Picture-Play Magazine (Sep 1926 - Feb 1927)

44 Why Is Ronald Colman So Aloof? In "The Night of Love," Colman plays a gypsy prince who has turned bandit because his bride has been stolen from him. Loss of monev did not worry him, but loss of adventure did. While at school, Ronald had been imbuing himself with dramatics ; his chum had aspired to poetry. Before returning home that day, they vowed that they would permit no vicissitudes to break the ideals that they had formed for themselves. Arm in arm they went for a last look at the romantic spots they knew and loved so well. They stood to admire the large gateway at Richmond Green, a relic of what had once been the entrance to a Tudor palace. They entered Richmond Park, with its sylvan glades and herds of deer, its lakes and the Pen Ponds, on which they had skated in the winter. They passed Pembroke House, where Lord John Russell had lived ; then the Ranger's House, so called after the nickname of a Duke of Cambridge who had owned it. Among these fair surroundings Ronald Colman had passed his boyhood ; but now he was to leave them for the city. Just before sundown they stopped at the Star and Garter and ate some "maids of honor," the lemon cheese cakes for which Richmond hostelries are so famous. The two chums, though they inwardly knew reality had smashed their romantic castles, laughed and joked to hide their real feelings. This, then, was the first big disappointment and disillusion in Ronald Colman's life. He became a little reserved, silently accepting, but detesting, the work assigned him. When alone, he fed his mind with tales of Oriental splendor and with dramas of all countries;. but never once dared he mention what he wanted most of all to do. Seven years passed. Ronald's chum was now in Italy. He wrote, begging Ronnie to join him there. With all his heart Ronald wanted to go. He longed to break away from what he was doing. Yet still another seven years were to pass before he ever went to Italy. Fame came to him when he at last did go, as you no doubt know, for that was the trip that resulted in "The White Sister." Behold him, then, in 1914, filled with a faint Byronic gloom, lying, chin propped in his hands, on top of the white cliffs on the south coast of Kent. He was filled with a strange, ineffable longing. Before him, dashing against the foot of the white rocks, were the sparkling blue waters of the Channel. In the far distance, plainly visible in the sunlight, stretched the coast line of France. Ronald stood up and advanced as near the edge of the cliff as he dared and, at that moment, swore to himself that he would defy every one and strike out for the stage. A profound peace, such as often precedes a storm, rested over the entire scene. But for the second time in his life, Ronald Colman's dreams were to be shattered by destiny. Within a few weeks, the serenity of the scene before him was to be broken by the constant dull booming of big guns, and for the next four years, there was to be a continual and terrible slaughter of men. Already a member of the London Scottish, Colman was among the first to go to France. His last letter from his chum, filled with the joyous prophecies of youth, had informed Ronald that he had enlisted. The next news he received was that his friend had been killed in action. In the midst of the bloodshed, their boyhood ideals seemed to him now to be mockeries. He acquired the habit of pressing his lips tightly against his teeth. Badly wounded, Colman was sent back to England. But with his youthful dreams gone, everything and every place he had once loved became unbearable. Invalided out of the army, he went on the stage and secured parts in various London productions. But everything seemed wrong. The stage offered little encouragement just then, and there were many things he wanted to forget, so he came to America. He was urged, maybe, by a longcherished desire to see California. The night before sailing he felt more lonely than ever. He had to go somewhere, so he went to the Palace Theater, a handsome red-brick structure originally intended for opera, but used to-day for revues and vaudeville. He heard blaring music, crashing cymbals, and laughter. Every one but he seemed delightfully happy. Didn't any of them care that this was his last night in England ? His nerves jarred, he got up and left. Outside, Colman glanced back at the play of spotlights on the^ theater roof, like silver pillars fantastically set in all directions. He walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, past Covent Garden and Drury Lane, down to the Victoria Embankment. Here he stopped, leaning against the parapet. The lapping of the Thames as it glided under Waterloo Bridge had a fascinating rhythm. In the distance, spired Cleopatra's Needle. A little beyond, the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben in the tower struck midnight. The light shining on the top indicated that the House was "sitting." Colman accepted the light gleaming through the night as symbolic of his own future.