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During Laurette Taylor's two or three trips to Hollywood with her husband, Hartley Manners, to make pictures, she and I became real friends. Laurette didn't like women. She used to say to me darkly, "Don't trust 'em, Hedda; they'll double-cross you every time." Then she'd add with a laugh, "Don't trust me either. I'm Black Irish— we love you one minute and turn on you the next." But she never did.
Laurette had true appreciation for great acting. When her idol, Sarah Bernhardt, was making a farewell appearance at the Empire Theatre, Laurette was playing at the Globe. She invited the great one to be her guest at a special matinee and moved her entire production to the Empire to make it more convenient for Bernhardt.
The affair was strictly invitational; the house was packed with celebrities. Bernhardt swept in to occupy the second box, stage left. The view was better from there, but Madame Bernhardt didn't tolerate a second anything and demanded Box Number 1, already occupied by the aging and revered actress, Maggie Mitchell, who was brought in from the Actors' Home to see the performance. The switch was made, but I don't believe any player left the theater feeling the same respect for the French star as when they had entered.
I sat with Winchell Smith, author of Turn to the Right and many other successes. Laurette's performance was a rare one. Winchell turned to me and remarked, "What a crime that she was born in America."
"What did you say? Why?"
"That's her real tragedy. If she'd been born in any other countrv, she'd be hailed as the greatest actress in the world, and we'd be spared all this drool about Bernhardt and Duse."
Laurette was an incurable romantic. While she was
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