MARY PICKFORD'S LUCK.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20917, 6 January 1930, Page 10

MARY PICKFORD'S LUCK.

TREASURED TRAM TICKET. ROMANCE OF A “TRANSFER.” INCIDENT THAT LED TO FAME. A tramcar carried " the world's sweetheart,” Mary Pickford, on the first stage of her journey to fame and fortune. She recently told Answers why ohe treasures a tram ticket “ transfer ” which she never used. It was her ticket to screen success Her story is as follows: * How many people can look back along the path of their life and definitely say: Yes, that’s where I struck the right road? " Many or few, I am one of them. Listen to my little story, and you’ll agree that my first real move towards fame ceil tred round a New York Street-ear—“ tramcar ” is jour word, isri't it? ” —and the fact that I bought a transfer on that street-car and never used it. Do you have “transfers” in London? We do. And a transfer with us means that it is possible to ride in one direction and then travel off to some opposite spot without paying any more money, provided you have asked for a transfer at the time you pay your fare. It is too late afterward. I became very expert at travelling long distances for very little money in those days of my struggling childhood, when every day was a battle to make five cents do the work of 10.

Most people know, I tliink that my real name is Gladys Smith, and that I was born in Toronto, Canada, where I began my wage-earning life as a child of five by appearing on the stage witn the Valentine Stock Company. We were poor. 1 don’t need to say that really. I suppose, because children do not become wageearners and help to support Itheir fartiUv at the age of five without dire need to urge them on. I had that need. I wanted to, help my mother, that brave, indomitable, far-seeing mother who guided and helped me for so many years. “VETERAN ACTRESS” AT 13. Playdaya passed me by. 1 worked all the time, and by the time I- was eight I was a veteran actress. Then when 13 birthdays had come and gone, I found myself on Broadway .playing a part called Betty Warren in “ Thfi Warrens of Virginia, under the management of David Belasco, that veteran manager and playwright. one of the kindest men I have ever met. It is to David Belasco that I owe my present name. I had an introduction to this famous man from Blanche Bates, a well-known actress; and J went to Mr Belasco’s theatre after a performance, one evening, having memorised some lines he wanted me to speak for him. It was very daik in the theatre, but I looked about until I saw a blur of white, like a man’s collar, and spoke straight to that blur. Mr Belasco told me to repeat the lines I had learned; and when I finished he asked me to come to his office next day to sign my contract.

When I went in and told Mr Belasco my name, which he had quite forgotten, he exclaimed: “ Oh, I can’t have yon called Gladys Smith. Think of something else. I replied that I had always liked the name ‘ Mary,” and Mr Belasco said Mary would do. But not Mary Smith After several surnames had been suggested and rejected I told Mr Belasco of a relation who married a Mr Pickford . That’s it! ”Mr Belasco cried. “That •s your name from now on, Mary Pickford! ”

While I was acting for Mr Belasco in JNew York the real turning-point in my Me arrived. My salary was small, and there was so much to do with it that I Bav ?j a ™ 6cra P ed together every cent I «°-JV • Those strange new things called Moving Pictures" were just-starting at that. time, and players belonging to the legitimate stage looked down on this new tprm of entertainment, fearing to have their names associated with it. A film e “gagemeiit was considered a “disgrace” at that time—something to be kept a dark secret. .

.A LUCKY MEETING. My wise mother saw ahead, however, and was always talking to me about films. She persuaded me to try liny luck at the .olograph Studio, where 'films were being made by a man called David Wark Grifnth.

I loved the theatre, and in my ignorance *f ar ®d the films, remembering the wax Xu a ctors and actresses speak or them. But to satisfy my mother I promised to go to Fourteenth street. A tramcar from our house would have cost 10 cents; so I walked 10 blocks—nearly a mile—got into the car on Fourteenth street, and asked for a transfer. It was my intention to keep my promise to mother by .going to the studio, and then, alter walking back to Broadway, to use my precious transfer to get all the way up town to Times square, where I could vimt the offices of theatrical agents. ..Sw; 1 ® my transfer firmly, I entered the old Biograph Studio. I had given mv name to -a man behind a glass window, with some details of my work, when a door behind me opened. I turned round to see a tall man, with keen blue eyes and a , hne aquiline nose, walking out.' He stood looking at ine for a few seconds, then he said: Come in here, little girl if you please.” “ I WILL GIVE YOU A CONTRACT.” I followed David Wark Griffith into his ofhee utterly unaware of his identity. He talked to me for a long time. At last n e eaidr I want you to work here in my films. I will give you a contract.^ 1 walked out, engaged to appear on thescreen for Mr Griffith at a salary of 40 dollars (£8) a week. When I got home my transfer was still in my hand. I told my mother what had happened, and she Mssed me with tears in her eyes * Then I went to my room and locked that transfer away in a small box where JL kept a few special treasures. I realised then that it represented the turning-point for me. because if I had hurried out of the studio in order to use it as I had planned, Mr _Griffith might never have seen me., and I might have gone on acting on the stage all my life. I have that transfer carefully put away to this day. It is .one of the possessions I prize most of all.