Photoplay (Jan-Sep 1937)

Why is it that this girl has refused to discuss certain aspects of her backgroi $ At an early age Jean's theatrical ambitions were evident in her fondness for playing Indian and in the front porch plays she staged argue she takes advantage of her position to indulge herself in many downright unpleasant characteristics. Neither group is right. I base my statement on the fact that, barring Jean's family, I believe I know more about her than anyone in Hollywood. If she were disagreeable and high-hat and other similar things those close to her would be the first to know it. And if she were the sensitive little flower she is painted she never could have survived the heartbreaking experiences which piled up on her, one on top ofanother. Neither could she have reconstructed her present happy and successful life on the ruins of a life which crashed not so long ago, both romantically and professionally. Just a year ago I flew to Hollywood because Jean Arthur had agreed to give me her life story. The day I finally sat opposite her in her dressing room will be outstanding in my memory always. She was wearing a buckskin jacket and a short swinging skirt. "The Plainsman" was in production. Looking small and white and defiant, she told me she had decided not to give her story after all. "I find I'm unwilling to expose my personal life," she said. Her words came husky and measured. "And even less willing to expose the lives of those my life has overlapped. So I guess there's nothing more to say." Then, and it was this that made that interview so memorable, she insisted she should give me the money I would have been paid for writing her story. " It's only fair," she said. " You came to Hollywood because I agreed to talk. Writing is your business. You made the trip counting on the revenue this story would bring you. Now that I'm unwilling to give it — now that I go back on my word, really — it's certainly up to me to see that you aren't the loser." This attitude proclaimed her fair and understanding and many things I hadn't expected her to be. Undoubtedly I'd been more influenced by the talk I'd heard than I realized. It wasn't long, however, before 1 was attracted to her as I've been attracted to few people. When this occurred I wanted her life story more than ever; because of the curiosity I had in her as well as because of my professional pride. How I finally prevailed upon her to give me her story is unimportant. What 32 is important is that she gave it to me, passing lightly over her early years, and it was published. Not long after this I had a letter from St. Albans, Vermont, from a man named Charles Anderson. This man, a cousin of Jean's father, was disturbed that Jean's story hadn't mentioned the fact that her real name was Gladys Greene or dealt with her early background. He asked me to come to Vermont so he might supply the missing chapters. I went — with mingled emotions. IT was on that trip to Vermont, expecting to uncover less happy and more recent material, that I came upon the romantic story of Jean Arthur's hidden heritage. It was a story which explains Jean completely. Telling it here I have no doubt I'll make it necessary for Hollywood to cast about for another enigma. For my story explains not only the indepsndence of Jean's actions even in the face of criticism and misunderstanding, it also explains the courage she never fails to show in the face of disaster. We are all the fruit of our family tree. And Jean, straight and golden-haired, whom Hollywood has been pleased to call an enigma, not knowing enough about her to understand her, emerges from a long line of splendid pioneers, from men and women who had courage in their hearts, willing strength in their hands, and dreams in their eyes. We'll begin at the beginning. Five generations ago, because a man and a woman had the heart to pick up the pieces and carry on, Jean's family, the Greenes, became the first settlers in St. Albans. This man and woman settled first at Bennington, Vermont. There they worked, long and hard, to grow crops in the field they had cleared and to make the cabin, built from the felled trees, snug and warm. This man and woman, the first Greenes of whom any facts are known, like many of our American settlers, were visited occasionally by a friendly Indian. He used to come down from the hills when he was out shooting to break bread with them. And always when he did this it was a little ritual. One day when the pumpkins were yellow on the vines, when flour enough to make the winter's supply of bread had been