Melbourne's Story
Glimpses of last night came back to me and pieced themselves together slowly while I undressed and drew the water for my bath.
Melbourne had been interested to know that I worked for Bausch, the motion picture producer.
"Perhaps you could be of aid to me some time," he said thoughtfully.
"In what way, Mr. Melbourne?" I asked him.
"I can talk to you about that later," he replied cryptically. "Tell me about your work."
So I told him the conception I had of the motion pictures to be made in the future. He listened with keen interest.
"I visualize a production going beyond anything done today," I said, "and yet one that would be possible now, if there were someone capable of creating it. A picture with sound and color, reproducing faithfully the ordinary life about us, its tints and voices, even the noises of the city—or traffic passing in the street and newsboys crying the scores of the afternoon games—vividly and naturally. My picture would be so carefully constructed that the projector could be stopped at any moment and the screen would show a scene as harmonious in design and composition and coloring, and as powerful in feeling, as a painting by Rockwell Kent." After a pause I added, "And I'd give almost anything if I could do it myself."
Melbourne looked at me sympathetically, reflectively.
"It might be possible," he said after a time.