vility and gratifies the caprices of a decadent Byzantine emperor.
More often it is the star who kings or queens it in the studio. There used to be on Broadway an actor of little fame, but a good actor and the most simple and unassuming of men, best known for his beautiful devotion to his mother and sister. Entering pictures in small parts, he soon created a niche of his own, made a phenomenal success and amassed a fortune which he could not have dreamed of. So far, so good; but this sudden and princely wealth, the adulation, the slavish deference to his least whim, his individual and unchallenged supremacy on his own lot have utterly distorted his viewpoint. He now has the air of a Russian grand duke. I cannot picture Walter Hampden sauntering down Broadway in the make-up and habiliments of Cyrano de Bergerac, yet this actor parades the streets of the cities he visits in the bizarre garb of his screen character, and glories in it.
There are exceptions—many of them—for whom my respect is enormous, for the man or woman set down in that false and incense-laden air who can retain a level head and a sense of proportion possesses a character sturdier than
[173]
