Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

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In spots it was spontaneous and insistent. In others little attention was paid to her. She is wasted here. But she cares not. In her face you can see that she gets her applause in the song itself. It was glorious, just to be singing with heart, soul and voice. She smiles faintly, then sits down modestly. I knew it. She is Russian. She has everything to suggest it. Full of temperament, talent and real emotional ability, hidden away here in Le Rat Mort. What a sensation she would be in America with a little advertising. This is just a thought, but all sorts of schemes present themselves to me. I can see her in "The Follies" with superb dressing and doing just the song she had done then. I did not understand a word of it, but I felt every syllable. Art is universal and needs no language. She has everything from gentleness to passion and a startling beauty. I am applauding too much, but she looks and smiles, so I am repaid. They dance again, and while they are gone I call the waiter and have him explain to the manager that I would like to be presented to her. The manager introduces her and I invite her to my table. She sits there with us, while her companion, the dark girl, does a solo dance. She talks charmingly and without restraint. She speaks three languages — Russian, French and English. Her father was a Russian general during the czar's reign. I can see now where she gets her imperious carriage. "Are you a bolshevik?" She hushes as I ask it, and her lips pout prettily as she struggles with English. She seems all afire. "No; they are wicked. Bolshevik man, he's very bad." Her eyes flash as she speaks. "Then you are bour^eoise?" "No. but not a bolshevik." Her voice suggests a tremendous vitality, though her vocabulary is lim ited. "Bolshevik good idea for the mind, but not for practice." "Has it had a fair opportunity?" I ask her. "Plenty. My father, my mother, my brother all in Russia and very poor. Mother is bolshevik, father bourgeoise. Bolshevik man very impudent to me. I want to kill him. He insult me. What can I do? I escape. Bolshevik good idea, but no good for life." "What of Lenin?" "Very clever man. He tried hard for bolshevik — but no good for everybody — just in the head." I learn that she was educated in a convent and that she had lost all trace of her people. She earns her living singing here. She has been to the movies, but has never seen me. She "is go first chance because I am nice man." I ask her if she would like to go into moving pictures. Her eyes light up. "If I get opportunity I know I make success. But" — she curls her mouth prettily — "it's difficult to get opportunity." She is just twenty years old and has been in the cafe for two weeks, coming there from Turkey, to which country she fled following her escape from Russia. I explain that she must have photographic tests made and that I will try to get her a position in America. She puts everything into her eyes as she thanks me. She looks like a combination of Mary Pickford and Pola Negri plus her own distinctive beauty and personality. Her name is "Skaya." I write her full name and address in my book and promise to do all I can for her. And I mean to. We say "Good night," and she says she feels that I will do what I say. How has she kept hidden ? DuE at Sir Philip Sassoon's for a garden party the next day, I decide to go there in an airplane and I leave the Le Bourget airdrome in Paris in a plane of La Compagnie des Messageries Aeriennes, and at special request the pilot landed me at Lympne in Kent and I thereby avoided the crowd that would have been on hand in London. It was quite thrilling and I felt that I made a very effective entrance to the party. (Continued on Page 50) J.M.LYON LCO. 2-4 Maiden Lane N Y In Business xteax'ly 100years\