Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1919)

The Last Interview By REX GROVER WHITE I ©nSprtl 9, 1919, g>ilmep 2)reto, toell4obeii romcBian, ttieti* Cljie; interuicto toas obtained on WfH-ncgtiap, Slpril 3, in ^Detroit. Jlr. ^Drcto's last performance tones tfcat nig;I)t, tins tnteroteto Ins last T had been a gusty, gray, clouded afternoon, with a hiss of rain at odd moments and a sad singing of low pitched wind thru the wires just outside the dressingroom window. The chill of the early April mists had crept into the stage corners and even the flame of the borders and foots had failed to take away the damp insistence of an early evening. The final curtain for the matinee had slid down with its sullen thud and the stage was a flood of movement as actors scuttled to their dressing-rooms and dodged with exactness the rushing progress of wings and flats and set pieces, jerked away by an impatient stage crew to give room for the first act set of the evening performance. Harsh, yellow and unkind, the lights of the ^fer's dressing-room blazed into his tired eyes and etched minutely the lines that suffering had drawn Drops of perspiration slipped down his forehead, making little streaks as they caught the beads of black grease-paint, and his hair was damp at the line of the forehead. His breath was drawn in little gasping, halting swellings of the chest, and his hand pressed hard against his side. "Come in," he said. "Come in. I'll get my breath in a moment." His voice was hoarse and the smile he attempted was awry with internal pain He swept some odd bits of clothing from a chair and with fingers that shook, fumbled at his collar. His dresser had withdrawn and the only sound in the little room was the mad ticking of the actor's watch as it lay in a confusion of paint-stick ends, powder puffs, liners, ties, the hodge-podge of the Sidney Drew was a brother of John Drew and an uncle of Ethel, John and Lionel Barrymore. Mr. Drew and Mrs. Drew reached the pinnacle of success when they adopted the motion picture as a vehicle for their comedy. This last season they produced a successful spoken play, "Keep Her Smiling" craft at work. His visitor sat silent, confused and at a loss. Here was a man that needed a doctor's questioning rather than that of an interviewer. The face in the mirror upon whose uncertain surface the light beat unshadedwas gaunt, and shadows other than of the makeup rested beneath the arch of the brow. A f towel swept aside the pink curtain of artificial health, leaving the skin pallid, yellowish, with two faint, red blotches, the flaunted flag of fever burning at his cheek bones. "What can I do for you ?" The question was automatic, the functioning of a habit long in the saddle. Hundreds of interviewers had sat as this one was doing, hundreds had asked questions, inane, graphic, stupid, intelligent, hundreds had gone away to write what had or had not been said. It was a routine to the star that even illness -could not— for the moment — jar from its tracks. "I came," said his visitor, "to ask you questions whose answers would give me material for a funny story." The star nodded, smiling faintly. "I know," he said. "I know just what you want. I'd like to give it to you. I am afraid I cant. I dont feel f unnv. My God, boy, I'm a sick man." His voice, that had been full and deep, even with its hoarseness, broke, and the last few words were shrill, high, unnatural in tone. He got up and walked to the door and peered out on the shadowed stage. "My wife was here a moment {Continued on page 101) 59 B