Amazon.com: September Song: An Intimate Biography of Walter Huston (9780810834088): John Weld: Books

Book Description

ISBN-10: 0810834081 | ISBN-13: 978-0810834088 | Publication Date: March 19, 1998

Walter Huston once advised aspiring actors that, becoming an actor is a long and wearying task. Not only must you steel yourself against disappointments, you must bear abuse, unemployment, and hunger. His words were spoken from experiences which are detailed for the first time ever in this personal biography.

#outer_postBodyPS { display: none; } #psGradient { display: none; } #psPlaceHolder { display: none; } #psExpand { display: none; } Walter Huston once advised aspiring actors that, becoming an actor is a long and wearying task. Not only must you steel yourself against disappointments, you must bear abuse, unemployment, and hunger. His words were spoken from experiences which are detailed for the first time ever in this personal biography.

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About the Author

John Weld, a member of the Authors Guild since 1930, resides in Laguna Hills, California.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

From Introduction: I, John Weld, was a reporter on the Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune in 1928, and working whenever possible on a novel about a movie stunt man. Entertaining visiting firemen was one of the minor annoyances for Americans living in Paris. Hardly a week passed during the tourist season that someone didn't come to see me with a letter of introduction from relatives, friends, or casual acquaintances. Sometimes the letter writer was little known to me. "Going to Paris? Look up old John. He'll show you the town." Speed Denlinger, a friend of mine on the New York World-Telegram, sent me one such visitor. Her name was Rhea Gore Huston. Rhea had been working for the New York Graphic, a yellow sheet, and had come to Paris to try and get another newspaper job. I took her to my favorite restaurant on the rue Jacob for Chateaubriand and a bottle of Cote du Rhone rouge. While we ate, she talked incessantly about her son, John, and his father, an actor named Walter Huston, of whom I had never heard. She told me how she and Walter had met in 1904 in St. Louis, where she was a theatrical reporter and he was performing in The Sign of the Cross. "I watched the show," she said, "and when I went backstage to interview the star, I ran into this handsome young man. I didn't remember having seen him on the stage and asked if he was in the show. He said he was that he played the old Christian, the fellow with the whiskers who carries the staff. I couldn't believe it. I said, 'You mean that old man was you?' "We went to an ice cream parlor. I told him I wanted to write plays and he was very encouraging. After that, while the show was in town, we saw each other almost every day. We went to the World's Fair, we roller-skated, bicycled, visited penny arcades, and had our fortunes told. The gypsy told me I was going to marry a rich man and have five children and become famous. Well, I married Walter, who wasn't rich, and we only had one child, John. I never became famous but Walter did." "Are you still married to him?" I asked. "No. We were divorced long ago."

I met Lacy Kastner, European head of United Artists, when Charles Chaplin came to Paris to promote his film City Lights in 1931. I interviewed Chaplin and wrote some nice things about him and his film. That evening, Lacy and his wife, Priscilla, invited me to a dinner party at their house in Neuilly. Through them I met a number of notables, most of whom were in the film world. One was Nan Sunderland. She was tall, about five feet eight, had auburn hair, and her nose and cheeks were sprinkled with freckles. She was about ten years older than I. After we had shaken hands, I said, "Priscilla tells me you're an actress. What kind?" "Of the theatre," she said, smiling. "What are you doing in Paris?" "On my last lap of a trip around the world." "Alone?" "Perforce. I'm engaged to be married, but the gentleman involved is getting a divorce and doesn't want me around until it's settled. He and his wife were in vaudeville together and, now that he's become successful in the movies, she doesn't want to let him go. If she knew I was waiting in the wings, she'd demand more money." "What's the gentleman's name?" "Walter Huston." "That's a coincidence," I said. "I'd never heard of him until his ex-wife brought me a letter of introduction. Her name is Rhea Gore Huston." "That's the first one. She's the mother of their son, John. It's his second wife he's divorcing, Bayonne Whipple. They had a very successful vaudeville act." "Rhea bored me to death talking about their son. Do you know him?" "Yes. We've met." "Is he a genius?" "I wouldn't say so. He's different, can be charming." It was a pleasant evening. As always at the Kastners', the food was delicious, the conversation was upper talk, and the wines superb. When the other guests had left, Lacy asked me if I would escort Nan back to her hotel. "It's on the rue Jacob, near San Germain des Pres. That's on your way home." "I'll consider it a privilege," I said. Lacy whispered, "Don't forget she's engaged to be married." He summoned a taxi. Soon after we were under way, Nan, to my utter surprise, turned my face with her hands and kissed me on the lips. "There," she said. "That's for taking me home." I was nonplused, aroused and emboldened. "One kiss deserves another," I said, and we kissed more fervently this time. "How long are you going to be here?" "I really don't know. I'll be signaled when the coast is clear." "Well, while you're here, you don't want to be by yourself. You'll need an escort. I hereby apply for the job." "I'll love it," she said. She laughed nervously and took my hand in both of hers. "We'll just be friends," she said, "have fun together, share expenses. We mustn't forget that I'm going to be married." "I'll do my best," I said, "but it's not going to be easy." And it wasn't. Passion kept popping up, testing our moral strengths. Wine weakened us too. Some mornings we were together for an hour or two, and we spent all our evenings together. We were here, there, and everywhere, all the while concentratedly trying to keep our relationship platonic. But there was a fervent, intoxicating magnetism between us that proved to be such a powerful force it would have been a small miracle if we had not succumbed to blissful conjugation. Our brief affair cast no dishonor on Nan. She had made no promise to be chaste. We simply enjoyed a rare and delightful opportunity to indulge in a fling without hurting anyone. We never discussed it. We were healthy, sophisticated adults and keenly aware that we had but a short time to be together.

Nan enhanced my life. She was a delightful companion. While I worked she went to the Alliance Fran caise to learn French; when I was free we touched the bases and high spots. I did not get much serious work done at the Herald, but I continued to work on the stunt man book and almost had it finished. I had titled it Men Are April When They Woo from Shakespeare's As You Like It. I realized I was playing second fiddle and that the performance time was short, so I did a lot of wooing. We visited art galleries, went to theatres and one- and two-star restaurants, sat on cafe terraces, and watched the world go by. Nan was interested in the literary scene. I introduced her to Ford Madox Ford, Ludwig Lewisohn, and Elliott Paul. Eugene O'Neill came to town from his place at Cap d'Antibes, and we had lunch with him. I took her to Shakespeare & Company, the becoming-famous bookstore on the rue de L'Odeon. Sylvia Beach, its proprietor, served us tea and told how she had come to publish James Joyce's Ulysses. Priscilla and Lacy Kastner invited Nan and me to lunch with them in a restaurant outside of Paris and picked us up in a large chauffeur-driven limousine. With them were Gordon and Mary Ellen Pollock. Gordon, classically handsome with curly white hair and vivid blue eyes, was Chaplin's outstanding cinematographer. It was a beautiful day, and we were all in a good mood. We sang as we rode along: "The Marseillaise," "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," "The Dutch Company."

The restaurant was a remodeled ancient mill. Restoration had turned it into a luxurious haven. We were seated at a table under a huge elm at the fork of two brooks. Before lunch was served, Nan and I got into a rowboat and floated down the stream's main artery, sipping aperitifs. I saw the Pollocks several times in Paris and later, when I returned to Hollywood, they introduced me to Gigi Parrish, whom I subsequently married. After that luncheon, Nan left Paris to visit some rich friends in London. When she returned, I arranged to meet her at the Deux Magots after I got through working. One evening when I joined her she handed me a telegram: COAST IS CLEAR. COME HOME. LOVE AND HURRY. WALTER. "Congratulations," I said. "I know that makes you happy. When do you leave?" "Day after tomorrow," she said. "I've been scurrying around all day trying to make arrangements for Marseilles and sail Thursday to New York on the President Garfield. Then it's off to California on the train." A garcon came up. "We'll have to celebrate," I said and ordered two gin martinis. "We still have one day and it's my day off. If you can spare the time from packing, let's make the most of it. Let's go out into the country, to Fontainebleau." "I'd like that. I can have a last look at sunshine and brook."

When the drinks came, we clinked glasses on my toast: "To the end of one romance and the beginning of another," I said. The next morning we took the train to Fontainebleau and rented bicycles near the railroad station to pedal our way to Barbizon, the art colony, some twenty kilometers away. We were not sure of the route, and there were no signs on the road. Twice we stopped at farmhouses to get directions. It was one of those rare poetic days, with a clear sky and the air warm but without humidity. It was the kind of day that lifts the spirits and quickens the heart. We rolled along laughing and singing, enjoying every minute of the last act of this delightful romance that seemed as though it could go on this way forever. I felt like a doomed man enjoying his last meal, savoring every bit of caviar, lobster, and truffles. We seemed to get to Barbizon awfully fast. It was a sleepy, picturesque hamlet with one main street. We visited Millet's studio with its windows covered with cotton curtains, left just as it had been when he died. We looked at the fields where he had painted The Angelus, The Sower, and The Gleaners. We visited Theodore Rousseau's house as well. On that street was the small hotel where Robert Louis Stevenson had written Road Notes. After coffee and eau-de-vie, we started back to Fontainebleau. Our waitress had told us about a shorter route which, to our delight, led through a dense forest of magnificent trees, the leaves of which obscured the sky. Under our feet was a soft carpet of moss. By that time we were sleepy, so we paused there. We lay on the moss and listened to the musical breezes in the trees. Words seemed obtrusive, the silence sacrosanct. We lay on our backs, Nan's head was on my shoulder. "Farewell, farewell," I said, quoting from an old poem, "is a lonely sound that always brings a sigh." Then I added a touch of Byron: "I only know we did not love in vain." "Nothing is lost," Nan said. "You said you believe that all sounds of all ages are out there somewhere, in the heavens." "That's right, and as long as we are alive we'll have the memories." That evening we dined with the Kastners. I took Nan back to her hotel early so that she could finish the last-minute packing and get a good night's rest. Early the next morning I went with her to the depot. Everything had been said. It was a relief to both of us when the whistle sounded the train's departure. We hugged clumsily and kissed briefly, lovers no longer. Suddenly, like the closing of a book, she belonged to someone else. "God speed," I said. "But this is not the end of our friendship," she said. "You'll be coming to Hollywood. You're going to sell your book to the movies." "You sound like an oracle," I said. "I hope you're right." "Ask your mother," she said. "She's the fortune-teller." Nan was a prophet. A few days later I received a letter from Jean Wick, my literary agent, who informed me that publisher Robert M. McBride had accepted my novel. An advance royalty check for $300 accompanied the letter. Jean had also gotten me a screenwriter's job with Columbia Pictures. By the time I got to Hollywood, Nan and Walter were married. She introduced me to him, and he and I became close friends. So close, in fact, that I lived with him and Nan for several years. I was to learn that Walter Huston was one of the most respected actors of his generation. He also headed a motion picture dynasty. His son, John, became a highly successful writer-director and his granddaughter, Angelica, an outstanding actress. While living with the Hustons, Walter told me his story and I wrote it all down. This is it.