The
Life-Giving Light, from the May 1982 Guideposts, is one of my favorite articles
from Lillian. It is subtitled: “A Story for Mother’s Day.” Lillian appears on
the cover of the magazine.
Lillian
makes an excellent point about the healing power of sunshine, fresh air and
faith. She must, of course, share some of her film history background with her
early 1980s readers. But her point is in the healing power of faith and family.
She makes a strong and effective ending.
Caption
with a photo of the three Gish girls, ‘God’s houses sustained us in more ways
than one in our precarious days when even the well-intentioned producers ran
out of funds and we went cold and hungry. Whenever we would hear of a church supper,
we would pay our quarters to get in and stuff ourselves.”
Photo
of Lillian, from The Birth of a Nation, standing by the “hang-dog head” of a
sentry who “heaved a deep love-sick sigh includes this caption: “Get that on
film right away, shouted Griffith. He knew it would bring a laugh, which was
needed to break the dramatic tension. It became one of the best remembered
moments of a picture that was the first 12-reel film ever made in America.
Because of this film, movies, which had been a struggling new art form,
suddenly came of age.”
For
a close-up of Lillian from The White Sister, the caption includes, “When I
played the part of a young girl who becomes a nun in The White Sister, one of
the first contemporary religious films, I was helped by the semesters I’d spent
at the Ursuline Academy in East St. Louis. Though the nuns there knew nothing
of my stage work, I was chosen to appear in both a school play and an opera.
The peace, quiet and protecting walls of the convent appealed to me, and when I
confided to my adored Sister Evaristo that I’d like to become a nun, she said, ‘No,
my child, I have seen you in our plays. The theater is where your future lies.’
‘And I recall Helen Hayes when she asked me about my part in The White Sister, ‘You
cannot set up a camera and take a picture of faith.’ I had learned that if one
was to personify faith, it must be felt intimately and lived outwardly.’
Lillian
was reluctant to make films because people called them “flickers” and “galloping
tintypes” and later film and later cinema.
The
caption under a photograph of Lillian from a Love Boat scene with Gavin MacLeod and Fred Grandy reads, “Working
keeps me young, I have found, and as long as roles are available in which I can
portray mature, honest women, I will take them. On ABC-TV’s The Love Boat I
played a retired schoolteacher whose former student was ashamed of being seen
by her. He had been her star English pupil and now felt his job menial. When we
finally meet, he confesses his feelings, and I say: ‘Then I must have been a
very poor teacher if I failed to teach that it is important who you are, not
what you are.’
BEGIN
ARTICLE TEXT:
“Ours
was a small, close-knit family. Just we three girls - Mother, my sister Dorothy
and me. Our world was that of the stage, and then later the movies, silent movies. Our friends were pioneers
of the new medium – Mary Pickford, Anita Loos, Charlie Chaplin – monumental figures
who helped shape the history of film. Our mentor was David Wark Griffith, the
genius of early film-making who created the form, meaning and grammar for telling
stories on film. But most of all, there was Mother.
Our
father left us when we were young, but Mother supplied the bolstering strength
and the affection and warmth of two parents. She was a delicate woman, small,
almost frail, yet a woman of strong courage. She kept us together, traveled
everywhere with us, read the Bible during long train rides to the next town and
the next performance, taught us to pray, and to have faith. We needed that
faith.
As
I look on it, life was a constant challenge. In the beginning we were poor, and
there were times when food was in short supply. I remember existing on a diet
of oatmeal and milk, one portion for breakfast and two for dinner. I took my
first stage job at age five in the play Convict’s
Stripes and went on the road. Dorothy’s career began at age four when she
played in East Lynne. As youngsters, we learned that our profession was
considered a social disgrace and we were warned, ‘Don’t tell anyone you’re in
the theater because children won’t be allowed to play with you.’
When
we started making movies – in New York, before Hollywood became movie land – it
was just a job to do while waiting for our next hoped-for role on the stage. We
worked late into the night sometimes on empty stomachs, and were expected back
at the studio before dawn. There were no doubles or stuntmen. We played every scene,
whether it was outdoors in the winter riding river currents on an actual ice
floe until Mr. Griffith was satisfied with the scene, or playing the victim of
a brutal beating and ending up with welts and bruises. Total dedication was
expected; we were driven to perform perfectly, totally – for five dollars a
day.
In
1913, we went to Hollywood and when Mr. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation burst
upon the world in 19155, our lives changed. The picture was a sensation, and
everybody connected with it, including me, became famous. And I was still a
teenager.
In
late 1916 – while World War I was raging in France – Mr. Griffith went to
London to show his new films, The Birth of a Nation and Intolerance, at the
famous Drury Lane Theater, which had never before shown a motion picture in its
long history. While there, he was invited to 10 Downing Street by the Prime
Minister, Lloyd George. England and France wanted Mr. Griffith to produce a war
film that would help the Allies’ cause. As a result, Mr. Griffith sent for
Dorothy, actor Bobby Herron, cameraman Billy Bitzer and me. After seven months
in England and France, we came back with 86,000 feet of film, which became five
movies including Hearts of the World. Mother, of course, would not let us go without
her.
The
film was shot in range of long-distance guns, and shells and shrapnel fell
close by. We were working where even nurses were not allowed to go. We shot
scenes in complete secrecy and tried to block out the horror around us –
exploding shells, men wounded and lying in mud. Mother drove with us to the
location each day, passing burned-out homes, scorched fields and destroyed
orchards. It was a frightening experience for all of us, and it took its toll.
In
the ensuing months Mother, Dorothy and I became highly nervous and lost weight.
My sister and I recovered from the ordeal, being too young to comprehend the
horror we had witnessed. But Mother did not. She suffered from shell shock the
same as many soldiers did. Her hands shook so that she could not hold a cup of
tea. And this, in turn, led to other ailments. We did not fully realize how
serious the effects were until eight years later when Dorothy summoned me to
England where she was working: ‘Mother has had a serious stroke,’ read the
cablegram. ‘Please come quickly.’
Still
in costume and wearing makeup, I left the MGM Hollywood set of The Scarlet
Letter and caught a train for New York. News of Mother’s illness preceded me
and hundreds of sympathetic fans stood on station platforms along the way to
express their sympathy and tell me of their prayers for mother’s recovery.
Mother was not expected to live, and I felt horribly alone, but the warmth and
love of the people waiting on those platforms lifted my spirits and gave me
hope.
When
I arrived in London, I found Dorothy badly shaken and Mother deep in coma, but
shortly after she began to improve. Within three weeks she was able to make it clear
that she wanted me to take her home. A doctor and nurse accompanied us on the
crossing by ship to New York, then after a two-week rest, we had a private car
attached to a fast west-bound mail train. I had to return to California to
work, and I brought Mother – still unable to speak or even lift her head – on a
roaring, swaying train in the heat of July. No air-conditioning then, of
course. To keep the car cool, we positioned tubs of ice with fans blowing on
them. And as the train steamed across the plains, I held Mother’s thin hand and
read aloud from her Bible of Christ’s promises of eternal life and His
unfailing love.
I
read to Mother from I Corinthians, from Colossians, Psalms and Isiah, and with
each passage I silently prayed that God would spare her, that He would give us
more years together. One night, reading aloud from the 58th chapter
of Isiah, I could not help but feel the promise in the words that ran, ‘Then
shall they light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring
forth speedily: and they righteousness shall go before thee: the glory of the
Lord shall be they rearward.’ (58:8)
As
I read them, it seemed to me that those words held the key to Mother’s life.
When
we arrived in Los Angeles, Mother’s condition deteriorated. We took her to a
beach house, which we had rented from Mary Pickford’s mother. Mary, whom we’d known
as Gladys Smith, had been one of our closest friends since childhood days when
our two families had shared an apartment in New York City in order to save
money.
However,
even the sound of the ocean seemed to disturb Mother. So we had to rent a house
on top of the Palisades.
Mother
was carried to a pretty room on the second floor that had large windows
flooding the chamber with light. It was cheery and warm, and an ocean breeze
billowed the lace curtains. I liked it immediately and felt it would cheer
Mother. But the doctor pulled down the shades, He wanted her to have total
quiet. Not even the sunlight should distract her.
Weeks
passed, and as I sat in that darkened room listening to Mother’s labored
breathing, I felt a dread, a sense of hopelessness. There was no more strength left
in this pale, sickly form. This was my mother who had given me love, who had
given me life, and I sat there helpless.
One
the eve of Mother’s 49th birthday, September 16, after the doctor
had put his daily, gloomy visit, I stepped out into the garden. The sun shone
brightly as I sat in a wicker chair and buried my head in my hands. I pictured
the still, pale woman in that second-floor room, too weak to respond even to
the touch of my hand on hers. It was as though she were already dead, shut off
from friends, from life, from light …
Light!
At
that moment the words from Isiah came back to me: Then shall hey light break
forth as the morning and thine health shall spring forth speedily… The very
words that had so filled me hop as the train had roared through the night gave
me hope again. Still another passage rushed back into my mind, the words of
Jesus: I am the light of the world: he that followeth Me shall not walk in
darkness, but shall have the light of life. (John 8:12)
I
ran upstairs. One after the other I raised the shades in Mother’s room, then pushed
open the windows. California sunshine flooded in and bathed Mother in its
warmth. She smiled slightly. I knew our prayers would be answered. God would sustain
us.
That
afternoon I went downstairs and telephoned a number of our good friends. ‘Tomorrow
is Mother’s birthday,’ I said. ‘Could you stop by to see her, just for a
moment,?’
The
next day the windows were wide open. Mother’s room was filled with roses, and
little by little our friends arrived and tiptoed to Mother’s bed and told her
how much she was loved. From then on, Mother grew stronger. Our journalist friend,
H. L. Mencken, helped us find a specialist who took over Mother’s case, and
soon we were able to carry her down to that same garden where I had been
inspired to open her windows to the light.
Mother’s
health did spring forth, and she lived for 22 years after that – 22 happy,
creative years.
In
the beginning there were just the three of us, Mother, Dorothy and me. Now
there is just me alone. Yet not really alone, for I feel our little family’s
closeness still. By my bed I keep my mother’s Bible, its pages heavily marked
and underlined with favorite passages, passages of strength and hope – and light.
Often I think back to the time that His light restored my mother’s life, reaffirming
my belief – instilled years before by Mother – that God’s power is boundless,
that it can come to us silently, lovingly, pushing the darkness aside.”
END
ARTICLE TEXT
(C) Guideposts
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