Beverly Bayne — Beverly the Adorable (1917) 🇺🇸

October 01, 2024

It was at the recent Buffalo Screen Club ball that I last talked with Beverly Bayne. Gowned in a beautiful creation of turquoise-blue heavily embroidered in silver, she held court in the orientally hung box especially reserved for her use.

by Hazel Simpson Naylor

While the band played popular strains with vim and gusto, and men and girls swayed in the swirl of the gay dance, a seemingly never-ending stream of people sought to grasp Beverly Bayne’s hand and tell her how they adored her. Really, so saccharine were their remarks that I should not have been surprised to see many fall on their knees and kiss her hand. Indeed, many looked as if they would have enjoyed it.

As the air became stifling from the whirling of the dancers, the warm fragrance of dying flowers and stale perfumes, I saw Miss Bayne turn rather white. At last, rather desperately, she flung a rich ermine wrap about her shoulders and prepared to depart. With great difficulty she eluded the maddening mob, while I followed unobserved.

Suddenly she disappeared behind some cool-looking palms, and there I found her cozily ensconced on a wicker settee. I hated to bother the little lady, but —

“How do you do, Miss Bayne?” I said.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, somewhat startled. Then she recognized me and pressed a dainty finger to her lips. “Sh!” she whispered. “Slip in here; there is plenty of room.”

“Well.” I observed, as I gazed at her closely “you are tired out, are you not?

“And,” I added, “you have run away from the crowd of overwhelming admirers?”

“Tired, my dear — I am dead!” she said, as she carelessly gathered her scintillating train into knots and allowed her ermine wrap to slip unnoticed to the floor for all the world like a little, tired child.

“Of course,” she added, her large, brown eyes quite serious, “it has been a wonderful trip, and every one has been lovely to me, but it has been go, go every moment. The committee had arranged for Mr. Bushman [Francis X. Bushman] and myself to visit Niagara Falls this morning. I spoke in a theater there; then they rushed us to Rochester, where we both spoke again, and, do you know,” she whispered confidently, “it is very difficult for me to address an audience personally. I suppose, never having been on the speaking stage makes it come harder to me. It is twice as terrifying as facing the camera.”

“Do you miss Chicago?” I asked.

“Yes, of course; having been brought up there, I miss all my old friends, but I like New York very much. In many ways it has greater facilities for producing pictures.”

“I know you enjoyed playing Juliet,” I remarked.

“Yes, indeed,” she replied. “It was so worth while, and in the future I hope to have more parts as appealing as Juliet.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed, flung her train over her shoulder, clutched her priceless wrap and stood up, “Mr. Bushman will be wondering what has become of me. Do come along with me and talk to him.”

“Thank you, no. I haven’t time.”

“What!” — she registered vast astonishment, then enthused. “Isn’t he marvelous? He is the most thoughtful man to work with you ever knew!”

Then Beverly deserted our peaceful eyrie, only to be again pounced upon by the indefatigable public. The price of fame, thought I, as I slipped away. Some time later, as I was tying on my carriage-boots, Miss Bayne called out from the midst of the crowd that was watching her departure, “Good-night, Miss Naylor. Be sure to come arid see me in New York.”

I was glad because, as I said before, in spite of her silver-and-ermine trappings, to me she was greater than a mighty movie queen; she was a sweet, unaffected, unspoiled girl who is accomplishing a great deal.

And, girls, as a parting bit of information, I want to tell you that in spite of this age when the rouge-box is so handy for most of us, Beverly Bayne’s daintily chiseled, cameo-like countenance was guiltless of- artifice. Her lovely blue-black hair was very simply waved and caught in a knot at the nape of her neck.

Her soft, brown eyes and sweetly curved lips seem to question the reason of all this adulation. After all, she is only a little girl, somewhat timid and rather shy, but always Beverly the Adorable.