Haywire Brooke Hayward (my miracle luna book free read TXT) 📖

Afterward, I told her that. Not in her dressing room with clumps of friends and well-wishers squeezing through to congratulate her, but out on the street, past the stage door jammed with autograph seekers—through which she strode looking neither left nor right, even when they squealed, “Miss Sullavan, Miss Sullavan!” and plucked at her coat and beseeched her with their outstretched autograph books—as we accompanied her to Sardi’s or wherever the traditional celebration was held that night.

“Mother,” I said, trying to keep pace with her, “how could you ever retire? Was it really to raise children? We don’t want that excuse hanging around our necks—you’re no housewife and we didn’t ask you to be. We were well enough taken care of—what about all those nurses and cooks and gardeners? Now we feel gypped.”

“Gypped?” She swung around, her voice cracking with amusement.

“Well”—I gulped, thoroughly excited by my daring—“cheated. You are Margaret Sullavan. What’s wrong with that?”

The answer, which came later as we were driving home along the Merritt Parkway and which was revived in one form or another whenever the subject of acting came up again, was: “Most actors are basically neurotic people. Terribly, terribly unhappy. That’s one of the reasons they become actors. Nobody well adjusted would ever want to expose him or herself to a large group of strangers. Think of it. Insanity! Generally, by their very nature—that is, if they’re at all dedicated—actors do not make good parents. They’re altogether too egotistical and selfish. The better the actor—and, I hate to say it, the bigger the star—why, the more that seems to hold true. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever known one—not one!—star who was successfully able to combine a career and family life. The children usually grow up to be delinquents. That’s why”—she was addressing us from the front seat of the Nash Rambler as Kenneth drove, and her face, as she twisted in her seat, was very earnest—“I didn’t want to delude myself that I could do it either. Hold down the two jobs simultaneously. And I so much wanted to have the fun of being just a mother and nobody else. Believe me, I’ve never for one day regretted forgoing my career to spend time with the three of you. Never. It was much more important to me to be with you during your most formative years. Besides”—she yawned and smiled—“you know how I hate hard work.”

“But,” I persisted, “you must have liked it once.”

“Yes,” replied Mother, serious again. “When I began. It seemed very natural then. Now—I can’t explain why—my zest is gone. I suppose there’s a love-hate feeling. I do love rehearsals; at least they’re less dreary than playing the same part night after night. I used to think that acting was a kind of therapy, but now I think it creates psychological havoc. Actors become accustomed to being the center of attention, come to believe they’re special, set apart from other people. That’s dangerous and lonely. Actors suffer; look at all the instances of alcoholism, slit wrists, God knows what. As a result of which everybody else around suffers, too. Madness! And the built-in competition to be special, to be different, is deplorable. There are many fine, talented actors you’ve never heard of, while some of the most successful have no talent at all; they’re just better at getting attention. If any of you ever decides you want an acting career, I warn you I shall do everything in my power to prevent it.”

One of the fringe benefits of The Deep Blue Sea was the routine that it imposed on Mother’s life, one that was as much a grievance to her as a godsend to us. She arose long after we’d left for school, which freed the breakfast table for reading or arguing to our hearts’ content. Then, in order to get to the theatre in time to apply her make-up, she caught the 6:25 train into New York. This facilitated illicit television viewing and two-hour phone conversations with friends. Before matinée days, she would spend Tuesday and Friday nights in the city, which was a real boon. Normal discipline broke down; Elizabeth was mostly bark and no bite.

Another benefit was the new stature we gained socially from having a famous mother at work. Whereas before, few of our peers had had the opportunity to see her in anything (the days when first-class movies would be rerun on television were yet to come), now they could judge for themselves. Or their parents could judge for them. Besides, there was publicity to be sopped up; although Mother shunned publicity, she couldn’t completely curtail it. Life magazine came out and photographed her for an article:

CITY CELEBRITY IN COUNTRY SETTING

Margaret Sullavan manages with no trouble at all to lead a happy double life. Six nights a week she is a grand lady of the Broadway stage, taking curtain calls to tidal waves of applause after her great personal success in The Deep Blue Sea. Ten minutes later her other life begins. She runs out the stage door into a waiting taxi and catches the 11:25 commuters’ train for her country house near Greenwich, Connecticut. There she becomes Mrs. Kenneth Wagg (husband is in the malted milk business) and busies herself with a hundred household chores having to do with her three children, her servants, kitchen, garden and dog.…

We were all photographed eating Virginia ham and skating on the frozen pond. And then, in the spring, when the pink dogwoods were at the height of their glory and the garden was solid tulips and daffodils, Life came back and photographed me in a strapless evening dress for an article on daughters of the stars.

That Mother would give her blessing to this latter idea was extremely odd, but, breaking her own rules with as much verve as she kept them, she even added a touch of mascara to my lashes and powdered