Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1948)

Visit to Sugar Hill ( Continued, from page 51) they first bought the place. The Bara is literally just that, though its ingenious remodelling made it hard to realize as we stepped into the quaint round foyer, which was once the silo, and thence into a room of roughhewn boards just as the inside of a bam would be, running the full length of the building. Dimly we could see a giant brick chimney containing out-facing fireplaces plumb in the center of the room. But there was no time for more than a delighted gasp as Bette led the way up the stairs, first to our room to unload bags, then to join our host and hostess in a reunion drink before the crackling fire of the upstairs living room. To be exact, the toast was not to reunion but to the little junior Sherry who will join them in May. It was impossible to resist asking, “How are you?” with that concern one feels for an expectant mother. “Never better,” announced Bette. And there was her live, glowing face to back up the statement. “Haven’t had a moment of illness. My only trouble is that I find to my surprise I can’t do as much as I think I can. All of a sudden I fold.” She let out one of her infectious giggles which, coming from her, seems like a charming discrepancy. “Then we put her to bed for a day or two,” Sherry’s quiet voice broke in as he reached out and took her hand. AND suddenly we were aware of the swift current of understanding that flows between these two who came together in so short a time, from such widely different walks in life. There’s an uprightness about Bill Sherry that goes beyond his lithe carriage as an athlete. His blue eyes meet yours with the frankness of the sea of which he is so fond. And though his voice is soft, even gentle, there is no mistaking the power, both mental and physical, that lies behind his words. A man to respect in all ways. And his wife does just that. Yet there is the tolerance of the artist in him, too. This came out in a lively discussion over the dinner table. Bobbie, Bette’s younger sister, Barbara Pelgram, who is spending the winter at the Butternut house, had joined us and we had all whisked over for dinner to the Horse and Hound, a New England country inn. In the midst of the gaiety, the eddies of conversation around the table suddenly resolved themselves into one whirlpool, the center of which was Bobbie and Bette. Bobbie was maintaining stoutly, albeit with lights dancing in her eyes for she knew the torrent she would stir up in her world-minded sister, that there wasn’t any use getting worked up to a frazzle over what was happening these days politically or internationally; nothing an individual could do would change it. Explosion from Bette’s end of the table. “How can you say — ” And then Sherry moved in. “Frankly I have no desire to tell my neighbor what’s good for him and insist that he do it. So long as he doesn’t hurt me or my other neighbors it’s okay with me.” Bette’s eyes snapped open wide. Obviously she was weighing whether or not to retort But as she weighed, the whirlpool spent itself and presently we were back in the charming upper living room of The Barn. Bette doesn’t call it a living room. It’s her trophy room. Here in the seclusion of the New Hampshire mountains she tucks away the things she wouldn’t think of having in evidence around Hollywood. On the mantel are her two Oscars and hanging above them a striking camera portrait by Hurrell of Bette as Regina Giddens in “The Little Foxes,” for which she should have had an Oscar. In addition there are gold and silver cups from countries across the globe. One wall is solidly covered with candid shots from the Hollywood Canteen which she founded. One of them includes her — the rest are of the service men themselves and the stars who came as guest entertainers. Another wall is the huge, multipaned window that looks out over the White Mountains, capped by the Presidential Range. Yet here one does not have to raise one’s eyes “unto the hills.” One looks straight across at them, eye to eye. By this time the night was growing nippy and the fire told us it was time to go to bed. We could save all the things that hadn’t been said for a full tomorrow. THAT tomorrow began with a snapping fire in our dressing room fireplace. Sheer heaven to dance up and down on the white sheepskin rug in front of the flames! Our host and hostess greeted us in slacks and matching plaid sports coats bearing the distinctive monogram which Sherry himself designed and which marks many of their personal effects. All hands promptly moved down to Butternut for a real New England breakfast of oatmeal mush, sausage, maple syrup and delicious pancakes made by Sherry’s mother. You have only to meet Mrs. Sherry to know where her son gets his quiet dignity. And she commands the unstinted respect of her daughter-in-law. Mrs. Sherry, senior, together with Skippy, who is Sherry’s younger brother, are spending the winter in the Butternut house with Bobbie and her fair-haired little daughter Faye. So it will be a lively community sharing the fortunes of Sugar Hill this winter, of all sizes and sexes and ages. Breakfast over, the itinerant rubbernecks couldn’t help casting a glance over the famed Butternut. It is furnished in the traditional New England farmhouse style. The fireplace is on a less heroic scale than the one in the Barn. But then, there’ll always be a fireplace wherever Bette lives. “When Mother and I remodelled this place, they told us we couldn’t have a fireplace in our main bedroom because the upper floor wouldn’t stand the weight. I said I didn’t care, I had to have a fireplace.” There was a tinge of the imperiousness of Queen Bess in her tone. “So they suspended it from the ceiling. Isn’t that fun?” The Queen vanished in a rippling giggle. Outside, the mountain day was soft and gray, ideal for exploring. For one thing, we discovered that the third house we had seen the night before was occupied by the caretaker and his wife. Then as we started down over the rim of the hill, there in a clump of evergreen a simple slab of granite not more than a foot high held the eye. It read: “Tibby, My beloved, 1932-1946.” Tibby, the sage little Scotty who, as Bette’s inseparable companion, had been as famous in Hollywood as Falla was in Washington. Bette caught me looking thoughtfully down at the inscription. “Tibby loved this place. I promised her she would be here.” It was said with just that lift of the chin that Davis would give it. “She had a flair for the dramatic, you know. So I had her flown back here in a little brown velvet casket, covered with white gardenias. Great old girl!” Again the chin was lifting. 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