IV
Yes, that was the truth about this bright luminary of the screen, as Bunny came to observe it; she had a literal mind. All the poetry and romance the public imagined about her—that was in the public's eye, so to say. All that Annabelle had to contribute was a youthful figure and a pliable face; the highly paid directors did the rest. She produced pictures as a matter of business, and her talk was of production costs, and percentages on foreign sales, just as if it had been an oil well. That was why she got along with Vernon Roscoe, who also had a literal mind. A primrose by the river's brim a yellow primrose was to him, and to Annabelle it was a decoration for an "interior," or a back-ground on "location." There was a certain grim honesty about this, as Bunny discovered; it was Annabelle's desire to be an actress rather than a mistress. "By Jees," Verne would proclaim to his guests, "it's cost me eight million dollars to make a movie queen out of this baby." And the thirty year old baby had the dream that some day she would achieve a masterpiece, that would earn this eight million and vindicate her honor. Meantime, she paid installments by taking care of Verne—so publicly that it was quite touching, and respectable according to the strictest bourgeois standards. If the oil magnate had ever had the idea that in taking to his bosom a movie star he was going to lead a wild and roystering life, he had made a sad mistake, for he was the most hen-pecked of all "butter and egg men." "Now, Papa," Annabelle would say, "you've had enough to drink. Put that down." She would say it before a company assembled in their gladdest rags for a dinner party; and Verne would protest, "My God, baby, I ain't got started yet!" "Well, you stop before you start tonight. Remember what Doctor Wilkins says about your liver." Verne would bluster, "To hell with livers!" and the answer would be, "Now, Papa, you told me to make you obey! Have I got to make you ashamed before all this company?" "Me ashamed? I'd like to see anybody make me ashamed!" "Well, Papa, you know you'll be ashamed if I tell what you said to me the last time you were drunk." Verne paused, with his glass half way in the air, trying to remember; and the company burst into clamor, "Oh, tell us! Tell us!" "Shall I tell them, Papa?" It was a bluff, for Annabelle was very prim, and never indulged in vulgarity. But the bluff went, and the great man set down his glass. "I surrender! Take the stuff away." Whereat everybody applauded, and it gave the party a merry start. Strange as it might seem, Annabelle was a pious Catholic. Just how she managed to fix things up with her priests Bunny never knew, but she gave freely to charity, and you would find her featured at benefits for Catholic orphan asylums and things of that sort. At the same time her little head was as full of superstitions as an old Negro mammy. She would not have started a picture on a Friday for the whole of Vernon's eight million dollar endowment. When you spilled the salt, she not merely advised you to throw some of it over your shoulder, she did it for you, if necessary. Once, at luncheon, she made a girl friend eat at a side table, because otherwise there would have been thirteen, and this girl, being the youngest, would have fallen the victim. At the same time she was very good. She really liked you, and liked to have you around, and when she begged you to come back, she meant it. Nor would she make unkind remarks about you after you were gone. Along with the ecstasies of the artistic ternperament, she had escaped its gnawing jealousies; she was one of the few lady-stars before whom it was safe to praise the work of other lady-stars, Bunny found. Also, she had an abiding respect for him, because he had read books, and had ideas about public questions. The fact that Bunny had got his name on the front pages of the newspapers as a dangerous "pink," served to lend him that same halo of mystery and romance, which the public assigned to Annabelle as a luminary of the screen world, and the mistress of a monastery!
V
"Harve," said Annabelle, "there's time for you to show Mr. Ross over the place before dinner." And so Bunny got to see what a country place could be like, so that he could make his father give him one. But Harvey Manning did not make a very good escort. To show off a show-place you need some one of an admiring disposition, whereas "Harve" had seen too many places, and was inclined to patronize them all. There were almost as many buildings on this estate as there were tanks at the Paradise refinery; only these were Gothic tanks, with miniature towers and steeples and crenellations and machicolations. There was no chapel or place of worship, nor tombs of ancient abbots; but there was a gymnasium, with a swimming pool of green marble, and a bowling alley, and squash courts and tennis courts, and a nine hole golf course, and a polo field— everything you would find at the most elaborate country club. There was a stable with saddle horses ridden mostly by grooms, and a library read only by motion picture directors looking up local color—or at any rate that was Harvey's tale about it. Also there was a regular menagerie of local creatures. The hired men and their youngsters had discovered that such gifts pleased the master, so they brought in everything they could capture. There was an enclosed park with deer and mountain sheep, and heavily barred dens and grizzly bears shambling over the rocks, and wild cats and coyotes and mountain lions dozing in the shade. There was a giant dome covered with netting, with a big dead tree inside, and eagles seated thereon. An eagle in his native state, sailing with supreme dominion through the azure deep of air, has been a thrilling theme for poets; but sitting in a cage he is a melancholy object. "Some of your red friends in jail!" Harvey Manning remarked in passing. But even the most blase man of the world has something in which he is interested, so Bunny found. Presently his guide took out his watch and remarked that it was nearly six-thirty, and they must get back to the house. He was "on the water wagon" until that hour of each day, and when it drew near, he was about ready to jump out of his skin. So they strolled back, and a Chinese boy clad in white duck had evidently learned to expect him, and was on hand with a tray. Harvey took two drinks, to make up for lost time, and then he sighed contentedly, and revealed that he could talk without a drawl. When Bunny came down for dinner there was quite a company assembled—some in evening dress and some in golf clothes and some in plain business suits like the host—it was "liberty hall," according to the caption. Roscoe was talking politics to Fred Orpan—the drubbing they were going to give the Democratic party. Roscoe did the talking, for the other was a queer silent creature, tall and lean, with a tall, lean face, like a horse. He had the strangest grey-green eyes, that somehow looked absolutely empty; you would decide that his head was empty too, when he would listen and say nothing for an hour—but this would be a mistake, for he was the directing head of a great chain of oil enterprises, and Dad said he was sharp as a steel trap. Also there was Bessie Barrie, because good form required that she be invited wherever Orpan went. He had backed her in several pictures, and she was "paying the price," as the current phrase ran; but it wasn't quite the same respectable arrangement as in the case of Roscoe and his Annabelle, because Bessie had been in love with her director, and he was still in love with her, and the attitude of the two men was far from cordial. This was explained to Bunny by Harvey Manning, gossip-in-chief, who had now had several more drinks, and got his tongue entirely loosened. Bunny noted that the hostess had tactfully placed the rival males at opposite ends of the table. They were in a smaller cathedral now, known as the "refectory"; and Bunny was in the seat of honor, at the right of the charming Annabelle, transformed from a lemon-colored shepherdess to a duchess in white satin. On her left sat Perry Duchane, her director, telling about the cuts in the first two reels, which he had brought along for a showing. Next to him was a vacant seat; some lady was late, and Bunny was too young in the ways of the world to know that this is how great personages secure importance to themselves. It was his first meeting with actresses, and how should he know that they sometimes act off-stage?
VI
You remember in that colossal production, "The Emperor of Etruria," the Scythian slave girl who is brought in from the wilds to serve the pleasures of a pampered sybarite, and the scene where the fat eunuchs lay hands upon her? With what splendid fury she claws them and knocks their heads together! Her clothing is torn to shreds in the struggle, and you have glimpses of a lithe and sinewy body—the extent of the glimpses depending upon the censorship laws of the state in which you see the picture. The scene made a hit with the public, and many producers competed for Viola Tracy— pronounce it Vee-ola, please, with the accent on the first syllable. She displayed her magnificent fighting qualities next in "The Virgin Vamp," and thereafter escaped dishonor by a hair's breadth in many palpitating scenes. Of late she had acquired dignity, and was now regal on all the bill-boards of Angel City in "The Bride of Tutankhamen," an alluring figure, with deep-set mysterious black eyes, and a smile fathomless as four thousand years of history. Well, here she was, stepping out of the billboards, and into the refectory of the Monastery; her Egyptian costume changed for a daring one of black velvet, fresh from Paris, and with black pearls to match. The footman drew out her chair, and she rested one hand upon it, but did not take her seat; her hostess said, "Miss Tracy, Mr. Ross"—and still she paused, smiling at Bunny, and he smiling at her. It was a striking pose, and Tommy Paley, her director, who had taught her the stunt, and watched it now from the other end of the table, suddenly called, "Camera!" Everybody laughed, and "Vee" most gaily of all—revealing two rows of white pearls, more regular than the black ones, and worth many times as much to a movie star. Annabelle Ames got along in the world without ever saying anything unkind about anybody, but that was not "Vee" Tracy's style; she had a fighting tongue, as well as fighting fists, and her conversation gave Bunny the shock of his innocent young life. They happened first to be discussing a lady vamp, recently imported from abroad with much clashing of advertising cymbals. "She dresses in very good taste," said Annabelle, mildly. "Oh, perfect!" said Vee. "Absolutely perfect! She selected her dog to match her face!" And then presently they were talking about that million dollar production, "The Old Oaken Bucket," which was just then waking home memories and wringing tears from the eyes of millions of hardened sinners. Dolly Deane, who played the innocent country maiden seduced by a travelling salesman, was so charmingly simple, said Annabelle. "Oh, yes!" replied Vee. "For the chance to be that simple, she slept with her producer, and two angels, and the director and his assistant; and all five of them told her how an innocent virgin says her prayers!" Bunny, who was a rebel in his own line, sat up and took notice of this conversation; and you may be sure that Vee did not fail to take notice of the young oil prince, flashing him mischief with her sparkling black eyes. The footman brought her a plate of soup in a golden bowl, and she took one glance and cried, "Oh, my God, take it away, it's got starch in it! Annabelle, are you trying to drive me out of the profession?" Then, to Bunny, "They say that nobody can eat a quail a day for thirty days; but Mr. Ross, what would you say if I told you I have eaten two lamb chops and three slices of pineapple every day for seven years?" "I would ask, is that an Egyptian rite, or maybe Scythian?" "It is the prescription of a Hollywood doctor who specializes in reducing actresses. We public idols are supposed to be rioting in luxury, but really we have only one dream—to buy enough Hollywood real estate so that we can retire and eat a square meal!" "Don't you really ever steal one?" asked Bunny, sympathetically. She answered, "Ours are the kind of figures that never lie. You can ask Tommy Paley what would happen if they were to see any fat on me when the gentleman heavy tears my clothes off! They would put me into the comics, and I'd earn my living being rolled down hill in a barrel!"
VII
Conversation at this dinner-party, as at most dinner-parties in America at that time, resembled a walk along the edge of a slippery ditch. Sooner or later you were bound to slide in, and after that you could not get out, but finished your walk in the ditch. "Mr. Ross," said Annabelle, in her capacity as hostess, "I notice you aren't drinking your wine. You can trust what we have—it's all pre-war stuff." And so they were in the ditch, and talked about Prohibition. The. law was two years and a half old, and the leisure classes were just realizing the full extent of the indignity which had been inflicted upon them. It wasn't the high prices—they were all of them seeking ways to spend money rapidly; but it was the inconvenience, and the difficulties of being sure what you were getting. People escaped the trouble by pinning their faith to some particular bootlegger; Bunny noticed it as an incredible but universal phenomenon that persons otherwise the most cynical, who made it the rule of their lives to trust nobody, would repeat the wildest stories which men of the underworld had told them, about how this particular "case of Scotch" had just been smuggled in from Mexico, or maybe stolen from the personal stock of a visiting duke in Canada. They discussed the latest developments in the tragedy which had befallen Koski, one of the emperors of their screen-world, who had had a priceless stock in the cellar of his country place, and had taken the precaution to have it walled in with two feet of brick, and guarded by doors such as you would find on a bank vault; but thieves had come during the owner's absence, and bound and gagged the caretaker, and cut through the floor of the drawing room, above the cellar, and hauled out everything with rope and tackle, and carted it away in trucks. Since then Koski had been raising a row with the authorities; he charged that they were standing in with the thieves, and he had brought in an outside detective agency, and threatened a scandal that would shake the pants off the police department. By this means he had got back the greater part of his casks and bottles; but alas, the real stuff was gone, they had all been emptied and refilled with synthetic. And so, after that, there was a convincing story for your bootlegger to tell you; this was some of the original Koski stuff! Millions of gallons of original Koski stuff were being drunk in California, and even in adjoining states. Suddenly Vee Tracy clapped her hands. "Oh, listen! I have one on Koski! Him and some others! Has anybody heard The Movie's Prayer?" There was a silence. No one had. "This is something for all of us to teach our children to recite every night and morning. It is serious, and you mustn't joke." "Let us pray," said the voice of Bessie Barrie. "Fold your hands, like good little children," ordered Vee, "and bow your heads." And then with slow and solemn intonation she began: "Our Movie, which art Heaven, Hollywood by Thy Name. Let Koski come. His Will be done, in studio as in bed." There was a gasp, and then a roar of laughter swept the table; no explanations were needed, they all knew their emperor, master of the destiny of hundreds of screen actresses. "Go on!" shouted voices; and the girl continued to intone an invocation, which echoed in outline and rhythm the Lord's prayer, and brought in the names of other rulers of their shadow world, always with an obscene implication. It was a kind of Black Mass, and performed the magic feat of lifting the conversation out of the ditch of Prohibition. They talked for a while about the sexual habits of their rulers; who was living with whom, and what scandals were threatened, and what shootings and attempted poisonings had resulted. There were thrilling crime mysteries, which would provide a topic of conversation for hours in any Hollywood gathering; you might hear half a dozen different solutions, each one positive, and no two alike.