I have told of Mae’s early struggles with objective light-heartedness. She herself recounts them to-day with a full appreciation of their humour. But there is another more vital approach to the subject. You must consider that every picture is tremendously significant to the screen actor involved. If it succeeds, well and good. If it is a “flop” the proportionate damage to the actor’s reputation is infinitely greater. I think I am safe in saying that if even such emphatic successes as Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, or Griffith were to make two or three successive failures they would find the coming back somewhat difficult. In fact, I have often heard Mr. Griffith remark, “I simply can not afford to make a failure.”
In the light of such knowledge, the heartache of Mae’s first weeks on the Lasky lot are instantly apparent. Here she was, fully conscious of what that first picture meant in her career. And here at every step she was met by circumstances pointing to failure. And such heartaches, such beating of wings against barriers of prejudice and misunderstanding and actual hostility—those palpitate through many of the disputes recorded in this volume.
Chapter Seven
GERALDINE THE GREAT
In the early Winter of 1915 I went to the stage production of “Maria Rosa.” Who that witnessed the same performance can ever forget the creation of Mr. Lou Tellegen? That Latin lover whose ferocity showed in every silken accent, in every gesture of panther-like, slim body—to-day this lingers with me as among the most telling of dramatic brush-strokes.
How distinctly I remember the first day that the young foreign actor, who, previous to his triumph in “Maria Rosa” had been hailed as “Bernhardt’s beautiful leading man,” came to my office! We were talking about salary when suddenly Tellegen jumped up from his chair and walked over to look at a photograph on the wall.
“Who is that?” he asked, peering at the face in the frame.
“Oh,” answered I, “don’t you know her? That’s Geraldine Farrar.”
“Oh, yes, the famous singer,” he responded, never taking his eyes from the dazzling victorious face. “H’m—very, very beautiful, is she not?” he mused.
I had hoped that he was perhaps permanently swept away from the theme which he had relinquished so abruptly. I had, however, underrated Mr. Tellegen’s powers of recuperation. A moment more and he was standing before me with a light in his eyes very different from that evoked by the abstract consideration of Beauty.