Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1925)

62 PicKire s and Pfc/x/re poer JANUARY 1925 £L Qf) A.M. Rise. Break the ice on "•-'v' my bath and plunge in. 6.45 a.m. Am up and out in the garden where I skip for ten minutes. 7.10 a.m. After quarter of an hour spent digging amongst my roses — I am an enthusiastic gardener — I take my frugal breakfast in the sun-parlour. This consists of a thin slice of toast and a glass of orange water. I then don film make-up — in the ordinary way, of course, I always leave my complexion cm naturel — and at eight o'clock am at the studio, where I devote the morning to my beloved art. 12.30 p.m. Lunch. A few vegetables and a glass of cold water. I eat only A few vegetables and a glass of water. a small quantity knowing that moderation in all things is essential if I am to be prepared for all the terrible sacrifices that my beloved art demands from me. All afternoon is devoted to my be"^^ loved art. No afternoon tea — a pernicious habit liable to ruin the complexion and the digestion. Sugar and pastries I avoid, and if my friends wish to please me they give me flowers rather than candies. I love flowers so much. They are so fresh, so pure, so wonderfully, wonderfully beautiful — the food on which I feed my aesthetic soul. Forgive my digressing like this but this is a subject on which I feel very deeply. The simple wild ones appeal to me most — I suppose this is because of my artistic temperament. I have known the occasion when " a purple orchid growing by the river's brink," as dear Ella Wilcox so beautifully puts it, has brought tears into my eyes. 6.0 p.m. I leave the studio — unless, of course, my director wishes to " shoot " some night scenes, when I cheerfully stay until midnight. It is the thought of all the wonderful pleasure I am giving my beloved public that helps me to make this sacrifice. The car is waiting outside the studio for me, but I dismiss it and walk home as the exercise is so good for me. What a wonderful, wonderful place home is and how my heart yearns for it as I approach it up the long drive. My pet snake Pongo runs tc greet me affectionately as I enter the hall, and dear " Mommer " comes to welcome and embrace me. We are such " pals," Mommer and I. Nothing has ever come between us, and if we are parted for a day we feel it dreadfully. You see, she made me what I am to-day, and naturally I feel grateful. Then there are the cats to be seen, the parrot and the dogs and my husband. After that I bath and change for dinner and the meal is served up. This again consists principally of toast and a very few vegetables for me. 'T'hen " Mommer " kisses me good night and goes to bed, and my husband and I repair to the blue salon together. Then begins the most wonderful, the most beautiful, hour of my whole day. I am, of course, passionately devoted to books and music — anything, in fact, of an aesthetic nature — and as I sit and knit jumpers for Hollywood's poor and needy my husband, who, did I mention, distinguishes himself by being a " pal and a lover " as well as a husband, my husband, T repeat, reads aloud to me. Something deep, something soulsearching, something teeming with wisdom and hidden meaning, is what appeals to us both. Something that carries us to the realms of higher thought. &* My husband reads aloud to me. If I remember rightly, the last we read together was dear Elinor Glyn's " Philosophy of the Ancient Romans." We are very fond, too, of Charlie Dickens' books, and our favourite of all his works is "The Keeper of an Eagle," or " The Way of the Door." Sometimes I sit at the piano, and in the half-light I play him some of the works of the old Masters that I love so well. Mendelssohn's " Song of a Banana " will ring tears of love to his eyes, and he breaks down completely when I play that quaint old English folk song " Here We Come a What'lling." 10.0 p.m. Finds me in bed, and 1 am asleep almost as soon as my head touches the pillow. So ends my day. Cometimes I take round " Band of ** Hope " ribbons to the inmates of the Asylum for Prohibitionists, or I provide High Teas for the widows and orphans of New York Trippers. In fact, never a day goes by without someone's benefitting by my benevolence. By Lola's Maid 9.30 a.m. I call Lola and am sworn at. To produce a slim, girlish contour. 10.30 ajn. I manage to persuade her to sit up and take some breakfast. Grape fruit, fish, toast and marmalade, and three cups of coffee. 11.15 a.m. Lola's rather flowing figure is laced into a pair of the latest fat-reducing corsets, to produce a slim, girlish contour. 12 a.m. Lola goes to the studio. Director tells her she has held the picture up all morning. She has a fit of artistic temperament. 12.30 p.m. Lola lunches. Turtle soup, sole, braised steak and mushrooms, and two sundaes. 4.0 p.m. Tea. Three cups and four cream pastries. 6.0 p.m. Leaves studio, unless the director wants to shoot night scenes, when she usually has another fit of artistic temperament. 7.0 p.m. Goes out to dinner with a male acquaintance. Eats well. I forgot to mention thait she occasionally spends an afternoon (with her Press Photographer) at the Cripples' Home or other deserving institution. She generally presents the inmates with signed photos of herself.