Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1919)

The Last Interview (Continued from page 59) <Ba^RSJBauRB ago," he said. "I wouldn't want her to hear. She is nervous about me. I've been ill for some time. It is my stomach. Cold, I think. Wait. Dont go. I want to talk to someone. I am nervous. No one can know." He sat and stared at nothing, his hands pulling at the buttons of the dress shirt he had worn in the last act. The wind had risen outside the theater and the wires were singing high and mournfully. There was a faint pattering of rain and from the open door of the alley stage entrance a breath of chill air swept into the room. He coughed and the pain of it twisted his features. "The actor of today is not the actor of yesterday," he said. "We are not the sports the public think us. We dont drink and change wives and go to the devil generally. I lived with my first wife until she died, and I'll live with my present wife until " He halted abruptly and thrust out his hand. "Is there fever there?" he asked. "Is there? I feel on fire." His hand was hot and dry. "I am afraid," he whispered. "Not for myself. We've all got to go. But for her. It will hurt her. Boy, it will hurt her terribly. I haven't said anything to anyone. Except one man in St. Paul. He was a friend, and I told him something was creeping in on me. He laughed." His teeth caught his lip and the lip showed white at the grip. The eyes of the man were bright and glittering and the damp of the sweat had been absorbed in the hot flesh. "It's bad business. It's the shadow across every actor's life, this being sick on the road. I've been keeping up as best I could. Stimulants. The excitement of the acting. I dont collapse often. I am all in now. In ten minutes I will be better. Wait. Dont go." He was silent again, and from the fast emptying stage came the calls of stage hands, one to another, the soft thud of scenery dropping against the wall and the swish of a back drop rushing down into place. A violin ran a trill of notes as some musician tried a new string before putting away his instrument, and the echo of a woman's laugh came chiming with the deeper note of a man's gay humor. "It's at night that I know the thing is coming," he said. "What thing?" asked the interviewer, wonderingly. "You know. The thing that comes to us all. And in the dawn. In the morning when I first wake up. No one knows . about that. I wake up and the light is just coming in the windows, gray and awful, and the pain is there, too. I haven't told anyone much about it. I wonder if I will get back east, and what will happen to " As he talked he had drawn off his stage things in part and his hair had become mussed and fallen across his forehead. His hand shook, and he tried to throw back his shoulders as if fighting some , unseen foe. He was ill, oh so ill, and the road before him seemed so long. "I sometimes wonder what death is?" The words came unexpectedly. It had not been mentioned before, that grim word that spells the finis of all things. "Have you forgotten 'The Bluebird'? 'There is no death,' the boy says, in that field of lilies." "Perhaps. I hope so. But the curtain that separates us from those we love. What is that? Why is it? Is our time set before we are born? It sometimes makes me feel that I am not giving the world what I owe it, giving humanity what each of us owes it. I dont forget any more even when I'm on the stage.. I am remembering things like that even while I am saying my lines. "This pain that is tearing my heart out. Why is it? Could I not pay my debt, say my last line and exit without this pain? No one knows what I suffer. No one knows how long the hours are, how far every foot grows when a path is before me. I am sick, sick, sick." His hand swept up to his face and covered _ it and his voice came muffled from this covering. "This is a sorry interview. You caught me in a mood and I am not a man of moods. I have said more to you of my ills than I have to anyone. It is too bad. ; I am sorry. I do not like to disappoint anyone. That is why I am trying to give every performance that it is possible to give before I go under. I know. I know. . I am growing worse, not better." A half hour before hundreds had rocked in their seats with laughter and sent back to him their happiness. They had loved him for his magic that had wiped away their cares and discomforts, they remembered him in pictures and in stage life as one who had brought them smiles, and laughter without a blush. "Is it all worth while?" he asked. "What have I done?" "You have given a million people a few moments of happiness," his visitor suggested. "Others will give them more," he whispered. "I have given the best I had." "Good-by," said the interviewer. "You need care, not questioning." "Good-by. I am feeling better now. Perhaps a year from now I'll see you again. Perhaps . . ." The big stage door swung wide as the visitor left the dressing-room and roaring up the alley came a drive of rain and ' storm. A mutter of thunder was in the air and shadows were falling fast. The interviewer looked back and the star was standing, his head bowed, thinking — thinking. MARY PICKFORD'S TEN COMMANDMENTS By Martha Groves McKelvie 1 — Never to make a poor picture, so help me Mr. Camera. 2 — To walk a half-hour each day. 3 — To take better care of my health. _ 4— Not to hoard my happiness, but to live in the today and not tomorrow. 5 — To acknowledge my mistakes, to resolve not to repeat them, and, above all, not waste time in vain regrets. 6 — Never to be late. 7 — To_ read a few lines of good philosophy in the morning and start the day with a song. 8 — To learn to speak French fluently before the beginning of next year. 9 — To do a thing when I think of it; it is a waste of mental energy to have to think twice to do a thing. 10 — Never to say or think unkind things of anyone. Just thank God for the good and forget the bad. Mi irae Every. ; Ci/P6mans .... ' 'Depilatory .j| Before Your Dip 'Y'OU should remove unsightly ■*■ hair from arms, underarms and limbs. 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