Radio-TV mirror (Jan-June 1954)

(Continued from page 26) she is as feminine as Chanel No. 5. In her exquisite Sutton Place apartment, she is surrounded by beauty: delicate crystal, 18th century English furniture, vivid oils. There's not the slightest visible hint of her rugged, hardy core. "Little things" never bother Luce — such as double-checking the lock on the front door at night or walking alone down the darkest street. Breakneck speed doesn't make her tremble, and she accepts a hurricane with utter calm. This is the way she has always been, since early childhood. "It seems as though, from the time a child begins to speak, she's given a variety of things to fear — superstitions, hearsay gossip, stupid prejudices," Lucille says serenely today. "If you're plagued with enough of them, it's like carrying around a ball and chain." As a very young actress, Luce was warned to be wary of producers. Producers, she was told, preyed on pretty gals, and it was worth one's reputation to get through an audition. Well, Luce didn't know any producers and so she couldn't laugh outright at this nonsense. But she certainly wasn't going to be scared out of her career and therefore decided to be practical. "If there were eighteen girls waiting to read for a part," she says, "I made sure I was the eighteenth — so that, if I had to fight for my honor, my opponent would be fairly well fatigued and therefore handicapped." Luce learned quickly that it was all nonsense. Casting directors are so burdened with responsibilities that they seldom have time for even minor flirtations. The real courage demanded of a young actress is to keep coming back for auditions, no matter how often she is turned down. "I never lost my confidence," she recalls, "I got angry with myself for losing a part, but I never lost faith." Her mother can tell you that, even as child, Luce didn't know what fear was. There was the day that a storm broke out while Luce and her sisters and brother were playing outdoors. Luce's mother, who had a life-long fear of thunderstorms, herded the children into the house and away from the windows. Luce calmly disengaged herself from the family circle and went out on the porch. She sat through the storm on the porch steps, kicking her legs defiantly at the lightning. Luce spent most of her childhood in New York, though she was born in Chicago. Her father was a businessman, sometimes a very successful one. "It depended on his investments," Luce remembers. "We had either three cars in the garage or none." Her mother — needless to say, with four children — was a full-time housewife. But, in spite of her fear of thunder, she was far from timid. A woman who loses her first baby, then a second and a third, yet doesn't give up hope, has quite a bit of mettle. Luce was the fourth child. "They tell me that Mother used to hover over me in the middle of the night to make sure I was still breathing," Luce says. "When I finally convinced her that I was going to stay alive, she went ahead and had three more children — all healthy, too." Their home was a cheerful one. Luce's father was a kindly, indulgent man. He was fond of poetry and frequently read aloud. R He had a player piano, with the best in M classical music. Luce decided, at the age of seven, that she herself would be a con cert pianist. 82 Spirited Belle The self-discipline and ambition she displayed at such a tender age are rare. She practiced several hours a day and no one had to coax her. Indeed, the only punishment that ever impressed Luce was to lose the privilege of practicing. "We were taught self-reliance," she says. "When I or my sisters had a party, we did most of the preparation ourselves. If we brought an unexpected guest to dinner, we went into the kitchen to help make extra dessert or salad." Her home was always full of people who came to talk, to sing, to eat. There were never less than a dozen people at the Sunday table. And she went on practicing scales and finger exercises until she was sixteen. "That year, I went to a Paderewski recital," she says. "I was thrilled and awed by the concert — so awed, however, that I promptly gave up the piano." She can't explain her exact emotion at the time, but she knew in later years that her decision was right. She was to study and see many great actors, but they always served as an inspiration which was quite different from the reaction which had set in after the Paderewski concert. "I must have been impossible at seventeen," she says. "I walked in a cloud and thought anyone who couldn't talk theater was more dead than alive." Just as she had previously devoted herself to the piano, Luce now dedicated herself to acting. She was excellent in school productions, and teachers were encouraging— but not her parents. "They thought the stage was no place for a young lady," she recalls. "When I talked about acting, they just gave me a blank look." They flatly refused to let her quit high school for the stage. After graduation, however, Luce's determination won out. She was enrolled in the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. She was there three years, then she was honored by the famous actress, Jane Cowl, who chose Luce to work in her repertory theater. "But there was one thing which was to stand between me and Broadway," she says, "and it was something I could do nothing about. I stand five-feet, sevenand-three-quarter inches tall, pre-shrunk." Her beauty and talent made her a natural for ingenue roles — until she stood side by side with the male lead. Inevitably, Luce stood a good head above him. So . . . while she waited for a king-sized juvenile to come along . . . she auditioned for radio. Luce was an overnight sensation in radio. She made her debut opposite Fredric March in Collier Love Story. Shortly thereafter, she didn't have to ask for work — sponsors began calling her. She worked on almost every fine dramatic show, and even in a comedy series with the Marx Brothers. In 1940, she was signed to play leading roles in two major daytime dramas, Portia Faces Life and Lorenzo Jones. (She played Portia for eleven years — until it went off the air.) "From the beginning, I found myself absorbed in radio, loving every minute of it," she says, "although I remember that Jane Cowl didn't approve, at first." Miss Cowl thought radio was a second July RADIO-TV MIRROR on sale June 9 rate medium for her first-rate protegee. Until one particular Sunday. Luce had been called on at the last minute to star on The Prudential Hour. After the performance, Jane Cowl was on the phone. "I'm still in tears," she told Lucille. "It was so effective — and you were wonderful." Luce's credits, listed in small type, would run some six feet long. And, this year, she celebrates her fourteenth anniversary as Belle on Lorenzo Jones. "In the beginning, it was a light comedy," she recalls. "Lorenzo was an impractical inventor, and Belle a simple, good-natured housewife. Today, of course, Belle has developed into a serious career woman with deep emotional conflicts." Although Luce, during the past fourteen years, has become a bright, enduring star, she, too, has had her share of misfortunes. Her only marriage failed to work out. Then, in 1948, she suffered an accident which nearly ruined her life. The kitchen floor had been waxed too well. Luce slipped, fell, and struck her head. Her skull was fractured and her condition became so serious, she was off the air for months — most of that time confined to bed and immobilized. "It was serious, but I had no fear of dying," she says. "I dreaded only the possibility of being crippled." Her radio audience was so affected by this real accident on a daytime drama that a daily bulletin was issued on Luce's progress. She was overwhelmed with kindness. On the other hand, her friends were overwhelmed by Luce's spirit. It was through sheer, dogged courage — and courage alone— that her recovery was brought about and she regained the use of her injured muscles. "It was no holiday," says Luce, "but it was my first vacation from radio in eight years — and I almost had to break my neck to get it." Since then, she has had at least two weeks off each summer. One year, she planned to fly to England and reserved a berth on a stratocruiser. "You'll never sleep crossing three thousand miles of ocean," a friend said. "You'll lie awake, too nervous to close your eyes." They didn't know Luce. If the steward hadn't wakened her a half-hour out of London, she would have made a grand entrance in her pajamas. Last summer, Luce took a cross-country auto trip with her good friend Alice Frost, who acts on radio's The Second Mrs. Burton and TV's Mama. "We had a wonderful time," Alice says. "We were both completely whipped before we started, and never did get the rest we were looking for, but we didn't have one spat on the entire trip." Alice is great at reading maps, so she served as navigator and Luce was the pilot. Of course, Alice took her regular turn at the wheel. Once she felt like really pushing down the accelerator. Luce said she didn't mind. "I had the car up to seventy or so," Alice recalls, "and I was wondering if it was making Luce nervous. I glanced over and there she was sleeping." Alice grins and adds, "Nothing scares Luce, not even that dinky ferry." They were on a wobbly old ferry during a cloudburst. The ferry had been five hours late in starting and thus was jammed with vehicles and passengers. With the storm, a rough lake, a creaking vessel, and water rolling around their ankles, it was far from comforting.