Screenland (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

68 Ginger Herself SCREENLAND Continued from page 21 the reserve that any person of taste maintains toward a stranger. But as you talk to her, you're likely to see nickering up from the depths of her gray-green eyes a gleam of fun that may presently translate itself into speech. As when she turned to me, the barest hint of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth, and inquired gravely : "You remember those question-and-answer games children play in school ? What's your favorite color and your favorite flower and your favorite movie actor? I always hated answering those questions. I could never decide whether blue was my favorite color or green, or whether I liked Harold Lloyd better than Charlie Chaplin. So there I'd sit, gnawing my pencil and wondering who invented the darn game, anyway. Maybe," she said, her smile widening a little, "maybe I've carried that feeling over from my childhood. Maybe that's why I'm not much good at interviews." We were in her dressing-room now, but don't imagine that Ginger was resting. The wardrobe woman, the hairdresser, the maid were moving back and forth. There were trousers to be pressed, slippers to be fitted, curls to be arranged, make-up to be repaired. But despite the activity, there was no sense of strain or bustle ; no flut tering, no fidgeting, no impatience. Ginger sat before the mirror, applying paint to her lips with deft, sure strokes, turning her head this way and that for the hairdresser's convenience, making occasional requests for what she needed, and answering questions meantime with more pertinence and good humor than I could have achieved in the cosy relaxation of a boudoir. "You know," she said, "I sometimes think I'd like to take a nice little vacation — digging mines, for instance. I can't help laughing — with a tear in my eye — when people say : 'What fun it must be to dance for a living!' Well, if you call it fun to rehearse eight hours a day for five or six weeks while your hair gets wet and your make-up runs — to get so tired that you feel it's asking too much of your legs to drag you to bed, and still to go on dancing — all right, then, it's fun. Just about as much fun," she said, eyeing me speculatively, "as it would be for you, if someone put you in a hotbox with a typewriter and told you : 'Now write a lovely story,' I'll tell you something nice, though." Her eyes were flickering again, though her mouth remained sober. "We get a whole hour for lunch ! "I love dancing, of course," she went on, "when I can just dance. But I don't get much time for that. Between pictures? Well, there hasn't been much betweenpictures for me lately. When we're not rehearsing, there are fittings and stills — and interviews." This with a smile that removed any sting of reproach. She might also have added, though she didn't, that there were tests to be made with Harriet Hilliard. When Miss Hilliard was cast as Ginger's sister in "Follow the Fleet," Ginger insisted, despite her own heavy program, on making the tests with her — "because it will be easier for Harriet to work with someone who knows the ropes." "I even had to ask some of the stores to stay open at night," she was saying, "so I could buy my winter wardrobe. And now that I've got it, there it hangs! Of course I can always get a kick out of opening the closets and taking a look at the clothes. And who knows? I may even get a chance to wear one or two of them before they go out of style." Her voice was tranquil, unruffled, amused. She was analyzing, not complaining. You got the impression that she would indeed, like any girl, welcome the chance of using her pretty things. But if the chance didn't come — well, that was that — and where was the sense in making a fuss? It's this quality which seems to be her distinguishing mark — an acceptance of what fate brings, an unexacting attitude toward life, an instinct against combat, wherein lies perhaps the source of her serenity. Even as a child, she didn't ask for things. While all her friends in Fort Worth went scooting around on bicycles, Ginger was apparently content to go afoot. For all you heard from her, you might have thought that no such thing as a bicycle existed. And when she entered the diningroom one morning, to discover a shining new bike against the wall, instead of flinging herself with squeals of delight on the toy, as most children would have done, she flung herself on her stepfather and burst into tears, moved more by the love that had prompted the gift than by the gift itself. On another occasion, unaware that Ginger was behind him, her stepfather entered their car and started closing the door. "Daddy," said a still small voice through the window, "please open the door." A glance at the white face told him what had happened even before he opened the door in desperate haste and released her poor crushed fingers. He was beside himself with horror. "It's all right, daddy," she said, clambering into the car. "It's all right. Let's go." "You see," she confided later to her mother, "he felt so dreadful. I didn't want to make him feel any dreadfuller." She was a self-contained child, serious, dependable, aware at an early age of her responsibilities. She was only seven when her mother found it necessary to send her alone from New York to her grandmother in Kansas City. Putting Ginger on the train, she wired a friend to meet the youngster in Chicago, where she would have to change. The friend was late. A frantic hunt for Ginger ended in the station restaurant, where she was discovered perched on a stool, eating her dinner. "Thank ycu for coming, Aunt Nell," she said politely. "Won't you have dinner with me?" She knew that when you visited people, you brought them gifts. Hardly had she stepped off the train into her grandmother's arms before she began explaining anxious