Spider Boy/Chapter 18
The honeymoon began in one of the large hotels at Santa Barbara and Ambrose speedily discovered that he knew nothing whatever about servants. The wholesale manner in which Georgiana ordered them about, got what she wanted, and a lot more than she had asked for, fascinated him, but he was not up to emulating her example. He just couldn't do it. He remembered that when he was a boy visiting his aunt on the Chicago West Side he had been accustomed to carry a heavy suit-case, usually full of books, from the station to the street-car. Were there no porters in those days? Surely he might have afforded the extra dime. Once, only once, in his old village, he had escorted a girl to a dance—he was about seventeen at the time—without engaging a carriage. The night was bitter cold and the girl had frozen her ears. Somebody should have told him, instructed him, as Georgiana was now instructing him.
If Georgiana ordered the servants about a good deal, it is probable that she ordered Ambrose about still more, but he discovered, to his stupefaction, that he liked to be ordered about. It gave him immense confidence to have Georgiana behind him telling him what to do. In the future, with this adequate background to rely on, he could even imagine himself taking the offensive under certain conditions. Assuredly his defensive would never be so weak again.
A vague picture arose in his mind of the desirability of a lazy existence with Georgiana in some tropical clime, but he had not yet made this ideal concrete. It was, to be sure, essentially the life they were leading at present. Georgiana was free until Dick Ruby commenced work on his next picture, and free even after that if she carried out her threat to break her contract, an easy matter as she was under age when she signed it. They had not, however, discussed the future. What with the money Ambrose was making from his play—now being performed by two companies—and the money he would get for his picture, to say nothing of the ample cheque presented to him by his father-in-law, he foresaw no occasion to worry about his financial condition. Any whim that Georgiana cared to indulge might easily be gratified.
So, first in the great hotel in Santa Barbara and later in a smaller hotel in another town on the coast of Southern California, the idyl prolonged itself, the two playing tennis and bathing, talking, walking, eating, sleeping, and loving. This was their daily routine into which no false note from the outer world broke. At last, however, this pleasant holiday came to an end, because Georgiana decided they must return to attend the opening of Love and Danger at Girstein's Byzantine. Theatre in Hollywood.
They came back on the day announced for the opening to a suite which had been reserved for them in a bungalow at the Ambassador. Almost immediately Ambrose realized that he was truly a celebrated figure. The telephone bell rang incessantly. Telegrams and flowers arrived in profusion. Abel Morris thad returned from Kansas City to be present on this important occasion. Jack Story had been permitted by his physician to undertake the trip from Santa Fe. Even Harold Edwards, the producer of The Stafford Will Case, had arrived from New York.
In the evening, in her bungalow sitting-room, Auburn Six entertained Ambrose and Georgiana, Abel Morris and Jack Story. Auburn's mother made the sixth. Ambrose drank so much champagne at this agreeable dinner-party that he believed he had fortified himself against the probable hissing of the picture, which he had not seen since it was cut, assembled, and titled. Abel Morris devoted so much attention to Mrs. Six that Georgiana whispered to Ambrose that she was sure that her papa was a little gone on the lady. Jack Story evidently found it very easy to converse with Auburn Six. Toasts were drunk to the bride and groom, to the future picture star, and to the world's greatest dramatist and screen writer. Altogether it was a convivial and delightful occasion.
At eight o'clock Auburn announced that it was time to start for the theatre.
They will wait for us, of course, she explained, but it will be very difficult to get there at all. It will take at least an hour.
Abel Morris contrived to inveigle Mrs. Six into a taxi while the others left the Ambassador in Auburn's Marmon. A holiday air hovered over the perron of the Ambassador, an air to which the voluble and flattering Hughie gave audition. The Cocoanut grove was emptying groups of fragile and expensively dressed ladies into the long line of cars that waited to bear a succession of the celebrated names of Hollywood to the theatre. Wilshire Boulevard, in front of the hotel, was already an entanglement of automobiles, striving to fall into the line.
After they had driven about a mile, Ambrose discovered that they were moving forward at a snail's pace in one of two unbroken lines of cars. Fortunately a policeman at a crossing recognized Auburn and sent her Marmon ahead of the line. In this dishonest manner they gained about half a mile. The kerb was edged with spectators. Auburn was marked at once and whenever the car passed beneath a streetlamp, the crowd shrieked its cheers. It seemed to Ambrose as though Tiberius could never have made as triumphant an entry into Rome as Auburn Six, on this occasion, made into Hollywood.
It's marvellous, Georgiana cried, really marvellous! I think I want to be a moving picture star after all.
Wait, Auburn adjured her. This is nothing.
She was right. As the car made further progress, the way was frequently blocked by traffic regulations. Now the crowd surged forward, breaking through the police ranks. Faces were pressed against the car windows. Voices cried: Auburn Six! Our Love! Wonderful Auburn Six! Hurray!
It's your evening! Georgiana admitted in involuntary admiration.
Ambrose will have his turn, Auburn promised.
Squirming a little at this, Ambrose wished he had drunk a little more champagne.
The scene at the entrance of the theatre did not seem real to Ambrose. The street, the roofs of buildings, the neighbouring windows, the lobby, all were crowded to their uttermost capacity. Search-lights swept the faces. A cleared passage from street to lobby, across the sidewalk, was sternly held in order by uniformed officers. As they drove up, Ambrose heard a man in evening-dress announce through a megaphone: Miss Imperia Starling. Amidst rapturous applause the celebrated lady advanced to a chalked spot on the pavement and adjusted her Spanish shawl while a camera man ground out her famous smile. Mama Starling and Count Jaime Supari waited on the side-lines.
When Auburn emerged from the Marmon her welcome was deafening: the man with the megaphone could not be heard as he unnecessarily announced her name.
Auburn! Our Auburn! the crowd greeted her. An old man, a girl, and a young boy contrived to slip through the line.
Let me kiss the hem of your garment, begged the girl.
Let me kiss your foot! was the old man's desire.
Auburn lifted the boy in her arms and imprinted a kiss on his lips.
Then great cheers welled forth from the crowd. Never before had Ambrose heard such a din, at least not made by human throats. He and his companions stood at one side while Auburn was being photographed.
Suddenly Ambrose became aware that the man with the megaphone was announcing the new bride and groom, Mr. Ambrose Deacon, the author of Love and Danger, and Miss Wilhelmina Ford. With a smiling Georgiana clinging to his arm, he managed to totter up to the chalk-line. Pale as death, terrified half out of his senses, he submitted to the cranking of the camera.
The interior of the theatre was overrun with people. Imperia warmly grasped Ambrose's hand to congratulate him on the success of a picture which had not yet been shown. Griesheimer and Martell Hallam patted him on the back. Wrinkled old Mrs. Girstein, mother of the owner of the theatre, tottered forward in purple plush to say, We waited for you, Auburn, and you, Mr. Deacon. We couldn't begin till you got here.
It was close to nine-thirty as they marched down the aisle to their seats while the entire audience rose to its feet and cheered. At this moment Ambrose regretted that Abel Morris had not shot him.
It will soon be over, he assured himself, settling back in his seat while Georgiana clasped his hand. He was to find that he was mistaken. To be sure, the house was immediately plunged in darkness so that Ambrose caught only a fleeting glimpse of this cinema temple which combined the best elements of Theodoric's Tomb at Ravenna with those of St. Mark's at Venice and the Paramount. Theatre in New York. Nevertheless considerable time elapsed before the picture was exposed.
First, the orchestra played a long overture. Next Girstein's well-advertised prologue to the film was unfolded. Girstein, Auburn explained, prided himself on his prologues. They were what he had to give to the picture world. There were marches of girls dressed as dolphins. There were ballets of girls dressed as birds and butterflies. There were choruses of girls apparently not dressed at all. There were solos, vocal and pedal, by dozens of principals. All in all, every one within hearing distance agreed, Girstein had outdone himself. It was twelve-thirty before the curtain went down on a spectacle which presented twenty-five girls swinging on trapezes high in the air, tossing red roses to the buyers of orchestra stalls.
At last! cried Georgiana, as the silver screen descended. After the usual announcement that the film had been passed by the Board of Censors, Ambrose read:
Love and Danger
from an original story by
Ambrose Deacon
prepared for the screen by
Philip Lawrence
He realized later that he had seen nothing more. Whether he had fainted, become entirely unconscious, or not, he never knew. He only awakened from his dazed condition to see Auburn Six being dragged across the stage by Martell Hallam to the accompaniment of cheers. Griesheimer followed with a speech in which he eulogized Ambrose in terms which the latter did not feel could be applicable to any one living. Finally, a spot-light settled on his face and he was obliged to stand to acknowledge the applause.
His way out of the theatre was continuously blocked by smiling faces and extended hands. Harold Edwards halted him to demand, When do I get a new play? Marna Frost hoped he would now devote his talents exclusively to further the development of the Pueblo Indian. Philip Lawrence whispered cynically, You've got the boobs going, kid. Anything you want you can have now. Imperia smiled imperially as she remarked sweetly, I picked you, didn't I, Ambrose? Don't you think you owe me something in return? Capa Nolin contented herself with winking broadly. Herbert Ringrose and Livermore Bode spoke as if the Judgment Day had been successfully filmed. And these, and many more acquaintances, were abetted by ever so many strangers, film-folk and towns-folk, who wished to shake the great man's hand and thus partake of the mystic celebration.
Ambrose was obdurate in his refusal to attend a party to be given in his honour at the Montmartre. Georgiana, surprisingly, made no effort to compel him to go. So, at last, they made their escape from this raucous medley of personalities, this group of indissoluble egos, and drove back in silence to the Ambassador. The floor of their suite was piled high with boxes of flowers. Some that had been delivered without wrappers were already in vases. They were scarcely more than aware of this phenomenon when a boy delivered a sheaf of telegrams.
Ambrose opened the first one. It read:
Silently passing this benign message on to Georgiana he sighed as he slit a second envelope. The contents read:
A third:
A fourth:
Another:
Georgiana made a gesture of distaste.
Don't open any more of those beastly things, she cried. I can't bear it. . . . It was absolutely rotten, this film of yours. I was ashamed of you.
A very real happiness shone in Ambrose's eyes.
I don't know, he replied. I didn't see it. I didn't see anything. I must have been unconscious.
But you wrote it, she insisted, and the story was just as bad as the photography and the acting.
No, I didn't, Billie! he protested. I don't even know what the damn thing's about.
Then, nearly as embarrassed, probably, as Tess of the D'Urbervilles confessing her past to Angel Clare on their wedding night, Ambrose sat down beside Georgiana, clasped her hand between his palms and stammered out the whole history of his fabulous moving picture career.
At the close, she felt compelled to make a remark which had already been spoken in the same connection: I've got to hand it to you, kid! Further, she smiled contentedly and patted his cheek lovingly as she went on: You don't know what a relief this is to me, Ambrose. You see I know now that you haven't sullied your real self, destroyed your artistic soul.
I've taken money under false pretences. I'll return it! Ambrose cried.
You'll do nothing of the kind. . . . Georgiana was stern. . . . Haven't they used your name? I guess that's worth the paltry sum they're throwing to you. Besides everybody takes money under false pretences out here. Do you think Griesheimer actually earns nine hundred thousand dollars a year? It's just part of the tradition of the place. Do you know, she went on musingly, I really love it!
Love what?
Dear old Hollywood. It's as sentimental and naïve as old Heidelberg, I imagine. I like almost everybody out here. They're all charming. And if thy behave differently here from the way they would behave anywhere else in the world they can blame it on the California climate.
You don't want to stay here now, Ambrose protested in some alarm.
Not really stay here, she reassured him, but now I could. They're all so simple and childish and sweet and the way they throw money around—remember that lovely gold tea-service Imperia sent us—is too delightful, and everything's boosted and nothing is criticized. If I didn't have you, I think I'd stay here! I just love it!
Darling, Ambrose murmured wistfully, I didn't think anybody would ever care for me. How did you happen to?
I don't know, Ambrose. . . . She was dancing about the room now. . . . I think I told you once it was a front-page complex. You are a celebrity of the very first water and I adore celebrities.
But you might have found a handsomer one.
Well then, if you must know, it's because you're a woojums!
She embraced him. Presently she seated herself across the arm of his chair and began to twist his ear.
Darling Billie, Ambrose declared, I'm tired of crowds and success and fame and all this stuff. Let's go away somewhere where we can be alone just with each other. Let's go to Cambodia. Have you ever heard of Angkor Wat? It's the most marvellous temple in the world, all alone by itself in the midst of an uninhabited jungle. Thousands and thousands of bas-reliefs carved on the walls. Let's . . .
Ambrose Deacon, you must be mad! . . . Georgiana sat up straight and regarded him intently. . . . Now, at the height of your fame, go to Cambodia! You're going straight back to New York to write another play to show what a great man you are. Besides, she went on, I want to meet George Gershwin and Jimmie Walker and Percy Hammond and Mencken and Alfred Lunt and Theodore Dreiser and Fred Astaire and Carl Van Vechten and Paul Robeson and Scott Fitzgerald and Gene Tunney and . . . Cambodia! Why, we might as well live in Kansas City! Ambrose Deacon groaned.
January 27, 1928
New York.