Hollywood (25 page)

“Is interesting,” said Pierre, leering up at her. “It maybe
expliquer
why they like to break down the churches. I have only one lung, madame. Otherwise I fight for la France.”

The Hun colonel rose from his table; placed his monocle securely in his eye; smiled a slow lascivious smile. “You is very beautiful, madame.”

“That is what all you Huns say.”

Pierre rose to his full Napoleonic height, an inch shorter than Caroline. “In my script it say now I rape you, madame.”

“In my script, too. Rest assured that I will resist like a tigress. I am incredibly brave.”

“Is because you never have real man before.” Pierre was now in front of her, a foot closer than she to the camera in order to appear taller. He had made more than a hundred photo-plays in Europe.

“Who is Henry Adams?” he murmured gutturally.

“A beloved friend, who died this spring.”

Pierre sprang at her; she pushed him away. “Old?”

“Over eighty.” She shrank from him. “He was the wisest man I ever knew.” Caroline bared her teeth—a tigerish effect, she prayed.
The Meistersinger
was driving her to heights never before attained by mere woman.

“Very good on German character.” A Hunnish leer made Pierre’s face positively alarming. He reached for her neck. She backed away, toward the altar, terror mixed with resolve in her face. “You should read his last book,
The Education of Henry Adams.
”

With a lunge, Pierre tore her dress at the neck, exposing her collarbone. “My English is not so good enough,” he hissed.

At the altar, they were back into the script. “No. Never!” Caroline shouted.

“If you want to see your son alive, you must.”

“How
can
you?”

Pierre thrust her back onto the altar; his eyes glittered; he was ready to rape.

“Oh!” was what the script required and “Oh!” was what Caroline said as she turned, saw the crucifix, picked it up and then, holding it worshipfully high, as if in prayer, counted to three and slammed the crucifix down on Pierre’s shaved pate. He staggered backward; crumpled to the floor, unconscious or dead—the script did not specify since Caroline would soon be escaping through the horrors of Belleau Wood, where she would meet the American Marines who had, single-handedly, defeated the entire German army, or so the Creel-inspired title cards would instruct the audience.

Tim was ecstatic. “You were wonderful—both of you.” He included Pierre, who was now on his feet, rubbing his head. Caroline smiled gallantly at Tim through the dead white mud of her make-up, which was now streaming down her face and into sensitive eyes. The make-up man was upon her with a sponge.

“You didn’t mind our chat while I was being raped?”

“I’m afraid I was so excited watching, I didn’t listen. You didn’t keep to the script?”

“Script ran out,” said Pierre gallantly. “We talk books.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Tim had picked up the crucifix. “You were both moving too fast for anybody to read your lips. Anyway, it
looked
great.” He held up the crucifix.

“That always has an effect on you Irish,” Caroline observed.

“Well, we
are
Catholic.”

“No, you’re not. I’m Catholic, darling Tim. You’re Irish. It’s not the same.”

“One more shot.” Tim was concentrated only on the film. Caroline moaned, as the white make-up was again brushed onto her face.

“Am I to be raped again?”

“No. That was perfect. I want a close shot of you. At the altar. When you turn, pick up the crucifix, turn back to camera. I’ll be very close on you then.”

“Never say no to a close shot.” Caroline repeated movie wisdom through clenched teeth, as bluish lip rouge was applied.

“Then,” Tim turned to Pierre, “we get your reaction. When you see the cross, you are, suddenly, horrified at your own evil. You look from cross to the face of the woman you were about to rape …”

“Good. I like.”

“Will all
that
be on the card?” But Tim ignored Caroline and returned to his place beside the camera. In due course, the word “interlock” was said, and Caroline did become if not another person another self, as she stood at the altar and did what was required of her.

Meanwhile, in real life, the German army was everywhere triumphantly on the move, even as they were demonstrating otherwise in Santa Monica, trying to obscure for millions of people all around the world that at the time this particular photo-play was being filmed in July of 1918, German armies had occupied more of Europe than anyone had ever held before, including Napoleon Bonaparte. The Germans were fifty miles west of Paris. They were the masters of northern Italy, the Balkans, Poland, the Baltic states, the Ukraine; and they had encircled Holy Russia’s Holy City, Kiev. More than ever, it was necessary for the Allies to pretend that they were winning. So, if not in the field, on film American Marines kept on destroying the Huns and a simple American mother, armed only with her virtue and her haunting photogenic face, with the odd crucifix to hand, was able to save herself from the carnal lusts of the bestial Hun. This was more potent than newspapers, thought Caroline, as she watched Pierre in his “reaction shot,” eyes wide with horror, hands raised to ward off the terrible blow. As always, Hearst was right. But what to do with so novel a means of—what? George Creel would say propaganda. But that was too simple and eventually the audience would learn all the tricks. Even now, at the beginning of movies, the public’s passion to know everything about the stars would eventually inspire skeptical curiosity about the what and the why of so powerful a means of entertainment. In a sense, the Allies could actually lose Europe with the average American, three thousand miles away, persuaded that all was well, and the Hun stopped in his tracks by Caroline Sanford, known in art, as the French would say, as Emma Traxler, the newest, least-known photo-player in Hollywood.

As Mrs. Sanford, Caroline was known and courted by the already startlingly inbred world of movie people. Although Hollywood was simply one of a series of small villages strung out along the Pacific from Culver City to Santa Monica, the name had come to signify “movies,” and those who worked in
the movies were referred to by the bewildered natives as “movies,” implying people who moved restlessly about, at great speed, shattering all ten of God’s commandments.

Actually, Caroline had found the famous photo-players somewhat on the dull—not to mention overworked—side. They lived in comfortable Spanish-style houses along Franklin Boulevard or at the beach or in the high canyons that fissured the wild Hollywood Hills. Since it was an article of faith that the American public could not fall in love with a screen star who was married in real life, many a father of five, like Francis X. Bushman, was obliged to pretend to be a virtuous bachelor, living alone, waiting, wistfully, for Miss Right to leap from the darkened audience onto the bright screen to share with him the glamour of his life. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bushman and the children were hidden away from the public’s gaze.

Mrs. Smythe received Caroline and Tim in what was known to the fan magazines as her sumptuous drawing room, atop a hill with a view of miles and miles of orchards, and the brown Pacific in the far distance. Mrs. Smythe was small and nervous, and swathed in magenta silk. The voice was more Liverpool than intended Mayfair; but she knew a lot of the world. She had moved to Southern California for her health. Mr. Smythe was president of a firm that made soap. While he gallantly stayed in war-time England, Pamela Smythe had “come out” alone. In no time at all she had established herself as an important hostess, thanks to her alleged wealth and allegedly titled friends. The movie people loved titles, largely, in Caroline’s view, because they were obliged to impersonate so many grand people in photo-plays. Now, with the fall of the Czar, White Russians were everywhere. All were titled and balalaikas were played at the drop of a blini and Mary Pickford invariably wept as she listened to yet another lament for the far-off river Don, and serfs aplay.

Dinner parties began at six-thirty because the stars must be in bed by ten unless it was a Saturday night, in which case there might be dancing at the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, and heavy drinking and gambling at one of the few late-night places, or receptions at gracious homes like this one.

“Caroline!” Mrs. Smythe had fallen into the new world’s habit of first names. Caroline responded with a “Pamela” that sounded like three names quite worthy of her sister-in-law’s slow delivery. Tim was given a radiant smile. “All old pals tonight.” Montana was now mingled with Liverpool-Mayfair.

“A round-up at the old corral.” Caroline completed the sentiment, as a heavily painted woman approached Caroline, arms outstretched.

“Allow me to present,” said Mrs. Smythe, somewhat alarmed at the tableau-in-the-making, “the Countess of Inverness.”

“Millicent.”

“Caroline.” Caroline embraced her old friend. They had been in the same class at Mlle. Souvestre’s. Millicent was the niece of an American president whom neither Caroline nor anyone else could remember as he had been one of the worthy nonentities between Lincoln and Theodore Rex. After school Millicent and her mother had stayed on in London, and Caroline had been presented at court by Millicent’s mother. Caroline had then moved on to New York while Millicent married the Earl of Inverness, a local blockhead, who had made her life miserable, as everyone had warned.

“You know each other.” Mrs. Smythe was sad. But then the arrival of Douglas Fairbanks shifted the room’s attention dramatically, leaving Millicent to weep on Caroline’s shoulder. “He is simply vile,” she moaned.

“I think him rather attractive.” Caroline gazed without shame at the small man with the not-so-large head who had captured the hearts of half the women on earth.

“I don’t mean that actor. I mean my husband.”

“Is he here?”

“If he were, would I be?” This was said with such dramatic emphasis that a bowl of orchids was nearly overturned. Plainly, Millicent was finding solace in that same drink which, when awash inside her husband, made life vile. Apparently, the Earl, like Jamie Bennett, publisher of the Paris
Herald
, and Ned McLean, publisher of the Washington
Post
, was not only given to long drinking bouts but would, if the occasion was sufficiently public and preferably grand, publicly relieve himself. Jamie had done so many years earlier in a vase at the house of his fiancée, whose brother had then horsewhipped him out of New York and across the Atlantic to Paris for good. Ned favored fireplaces, joyously putting out flames, while the Earl augmented punch bowls: “At the
American
embassy in front of Mr. Page,
our
ambassador. Everyone saw.”

“What did you do?”

“I slugged him.” Millicent held up a powerful hand, whose rings were set with numerous irregularly shaped stones.

“You must have done great damage.”

“I tapped the claret, as they say over there.” Millicent looked grimly happy. “We shall divorce once the war is over. That’s why I’m here. To get as far away as possible from my life. You know the feeling.”

“I’ve never not known the feeling. That’s why
I’m
here.”

Although Caroline would have liked to mingle with the famous small people, Millicent pulled her down on a sofa. Japanese servants offered them wine. The tea party was a thing of the past in this part of the West, except among the English, who, like so many Saint Teresas scrubbing floors, worked in the movies while living as if still at home in Surbiton. On the other hand, the six-thirty dinner party was a local novelty that Caroline endured only because she, too, must be up at dawn to face the early sun, which flattered her, while hiding from the noon until the sun was again aslant.

“I’m going back to Washington to live.”

“You’ll liven us up.”

“I’ll certainly liven up Alice. What airs she puts on.” Millicent had once been the only presidential relic in town; and she had not ceded her high place graciously to Alice Longworth. But Millicent’s marriage to an earl somewhat redressed the balance. Caroline saw endless trouble ahead; and news for her Society Lady. “They haven’t forgotten me, have they?” At less than fifty, Millicent had skillfully managed to erase her good looks with whisky, which she now poured into a glass from a silver flask attached to a chain about her neck. Yes, thought Caroline, she’ll be a joy at the McLeans’ if not the Wilsons’. The age of Millicent, Countess of Inverness, would occasion riot and merriment from the Gold Coast of Connecticut Avenue to the moral grandeur of Thomas Circle. “Quentin’s dead. Did you know?” Millicent drank her whisky. “A friend wired me from London. Such a nice boy. He was killed in an airplane, fighting an air duel, they said, with the Germans. How strange—an
air
duel!”

Caroline realized then that she had been too long out of the real world. She did not even look at the local newspapers except for the
Kine Weekly
, which gave news only of the movie business. She was up too early; kept too busy; asleep too soon. It was like life in a sanatorium; the only news from outside was business telegrams from Blaise. Now she must write to the Colonel and Edith Roosevelt and—what? to Alice?