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The beautiful Esther Ralston in her spacious home in Hollywood at the height of her film career. Esther Ralston as she appeared in Esther Ralston as she looked during “The Spotlight” with Neil Hamilton. her days at M-G-M Studios. Esther Ralston in a scene from “Old Ironsides.” What price remembering By Esther Ralston fThe road that wound up the hill seemed narrower than I remembered, and the ornate, pseudo-Spanish houses I passed seem to have their back turned. “Don’t go up there,” the ghosts of yesterday warned me. “It isn’t yours any more. Go away while you can.. .remember it as it was.” But some instinct, perhaps vanity, perhaps fond memories of glamorous days spent basking in Hollywood’s fickle Spotlight, drew me on until I stood before the great iron gates and gazed up at the shabbiness and decay of what had once been my castle. The large wrought-iron mail box, with my initials almost obliterated, hung disconsolately from its one last nail and I saw that the rose bushes I’d planted by the great picture window had fought a losing battle with defiant weeds. As in a trance, I climbed the hill at the rear of the house and peered over the garden wall that surrounded the swimming pool. My dear, beautiful, azure pool still shimmered invitingly in the sunlight, How wonderful it used to be after working all day under the hot lights at the studio, to be driven home in my pale green town car and, removing my makeup and costume, to slip into my bathing suit, dash down the back stairs and dive into the blessed coolness of my pool. How proud I wa of my castle! The adulation of my public had made its acquisition possible but every brick from turret to ballroom had been fashioned with love. The years seemed to fade away as I gazed down at the garden where I had lain in the grass by the poolside the day they held the auction. Again I seemed to see all those stränge, celebrity-conscious people, filing through my home, fingering and appraising my beloved possessions, bidding for them and irreverently cartmg them away, I could still hear the raucous voice of the auctioneer come drifting through the sagging shutters as he extolled the virtues of my beloved treasures. “This here beautiful marble clock and matching vases imported from Italy was a wedding gift from Neil Hamilton.. .he was her best man. .. .you remember.. .and what am I bid for this magnificient Japanese urn which was presented to her by her fans in Honolulu.. .and now.. .this gorgeous green town car...” They were taking my castle away from me. Why, oh why? Actresses aren’t supposed to understand about stock market crashes. Couldn’t even one of those managers, agents or hangers-on that drank my liquor, ate my food and helped to spend my hard-earned money have warned me about the danger of buying on margin? I laid my head against the wall and wept softly with the remembering. I stretched my arms wide as though to embrace the great shabby old mansion and my heart surged with warm tenderness as I murmured, “Goodbye, old friend, I loved you so much. I won’t forget.” Then, buttoning my worn sweater across my ehest, I turned and walked briskly back down the hill. *** 23