from the beginning. Never mind—she was now
definitely recognized as an Artist—taken up by the elect,
who in the long run, have something to say about Art,
and affix the official stamp. And having discovered her,
they proceeded to burn incense and chant orisons to her
as their special saint and <i>déesse</i>, just as the others had been
doing for a good ten years and more.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>As early as 1921, Edward Wagenknecht, a young don
of the Chicago University, met her, and straightway
hailed her as the “artist’s artist.” Further he declared:
“Words, especially prose, seem horribly wooden in discussing
her.... Hers is a personality which can be adequately
described only in terms of music, or poetry, which
is a form of music. In her presence one wants instinctively
to talk blank verse.” There was a great deal more to it
which I should like to quote, for it was sincere, and
trimly phrased. Mr. Wagenknecht has since written a
whole chapbook on the subject of Miss Gish, a distinguished
performance.<SPAN name='r2' /><SPAN href='#f2' class='c011'><sup>[2]</sup></SPAN> My impression is that he was the
advance guard of her later “discoverers.”</p>
<p class='c002'>I don’t know when Joseph Hergesheimer first came
under the Lillian spell, but probably about the time he
used her as his model for “Cytherea,” which I regard as
something less of a compliment than his article in the
<i>American Mercury</i>, April, 1924. In this article, he is
supposed to be talking to Lillian.</p>
<p class='c010'>“No one,” I told her, “who has worked with you, has the
slightest idea of what your charm really is. Two men, and not
unsuccessfully, have written about it, about you ... James
Branch Cabell and myself. James thinks it is Helen of Troy;
and if he is right, then you, too, are Helen. I mean that you
have the quality which, in a Golden Age, would hold an army
about the walls of a city for seven years.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Hergesheimer was proposing a picture, in which, as he
assured her, she would be “like the April moon, a thing
for all young men to dream about forever ... the fragrant
April moon of men’s hopes ... ‘No one, seeing
you, will ever again be deeply interested in other girls.’ I
recalled to her the legend of Diana—how a countryman,
hearing Diana’s horn through the woods, lost in vague
restlessness his familiar content. ‘You will be the clear
and unforgettable silver horn.’”</p>
<p class='c002'>It was in the guise of Jurgen that James Branch Cabell
celebrated Lillian, wrote of her as Queen Helen, “the delight
of gods and men, who regarded him with grave,
kind eyes” ... whom, long ago, Jurgen had loved, in
“the garden between dawn and sunrise.”</p>
<p class='c010'>Then, trembling, Jurgen raised toward his lips the hand of
her who was the world’s darling.... “Oh, all my life was a
foiled quest of you, Queen Helen, and an unsatiated hungering.
And for a while I served my vision, honoring you with
clean-handed deeds. Yes, certainly it should be graved upon my
tomb, ‘Queen Helen ruled this earth while it stayed worthy.’
But that was very long ago.</p>
<p class='c010'>“And so farewell to you, Queen Helen! Your beauty has
been to me a robber that stripped my life of joy and sorrow,
and I desire not ever to dream of your beauty any more.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Cabell, builder of magic phrases! His words look like
other words, but they assemble with a strange ardency,
and they march to the pipes of Pan. I am taking Hergesheimer’s
word for it that it was Lillian who inspired
Cabell’s Helen, though I might have guessed that, anyway.</p>
<p class='c002'>And then it happened that George Jean Nathan, hard-bitten
dramatic critic, hater of movies, suddenly became
Lillian-conscious and proceeded to do something about it—something
rather special—in <i>Vanity Fair</i>. Wrote
Nathan:</p>
<p class='c010'>That she is one of the few real actresses that the films have
brought forth, either here or abroad, is pretty well agreed
upon by the majority of critics. But it seems to me that, though
the fact is taken for granted, the reasons for her eminence have
in but small and misty part been set into print.... The girl
is superior to her medium, pathetically so.... The particular
genius of Lillian Gish lies in making the definite charmingly
indefinite. Her technique consists in thinking out a characterization
directly and concretely and then executing it in terms
of semi-vague suggestion.... The smile of the Gish girl is a
bit of happiness trembling on a bed of death; the tears of the
Gish girl ... are the tears that old Johann Strauss wrote into
the rosemary of his waltzes. The whole secret of the young
woman’s remarkably effective acting rests, as I have observed,
in her carefully devised and skillfully negotiated technique of
playing always, as it were, behind a veil of silver chiffon....
She is always present, she always dominates the scene, yet one
feels somehow that she is ever just out of sight around the
corner. One never feels that one is seeing her <i>entirely</i>. There
is ever something pleasantly, alluringly missing, as there is
always in the case of women who are truly “acting artists.”</p>
<p class='c002'>There was a good deal more in this strain. Widely
quoted, it made quite a stir. Later—as much as a year,
perhaps—Nathan being a bachelor (about the only one
the intelligentsia could muster), it was reported from time
to time that he was to be married to Miss Gish; then, that
they were already married, privately, reports that have
been recurrent, or intermittent, or something, ever since.
But Nathan was a bachelor, apparently without much
intention of becoming anything else, while Lillian was
far too occupied for domesticity, the kind of domesticity
she saw about her. She was satisfied with her circle as it
stood—a circle which included individualities: rude-handed
old Dreiser, for instance, and Mencken, and Sinclair
Lewis, and Clarence Darrow. No Madame Récamier
ever had a more loyal following, ever accepted it with
such gratitude. And never a thing they said or did wrought
a change in her, touched that vanity which is a mortal
possession, but is hardly her possession, because, as I suspect,
she is not altogether mortal, but a visitant—a dryad,
likely enough, who has strayed in from the Old Time and
is only puzzled a little, and saddened, maybe, by what she
finds here.</p>
<hr class='c012' />
<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c002'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r2'>2</SPAN>. </span>“Lillian Gish, An Interpretation”: Number Seven, University of Washington Chapbooks. Edited by Glenn Hughes (1927).</p>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch05' class='c008'>V<br/> <br/>“LA BOHÊME”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>When in February (1925) the break with her producer
had been rumored, telegrams with offers of engagements
began to come.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was not at the moment in a position to consider
a new arrangement. When the press announced the conclusion
of her suit, all the offers came again, with others.
Mary Pickford, as member of the United Artists, fervently
believed that Lillian’s salvation lay with their company.
“There is no question but this is where you should
be,” she telegraphed. Offers came from both the Schencks,
and from many others. By advice of her lawyers, Lillian
finally accepted that of the Metro-Goldwyn Company, at
a figure larger than she had hoped for. Her contract
covered a period of two years, during which she was to
make, if required, as many as six pictures, for the sum
of $800,000. It further specified that she would not be
required to attend anything in the way of publicity dinners,
press teas, and the like. She could see interviewers in
reasonable numbers, at her convenience. One day a flaming
banner, stretching from the Metro offices across the
street, announced that Lillian Gish had become a Metro-Goldwyn
star.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>She realized that she must begin with something important.
To extend her European audience, she hoped to do
something with international appeal. In Paris, she had discussed
with Madame de Grésac and the musical composer,
Charpentier, the possibility of making a film from his opera,
“Louise,” but the element of free love in it was an objection,
and Charpentier declined to have it modified. The
character of Mimi, in “La Bohême,” had long been in the
back of Lillian’s mind—Mimi of the opera, rather than
of Murger’s original. Madame de Grésac agreed that the
part was peculiarly suited to Lillian, and was eager to join
in preparing the script. In New York, now, they went
over it all again, and presently were in California, at the
Beverley Hills Hotel, hard at work on it. They had plenty
of time. Production was to begin in June, but the director
and some of the players wanted were not yet free.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian, with time on her hands, an unusual circumstance,
spent some of it at Pickfair, with Douglas and
Mary. Once they went camping. They went down the
shore to a place called Laguna, a sheltered spot on the
beach, about three hours by motor from Los Angeles. It
was very secluded—cliffs behind them; nobody in sight
anywhere. They had to leave the cars and climb down a
big cliff. Mrs. Pickford and little Mary (Mary’s niece)
were along, and about ten others.</p>
<p class='c002'>It could be hardly be called roughing it, though it was
real camping. They had fourteen little tents, a real village—string-town
on the sea. They had servants to look after
them, and a dining tent, a sitting-room, a kitchen, and individual
sleeping tents. The weather was perfect. They
were there from Thursday until Monday, and were in the
open every minute. They wore only bathing suits and
bathrobes, and were in the sea a good half the time. The
tide came up to the doors of the tents.</p>
<p class='c002'>“One always has a good time where Douglas is,” Lillian
said. “He is like a boy. I remember Princess Bibesco and
Anthony Asquith once came to Hollywood and were invited
by Douglas and Mary to make a party to climb the
mountain behind Pickfair, and go down on the other side,
for camp breakfast. We had to start very early. I drove
from the Beverley Hills Hotel and it was still dark when
I got to Pickfair. I dressed in Doug’s riding clothes to do
the climbing. The Asquiths were to go on horseback, but
Douglas made Mary and me walk.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We were well up the mountain before daylight, and
the going was terribly scratchy. I had never climbed a
California mountain. I did not know they would scratch
one up so. I was a sight when we got down on the other
side, and very happy to get breakfast.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Irving Thalberg, head supervisor of the Metro-Goldwyn,
Lillian said, let her choose from the directors and
people on their lots. After seeing a number of scenes from
“The Big Parade,” then in production, she selected King
Vidor, to direct, and asked to have John Gilbert and Renée
Adorée. Roy d’Arcy and Edward Horton were also chosen,
and Karl Dane. Vidor expected to finish “The Big Parade”
very soon, but pictures have a way of not getting
finished, and it was August before they were ready for
rehearsal. Then she found that they did not rehearse any
more—not in the old way she had learned from Griffith—not
at all until they were ready to shoot the scene. Salaries
had increased to a point where it was cheaper to make the
scene, time and again, than to rehearse it for days in advance.
Vidor said, however, that Lillian might do her
scenes in the old way. She tried it, but found the others
so unused to it that she gave it up.</p>
<p class='c002'>King Vidor, in a recent letter to the author, tells of
Lillian’s familiarity with this method:</p>
<p class='c010'>One of the things that comes to my mind is the amazing
ability she possessed of rehearsing a picture through without
having any of the sets, properties, and sometimes actors, before
her. The first time we tried this method of rehearsal, which was
at her suggestion, we chose a secluded spot on a patch of bare
lawn in the studio grounds. I asked Miss Gish to go ahead with
the rehearsal and, to my amazement, she started through doors
that did not exist, closing them behind her, picking up articles
and using them, opening drawers, taking out things and putting
others away, playing scenes with other members of the cast
who were not there at the time, walking up and down stairways
that did not exist, and even going out into the street and riding
away in a bus, and playing scenes with people in carriages
as they moved along. This showed a power of imagination that
was almost mystifying. It reminded me of times when I had
seen little girls playing at housekeeping, only in this case it was
entirely useful and helpful in the making of the picture.</p>
<p class='c002'>The story of “La Bohême” is almost universally known—the
play and the opera have taken care of that. Lillian
and Madame de Grésac stuck rather closely to the latter.
Little Mimi, <i>pauvre brodeuse</i>, living alone in a cold, miserable
place against the roof, meets and loves, and is beloved
by, one of the bohemians, a writer, of the adjoining
attic. To advance his fortunes, she gives her strength, her
life, for him, wins success for him, is cast off because he
believes her unfaithful, then at the end, when she knows
that her death is near, drags herself back to him, to die.
There is no more heartbreaking story, and no story better
suited to Lillian’s gifts.</p>
<p class='c002'>The scenic designers had made small pasteboard sets,
miniatures, to give the directors, electricians, camera-men,
and all concerned, an idea of the possibilities of each scene.
When Lillian looked at the miniature of Mimi’s attic, she
said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“But isn’t it rather large? Mimi lives in a very small
corner under the roof.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Ah, but this is in an old castle.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Why, yes, to be sure—only, there could hardly have
been a castle in that locality, and even so, Mimi and her
friends would not have been living in one. Just up under
the roof of very old and rather poor houses.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But you see, you have been in big productions, with
very fine sets. We don’t want to put you into anything
small and poor-looking. The road exhibitors would not
feel they were getting their money’s worth.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Romola’s” elaborate background had worked on their
imagination. They gave up their old castle, though sadly.
The matter of costumes offered another surprise: A very
expensive designer from Paris had been engaged—French,
of Russian origin—Lillian rejoiced in the thought that
she would get just the right thing. But, oh dear, when she
came to see them! Monsieur was a small, dainty man, and
he seemed to have designed them for himself. Also, it appeared
to be his idea that Mimi was a vamp. Phyllis Moir,
Lillian’s secretary of that time, says that it was Lillian
herself who, in the end, planned Mimi’s costumes. Of
this, Lillian only said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Finally, the woman at the head of our wardrobe department
took some of the costumes I had—things I had
picked up, here and there—and together we got what I
wanted. Mimi’s picnic costume was the only new one. Our
little designer was deeply offended. I was impossible to
work with, he said.</p>
<p class='c002'>“All on the Metro lot were so kind to me. Little Norma
Shearer dressed next door, and helped me in many ways.
Marion Davies was another who was considerate and kind.
They had been there several years before I came, and were
a great comfort. After ‘Bohême’ was produced, Marion
Davies wrote me a very beautiful letter.”</p>
<p class='c002'>In <i>Picture Play</i>, Margaret Reid, an extra in “La
Bohême,” has written a luminous article, from which I
am going to quote, trusting in her good heart to forgive
me:</p>
<p class='c010'>Miss Gish arrived on the same day that the elaborate dressing-room
suite designed for her was rushed to completion....
After a polite but systematic search of the studio I discovered
her on the lawn, talking to one of the heads. She wore a
severely plain white coat and a close hat of plain rose felt, and
carried a heavy black book in her arms. No make-up, not
even powder, marred the healthy, translucent, perfect complexion....</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian thinks that the first scene of “La Bohême” was
made in Mimi’s attic, which is doubtless correct, for Miss
Reid speaks of something having been done before she was
called—before various of the ladies and gentlemen were
instructed to come out and be fitted for attire of the year
1830.</p>
<p class='c010'>I happened to be among the fortunate, and was soon gowned
in a lovely costume of hideous brown serge and a gray flannel
cape. The keepers of the M-G-M wardrobe are the nicest wardrobe
women in Hollywood, but even their elastic patience is
tried on days when the picture and scene require a mediocre
costuming of extras. Their sympathetic ears are deafened with
cries of:</p>
<p class='c010'>“But, Mother Coulter, I <i>can’t</i> wear this—why, it’s awful!
Can’t I at least have a pretty cape to cover up this horror?”
“Mrs. Piper, you wouldn’t make me actually wear such an
ugly dress!” Each feels that anything less than the very best is
not her type.</p>
<p class='c010'>But today we were Parisiens of precarious means, offering up
the old wedding ring and Grandfather’s stick-pin in a dingy
little pawnshop in the Latin Quarter.... The magician,
Sartov, Miss Gish’s special camera-man, sat on his high stool by
the camera, pulling placidly at his meerschaum pipe. The last
touches were being applied to the dreary little set.... Miss
Gish was called, and we made our first acquaintance with Mimi.
Such a sad and thread-bare little Mimi ... faint shadows
hollowed her cheeks, and her eyes were haggard with fatigue
and hunger. In her arms was clasped a poor bundle which she
timidly offered up. The coin thrust at her was too small, and
with tears in her eyes and quivering lips, she tenderly placed
her shabby, moth-eaten little muff on the counter. The orchestra
breathed faintly one of Mimi’s gentle laments—oh, the pitiful
little Mimi! I fumbled blindly for a handkerchief, feeling
I couldn’t stand it any longer without doing something about
it—anything to allay the misery of that wistful face.</p>
<p class='c010'>When the camera stopped, she peeped around it, the tears
still shining in her eyelashes.</p>
<p class='c010'>“Was that all right, Mr. Vidor? Or shall we try it again?”</p>
<p class='c010'>“Well, let’s try it this way, too, and see how it looks,” in
Mr. Vidor’s soft, lazy Southern accent.</p>
<p class='c010'>So Mimi is unhappy this way and that way and several other
ways, until she receives her scanty loan and turns slowly and
goes out of the door. That was all of Mimi, for that time.</p>
<p class='c010'>When next we saw her, it was at a picnic in the woods of
“Ville D’Avray” ... a place of orange groves at the foot of
mountains that stretch up into the lofty snow fields.</p>
<p class='c010'>In a grassy meadow, sheltered by oak trees, the picnic was
spread. Miss Gish’s town car, with its shades drawn, was already
parked at one side. Through the back window of an
expensive coupé, a black head swathed in a towel indicated the
transformation of John Gilbert into Rodolphe....</p>
<p class='c010'>When Miss Gish stepped out of her car and began to work, it
was like the arrival of a limpid, fragrant wood elf, so exquisite
was her costume and so beautiful was she herself....</p>
<p class='c010'>When I start to write of Mimi as I last saw her, I am reminded
of the sensations I had as a child, when Mother used
to tell me in vain that whatever I was reading was only a play
or a story.... Thus I keep assuring myself that Miss Gish
is a young lady who makes enough money to live on very
comfortably, and that she has beauty, fame and adoring
friends.</p>
<p class='c010'>Yet there keeps recurring the picture of our last work in “La
Bohême,” of the dying Mimi, struggling across Paris to
Rodolphe. Her miserable clothes are in rags, and illness has
carved deep hollows in her face. Clinging to the steps of a bus,
fighting weakly through crowds, falling into the gutter and
crawling on upon hands and knees, dragged holding to a chain
behind a cart, slowly making her way, her long, pale-gold hair
falling down over her shoulders and back.</p>
<p class='c010'>Between shots you might have thought her still playing a bit
in the picture, so unpretentious was her manner. If her skirt
had to be dirty for a close shot, she did not hail a prop boy,
but knelt on the cobblestones and made it grimy herself....</p>
<p class='c010'>Toward the end of the sequence—scratched and bruised from
her numerous falls and tumbles, her clothes ragged and mud-stained,
her beautiful hair tangled and dusty, she waited so
patiently for the lights to be arranged for each shot, now
standing on the rough, sharp cobbles, now collapsed on the step.
Sitting in the gutter, waiting for Mr. Vidor’s signal, she
smoothed her apron—a tattered piece of black cotton—with a
delicate gesture.</p>
<p class='c010'>The preservation of an illusion through reality is always a
feat, an illusion being of such a fragile, rarefied substance.
Usually we learn to be satisfied with treasured remnants.
Thus, it is with pride in my good fortune, and with gratitude
to Lillian for being what she is, that I present to you
an illusion, not only intact but even increased in value—Miss
Gish!</p>
<p class='c002'>With her usual thoroughness, Lillian had prepared for
the difficult rôle of Mimi, especially for the tragic end.
Mimi’s illness was a malady of the lungs, brought on
through exposure, hunger and unremitting toil. Before
the great death scene, Lillian had gone to see a priest about
getting a chance to study the progress of the disease. Most
of the priests knew her, after “The White Sister,” and this
one was especially kind. He took her to the County Hospital.
All were proud and eager to help her. They told
her the symptoms at the different stages. It was all rather
terrible.</p>
<p class='c002'>Both Miss Moir—Miss Gish’s secretary—and Mr. Vidor,
in letters to the writer, have written of the result of this
intense hospital study. Mr. Vidor’s picture follows:</p>
<p class='c010'>Another episode I shall never forget: The death scene was
scheduled for a certain morning, but because the set was incomplete,
it was postponed till the following day. Miss Gish
had not been told of this postponement, and had thought so
much and concentrated so vigorously to make this scene realistic,
that she arrived at the studio whiter than I had ever seen
her and looking at least ten pounds thinner. She was unable to
speak above a whisper; in fact, she talked very little. We tried
to do other scenes, but Miss Gish had lived that death so continuously
during the night before that I was unable to instill
enough life into her to make any other scenes that day. This
terrific concentration continued all that day and that night.
Upon my arrival at the studio next morning I was informed
there would be another delay until that afternoon on this
particular set. Again we made quick plans to switch, but when
I saw Miss Gish we cancelled them. One look at her and my
fears began to rise. I began to think that if we didn’t hurry
and take this death scene we should never be able to finish the
picture, so thoroughly was she experiencing the tortures of a
tubercular death.</p>
<div id='illus263' class='figcenter id010'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-263.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“LA BOHÊME” Mimi at the pawnshop</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c010'>That afternoon the set was complete and we hastened—with
great solemnity, I may add—to photograph Mimi’s death. I was
jammed between a camera and a slanting wall in a narrow attic
corner. Mimi was carried in by her friends, the bohemians, and
placed upon her little bed. After her friends had taken a last
farewell, Rodolphe entered the scene, and with him close to her
Mimi breathed her last. Rodolphe, played by John Gilbert, was
supposed to remain in the scene a few moments and then leave.
In the playing of the scene, however, some of the bohemians,
and also Mr. Gilbert, were so impressed that they completely
forgot what they were to do. I, myself, was in the same frame
of mind.</p>
<p class='c010'>I had noticed that when death overcame Mimi, Miss Gish had
completely stopped breathing and the movement of her eyes
and eyelids was absolutely suspended. This, even from the close
view I had. The moments clicked but still Miss Gish had not
moved, nor breathed. My mind immediately jumped to the great
drama of this situation. To me, Miss Gish had actually died in
the portrayal of a scene. I saw all the headlines in the newspapers
of the following day. I saw all the drama and the hush
that would fall throughout the studios when the news spread
around.</p>
<p class='c010'>The cameras ground on—the moments turned into minutes.
Finally, after an untold length of time, the other actors left
the scene and the cameras stopped. Everyone was breathless,
fearful of what might have happened. Miss Gish could plainly
hear that the cameras had stopped, and could now take breath
and open her eyes. But this she did not do. Not daring to speak
I fearfully walked over to where she lay and touched her gently
on the arm. Her head turned slowly, and her lips formed a faint
smile.</p>
<p class='c010'>I think we all broke into tears of great joy.</p>
<p class='c010'>To me this is the most realistic scene I have ever known to
be enacted before a camera. I hope I shall never see a similar
one quite so well done. The inside of her mouth was completely
dry, and before she was able to speak again it was necessary to
wet her lips which had stuck to her teeth from dryness. The
next morning Miss Gish was as bright and cheery as ever, and
we were able to go ahead with the rest of the picture.</p>
<p class='c010'>One last word: personal contact with Lillian Gish did not
destroy any of the idealism she created on the screen for me.
To those who have known her only in that way, I promise
there is no disappointment in meeting her face to face.</p>
<p class='c002'>Miss Moir remembers that these final scenes of Mimi’s
life lasted about a week, and that everyone was relieved
when they were over. Lillian herself was so exhausted that
her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and she had hardly
sufficient strength to walk. “Poor Renée Adorée was constantly
coming back to her dressing room for a fresh supply
of handkerchiefs. During the sequence where Mimi
is dragging herself back to Rodolphe, to die—the bus, to
the back of which she was clinging, suddenly lost a wheel,
and it was only by a miracle that she escaped having both
legs crushed under the heavy vehicle.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was near the end of December, 1925, that “La
Bohême” was finished, and it was two months later, February
24, at the Embassy Theatre, New York, that it had
its first showing. Lillian was not present. To this day,
she has never seen “La Bohême” given with its musical
accompaniment—not the original Puccini score, the cost
of which was prohibitive, but a very lovely adaptation
expressing something of the feeling and mood.</p>
<p class='c002'>“La Bohême,” a picture of much sorrow and little
brightness, was sympathetically received and left a deep
and lasting impression. Except, possibly, in “Broken Blossoms,”
Lillian had never appeared so effectively—in a
picture so suited to her gifts.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was a big night at the Embassy. Social New York
was out in force, and all the picture people. The <i>Post</i>
next day said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Every movie player in New York, and there are many
here just now, was ‘among those present,’ for the infrequent
appearance of Lillian Gish on the screen takes on
the importance of an event.... The Gish can do no
wrong, in the opinion of many who subscribe to the art
of motion pictures....”</p>
<p class='c002'>Approval of Lillian’s Mimi, though wide, was not
unanimous. Certain critics were inclined to hold her responsible
for the departure from Murger’s original. There
was hot debate among the fans. Lillian, already absorbed
in another picture, gave slight attention to all this; much
less than did the interviewers, one of whom found her
“not particularly interested.” She merely asked absently:
“Has someone been criticizing me?” Which, declared Miss
Glass, the interviewer, was as astonishing as if she had
looked at the Pacific Ocean and asked: “Is it wet?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Her manifest lack of resentment toward her critics
confounded me.... She sat quietly toying with the
folds of her dress, betraying no sign of annoyance or
concern.”</p>
<p class='c002'>In itself, the Mimi of Madame de Grésac was a classic
rôle. Not again in her screen life would Lillian find a
part more perfectly suited to her personality and special
gifts. Her portrayal of it warranted Pola Negri’s verdict:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Lillian Gish is supreme. That was my opinion when I
first saw her. It is still my opinion when I have seen all
the other stars. She is sublime in her genre.”</p>
<p class='c002'>The New York première was not the picture’s first
showing. There had been a preview at Santa Monica, and
one secured by Lillian for the employees of the Beverley
Hills Hotel, where she lived. These latter sent her a joint
acknowledgment, signed: “Thankfully your admirers,
more than a hundred strong.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch06' class='c008'>VI<br/> <br/>“THE SCARLET LETTER”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian had not found time to go to New York.
Through no fault of hers, the production of “La Bohême”
had been delayed, and there was not a moment to lose,
now. “La Bohême” was finished on Saturday, and the first
shots of “The Scarlet Letter” were made the following
Monday. She had agreed to do as many as six pictures, and
she had two years to do them in. She was very anxious to
fulfill her part of the contract.</p>
<p class='c002'>Her mother was with her. She had come out with her
in May, but in September had gone back to London, where
Dorothy was making “Nell Gwynn” for an English company.
Now again she was back, vainly, unwisely trying to
share herself with both daughters. In January, Lillian had
taken Mrs. Pickford’s house at Santa Monica, directly on
the beach. She believed it would be better for her mother—not
always warm, but there was nearly always sunshine,
and the air was good.</p>
<p class='c002'>Every morning Lillian went into the sea. The water
was cold, but by six she had put on her bathing suit, and
plunged in. A dip, then out again, a race to the house, a
cup of hot water that Nellie, the maid, had ready. Then
quickly into a little roadster and away to the Culver City
lot, a brisk twenty-minute drive. Nellie there prepared
breakfast while her mistress was dressing and making up.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>In her little corner of Beekman Terrace, the “den,” as
she calls it, overlooking the East River where a procession
of water traffic moves always up and down—stout, saucy
tugs, with square-nosed barges or droopy, submissive
schooners in tow; swift Sound steamers; smudgy freighters;
private yachts—very romantic and expensive-looking;
all the motley parade of the marine register—Lillian
not so long ago told of the making of “The Scarlet Letter.”
She said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was while we were making ‘La Bohême’ that I
worked with Frances Marion on the story. Hawthorne’s
Hester Prynne appealed to me, and I thought the story
had great picture possibilities. There was one objection:
the Church would oppose it—the Protestant Church, especially
the Methodist. ‘The Scarlet Letter’ was one of a list
of proscribed books—forbidden for picture use. I took the
matter up with Will Hays, and prominent members of
the Clergy. Why should the Church prohibit a great classic,
like that? When I told them how I proposed to present
it, they gave their sanction. When they saw the picture,
by and by, they recommended it.</p>
<p class='c002'>“My idea was to present Hester as the victim of hard
circumstance, swept off her feet by love. Of course, that
was what she was, but her innate innocence must be
apparent. I said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I believe in ‘The Scarlet Letter,’ if we can get the
right man for Dimmesdale, the minister.” We considered
several, but none would do.</p>
<p class='c002'>“One day, Louis B. Mayer, business head of the Metro,
said to me: ‘I think I have found the minister for your
“Scarlet Letter.”’ Mayer had brought over Greta Garbo,
and I had faith in him. Garbo had done a picture of ‘Gosta
Berling’ in Sweden, with Lars Hansen, and the Metro had
brought over a print of it. ‘Go into the projection room
and have them run it for you,’ said Mayer. ‘If you like
Hansen for the part, we’ll bring him over.’</p>
<p class='c002'>“The moment Lars Hansen appeared on the screen, I
knew he was the man we wanted. And I knew that we
must have a Swedish director. The Swedish people are
closer to what our Pilgrims were, or what we consider
them to have been, than our present-day Americans.
Irving Thalberg selected Victor Seastrom, a splendid
choice. He got the spirit of the story exactly, and was
himself a fine actor, the finest that ever directed me. I
never worked with anyone I liked better than Seastrom.
He was Scandinavian—thorough and prompt. If Mr. Seastrom
said we would start at eight, or half-past, the
camera was ready at that time, and so were we.</p>
<p class='c002'>“His direction was a great education for me. In a sense,
I went through the Swedish school of acting. I had got
rather close to the Italian school in Italy, watching them
at their theatres, and from being associated with those
who were with us in ‘The White Sister’ and ‘Romola.’
The Italian school is one of elaboration; the Swedish is
one of repression. Mr. Vidor’s method—of the American
school, if there is such a thing—leaned to self-expression,
which has its advantages.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We had some of the people used in ‘La Bohême’—Karl
Dane, for one, who, except for the brief scene where a
scrap of my forbidden laundry creates a situation and
finally flares out on a currant bush—furnished about all
the comedy of that too sad picture. Henry B. Walthall,
with whom I had played so often in the old Griffith days,
was engaged to do Prynne, Hester’s husband. In the old
days, he had been taller than I was. I was amazed now to
find it the other way about. I had grown a good deal in
the ten or eleven years since then. I suppose exercise, open
air, health and proper food, had been responsible. Joyce
Coad, my little girl in the play, was a sweet child, and a
clever little actress. I became much attached to her.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Work on ‘The Scarlet Letter’ went off smoothly until
we were within two weeks of the end. Then, one day in
April, I got a paralyzing cable from Dorothy in London.
Dorothy had been over for a brief visit during the Winter,
and Mother had presently followed her back to London.
She had not wanted to go—not really. She had not been
well for years. Commuting back and forth across six thousand
miles, trying to be with both of us, had been too
much for her. That last time she would not let me go to
the train with her. Dorothy’s cable said that she was
dying.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I cabled and got the latest news of her; she had had a
stroke. I said I would take the first ship I could get
from New York.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I found that by leaving Los Angeles in three days, I
could catch the Majestic out of New York, which would
put me in London the last day of April. It was the 15th
that she had been struck down.</p>
<p class='c002'>“At the studio, Seastrom said that by working day and
night we could do the remaining two weeks on the picture
in the three days I had left. I asked the company if they
would stay with me through it, and every one said yes.
They were all so fine.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We didn’t waste a moment, and during those three
days and nights there was very little sleep for anyone. I
remember scarcely anything of the details, for of course I
had Mother on my mind, too. When the last scene was
shot, I made a rush for the train, without stopping to
change from my costume. Mr. Mayer and Mr. Thalberg
got special police on motorcycles to escort me and clear
the way, so that I could work to the last moment and still
get the train. Twelve days later I was in London.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Characteristically, Lillian says nothing of that trip
across land and sea. Miss Moir, less reticent, writes:</p>
<p class='c010'>I shall always remember the kindness and sympathy shown
her during those long wearisome days on the train ... the
little Catholic girl at Albuquerque who somehow or other managed
to find her way to our compartment and press into Lillian’s
hand a little silver cross which she said had been specially blessed
and would surely bring an answer to her prayers for her
mother.</p>
<p class='c010'>... At Topeka, Kansas, when the train pulled in, we noticed
that the platform was jammed from end to end with people.
We supposed that they must have come to welcome someone and
pulled down the blinds in the compartment to escape notice.
Suddenly we heard raps on the window and calls for Miss Gish.
The conductor appeared, smiling, to say that all these people had
come to see Miss Gish, some of them had even driven a hundred
miles for the purpose. Tired and heartsick as she was, Lillian
went out on the platform of the train. The moment she appeared,
a sudden silence fell on the crowd—they just stood and
looked at her. Then a woman held up a baby and asked her
to touch it “for luck.” That broke up the formality. They
crowded round her, expressing their sympathy and good wishes,
and they were still in the midst of it when the train pulled out
leaving them cheering and waving.</p>
<p class='c010'>We arrived in New York on the morning of the day the
<i>Majestic</i> sailed. When, late that night we went on board the
boat, we found our stateroom filled with people all waiting
to see Lillian.</p>
<p class='c010'>One pleasant young man with an ingratiating smile, insisted
upon bringing in his girl-friend to meet Lillian, who, tired as
she was, still managed to smile at them.</p>
<p class='c002'>In London, Lillian learned just what had happened:
Dorothy had been out to a play, and had come in quietly
and slipped into bed without turning on the light. Mrs.
Gish slept in the other twin bed. Presently, Dorothy felt
something touch her. She spoke softly, but got no answer.
She felt the touch again, and again got no answer. The
third time, she snapped on the light. Her mother could
not speak—all her right side was helpless. Fortunately,
Dorothy’s bed had been at her left.</p>
<p class='c002'>With Lillian’s arrival Mrs. Gish improved. Only the day
before she had not been expected to live. She seemed to
recognize her—her eyes grew large. Every paper had displayed
in headlines Lillian’s race across the world to her
mother’s bedside, and the English are a kindly people.
Noble and commoner alike came forward with offered
help—all ranks knew and loved her. Cards, flowers, gifts,
poured in.</p>
<p class='c002'>What was to be done next? Lillian must return to California,
or cancel her contract. What must she—what
could she—do? Miss Moir tells what happened:</p>
<p class='c010'>One night somebody suggested going to a famous little
restaurant in the Tottenham Court Rd. district for dinner.
So Dorothy, Lillian and I got into a taxi and drove to it, three
very forlorn females.... It was over that dinner that Lillian
came to what seemed at first her preposterous decision to take
her mother back with her to California, but as usual, she
carried her point, and within a week Mrs. Gish, with a good
English doctor and nurse in attendance, Lillian and I, were all
aboard the <i>Mauretania</i> en route for New York.</p>
<p class='c010'>Mrs. Gish bore the journey much better than we had expected
and the days passed quickly. The morning we arrived at Quarantine
Lillian and I were sitting up in bed eating breakfast
when our stewardess rushed in looking quite alarmed, to warn
us to bolt all the doors as our stateroom was shortly to be
stormed by a mob of reporters.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian herself told of the hectic overland journey:</p>
<p class='c002'>“In New York I chartered a private car and took
Mother to Hollywood. I was no longer so poor, and if
ever there was a time when I was thankful for money it
was then. Across the blazing southern desert we had tubs
of ice, with fans going over them, night and day. The car
was cool, and the change, or the thought that she was
going back to California, which she always loved, was
good for Mother. When we reached California, instead of
being on her back, she was sitting up. But she could not
speak—she knew all that we said to her, but she could not
answer, and she could no longer read. We were told that
this condition might last three to six months. That was
five years ago. She has improved a great deal; she can walk
a little, but most of her right side is helpless, and her words
are very limited.</p>
<p class='c002'>“At Santa Monica we lived in Mrs. Pickford’s house
until September, then moved up to the beautiful Millbank
place on the cliff, with a lovely garden, and all, away
from the dampness and the sound of the waves, which
made Mother nervous. On her birthday, September 16,
she seemed suddenly to pick up, and we felt there was a
chance for her to get well.</p>
<p class='c002'>“She does not suffer, but must get very tired of always
being obliged to sit, or lie down. But she is sweet and
patient. The nurse and I read to her, and she enjoys working
the picture puzzles, of which she has always a supply.
She likes motion picture magazines. She cannot read them,
but she loves the illustrations—many of them of people
she knows. And always, if the name ‘Gish’ is on any
printed page, she can find it.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>“The Scarlet Letter” had its première in August, 1926,
at the Central Theatre, New York City. The evening <i>Sun</i>
next day, among other things, said:</p>
<p class='c010'>Miss Gish, for the first time in the memory of the oldest
inhabitant of the cinema palaces, plays a mature woman, a
woman of depth, of feeling and wisdom and noble spirit....
She is not Hawthorne’s Hester Prynne, but she is yours and
mine, and she makes ‘The Scarlet Letter’ worth a visit.</p>
<p class='c002'>The <i>Sun</i> man’s notice was a fair sample of other printed
opinions at home and abroad. Critics who were anxious to
show that they were familiar with Hawthorne, sometimes
worked themselves up over the departure from the original
story, and sometimes “took it out” on Lillian and Lars
Hansen, but generally they had only good things to say
of the acting of these two, of little Joyce Coad and the
others, and of Seastrom’s fine direction. Seastrom had created
New England atmosphere on a Culver City lot, a
fact not always suspected. Lillian had hoped that some
of the scenes might really be made in New England, but
Seastrom’s imagination had served as well—perhaps better.
No fault was found here—indeed, very little anywhere.
Critics who went prepared to do their worst, forgot all
about it when they saw Lillian in her little Puritan cap,
her expressive back in its little Puritan waist, and especially
when she sat in the stocks, “for running and playing
on ye Sabbath,” leaning feverishly out to drink from the
cup of cold water brought her by the conscience-stricken
minister. One hardened critic wrote:</p>
<p class='c010'>I retire from the field with tears in my eyes and rage in my
heart, as becomes a cynic betrayed and undone. To consider
her critically is beyond my powers—she simply annihilates the
instinct. Of this much I am quite sure: She is a great, a very
great artist, and by far the most appealing and human little
figure appearing on the screen today—and the loveliest.</p>
<div id='illus277' class='figcenter id011'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-277.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“THE SCARLET LETTER” Miss Gish as Hester Prynne, with the shadow of Lars Hansen, as Dimmesdale</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>Three or four years ago, in a big barn of a theatre in
Southern France, the writer of these pages first saw “The
Scarlet Letter” and went home in a daze, waking up now
and then to damn his Puritan ancestors. In the seat next
his, had sat a small, intense Frenchwoman, who, at one
point, had said, tearfully, to her companion: “Regardez,
Léontine, regardez son pauvre petit dos!” (Look, Leontine,
look at her poor little back!) And just now I read
a paragraph which said: “Lillian Gish can convey more
pathos with her back than any other actress with all her
features.”</p>
<p class='c002'>I agree with that, and I am not going by my first impression.
I have seen the picture again—very recently, with
Lillian, in the New York Metro-Goldwyn projection
room. Association had destroyed none of the illusion. The
effect was the same—heightened.</p>
<p class='c002'>We left the crash and glare of Ninth Avenue for the
comparative seclusion of a cab. Lillian said, presently:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I was too immature to play that part. She was a
woman. I looked just like a child.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“You looked young, certainly, but not too young for
Hester—that Hester. Of course, the real Hester—supposing
there ever was one—was not at all your Hester. She
was less—more—what the others were.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She assented, a little doubtfully. I stumbled on:</p>
<p class='c002'>“If I might offer a humble opinion, you did not turn
Lillian Gish into Hester Prynne; you turned Hester
Prynne into something—well—something more exquisite.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Some of the critics didn’t think so; they said——”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I know the things they said. I have those scrapbooks,
where you carefully preserved all the worst ones.
A critic—a young critic—does not think he is doing his
duty unless he puts a little sting into what he writes. The
cup he offers must have its drop of hemlock, even when
he proffers it on bended knee.”</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>“La Bohême” and “The Scarlet Letter” were popular
abroad. From Europe, from the farthest East, the letters
came. Oriental young men, in exquisite calligraphy and
quaint phrase, told her how she was adored, begged for a
photograph, a written line. Some suggested pictures they
hoped she would do—“Joan of Arc” among them.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch07' class='c008'>VII<br/> <br/>“THE FIRST LADY OF THE SCREEN”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>During Lillian’s absence in England, a scenario for a
new picture bad been prepared for her, based on the song
of “Annie Laurie,” believed to have a wide human appeal.
All the sets were ready, the costumes had only to be fitted.
The day of her arrival, Lillian went to the studio, and
next day began on the scenes. Lillian and Miss Moir agree
that it was a fearfully hot summer, and that the velvet
costumes for Annie weighed fifteen pounds each. Lillian
did not care much for the story, and cared for it a good
deal less when she learned that Bonnie Annie Laurie, for
whom someone had been ready to lie down and die, had,
in her later years, turned into an old gossip. Of course, in
the picture, her lover is a member of another clan, and
there is the usual treachery, with a great deal of confused
fighting, and struggling through artificial snow which,
in that deadly heat, just about blistered your fingers when
you touched it. But Lillian was faithful, and did her sweltering
best.</p>
<p class='c002'>One Sunday, Miss Moir, thinking how much it would
be appreciated by the company, “on location,” drove out
there with several gallons of ice-cream. Unfortunately,
that day, rehearsal broke up early. She met Lillian on the
road, but two girls couldn’t eat all those gallons of cream,
and for some reason the rest of the company failed to
materialize. They tried to give the surplus away, to
passersby, but when several had haughtily refused, they
dropped the rest into a ditch.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Annie Laurie,” first given at the Embassy Theatre,
New York, May 10, 1927, appears to have been well received.
As usual, the notices spoke of Lillian as “lovely,”
and “winning,” and “charming,” but they lacked the enthusiasm
of those written of Hester and Mimi, and they
were doubtful of the picture itself.</p>
<p class='c002'>The reason is clear enough: the tame, or partially tame,
Scot of today, has commendable points; he knows about
engines, and Greek, and often plays a fair game of <i>gowf</i>.
But the range species of some centuries ago, was a good
deal different—an unprepossessing, evil-smelling, hairy
type, who had clans and feuds and delighted in running
off his enemy’s cattle, or cannily luring him into a cave
and smoking him to death, or, as in this instance, into a
castle, to murder him in cold blood. That earlier Scot was
hardly the thing to offer to a delicately-nurtured picture
audience. Even Norman Kerry as Ian MacDonald, even
Lillian as Annie Laurie, could not make him palatable.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian, however, was riding on the top wave. An English
company offered her the lead in “The Constant
Nymph”; a great German company offered the part of
Juliet: “Cannot tell you how delighted we should be, if
the remotest possibility”; de la Falaise offered her the part
of Joan of Arc, in a picture for which Pierre Champion,
the great French authority on Joan, had prepared the
scenario. To the last named, she replied that she had long
been considering the part of Joan, and put the matter
aside with real regret.</p>
<p class='c002'>And many wanted to write of her. Whatever she did, or
was about to do, was news. A magazine, <i>Liberty</i>, sent a
gifted young man, Sidney Sutherland, all the way to the
Coast to see her. He had expected to do one, possibly two,
articles, but his editors asked for more, and under the general
title of “Lillian the Incomparable” continued his chapters—“reels”
as he not inaptly termed them—through
nine weekly installments!</p>
<p class='c002'>On any excuse, and with no excuse at all, other than
what it presented, and stood for, periodicals carried her
picture. <i>Vanity Fair</i> published a full front-page portrait,
by Steichen, nominating her “The First Lady of the
Screen.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Miss Moir says that she was always being approached
by lovesick young men, anxious to find out all they possibly
could about the object of their affections.</p>
<p class='c010'>They wanted to know what she ate, what she read, what she
did after studio hours, what she talked about. I did the best I
tactfully could to gratify their curiosity, but I well remember
the look of pained surprise which came over the face of one
admirer when I told him that Lillian took a cold plunge every
morning, exercised vigorously and did a really spirited Charleston.
I suppose this was all contrary to his idea of what such a
fragile, ethereal being should do.</p>
<p class='c002'>Flowers were always arriving, enough to start a florist’s
shop. And permanent gifts—anonymous ones, some of
them, and of great value: a large, magnificent fire opal
set with diamonds; an exquisite point lace shawl, so perfectly
suited to her personality that the donor must have
had taste as well as an opulent purse.</p>
<p class='c002'>Photographers were always besieging her to pose for
them, and painters. The latter rarely caught her personality.
It was such an elusive thing. The quick camera
was better at it. Frequently, too, she was caricatured, and
it is only fair to say that most of the caricatures were
among the best of the results—strikingly like her: “more
like me than I was like myself,” she said.</p>
<p class='c002'>She shared her success with those less fortunate—gave
freely, money, advice to young aspirants, help to sister-players
and would-be players—provided jobs for them.
One day a girl with a face a good deal like her own, and
the fairy name of Una Merkel, came to see her. Screen
fans know Una Merkel very well today, but perhaps
not many know that she is a poet. One Christmas, in appreciation
of what Lillian had done for her, she wrote
and had beautifully printed on a card of greeting, some
verses, two of which follow:</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='sc'>To Lillian Gish</span></div>
</div></div>
<div class='lg-container-b'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>If I could breathe on canvas white my dreams,</div>
<div class='line'>I’d dip my fancy into tubes which held</div>
<div class='line'>Life’s colors—pure, of sheerest loveliness,</div>
<div class='line'>Then—I’d paint—you.</div>
</div>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>I’d borrow of the Lily its perfume,</div>
<div class='line'>Of day—the misty beauty of its dawn;</div>
<div class='line'>Then of the world I’d take a tear—a smile,</div>
<div class='line'>And I’d have—you.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch08' class='c008'>VIII<br/> <br/>“WIND”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>There had appeared an anonymous novel (later acknowledged
by Dorothy Scarborough), a tale of sickening
horror, entitled “Wind.” It was the story of a young, refined
Southern girl, who goes to Texas in an earlier day;
is made desperate by the wind and blowing sand and hard
human circumstance; marries a rough cowboy; is violated
by a man she had met on the train; murders him and goes
mad—a category of black disaster.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was regarded as fine material for a picture, well-suited
to motion photography, because of the wild, tireless
wind—perfect symbol of motion, and of the fierce
action of the story. A director, Clarence Brown, was
highly enthusiastic over the possibilities of “Wind” on
the screen, but a favorable decision might have been less
quickly reached had all the conditions been foreseen. For
making the picture was an experience nearly as desolating
as the story. When the studio scenes were finished, a trek
of wagons, trucks and motor busses, loaded with paraphernalia,
an entire company of actors, a big crew of technical
assistants, mechanics, etc., the whole accompanied
by eighty mounted cowboys, invaded the blistering Mojave
Desert, in the cause of art.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mr. Brown, after all, was not to direct. He had been
sent off to Alaska, on the “Trail of ’98,” and could not, it
seemed, finish it. Victor Seastrom was given the direction
of “Wind,” and again Lars Hansen was Lillian’s leading
man. Satisfactory as far as it went. They had waited a long
time on Brown—until they could wait no longer. Spring
had come. The Mojave in midsummer was unthinkable.
So that big procession one morning got in motion.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was May, and it was hot. Arriving at Mojave, the
men took up quarters in a train that had been shunted
onto a disused siding—Lillian, Miss Moir and a few others
in a flimsy little hotel, opposite the tracks, where engines
switched and banged most of the night long. It was a
Harvey hotel, which was the best that could be said for
it; the food at least would be good. Cool enough at first,
the weather presently became unbearably hot. Whereupon
a new difficulty presented itself: Film coating melted from
the celluloid. No developing could be done with the thermometer
at 120 in the shade. They tried freezing the films,
but this made them brittle, like thin glass. Finally, they
packed them, frozen, and rushed them by special cars to
the Metro laboratories, one hundred and forty miles away,
to be carefully thawed out.</p>
<p class='c002'>And the human misery of it! Miss Moir writes:</p>
<p class='c010'>Quivering veils of heat lay over the desert, there was no shade
anywhere, and a burning wind blew all day long, raising blisters
on your face, taking every bit of skin off your lips. I shall never
forget the appearance of the crew during that picture. To
protect their faces from the sun they all wore a heavy blackish
make-up while their cracked and swollen lips were covered with
some sort of white stuff. Add to this goggles, and handkerchiefs
tied round their necks, and you can imagine that most desperate
looking gang to be seen anywhere on that desert. When the
studio executives saw the first rushes they were so horrified at
Lars Hansen’s unromantic appearance that they ordered the
whole sequence to be done again and Lars Hansen to appear
shaven and clean, as they argued that no girl could possibly
entertain romantic thoughts for such a hairy ruffian.</p>
<p class='c010'>The cowboys added interest and excitement to the adventure.
Long, lean blasphemous individuals, reckless of everything,
gambling the minute they were not needed for a scene.</p>
<p class='c002'>To which Lillian adds:</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was the very worst experience I ever went through.
Temperature 120 in the shade. In the sun...? One man
burned his hand quite badly opening the door of a motor.
We had eight wind machines, and in the studio, to match
up with the blowing sand outside (supposed to be blowing
in the doors and windows), we used sulphur pots, the
smoke giving the effect of sand blowing in. The sand itself
was bad enough, but the pots were worse. I was burned
all the time, and was in danger of having my eyes put out.
The hardships of making ‘Way Down East’ were nothing
to it. My hair was burned and nearly ruined by the sulphur
smoke. I could not get it clean for months. Such an
experience is not justified by any picture.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Nature seems to have wearied of their evil-smelling
feeble devices, and one day gave an example of what
she could do herself. Miss Moir, graphically:</p>
<p class='c010'>A few days before we finished the scenes up there it turned
cold. Towards the end of the afternoon work was stopped by a
terrific sandstorm. A howling wind, which soon assumed the
proportions of a hurricane, tore down from the mountains sending
the sand whirling in dense masses before it. The sky was
black and everything was obscured by a veil through which we
could dimly perceive the figures of the cowboys bent forward
on their saddles, horse and rider braced against the oncoming
fury, making for camp. There was an extraordinary beauty
about the scene, as Lillian and I stood for a moment and
watched it before getting into the car, and I could appreciate
the feeling in her voice when she said “Oh, how I wish Mr.
Griffith was here. How he would have loved to photograph
that.”</p>
<p class='c010'>All night long the storm raged while our shaky little hotel
quivered to its foundations. As we lay in bed trying vainly to
sleep, we could see the flimsy walls of the hotel bending before
the onslaught, and in the morning the room was full of sand
which had leaked in through every crevice of the ill-built
structure.</p>
<p class='c002'>This was exactly what they had come up there to produce,
but apparently they made no use of it. One remembers
Griffith waiting for the blizzard in New England,
and echoes Lillian’s heartfelt utterance. The day
had come when Nature’s effects were no longer in favor—were
even resented, as an imitation; and one who has seen
the picture must confess that those eight wind machines
were not easily to be outdone.</p>
<p class='c002'>The most depressing of Lillian’s films, “Wind,” is one
of the best—beautiful in its sheer ferocity. Nemirovitch
Dantchenko, distinguished manager, playwright and producer,
of the Moscow Art Theatre, being then in Hollywood,
after a preview of it, wrote as follows:</p>
<p class='c010'>I want once more to tell you of my admiration of your
genius. In that picture, the power and expressiveness of your
portrayal begat real tragedy. A combination of the greatest sincerity,
brilliance and unvarying charm, places you in the small
circle of the first tragediennes of the world.... One feels
your great experience and the ripeness of your genius.... It
is quite possible that I shall write [of it] again to Russia, where
you are the object of great interest and admiration by the
people.</p>
<div id='illus289' class='figcenter id012'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-289.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“WIND” Letty, burying the man she had killed</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>For some reason, “Wind” was not released until late in
the year. When it finally appeared, the time for it was
brief—the talking picture was ready to invade the land—but
that story—a sad one—we shall come to a little
later.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Lillian’s last silent picture, “The Enemy,” a war picture,
laid in Vienna—not very startling—closed her two-year
contract with the Metro company. She was to have
made six pictures, but they were unable to give them to
her. Both sides were satisfied, however, and parted on the
pleasantest terms. Only too gladly, Lillian would have
made another picture, had conditions been otherwise. The
company on its part had no word of complaint, even paid
her for one day extra time, something over a thousand
dollars, a complete surprise, for she had taken no account
of that day.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch09' class='c008'>IX<br/> <br/>GOOD-BYE, CALIFORNIA</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>On the whole, in spite of “Annie Laurie’s” burdensome
velvets, in spite of Mojave’s sulphur blasts and blistering
sands, it had been—or, but for her mother’s illness, might
have been—a happy as well as a profitable two years. Mimi
and Hester Prynne had been worth while. “Wind” had
been an artistic triumph.</p>
<p class='c002'>Miss Moir, very close to Lillian during all this period,
has left a series of impressions and incidents not directly
connected with her work:</p>
<p class='c010'>I remember the first time I saw her at the Ambassador Hotel,
New York, she struck me as a person of perfect poise and great
charm of manner in which there was something almost childishly
appealing. In many ways she is a paradox. She gives the impression
of helplessness when she is really the most resourceful
person I know. You think sometimes that she is weak and easily
led, and then you suddenly come up against an inflexible will
and an iron determination to do what she has set her mind on
doing.</p>
<p class='c010'>Then another picture comes into my mind as I often saw
her at parties, sitting uncomfortably in the quietest corner she
could find, talking generally to some elderly person until the
time came to go home, where she always went as soon as
possible.</p>
<p class='c010'>Her hands are expressive of her whole personality, delicately
modelled, yet with a look of latent strength and capability
about them. She uses them beautifully.</p>
<p class='c010'>She has no fidgety movements. She is one of the few women
I know who have learned the art of perfect stillness.</p>
<p class='c010'>She loves fortune tellers, though she doesn’t take them seriously
and generally forgets what they have told her, five minutes
after leaving them.</p>
<p class='c010'>Our entire life in California on looking back, seems to have
its centre in the room where poor Mrs. Gish sat, patient and
speechless, looking forward to the moment when Lillian would
get back from the studio. On her Birthday morning her room
was so crowded with presents it looked like a giftshop. She was
delighted with everything, and seemed to take a turn for the
better from that day. Until then she had seemed to be losing
interest in life—slipping away from us. Having once aroused
her from this lethargy Lillian’s whole endeavor was spent on
keeping her mother amused. She was constantly coming home
with some lovely thing for her—a pretty bed-jacket, a taffeta
quilt for her bed, an exquisite set of china for her breakfast
tray.</p>
<p class='c010'>Mr. Mencken came for dinner one Sunday night. I remember
we were all a little bit worried about entertaining such a distinguished
guest, but we needn’t have been because he seemed
to enjoy everything with the zest of a schoolboy.</p>
<p class='c010'>I have somewhat different memories of the night Mr. Hergesheimer
came to dine. Dinner was set for 7:30; Mary Pickford
and Douglas Fairbanks arrived, but no Mr. Hergesheimer. Half
an hour and then three-quarters of an hour went by—still he
did not appear. Finally the telephone rang and a desperate voice
called over the wire. It was Mr. Hergesheimer: somehow or
other he had gone to the house which Lillian had rented the
previous year, and had been unable sooner to locate her present
abode. He arrived quite out of breath, an hour late, and considerably
disturbed.</p>
<p class='c010'>One of the pleasantest recollections I have of California is
the evening Lillian and I went to a “bowl” concert just a week
or so before coming East for good. It was a night of brilliant
moonlight, unusually warm for that climate and perfect for a
concert in the open air. I remember as we drove homeward after
it was all over, that we talked of our years together in California,
of all the drama and comedy we had shared there, and
agreed that it hadn’t been such an unpleasant time after all.</p>
<p class='c002'>Then, presently, they were off for New York; Lillian,
her Mother; the nurse, Miss Davies; Miss Moir; John, the
poll-parrot, which they had got twelve years before at
Denishawn; two dogs; three canary-birds, and a bus-load
of hand luggage.</p>
<p class='c002'>As usual, Lillian had worked up to the last minute, had
made one or more scenes of “The Enemy” the morning
of her departure. Little she guessed, when she walked out
of the studio, that those were the last scenes in silent pictures
she would ever make, that all unsuspected, another
beautiful craft was about to be relegated to that limbo of
outworn things which holds the painted panorama and
the wood engraving. During fifteen years, she had been a
unique figure in an industry which she had watched grow,
almost from infancy, to a mighty maturity, and which
was now at the moment of dissolution. That Lillian did
not see this is not surprising, but that the great producers,
with ears supposedly close to the ground, their research
departments always alert, should have taken so little
account of the warning voices (literally that), is astonishing.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Of Lillian’s pictures, I believe there are three on which
her screen fame rests. In many there are distinguished
scenes: in “The White Sister,” for instance; in “Romola,”
in “Wind,” and in “Way Down East.” But of those which
were consistently good, I should name, in order, “Broken
Blossoms,” “La Bohême” and “The Scarlet Letter” as those
for which she will be longest remembered: and this because
of their exquisite beauty and their suitability to her
special gifts.</p>
<p class='c002'>As to what Lillian did for the picture world, I am
troubled by a lack of knowledge. There are moments when
it would seem that very little has been done for it, by
anybody. I suspect, however, that she did more than
now appears. She had a wide following among the picture
players, to whom, through example alone, she must have
taught restraint, delicacy—in a word, good manners. In
a hundred pages I could not say more, or wish to.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch10' class='c008'>X<br/> <br/>REINHARDT</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian, at the Drake Hotel, in New York was kept
busy declining offers of engagements—ranging from
vaudeville through matrimony and pictures to the so-called
legitimate stage. Maurice Maeterlinck wrote to a
friend:</p>
<p class='c010'>I should be all the more happy to undertake the scenario
you speak of, in that it concerns Lillian Gish, who is the great
star of the cinema that, among all, I admire, for no other has so
much talent, or is so natural, so sympathetic, so moving.<SPAN name='r3' /><SPAN href='#f3' class='c011'><sup>[3]</sup></SPAN></p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian concluded a contract with the United Artists
for three pictures, to be directed by Max Reinhardt, foremost
director and producer of Europe. The company had
a contract with Reinhardt, and it was on their promise
that he should direct her, that Lillian signed with them.
Her plan had had its inception a year earlier, she said, during
a visit of Reinhardt’s to Los Angeles.</p>
<p class='c002'>“My connection with Reinhardt was this: In 1923-24,
I had seen his stage production of ‘The Miracle,’ with
Lady Diana Manners and Rosamond Pinchot. Morris Gest
brought it over, and at the time had asked me to play the
part of the nun. Reinhardt, who had seen something of
mine—I suppose ‘The White Sister’—had suggested this.
I could not do it because of my contract. I was then on the
eve of returning to Italy, to make ‘Romola.’</p>
<p class='c002'>“I did not meet Reinhardt until he was in California,
with ‘The Miracle.’ With Rudolph Kommer and Karl von
Mueller he came out to our Santa Monica house, for
luncheon. Before luncheon we went to the studio and ran,
I think, ‘Broken Blossoms.’ Then, in the afternoon, ‘La
Bohême’ and ‘The Scarlet Letter.’ They seemed to please
him. He spoke no English, and I spoke no German, at
the time. Kommer served as interpreter. It was then that
Reinhardt suggested that we might work together. He had
never made a picture, but was eager to try. He had spent
thirty-five years in the theatre, and was tired of it. He had
theatres in Berlin and Vienna, the finest in Europe.”</p>
<p class='c002'>From Kansas City, Reinhardt and Kommer telegraphed:</p>
<p class='c010'>Once more we want to thank you for that most fascinating
Sunday you gave us. We greet you as the supreme emotional
actress of the screen and hope fervently that the near future
will bring us in closer contact on the stage and on the screen.
Please do not forget Salzburg when you come to Europe. We
shall be waiting for you.</p>
<p class='c002'>Salzburg was Reinhardt’s home, where in an ancient
castle, Leopoldskron, he kept open house, for a horde of
congenial guests. Reinhardt and Kommer had spoken of a
picture they would prepare when she came to New York.
Now, at the Drake Hotel, they started on a story for it.
Reinhardt, meantime, had brought over a company and
was producing “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “Danton’s
Todt.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Reinhardt, Lillian said, talked to her about Theresa
Neumann, the peasant miracle girl of Konnersreuth, who
on every Friday except feast days went through the entire
sufferings of Christ, the blood trickling from stigmata on
her forehead, her hands and her feet. Nobody but those
who have seen it will believe it, but her case is a very
celebrated one, and has been studied by scientists of Germany
and Austria, and of other countries. Reinhardt believed
that a great miracle picture could be based on the
case of Theresa Neumann, and Lillian agreed with him.
She would come to Leopoldskron, and would go to see
Theresa Neumann for herself. “I must do that, of course,”
she said, “and familiarize myself with the lives of the peasantry
of which she was one.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“In April, Mother, Miss Davies and I sailed for Hamburg.
We arrived at Cuxhaven early one morning. Mother
had to be carried to the train and to a private car. Reinhardt
was already over there. His secretary met us, and
Mr. Melnitz, head of the United Artists in Germany.</p>
<p class='c002'>“At Hamburg, we put Mother to bed for two hours.
She had been up since half-past four. Nurse and I had not
slept all night. We took train for Berlin, arriving at six in
the evening. I had not realized that Germany is like
America in the matter of news. I supposed we would go
in quietly. Instead, we found the station literally jammed
with people, all trying to get around us. It was terribly
hard on poor Mother.”</p>
<p class='c002'>There were a dozen or two camera-men, and when they
found they couldn’t all take pictures of Lillian, they got
around Mrs. Gish, who was in a big chair carried with
poles. She could not tell them that she did not want her
picture taken, and began to cry. When at last they got
into an automobile, all the camera-men and reporters
jumped into other cars and came racing behind, taking
pictures all the way to the hotel. During the next few
days, Lillian was too nervous to give more than a few
interviews. Reinhardt comforted her by saying that no
artist ever had come into Germany with such a reception
from the press.</p>
<p class='c002'>At Berlin Lillian consulted Professor Vogt, head of the
Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, supposed to know more than
anyone else about cases like her mother’s. Professor Vogt
said he could not do very much for Mrs. Gish, but warned
Lillian that she herself was likely to be headed in the same
direction. He advised that her mother be taken to Doctor
Sinn’s Sanatorium at Neubabelsburg, advice promptly
followed. Mrs. Gish remained there a year.</p>
<p class='c002'>To Lillian, in Berlin, came this letter:</p>
<p class='c010'>O smallest blonde:</p>
<p class='c010'>You must not think of any other place but Leopoldskron!
Max Reinhardt and we all would think that we had failed completely
to please you. Besides, the hotels are now terribly over-crowded
and you would be perfectly miserable there. So please,
do overcome any inhibitions, and come to Leopoldskron! I am
expecting your wire about train and hour.</p>
<p class='c010'>We are just having Anthony Asquith and Elizabeth Bibesco
here. This means that the whole castle is one flaming song <i>in
gloriam Lilliane Gish</i>....</p>
<p class='c010'>I do hope that Professor Vogt will entirely satisfy the expectations
of your poor mother. My sincerest wishes and regards
to her ... Schloss Kommer and Salzburg are sending
you loving greetings. Au revoir! Yours ever,</p>
<div class='lg-container-r c013'>
<div class='linegroup'>
<div class='group'>
<div class='line'>R. K. Kommer</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>“I went to Salzburg,” Lillian said, “to Leopoldskron.
Reinhardt and his secretary, Miss Adler, were on the
train, and Kommer was at the station to meet us. Leopoldskron
is a huge place, a little way out of Salzburg,
built hundreds of years ago. I don’t know how many
rooms it has, but only candles were used to light them. I
was much impressed when we drove up to it, and when
we got inside. There were ever so many guests, distinguished
persons from everywhere. It is like a great hotel,
and has three dining-rooms. Among the guests, was the
poet Hugo von Hofmannsthal, who had come to work on
the story we had planned for our picture. Kommer got
me a maid, Josephine, whom I afterwards brought to
America.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We worked three weeks on our story, that time;
then I went to Paris for a fortnight, then to Mother at
Neubabelsburg. Later I went to Leopoldskron for another
three weeks, to meet Mr. Joe Schenck, who had come over
to hear the story. Frances Marion was in Salzburg by that
time. She said we had a wonderful theme. Schenck also
liked it—said we should get back to Hollywood as quickly
as possible, and make it. Possibly he suspected that something
was likely to happen—something like an earthquake
in the picture world. Off there in that corner of Austria,
we never dreamed of it.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I was anxious to see something of Austrian peasant life
at close range. At Leopoldskron was the artist Feistauer.
He himself was a peasant, and he asked me to pose for
him. So we made a bargain. I agreed that if he and his wife
would go with me, I would get a car, pay the expenses of
the trip and he could take us to the part of the country
he knew. If he would do this, I would pose for him. He
was quite willing, and we arranged our party. There were
five of us besides the chauffeur: Feistauer and his wife;
von Hofmannsthal’s son Raymond; myself, and Josephine,
my maid.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was a wonderful experience. I saw peasant life as
I should never have seen it otherwise. We would stay a day
and a night in a peasant house—huge houses they had, like
those in the Schwartzwald, with their animals in one part
of it. Their food was a coarse bread, milk and potatoes,
placed on a kind of framework in the middle of the table.
I was so impressed with it all—different from anything I
had ever seen:—the great room below, the small chambers
above. The combined living-room and kitchen was sometimes
very beautiful. The great cooking-stoves so unlike
any I had known. Beautiful, too, because primitive.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We came one day to a house where a man walked out
to meet us, carrying a child in his arms, leading another.
I thought he had the most wonderful face I had ever seen,
a perfect Christus. He was followed by some geese, two
dogs and a baby lamb. He came up and greeted us with
the word they use with strangers, ‘Christgott,’ and led us
to the house. He apparently knew Feistauer, but his greeting
to him was the same as to us. We sat down for a little;
then he took Raymond and myself through the house. We
were there perhaps an hour in all. When he had gone I said
to Feistauer: ‘If you should ever wish to paint the Christus,
I should think you would use that man. He is nearer
my idea of the Christ than anyone I have ever seen.’
Feistauer said: ‘I have done so, often. He is my brother!’
Because Feistauer had given up the land to be a painter in
town, he was, in a sense, an outcast, a stranger—no more
than any other of our party.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was at the end of my second visit to Salzburg that I
saw the miracle girl, Theresa Neumann—at Konnersreuth.
I was on the way to see Mother again, and stopped off
there. She was to be the subject of our picture, and it was
very necessary that I see her. No one is allowed to do so
without special permission. I had letters from the Archbishop
of Regensburg. Josephine, my maid, went with me.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I found poor, the very poorest, accommodations in
the peasant village where Theresa Neumann lived. She is
just a peasant girl herself, the eldest of eleven children,
about thirty years old when I was there. Hundreds try to
see her, but only members of the clergy, or those with
special permits, can get near her on the days of the miracle.
There is no charge of any sort, and her people are very
poor, helped a little by the Church.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It is the most amazing sight in the world. Her ecstasy
begins about one o’clock Friday morning, and lasts until
noon. The wounds, which are closed and black between
times, open, and blood flows from them—from those on
her hands and feet, from the spear-wound in her side, and
the thorn-wounds on her forehead. Tears of blood drip
from her eyes, run down her cheeks, and stain her white
gown. I was within three feet of her, and saw all this. I
don’t expect anyone to believe these things, but I saw
them, exactly as I have said, and if it is trickery, it is beyond
anything of the sort I have ever heard of. I asked
her to pray for Mother, and I believe she did. Mother got
better, so it may have helped.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The miracle has been accounted for in many ways,
both by skeptics and believers. The believer, a priest, who
talked about it to me, called her a ‘child of grace,’ which
may be as good an explanation as any, if one knew what it
meant. Dozens of books have been written about her. Perhaps
she is all mind, but that seems a poor explanation. It
is claimed that she has not taken food or drink for a number
of years. Incredible, of course, but no more so than
the things I <i>saw</i>.”</p>
<hr class='c012' />
<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c002'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r3'>3</SPAN>. </span>“Je serais d’autant plus heureux d’entreprendre le scénario dont vous m’avez parlé, qu’il s’agit de Lillian Gish, qui est la grande vedette du cinéma que j’admire entre toutes, car aucune autre n’a autant de talent, n’est aussi naturelle, aussi sympathique, aussi émouvante.”</p>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch11' class='c008'>XI<br/> <br/>THE SHADOW SPEAKS</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian left her mother in the sanatorium, where apparently
she was improving, and with Josephine, her maid,—booked
as a “fellow artist” (she was really that, for she
would serve as model for Austrian peasant girls in the picture),—Lillian
sailed on the <i>Île de France</i>, for New York.
Reinhardt presently followed, with the play itself, which
von Hofmannsthal had completed. Young von Hofmannsthal
came as Reinhardt’s assistant. These two, with Lillian,
and Josephine the “fellow artist,” descended upon Hollywood.</p>
<p class='c002'>Alas, for the beautiful, silent picture play of “The
Miracle Girl of Konnersreuth.” They were just a year too
late!</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>For now it was that the long-unexpected-inevitable had
happened: All in a brief summer and autumn—in a night,
really—a change had come over the flicker of the photographic
dream ... it SPOKE!</p>
<p class='c002'>The film with a voice—a possibility for twenty years
or more—hardly taken seriously except by the inventors—now,
all at once, had arrived. Rather doubtfully at first—a
crude thing, but of instant popularity. The writer of
these pages remembers a fierce summer day in ’28, when
he slipped into a jammed and darkened house on Broadway,
and sat on the floor in a remote corner, fascinated,
watching the moving phantoms, silent heretofore, as they
shouted wildly at each other in the <i>mise en scène</i> of a
haunted house. After that, when he heard friends say: “It
is just a novelty—it will not last,” he was not convinced.
If he knew anything at all, he knew better than that. If
they could do so much, they would presently do more.
They did. The Warners put out Al Jolson in “The Singing Fool,”
and the doom of the silent film was not only
written, but sounded very loud. The play itself was hardly
a classic—it didn’t need to be. Jolson’s speaking and singing
voice was up to microphone requirements—sound and
vision were synchronized. The record was miles beyond
anything attempted before. The “Talkie” had come!</p>
<p class='c002'>A huge shudder ran through the ranks of movie actors.
Many of them did not even speak English. Many of them
did it very badly—provincially, nasally, flatly, indistinctly,
or with an impossible accent. Of those who spoke
it well enough, not all had voices suited to the microphone—(“Mike,”
as they irreverently named it)—they recorded
poorly. Their voices had to be “placed.” Voice culture became
a new Hollywood industry. Some, even, began learning
to sing.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was just at this point, late in 1928, that Lillian and
Reinhardt reached Hollywood. The press heralded their
coming, recounted the story of Reinhardt’s life, and distinguished
work; how now with a new and marvelous
story, written by von Hofmannsthal in the great castle of
Leopoldskron, for the “first lady of the screen,” he was
ready to enter and electrify the picture world.</p>
<p class='c002'>Good publicity, but it fell on deaf ears. Jolson HAD
MADE the “Jazz Singer”! Chaos ruled in the studios. A
dozen producers who didn’t know whether they stood on
their heads or their heels, shouted that it was all just a
passing fad, but meantime were knocking together “sound
stages” and engaging people who could talk prettily to
“Mike,” or sing, or do anything that would make a convincing
noise.</p>
<p class='c002'>Of course, everyone still believed in the old silent pictures,
but nobody wanted to start one. Those already
begun were dropped. Gloria Swanson, at great loss, stopped
a half-completed film.</p>
<p class='c002'>Reinhardt and Lillian were dazed. Joe Schenck, who
in Salzburg had bid them hurry home to make their picture,
now repudiated it—told them to make a talkie of it.
Reinhardt protested, then went into the desert—not to
fast and pray, but to do what Schenck demanded.</p>
<p class='c002'>No use. He had been working for a year on a silent
picture. Now to make the shadows speak ... impossible.
Even the desert ... even fasting and prayer ... even
“The Miracle Girl,” could not accomplish it. He
lingered through the winter, hoping that those who said
the talkie was just a fad were right. Then....</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian sighed as she remembered these sorrowful things:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Hollywood, always more or less mad, was really an
asylum. Even Mary was doing a talkie, ‘Coquette’<SPAN name='r4' /><SPAN href='#f4' class='c011'><sup>[4]</sup></SPAN>;
Chester Morris was doing another ‘Alibi.’ Nobody was
doing our beautiful old silent pictures, any more. Everywhere
you heard the hammering of workmen building
sound stages. Then—with Spring—Reinhardt returned to
his neglected theatres, to his castle at Salzburg. It had
been a great loss to him. I was not responsible, for he had
signed his contract with United Artists before I had, but
I felt terrible over it. He never blamed me, or was anything
but fine about it. I did not see him again until last
Summer (1930), when I was in Paris. We spoke of the
pity of it all—his coming at the wrong time, when it was
too late—too late and too early. Another year, and he
might have been in the mood for a talkie. He had really
come on a sincere errand. Most of those who come, come
just for the money in it. He had come for a finer purpose.”</p>
<hr class='c012' />
<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
<p class='c002'><span class='label'><SPAN href='#r4'>4</SPAN>. </span>Lillian herself was more or less responsible for “Coquette.” In a letter of
Sept. 17, 1928, Mary wrote her: “I remember, dear, you were the first to tell me
to do ‘Coquette.’ If it turns out well, it will be the second time in my career
that you have helped me bridge a difficult place.” Lillian’s suggestion, however,
had been, of course, for a silent picture.</p>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch12' class='c008'>XII<br/> <br/>ON THE FLYING CARPET</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>Lillian looked out of the window of the den, on the
boats passing up and down, perhaps reflecting a little on
the uncertainty of human undertakings.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I have one bright memory of that gloomy Spring,”
she said presently. “One morning in March, while Reinhardt
was in the desert, Douglas Fairbanks called me up,
and asked:</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Are you game to do something?’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘What is it?’ I said.</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Never mind; are you game to do it?’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Are you and Mary going to do it?’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘We are.’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Well, then I will.’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘All right. We’re going on a plane to have a look at
the war in Mexico. Will you go?’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘I should <i>think</i> so. When do we start?’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Right away, as soon as we can get ready.’</p>
<p class='c002'>“I went up to Pickfair, to see Mary as to what we were
to take. We met at the studio about eleven o’clock, drove
to the Glendale Flying Field, and got into what seemed a
very big, powerful plane. There were ten of us altogether:
Doug and Mary; Doug’s brother, Robert, and his wife,
Lurie; Mary’s niece (‘Little Mary’); two cousins, Verna
and Sonny; myself, and the pilot and captain. There was
plenty of room and we got off without any trouble.</p>
<p class='c002'>“But it turned out that our motors were not powerful
enough. We meant to cross the mountains by the San Bernardino
Pass, but when we were over the low first range,
we ran into a storm of wind and snow, and our engines
would not lift the plane over the Pass. The snow got so
thick that we could not see a thing in any direction—just
a white, whirling mass. We were likely to run into the
mountain-side, any moment. We rolled and billowed
around, three times turning back, and trying it again.
Then the captain, very white, came and shouted into
Doug’s ear that it was madness to go on, that we had
better turn back and follow down the Coast to Mexico.
It was impossible, the captain said, to find the Pass.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We turned back, and all were relieved. There had been
no question as to the danger. Less than a year later, a big
plane with a party was lost up there, dashed against the
mountain-side.</p>
<p class='c002'>“The weather was better as soon as we got away from
the mountains, and along the Coast was fine. At Agua
Caliente, Mexico, we ate dinner and spent the night.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We telephoned for a larger plane, and a big Wasp
came down. All got into it except Robert Fairbanks, who
said he knew when he had had enough, and that the day
before had satisfied him. We left about eleven o’clock.
For some reason, we did not take much along in the way
of food, and about three P. M. our crowd began to look
rather poorly—hungry and seasick. Even Douglas shushed
Mary when she started to tell her troubles. He had a
greenish look, and not at all his usual high-hearted
manner.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We got to Phoenix, Arizona, about five, starved, and
went to the beautiful hotel. They lodged us all in one
bungalow, and immediately we called loudly for tea and
sandwiches. We spent the night there, left around nine,
next morning. We flew to Grand Canyon—not really to
the Canyon, but to the nearest flying field, and drove to
the Canyon by motor. There we took a long walk along
the rim, and looked down on the Canyon in the evening
light, one of the strangest and loveliest and most impressive
sights in the world—really sublime.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Next morning, we motored back to the plane and
headed Westward. We got hungry, but there seemed no
good place to stop for luncheon. All we could see were
poor little Mexican or Indian villages, in the desert.
Finally, we got to Las Vegas, and after luncheon flew
homeward, over the mountains we had been unable to
cross when we started, dropping down into the San Fernando
Valley at sunset, as on a magical flying carpet. We
had had four beautiful days. We did not see much of the
war, though at one place in Mexico we saw smoke, and
thought we heard the sound of distant firing. Douglas had
believed it unwise to go any nearer. We might be taken
for spies, and pursued—even brought down. After all,
war was not what we really cared to see.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p3ch13' class='c008'>XIII<br/> <br/>“ONE ROMANTIC NIGHT”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>It is difficult to realize the size of the catastrophe resulting
from the sudden production of talking pictures,
even of pictures with “sound effects,” as many of them
were, at first. Some of them really talked—better, or
worse, than others. No matter; every picture theatre in
New York, and most of them on the road, were presently
being “wired for sound.” All the millions (possibly billions)
of dollars’ worth of silent pictures, shrunk in value
at a ghastly rate. The Eastern Hemisphere, the only market
for them presently, was comparatively unimportant.
Hundreds of pictures were useless; picture players found
themselves “out of a job.” Stars began to pale and disappear.</p>
<p class='c002'>On the other hand, ill as was the wind, it dispensed
benefits. Stage players out of employment found market
for their trained speech. Their feet warmed the way to
Hollywood. A good many were already there. As the
months passed, the screen showed more of the old familiar
faces. Broadway to the rescue. Even the great succumbed.
George Arliss, master of diction, joined the procession,
Ruth Chatterton—eventually, Lillian.</p>
<p class='c002'>Not willingly. She still believed in the silent film. She
had objected even to the lip movement, the simulated
speech insisted upon by the directors. To her, the perfect
picture must be pure pantomime—with music—appropriate
music, as in “Broken Blossoms.” It would never be
that, now. Beautiful Evelyn Hope was dead. There is no
help for such things. Tears, idle tears. Since the beginning
of time, grief has never repaired a single loss. One might
as profitably wail over the sunken Atlantis.</p>
<p class='c002'>She still had her contract with the United Artists, and
by its terms must make at least one picture before she
could cancel it. She had hoped to get out of it altogether;
but while it did not mention talking pictures, she was advised
to abide by the terms.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It would involve me in a suit with the United Artists,
and I had had suits enough. As it was, I barely avoided
another: The company had agreed to let me do Eugene
O’Neill’s ‘Strange Interlude,’ if I could get it for a
reasonable sum—I could have it to take the place of the
Reinhardt picture. I came East in April (1929), to see
Mr. Madden, O’Neill’s agent. I could have it for $75,000.
This suited Mr. Joe Schenck. It suited Mr. O’Neill. We
had the papers drawn up. I was to sign them that morning,
and it was only because I was protected by an angel
that I didn’t do it. On that very day, a woman brought
suit against O’Neill, for plagiarism. Had I signed that contract,
I should have been involved in the suit. She was
beaten, and had to pay costs, but the damage to O’Neill
was more than that, in fees.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Meantime, Dorothy had gone to Germany and brought
Mother to London. Mother was tired of sanatoriums and
hotels. She wanted a home, and I decided to have one. I
joined them, and Dorothy and I went to Paris, to collect
furniture for an apartment. I had most of it made, copies
of old French pieces.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I came home in August, and all through that month
looked for a place to live. It was a terrible search in the
heat. When I saw this apartment, with its outlook on the
river, its quiet air and sunshine, I knew that it was what
we wanted.</p>
<p class='c002'>“My friend, Mr. Paul Chalfin, kindly looked after the
decoration, and I started at once for California, to do the
picture we had selected, ‘The Swan.’ This was during the
latter part of September, 1929. The apartment would not
be ready before November.”</p>
<p class='c002'>In California, Lillian lived with Madame de Grésac, at
Beverly Hills. There was just then a good deal of talk
about kidnapping, and she was advised against living alone.
Josephine, her Austrian maid, had remained in Los Angeles,
but met her at the station, with flowers and tears.</p>
<p class='c002'>Careful preparation for “The Swan” began. Lillian was
admirably suited to the rôle, that of the fair Princess Alexandra,
her voice quality and diction needed only slight
adjustment. Melville Baker had written the script for
“The Swan,” adapting it from his translation of the original
play by Ferenc Molnar. She thought very well of it,
and hoped for the best.</p>
<p class='c002'>She wrote Reinhardt of her decision, and received a
gracious reply. Both artistically and from the business
point of view, it (“The Swan”) ought to be a success, he
said, and added:</p>
<p class='c010'>In spite of all those rather disagreeable experiences I had to
go through in Hollywood, I have kept the time I spent there
in most agreeable remembrance. To have been together with
you, your undeviable artistic spirit, blossoming there like a rare
lonely flower, and the pureness of your conviction, made me
happy and will remain for me an unlosable experience for all
time to come....</p>
<p class='c002'>Making a picture now was a different matter from
those very recent old days. Then, a set where action was in
progress, was about the noisiest place on the lot. Stagehands
and various bosses shouting to one another, the director
shouting at the players—noise, noise, no end to it.
Now, all was silence. Every sound, even the feeblest rustling,
was recorded by the microphone. Except for the
actors, their laughter, their breathing, the accessory beat
of rain, or hail, the stillness was perfect. The sound stage
was a padded cell.</p>
<div id='illus313' class='figcenter id008'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-313.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“THE FIRST LADY OF THE SCREEN”</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class='c002'>“With the preparation and all,” Lillian said, “I worked
about three months on ‘One Romantic Night,’ as they
called the picture later. Mary Pickford has a bungalow on
the lot, and lent it to me. I used it as a dressing-room,
sometimes I slept there, when I had to be on the lot very
early. I had Georgie, my dog, and Josephine. It would
have been well enough, but they were building soundstages
all about, which made a great deal of noise, all night
long. It was a complete little house. Josephine cooked for
me when we stayed there.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I arrived in New York Christmas morning, with a
wild turkey, which I got in Arizona. It had been brought
to the train by some friends of a little girl who had done
my hair out there. They had often sent turkeys to me, to
California. It was all dressed, and all the way across the
continent, cooks on the diners kept it in their refrigerators.
They were very much interested.</p>
<p class='c002'>“We had dinner in our new apartment, our first real
home. Mother was delighted with it, and has seemed better
and more contented ever since. Her pleasure in it makes
us all so happy.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“One Romantic Night” was a photographically beautiful
picture, with a distinguished cast. Lillian, as Princess
Alexandra; Rod La Roque, as the Prince (sent, against his
will, to woo her); Marie Dressler, as her designing mother;
Conrad Nagel, as a tutor, in love with Alexandra; O. P.
Heggie—altogether a fine company.</p>
<p class='c002'>Yet it has been called a poor picture, and Lillian today
is not proud of her part in it. It was by no means a failure.
Never had she looked more lovely. No longer a victim
of tyranny, brutality and betrayal, but a Princess, as rare
as any out of a fairy tale, with a palace and a rose garden
and suitors, with a lilting, perfectly-timed voice, Lillian
appeared to have come into her own. Her acting and
beauty furnished no surprise, but her voice and laugh did;
she had been silent, and sad, so many years. The audience
followed her through a presentation, in itself seldom more
than mildly exciting, and not always that. The tutor’s
astronomy at times wearied, not only the Prince, but, unhappily,
the audience. Marie Dressler’s broad comedy was
highly amusing, but there were moments when one got
the impression that the play was not only very light
comedy, as apparently it was meant to be, but a good farce
gone wrong.</p>
<p class='c002'>Only, that fairy princess in the rose garden—on a terrace
under the stars, or leaning from a balcony to her
Prince, was not quite farce material. And the ending
helped: the Prince and Princess, in a properly ordered
elopement, in quite a royal car, swinging under the castle
walls, out of the picture, into the night, to the notes of
a marvelously musical klaxon, added a touch that brought
the story back to the realm of pure romance, leaving a
lovely impression.</p>
<div class='pbb'>
<hr class='pb c001' /></div>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center'>
<div><span class='large'>PART FOUR</span></div>
</div></div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch01' class='c008'>I<br/> <br/>“UNCLE VANYA”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>It was at the end of May, 1930, at the Rivoli Theatre,
New York City, that Lillian was presented in her first,
probably her only, talking picture. For during those
months since she had finished it, something had happened—something
of epochal proportions: she had <i>returned to
the stage</i>! A block down Broadway, in 48th Street, at the
Cort Theatre, since April 15, she had been appearing six
nights and two afternoons a week, as Helena, in Chekhov’s
“Uncle Vanya.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It had all come about naturally enough. When it became
known that Lillian Gish was closing her contract
with the United Artists, proposals arrived plentifully. The
distinguished Russian manager, director, author, Dantchenko,
wrote that he had begun a story with her especially
in mind; Basil Rathbone sent a manuscript and
wrote: “I need not say how happy I should be to do a
play with you, a privilege denied me even in my very own
play, ‘The Swan.’” A cable from Germany stated that a
motion picture company had been formed of those who
believed in Reinhardt, and that Jannings and all the best
of Germany’s artists had signed; that the first picture was
to be “La Vie Parisienne,” by Offenbach—three versions
to be made, French, English and German, Lillian to have
the position of production manager.</p>
<p class='c002'>But then came an opportunity such as she had hoped
for: One day, George Jean Nathan spoke to her of the
actress Ruth Gordon, of how much Lillian would like her.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Couldn’t you arrange a meeting?” she asked.</p>
<p class='c002'>He could, and did. He asked them both to tea, at the
Colony Restaurant.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was not disappointed in Ruth Gordon. They
had one love in common: France. They talked a great deal
about that pleasant land, its beauties, its castles, its wines—especially
its wines—one of which in particular, they
both loved, Clos Veugeot. Ruth Gordon said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“And I know a man who has the same taste: Jed Harris,
the theatrical producer.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Someone proposed: “We must try to get a bottle. The
first one of us who finds it, to give a dinner, and invite
Mr. Harris.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Said Lillian, remembering:</p>
<p class='c002'>“But of course no one could get a bottle of Clos
Veugeot, any more. One day, Ruth telephoned that she
had a bottle of Rhine wine, and that Mr. Harris loved
that, too. So we had a small dinner in her apartment, with
Rhine wine and strawberry ice-cream. For the first time,
I heard Jed Harris talk. I thought I had never heard anyone
like him. It seemed to me that he knew the theatre as
no one I had ever met. Later, when I went with Ruth to
get my hat, I said: ‘Ruth, he’s wonderful! I’d work for
such a man for nothing.’ Ruth agreed. She had worked
for him in ‘Serena Blandish,’ and told me how fine he had
been.</p>
<p class='c002'>“A few weeks later, George Nathan called up to say
that Jed Harris had a part for me: ‘That’s splendid,’ I
said, ‘but do you think I could do it?’</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘Of course. It’s Helena, in Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya.”’</p>
<p class='c002'>“I said I would read it over at once, and see if I could
do it. I adored Chekhov, and had a volume of his plays,
but it didn’t contain ‘Vanya.’ I was very excited. For ten
years—from the time of working with Victor Maurel, I
had hoped to get back to the stage.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She ran out to a bookshop, and presently was back, deep
in the play. She thought Helena a hard part—wondered
if she could do it. Her stage work lay far behind her—really
counted for little, though for more, perhaps, than
she realized.</p>
<p class='c002'>This was at the end of February, or early in March.
Almost immediately, they went into rehearsal. Jed Harris
had selected a well-nigh perfect cast. With Walter
Connolly in the title rôle, the tired, tearful, disillusioned
Vanya; with Osgood Perkins, as Astroff, the hard-riding,
hard-drinking, disillusioned doctor; with Eugene Powers,
as Serebrakoff, the ailing, fat-headed, city professor; with
Lillian, as Helena, his young, beautiful, disillusioned wife;
with Joanna Roos, as Sonia, his unhappy, love-lorn daughter;
with Kate Mayhew, as Nurse Marina; with Isabel
Irving, Eduardo Ciannelli, and Harold Johnsrud—one
must travel far to find a group of players better suited to a
Chekhov play, or one more congenial to work with. Ruth
Gordon was not in the cast, but she came to Lillian’s apartment
and worked with her. So did Mr. Harris. They believed
in her, and encouraged her to believe in herself.</p>
<p class='c002'>Going back to the stage had its difficulties. For one
thing, it had been seventeen years since she had appeared
before an audience, and then had never played a leading
part. The audience did not matter so much—she had never
been audience conscious. But the rehearsing. In the pictures,
the scene was shot, the film developed, and put on
the screen for judgment, all within a brief time. If unsatisfactory,
it could be made over, and over again. Furthermore,
it could be “edited.” Now, it was all quite different.
You could not see how well, or how badly, you had done a
thing; you only knew what the director told you.</p>
<p class='c002'>She had moments of misgiving. Perhaps it would have
been better, certainly safer, to remain in the pictures—even
the talking pictures that had offended her as incongruous.
They were new, crude—Arliss in his “Disraeli”
had taken a long step towards something that, in the end,
might mean, if not perfection, at least something as near
it as the silent film had reached. Oh, well....</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was in New Haven, on the evening of April 6
(1930), that the curtain went up on Lillian’s first night
in “Uncle Vanya.” She was nervous, after all. The moment
came when Helena enters, merely to drift voicelessly
across the stage. There was a burst of applause from the
audience—she was not prepared for that, and was almost
as frightened as on that long-ago night of the explosion
at Risingsun. She quickened her step, quickened it still
more—was almost running, at the exit. Jed Harris still
gives amusing imitations of this first entrance across the
threshold of her new-old career.</p>
<p class='c002'>Never mind—it was a success. The leading New Haven
paper, which never before had given an editorial to a
theatrical performance, gave one next morning, to
“Vanya.” Professor William Lyon Phelps invited her to
luncheon, and was full of enthusiasm. He had seen nothing,
he declared, since Mary Anderson, to impress him so
much as Lillian’s Helena. He wrote a letter to the “People’s
Forum,” calling the public’s attention to the play.</p>
<p class='c002'>All very gratifying: To Lillian, however, one of the
most satisfactory features of her new venture was the
absence of the money element—always, after the Griffith
days, a foremost consideration. The word “salary” had
never been mentioned between her and Mr. Harris. She
did not even know what she was to have until she got her
envelope at the end of the week.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was a gray afternoon, in the little den which has
become so much a part of our story, that Lillian recounted
these things. She owed a heavy debt to Ruth Gordon, she
insisted, and thought of Helena as “Ruth’s child.”</p>
<p class='c002'>And just here came one of those coincidences which
are always being popped into plays and stories. In another
room, the telephone rang. A maid appeared at the door.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Will you speak to Miss Gordon?” she said.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch02' class='c008'>II<br/> <br/>HELENA IN NEW YORK</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>The New Haven Register, after commenting on the
“superb piece of staging done by Jed Harris, and the quite
indescribable beauty and magic of Lillian Gish’s performance
as Helena,” spoke of “Uncle Vanya” as “surely one
of the few really great plays in existence ... a richly
polyphonic drama, in which one watches the drift and
flow of human life as one listens to the different voices in
a Bach fugue.”</p>
<p class='c002'>True enough, though “Uncle Vanya” is hardly a play
at all, but a succession of incidents with no more plot
than a picture, which is precisely what it is—a tapestry
of exquisite workmanship, a cartoon of human futility—in
this case, on a Russian farm.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mark Twain once wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“God, who could have made every one of His children
happy ... yet never made a single happy one.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Chekhov might have taken that as a text for any of his
plays. In “Vanya,” no one of the characters is even passably
happy, except Marina, the nurse, and Marina’s happiness
lies in strong tea and hope in the hereafter. All the
rest are actively <i>un</i>happy, especially Vanya himself, who is
hopelessly in love with Helena, wife of a querulous egotist
twice her age—Helena being a little in love with “the
Doctor,” who is drinking too much, himself heedless of
the love of Sonia, who is too good for him, and breaking
her heart for him, and is about the unhappiest of all. The
late R. K. Munkittrick, of Puck, had a poem beginning:
“All the house is full of sorrow, all the house is full of
gloom”; the rest of it will not bear quotation, but in its
entirety, it would make a typical Chekhovian chant.
Chekhov’s houses all were full of sorrow—the pathetic
gloom of thwarted human ambitions and desires, of
blasted human ideals. Like any of us who happens to think
about it, Chekhov did not at all know whether life was
a tragedy or a comedy, so he called his plays comedies, and
laughed them off on us, letting the tragedy take care of
itself, and sink in, and add itself to our own, to make
certain that we had our share. And in doing this, he created
pictures of which, as the Register remarked, “one is
forever thinking: ‘These things cannot have been written,
they must have been lived.’” With the possible exception
of “The Cherry Orchard,” “Uncle Vanya” is, I
should think, the choicest of Chekhov’s tapestries, and the
part of Helena, the subtlest example of his artistry.</p>
<p class='c002'>Certainly, no rôle could have been better suited to Lillian.
Helena’s beauty, her elusive, eerie personality, her
mild, impersonal attitude toward much of what went on
about her—it was as if the part had been created for her, or
she for the part. It is the advent of Helena, and her gouty,
insufferable husband, Serebrakoff, that is the catastrophe
of the play—a calamity, in Astroff’s phrase, as definite as
the ruin wrought by a herd of elephants—and misses being
complete only because Vanya’s attempt to shoot Serebrakoff
hurries them away. There is no special reason why
sympathy should be with Helena, except that she is beautiful,
and indifferent, and only passively to blame for the
trouble she causes, and for the fact that she is bound
for life to the bewhiskered Serebrakoff. Perhaps that is
enough; perhaps the fact that Lillian played the part had
something to do with it. The scene between the two, which
opens the second act, is one of the high spots in the play.
The contrast between Lillian in a canary-colored dressing-gown,
her splendid hair loose, and her trumpery husband,
reveals an entire epic, as tragical as any in the human
story; and wherever the blame may lie interests the audience
not at all, the chief desire being that the whining
old human disaster may pass away as promptly as possible—overnight—leaving
the lovely Helena and the doctor,
or somebody, to live happy ever after.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>It was at the Cort Theatre, on the evening of April 15,
that “Uncle Vanya” opened in New York City.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was the event of the Spring season. A first-night
audience in New York is a different matter from one in
New Haven. New Haven being a university town, a
Chekhov first-night audience would be largely intellectual,
with a good sprinkling of picture fans who had
“adored Lillian on the screen.” In New York, there would
be all the typical first-nighters, who get a thrill out of
any first night, and especially where it is the first appearance
of a comely lady, famous in a different, even if
kindred, field. Also, there would be the professionals of
stage and screen, each with a very special interest; and all
the Chekhovians, some of them doubtful and critical, resolved
not to be carried off their feet by any trick of
beauty and spotlight, but to stand firm for art only; after
these, an army of fans, who all the years had longed to
see Lillian perform in the flesh, and, of course, there would
be intellectuals, too—and critics—on the whole, I submit,
except for the fans, a rather hard-boiled audience, one
calculated to put fear into the troubled heart....</p>
<p class='c002'>But then the curtain went up ... on a Russian garden
scene, and presently, across the stage, floated a vision
of loveliness, and all the fans broke loose. And all the
Chekhovians, and first-nighters, and professionals, and
critics of high and low degree, forgot they were hard-boiled,
and broke loose, too, and pounded their hands
together long after the vision had passed, as if they hoped
it might return, if only to bow.</p>
<p class='c002'>The <i>Times</i> next morning spoke of “the storminess of
the greeting at her entrance,” and Charles Darnton, in his
afternoon column, had this to say of it, and of the play as
a whole:</p>
<p class='c010'>The applause that greeted her at her appearance not only
followed her every step of the way but into the wings. Even
then it kept up warmly, strongly, insistently. For a moment I
was seized with the sickening fear she might pop into view
again, like a grand opera singer after an aria, to bow to the
tribute. Evidently, the audience expected no less of her. But it
might just as well have expected to call back the Ghost in
“Hamlet.”</p>
<p class='c010'>The event had its peculiar phase. Walter Connolly was playing
the principal character, and playing it finely, whereas Lillian
Gish was appearing in a minor rôle, or what would have
been a minor rôle in the hands of an ordinary actress. Yet
throughout the whole performance interest centered in Miss
Gish.</p>
<p class='c010'>This is said with every consideration for Mr. Connolly. He
could not help himself. He was as powerless, and blameless, in
the matter as though he had been playing with Duse. But I
couldn’t help wondering how he felt about it. Not that I suspected
him of professional jealousy. It was just that the gods,
or Jed Harris, had set down an artist touched by genius, and
there was nothing to be done about it. When Miss Gish again
appeared, this time to stay and let us hear as well as see her,
when the presence of her filled the stage like light flooding
through a window into a room, she was so luminous that the
others, including Mr. Connolly, faded into the background.
Never before had I seen quite the same thing done in quite
the same way.</p>
<p class='c010'>Certainly, she is not a pushing person. Instead of crowding
into the limelight, she seems always to be withdrawing from it.
Yet wherever she goes her own radiance follows her and lights
her up. Try as you may, you cannot get her out of your eye.
Just what this rare thing is I hesitate to say. But a first-nighter
did say to me, “She is sublime.”</p>
<p class='c010'>Whatever it may be, it is there in the eyes, the face, the hair,
the voice, the form of Lillian Gish.</p>
<p class='c002'>True enough, but it was a qualification that in future
would make it difficult for her to get a part in any play
having more than one major rôle.</p>
<p class='c002'>Mr. Darnton says that he was assured by Mr. Harris
that bringing Lillian Gish back to the stage was the finest
thing he had been able to do in the theatre, adding: “I
am convinced that her performance is one of the most
magnificent things I have ever seen.”</p>
<p class='c002'>If there was any dissenting voice as to Lillian’s triumph,
I have been unable to discover it. But I think there was
none. She had everything demanded by the part: the personality,
the subtle understanding, the years of training
which had equipped her for its perfect interpretation.
Percy Hammond, of the <i>Herald Tribune</i>, wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“In future when I am told that association with the
films is a destructive influence, I shall cite Miss Gish’s appearance
in ‘Uncle Vanya’ to prove the contention
wrong.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch03' class='c008'>III<br/> <br/>“THE PENALTY OF GREATNESS”</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>We have reached the point in this narrative where the
writer’s personal association with Miss Gish began. Though
long an ardent admirer of her work on the screen I had
never seen her, never made any attempt to do so. Once,
from France I had written urging her to make a picture
of Joan of Arc. I know now that this was an old story to
her; many had offered the same suggestion—the idea had
been one of her own dreams. Engagements, one thing
after another, had always interfered. I treasured the two
friendly letters she wrote me about it, but the matter had
gone no further. Now, three years later, back in America,
the papers told me that Lillian Gish was appearing in person
and in picture, in Broadway productions. “Vanya”
was playing to capacity, and I do not like buying seats in
advance—something is so liable to happen.</p>
<p class='c002'>Then, one June day, I found myself on Broadway in
front of the Rivoli, facing the announcement: LILLIAN
GISH IN ONE ROMANTIC NIGHT. I learned that it
was continuous, and that there were seats. A very little
later, in the cool dimness, I sat watching Alexandra and
Prince Albert and the others, and for the first time was
hearing Lillian speak.</p>
<p class='c002'>I thought her more pleasing than ever, and her clear,
perfectly enunciated speech was a revelation. I had feared
that it might be too loud, too low, provincial—in some
way disappointing. It was none of these things; it was
pure and sweet, and particularly intelligible; the microphone
had recorded every syllable. I sat twice through the
picture, suffering through several program features until
it came again.</p>
<p class='c002'>Once more outside, I was sorry I had not remained
longer, for the sun was a hot glare. Sitting in Fairyland
with Lillian was much more to my taste. I drifted down
Broadway, and by chance (apparently), turned into 48th
Street.</p>
<p class='c002'>All at once I stopped: From a large frame on an easel,
several Lillians looked out at me. A moment later, I
realized that it was Wednesday, for a card at the top
plainly stated MATINÉE TO-DAY. I was at the entrance
to the Cort Theatre. Some people were going in. I wondered
if I could get a seat. Midweek, mid-June, and a hot
day—I would try.</p>
<p class='c002'>A very little later, from a fairly good, even if fairly
warm, angle, I watched the curtain go up on a Russian
garden, where Kate Mayhew was pouring tea and Osgood
Perkins, in semi-Russian dress—that is to say, tall boots—was
marching up and down.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Take a little tea, my son.”</p>
<p class='c002'>And so the action starts, and presently Walter Connolly
comes yawning in, the weariest, most lethargic, ill-kempt
man the stage has shown this season. What a
contrast it all is to the smart soigné picture around the
corner! Voices outside, and Gene Powers, wearing long
whiskers, enters.... Then—a beam of pure light, a
radiance—floats, glides, drifts across the stage, to a long,
and prolonged, salvo of applause ... and then ... it is
not Kate Mayhew and Perkins any more, or Walter Connolly
and sweet Joanna Roos, but Marina and Astroff and
Uncle Vanya and Sonia, figures in a sad, amusing dream—a
dream that is real—truth reflected as in a looking-glass,
and one no longer minds the heat, or thinks of it,
or of anything except the figures that drift in and out,
and carry on the dream ... especially the one figure,
embodiment of the Chekhov spirit—that luminous being
around which all the others revolve and bruise their wings.
The lines of Astroff: “What does she think ... who is
she ... what is inside her small blonde head? She drifts
about here, mysterious, fascinating us.... She is like a
firefly, that arrests our attention, but gives no warmth,
nothing....” And by and by ... hours, days, maybe—time
no longer counts—the futile human dream draws
to its futile human ending, and Sonia’s sweet voice is saying—to
Uncle Vanya, bowed and heartbroken, like herself:</p>
<p class='c002'>“You have never known what happiness was ... but
wait, Uncle Vanya, wait. We shall rest. Beyond the grave
we shall say that we have suffered and wept, and God
will have pity on us. And we shall be happy.... The
wheat fields will be there, and the blue cornflowers ...
and the woods in Spring.” And to the low music of Telegin’s
guitar, she adds: “And those who in this existence
did not love us ... they’ll love us ... they’ll want us
... we shall rest.”</p>
<p class='c002'>The crowd flows out into the June sunshine, the dream
with it ... and all the way home. Poor Uncle Vanya and
Sonia ... one would like to comfort them ... and,
yes, poor Helena...!</p>
<p class='c002'>This was on Wednesday, as I have said. I think it was
on Sunday that I sent a note to Miss Gish, proposing to
write of her. I had given up such work as too arduous, but
it seemed to me that this might be a happy thing to do—the
story of one who had begun humbly, and walked in
beauty and humility to achievement, making the world
better and lovelier for her coming.</p>
<p class='c002'>I suppose it was a week later that I received a characteristically
simple reply. She expressed willingness to cooperate
in the proposed work, modestly adding: “—if I
really deserve it. Whatever I could do in the way of help,
I should do most conscientiously.”</p>
<p class='c002'>One could rely upon that. Whatever she did was done
in that way. She was on the eve of sailing for France, to
visit Eugene O’Neill and his wife. She would return the
last of August; then we could begin.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>She returned as planned, but it was not until September
11, at her town home, Beekman Terrace, at the extreme
end of 51st Street, New York City, that we had
our first meeting. Arriving, I was shown into the living-room,
a handsome apartment, one end lined with books.
A few moments early, I stood looking out at the striking
East River view, when she entered.</p>
<p class='c002'>I had, of course, expected to see a beautiful woman—the
woman I had known in the pictures, and on the stage.
Yet when she appeared in the room—a slender figure,
simply gowned in black, simply coiffed, without make-up—and
stood in the drench of light reflected from the
river, I confess I caught my breath a little.</p>
<p class='c002'>I could not understand it. The actress in her home
is so often disappointing. Her beauty is the beauty of
her rôle—of her lines, her make-up, of the lights—she
lays it aside with her part—leaves it in the dressing-room.</p>
<p class='c002'>Yet it was all simple enough, later: Lillian Gish had
never played the part of a character as lovely as herself
... as her own spirit.</p>
<p class='c002'>She led the way to the little room overlooking the river,
the den with which we have become familiar—also a place
of books. No word of an agreement, much less of a contract,
was mentioned between us. In my letter I had suggested
that the work be done without the idea of gain. If
profit accrued it could be shared. I think neither of us
remembered this—then, or afterwards.</p>
<p class='c002'>I thought the speaking quality of her voice even more
musical than when I had heard it in the play and the picture.
When I mentioned this, she spoke of the training
she had received from Maurel. What I found still more
notable was her refinement of diction. Of Middle-West
birth and early association, it seemed to me remarkable
that she had been able to eliminate practically every trace
of sectional usage—no easy matter, once it is ingrained. I
noticed that she pronounced “been” rather in the English
way, though not conspicuously so. It seemed to me that
this woman, whose childhood and girlhood had largely
been spent amid surroundings where purity of diction was
indifferently regarded, spoke about the most satisfactory
English I had ever heard.</p>
<p class='c002'>I mentioned “Vanya”—her utter identification with the
part of Helena; and I asked:</p>
<p class='c002'>“When one has played many parts, is one ever uncertain
as to one’s own personality?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“N-no. The actor has a picture in his mind that he
hopes to paint on the screen or present to the audience. I
think he does not confuse it with his own personality. Of
course, I speak only for myself.” And a little later: “I
have always honestly tried to reach a high spot—perfection.
Sometimes I seem—almost—to reach it. But then it
was never a personal thing—a mood—a moment in the
play.... Acting in itself is not an art—it is merely repeating
lines and gestures, more or less in the manner of
the director. But to give these things a special quality—to
make them produce a particular mood in the mind of
the hearer—to stir something deep down in the heart of
the audience—something not measurable by any physical
law—something fourth-dimensional—that is art, and may
become a very great and sublime one.”</p>
<p class='c002'>I think it was not altogether what she was saying; I
think it was as much her manner, her look ... her voice;
but as I listened, the feeling grew upon me that she was
not quite of the familiar world ... I saw what Cabell
had meant, and Hergesheimer.</p>
<p class='c002'>“With your voice,” I said, “now that the pictures
speak——”</p>
<p class='c002'>Gently she dissented.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I do not care for the talking pictures. They seem to
me incongruous. Even the lip movements, to give the
effect of speech, seemed to me all wrong. The silent film at
its best was a beautiful thing, and lovely effects could
be produced with it. To make the pictures speak seems to
me a mistake. Oh, I’m sorry I made the ‘Romantic Night.’</p>
<p class='c002'>“Charlie Chaplin’s picture,” she went on—“I want it to
be a success. He is one of the few who can do what he
likes. Mary can do that, too, and Douglas. None of the
rest of us. Yes, the people want the talking pictures now,
but maybe there will be a change. There should be music,
of course. The pictures need music.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Griffith, in his way, is an artist—too much of an artist
ever to be rich. He has shown the others the way to fortune—he
has not travelled it himself. Nothing satisfied
him but the best—completeness. He did not regard cost.
Sometimes in the cause of completeness, he overdid. In
‘Intolerance,’ for example.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Yes, I have written, from time to time, about the pictures.
Not long ago I did an article for Oliver Sayler’s
book, ‘Revolt in the Arts,’ and I did one on ‘Motion Pictures,’
for the Encyclopaedia Britannica. They sent me a
check, which I have kept as a souvenir. It was for twenty-one
dollars.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She told me some of the happenings of her childhood,
half pathetic, amusing things, over which one hardly knew
whether to laugh or weep. I was not surprised to find that
she had a happy, delicate sense of humor—I have yet to
meet anyone worthwhile without it.</p>
<p class='c002'>She spoke of Mark Twain—of her love for his work,
especially “Huckleberry Finn.” Later, of “Mickey Mouse”:
“I could see an entire show of nothing else.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She spoke of her mother, her early hardships, her final
break. “All those years of struggle and privation had to
be paid for; her capital of health and strength were exhausted,
utterly.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Her face, in the fading light, reflected from the river,
took on an added unreality.</p>
<p class='c002'>“This is my favorite part of the day,” she said, and it
came to me that her remark, and the manner of it, removed
her a step farther from her surroundings: that she
was, in fact, of Arcady.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch04' class='c008'>IV<br/> <br/>WORKING WITH LILLIAN</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>“Uncle Vanya” was to reopen in New York for two
weeks at the Booth Theatre, then it was going on the road—to
Boston, to Chicago, to Pittsburgh, to Philadelphia.
There would be rehearsals, but we should have a good deal
of time to work, she said, and would I like to come again
tomorrow? It would be nearly four weeks until she left
for Boston. We could make a good start.</p>
<p class='c002'>We worked the next day, and the next, and were to
have worked on Sunday, but she was ill when I arrived,
and I saw her only briefly, her face flushed with fever, a
light attack of “grippe.” On that day, I first met that
rare woman, her mother, sweet and patient, her face like
a miniature, her hands the daintiest in the world. And
then, a few days later, that princess of comediennes, light-hearted
Dorothy, “a bright flag flying in the breeze,” to
whom all the days are good days, all music good music,
to whom all clouds are lined with silver and spanned with
rainbows. The likeness between the sisters, whatever it had
been earlier, was hardly more now than a family suggestion
that flashed faintly at long intervals. They were, in
fact, about as different as it is possible for sisters to be.</p>
<p class='c002'>Daily we rebuilt the sequence of the years—for Lillian
a new occupation which she entered into with zest. As I
have told earlier her “den” had a wide window that overlooked
the East River—a cozy room, with small low chairs
which she loved—a proper setting for her. We almost
always worked there. It is associated with these pages.</p>
<p class='c002'>Her memory of earlier happenings was vague. We relied
a good deal upon Dorothy, always in childhood with
her mother, who had kept her memories refreshed. To
Lillian, those days of wandering had been one like another—little
to look forward to, less to look back upon—mere
links in a succession of one-night stands. Memory
and anticipation do not prosper on that nourishment.</p>
<p class='c002'>She typified the present. The moment it became the
past, it was blurred—sometimes obliterated. Her interest
in tomorrow lay chiefly in the fact that directly it was
to become today. She examined it, she took it to pieces,
in order that she might more substantially rebuild it.
Dreams of a radiant, far-off possibility, interested her but
meagerly. She had grown up without them, or had grown
out of the habit of them and did not miss them any more.
I think of her today as a slender figure, walking through
a field of ripening grain, that parts before her, and closes
behind her as she passes along. Her interest in life lies in
the beautiful, exquisite things not far away, and in the
welfare of those about her. She moves steadily forward,
her feet firmly set. She is without envy, or malice, and
totally without curiosity. She is, as I have suggested, apt
to forget, but it is never safe to count on her doing so:
More than once I have known her to treasure up some
casual, inconsidered remark, and recall it one day to my
undoing.</p>
<p class='c002'>She was always in quiet good humor, but almost never
gay. The spirit of banter, so riot in Dorothy, was in Lillian
altogether lacking. I remember Dorothy saying to me:
“Couldn’t you find a cigarette holder more complicated
than that one?” A remark as foreign to Lillian as toe
dancing.</p>
<p class='c002'>Yet her words not infrequently took a quaint turn.
Speaking of the many demands for money that came to
her, she once said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“Three hundred dollars is the amount they usually want
to borrow. Sometimes they pay it back—a little of it—when
it is three hundred. When it is five hundred, it is a
gift—they don’t pay any of it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>And I recall her saying: “Jazz is America’s challenge to
the world.” And again: “The Guild Theatre looks like a
library gone wrong.” She certainly made no effort to say
such things, and when she did, apparently did not notice
them at all, and would not have remembered them a moment
afterward. But they were often quite unexpectedly
on her tongue.</p>
<p class='c002'>A mystic herself, she believed in mystical things—in
telepathy, in foreknowledge, in visions, in Christian healing.
I have already spoken of her visit to the Miracle Girl
of Konnersreuth, and there was a time, chiefly on her
mother’s account, when she devoted herself to Christian
Science,—mind healing, and the like. I was sure she believed
in the efficacy of prayer, though perhaps could not
give any clear reason for it, beyond the general theory
that spiritual and physical harmony might thus be restored.
Certainly she was not orthodox, and I was by no
means sure that she was not a pagan—a Sun-, a tree-, a
flower-worshipper—that would be natural, and proper,
for a dryad.</p>
<p class='c002'>“What is your idea of God?” I asked, one day.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Force, creative power.” A moment later, she added:
“The cloud, the sunlight, that out there, the beggar on the
street, myself—all a part of the great Whole—the Truth
Absolute.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Mathematics,” I said, “is the only truth—mathematics
in the larger sense, which includes art, music, science——”</p>
<p class='c002'>But the faith of her childhood was not to be limited
to equations. At luncheon, one day, we discussed the
beauty of certain phrases, especially those of the King
James version of the Bible. She mentioned the comfort
and sheer loveliness of the words: “And underneath are
the everlasting arms.”</p>
<p class='c002'>I agreed, but pessimistically added:</p>
<p class='c002'>“The ghastly thing about it is, that they’re not there—that
this tiny pellet of a world is a part of no protecting
consciousness—is drifting unheeded through space.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But it holds to its orbit—keeps its place in the constellation.
Something sustains it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“A law—gravity, perhaps. Nothing that cares.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Oh, but there is—the arms are there—I am certain
of it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She was interested in dreams. “I have dreamed things
that happened; sometimes soon after,” she once said, and
added: “I have worked out scenes in my sleep, and half-sleep,
when my subconsciousness had full control. And I
have many times experienced something that I am sure I
had experienced before—possibly in a dream.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Science has accounted for that, rather prosaically, I
believe.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Science is always accounting for things, and then by
and by, it accounts for them again, in another way.”</p>
<p class='c002'>One day, when I was rather down, she said to me:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I know all about how futile one’s work can seem—how
inconsequential. So many times last Spring I thought:
‘What am I doing this for? Dressing up and pretending to
be something I am not—selling myself to these people.
‘Vanya’ was a beautiful play, and I loved it ... but to
do it publicly. It was just offering oneself to be seen, for
money. I never had quite that feeling, doing the pictures.
The audience was not present; we were doing the picture
primarily for ourselves—at least it seemed so—making a
panoramic painting, on a screen.”</p>
<p class='c002'>One day I made use of the word “dooryard.” Surprisingly,
I found it new to her, but she liked the sound—the
picture it conveyed. “When lilacs last in the dooryard
bloomed,” I quoted from Whitman. She thought it a
beautiful phrase.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>In the article she had written for Oliver Sayler’s book,
I read—as already she had said to me:</p>
<p class='c010'>I do not believe in the sound film. Something very right,
very true, very precious, was cut short on the verge of its ultimate
and certain perfection by the intrusion of spoken dialogue
and by the consequent throw-back of the cinema toward
the theatre. The silent film was slowly coming into its own as
an independent art which had nothing to do with the theatre,
an art closely allied with music, dependent on music, an art
which visualized music, creating independently to a certain
point and completed thereafter by music.</p>
<p class='c002'>But then, one day, she said:</p>
<p class='c002'>“The silent film came to an end none too soon; it had
gone as far as it could go.”</p>
<p class='c002'>I looked out of the window, puzzled. A vessel of considerable
size was passing up, toward the Sound. Noticing
it, she added:</p>
<p class='c002'>“I love a ship; any ship; I would go anywhere a ship
was going. I never see one that I don’t wish to be on it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I don’t think I quite understand,” I said.</p>
<p class='c002'>“About my loving a ship?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“No, I understand that—entirely. It is what you say of
the pictures ... I can’t quite reconcile it with your
article in Sayler’s book.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But that was theoretical. What I said just now related
to existing facts. The silent pictures had gone as far as
they could go in the hands they were in ... too far. In
the right hands, they might have saved the world. They
spoke a universal language—the only one ever invented.
They could have brought all the nations together ...
done away with the narrow patriotism that childishly
celebrates its own country above all others, that has for
its motto ‘My country, right or wrong,’ a sentiment unworthy
of grown-up, enlightened people. Human beings
are pretty much alike, the world over. Difference in language
is the chief barrier between them. With the interchange
of films, which all but the blind could read, I
believe these barriers, in time would have disappeared.
Now ...”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Now ...?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“The barriers are busily being built up again. George
Arliss’s ‘Disraeli,’ a beautiful talking picture, would be
practically wasted in any country but England and America.
An operetta has a better chance. There is a German
one on 55th Street that you should see—‘Two Hearts in
Waltz Time’—clean and wholesome, with lovely music.
You come away from it with a kindlier feeling for Germany.
Even better were the lovely silent pictures, with
such titles as were needed, in the language of each country.
I know something of that, from the letters that came
to me, from everywhere. Fine, friendly letters. The writers
of those letters could not be our enemies.”</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch05' class='c008'>V<br/> <br/>“UNCLE VANYA” TAKES THE ROAD</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>“Uncle Vanya” reopened September 22, at the Booth
Theatre, with the original company, except for the part
of Sonia, which was played by Zita Johann. That Miss
Johann is a successful actress has been sufficiently demonstrated.
Yet one could hardly fail to resent any change
in the perfect “Vanya” cast. It did something to the illusion.
The scenes between Helena and Sonia were still
lovely, only Sonia wasn’t quite Sonia any more, but just
someone playing her part, pretending. Lillian was all that
she had been—my knowing her had not made her any
less the illusion, Chekhov’s Helena. It was a warm night,
but the audience was good—and appreciative.</p>
<p class='c002'>When I saw her next day, she reproached me for not
letting her know I was there. A week later, I went again,
and this time sent in a card, specifying my seat. During
the next intermission, a boy brought a little note.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I am playing for you,” she wrote. “I hope you will
think I am not doing it too badly.” And her kind heart
prompted her to add: “God bless you!”</p>
<p class='c002'>Then after two weeks, they were off for Boston, where
they arrived at perhaps the worst moment in Boston theatrical
history. A great military reunion was there—the
streets were a bedlam—all day and far into the night. Not
many could get to the theatre, the Wilbur, and those
who could, were unable to hear the actors for the tumult
outside. What an atmosphere for Chekhov. Lillian wrote
me:</p>
<p class='c010'>It was such a nervous night. The theatre seemed like a barn
to speak in, and the noises from the sky and the streets made
us all wonder if the audience would tell what we were trying
to do.</p>
<p class='c010'>There are 500,000 strangers in Boston, all of them shouting,
blowing whistles, shooting, or making some sound to convince
the world that they are “happy.”</p>
<p class='c010'>It is almost impossible to walk on the streets and today no
motors are allowed within the city limits. Concentration is difficult.
Just now, they are shooting beneath my window. Yesterday
“Sonia” came over to rehearse our scenes. We found it
impossible. Americans are at their very worst in such a mood,
it seems to me.</p>
<p class='c010'>These are the notices that Georgina cut from the papers. If
they are bad it is not surprising, as we were far from our best,
last night.</p>
<p class='c002'>She did not read notices of herself, during an engagement;
they made her self-conscious, she said.</p>
<p class='c002'>The Boston notices were by no means “bad.” They
spoke of the hard conditions under which the play was
produced, the paid-for empty seats, the perfect cast selected
for Chekhov’s picture of human futility. “A delicately
beautiful dramatic tapestry,” the Globe called it,
“its colors subdued and blended, as only master craftsmen
can blend.... The company is superb, and the acting
well-nigh perfect.” And the Transcript, with a full-length
three-column picture of her, paid a just tribute to the
play and its production. Lillian’s part it spoke of as “elusive,
wraith-like, symbol of the unattainable. At the end,
like a spirit of a passing dream, she drifts away, to leave
them to their old problems and their solitude.”</p>
<p class='c002'>But for a week, the attendance was very bad. Then the
visiting military was gone, and the house filled. It would
have been filled for a month longer, if they could have
stayed. But Chicago was waiting.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was always reading some book on the road. This
time she was re-reading “Wuthering Heights.”</p>
<p class='c010'>What a beautiful piece of work is Emily Brontë’s “Wuthering
Heights.” It sweeps across the page like the winds on the
moor that she knew so well. From fury to tenderness, with such
understanding; how many lives had she lived before, to know
so much!</p>
<p class='c002'>She firmly believed in mental and spiritual growth
through reincarnation. She was convinced that she had
lived before—that now and again, she caught glimpses of
a former life. Personally, I was by no means sure that
mere human beings had known a previous existence, but
I was certain that Lillian had. Not a previous existence,
but the same existence, of which the present gave hardly
more than a glimpse.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Chicago welcomed her with open arms: she had always
been a favorite there. She wrote:</p>
<p class='c002'>“They keep me moving as fast as a machine-gun in
this kind, friendly Chicago. But I shall be so happy when
I am by the East River, once more, talking in the little
den.”</p>
<p class='c002'>As for the papers, they could not say enough good
things of “Uncle Vanya,” of Lillian, of the entire company.
The <i>Post</i> gave a column of appreciation. It had a
large picture of Lillian, and in part, said of her:</p>
<p class='c010'>If an embodiment were needed of our Siberian spirit from
the steppes, stalking from East to West, we’d say cast Miss Gish
for the part—only, make the spirit glide across the stage, as
does Miss Gish at her first entrance.... “Uncle Vanya,” as
presented, may not be Chekhov, but it is superbly Lillian Gish—and
this reviewer, for one, prefers Lillian Gish to Chekhov.</p>
<p class='c002'>The <i>News</i> spoke of her initial entrance, “Not only as
a perfect entrance for an actress to make out of the half-dream
world of filmdom into the world of flesh and blood,
but the whole of Chekhov’s drama in a fifteen-second
gesture.”</p>
<p class='c002'>Twenty-two years before, Lillian had last “played Chicago,”
in a theatre where one’s dressing-room was in a
flooded basement, and one had to wear a long skirt and
high heels to avoid the Gerry officers. Now, the Gerry
officers did not mind any more—the Harris Theatre was
beautiful and well-appointed—one’s dressing-room had
the fittings required by a modern star. And there were
flowers in it, and a little heap of notes and cards—invitations,
and requests for interviews. There had been no interviews
twenty-two years ago, and if the critics noticed
her at all, it had been obscurely and briefly, a line in some
half-hidden corner. Now, her picture looked out from
every dramatic page, while at the Goodman Theatre, in
the foyer, along with those of Mrs. Siddons and John
Kemble, hung the “Romola” portrait, which Nikolai
Fechin had painted, the only portrait of a living actress
so honored. Lillian had known that following its exhibition
in New York, the portrait had been bought for the
Chicago Art Institute, but did not know before that it
had been hung in the Goodman Theatre. Now, she was
obliged to go and stand beside it and be photographed,
with a bevy of girls, and the papers published that, too.
And here, in one paragraph, we have a romance as complete
as any to be found in the story books.</p>
<p class='c002'>It was on November 3, that “Uncle Vanya” reached
Pittsburgh, a damp and heavy season of gloom.</p>
<p class='c010'>“Someone dropped my heart into the pit of a coal-mine,”
wrote Lillian. “I want so to find it, so I can dust it off before
I reach New York.”</p>
<p class='c002'>To brighten her stay, and to get material for our work,
she brought “Aunt Emily” down from Massillon, not very
far distant.</p>
<p class='c002'>Pittsburgh was hardly a “Vanya” city, but the newspapers
were kind—to the play and to the company.</p>
<p class='c002'>Perhaps it was not strange—but only seemed so—that
“Uncle Vanya” had its best houses in Newark, which had
been substituted for Philadelphia. I am told there are a
good many Russians there—it may be that Chekhovians
and other cultured ones abound. At all events they did
love “Vanya,” there, and said so, and I shall always hold
them in affection for the sake of Jed Harris and his perfect
company, and especially for the sake of Chekhov,
whom a good many people regard lightly, or do not regard
at all. The in-growing life of a Russian farm-house, the
tragedy of a cherry orchard, are meaningless to them, or
only amusing. It was amusing to Chekhov, too, who
laughed—a little—that he might not weep—too much.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian was at home again during the Newark engagement,
going across the river each evening and matinée
afternoon, unpretentiously by bus, with tiresome changes.
She might have gone as befitted a great star, but she preferred
to go modestly, and, as she thought, more suitably.</p>
<p class='c002'>And then, presently, “Vanya” was being given in New
York again, this time briefly, at the Biltmore. I saw it
twice, there, and the charm of it did not wane, but grew
upon me exactly as the charm of the play itself, when
read quietly on a winter afternoon. It is my conviction
that such another company to play “Uncle Vanya” is not
likely to be assembled.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>The “Vanya” engagement ended at the Biltmore on the
evening of November 29, 1930. Following the matinée,
Lillian had the company to her apartment, for dinner.
She was as pleased as a child with the prospect of having
them, and the arrangements. A friend had sent in some
very good Italian home-made claret, there was a big
turkey, and the tables were arranged in a T, in the living-room
at Beekman Terrace.</p>
<p class='c002'>Owing to the evening performance, the guests could
not remain more than an hour, but it was an hour to remember.
Kate Mayhew beamed on her younger companions.
And when, that night, at the theatre, Griffith
came behind the scenes and greeted her with a rousing
kiss, she declared, later, to Lillian, that it was the happiest
day of her life. “Dinner with you, and kissed by Mr.
Griffith! What more could anyone ask?”</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian had not seen Griffith for some time. It was a
surprise, therefore, when he came behind, at the end of
the performance. It was something more than eighteen
years since the day she had come to find Gladys Smith
at the Biograph studio, and had first seen him, a tall man
walking up and down, humming “She’ll never bring them
in.”</p>
<p class='c002'>What a story of endeavor those eighteen years had told.
I have given many pages to it, but among the “Vanya”
notices I find this unidentified bit which reflects the
spirit of it all:</p>
<p class='c010'>Lillian Gish, who has ever held high the torch of beauty
during her entire career as stage and screen star, and with
undeviating purpose has been representative of the finest and
best traditions of the theater, adds another triumph to her list
of admirable achievements. As the ethereal and wistful Helena
she is all the author could have hoped for. Something more intangible
she gives to the rôle than her delicate loveliness, her
undeniable charm and the richness of her experience as a sincere
and gifted actress.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch06' class='c008'>VI<br/> <br/>RELIVING THE YEARS</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>It became our custom to work two afternoons a week—Tuesdays
and Fridays, and on the hour I found her
always ready. Whatever engagement she made, she would
keep it; whatever promise, even a partial one. I think she
was born with that conscience, and the years of rigid picture
appointments had kept it in repair. Griffith had said
to her: “You, as the star, must never fail to be there. The
others will take their cue from you. <i>You</i> must be on time.”
And she always had been on time, and ahead of time.
Once, by a lapse of memory on my part, I missed an appointment
when we were to see one of the old pictures
together. If she had scalded me with censure, I should have
felt better—if she had even shown a little irritation, instead
of anxiously helping me to find excuses, I could better
have borne it. Five minutes later, it had passed from
her memory, but it refuses to pass from mine.</p>
<p class='c002'>We saw a number of the old pictures, that winter, as
has appeared in earlier chapters:</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian, in “Broken Blossoms,” the picture that had
made her the “world’s darling” and is still today recognized
as the highest point touched by the pictures, for
beauty and artistic perfection. I insisted on seeing this picture
twice, for it seemed to me her masterpiece. From the
moment she enters the picture, her whole attitude, her
face, her hands, her feet, her bowed shoulders and bent
back—every part and feature of her, tell her crushed,
stunted, trampled life.</p>
<p class='c002'>Of course, her wistful beauty added to the pathos of it
all, but Lillian without beauty—if one can conceive that
possibility—would have achieved a triumph. When she
crosses the street, stoops to pick up the tin foil which she
gathers to sell, looks into the shop window, touches the
flower she wants, one’s heart turns fairly sick for the
broken child.</p>
<p class='c002'>She had not wished to play the part, because it was of
a child of twelve. “I wanted Griffith to get a girl of that
age.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But a girl of twelve could never have done it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>She did not answer, only mentioned that she had been
ill at the time.</p>
<p class='c002'>“Do you consider it your best picture?”</p>
<p class='c002'>She hesitated.</p>
<p class='c002'>“If not, what would be your choice?”</p>
<p class='c002'>Again she hesitated, then:</p>
<p class='c002'>“‘White Sister,’ perhaps.”</p>
<p class='c002'>We saw that, too, and “Romola,” and poor little Mimi,
and Hester Prynne, made when Lillian had become, beyond
all question, “First Lady of the Screen.”</p>
<p class='c002'>It was toward the end of March that we saw the last
of her great silent pictures, “Wind.” The motion picture
had arrived at mechanical perfection when it was made.
It was one of the several “swan songs” of that ill-fated
year. I thought it a remarkable picture—beautiful in its
stark <i>un</i>-beauty. It only seemed unfortunate in that it
presented the most sordid of human aspects against a background
of wind-cursed wastes.</p>
<p class='c002'>Lillian watched it almost without a word. I think she
approved her part in it, and why not? Technically, she
was at her best. We drove home rather silently.</p>
<p class='c002'>“It was the exact opposite of ‘Broken Blossoms,’” I
ventured to say.</p>
<p class='c002'>“You mean ...”</p>
<p class='c002'>“That <i>that</i> was sheer beauty, while this——”</p>
<p class='c002'>“But this had beauty, too, don’t you think?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Great beauty. The illusion of blowing sand ...
Letty’s cumulative terror of it—those were classic things.
But I cannot imagine going through the torture of seeing
it again. The ending didn’t save it.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“No. I wanted it to end with her complete madness ... with
her rushing out into the wind ... vanishing
in the storm. They wouldn’t let me.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“They thought they were giving it a happy ending.”</p>
<p class='c002'>“I suppose so.”</p>
<p class='c002'>We saw one more picture after that, “The Enemy,” her
last silent film, and our winter was at an end—a winter
during which, by a form of “eternal recurrence,” exactly
symbolic of Ouspensky’s “duplicate reincarnations of
the past” I had watched her relive the years, change from
the young girl who had played Elsie Stoneman to the
mature and finished actress of “Wind,” of “One Romantic
Night,” of Chekhov’s Helena.</p>
<p class='c002'>And in watching I seemed to guess something of her
secret. Chiefly, as I believe, it lies in the fact that she does
not do violence to herself by making herself over into the
part she presents. She studies the environment, the period,
the hundred contributing details of the situation, then
lives her part in the play as she might have lived it in
reality. She takes on the psychology of it—what she conceives
to be such—and in some subtle fashion, fuses it with
her own. Always, it is Lillian who is playing, and always
you want it to be Lillian, just as all those people she has
played—Hester Prynne, Mimi, the White Sister, poor little
Lucy Burrows, and Helena—would wish to be Lillian,
if they could see her in their parts. And the nearer they
could be like her, the better White Sister and Hester
Prynne and Helena and the rest, they would make. I am
not saying that hers is the best dramatic method—my
equipment does not warrant that positive statement—I
am only saying that the effect she gives us is not of acting,
but of life itself.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'>Sometimes I feel that I have dwelt overmuch on the
subject of Lillian’s beauty; again, I feel that I have said
very little. It is such a tremendous thing when considered
in its relation to her material being—such a baffling thing.
She is not richly proportioned. In height five feet four
and one half inches, her weight is one hundred and ten
pounds. True, her slender feet are small, her limbs shapely;
but her arms are full long, her expressive hands rather
large, her shoulders narrow, her bust that of a young
girl. It is strange, but these very defects—defects in another—add
to the charm that surrounds her like an
aureola. Her face—I cannot write about her face—I suppose
the classic purist might take it to pieces, discovering
a variety of faults. Let him do so. In doing it he will miss
Lillian altogether—her beauty and the magic of it. It has
often been likened to music, the strains of Debussy, which
is well enough, as far as it goes, and I have found it in the
heart cry of Mascagni’s “Intermezzo,” in the “Eve of St.
Agnes,” in the dying fall of the “Londonderry Air.” To
say that it is spiritual only partly tells the story. It is
that, but it is something more. It has a haunting eerie
quality that has to do with elfland, and lonely moors—the
face that seen by the homing lad at evening leaves him
forever undone. Scores of men and women, too, have written
of it, have felt its strangeness. Some have tried to
write of it lightly, but underneath you feel the magic
working. They have glimpsed “Diana’s silver horn,” and
are forever changed.</p>
<div id='illus351' class='figcenter id013'>
<ANTIMG src='images/illus-351.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic001'>
<p>“CAMILLE”</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch07' class='c008'>VII<br/> <br/>A FEW NOTES</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>In my notebook of this time I find these entries:</p>
<p class='c002'><i>March 31, 1931</i>: She has returned from a brief stay at
Atlantic City. “I read ‘Arrowsmith,’” she said. “I think
it a fine book.</p>
<p class='c002'>“I remembered something while I was there: something
from my childhood: I remembered Papa taking Dorothy
and me there, once; I think we stayed there overnight. I
know we paddled in the water on the beach. How strange,
when my memory is so poor, that this should come back
to me, after all these years. I think we went from New
York, so it must have been just after Baltimore, when I
was about five.”</p>
<p class='c002'><i>No date</i>: How tolerant she is! Whatever her belief or
habits, she never urges them upon others, or tries to disintegrate
theirs. She never smoked a cigarette in her life,
but for years she has lived in a drift of tobacco, without
objection or criticism. She drinks nothing stronger than
mild wine, but provides generously for her guests.</p>
<p class='c002'><i>April 5</i>: Artists are always wanting to paint Lillian.
Just now she is posing for Sorine, the distinguished Russian
painter who did the Pavlowa which hangs in the
Luxembourg. Lillian’s portrait is to hang there, he says,
and some day in the Louvre. I saw it today, with her. It
is vividly, delicately done.</p>
<p class='c002'><i>No date</i>: Today she said: “I attended a symphony concert,
last night, with some friends. In the box with us was
Gabrilowitsch. I thought of what the music meant to him
that it did not mean to me. What he heard that missed me
entirely. Musicians have an entire world of their own. No
other art has that in the same degree. Science has it, I
suppose. But music seems different,—of a world still farther
removed.”</p>
<p class='c002'><i>April 15</i>: How does she find time for all the things
she does? She has no secretary, now, yet somehow keeps
up conscientiously with her letter answering—of itself a
heavy task. Then, home duties, social demands, this posing
every day for Sorine; also, for a young German girl,
Fräulein von Bismarck; reading plays; this work of ours,
which takes no end of time, and thought. I don’t see how
she manages it all—but she does.</p>
<p class='c002'>I suppose things trouble her, but she remains serene.
There is about her a detachment from the worries of life
that suggests Karma Yoga, and is that, I have no doubt,
for she is versed in Eastern Philosophy.</p>
<p class='c002'>Whether she “suffers fools gladly,” or not, I do not
know. I only know that she suffers them—without complaint.</p>
<p class='c002'>She reads omnivorously, but always, as I think, seeking
the best, and apparently reading with care and reflection.</p>
<p class='c002'>A few days ago I lent her Brand Whitlock’s latest book,
“Narcissus,” which tells a Belgian legend of Van Dyck.
Today she said: “I read it twice—for the story, first, then
for the beauty of it—the style. It has great charm. I want
to read it again.” Then she told me a story of Van Dyck
and Frans Hals, which somewhere she had read, or heard.</p>
<hr class='c009' />
<p class='c002'><i>April, 1932.</i> Something has happened, or is in the process
of happening. Since the conclusion of “Uncle Vanya”
Lillian has given little serious consideration to theatrical
matters, putting aside as unsuitable a variety of offered
parts. A new prospect now presents itself—one that appeals
to her taste and imagination: a group of influential
citizens of Denver, Colorado, headed by Mr. Delos Chappell,
propose to refurbish and reopen the ancient Opera
House of the little “ghost mining town” of Central City,
with a week’s presentation of “Camille,” at fancy prices,
for the benefit of the University of Denver. Robert
Edmond Jones is to stage and direct the production, with
Lillian as Casting Director, herself in the title rôle. She is
deeply interested—has secured Raymond Hackett for the
part of Armand, the rehearsing to begin at once.</p>
<div class='nf-center-c1'>
<div class='nf-center c013'>
<div>From a special to <span class='sc'>The New York Times</span>.</div>
</div></div>
<p class='c010'>Denver, Col., July 16.—In an impressive ceremony, amid the
merry laughter of “pioneer” belles and gay young men, and at
a cost of $250,000, the famous Central City Opera House was
brought to life tonight after a silence of fifty years.</p>
<p class='c010'>Men, women and children from the Atlantic Seaboard and
the Pacific Coast came to this “phantom” village, once the
miners’ capital. Daughters and sons, granddaughters and grandsons
of pioneers who once made those same walls vibrate with
their applause were there for the gala opening of the revival,
in dress such as their ancestors wore at the theatre when it
was new. Some of the gowns, handed down through the fifty
years, were once heard to rustle down those same aisles. Every
person in the audience represented some famous character of the
time when Central City was the centre of Colorado’s gold
mining industry. “Camille” typified to perfection the taste of
the ’80s in the theatre.</p>
<p class='c010'>Miss Lillian Gish, as Marguerite Gautier, takes the leading
rôle, with Raymond Hackett playing opposite her as Armand.
It was the first time “Camille” has played in the old opera house
in fifty years.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
<h2 id='p4ch08' class='c008'>VIII<br/> <br/>L’ENVOI</h2></div>
<p class='c003'>And so, at last, the plowman, turning the furrows of
life, comes to the boundary that divides the known from
the unknown—the wilderness from the sown field. Whatever
we may one day find beyond, is already there in every
detail—only, I lack the clairvoyant gift, and turn for a
brief backward glimpse. It is no vision of artistic triumph
that comes to me tonight ... not the memory of Chekhov’s
radiant heroine ... not the triste picture of that
broken flower of the Limehouse ... something even
more real than these: a real child, trouping with wandering
players, away from a mother’s care ... a slim-legged
little girl, who slept on station benches and telegraph
tables, who running across a foot-bridge lost her poor
possessions in the swift black water, who from a train or
hotel window stared silently into the night.</p>
<p class='c002'>“What are you looking at, Lillian?”</p>
<p class='c002'>“Nothing, Aunt Alice, just looking.”</p>
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