“Here,” answered a young man, stepping out from a group of spectators.
“Do you know the work? Can you lead that procession into the temple so they will leave room for Delilah to enter, and not crowd her off the platform?” asked the director.
Jackson merely nodded as he scrambled into the priest’s robe which the discomfited Higgins resigned to him. Evidently the bungling actor was in disgrace, for he was told to go to the office and get his pay and then “clear out.”
So now the procession was sent back into the passage and rearranged in proper order; the signal was given to begin and in an instant the camera renewed its clicking as the operator slowly revolved the handle that carried the long strip of film past the lenses. The musicians played, the girls danced, the procession slowly emerged from the passage.
This time it advanced properly and came to a halt just at the head of the staircase leading up to the entrance to the temple.
“Delilah!” shouted the director, and now appeared a beautiful girl who made a low obeisance to the chief priest.
“Why — goodness me!” cried Patsy. “It’s — it’s Maud Stanton!”
“Nonsense!” returned Arthur, sharply; and then he looked again and drew a long breath; for unless it were indeed the elder niece of Mrs. Montrose, there must be two girls in the world identically alike.
Mr. Werner settled the question by quietly remarking: “Of course it’s Maud Stanton. She’s our bright, particular star, you know, and the public would resent it if she didn’t appear as the heroine of all our best pictures.”
“An actress!” exclaimed Arthur. “I — I didn’t know that.”
“She and her sister Flo are engaged by us regularly,” replied Werner, with an air of pride. “They cost us a lot of money, as you may imagine, but we can’t afford to let any competitor have them.”
If Arthur Weldon felt any chagrin at this, discovery it was not in the least shared by the others of his party. Beth was admiring the young girl’s grace and dignity; Patsy was delighted by her loveliness in the fleecy, picturesque costume she wore; Louise felt pride in the fact that she had been introduced to “a real actress,” while Uncle John wondered what adverse fortune had driven this beautiful, refined girl to pose before a motion picture camera.
They soon discovered Florence Stanton in the picture, too, among the dancing girls; so there could be no mistake of identity. Mrs. Montrose was not visible during the performance; but afterward, when Samson had pulled down the pillars of the temple and it had fallen in ruins, when the “show” was over and the actors trooping away to their dressing-rooms, then the visitors were ushered into the main office of the establishment to meet Mr. Goldstein, the manager, and seated by the window was the aunt of the two girls, placidly reading a book. She looked up with a smile as they entered.
“Did you see the play?” she asked. “And isn’t it grand and impressive? I hope you liked Maud’s ‘Delilah.’ The poor child has worked so hard to create the character.”
They assured her the girl was perfect in her part, after which Mr. Merrick added: “I’m astonished you did not go out to see the play yourself.”
She laughed at his earnestness.
“It’s an old story to me,” she replied, “for I have watched Maud rehearse her part many times. Also it is probable that some — if not all — of the scenes of ‘Samson and Delilah’ will be taken over and over, half a dozen times, before the director is satisfied.”
“The performance seemed quite perfect to-day,” said Uncle John. “I suppose, Mrs. Montrose, you do not — er — er — act, yourself?”
“Oh. I have helped out, sometimes, when a matronly personation is required, but my regular duties keep me busily engaged in the office.”
“May we ask what those duties are?” said Louise.
“I’m the reader of scenarios.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Patsy. “I’m sure we don’t know any more than we did before.”
“A ‘scenario,’“ said the lady, “is a description of the plot for a photo-play. It is in manuscript form and hundreds of scenarios are submitted to us from every part of the country, and by people in all walks of life.”
“I shouldn’t think you could use so many,” said Beth.
“We can’t, my dear,” responded the lady, laughing at her simplicity. “The majority of the scenarios we receive haven’t a single idea that is worth considering. In most of the others the ideas are stolen, or duplicated from some other picture-play. Once in a while, however, we find a plot of real merit, and then we accept it and pay the author for it.”
“How much?” inquired Arthur.
“So little that I am ashamed to tell you. Ideas are the foundation of our business, and without them we could not make successful films; but when Mr. Goldstein buys an idea he pays as little for it as possible, and the poor author usually accepts the pittance with gratitude.”
“We were a little surprised,” Uncle John ventured to say, “to find you connected with this — er — institution. I suppose it’s all right; but those girls — your nieces — ”
“Yes, they are motion picture actresses, and I am a play reader. It is our profession, Mr. Merrick, and we earn our living in this way. To be frank with you, I am very proud of the fact that my girls are popular favorites with the picture theatre audiences.”
“That they are, Mrs. Montrose!” said Goldstein, the manager, a lean little man, earnestly endorsing the statement; “and that makes them the highest priced stars in all our fourteen companies of players. But they’re worth every cent we pay ‘em — and I hope ev’rybody’s satisfied.”
Mrs. Montrose paid little deference to the manager. “He is only a detail man,” she explained when Goldstein had gone way, “but of course it is necessary to keep these vast and diverse interests running smoothly, and the manager has enough details on his mind to drive an ordinary mortal crazy. The successful scenario writers, who conceive our best plays, are the real heart of this business, and the next to them in importance are the directors, or producers, who exercise marvelous cleverness in staging the work of the authors.”
“I suppose,” remarked Arthur Weldon, “it is very like a theatre.”
“Not so like as you might imagine,” was the reply. “We employ scenery, costumes and actors, but not in ways theatrical, for all our work is subservient to the camera’s eye and the requirements of photography.”
While they were conversing, the two Stanton girls entered the office, having exchanged their costumes for street clothes and washed the make-up from their faces, which were now fresh and animated.
“Oh, Aunt Jane!” cried Flo, running to Mrs. Montrose, “we’re dismissed for the day. Mr. McNeil intends to develop the films before we do anything more, and Maud and I want to spend the afternoon at the beach.”
The lady smiled indulgently as Maud quietly supported her sister’s appeal, the while greeting her acquaintances of yesterday with her sweet, girlish charm of manner.
“A half-holiday is quite unusual with us,” she explained, “for it is the custom to hold us in readiness from sunrise to sunset, in case our services are required. An actress in a motion picture concern is the slave of her profession, but we don’t mind the work so much as we do waiting around for orders.”
“Suppose we all drive to the beach together,” suggested Mr. Merrick. “We will try to help you enjoy your holiday and it will be a rich treat to us to have your society.”
“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Patsy Doyle. “I’m just crazy over this motion picture business and I want to ask you girls a thousand questions about it.”
They graciously agreed to the proposition and at once made preparations for the drive. Mrs. Montrose had her own automobile, but the party divided, the four young girls being driven by Mr. Merrick’s chauffeur in his machine, while Uncle John, Arthur and Louise rode with Mrs. Montrose.
It did not take the young people long to become acquainted, and the air of restraint that naturally o
btained in the first moments gradually wore away. They were all in good spirits, anticipating a jolly afternoon at the ocean resorts, so when they discovered themselves to be congenial companions they lost no time in stilted phrases but were soon chattering away as if they had known one another for years.
CHAPTER V
A THRILLING RESCUE
“It must be fine to be an actress,” said Patsy Doyle, with enthusiasm. “If I had the face or the figure or the ability — all of which I sadly lack — I’d be an actress myself.”
“I suppose,” replied Maud Stanton, thoughtfully, “it is as good a profession for a girl as any other. But the life is not one of play, by any means. We work very hard during the rehearsals and often I have become so weary that I feared I would drop to the ground in sheer exhaustion. Flo did faint, once or twice, during our first engagement with the Pictograph Company; but we find our present employers more considerate, and we have gained more importance than we had in the beginning.”
“It is dreadfully confining, though,” remarked Florence, with a sigh. “Our hours are worse than those of shopgirls, for the early morning sun is the best part of the day for our work. Often we are obliged to reach the studio at dawn. To be sure, we have the evenings to ourselves, but we are then too tired to enjoy them.”
“Did you choose, this profession for amusement, or from necessity?” inquired Beth, wondering if the question sounded impertinent.
“Stern necessity,” answered Maud with a smile. “We had our living to earn.”
“Could not your aunt assist you?” asked Patsy.
“Aunt Jane? Why, she is as poor as we are.”
“Arthur Weldon used to know the Montroses,” said Beth, “and be believed
Mr. Montrose left his widow a fortune.”
“He didn’t leave a penny,” asserted Florence. “Uncle was a stock gambler, and when he died he was discovered to be bankrupt.”
“I must explain to you,” said Maud, “that our father and mother were both killed years ago in a dreadful automobile accident. Father left a small fortune to be divided between Flo and me, and appointed Uncle George our guardian. We were sent to a girls’ school and nicely provided for until uncle’s death, when it was found he had squandered our little inheritance as well as his own money.”
“That was hard luck,” said Patsy sympathetically.
“I am not so sure of that,” returned the girl musingly. “Perhaps we are happier now than if we had money. Our poverty gave us dear Aunt Jane for a companion and brought us into a field of endeavor that has proved delightful.”
“But how in the world did you ever decide to become actresses, when so many better occupations are open to women?” inquired Beth.
“Are other occupations so much better? A motion picture actress is quite different from the stage variety, you know. Our performances are all privately conducted, and although the camera is recording our actions it is not like being stared at by a thousand critical eyes.”
“A million eyes stare at the pictures,” asserted Patsy.
“But we are not there to be embarrassed by them,” laughed Flo.
“We have but one person to please,” continued Maud, “and that is the director. If at first the scene is not satisfactory, we play it again and again, until it is quite correct. To us this striving for perfection is an art. We actors are mere details of an artistic conception. We have now been in Hollywood for five months, yet few people who casually notice us at the hotel or on the streets have any idea that we act for the ‘movies.’ Sometimes we appear publicly in the streets, in characteristic costume, and proceed to enact our play where all may observe us; but there are so many picture companies in this neighborhood that we are no longer looked upon as a novelty and the people passing by pay little attention to us.”
“Were you in that picture of the falling wall?” asked Beth.
“No. We were rehearsing for ‘Samson and Delilah.’ But sometimes we are called upon to do curious things. One night, not long ago, a big residence burned down in the foothills back of our hotel. At the first alarm of fire one of the directors wakened us and we jumped into our clothes and were whisked in an automobile to the scene of the conflagration. The camera-man was already there and, while we had to dodge the fire-fighters and the hose men, both Flo and I managed to be ‘saved from the flames’ by some of our actors — not once, but several times.”
“It must have been thrilling!” gasped Patsy.
“It was exciting, at the moment,” confessed Maud. “One of the pictures proved very dramatic, so an author wrote a story where at the climax a girl was rescued from the flames by her lover, and we took our time to act the several scenes that led up to the fire. The completed picture was a great success, I’m told.”
“Those directors must be wonderfully enterprising fellows,” said Beth.
“They are, indeed, constantly on the lookout for effects. Every incident that occurs in real life is promptly taken advantage of. The camera-men are everywhere, waiting for their chance. Often their pictures prove of no value and are destroyed, but sometimes the scenes they catch are very useful to work into a picture play. A few weeks ago I was shipwrecked on the ocean and saved by clinging to a raft. That was not pleasant and I caught a severe cold by being in the water too long; but I was chosen because I can swim. Such incidents are merely a part of our game — a game where personal comfort is frequently sacrificed to art. Once Flo leaped over a thirty-foot precipice and was caught in a net at the bottom. The net was, of course, necessary, but when the picture was displayed her terrible leap was followed by a view of her mangled body at the bottom of the canyon.”
“How did they manage to do that?” asked Patsy.
“Stopped the camera, cut off the piece of film showing her caught by the net, and substituted a strip on which was recorded Flo’s body lying among the jagged rocks, where it had been carefully and comfortably arranged. We do a lot of deceptive tricks of that sort, and sometimes I myself marvel at the natural effects obtained.”
“It must be more interesting than stage acting.”
“I believe it is. But we’ve never been on the stage,” said Maud.
“How did you happen to get started in such a queer business?” inquired Patsy.
“Well, after we found ourselves poor and without resources we began wondering what we could do to earn money. A friend of Aunt Jane’s knew a motion picture maker who wanted fifty young girls for a certain picture and would pay each of them five dollars a day. Flo and I applied for the job and earned thirty dollars between us; but then the manager thought he would like to employ us regularly, and with Auntie to chaperon us we accepted the engagement. The first few weeks we merely appeared among the rabble — something like chorus girls, you see — but then we were given small parts and afterward more important ones. When we discovered our own value to the film makers Auntie managed to get us better engagements, so we’ve acted for three different concerns during the past two years, while Aunt Jane has become noted as a clever judge of the merits of scenarios.”
“Do both of you girls play star parts?” Beth inquired.
“Usually. Flo is considered the best ‘child actress’ in the business, but when there is no child part she makes herself useful in all sorts of ways. To-day, for instance, you saw her among the dancing girls. I do the ingenue, or young girl parts, which are very popular just now. I did not want to act ‘Delilah,’ for I thought I was not old enough; but Mr. McNeil wanted me in the picture and so I made myself took as mature as possible.”
“You were ideal!” cried Patsy, admiringly.
The young girl blushed at this praise, but said deprecatingly:
“I doubt if I could ever be a really great actress; but then, I do not intend to act for many more years. Our salary is very liberal at present, as Goldstein grudgingly informed you, and we are saving money. As soon as we think we have acquired enough to live on comfortably we shall abandon acting and live as other girls do.”
“Do many stage actresses go into the motion picture business?” asked Beth.
“A few, but all are not competent,” replied Maud. “In the ‘silent drama’ facial expression and the art of conveying information by a gesture is of paramount importance. In other words, action must do the talking and explain everything. I am told that some comedians, like ‘Bunny’ and Sterling Mace, were failures on the stage, yet in motion pictures they are great favorites. On the other hand, some famous stage actors can do nothing in motion pictures.”
On their arrival at Santa Monica Mr. Merrick invited the party to be his guests at luncheon, which was served in a cosy restaurant overlooking the ocean. And then, although at this season it was bleak winter back East, all but Uncle John and Aunt Jane took a bath in the surf of the blue Pacific, mingling with hundreds of other bathers who were enjoying the sport.
Mrs. Montrose and Uncle John sat on the sands to watch the merry scene, while the young people swam and splashed about, and they seemed — as Miss Patsy slyly observed — to “get on very well together.”
“And that is very creditable to your aunt,” she observed to Maud Stanton, who was beside her in the water, “for Uncle John is rather shy in the society of ladies and they find him hard to entertain.”
“He seems like a dear old gentleman,” said Maud.
“He is, indeed, the dearest in all the world. And, if he likes your Aunt Jane, that is evidence that she is all right, too; for Uncle John’s intuition never fails him in the selection of friends. He — ”
“Dear me!” cried Maud; “there’s someone in trouble, I’m sure.”
She was looking out across the waves, which were fairly high to-day, and Patsy saw her lean forward and strike out to sea with strokes of remarkable swiftness. Bathers were scattered thickly along the coast, but only a few had ventured far out beyond the life-lines, so Patsy naturally sought an explanation by gazing at those farthest out. At first she was puzzled, for all the venturesome seemed to be swimming strongly and composedly; but presently a dark form showed on the crest of a wave — a struggling form that tossed up its arms despairingly and then disappeared.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 507