Chapter XIII: Part THREE: I (2)

“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.”

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.

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 _Vanity Fair_. Wrote Nathan:

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 _entirely_. There is ever something
pleasantly, alluringly missing, as there is always in the case of
women who are truly “acting artists.”

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.

-----

Footnote 2:

“Lillian Gish, An Interpretation”: Number Seven, University of
Washington Chapbooks. Edited by Glenn Hughes (1927).

V

“LA BOHÊME”

When in February (1925) the break with her producer had been rumored, telegrams with offers of engagements began to come.

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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

* * * * *

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.

King Vidor, in a recent letter to the author, tells of Lillian’s familiarity with this method:

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.

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, _pauvre brodeuse_, 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.

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:

“But isn’t it rather large? Mimi lives in a very small corner under the roof.”

“Ah, but this is in an old castle.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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:

“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.

“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.”

In _Picture Play_, 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:

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....

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.

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:

“But, Mother Coulter, I _can’t_ 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.

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.

When the camera stopped, she peeped around it, the tears still
shining in her eyelashes.

“Was that all right, Mr. Vidor? Or shall we try it again?”

“Well, let’s try it this way, too, and see how it looks,” in Mr.
Vidor’s soft, lazy Southern accent.

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.

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.

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....

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....

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.

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.

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....

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.

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!

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

I think we all broke into tears of great joy.

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.

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.

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.”

* * * * *

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.

“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.

It was a big night at the Embassy. Social New York was out in force, and all the picture people. The _Post_ next day said:

“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....”

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?”

“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.”

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:

“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.”

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.”

VI

“THE SCARLET LETTER”

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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:

“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.

“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:

“I believe in ‘The Scarlet Letter,’ if we can get the right man for Dimmesdale, the minister.” We considered several, but none would do.

“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.’

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

Characteristically, Lillian says nothing of that trip across land and sea. Miss Moir, less reticent, writes:

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.

... 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.

We arrived in New York on the morning of the day the _Majestic_
sailed. When, late that night we went on board the boat, we found
our stateroom filled with people all waiting to see Lillian.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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 _Mauretania_ en
route for New York.

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.

Lillian herself told of the hectic overland journey:

“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.

“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.

“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.”

* * * * *

“The Scarlet Letter” had its première in August, 1926, at the Central Theatre, New York City. The evening _Sun_ next day, among other things, said:

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.

The _Sun_ 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:

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.

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.”

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.

We left the crash and glare of Ninth Avenue for the comparative seclusion of a cab. Lillian said, presently:

“I was too immature to play that part. She was a woman. I looked just like a child.”

“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.”

She assented, a little doubtfully. I stumbled on:

“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.”

“Some of the critics didn’t think so; they said——”

“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.”

* * * * *

“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.

VII

“THE FIRST LADY OF THE SCREEN”

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.

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.

“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.

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 _gowf_. 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.

* * * * *

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.

And many wanted to write of her. Whatever she did, or was about to do, was news. A magazine, _Liberty_, 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!

On any excuse, and with no excuse at all, other than what it presented, and stood for, periodicals carried her picture. _Vanity Fair_ published a full front-page portrait, by Steichen, nominating her “The First Lady of the Screen.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

TO LILLIAN GISH

If I could breathe on canvas white my dreams,
I’d dip my fancy into tubes which held
Life’s colors—pure, of sheerest loveliness,
Then—I’d paint—you.

I’d borrow of the Lily its perfume,
Of day—the misty beauty of its dawn;
Then of the world I’d take a tear—a smile,
And I’d have—you.

VIII

“WIND”

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.

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.

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.

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.

And the human misery of it! Miss Moir writes:

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.

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.

To which Lillian adds: