Modern Screen (Aug-Dec 1943)

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Lessons are easy to understand and high school education not necessary. Many earn as tbey learn — Mrs. R. W. of Mich, earned $25 a week while still studying. Endorsed by physicians. Uniform and equipment included. Easy tuition payments. 44ui year. Send coupon now I CHICAGO SCHOOL OF NURSING Dept. 238, 100 East Ohio Street, Chicago, IU. Please eend free booklet and 16 sample lesson pases. Name , City. _Age _State . INGRID BERGMAN (Continued from page 28) with most large families, they'd learned the art of give-and-take, of attack and self-defense. Ingrid hadn't. They meant no harm, they were no more thoughtless than the average child, but Ingrid was more sensitive — so self-conscious that when visitors spoke to her, she could find nothing to say in reply. So the cousins poked and prodded her tender spots. Not till much later, when they'd reached an age of reason, did they realize that what had been routine teasing to them was torture to Ingrid. To talk of being an actress in that household would have been to throw herself to the lions. Where Aunt Ellen had wept, her uncle would have stormed. Where Aunt Ellen had pleaded, he would have flatly forbidden. Not that it would have made any difference. Timid on all other scores, Ingrid was ready to battle tooth and claw for her dream. But at 12 she could battle only by hiding her feelings. So she saved the weekly allowance from her father's estate, bought a second-hand phonograph, some records and the loudest needles manufactured, locked the door of her room and, under cover of the music, read Shakespeare aloud. It wasn't a foolproof device. Sooner or later there'd come a knock at the door, a request for less noise, please. devils' play . . . Eventually what was bound to happen, happened. Her cousins caught on and broadcast the news in high glee, this being too good a joke to keep to themselves. Now, when other diversions palled, they could always ring the changes on "look who wants to be an actress." She dreaded going home from school, she dreaded mealtimes. Her uncle knew all about it now, though his method was to ignore such folly. Next day she'd take her sore heart to Uncle Gunnar, who wasn't really her uncle but a friend of father's and her only haven. Uncle Gunnar didn't think it was crazy to be an actress. He thought it was quite a sensible thing to be, always supposing you had talent. Whether Ingrid had talent or not he never said, and she never asked him. But now and then, after hearing her read one of Andersen's tales, he'd pronounce her "not bad." "Not bad" from most Swedes is equivalent to cheers from Americans. At 15, she took her first bold step. Each year the school gave a Christmas party, featured by entertainment from the girls. A student committee arranged the program. Ingrid spent days in combat with her quailing spirit. "Very well," she threatened. "If you don't grab this chance to do something in front of people, you'll never be an actress, and serve you right." The echo of that menace drove her committeewards. "I'd like to say a poem." Oh, poem! Poems were silly! Summer's gone and the leaves are falling and everything's dreary, and who wants to listen to that stuff! "It doesn't have to be dreary. I know some funny ones." "All right, let's hear." The gay little verses made them laugh, and they put her on the program. The audience laughed, too, that Christmas Eve. Her cousins were astonished and privately impressed but didn't show it. Ridicule had become too strong a habit. It did, however, lose some of its cutting effect. Ingrid had scored a success among her classmates who eyed her with new respect and liking. They organized a dramatic club in which she became prime mover. Most of her allowance went for theater tickets. She patronized the special performances given for school children at reduced prices. Her memory was fabulous and, having seen a play once, she could put it on. The dialogue may not have been accurate, but it served. She cast the plays, coached them and doubled in all the parts nobody else would have. magic touchstone . . . The following year she won a prize. That was really something, for every school in Sweden took part in the contest, and one of the judges was an honestto-goodness actress. It would have been nice if she could have framed her scroll, but no matter. Even hidden in a drawer, it proved a touchstone against barbs. She needed a touchstone for the crucial battle was at hand. Spring brought graduation. She must be ready next fall for the state dramatic school's annual scholarship tryouts. Any youngster could apply, but only with parental permission. Ingrid went to her uncle. If hers was the irresistible force, his was the immovable body. No and no he said, and let that be the end of it. "It won't be the end. You can stop me now. When I'm 21, nobody can." They locked horns for weeks. "You can't open your mouth to a visitor in my house. What will you do on a stage? Stand there and give them the pleasure of looking at you?" "On a stage, it's different." How could she explain that acting released her from herself, gave her by some magic the poise and assurance she lacked. He wouldn't understand. She hardly understood it herself. Aid for Ingrid came from an unexpected quarter. And if the intention was hardly benevolent, that made exactly no difference to her. Why look a gift miracle in the mouth? It was her cousins who pointed out that the whole headache could be banished by letting her test. The state set high standards. There'd be dozens of candidates. She'd never get in, their big gawky Ingrid, afraid of her own shadow. Let her test and be done with it. There was the simple way out. She couldn't pass. Uncle must have been very weary of her doggedness. What it cost him to say the words, she could only guess, but say them he did. "Very well, test." ORCHIDS DEPT. / am one of those girls who lives alone and loves it, but when one lives by herself, her biggest problem is bound to be loneliness. Tonight I stopped into the corner store for a pint of milk and saw the April issue of Modern Screen sitting on the newsstand, smiling at me. What could I do but smile right back. Then it struck me; it is magazines like Modern Screen that put dabs of color in one's dull, gray life. You're as important to the morale of people like me as the rudder is to a ship. D. O. Vancouver, British Columbia 36 MODERN SCREEN