Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

M|yw~A SCREENLAKD C«ufi«H 31 He is very severe. He declares that the The interviewers at "heaven" scene was entirely unnecessary and whv did I give it so much attention? And why so much of the motherln the picture, and why the meeting of the mo er and the father ? All of these things he is discuss.ng analytically and profoundly, so much so that 1 find that my feeling of self-consc.ousness is rapidly leaving me. T FIND myself giving my side of the argument without hesitation I because I am not so sure that Barrie is right, and I had reasons, Cood reasons, for wanting all those things in the picture. But I am thrUled at h s interest and appreciation and it is borne in upon me hat by discussing dramatic construction with me he is f^JS gracious and subtle compliment. It is sweet of h.m. It relieves me of the last vestige of my embarrassment. "But Sir James," I am saying, "I cannot agree with you— Imagine "he metamorphosis. And our discussion continues ^asily and pleasantly. I am aware of his age as he talks and I get more of his soirit of whimsicality. ... PThe food is being served and find that E V. Lucas has prodded i treacle pudding, a particular weakness of mine, to which 1 do justke. I am wondering if Barrie resents age, he who ,s so youthful ^ There seems to be lots of fun in the general buffoonery that is going on arcund the table, but despite all efforts to the contrary I am serving a diet of silence. I feel very colorless, that the whole conversion that is being shouted is colorless. , , \ . I am a good audience. I laugh at anything and dare not speak Whv can't I be witty? Are they trying to draw me out? Is it Sony Maybe I am wrong ana there is a purpose behind this buffoonery. But I hardly know whether to retaliate in kind, or jUI agmdying for something to happen. Lucas is rising. We all feel the tension. Why are parties like that? It ends. Barrie is whispering, "Let's go to my apartment for a drink and a ouiet talk " and I begin to feel that things are most worth while. Slock and I walk with him to Adelphia terrace, where his apartment overlooks the Thames embankment. \ Somehow his apartment seems just like him but I cannot convey the resernblance in a description of it. The first thing you see ,s a writing desk in a huge roor/ beautifully furnished, and with dark wood paneling. Simplicity and comfort are written everywhere. . There .s a large Dutch fireplace in the right s.de of the room, but the outstanding piece of furniture is a tiny kitchen stove in one corner. It is Sshed to such a point that it takes the aspect of the ornamental ?a her than the useful. He explains that on this he makes his tea when servants are away. Such a touch, perhaps, just the touch to SUfur\rikr drifts to the movies and Barrie tells me of the plans for filming Peter Pan. We are on very friendly ground ,n this discussion and find myself giving Barrie ideas for plays while he is giving me fdeas for movies, many of them suggestions that I can use in comedies. lt^LSZV^t the door. Gerald DuMaurier is calling. He the Ritz, London. is one of England's greatest actors and the son of the man who wrote Trilby. Our party lasts far into the night, until about 3 in the morning. I notice that Barrie £ks rather tifed and worn, so we leave, walking with DuMaurier up the Strand. He tells us that Barrie is not himself since his nephew was drowned, that he has aged cons.derably. We walk slowly back to the hotel and to bed. NEXT day there is a card from Bruce Brainsfather, England's famous cartoonist, whose work during the war ^ght h'm international success, inviting me to tea He carr e m m°* country where I have a lovely time. His wife tells me that he is iust a bundle of nerves and that he never knows when to stop work ng. Task what H. G. Wells is like and Bruce tells me that he is like "Wells" and no one else. When I get back to the hotel there is a letter from Wells "Do come over. I've just discovered that you are in town. Do you waS to meet Shaw? He is really very charming out of the hmelight I suppose vou are overwhelmed with invitations, but if there is a chance to get hold of you for a talk, I will be charmed. Ho* ; about a week-end with me at Easton, free from publicity and with harmless, human people. No phones in the house." I lost no time in accepting such an invitation. There is a big luncheon party on among my friends and I am told that a party haf been arranged to go through the Limehouse district with Thomas Burke who wrote Limehouse Nights I resent . exceedingly and refuse to go with a crowd to meet Burke. I revolt against the constant crowding. I hate crowds. n<,,v„„s London and its experiences are telling on me and I am nervous and unstrung. I must see Burke and go with him . alone He is the one man who sees London through the same kind of glasses as myself I am told that Burke will be disappointing because he is so silent but I do not believe that I will be disappointed in him. Sinson tells the crowd of my feelings and how much I have planned on this night alone with Burke, and the party ,s called off. WeThone Burke and I make an engagement to meet him at h,s home that evening at 10 o'clock. We are to spend the night together in Limehouse. What a prospect! THAT night I was at Thomas Burke's ahead of time. The prospect of a night spent in the Limehouse district with the author of Limehouse Nights was as alluring as Christmas morning to a child Burke L so different from what I expected. Limehouse Ntghts had led me to ook for some one physically, as well as mentally big, though I had always pictured him as mild-mannered and tremendously "Tnotice^eT^wfare introduced that Burke looks tired and it is hard to think that this little man with the thin, Peake * S sitive features is the same one who has blazed into iterature such Sntaffusts, passions and emotions as characterize his short stones X to d that he doesn't give out much. I wonder ^Just who he is like He is very curious. Doesn't seem to be noticing anything that ^oes on aboul him. He just sits with his arm to his face, leaning on K/and gazing into' the fire. . As he sits there, -VJ^J^ turbed and indifferent, I am warming up (Continued on Fage 30. J