Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1963)

r? T-i “I can’t protect my daughter from her mistakes,” Miss Bette Davis said. “I know she will often be hurt, as she grows up. When it happens, the only way I can help her is to let her know I care. She must cope with the outcome of her mistakes herself. It’s the only way. She must learn this.” Bette was looking out of the window of her Bel-Air home on an afternoon so fair that it seemed to deny the possibility of mistakes in such a beautiful world. A faint breeze gave graceful life to trees and shrubs without dispelling the warmth of the sun. Deceitful nature appeared to promise endless pleasure without payment, eternal summer without frost, love without pain. But the decor of Miss Davis’ home, though graceful too, refuted nature’s blatant pledge. Old prints, pewter and fine, sturdy furnishings from New England were silent, Puritan reminders that mortal man must suffer, must pay for what he gets and is often prone to stumble. “I wish we could abolish the word ‘children,’ ” Bette said. “From the moment a baby is born, it is a person and should be treated as such. Given responsibilities, a child will make mistakes, and will pay for them, even as you and I must. But in this way, they will be better prepared for their problems in later life.” The great thing about interviewing Bette Davis is that she really talks. As she spoke of love and human error, some of her words seemed to flow from a tide of emotion, swept turbulently ahead by strong feeling. Sometimes they came in smooth, reasoned order. But, in either case, she spoke unhesitatingly, drawing from her store of intellect and experiences. “Love,” she said, “is blind. I have a hunch my daughter will marry when she is eighteen or nineteen and have eight 62