"John Bunny 1910-1915'
"Kalem-1907 bought up by Vitagraph 1916"
and "Biograph disolved 1915"
There was a nickelodeon on Chapel Street where campus lowbrows often passed an hour or two—the erudite and flush patronizing Poli's, or the matinees at the Hyperion. The films shown at this nickelodeon were one-reel affairs, and the program changed daily. After a while, those of us who had formed the habit of going there began to look for certain players. In the Vitagraph pictures our favorites were John Bunny, Norma Talmadge, Julia Swayne Gordon, Anita Stewart and Maurice Costello. The Kalem Company had sloe-eyed slender Alice Joyce, who wept without provocation and without screwing her face up. I envied the dark young man in whose arms she climaxed every film while round punctured holes appeared all over the screen, stamped there by an unfeeling censor. The young man's name was Carlyle Blackwell. There were Lubin pictures, too, in which an actor named Arthur Johnson, who swayed through the scenes as if he were drunk or loose jointed, or very tired, played convicts and miners and oppressed laborers, and with such conviction that at first it was hard to tell whether he was an actor or the real thing.
Then pictures began to come in with a big A.B. on them, which meant American Biograph.Notes in the margin of this paragraph read: "Bobby Harron Biograph 1907-1908" and "Primitive Man 1913 Mae Marsh" The second Biograph film I saw was about prehistoric people, and demonstrated how cunning first mastered brute force. The second sequence showed a week-kneed personage of, I judged, the Neolithic age, trying to start a fire by knocking two stones together. He missed his aim, hit his finger and began to suck it. In the previous episode he had been kicked around by the tribal bully, and since then had been hiding in a cave the way I had hidden from Bones major in the bogs at Saint Columba's. After sucking his thumb for several feet of film Weak-Knees picked up the stone and hit himself on the head with it. He must have hit too hard, for it looked like a knockout to me and to Hawley and Newson who were with me. After a while Weak-Knees got up, a little groggy, but full of ideas. The next scene showed him tying the stone to a stick. He finally worked out a contraption like a big hammer, and when the bully came along again Weak-Knees took a swing at him and hit him on the hand with it.This is an innacurate description of the 1913 D.W. Griffith film Brute Force (aka Primitive Man). The character played by Bobby Harron actually invents a bow and arrow to defeat his enemy. The bully stuck his hand in his mouth and registered pain. Then Weak-Knees made another swipe at him that landed on his head and he took the count and Weak-Knees annexed his girl friend who did not seem to object and the puncture marks came all over the screen. Weak-Knees was played by Bobby Harron. I think Mae Marsh was the girl.
We kept our seats and saw it again for the same price. Hawley, who was not a fan, remarked that the light of intelligence had been forced through film for the first time, but it had taken a hammer to do it. Before the picture started a title was flashed on the screen: Directed by D.W. Griffith.
From then on, as well as Record heelers, those engaged in the same extra-curriculum activities as Newson patronized the nickelodeon when a Griffith picture was announced. I talked so much about them that Orthwein's curiosity was aroused. I took him to one of them. Friends of his in the 1912 class let up on Poli's for the afternoon and came to the next. Players of the Yale Dramatic Association followed, Frank Tuttle, Rufus King, Ernest Dielman among them. They saw Oil and Water, The Mothering Heart, The Female of the Species and other Griffith 'theme' pictures that were five years ahead of their time.
The Griffith players we liked were Blanch Sweet, Mary Pickford, Lillian Gish, Henry Walthall, Bobby Harron and Marshal Neilan.Notes in the margin of this paragraph read: "Tale of Two Cities 1911" and "The Perils of Pauline 1914" Another picture that made a hit with us was the Vitagraph three-reel 'feature', The Tale of Two Cities, with Maurice Costello and Florence Turner. I did not go to this picture with an open mind, for I had seen the stage version, The Only Way, at the Theater Royal in Dublin with Martin Harvey as the star. It was the first play I had seen and was still my favorite. But after the Vitagraph version got underway I found myself liking Costello in spite of my prejudice. Another role, that of the Marquis de Saint Evremonde, was played by an actor who impressed us all. But we could not find out who he was as his name did not appear on the screen.
And then there was Edison pictures, but they were not so good. A rather dull serial called What Happened to Mary was their pièce de résistance. A livlier serial, with Pearl White in it, made by the Pathé Company was better entertainment. The Pathé people came to New Haven later and made a picture on the campus. They had held a competition among the students for a scenario, and the prize, twentyfive dollars, was won by a senior, Guy Thomas, who played the lead in it too. I walked past the camera several times staring into the lens when they made the exteriors in front of Vanderbilt Hall.
Daily contact with a talented artist is bound to have astimulating effect on the more receptive of his pupils. My association with Lee Lawrie filled me with ambitious ideas; but ambition and achievement are discouragingly far apart. I had made several projects in plasteline for sculptural groups but lacked the experience to carry them beyond the sketch stage. A few of these had been exposed at the annual Art School show, and Mr. Lawrie thought two of them were good enough to be cast—one, in particular, he said was worth while developing. He suggested I take this one to the distinguished sculptor, Daniel Chester French, and ask him for a job, as Mr. French could afford to pay assistants more than he could.
Mr. French lived in Glendale, Massachusetts. When I got off the train with my plasteline sketch in my arms I discovered that his residence was a couple of miles out in the country.
By the time I get there I was covered with dust and perspiration. As I walked up the driveway I saw a heavyset man coming across the lawn. He had a beard like Auguste Rodin's, so I went over to him and handed him Mr. Lawrie's letter of introduction. He seemed puzzled by it and fumbled out his spectacles. Then he burst out laughing, which seemed to me a strange way of receiving anyone who had come all the way from New Haven to see him.
A little farther on a slight man with a grey moustache was pottering about among some rose-bushes. When he heard all the noise he came over. I noticed he had rather tired eyes. He took the letter and read it and began to laugh too, and he said to the other man:
"That beard will have to come off. It is very misleading." And to me he said: "You took the farmer for the sculptor. I'm Mr. French. It's a shame you came all the way up here for nothing. You should have written me first. You see, I'm taking a holiday."
My disappointment was pretty obvious. Mr. French saw it and looked a little sorry for me and asked if I would like to see some of his work and I said of course I would. So he showed me his studio where there were some plasteline sketches for monuments, pushed very far. They were beautifully done, very classical, aloof and sculptural, and with that sexless dignity that used to be appropriate in civic monuments. To a beginner they were rather awe inspiring; but even so, in a sort of subconscious way, I missed the vigor and directness that characterized Mr. Lawrie's work. I asked Mr. French if he would like to see the plasteline sketch I had brought with me. He made room on a modeling stand and I unwrapped my parcel. I must have held it too tight on the way up or leaned against it in the train, for it was all out of shape. I almost cried, but Mr. French said the damage was not as serious as it appeared to be and twisted the plasteline about until the sketch looked much better than it was before it got messed-up. He said it showed promise and I belonged to the romantic school, and asked me had I ever seen Lord Leighton's sculptural efforts. I wrapped up the model again, and before I left, Mr. French gave me a photograph of his group in Forest Hills cemetery, Death and the Sculptor, and signed it for me. I would have liked a drink of water too, but I did not like to ask for it.
When I got back to New Haven and told Mr. Lawrie what had happened he said it was his fault for not writing Mr. French first. He said he would reimburse me for the trip, which naturally I would not let him do.
Apart from working at the cooperative store or on clerical jobs there were various ways in which a student could make money at Yale. The man who organized The College Suitpressing Company cleaned up four thousand dollars while at college, but he was an exception. I knew fellows who broke in pipes for their more affluent classmates at fifty cents a-piece. In the field of more artistic endeavour, the annual Yale Banner and Pot-Pourri paid well for the full page drawings that preceded the sections devoted to senior societies, fraternities and sports; and for the decorative initials, headings and tailpieces. There were also the class books to be illustrated and decorated. Thanks to friends I had made in the different classes I usually managed to get wind of a prospective job before anyone else, so a good share of this work fell to me. Most of my tips came from seniors in the Academic and at Sheffield, whom the average freshman or sophomore hesitated to approach, but whom I knew through Orthwein and Butler. On one occasion Mr. Tully, the college registrar, pushed the entire batch of drawings for a class book my way. I collected one hundred dollars for them. I also designed bookplates, place cards for fraternity banquets and programs.
As I look back I am amazed at the persistency I evinced in hustling after these jobs and my address in collecting for them. I suppose he who needs must. But it was lucky for me I had plenty of nerve, for my father's allowance just covered my class fees and kept me eating.
Jim Donnelly, the campus policeman, had formerly served on the New Haven police force. When he was suspended for bringing rowdy students back to the campus instead of locking them up, the university engaged him as chief of the campus patrol of two. Jim automatically became father confessor to every new class, and so remained until its graduation. In his office under Phelps Gateway freshmen could mingle with Y-men and social leaders of the senior class, for Jim was the most democratic institution in a republican community for whose democracy Dean Jones vouched when with this toast he raised his glass:
Here's to the town of New Haven,
The home of the Truth and the Light;Original footnote by Ingram: " Lux et Veritus. The motto on the University seal."
Where God speaks to Jones
In the very same tones
That he uses with HadleyOriginal footnote by Ingram: "The late President Hadley of Yale." and Dwight.Original footnote by Ingram: "President Emeritus Timothy Dwight."
Jim's office was quite a trophy room. Crossed oars, baseball bats, banners, pennants and deflated footballs hung from the walls; and among group photographs that dated back many years were the invincible elevens of Heffelfinger and Ted Coy. It was here the idea of capitalizing on sculpture, too, first struck me: There should be a place on every mantelpiece in college for a small bust of Jim. A glue mould could be made of it and plaster casts turned out for very little. I broached the subject to Jim and he said he had heard talk about a statue of Nathan Hale to be erected on the campus, and it might be the psychological moment for such an undertaking as I suggested. He agreed to pose in his office if he could talk during the sittings, so I brought my plasteline along and did a portrait of him about 10 inches high. When it was finished I arranged with an Italian to make me a glue mould of it and one hundred casts, washed over with an ivory tint to take the glare off the plaster, for ten dollars.
Before putting the busts on sale it occurred to me that the venture might gain in dignity if it appeared to be sponsored by a company. I asked Hawley to try and think up a corporation name that carried a punch and, at the same time, would inspire prospective customers with confidence.
"W-why not c-call it THE JIM DONNELLY BUST TRUST?" he said.
His suggestion seemed to fulfill both requirements, so I made a large sign and put it on our door. The sales went well at first. I sold forty casts that had set me back ten cents a-piece at two dollars each. When I sensed the demand was falling off I disposed of the remainder, and all rights, for twentyfive dollars. The fellow who bought them had them on his hands until he knocked the price down to one dollar. Then some York Hall freshmen who had bought theirs from me at two dollars came around to Berkeley Hall and wanted half their money back. I explained that since I had disposed of my interest in the busts for a lump sum I could do nothing about it, even if the present owner decided to market them at ten cents a-piece.
Hawley, who was there at the time, said I would save myself a lot of explaining if I transposed the last two words of it and put the Jim Donnelly Bust Trust sign back on the door.