Silver Screen (May-Oct 1939)

Silver Screen for June 1939 67 hearts cannot be still and contented. Isa Miranda says, "there is no answer to it ... we give up our heart for our work . . . we have to do it, that is all . . ." Pat Morison says: "I have a picture in my mind of what I want ... it wars with the pictures which trouble my heart, but it wins!" Miranda says : "I think I will marry sometime. I will have to. When I think I will be always alone all my life, like this, it is too sad. I love children. I have a sister who is married; she has a child. When I see the child at her breast / know what I am losing. "Right now I do not want to love anybody. I fight against love. I have to do it. I stay always at home. I do not go out with men. I never go to the night clubs. I do not know anyone in Hollywood, not anyone. I am lonely, yes, I am very lonely. But not so lonely as I would be if I saw everybody enjoying themselves, everybody who is loving each other. I am too lonely when I see lovers . . . but it is lucky for the man I will love later," laughs Miranda softly, "there is so much in love in me . . ." And even as Miranda, young Pat, with some slight modifications, follows the same Spartan, romanceless, dedicated regime. She, too, said goodbye to the man she thought she loved and might ' have married. She said goodbye to him because she knew, even as Miranda knew, that marriage with him would have meant the end of her career ... for the young Austrian count wanted Pat to go home with him, to Austria, to the ways, the long-trod ways of his ancestors ... to be a wife, a mother, "and, in time," laughs Pat, not altogether hilariously, "an ancestor myself!" And so the young Count returned to his country with the understanding that, at the end of a year, he would come back again. And if, then, Pat had changed her mind, if she had decided to remove her five feet, five inches, 118 pounds of firm young body from, between herself and the happiness he offered, then she would be waiting, she would be there. But when the year was up she was not there. But that is a very big "all" when you are very young . . . Whatever the answers may be, they carve their destinies with much the same tools, this Italian girl from Milano, this American girl from New York. There is Miranda who, at the age of fifteen, spent all her waking hours in that treasure house of beauty, the Palazzo Bere, the Palace of Fine Arts, in Milano. She was discovered by artists who, rapturous, incredulous, passed by the ancient beauty they had come to copy for the living beauty which they begged to paint ... to immortalize for other generations yet unborn . . . And in New York, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, young Pat Morison, a few years later, was spending her April days in the dim corridors and great galleries, poring over Rembrandts and Rubens and Botticellis . . . awed by the great marbles of Michaelangelo, of Rodin, the craftsmanship of Cellini . . . uncaring that in the Clubs 21 and El Morroco there were dancing and love-making and wine and song . . . And their capacity for work ... in Milano, Miranda worked as a stenographer . . . she worked in a little theatre in Milano ... it was suggested to her that she send her portrait to a cinema company in Rome and then go there herself and ask for work. Twelve times Miranda made the trip from Milano to Rome and back again . . . twelve times, travelling third class, because she had not the money to travel first or second class . . . twelve times with no encouragement. Miranda, who has a passionate love of beauty in the texture of her life, a passionate love of luxurious gowns, rich furs, silk-tongued, purring motor cars, blazing jewels, priceless scents, Miranda who might have had these things, and more, merely by lifting one long, white hand in a beckoning gesture to one or another eager lover, Miranda preferred to travel third class, going without food and sleep for this, chose to work as a stenographer, serve as acolyte and then novice in the little theatre, rather than betray that dream which cut deeper than all her deep desires. And Pat, who worked at jobs designing clothes, worked as a designer in a shop on Fifth Avenue, worked in the Little Theatres at nights, refusing aid from her parents, refusing their offers of trips to Europe, winters in the South, summers in the North, doggedly, unswervingly clutching her compulsion, whether it cut her breast or no. And there is a pride in them both. 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