Radio mirror (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

diligent training of her mother, was usually to be found in her room, struggling to understand the intricate beauties of English and classic literature. To most adults the names of Bacon, Plato, Aristotle, Browning are no more than that — just names; to Joan they are the men who had written what was literally her first reader, the foundation of her education. It was her grandfather's, and her parents', dream that some day she would become a famous singer. The studies were part of that plan, but only part. Her physical condition must be carefully guarded; she must be shielded from everything which might conceivably harm her. Because of an abnormally sensitive membrane in her throat, Joan was never allowed to eat spices, sweets, rough food, or anything else which might prove injurious. It was a strange childhood, Joan's — unnatural, tedious, hedged about by tutors, physicians, and parents. Even her exercise followed a definite plan, a routine of deep breathing, calisthenics, onetwo, onetwo. But she had never known any other way of life. It seemed natural to do without all the frivolous, pointless little things which mean so much to most children. That was how she, Joan Blaine, lived. In her teens, Joan was an accomplished harpist, a cultured singer, a brilliant student. Yet something was lacking. Her life was laid out before her: she must study, she must become a great singer. Yes. That was the way it would be — but in her heart Joan knew it would not be that way. She loved music, but there was in her a desire for something beyond music . . . something, she didn't know what. She was a student at Northwestern University — and that "something" was still ambiguous — when she fell in love. He was the captain of the football team, and she was his girl, Beta pin and all. Her heart thrilled when she heard thousands cheering him in a game. There were fraternity dances, moonlight walks, the enchantment of youth. Finally, he asked her to be his wife. "I remember. It was Christmas time at home." Joan's eyes grew tender as she told me of it. "Happiness, lights, the big tree. I loved him. I thought of the time when we could be in our own home at Christmas, with our own children around us. I ... I wanted to say yes. Instead, I said no. I knew too well what marriage would mean, the end of my hopes and dreams, forgetting my career, giving up everything I had studied all my life. I found I couldn't lose the habit of striving for that one goal — success." Graduation. Then hard work, harder knocks, disappointments. More than once she placed some personal treasure on a pawnbroker's counter. Finally, a chance, concert work, success, applause, the glamor of bright lights. Joan had arrived. She had arrived, even though it did SHE IS JOAN BLAINE IN REAL LIFE, A GIRL WHO WAS FORCED TO GIVE UP HER WOMAN'S HERITAGE IN FAVOR OF FORTUNE not quite satisfy her to have done so. She still felt that vague desire to do something more than sing. Until one night, at a friend's home, she learned what it was she wanted to be. Somehow, the usually reticent and silent Joan cast off reserve that evening and gave a wicked, clever impersonation of a mutual friend. Laughing, she went on to imitate movie stars and other famous people. Something clicked, and at last she knew why she had worked and studied while others played, why she had sacrificed, why she had even given up love. She wanted to become an actress. Her new goal meant a turn-about-face in all her plans. It meant more disappointments and new training. Joan learned to know the smell of stuffy daycoaches, learned to sit patiently in dressing rooms waiting for her cue to go on in a part which carried only a line or two of dialogue. As she had done in her first career, at last she arrived in her second, progressing from bits to supporting parts, from the road to Broadway and a lead in the comedy, "And So to Bed." It was a hit, and Joan became New York's newest discovery. With success, there also came something new, something unexpected; an irresistible power, demanding everything but promising nothing — love so strong that this time there could be no question of a choice between it and the life she had mapped out for herself. He was a very prominent New York attorney. After he had seen "And So to Bed" once, he came again and again, until he found a mutual friend who could introduce him to Joan. They met often after that. He'd call at the theater, after the performance, and they'd go out to supper. Afternoons when there was no matinee they were always together. To him, marriage meant giving up. He was unable to conceive of a wife whose life held anything more than him, his home and his children. Joan knew this, and accepted it. More, knowing him and loving him, she felt that he was right. She wanted her life to be as he wished it. Yes, she knew she was being disloyal to everything she had always worked for. She heard again her grandfather's words, and rejected them. It was a small disloyalty, she said to herself, compared to the greater disloyalty to her sex and her warm woman's heart if she once more chose to let love go. They were to be married in a week. Joan, happy with anticipation, had cast off forever all professional ties. Her agent couldn't believe it, and called her every day, offering her new parts, hinting of a possible future Hollywood contract. No. Joan had made her decision. She was giving it all up. But there are things you cannot (Continued on page 76) PI FDR SUCCESS 13