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Photo by Apeda
On the Golden Stairs
If you have dreams, this story is for you. It is a simple, direct story of struggle and achievement told by one of the coming stars of the screen whose career promises to be of even greater interest than it is at present.
By Betty Blythe
ALL the world's a motion picture, and one woman in her time plays many parts. Some lives are slapstick. And some are Broken Blossoms. Most, however, blend joy with sorrow.
Every incident of my life seems to resolve itself into a picture. From a child I lived, veritably, in a kingdom of painted dreams.
In a convent at ten; compared to my present surroundings, what a bleak, dreary place it was ; yet how sweet those sisters were, and how devoted to a beauty I could not see. But to me there was no beauty there. We all wore severe little gray frocks. There were no pictures, no candy, no flowers, no fragrances. How dreadful it seemed ! At the age of ten one does not appreciate spiritual beauty.
A day of the week was given for visitors. With eyes bulging from our heads we gathered in the courtyard hoping for our mammas. I'm afraid my eagerness was as much in the hope of candy or pretty pictures. One day my sister brought a little book of prints — cheap copies of famous paintings. My heart seemed to leap and laugh with pure ecstasy. Those pictures gave spark to my imagination. There were the madonnas of Raphael, Correggio's "The Holy Night," the "Countess Potocka," "The Man With the Hoe," Van
Dyck's "The Children of Charles I.," "Angel Faces," "The Golden Stairs" by Burne-Jones. Every one inspired fantastic romance. I liked "The Golden Stairs" best. I wondered where those figures were going — those with the bowed heads, those erect and glad. They seemed to be entering a promised world, a world filled with beauty and riches and everything glorious.
My first step on the stairs was taken when a kind sister told me I might sing in the cathedral choir. She told me I had a lovely voice. I was given white vestments, which I thought beautiful. And there in the choir far in the rear of the great cathedral, the light mellowing through stained-glass windows, I sang with all the joy and hope that was in me.
Two years later I returned to my home. A grand piano was purchased for me. About that time I saw another picture. It was of the opera — a tiny figure with arms outflung on a lighted stage — a "long shot," from the gallery, we would call it in picture language. I wondered how that little figure got on and off the stage. It conjured all sorts of visions for me.
One day my mother sent me with a basket of
fruit to the home of an old colored woman, who had been employed in our house. I saw my chance for a public appearance.
fust after her convent days.
"Do you want me to sing for you?" I cried as I burst through the door.
" 'Deed I does, honey," replied the old lady, her eyes on the fruit.
I sang with ardor and sense of freedom. Then a door opened, and a woman entered. She was tall and stately. I thought she looked very grand in her black silk. She said : "Who was sing
ing?'
"Me," I piped. "Do you live here ?" she asked.
Ready for a hike with her dog.
Photo by Apeda