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special conditions. She floundered in her own immaturity, in the razzle-dazzle of movieland, in her passionate need to belong. To belong, you had to do what others did. Parties and night clubs and clothes, dancing and dates. If you got a mad crush on a man, you married him, blinding yourself to the fact that temperamental differences might cause friction later. Day by day, she drew farther from the values of her own background. The big idea was, don't give yourself time to think. From thinking came trouble. From thinking, heaven forbid, you might even realize what a mixed-up, unhappy person you'd grown to be. . . .
That was Gardner once, but isn't Gardner today. Within the last two or three years, Ava's found herself. How this came about would make an involved dissertation. Suffice it to say that she finally did give herself time to think — a painful business, to begin with, but worth the pain. The character of her background reasserted itself. She discovered that you don't have to run with the crowd.
It's been like coming out of a stifling rat-race into calm, fresh air. She knows what she wants now — books and music and friends whose ideas stimulate her. Artie Shaw used to shove books at her, and she'd shove them away. Now she reads like mad, her thirsty mind working overtime to make up for the drought. Anything, everything — child classics like The Wind in the Willows, which sent her scooting to Alice in Wonderland. Shakespeare, whose very name would have scared her once. Charlie Laughton started that. On the set of The Bribe, he read aloud from Shakespeare. "Oh, my lost highschool years," moaned Ava, and sat up half the night with Romeo and Juliet.
words and music . . .
Music was always in her blood, but as long as the radio blared with good jazz or swing, that was for Ava and you could keep the rest. Now she buys records. Now Debussy, Ravel and Sibelius send her, and she looks forward to the day when she'll understand Beethoven. The ex-playgirl can have a heavenly time, eating dinner alone, listening to records and reading. Or spending an evening with a few like-minded friends, whose interests range far beyond Hollywood and Vine. Except for Duff and the Van Heflins, they're not movie people. Three years ago she'd have thought it would bore her silly to sit quietly, talking the hours away. Now she finds that nothing makes her feel more alive than the process of stretching her mental horizons.
Maybe you can best judge the change in her by her new attitude toward marriage. "I used to think it would straighten out every problem, drive fears and loneliness away. Which is absurd. You can't expect your husband to do for you what you must do for yourself. It's too great a burden to put on anyone."
She admits she likes her career, "but doesn't feel she'd be making any tremendous sacrifice in giving it up. After all, it was never the dazzling goal of her childhood — the whole thing happened almost by accident. She thinks the ideal set-up would be marriage plus one picture a year.
"My mother had the secret," she says, with that special softness in her eyes when she speaks of Molly. "Even after Daddy died, she was left with beautiful memories, not ugly frustrations. When I compare the happiness of those two with some of the misery I see in Hollywood, there's no question of choice. For their kind of love. I'd give up fifty careers." Her smile breaks through. "At least I know now what I'm after — and I don't propose to settle for anything less." The End
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