We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
SHOWMAN
was magnificent, and asked the pair of them to supper afterwards in a little cafe next door. During supper we were joined by a bulky, red-headed third party, dressed like a George Belcher cartoon and carrying a fat umbrella, who was introduced as Miss Emma Goldman. I'd never laid eyes on anything like her before. She sat there and talked Red revolution so long and so brilliantly that nothing that has happened since in Russia or the United States either, for that matter, has been any surprise to me. I didn't sign Nazimova, as it happened, because somebody had already spotted her for Henry Miller and he was just twenty-four hours ahead of me.
Douglas Fairbanks was another prize my wife drew out of her theatrical grab-bag. She picked him out of the cast of some dying failure or other, the sort of play that would smother anybody but the most brilliant specimen.
"He's not good-looking," she admitted, when I asked for further details. "But he has a world of personality —just worlds of it." After one look at him I hired him in support of my wife in a play called "Clothes." An odd young man, running over with energy to such an extent that it fatigued me even to look at him sitting down— and he seldom sat. One of the sets for "Clothes" included a long flight of steps to a high platform. During rehearsals, which always wear everybody else to a frazzle, Fairbanks' idea of resting up was to walk up and down that flight of steps on his hands. Presently I
262