Books: Merton of the Movies

H >> Harry Leon Wilson >> Merton of the Movies

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Dexter, the anarchist, was put to bed without his goodnight kiss.
Good old Pinto had done his pal dirt. Never again would he be given
a part in Buck Benson's company. Across the alley came the voices of
tired, happy children, in the appeal for an encore. "Mer-tun, please
let him do it to you again." "Mer-tun, please let him do it to you
again."

And to the back porch came Mrs. Gashwiler to say it was a good thing
he'd got that clothesline back, and came her husband wishing to be
told what outlandish notion Merton Gill would next get into the
thing he called his head. It was the beginning of the end.

Followed a week of strained relations with the Gashwiler household,
including Dexter, and another week of relations hardly more cordial.
But thirty dollars was added to the hoard which was now counted
almost nightly. And the cruder wits of the village had made rather a
joke of Merton's adventure. Some were tasteless enough to rally him
coarsely upon the crowded street or at the post office while he
awaited his magazines.

And now there were two hundred and seventy-five dollars to put him
forever beyond their jibes. He carefully rehearsed a scathing speech
for Gashwiler. He would tell him what he thought of him. That
merchant would learn from it some things that would do him good if
he believed them, but probably he wouldn't believe them. He would
also see that he had done his faithful employee grave injustices.
And he would be left, in some humiliation, having found, as Merton
Gill took himself forever out of retail trade, that two could play
on words as well as one. It was a good warm speech, and its author
knew every word of it from mumbled rehearsal during the two weeks,
at times when Gashwiler merely thought he was being queer again.

At last came the day when he decided to recite it in full to the man
for whom it had been composed. He confronted him, accordingly, at a
dull moment on the third Monday morning, burning with his message.

He looked Gashwiler firmly in the eye and said in halting tones,
"Mr. Gashwiler, now, I've been thinking I'd like to go West for a
while--to California, if you could arrange to let me off, please."
And Mr. Gashwiler had replied, "Well, now, that is a surprise. When
was you wishing to go, Merton?"

"Why, I would be much obliged if you'd let me get off to-night on
No. 4, Mr. Gashwiler, and I know you can get Spencer Grant to take
my place, because I asked him yester-day."

"Very well, Merton. Send Spencer Grant in to see me, and you can get
off to-night. I hope you'll have a good time."

"Of course, I don't know how long I'll be gone. I may locate out
there. But then again--"

"That's all right, Merton. Any time you come back you can have your
same old job. You've been a good man, and they ain't so plenty these
days."

"Thank you, Mr. Gashwiler."

No. 4 was made to stop at Simsbury for a young man who was presently
commanding a meal in the palatial diner, and who had, before this
meal was eaten, looked out with compassion upon two Simsbury-like
hamlets that the train rushed by, a blur of small-towners standing
on their depot platforms to envy the inmates of that splendid
structure.

At last it was Western Stuff and no fooling.

CHAPTER IV

THE WATCHER AT THE GATE

The street leading to the Holden motion-picture studio, considered
by itself, lacks beauty. Flanking it for most of the way from the
boulevard to the studio gate are vacant lots labelled with their
prices and appeals to the passer to buy them. Still their prices are
high enough to mark the thoroughfare as one out of the common, and
it is further distinguished by two rows of lofty eucalyptus trees.
These have a real feathery beauty, and are perhaps a factor in the
seemingly exorbitant prices demanded for the choice bungalow and
home sites they shade. Save for a casual pioneer bungalow or two,
there are no buildings to attract the notice until one reaches a
high fence that marks the beginning of the Holden lot. Back of this
fence is secreted a microcosmos, a world in little, where one may
encounter strange races of people in their native dress and behold,
by walking a block, cities actually apart by league upon league of
the earth's surface and separated by centuries of time.

To penetrate this city of many cities, and this actual present of
the remote past, one must be of a certain inner elect. Hardly may
one enter by assuming the disguise of a native, as daring explorers
have sometimes overcome the difficulty of entering other strange
cities. Its gate, reached after passing along an impressive expanse
of the reticent fence, is watched by a guardian. He is a stoatish
man of middle age, not neatly dressed, and of forbidding aspect. His
face is ruthless, with a very knowing cynicism. He is there, it
would seem, chiefly to keep people out of the delightful city,
though from time to time he will bow an assent or wave it with the
hand clutching his evening newspaper to one of the favoured lawful
inmates, who will then carelessly saunter or drive an expensive
motor car through the difficult portal.

Standing across the street, one may peer through this portal into an
avenue of the forbidden city. There is an exciting glimpse of
greensward, flowering shrubbery, roses, vines, and a vista of the
ends of enormous structures painted yellow. And this avenue is
sprightly with the passing of enviable persons who are rightly
there, some in alien garb, some in the duller uniform of the humble
artisan, some in the pressed and garnished trappings of rich
overlords.

It is really best to stand across the street for this clandestine
view of heart-shaking delights. If you stand close to the gate to
peer past the bulky shape of the warder he is likely to turn and
give you a cold look. Further, he is averse to light conversation,
being always morosely absorbed--yet with an eye ever alert for
intrusive outlanders--in his evening paper. He never reads a morning
paper, but has some means of obtaining at an early hour each morning
a pink or green evening paper that shrieks with crimson headlines.
Such has been his reading through all time, and this may have been
an element in shaping his now inveterate hostility toward those who
would engage him in meaningless talk. Even in accepting the gift of
an excellent cigar he betrays only a bored condescension. There is
no relenting of countenance, no genial relaxing of an ingrained
suspicion toward all who approach him, no cordiality, in short, such
as would lead you to believe that he might be glad to look over a
bunch of stills taken by the most artistic photographer in all
Simsbury, Illinois. So you let him severely alone after a bit, and
go to stand across the street, your neatly wrapped art studies under
your arm, and leaning against the trunk of a eucalyptus tree, you
stare brazenly past him into the city of wonders.

It is thus we first observe that rising young screen actor, Clifford
Armytage, beginning the tenth day of his determined effort to become
much more closely identified with screen activities than hitherto.
Ten days of waiting outside the guarded gate had been his, but no
other ten days of his life had seemed so eventful or passed so
swiftly. For at last he stood before his goal, had actually fastened
his eyes upon so much of it as might be seen through its gate. Never
had he achieved so much downright actuality.

Back in Simsbury on a Sunday morning he had often strolled over to
the depot at early train time for a sight of the two metal
containers housing the films shown at the Bijou Palace the day
before. They would be on the platform, pasted over with express
labels. He would stand by them, even touch them, examine the
padlocks, turn them over, heft them; actually hold within his grasp
the film wraith of Beulah Baxter in a terrific installment of The
Hazards of Hortense. Those metal containers imprisoned so much of
beauty, of daring, of young love striving against adverse currents--
held the triumphant fruiting of Miss Baxter's toil and struggle and
sacrifice to give the public something better and finer. Often he
had caressed the crude metal with a reverent hand, as if his wonder
woman herself stood there to receive his homage.

That was actuality, in a way. But here it was in full measure,
without mental subterfuge or vain imaginings. Had he not beheld from
this post--he was pretty sure he had--Miss Baxter herself, swathed
in costly furs, drive a robin's-egg-blue roadster through the gate
without even a nod to the warder? Indeed, that one glimpse of
reality had been worth his ten days of waiting--worth all his
watching of the gate and its keeper until he knew every dent in the
keeper's derby hat, every bristle in his unkempt mustache, every
wrinkle of his inferior raiment, and every pocket from which
throughout the day he would vainly draw matches to relight an
apparently fireproof cigar. Surely waiting thus rewarded could not
be called barren. When he grew tired of standing he could cross the
street and rest on a low bench that encircled one of the eucalyptus
trees. Here were other waiters without the pale, usually men of
strongly marked features, with a tendency to extremes in stature or
hair or beards or noses, and not conspicuously neat in attire.
These, he discovered, were extras awaiting employment, many of them
Mexicans or strange-appearing mongrels, with a sprinkling of
Negroes. Often he could have recruited there a band of outlaws for
desperate deeds over the border. He did not fraternize with these
waifs, feeling that his was another plane.

He had spent three days thus about the studio gate when he learned
of the existence of another entrance. This was a door almost
opposite the bench. He ventured through it and discovered a bare
room with a wooden seat running about its sides. In a partition
opposite the entrance was a small window and over it the words
"Casting Director." One of the two other doors led to the interior,
and through this he observed pass many of the chosen. Another door
led to the office of the casting director, glimpses of which could
be obtained through the little window.

The waiting room itself was not only bare as to floor and walls, but
was bleak and inhospitable in its general effect. The wooden seat
was uncomfortable, and those who sat upon it along the dull-toned
walls appeared depressed and unhopeful, especially after they had
braved a talk through the little window with someone who seemed
always to be saying, "No, nothing to-day. Yes, perhaps next week. I
have your address." When the aspirants were women, as they mostly
were, the someone back of the window would add "dear" to the speech:
"No, nothing to-day, dear."

There seemed never to be anything to-day, and Clifford Armytage
spent very little of his waiting time in this room. It made him
uncomfortable to be stared at by other applicants, whether they
stared casually, incuriously, or whether they seemed to appraise him
disparagingly, as if telling him frankly that for him there would
never be anything to-day.

Then he saw that he, too, must undergo that encounter at the little
window. Too apparently he was not getting anywhere by loitering
about outside. It was exciting, but the producers would hardly look
there for new talent.

He chose a moment for this encounter when the waiting room was
vacant, not caring to be stared at when he took this first step in
forming a connection that was to be notable in screen annals. He
approached the window, bent his head, and encountered the gaze of a
small, comely woman with warm brown eyes, neat reddish hair, and a
quick manner. The gaze was shrewd; it seemed to read all that was
needed to be known of this new candidate.

"Yes?" said the woman.

She looked tired and very businesslike, but her manner was not
unkind. The novice was at once reassured. He was presently
explaining to her that he wished to act in the pictures at this
particular studio. No, he had not had much experience; that is, you
could hardly call it experience in actual acting, but he had
finished a course of study and had a diploma from the General Film
Production Company of Stebbinsville, Arkansas, certifying him to be
a competent screen actor. And of course he would not at first expect
a big part. He would be glad to take a small part to begin with--
almost any small part until he could familiarize himself with studio
conditions. And here was a bunch of stills that would give any one
an idea of the range of parts he was prepared to play, society parts
in a full-dress suit, or soldier parts in a trench coat and
lieutenant's cap, or juveniles in the natty suit with the belted
coat, and in the storm-king model belted overcoat. And of course
Western stuff--these would give an idea of what he could do--cowboy
outfit and all that sort of thing, chaps and spurs and guns and so
forth. And he was prepared to work hard and struggle and sacrifice
in order to give the public something better and finer, and would it
be possible to secure some small part at once? Was a good all-round
actor by any chance at that moment needed in the company of Miss
Beulah Baxter, because he would especially like such a part, and he
would be ready to start to work at any time--to-morrow, or even to-
day.

The tired little woman beyond the opening listened patiently to
this, interrupting several times to say over an insistent telephone,
"No, nothing to-day, dear." She looked at the stills with evident
interest and curiously studied the face of the speaker as she
listened. She smiled wearily when he was through and spoke briskly.

"Now, I'll tell you, son; all that is very nice, but you haven't had
a lick of real experience yet, have you?--and things are pretty
quiet on the lot just now. To-day there are only two companies
shooting. So you couldn't get anything to-day or to-morrow or
probably for a good many days after that, and it won't be much when
you get it. You may get on as an extra after a while when some of
the other companies start shooting, but I can't promise anything,
you understand. What you do now--leave me your name and address and
telephone number."

"Yes, ma'am," said the applicant, and supplied these data.

"Clifford Armytage!" exclaimed the woman. "I'll say that's some warm
name!"

"Well, you see"--he paused, but resolved to confide freely in this
friendly seeming person--"you see, I picked that out for a good name
to act under. It sounds good, doesn't it? And my own right name is
only Merton Gill, so I thought I'd better have something that
sounded a little more--well, you know."

"Sure!" said the woman. "All right, have any name you want; but I
think I'll call you Merton when you come again. You needn't act with
me, you know. Now, let's see--name, age, height, good general
wardrobe, house address, telephone number--oh, yes, tell me where I
can find you during the day."

"Right out here," he replied firmly. "I'm going to stick to this
studio and not go near any of the others. If I'm not in this room
I'll be just outside there, on that bench around the tree, or just
across the street where you can see through the gate and watch the
people go through."

"Say!" Again the woman searched his face and broke into her friendly
smile. "Say, you're a real nut, aren't you? How'd you ever get this
way?"

And again he was talking, telling now of his past and his struggles
to educate himself as a screen actor--one of the best. He spoke of
Simsbury and Gashwiler and of Lowell Hardy who took his stills, and
of Tessie Kearns, whose sympathy and advice had done so much to
encourage him. The woman was joyously attentive. Now she did more
than smile. She laughed at intervals throughout the narrative,
though her laughter seemed entirely sympathetic and in no way
daunted the speaker.

"Well, Merton, you're a funny one--I'll say that. You're so kind of
ignorant and appealing. And you say this Bughalter or Gigwater or
whatever his name is will take you back into the store any time?
Well, that's a good thing to remember, because the picture game is a
hard game. I wouldn't discourage a nice clean boy like you for the
world, but there are a lot of people in pictures right now that
would prefer a steady job like that one you left."

"It's Gashwiler--that name."

"Oh, all right, just so you don't forget it and forget the address."

The new applicant warmly reassured her.

"I wouldn't be likely to forget that, after living there all those
years."

When he left the window the woman was again saying into the
telephone, "No, dear, nothing to-day. I'm sorry."

It was that night he wrote to Tessie Kearns:

Dear Friend Tessie:

Well, Tessie, here I am safe and sound in Hollywood after a long
ride on the cars that went through many strange and interesting
cities and different parts of the country, and I guess by this time
you must have thought I was forgetting my old friends back in
Simsbury; but not so, I can assure you, for I will never forget our
long talks together and how you cheered me up often when the
sacrifice and struggle seemed more than any man could bear. But now
I feel repaid for all that sacrifice and struggle, for I am here
where the pictures are made, and soon I will be acting different
parts in them, though things are quiet on the lot now with only two
companies shooting to-day; but more companies will be shooting in a
few days more and then will come the great opportunity for me as
soon as I get known, and my different capabilities, and what I can
do and everything.

I had a long talk to-day with the lady out in front that hires the
actors, and she was very friendly, but said it might be quite some
time, because only two companies on the lot were shooting to-day,
and she said if Gashwiler had promised to keep my old job for me to
be sure and not forget his address, and it was laughable that she
should say such a thing, because I would not be liable to forget his
address when I lived there so long. She must have thought I was very
forgetful, to forget that address.

There is some great scenery around this place, including many of the
Rocky Mtns. etc. that make it look beautiful, and the city of Los
Angeles is bigger than Peoria. I am quite some distance out of the
centre of town, and I have a nice furnished room about a mile from
the Holden studios, where I will be hired after a few more companies
get to shooting on the lot. There is an electric iron in the kitchen
where one can press their clothes. And my furnished room is in the
house of a Los Angeles society woman and her husband who came here
from Iowa. Their little house with flowers in front of it is called
a bungalow. The husband, Mr. Patterson, had a farm in Iowa, six
miles out from Cedar Falls, and he cares little for society; but the
wife goes into society all the time, as there is hardly a day just
now that some society does not have its picnic, and one day it will
be the Kansas Society picnic and the next day it will be the
Michigan Society having a picnic, or some other state, and of course
the Iowa Society that has the biggest picnic of all, and Mr.
Patterson says his wife can go to all these society functions if she
wants, but he does not care much for society, and he is thinking of
buying a half interest in a good soft-drink place just to pass the
time away, as he says after the busy life he has led he needs
something to keep him busy, but his wife thinks only of society.

I take my meals out at different places, especially at drug stores.
I guess you would be surprised to see these drug stores where you
can go in and sit at the soda counter and order your coffee and
sandwiches and custard pie and eat them right there in the drug
store, but there are other places, too, like cafeterias, where you
put your dishes on a tray and carry it to your own table. It is all
quite different from Simsbury, and I have seen oranges growing on
the trees, and there are palm trees, and it does not snow here; but
the grass is green and the flowers bloom right through the winter,
which makes it very attractive with the Rocky Mtns. standing up in
the distance, etc.

Well, Tessie, you must excuse this long letter from your old friend,
and write me if any company has accepted Passion's Perils and I
might have a chance to act in that some day, and I will let you know
when my first picture is released and the title of it so you can
watch out for it when it comes to the Bijou Palace. I often think of
the old town, and would like to have a chat with you and my other
old friends, but I am not homesick, only sometimes I would like to
be back there, as there are not many people to chat with here and
one would almost be lonesome sometimes if they could not be at the
studio. But I must remember that work and struggle and sacrifice are
necessary to give the public something better and finer and become a
good screen actor. So no more at present, from your old friend, and
address Clifford Armytage at above number, as I am going by my stage
name, though the lady at the Holden lot said she liked my old name
better and called me that, and it sounded pretty good, as I have not
got used to the stage name yet.

He felt better after this chat with his old friend, and the
following morning he pressed a suit in the Patterson kitchen and
resumed his vigil outside the gate. But now from time to time, at
least twice a day, he could break the monotony of this by a call at
the little window.

Sometimes the woman beyond it would be engrossed with the telephone
and would merely look at him to shake her head. At others, the
telephone being still, she would engage him in friendly talk. She
seemed to like him as an occasional caller, but she remained
smilingly skeptical about his immediate success in the pictures.
Again and again she urged him not to forget the address of
Giggenholder or Gooshswamp or whoever it might be that was holding a
good job for him. He never failed to remind her that the name was
Gashwiler, and that he could not possibly forget the address because
he had lived at Simsbury a long time. This always seemed to brighten
the woman's day. It puzzled him to note that for some reason his
earnest assurance pleased her.

As the days of waiting passed he began to distinguish individuals
among the people who went through the little outer room or sat
patiently around its walls on the hard bench, waiting like himself
for more companies to start shooting. Among the important-looking
men that passed through would be actors that were now reaping the
reward of their struggle and sacrifice; actors whom he thrilled to
recognize as old screen friends. These would saunter in with an air
of fine leisure, and their manner of careless but elegant dress
would be keenly noted by Merton. Then there were directors. These
were often less scrupulously attired and seemed always to be solving
knotty problems. They passed hurriedly on, brows drawn in
perplexity. They were very busy persons. Those on the bench regarded
them with deep respect and stiffened to attention as they passed,
but they were never observed by these great ones.

The waiting ones were of all ages; mostly women, with but a
sprinkling of men. Many of the women were young or youngish, and of
rare beauty, so Merton Gill thought. Others were elderly or old, and
a few would be accompanied by children, often so young that they
must be held on laps. They, too, waited with round eyes and in
perfect decorum for a chance to act. Sometimes the little window
would be pushed open and a woman beckoned from the bench. Some of
them greeted the casting director as an old friend and were still
gay when told that there was nothing to-day. Others seemed to dread
being told this, and would wait on without daring an inquiry.
Sometimes there would be a little flurry of actual business. Four
society women would be needed for a bridge table at 8:30 the next
morning on Stage Number Five. The casting director seemed to know
the wardrobe of each of the waiters, and would select the four
quickly. The gowns must be smart--it was at the country house of a
rich New Yorker--and jewels and furs were not to be forgotten. There
might be two days' work. The four fortunate ladies would depart with
cheerful smiles. The remaining waiters settled on the bench, hoping
against hope for another call.

Among the waiting-room hopefuls Merton had come to know by sight the
Montague family. This consisted of a handsome elderly gentleman of
most impressive manner, his wife, a portly woman of middle age, also
possessing an impressive manner, and a daughter. Mr. Montague always
removed his hat in the waiting room, uncovering an abundant cluster
of iron-gray curls above a noble brow. About him there seemed ever
to linger a faint spicy aroma of strong drink, and he would talk
freely to those sharing the bench with him. His voice was full and
rich in tone, and his speech, deliberate and precise, more than
hinted that he had once been an ornament of the speaking stage. His
wife, also, was friendly of manner, and spoke in a deep contralto
somewhat roughened by wear but still notable.

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