Read the book: «Life and Lillian Gish», page 11

XVIII
SAD, UNPROFITABLE DAYS

Lillian to Nell, June 30, 1920:

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.

It was more of a “gamble” than she knew. Strictly speaking, there was no such thing as the “Frohman Amusement Company.” No Frohman—no amusement 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.

Griffith and Lillian parted on the friendliest terms. Griffith said to her:

“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.

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:

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.

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.

“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.

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.”

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.

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.

Exactly what happened will always be a mystery. Lillian, in Philadelphia, where they were opening “Way Down East,” wrote Nell:

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.

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.

XIX
PICTURING THE REIGN OF TERROR

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.

“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.

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.

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:

“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.”

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:

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.

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.

“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.”

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:

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.

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.”

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:

“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.

“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.”

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:

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.

And it was another woman who wrote of “Orphans of the Storm”:

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.”

Which brings us back to the picture itself.

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.

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.

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.

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.

PART THREE

I
ITALY

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.

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.

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.

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:

“My next picture, if all goes well, will be made by myself, so if it makes money I may get some of it.”

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.

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.

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:

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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!

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.