Francis X. Bushman and Beverly Bayne — All in the Day’s Work (1917) 🇺🇸

When I wandered into the Quality Studio, my avowed determination to interview Francis X. Bushman and Beverly Bayne, I was immediately lost.

by Pearl Gaddis

The studio was a glare of Cooper-Hewitts and Klieg lights, and a bunch of carpenters, busy on a nearby set, contributed a salvo of sound that wasn’t the least bit conducive to a quiet contemplation of things about me.

I almost stumbled into the midst of the scene being photographed under the direction of W. Christy Cabanne [Christy Cabanne], whom I have regarded with solemn and heartfelt awe since his days with Triangle. Had I done this — stumbled into the scene — I fear me this story would never have been told, for I have heard it said that W. C. C. is no mild and gentle lamb when one of his plays is upset by some untoward event.

Mr. Bushman was busily denouncing somebody for something — there was an enormous mob of people gathered about this set, at a respectful distance, and I was prevented, by being an insignificant five feet tall, from seeing exactly what was going on. However, Mr. Bushman was terribly angry, judging from his voice, and I wondered mightily what had happened. He ordered somebody to leave his premises forever, and threatened frightful things if somebody ever came back. There was the sound of a blow and a falling body; then Mr. Cabanne called “Cut!” in a business-like voice, and I heard Mr. Bushman say, in a voice as different from his former voice as if they had belonged to different people.

“Did I hurt you, old fellow? I’m mighty sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s fatal — but, man alive, you’ve sure got some kick in that mitt o’ yours!” answered somebody in a rueful voice.

“All right, Bush — you and Miss Bayne are to dress for the next scene — you remember, the love scene in the library,” called Mr. Cabanne, and the crowd parted respectfully for Miss Bayne and Mr. Bushman to pass through.

Miss Bayne was very simply dressed in a tailored coat-suit with a small, close-fitting hat to match. She saw me — and blessings upon the dear head of her! — very kindly took me away with her to her dressing-room where a smart maid was waiting to help her into a gorgeous evening frock, all silver tissue, palest pink tulle and blue chiffon, with a court train of pale blue satin, heavily embroidered in silver.

Miss Bayne and I had a most satisfying conservation during this interlude. While she was being hooked up into the lovely gown we discussed Broadway’s latest things theatrical; while the brocaded, high-heeled slippers and silk stockings were being donned we discovered a mutual liking for a certain masculine star of the movies, and while her soft brown hair was being dressed she told me lots of interesting things, strictly confidential.

And when we went back to the studio, Mr. Bushman, looking more handsome than ever in evening togs, was waiting. The set this time was a beautiful one — three rooms in one — a wide living-room, handsomely furnished, opening at one side into a book-walled library, and at the other side into a dining-room that was the very essence of taste and refinement.

The scene here was a short one — but it will thrill many thousands of admirers of the popular couple. Mr. Bushman was standing alone in the set when the scene began, looking out towards the supposed staircase, with, to borrow an expression from a new “best seller”— it’s a stock quotation, so is first anything from Shakespeare to Earl Derr Biggers— with “his heart in his eyes.” When Mr. Cabanne thought he had waited long enough to make the scene realistic, he gave a call for Miss Bayne, who entered slowly from beside the camera, but from the supposed staircase, as it will appear to those who see this scene in its entirety. Mr. Bushman’s face lit up with a worshipful smile as she came slowly towards him, but he did not touch her. She hesitated a moment, then, with an adorably shy little smile, she lifted her white hands to the lapels of his coat, smiling into his eyes as he looked down into hers.

“Are — you — really — really sure that you love me?” she whispered.

There was really no need for an answer, because his eyes and face told more than words ever could. But he answered, just the same:

“Love, sweetheart? I love you more than anything else in all this wide world!” he cried, softly. “Love you? And sure of it? Am I sure that I am living — that you are really here in my arms? Oh, my darling!” And his arms swept her close, cradling her against his breast. His brown head bent until their lips met, and clung in a long, long kiss that had no beginning and seemed not to have an end.

And —

“Cut!” called the soulless director, while the equally mundane photographer phlegmatically announced the number of feet consumed by the exquisite bit of life before me. In my dark corner I indignantly wiped my eyes and asked that old, old question for which there doesn’t seem to be an answer:

“Why is a director?”

Miss Bayne had caught one of the frail tulle sleeves of her gown on a button of Mr. Bushman’s coat, and he disentangled it for her with some laughing remark, to which she answered as laughingly. The director and camera-man began figuring on another scene; everybody around the studio went on with their usual tasks; a couple of extra girls behind me reviled an acquaintance with as little concern as if they were home, alone; but I sat still in my dark corner, hoping that I would be unnoticed until I had been able to remove the traces of tears from my face.

The scene that I had just witnessed had been like an exquisite golden-hued butterfly in the midst of a machine shop — a gorgeous, frail-hued bit of romance broken and smashed against the sordid realism of every-day life.

When Miss Bayne turned to me she stared, then called Mr. Bushman excitedly.

“Oh, Frank,” she called. “Here’s a lovely tribute — that scene made Miss Gaddis weep!”

“It did not!” I snapped, rudely, with an attempt to hide my sentimentalism. “The lights in here hurt my eyes!”

Mr. Bushman grinned.

“All right, come and go to dinner with Miss Bayne and me — we’ll try to offer a cure for — er — the lights that hurt your eyes!”

Of course I went; but it didn’t make me forget the exquisite bit of acting that had to me been so beautiful — but that was to them all in the day’s work.

—

Francis Bushman laying down the law-part of his job

The same Bushman interceding in behalf of the girl

And here we have him making a boy proud

—

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Collection: Photoplay Magazine, September 1917
(The Photo-Play Journal for September, 1917)