Newson introduced me to a friend of his, a Mrs. Winthrop. She was an art expert with snow white hair and a contralto speaking voice. She spoke with a slight Spanish accent and possessed the sort of personality that sweeps everything before it. Her daughter, Billy, was, in a quiet way, quite a personality too, and very frank with her mother in front of people. The third time I called on them I found Mrs. Winthrop engaged in selling a picture to one of her 'client-friends', as she called them, Mrs. Benjamin Thaw. I sat down beside Billy on an authentic Louis XV sofa and listened. I had never paid much attention to this picture before, though it was prominently displayed on an easel, but by the time Mrs. Winthrop had wound up her sales-talk I would have been willing to mortgage my life to own it. Fortunately, Mrs. Thaw bought it. When her chauffeur came up and carried it off I could not help remarking to Mrs. Winthrop that I thought she was foolish to part with such a picture at any price.
"Mrs. Thaw is a very dear friend," she said. "I was only too happy to be able to do her a favor."
"And what makes you think it is a good picture?" Billy asked me.
"You heard what your mother said," I said, "and if—"
"And if Mother were obliged to conduct her sales by proxy her clients would be better off," Billy broke in.
"And we would be living on bread and water," said Mrs. Winthrop, waving a check for three thousand dollars....
Mr. Lou Tellegen was announced. He kissed Mrs. Winthrop's hand and shook hands with Billy and me. Mrs. Winthrop must have thought he looked fatigued for she said at once he should have a cocktail. He agreed, but insisted on mixing it himself. He handed me the shaker when he was through and I shook it for a long time.
"I never met a man with more charming manners!" Mrs. Winthrop declared when he had made his exit. "And he's the handsomest person I ever saw in my life."
"His gestures are very finished," I said.
Billy laughed.
"I should hope so," said Mrs. Winthrop. "He was Bernhardt's leading man for years."
More people began to come. One of them was a very angry Italian with a waxed moustache who did not shake hands with me and spoke French to Mrs. Winthrop about Lou Tellegen, whom he had evidently seen coming out of the elevator. Then an interior decorator and his wife dropped in, with them, a young man who was co-director of the Braun Clement galleries on 46th Street, Gerald Kelly.
"My darling Gerald!" cried Mrs. Winthrop kissing him on both cheeks. "I haven't seen you in ages! How on earth are you?"
"Flourishing, my dear," said Gerald Kelly. "I've been simply drying to see you, but my assistant has been away and I've been positively rushed to death!"
"This is my adopted son—and your adopted brother," said Mrs. Winthrop, introducing me. "You're both Irish."
"How fascinating!" said Gerald Kelly. "And when did you adopt him?"
"The moment I met him," Mrs. Winthrop said. "Three days ago, to be precise. Horace brought him along. He's in the cinema."
"How exciting!" said Gerald Kelly, opening his eyes very wide.
When he saw my stills, which I had brought to show Mrs. Winthrop, he said to me:
"Why don't you go down and see Albert Smith at the Vitagraph?...I warn you he's a perfectly impossible person, but his wife is one of my dearest friends—before she married we Thespianed in the same roadshow! I'll give you a letter to him, and I'll call Belle up—which means he will have to see you!"
"Thanks very much," I said, "but I made a test for Mr. Griffith and I've got to go back to the Biograph on Thursday. Spike Robinson says D.W. has a part for me."
"Well," said Gerald Kelly, "this is Tuesday and the cinema is like the showbusiness: you can't have too many irons in the fire!"
"Why don't you call up Mrs. Smith now, Gerald?" said Mrs. Winthrop. "The telephone is beside my bed."
When Gerald came back he said:
"I've just talked to Belle, and I'm going to write you a note for Albert now. He will see you in the morning any time after ten."
Albert E. Smith stuck out his chin and scrutinized me with his eyes half closed, like D.W., but more agressively. Then he threw Gerald's letter on his desk.
"I don't think much of Gerald Kelly," he said handing back my stills. "But I'm going to give you a trial in stock. You're starting Monday at $25. a week. After that it will be up to you."
Authority and responsibility were shared by two people at the Vitagraph. Albert E. Smith and Commodore J. Stuart Blackton. A.E. was a shrewd businessman. Mr. Blackton had just been lucky in business, but he was one of the most capable moving picture directors at that time. He never actually directed an entire picture while I was at the Vitagraph, but he rehearsed the key scenes of all pictures produced under his banner, which amounted to fifty percent of weekly production. About sixteen directors were working on the lot.
There was another important person connected with the Vitagraph. Only a few of the old-timers knew him. I had heard of him before I ever saw Flatbush, and Gerald Kelly told me he was the real kingpin of the works: 'Pop' Rock. Pop shrewdly fostered the rivalry between A.E. and Commodore Blackton, and was consequently sure of a voting majority as they always voted against each other: Pop + A.E., or Pop + Blackton passed any motion. One way to succeed at the Vitagraph was to get one of these bosses down on you. Then you stood a good chance of being pushed ahead by the other. I got along all right with them both. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I never got very far at the Vitagraph.
When I came out of A.E's office I hung around the lot until noon, and when everyone broke off for lunch I saw the man who played the marquis in The Tale of Two Cities coming toward me with a straw hat on. He took his handkerchief from his sleeve the way the marquis had done, only this time he blew his nose instead of wiping blood off his sword with it.
"Well, well," he said, after I had stopped him. "So you recognized me, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
He seemed to be pleased because I had. But he was surprised to hear that his name had not been included in the cast when the picture was shown in New Haven. He said he was going to raise the devil about it.
"And you know, I directed the picture, too," he said indignantly.
"Oh, then, your name was on the screen," I said. "You're William Humphrey. But it said nothing about you being the marquis."
"Yes, indeed," he said, "I am William Humphrey, and my part was much more important as I originally planned the picture. But owing to undue pressure—I am mentioning no names, you understand—it was seen fit to cut it down."
"I certainly do," I said. "They did the same thing to me at Edison."
"Is that so, indeed," he said. "So you're an actor."
I gave him a somewhat glowing account of my cinema career to-date, stressing the impression I hoped I had made on Mr. Griffith. Mr. Humphrey seemed very interested and told me he would be starting a picture in a couple of weeks with Leah Baird, and he would consider casting me.
"I'm playing the character lead myself," he said.
When he had gone I saw Anita Stewart coming out of the projection room with Ralph Ince, who played Lincoln in Vitagraph pictures like a drunk, due to a habit he had of swaying from the knees. I stopped her too, and she giggled when I said she was a favorite in New Haven, and looked just as pretty off the screen as on. I said some fellows said her nose was too big, but Anita said that was what gave her more character than Norma Talmadge. After taking a good look at her nose I told her that I liked it, even if it was too big, and I liked her better than any screen actress, with the exception of Alice Joyce.
I was standing outside A.E's office when a very angry important looking man came out. He told the telephonist that commodore Blackton was an incompetent, and A.E. little better, and the Vitagraph was going to the dogs for lack of capable managment. Pop Rock, I thought to myself. I went up to him and said:
"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Rock. I'm going in stock Monday. I'm very pleased to meet you."
"What did you call me?" he said scowling down at me.
"You're Mr. Rock, aren't you?" I said.
"Do I look like a lousy smalltown piker?" he demanded. "My father was an honest man. My mother never stole a dime in her life, and you have the nerve to address me as Mr. Rock!"
"Excuse me," I said. "I understand Mr. Rock is president of the Vitagraph."
"If you wish to know," he said, "I happen to be Anders Randolph, ex-champion swordsman of Denmark, and an artist—in fact, the only one you'll meet around here."
On his invitation I went with him to a frame house on the lot where he had installed a studio, and where, when he was not acting, he was making the series of pastel portraits of Vitagraph players that later hung in the lobby of the old criterion Theatre after it had reopened as the Vitagraph Theatre with Ralph Ince's picture The Million Bid.
After lunch Anders Randolph took me on a tour of inspection that started off with the stages facing the administration offices.
In a set representing a hospital room, Robert Edson, in an old-fashioned nightshirt and minus his toupee, was preparing to get into bed. From what I could gather he was doubling for a grouchy grandfather who was about to die and leave him a fortune. Director 'Bing' Thompson was slouched down in his chair with a beautiful fedora hat tilted over his eyes. When Randolph and I came on the set several people said 'Ssshish' to us. We stood still while they rehearsed the scene. Mr. Edson was simulating irascibility and snatched his hand away when the doctor had taken his pulse. Then the doctor told the nurse to take the patient's temperature and stepped into the adjoining room. The nurse was a real one, for Mr. Thompson was a stickler for details and wanted this temperature taken in a professional manner. The nurse approached the bed.
"All right, nurse," said Mr. Thompson in a tired voice, "no need to rehearse the end of the scene, you know your business. When the doctor exits you simply take Mr. Edson's temperature and we cut....Everybody ready?... Lights...."
"Mr. Thompson," said the nurse.
"Are you ready?" said Mr. Thompson sternly, raising his voice.
"No," said the nurse raising hers.
"Why aren't you ready?" said Mr. Thompson raising his voice higher.
"How can I take a temperature without a thermometer?" said the nurse raising her voice higher.
"Great God!" cried Mr. Thompson. "Why haven't you a thermometer ?...She hasn't got a thermometer! How can she take his temperature without a thermometer—how, I ask you? The thermometer was in the script. Who has taken it? Have I no one to help me?... Lord Almighty!"
He made a few gestures interpreting frustration, and sprang to his feet.
"Mr. Thompson! don't, Mr. Thompson!" implored the property man
"Don't talk to me!" shouted Mr. Thompson hurling his watch against the wall.
"Oh, Mr. Thompson," said the property man, "here's the thermometer!"
"For God's sake, couldn't you have told me before I broke my watch? Idiot....Give her the thermometer. Give it to her.... Ready everyone...Silence...camera!"
Mr. Thompson sat down again.
"Third watch he's busted since the picture started," said Randolph in my ear. "Used to work for Belasco."
"Mr. Thompson," said the nurse, holding up the thermometer.
"Start your action...camera!" said Mr. Thompson, very loud.
"But, Mr. Thompson—"
"Do as I tell you!" he shouted, stamping. "If you've something to say, say it afterwards. CAMERA!"
The nurse shrugged. The camera started clicking.
"Come on, doctor," said Mr. Thompson in a droning voice, "speak to Bob... take out your watch...pull your hand away, Bob... fine...all right...tell her to take his temperature, doctor...fine... exit doctor ...take his temperature, nurse...."
The nurse dipped the thermometer in a glass of water, shook the mercury down with the professional deftness and approached the bed.
"Turn your back to her, Bob," droned Mr. Thompson.
With the same precision of gesture the nurse jerked back the bedclothes and pulled up Mr. Edson's old-fashioned nightshirt until parts of his anatomy generally concealed were exposed. A yell from Mr. Edson followed her next movement, executed with the same rapidity and deftness as those which had preceded it, and he leaped into the air. Mr. Thompson threw his fedora on the ground and leaped into the air too. He landed on the crown of his hat with both feet.
"For the love of all that is sacred where do you think we are?" he asked the nurse in a choking voice.
He fell on his knees on his hat and held out both hands to her, tears in his eyes.
"I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen," said the nurse. "What do you expect me to do with a rectal thermometer anyway?"
At the other end of the big stage was James Young, who had co-starred with Amelia Bingham, and later 'Friends-Romans—countrymen'ed Americans from Chicago to Des Moines, Iowa, as a scholarly, though undersized and rather paunchy Mark Anthony. He was working on a picture with his popular wife, Clara Kimball Young. It appeared to be a Russian or foreign picture of some kind. One of the actors, wearing evening dress with the variation of a black stock tie, came up and spoke to Randolph about making his portrait for the Vitagraph gallery. He had bobbed hair and a very prominent ring and spoke English with a Russian accent and a nice disregard for grammar. He was shadowed by a person no bigger than himself with a more disordered bob, an anaemic beard and a lot of dandruff on the collar and lapels of his oversize dress suit.
"Nick the Dimebender," said Randolph, introducing me to the first Russian.
"Pleased to meet you," said the dimebender. "Are you interested in the drama?"
"Say you're not," said Randolph.
"I am sure you are," said the dimebender. "I would like that you should read my play The Spider. It is very sthrong."
"A great cure for insomnia," said Randolph.
"Seriously, I would like that you should read it and give me your franch opinion," said the dimebender, ignoring him.
"And make an enemy for life," said Randolph to me. "Come on."
"I am the Russian playwright, Nicolas Dunaëv," said the dimebender. "You do not believe? All right, here is the Russian patriot, Leon BronsteinOriginal footnote by Ingram: "Nick the Dimebender told me later that this gentleman was Leon Trotsky.", to prove you. Nicholas Nicholaevitch send us to Siberia, but we escape to Flatbush....We are supervising Russian court etiquette for my friend, Mr. Young."
Mr. Bronstein made no effort to corroborate Mr. Dunaëv's claim that he was himself, which nobody had questioned.
"Now, Mr, Bronstein he prove you. I prove you again with this ring the Pope give me for a beautiful poem I write to him."
"Did you ever meet a Russian that wasn't a liar?" said Randolph to me.
"He is a very nice man," said the Russian playwright smiling up at Randolph. "He is very sympathique to me because he is Danois like Hamlet—my greatest success in Russia."
"Come on," said Randolph, "let's go look at the animals."
As I shook hands with Mr. Dunaëv I asked him did he really bend dimes, and if so, why?
"Give me a dime and I will prove you," he said with the air of one continually called upon to substantiate every statement. I handed over a dime. Mr. Dunaëv took off his dress coat, which he handed to Mr. Bronstein, and the papal ring which he put in his vest pocket. Then, with my dime between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, he executed a series of contortions so violent that he appeared to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit. When he threw the dime, bent double, on the floor he held out his thumb and two blue dented fingers as proof. Mr. Bronstein picked up the bent dime. After exhibiting it silently he put it in his pocket.