“How dreadful!” exclaimed Patsy.
“Of course no one was actually hurt,” he hastened to say; “for we used dummy figures for the wall to fall upon. In the final scene the bereaved father suddenly realizes that he has been working and accumulating only for this beloved child — the child whose life he has sacrificed by his miserly refusal to protect his workmen. His grief is so intense that no one who follows the story of this picture will ever hesitate to repair a building promptly, if he learns it is unsafe. Do you now understand the lesson taught, young ladies?”
Mr. Werner’s dramatic recital had strongly impressed the two girls, while
Uncle John was visibly affected.
“I’m very glad,” said the little man fervently, “that none of my money is in factories or other buildings that might prove unsafe. It would make my life miserable if I thought I was in any way responsible for such a catastrophe as you have pictured.”
“It seems to me,” observed Patsy, “that your story is unnecessarily cruel, Mr. Werner.”
“Then you do not understand human nature,” he retorted; “or, at least, that phase of human nature I have aimed at. Those indifferent rich men are very hard to move and you must figuratively hit them squarely between the eyes to make them even wink.”
They were silent for a time, considering this novel aspect of the picture business. Then Beth asked:
“Can you tell us, sir, when and where we shall be able to see this picture?”
“It will be released next Monday.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that we, as manufacturers, supply certain agencies in all the large cities, who in turn rent our films to the many picture theatres. When a picture is ready, we send copies to all our agencies and set a day when they may release it, or give it to their customers to use. In this way the picture will be shown in all parts of the United States on the same day — in this case, next Monday.”
“Isn’t that very quick?”
“Yes. The picture we took yesterday will to-night be shipped, all complete and ready to run, to forty-four different centers.”
“And will any picture theatre in Hollywood or Los Angeles show it?”
“Certainly. It will be at the Globe Theatre in Los Angeles and at the
Isis Theatre in Hollywood, for the entire week.”
“We shall certainly see it,” announced Uncle John.
When Mr. Werner had gone they conversed for some time on the subject of motion pictures, and the man’s remarkable statement concerning them.
“I had no idea,” Beth confessed, “that the industry of making pictures is so extensive and involves so much thought and detail.”
“And money,” added Uncle John. “It must be a great expense just to employ that army of actors.”
“I suppose Mr. Werner, being a theatrical man, has drawn the long bow in his effort to impress us,” said Patsy. “I’ve been thinking over some of the pictures I’ve seen recently and I can’t imagine a moral, however intangible or illusive, in connection with any of them. But perhaps I wasn’t observant enough. The next time I go to a picture show I shall study the plays more carefully.”
CHAPTER III
AN ATTRACTIVE GIRL
On Saturday they were treated to a genuine surprise, for when the omnibus drew up before the hotel entrance it brought Arthur Weldon and his girl-wife, Louise, who was Uncle John’s eldest niece. It also brought “the Cherub,” a wee dimpled baby hugged closely in the arms of Inez, its Mexican nurse.
Patsy and Beth shrieked in ecstasy as they rushed forward to smother “Toodlums,” as they irreverently called the Cherub, with kisses. Inez, a handsome, dark-eyed girl, relinquished her burden cheerfully to the two adoring “aunties,” while Uncle John kissed Louise and warmly shook the hand of her youthful husband.
“What in the world induced you to abandon your beloved ranch?” inquired
Mr. Merrick.
“Don’t ask me, sir!” replied Arthur, laughing at the elder gentleman’s astonishment. He was a trim young fellow, with a clean-cut, manly face and frank, winning manners.
“It’s sort of between hay and grass with us, you know,” he explained. “Walnuts all marketed and oranges not ready for the pickers. All our neighbors have migrated, this way or that, for their regular winter vacations, and after you all left, Louise and I began to feel lonely. So at breakfast this morning we decided to flit. At ten o’clock we caught the express, and here we are — in time for lunch. I hope it’s ready, Uncle John.”
It was; but they must get their rooms and settle the baby in her new quarters before venturing to enter the dining room. So they were late for the midday meal and found themselves almost the only guests in the great dining hall.
As they sat at table, chatting merrily together, Arthur asked:
“What are you staring at, Patsy?”
“A lovely girl,” said she. “One of the loveliest girls I have ever seen.
Don’t look around, Arthur; it might attract their attention.”
“How many girls are there?”
“Two; and a lady who seems to be their mother. The other girl is pretty, too, but much younger than her sister — or friend, for they do not resemble one another much. They came in a few minutes ago and are seated at the table in the opposite corner.”
“New arrivals, I suppose,” remarked Uncle John, who from his position could observe the group.
“No,” said Patsy; “their waitress seems to know them well. But I’ve never before seen them in the hotel.”
“We are always early at meal time,” explained Beth, “and to-day these people are certainly late. But they are pretty girls, Patsy. For once I concur in your judgment.”
“You arouse my curiosity,” said Arthur, speaking quietly, so as not to be overheard in the far corner. “If I hear more ecstatic praises of these girls I shall turn around and stare them out of countenance.”
“Don’t,” said Louise. “I’m glad your back is toward them, Arthur, for it preserves you from the temptation to flirt.”
“Oh, as for that, I do not need to turn around in order to see pretty girls,” he replied.
“Thank you, Arthur,” said Patsy, making a face at him. “Look me over all you like, and flirt if you want to. I’m sure Louise won’t object.”
“Really, Patsy, you’re not bad to look at,” he retorted, eyeing her critically. “Aside from your red hair, the pug nose and the freckles, you have many excellent qualities. If you didn’t squint — ”
“Squint!”
“What do you call that affection of your eyes?”
“That,” she said, calmly eating her dessert, “was a glance of scorn — burning, bitter scorn!”
“I maintain it was a squint,” declared Arthur.
“That isn’t her only expression,” announced Uncle John, who loved these little exchanges of good-humored banter. “On Monday I will show you Patsy as a terror-stricken damsel in distress.”
“Also Beth, still more distressful,” added Patsy; and then they told
Louise and Arthur about the picture.
“Fine!” he cried. “I’m deeply gratified that my own relatives — ”
“By marriage.”
“I am gratified that my secondhand cousins have been so highly honored.
I’d rather see a good moving picture than the best play ever produced.”
“You’ll see a good one this time,” asserted Patsy, “for we are the stars.”
“I think that unscrupulous Mr. Werner deserves a reprimand,” said Louise.
“Oh, he apologized,” explained Beth. “But I’m sure he’d take the same liberty again if he had the chance.”
“He admits that his love of art destroys his sense of propriety,” said Patsy.
As they rose from the table Arthur deliberately turned to view the party in the other corner, and then to the amazement of his friends he coolly walked over and shook the elder lady’s hand with evident pleasu
re. Next moment he was being introduced to the two girls. The three cousins and their Uncle John walked out of the dining hall and awaited Arthur Weldon in the lobby.
“It is some old acquaintance, of course,” said Louise. “Arthur knows a tremendous lot of people and remembers everyone he ever has met.”
When he rejoined them he brought the lady and the two beautiful girls with him, introducing Mrs. Montrose as one of his former acquaintances in New York, where she had been a near neighbor to the Weldons. The girls, who proved to be her nieces instead of her daughters, were named Maud and Florence Stanton, Maud being about eighteen years of age and Florence perhaps fifteen. Maud’s beauty was striking, as proved by Patsy’s admiration at first sight; Florence was smaller and darker, yet very dainty and witching, like a Dresden shepherdess.
The sisters proved rather shy at this first meeting, being content to exchange smiles with the other girls, but their aunt was an easy conversationalist and rambled on about the delights of Hollywood and southern California until they were all in a friendly mood. Among other things Mrs. Montrose volunteered the statement that they had been at the hotel for several weeks, but aside from that remark disclosed little of their personal affairs. Presently the three left the hotel and drove away in an automobile, having expressed a wish to meet their new friends again and become better acquainted with them.
“I was almost startled at running across Mrs. Montrose out here,” said Arthur. “After father’s death, when I gave up the old home, I lost track of the Montroses; but I seem to remember that old Montrose went to the happy hunting grounds and left a widow, but no children. I imagine these people are wealthy, as Montrose was considered a successful banker. I’ll write to Duggins and inquire about them.”
“Duggins seems to know everything,” remarked Louise.
“He keeps pretty good track of New York people, especially of the old families,” replied her husband.
“I can’t see what their history matters to us,” observed Patsy. “I like to take folks as I find them, without regard to their antecedents or finances. Certainly those Stanton girls are wonderfully attractive and ladylike.”
But now the baby claimed their attention and the rest of that day was passed in “visiting” and cuddling the wee Toodlums, who seemed to know her girl aunties and greeted them with friendly coos and dimpled smiles.
On Sunday they took a motor trip through the mountain boulevards and on their way home passed the extensive enclosure of the Continental Film Company. A thriving village has been built up at this place, known as Film City, for many of those employed by the firm prefer to live close to their work. Another large “plant” of the same concern is located in the heart of Hollywood.
As they passed through Film City Uncle John remarked:
“We are invited to visit this place and witness the making of a motion picture. I believe it would prove an interesting sight.”
“Let us go, by all means,” replied Arthur. “I am greatly interested in this new industry, which seems to me to be still in its infancy. The development of the moving picture is bound to lead to some remarkable things in the future, I firmly believe.”
“So do I,” said Uncle John. “They’ll combine the phonograph with the pictures, for one thing, so that the players, instead of being silent, will speak as clearly as in real life. Then we’ll have the grand operas, by all the most famous singers, elaborately staged; and we’ll be able to see and hear them for ten cents, instead of ten dollars. It will be the same with the plays of the greatest actors.”
“That would open up a curious complication,” asserted Louise. “The operas would only be given once, before the camera and the recorder. Then what would happen to all the high-priced opera singers?”
“They would draw royalties on all their productions, instead of salaries,” replied Arthur.
“Rather easy for the great artists!” observed Patsy. “One performance — and the money rolling in for all time to come.”
“Well, they deserve it,” declared Beth. “And think of what the public would gain! Instead of having to suffer during the performances of incompetent actors and singers, as we do to-day, the whole world would be able to see and hear the best talent of the ages for an insignificant fee. I hope your prediction will come true, Uncle John.”
“It’s bound to,” he replied, with confidence. “I’ve read somewhere that Edison and others have been working on these lines for years, and although they haven’t succeeded yet, anything possible in mechanics is bound to be produced in time.”
CHAPTER IV
AUNT JANE’S NIECES
The picture, which was entitled “The Sacrifice,” proved — to use Patsy’s words — ”a howling success.” On Monday afternoons the little theatres are seldom crowded, so Mr. Merrick’s party secured choice seats where they could observe every detail of the photography. The girls could not wait for a later performance, so eager were they to see themselves in a motion picture, nor were they disappointed to find they were a mere incident in the long roll of film.
The story of the photo-play was gripping in its intensity, and since Mr. Werner had clearly explained the lesson it conveyed, they followed the plot with rapt attention. In the last scene their entrance and exit was transitory, but they were obliged to admit that their features were really expressive of fear. The next instant the wall fell, burying its victims, and this rather bewildered them when they remembered that fully half an hour had elapsed while the dummies were being placed in position, the real people removed from danger and preparations made to topple over the wall from the inside of the building. But the camera had been inactive during that period and so cleverly had the parts of the picture been united that no pause whatever was observable to the spectators.
“My! what a stuffy place,” exclaimed Louise, as they emerged into the light of day. “I cannot understand why it is necessary to have these moving picture theatres so gloomy and uncomfortable.”
“It isn’t necessary,” replied Uncle John. “It’s merely a habit the builders have acquired. There seemed to be a total lack of ventilation in that place.”
“No one expects much for ten cents,” Arthur reminded him. “If the pictures are good the public will stand for anything in the matter of discomfort.”
“Did you notice,” said Patsy, slowly, “how many children there were in that theatre?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Beth. “The pictures seem to be an ideal amusement for children. I do not suppose they can understand all the dramas and love stories, but the pictures entertain them, whatever the theme may be.”
“They are not allowed to go unless accompanied by a parent or guardian,” Arthur stated; “but I saw a group of eleven under the care of one cheery-looking old lady, so I suppose the little ones evade the law in that way.”
On Tuesday forenoon they drove to the office of the Continental Film Manufacturing Company and inquired for Mr. Werner. Every approach to the interior of the big stockade was closely guarded in order to prevent the curious from intruding, but Werner at once hurried out to greet them and escorted them into the enclosure.
“You are just in time,” said he, “to witness one of the scenes in our great picture, ‘Samson and Delilah.’ They’re getting it on now, so you must hurry if you want to see the work. It’s really the biggest thing our firm has ever turned out.”
They passed a group of low but extensive frame buildings, threading their way between them until finally they emerged within a large open space where huge frames covered with canvas were propped up in broad daylight and apparently in great disorder. Huddled here and there were groups of people wearing Oriental costumes of the Bible days, their skins stained brown, the make-up on their faces showing hideously in the strong light. A herd of meek donkeys, bearing burdens of faggots, was tethered near by.
“Follow me closely,” cautioned their guide, “so you will not step over the ‘dead line’ and get yourselves in the picture.”
“What is th
e ‘dead line’?” inquired Uncle John.
“The line that marks the limit of the camera’s scope. Outside of that you are quite safe. You will notice it is plainly marked in chalk.”
They passed around to the front and were amazed at the picture disclosed by the reverse of the gaunt, skeleton-like framework. For now was displayed Solomon’s temple in all its magnificence, with huge pillars supporting a roof that seemed as solid and substantial as stone and mortar could make it.
The perspective was wonderful, for they could follow a line of vision through the broad temple to a passage beyond, along which was approaching a procession of priests, headed by dancing girls and musicians beating tomtoms and playing upon reeds. The entire scene was barbaric in its splendor and so impressive that they watched it spellbound, awed and silent.
Yet here beside them was the motion-picture camera, clicking steadily away and operated by a man in his shirt-sleeves who watched the scene with sharp eyes, now frowning and now nodding approval. Beside him at times, but rushing from one point to another just outside the chalk-marks that indicated the “dead line,” was the director of this production, who shouted commands in a nervous, excited manner and raged and tore his hair when anything went wrong.
Something went very wrong presently, for the director blew a shrill blast on his whistle and suddenly everything stopped short. The camera man threw a cloth over his lenses and calmly lighted a cigarette. The procession halted in uncertainty and became a disordered rabble; but the director sprang into the open space and shouted at his actors and actresses in evident ill temper.
“There it is again!” he cried. “Five hundred feet of good film, ruined by the stupidity of one person. Get out of that priest’s robe, Higgins, and let Jackson take your place. Where’s Jackson, anyhow?”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 506
