Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1925)

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JANUARY 1925 Picture s and Pi chare puer 19 RUDOLPH VALENTINO d Rudy and Natacha say goodbye to the Hudnuts and turn their faces towards Italy, and Rudy's home town. side, turned his face, already pale and fixed in the final lineaments of death, held out the crucifix and said to us, " My boys, love your mother and, above all — love your country."' I often think that such endurance as came to me in my later trials, my days of starvation and privation in New York, may have come to me direct from that brave and gallant little figure of my mother. For she had earned a stern lesson On the way from Genoa to Castellaneta. I left Daven beginning his study of English, plus his study of all phases of screen art with as much assiduity as he had formerly been against it. That is an advantage the student has over the dilettante. They will master a subject or an art — students will, I meant. And a master is ahi-ays a superior. He holds the whip hand. To-day we were packing again for the onward move. Natacha and Mr. and Mrs. Hudnut and Auntie, who is again to accompany us on the rest of our journey, have severally extracted promises from me to .have some respect for our 'necks if none for the laws of gravitation, and. I have given those promises with sternly compressed lips, drawn brows and utter solemnity. But what is a man to do when the dream of speed possesses him .... ah, then . . . To-morrow we shall be on our way. We had planned to get away to-day, but what with drowsing in the sun and listening to Mr. Hudnut's plea that we remain over one more day . . . and being nothing loath to do so . . . we are still here to-night . . . to-morrow we go ... . Italy ! August 24th. T have another Genoan night in which to write in my diary. I had expected to go on, but Natacha is feeling rather badly. I begin to fear that she will not be able to " make the grade " with us all of the way. L«m %■ Auntie and I laugh at her and tell her she should have OUR strength and nerve, but when it comes to the aforementioned dirt, dust and dishevelment, PLUS my driving, which I am sure Natacha would describe as " reprehensible," it is a bit too much for Natacha's sense of humour. I have often noted about women that they can stand up under the most tremendous strains, the most devastating calamities, and will break under some slight thing — such as motoring on one wheel, for instance ! My own mother, one of the bravest women I ever knew, was an illustration of this observation. There was something very close and beautiful, very dear and intimate between my mother and my father. Theirs was one of the world's great loves. Woman's holy courage was first revealed to me in my mother. I saw it first at my father's death-bed, even as I saw his part in it when he called' my brother Alberto and mvself to his bed in the class-room of courage and fortitude. Even her early life was a preparation, for she had gone through the terrors and privations of the siege of Paris. She was the daughter of Pierre Filibert Barbin, who was an erudite Parisian doctor and had fallen in love with Giovanni Guglielmi, then a dashing figure of Italian cavalry. A captain, in fact. She married him in the flood tide of romance, and he took her to his home town, the little village of Castellaneta, to live. But I shall come to that later on. There, on the