DARK.

VICTORY.

THE LIFE OF BETTE DAVIS.

ED SIKOV.

FOR CHRISTOPHER BRAM.

Players should be immortal, if their own wishes or ours could make them so; but they are not. They not only die like other people, but like other people they cease to be young, and are no longer themselves, even while living. . . . Their life is a voluntary dream; a studied madness. The height of their ambition is to be beside themselves.

-WILLIAM HAZLITT.

(English literary critic, 17781830).

She insisted that I see Hush . . . Hush, Sweet Charlotte with her. So she had a screening set up-it was just the two of us. I was really more interested in watching her than the movie, and it didn't take much to do that because she talked all the way through it. And she kept talking about herself in the third person. She kept saying, "Look at that dame up there on the screen! Isn't she great?" She would criticize and compliment her performance, always in the third person, as if it were some other actress performing. I have no explanation for the psychological underpinnings of people who talk about themselves in the third person, but it has a regal ring, doesn't it? "She's great, she's fabulous, oh look what she's doing now!" It's also kind of mad.

-MART CROWLEY.

(American playwright, 1935).

PROLOGUE.

A DARK, SQUARE-CUT MINK JACKET AND matching hat frames Bette Davis's face and neck, the fur lent an extra touch of sparkle by virtue of its glamorous silver tips. She is seated at a table at an elegant restaurant-a violin is playing in the distance-and she is angry. It's a seething, bitter anger, and so she is systematically getting drunk, having discovered in the previous scene two devastating pieces of information: she is dying, and, far worse, she has been lied to. She is talking to her two dinner companions, one of whom is her neurosurgeon and fiance, the other her best friend-it is they who are the liars-and while she's not slurring her words exactly, neither is she not; they're coming out as warm bursts of gin-scented mist.

Her friends, having arrived late enough to have missed the first few rounds of c.o.c.ktails, are growing anxious and urge her to order some food, and she promptly obliges by yanking a menu out of a visibly startled waiter's hand. Cut to a front-and-center medium shot. A martini gla.s.s sits prominently on a plate before her. The dark frosted fur surrounds her face. She looks righteous, dangerous, divine. And while the flat, white menu serves nominally as the focus of her gaze, it's clear that she's putting on a performance of reading it. Bette Davis and her character, the equally willful Judith Traherne, have each been mentally drafting and redrafting the delivery of one of the greatest lines of their joint lifetime, and as they look up together in perfect superimposition, they fire it with precise aim and flawless timing: "Well, I-I think I'll have a large order of prognosis negative!"

Bette's enormous eyes widen even further at the end of the sentence. She glares off to the right and draws in a sharp intake of breath as a mark of emotional punctuation.

The film is Dark Victory, the year 1939. The director is Edmund Goulding, and the two other actors are George Brent and Geraldine Fitzgerald.

But the scene, and the film, belong to Bette Davis in the supreme and certain way that the Vatican and all of its paintings and sculptures and ma.n.u.scripts and chapels and plazas belong absolutely to the Church. Davis's artistic possession of almost all of her films is just as incontrovertible (though the financial realm is precisely where the a.n.a.logy fails). Goulding made some decent pictures, Fitzgerald was a proficient actress, Brent kept working. . . but Bette Davis was, and remains, as singular and commanding a figure as world cinema has ever produced.

She was a trained actress but a purely self-styled one. And her style-the cinematic answer to the peaty pitch of a fine scotch or three, the smoke curls of cigarettes by the thousands, the effortless fashion in which a huge square-cut mink sits on her smallish shoulders, her peculiar way with breathing and vocal stresses-that style is what made Bette Davis.

She was magnificent and exasperating, luminous and bellicose in equal measure. Her longtime boss, Jack Warner, called her "an explosive little broad with a sharp left."1 Humphrey Bogart once remarked, "Unless you're very big she can knock you down."2 She was a force of nature, a blazing talent. She defined and sustained stardom for over half a century. She worked like a dog.

Pretty enough to be given the glamour treatment in her early twenties, she developed by middle age into weathered, thick-featured boniness graced by a slash of red lipstick. Later, when she was elderly, crippled by a stroke and weakened by breast cancer, she still compelled the world to look at her, just as she compelled herself to keep acting. Some stared, some cackled, and others no longer cared, but Bette Davis proudly remained a working actress until the day she died. Much more than family or friends or hobbies or, G.o.d forbid, idleness (as she would have snapped, "Oh, brother!"), acting was the only thing that really mattered in the end.

Her friend Ellen Hanley stated it simply: "Bette Davis was one of the major events of the twentieth century."3 Imitating her vocal delivery and broadest physical gestures is actually quite easy as long as getting your audience to recognize who you're imitating is your goal. You snap the words out between your teeth and swiftly bite them off while holding an imaginary cigarette between the index and middle fingers and cranking the hand around by your waist in an inexplicable circular gesture, as though you're spinning a small wheel or turning a dial made of air. For longer lines of dialogue, you lay stresses eccentrically throughout the sentences and take breaths at odd places, all the while continuing to wave the cigarette around. The biggest laughs come from leaving off the last syllable of any sentence you choose, pausing for half a beat, and then bleating it in too high a tone.

With a minimal amount of practice and a taste for camp you can pull some laughs out of some of the stories in this book. But mimicking Bette Davis without reverence is (to revive the metaphor) like staring at the Sistine Chapel without awe.

Hollywood in the 1930s is unthinkable without Mildred Rogers, Davis's scenery-chewing harridan in Of Human Bondage; Julie Marsden, the southern b.i.t.c.h of Jezebel; and her self-knowing, self-reliant Judith Traherne in Dark Victory. The 1940s are unimaginable without The Letter, in which she's a remorseless killer, and Now, Voyager, in which she's a growing, healing survivor. Her Margo Channing in All About Eve set the bar so high in 1950 that the rest of the decade was bound, for Davis at least, to be a letdown. By 1962, Bette, a working actress for thirty-four years, gladly turned herself onscreen into the crazy gargoyle known as Baby Jane Hudson in the ghastly masterpiece What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? With Baby Jane, the razor's edge that separates the tragic from the ludicrous is sharp enough to have cut a lesser actress to b.l.o.o.d.y ribbons. And all of it-all of it-was a battle.

Dark Victory is the story of Bette Davis's life as focused through her art. I write more about her films than about, say, her marriages because I care about them a great deal more and because they define her legacy in a way a series of failed husbands cannot. She had four of them, all of whom found her difficult, cantankerous, sniping, rude. p.r.o.ne to picking fights. Apt to drink too much. So did many of her directors and costars, screenwriters and producers. So did many of her friends. Davis is not an admirable, role-model heroine in Dark Victory except in terms of her thundering talent, which is, I think, what counts. That's why her victory was dark: with some unquantifiable degree of self-knowledge, she sacrificed her personal life for the sake of her work, and it hurt. She fought people. Belligerence was in her blood. Painting her as a vivifyingly independent woman who battled Hollywood men in the name of Cinema is fair only to the extent that she battled everything she encountered, from Hollywood producers to the tarnished bra.s.s doork.n.o.bs in her many houses. Only some of it was worth fighting, a fact even she appeared to realize at times. Davis was an angry woman for reasons n.o.body who knew her ever adequately explained to me and for reasons I still cannot fully understand.

You may grow to hate her. I did not. Because I love her performances-most of them, anyway. Even after three years of researching her life; watching her movies; interviewing people who knew her and worked with her; brooding darkly; thrashing through sporadic fits of writer's block and bitterly, exasperatedly blaming her for them; and slipping half-consciously and rather morbidly into several of her vices (though I never smoked), I remain entranced by her when she's onscreen. She had, more than any performer I have ever studied, a blazing ability to imprint herself onto every character she ever played-to make me believe in those fictive characters while never letting me forget that I was watching her, a calculating actress, an intuitive star. Bette Davis forces audiences to notice her as Bette Davis even when she is most deeply immersed in her roles. Always the Yankee, she wants us to appreciate how hard she's working.

It's not that she's unsubtle. Throughout her film career a simple but well-timed intake of breath is enough to take one's own breath away. The imitators get the drastic parts right in a clownish sort of way, but n.o.body can mimic her unique sense of restraint: Bette Davis's face in repose is as dramatic as her broadest gestures. Her most discreet facial expressions are among her most affecting. Think of the wry and knowing look on Margo Channing's face as Eve Harrington prepares to accept the Sarah Siddons Award in All About Eve; the shy fear in Charlotte Vale's ugly-duckling eyes in the beginning of Now, Voyager; the set of the jaw Leslie Crosbie effects in The Letter. Davis immobile and silent is as emotionally resonant as Davis in full throat and motion.

It's a cliche, but the cliche happens to be not only true but historically decisive: they don't make movie stars like Bette anymore. So it's difficult to gauge her influence on succeeding generations of actors other than to state the obvious: there would be no Meryl Streep or Charles Busch without Bette Davis. These are flamboyant performers who, like Davis, demand to be recognized and applauded as such, putting on characters and wearing them like the finest couture gowns, their audiences always knowing that at the end of the show the dresses will come off and be placed on hangers while the actors go home. The legacy Davis left to Streep and Busch-and Marlon Brando, for that matter-is this: never let anyone forget or deny that you, the emoting human with the colossal talent, are creating the art. Make them watch you act.

It's a showy style, but with Davis in particular it brought with it a corollary: if the part required the audience to hate her, then she made them hate her. Many actors claim to enjoy playing villains and thugs, b.i.t.c.hes and tramps, but few have ever equaled Davis's capacity to risk generating an audience's thoroughgoing contempt, let alone openly invite it. As talented as Meryl Streep is, one gets the sense that, deep down, she wants her characters to be loved a little-and that she herself requires the affection of millions of strangers. Bette Davis didn't give a G.o.dd.a.m.n. She dares us to hate her, and we often do. Which is why we love her.

A word of defiant advice to those who hope to grow fond of the people whose biographies they are reading in the same genial way they grow fond of their friends: by the end of this book you may well be disappointed with Bette Davis and angry with me. But Miss Davis taught me something. After all the boozing and the bristling, the struggling to get it right, I have to admit it: I don't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n either.

PART ONE.

EARLY.

SKIRMISHES.

CHAPTER.

1.

AN INFANT'S ALb.u.m.

SHE WAS A LIFELONG SAVER OF THINGS: clippings, thank-you notes, family snapshots, daybooks, opening-night telegrams, marketing lists, studio stills, scripts. Here is her baby book, carefully archived, the earliest private record of a most public life: An angular father holds a baby swathed in an immense, flowing blanket; Ruth Elizabeth Davis is four days old.

Her baby gifts are itemized in a florid, practically indecipherable Victorian hand. They include a blue rattle, a pink rattle, a hairbrush and comb, a diamond ring from (illegible), and a silver spoon. The book itself was a gift from the baby's nursemaid, a Mrs. Hall of Augusta, Maine.

April 6, 1908: on the day after she was born, Ruth Elizabeth weighed six pounds. At three months, eight pounds. At nine months, a diary entry notes, she was caught amusing herself by imitating her humorless father and laughing.

The baby began to crawl at fourteen months. At seventeen months she stood alone.1 There is a small grayish envelope glued to one of the alb.u.m's pages, and from it you can extract a lock of Ruth Elizabeth's baby hair. It's strawberry blonde, or, better, raspberry-more floridly pink than you would imagine, though it may have discolored, the result of age and longtime storage. From another box in the Bette Davis Collection at Boston University you can dig out, sniff, and even taste (if you dare) the stubbed-out cigarette b.u.t.t that some demented queen s.n.a.t.c.hed off the floor of the Lincoln Center garage on the night the Film Society presented Miss Davis with a lifetime achievement award in 1989, but that would be skipping ahead.2 Whether it's Ruth Elizabeth's precocious imitation of her father or a lipstick-stained cigarette b.u.t.t plucked from a garage floor and preserved in its own tiny Baggie, it is hard not to read what you already know about this woman into everything you discover about her. Take the snapshots her nanny affixed in the baby alb.u.m. Here's one of her dour father, Harlow, looking down his beaklike nose at the child as though he was examining a zoological specimen of minor but still appreciable importance. Of course, you say; she had lifelong trouble with men, four failed marriages, various affairs, an insatiable rage . . . it must have started here. But does a distant daddy fully explain an affair with the nutty Howard Hughes? More important, what does any of this have to do with her fiery talent?

Here's another shot of father and daughter taken at Ocean Park on October 1, 1909, the day Ruth Elizabeth-called Betty-took her first step. Given Harlow Davis's reportedly icy nature, the photo seems out of character-too relaxed and full of everyday familiarity. Father and daughter look comfortable with each other; that can't be right. But you cannot deny the camera's ability to record a split second's worth of emotional honesty. Ruth Elizabeth's difficult, severe father may indeed have loved her, however momentarily. The key is that she herself demanded that the world think that he hadn't.

Scattered throughout the sc.r.a.pbooks and photo alb.u.ms in the archive are photos of the mother, Ruthie. They show a proper if plain young woman with eyes set slightly widely apart, a gently dimpled chin, and a rather flat but appealing face.3 Ruthie, the driving, indulgent force behind the superstar. Ruthie, who may have been the one who originally preserved these volumes of clippings and reviews and photographs and keepsakes until they hired a service to take over when the publicity onslaught began in the early 1930s. n.o.body, not even the adoring Ruthie Davis, could ever have kept up with press coverage of that magnitude, let alone the magpie preservation of diaries, snapshots, telegrams, and other a.s.sorted ephemera.

In her fine autobiography, The Lonely Life, Davis characterizes Ruthie as the artistic one, her father as the intellectual. Ruthie was flight, pa.s.sion, theatrics, decorating. Harlow was all focus and a.n.a.lysis, as clear and precise as a magnifying gla.s.s. He had a stinging temper, too, in a way that Ruthie did not. When Harlow took a good-natured faceful of rice moments after his wedding, he wheeled around to the well-wishers and roared, "G.o.dd.a.m.n you! I'll get you for this!"4 He could not forgive his wife for her s.e.x, either. Harlow Morrell Davis married Ruth Favor on July 1, 1907.5 Three days later, the newlyweds were lodging at Squirrel Island, Maine, where a water shortage kept Ruthie from douching after a bit of honeymoon intercourse. Harlow flew off the handle at this female breach of a gentleman's trust and, according to Ruthie, brought the whole hotel into his intimate uproar.6Betty Davis was born nine months and one day later in Lowell, Ma.s.sachusetts.

In her unpublished memoirs, Ruthie recalls the "lovely April shower" that "heralded" Betty's birth on April 5, 1908.7 Davis, in The Lonely Life, turns it into a Homeric squall: "The G.o.ds were going mad and the earth was holding its head in a panic. . . . I happened between a clap of thunder and a streak of lightning. It almost hit the house and destroyed a tree out front. As a child I fancied that the Finger of G.o.d was directing the attention of the world at me. Further and divine proof-from the stump of that tree-that one should never point."8 Appalled at the baby she bore, at least at first, Ruthie said, "Is that what I've got? Take it away! It's horrible!"9 She changed her mind later, though she maintained a vigilant criticism lest Ruth Elizabeth ever commit the sin of resting on her laurels. No matter what Ruth Elizabeth's achievements and fame, her mother taught her that she could always do better.

Harlow was not cut out for fatherhood, a fact that should have been clear from the start. He was cut out for dissecting infants, not nurturing them. Nevertheless, as Ruthie described it, "Bette's sister Barbara came along eighteen months later to keep Bette from being spoiled."10 If that was indeed the rationale for bearing a second child, it didn't work.

With Barbara, called Bobby, it was all about Betty from the start. Bobby was in her crib when Betty, according to Ruthie, waited until Bobby's nurse was out of the room. She then removed Bobby from the crib Betty considered her own, trundled her across the room, and deposited the usurper on the couch in an act of reclamation and revenge.11 Betty was driven in a way Bobby never was, an innate trait that her parents reinforced with firm Yankee expectations. Their soil was rocky, their winters were harsh; for generations they had been brutalized into enduring. Betty's grandfather once bullied her into climbing a flight of stairs. Betty faced him from the bottom. She was barely able to walk. "Come on, climb!" he commanded from the top. "You can do it. One step at a time." According to Davis, she made it, bruised but triumphant.12 It was the first of many painful successes.

There were strict rules in the Davis household, as there generally were in the New England families from which the Davises and Favors descended. Harlow Davis was a man who believed that children ought not to dine at table until they could conduct a worthy conversation, so Ruth Elizabeth and Barbara were exiled to the kitchen or nursery. Father's rule didn't apply on Sundays, but he often banished them in tears anyway after they committed some infant infraction or other.13 Of the sisters, Ruthie remembered, "they were always close. Bette once cut off Barbara's hair, but on the whole they lived amicably together."14 "Now she isn't going to be pretty," Ruthie heard Betty declare moments after the shearing. "She isn't going to be pretty any more."15 Throughout her life, everybody liked Bobby. Most felt sorry for her.

A sc.r.a.pbook photo has both girls stripped to nothing but bandanas tied around their very blonde hair, sitting on a blanket on a hot summer's day.16 Another poses them with Harlow: the girls are wearing large Mother Gooselike bonnets and sitting on his lap. Betty engages the camera, caught in a half smile, seemingly about to remark upon something of importance. Bobby sports a determined pout. Harlow is sour beyond words, staring glumly at the camera with an admonishing expression on his face. Wire-rimmed gla.s.ses perch slightly down on his nose. There's a high, bony, recognizable forehead on a longer, thinner face. Why he feels such a powerful urge to reprimand remains unclear.17 Harlow graduated from the Harvard Law School in 1910. Obsessive-compulsive before the condition had been diagnosed, he found his calling as a meticulous patent attorney with the United Shoe Machinery Company of Boston.18 In The Lonely Life and elsewhere, Davis describes him using words like brilliant, cruel, and sarcastic. She tells a story so frigidly exact in its rendering of her father's logic that you immediately see and understand her psychological profile as well as his. She was enchanted by a clear summer nighttime sky, as any romantic, unstunted child would be. "Do you see all those stars up there?" the father asked his little girl. "There are millions and millions of them. Remember that always and you'll know how unimportant you are."19 Still, the portrait Bette Davis draws of her father is complicated by one most unexpected detail: "Christmas should have exacted a loud 'bah humbug' from Harlow M. Davis," Davis writes, but "it was Daddy's favorite holiday." The sour, distant father decorated their Christmas tree every year. Then he played Santa.20 He could be generous with money and special-occasion cheer, if not his affections, of which he had few, though the exception to that rule took the form of his brutal dog, a chow, which terrified Bette with its constant snapping.

Harlow's menacing presence to the contrary notwithstanding, Davis maintained that her childhood-spent mostly in Winchester, Ma.s.sachusetts, a suburb of Boston about ten miles to the northwest-was essentially happy. (Never dwell on adversity; a Yankee creed. One with true strength of character should barely acknowledge it.) Her thanks went entirely to Ruthie.21 She cited the wedding Ruthie threw for her sister Mildred, complete with j.a.panese lanterns dangling from the yard's trees. She recalled sliding with Bobby down the snow-covered hill behind the house, swinging on the swings by the kitchen door, baking pies with her cheery mother in the kitchen.22 But she also remembered running dreamlike through the woods while being chased by a pack of dogs. One of them caught her hair in its teeth until she broke free.23 Was Bette Davis really chased by wild dogs as a child? Or was she having a clear premonition of her career in the movie business?

BARBARA STANWYCK ONCE said of Davis that "she had the kind of creative ruthlessness that made her success inevitable." It's a marvelous turn of phrase, suggesting that it was her fierce drive that was creative rather than the other way around.24 Ruth Elizabeth Davis mastered the fine art of emotional manipulation at an early age. It comes naturally to children, but particularly so to nascent performers. "If I could never win my father, I completely conquered Ruthie. I became an absolute despot at the age of two." She sensed her mother's weakness and exploited it: "The tantrum got me what I wanted. My demands were frightening and unusual." Indulgence was Ruthie's favored response. Still, little Ruth Elizabeth was Harlow's daughter, too: "My pa.s.sion for order and perfection were unheard of in a child so young. An untied lace on a shoe, a wrinkle on a dress, drove me into a fury."25 Harlow escorted the girls to the circus one afternoon. Betty, once she noticed it, could not shake away her itchlike awareness that the long carpet runner on which the animals made their entrances was ruined by a crooked seam. It wasn't just a crooked seam to Betty but a fatal, ceaselessly distracting flaw that threatened to take the whole world down into chaos with it.26 Even as a child, Davis was an odd combination: part hysteric, part obsessive-compulsive, a blend seen as well in some of her most dedicated fans.

Harlow menaced, Ruthie pandered. Bobby, aiming to please, attempted to win Harlow's love by conforming to his expectations, an impossible task for a five-year-old, and a strategy that almost certainly led to her lifelong battle with mental illness. Betty's goal was to steer clear of him on a practical level, though emotionally she never got over the longing-for love, approval, stability, and male control, which of course she also felt compelled to reject, dismiss, ignore, or mock.27 When Betty was seven, Ruthie packed their things for a trip to Florida. On their way to the train station, they stopped at the Copley Plaza in Boston. A string orchestra played. Harlow was unusually gentle. Ruthie didn't talk much. Betty was surprised to see her father kiss her mother farewell.

Harlow did not accompany them onto the train. When they arrived in Florida, Ruthie announced that when they returned North they would no longer be living with Daddy. Bobby cried. Betty was relieved and announced, "Now we can go on a picnic and have a baby."28 It's not that this Yankee child had no idea about the facts of life that's striking; one a.s.sumes she had no such knowledge. No, it's her guileless lack of innocence-that and the joyous sense of a harsh world opening up to its fullest creative potential. Life without Father had become a luscious rose blooming unexpectedly from a bush full of thorns.

After returning from Florida, Ruthie and the girls left Winchester for Newton, another Boston suburb, this one to the west of the city, where the previously impractical mother learned that Harlow's support payments would not be enough to live on. She had to go to work. Grandmother Favor not only made the choice of boarding school for the girls after seeing an ad in the Atlantic Monthly but went ahead and enrolled them without telling Ruthie: Crestalban, a farm school in the Berkshires that operated without the benefit of electricity. (The word Yankee does not begin to describe the spartan ethos of this school. Crestalban girls took naked snow baths every winter morning and stayed outside most of the day.29 In the New England mind, this was thought to build character.) Ruthie moved to New York City and became a governess for three Upper East Side boys.30 In one of the sc.r.a.pbooks, two photos of little girls dressed as winged wood sprites in a school play ill.u.s.trate Crestalban's rustic theme.31 This might have been Betty Davis's first theatrical performance.

For each of the three years she spent at Crestalban, Betty played Santa Claus in the Christmas pageant. The third year she caught fire. Lacking any twentieth-century source of power, the Crestalban Christmas tree was lighted, of course, by candles. Betty, dressed in red flannel that was pillowed out by a lot of cotton wadding, disobeyed the order not to get near the tree, and her sleeve, then her beard, snagged the flames. Quick-thinking teachers wrapped her in a blanket and put the fire out, but something else ignited: despite her blistering skin, Betty Davis was seized with the dramatic impulse and, for the sake of the effect, kept her eyes closed when they took the blanket away from her face. "I heard one of the teachers wail, 'She's blind! Oh G.o.d, she's blind!' I didn't know whether I was blind or not. But I do remember feeling with thrills and chills of morbid pleasure that this was my moment, my big dramatic moment. And I deliberately kept my eyes tight closed and groped helplessly about with my hands until the full savor of that moment was extracted."32 Betty Davis's first starring role came to a hasty end when Margery Whiting, the headmistress, insisted that the burned child simply buck up. At Crestalban, it was the better part of puritanical valor not to spoil everyone else's Christmas party by moaning in agony.33 Ruthie failed to recognize Betty when she arrived at Grand Central Station for the holiday break, because her face was covered in blisters. An intern at the hospital to which Ruthie sped insisted that the only way to prevent lifelong facial scarring was to keep Betty's skin greased and bandaged round the clock for several weeks.34 There's a sc.r.a.pbook photo showing Betty wearing what appears to be a wimple. This was the dramatic effect that the ever inventive Ruthie created by merging acres of facial bandages with a large white bow.35 In the 1930s, Margery Whiting, asked about her by-then-famous former pupil, was far too much a New Englander to gush. The crusty lady remembered Ruth Elizabeth Davis as having performed in school plays "capably," but her acting was "not inspired." Miss Whiting characterized the eleven-year-old Betty as much more self-conscious than the other girls, and, said the headmistress, her high-pitched and squeaky voice did not help matters at all. On the plus side from Miss Whiting's perspective was the child's sharp memory and, it might go without saying, young Betty Davis's extraordinary drive.36 Belief in herself above all others was the central tenet of Davis's lifelong faith, and her mother was the first votary. But in the fall of 1921, Ruthie decided to do something for herself rather than for her headstrong daughter and her younger sister, the afterthought. She pulled the girls out of Crestalban and used what would have been their tuition money for her own: she enrolled herself in the Clarence White School of Photography in New York City. The girls' transition was harsh-from the Berkshires to a tacky apartment on Broadway and 144th Street, from a tiny rustic farm school to P.S. 186 with fifty children in every cla.s.s.37 Ruthie, intent on making something out of nothing, taught the girls how to entertain themselves by spying on neighbors-a sort of Rear Window game, free urban entertainment.38 By December the girls were happily sledding down a hill toward the Hudson, adjusted to life in the city.39 And Ruthie, seeing a future for herself in commercial art, was learning the intricacies of lighting, shading, composition, and chemical developing. The pictures she took before her formal training already demonstrated a natural flair, but with training Ruthie could do more than simply be a visual artist. She could support her family as one.

In New York, Ruth Elizabeth Davis became a Girl Scout. Vehemently. As you would expect, she rose rapidly to the rank of patrol leader and commanded her girls like a drill sergeant. There was a contest-a compet.i.tive dress parade for Mrs. Herbert Hoover at Madison Square Garden-and Ruth Elizabeth's patrol necessarily won. When she entered a citywide cooking contest sponsored by the Board of Education, naturally she earned first prize.40 Nothing else would do.

A home economics notebook survives in the archives.

Betty Davis, PS 186.

530 West 144th St.

13 1/2 years old

5' 2.5"

97 pounds. What I should weigh: 107 pounds.

How to keep ourselves and others strong:

1. Keep body clean inside and outside.

2. Eat the right kind of food.

3. Exercise regularly in the open air.

4. Care of teeth, etc.

The notebook also contains recipes for cream soups and chocolate pudding as well as instructions on the proper care of babies.41 Ruthie had a friend in New York, the improbably named Myrtis Genthner. Myrtis Genthner was reading a French novel at one point and casually suggested to Ruth Elizabeth that she change the spelling of her nickname, and with that, Betty turned into Bette. "The fact that M. Balzac's Lisbeth Fischer was a horror didn't come to my attention until I read the book some time later," Miss Davis observed. Bette wrote a letter to her father soon thereafter and employed the new spelling when she signed her name. Harlow mocked the change, of course, and by dismissing it, he hammered it into permanence.42 Of course.

The novelist and critic Brigid Brophy remarked of Bette Davis's rechristening, "Perhaps the change of name has as much ritualistic significance in the psychology of a star as in that of a dictator-or of a nun taking the veil."43 Betty is everyday, Bette eccentric. Betty is a homey dessert. Bette is resplendent, all but unique. With the change to Bette, an even more dramatic persona began to emerge.

THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, Ruthie sent the girls to Camp Mudjekeewis in Fryeburg, Maine, close to the New Hampshire border, for the first of three summers. It was considered a wholesome dose of brisk northern air-swimming, hiking, canoeing. The camp, named for Hiawatha's father, was operated by the Misses Perkins and Pride. The latter, a piano teacher from East Orange, New Jersey, was so impressed by Bobby Davis's native talent as a pianist that she convinced Ruthie to move to New Jersey at the end of the summer so that Bobby could continue her lessons. 44 For once excited by her younger daughter's talent, Ruthie moved them all into an East Orange boardinghouse.

Bette, shocked at finding herself out of the spotlight, made a point of being bored and obnoxious. Bobby was getting the attention she believed was owed solely to her, and she resented it.

Ruthie was, as she herself described it, "petrified" of Bette. Bossy and unmanageable in East Orange, Bette took everything out on her mother. The slightest suggestion-what to wear, how to behave-provoked piercing, theatrical glares. Bette held Ruthie's nervous giggle in severe condescension, and she let Ruthie know it. Even the doting Ruthie grew exasperated to the point that she suggested a new game one day: she and Bette would exchange clothes and personalities for the evening. Bette was mildly entertained until the accuracy of Ruthie's performance struck her. She had to admit that the glum sulks and furious scowls were hers. Ruthie was especially shrewd in that she played this game out in front of the other boarders at the communal dining table, which only added to Bette's shameful self-recognition: Bette learned that the way she presented herself to the world was at least as important as how she actually felt.45 According to Bette, her behavior improved somewhat, but she remained essentially miserable in New Jersey. So Ruthie placated her. Mother terminated Bobby's piano lessons with Miss Pride, and they moved again-this time to the Boston suburb of Newton, where Ruthie's sister Mildred lived.

There was another reason for the move: Ruthie had to quit her job at Pierie MacDonald's photography studio in Manhattan because she developed osteomyelitis of the jaw, an incapacitatingly painful bone inflammation, and she needed her sister's help in caring for the children.46 Bette neglects to mention this detail in The Lonely Life. How odd that Davis chose to represent herself as selfish and manipulative instead of legitimately citing her mother's illness as the rationale for their move back to Ma.s.sachusetts.

The soundstage is set. One of the sisters went crazy from time to time. The other became an actress.

BETTE'S FIRST SCHOOL dance at Newton High School: a disaster. Clad in a corduroy jumper and having given no thought to her hair, shoes, or dancing ability, she was not the ball's belle. One boy danced with her for mercy's sake but soon began gesturing frantically to the other boys in an effort to convince one of them to cut in. n.o.body did; Bette thought perhaps the boy was spastic. When she figured it out, she rushed home in tears. For the next dance, Ruthie came to the rescue with a new white chiffon dress with turquoise trim and a daringly low neckline. Bette was fourteen at the time. When she put her hair up, she realized-to her horror, she later claimed-that she was pretty.

The young Bette Davis was a prude and remained so until she got to Hollywood and saw how much fun other people were having and finally decided to join in. She attributed this straitlaced self-denial to her family's strict Protestant nature, which her parents had inherited from their parents, and back through the generations. When a boy first kissed her, she became convinced that she was pregnant.47 After all, she descended, she claimed, from a Pilgrim, James Davis, who accused a fellow member of his community of witchcraft. (The Favors, on the other hand, were originally Huguenots-French Protestants who, unlike the Puritan Pilgrims, left room for the arts. Still, there was a strong strain of righteousness on the Favor side. Bette's great-great-grandmother's tombstone reads "Bearing the White Lily of an Unsullied Life.") In the fall of 1924, Ruthie uprooted the girls once more by putting them in boarding school again. Stability was not a feature of Bette Davis's upbringing, which led to an unresolvable ambivalence: a powerful longing to settle and an equally strong compulsion to move.

This time Ruthie chose the Northfield Seminary for Young Ladies, which had the dual benefit of being the only fully integrated private school around and also cheap.48 Bette and Bobby both hated the seminary's overly religious nature, and having gotten used to public school, they resented the amount of time they spent on housekeeping (never a problem at Crestalban). The food, too, was awful. At the end of the first semester Ruthie yanked them once more. They adjourned to Uncle Myron's for Christmas, and after the holidays, Ruthie packed them off to Cushing Academy in Ashburnham. It was the school Ruthie herself had attended.49 Cushing Academy was, and remains, a cla.s.sic New England preparatory school, having none of the eccentricity of Crestalban, none of the racial integration of Northfield, and certainly none of a public school's working cla.s.s. One day early on at Cushing, Bette was called in by the headmaster's wife, who began extolling Ruthie's self-sacrificial virtues to a perplexed Bette, who at first comprehended the woman's praise of her mother as a reflection of her own fine nature. "And she is blessed in having a lovely and generous daughter," the woman continued, only to add an unexpected stinger at the end: "I think it would be splendid if you would help her with your expenses by waiting on table." Bette was mortified: "My face burned with indignation but, fortunately, I held my tongue, for instantly I realized that mother would not permit me to demean myself by becoming a waitress." She wrote to Ruthie with the news, fully expecting to receive the kind of self-martyred mothering response to which Bette had grown accustomed. But Ruthie, evidently tired and struggling, was for once willing to share the burden: "That's very sweet of you," she wrote. "Go ahead."

Bette was, as she later described herself, "humiliated and admittedly belligerent" when she reported to the dining room. She was hardly an experienced server in any sense of the word, and the first few days were h.e.l.l. It was never easy for Bette Davis to be brought down a peg or two, but after the bruises healed, such experiences came to serve as self-defining life lessons, parables for the less fortunate. In this case, Bette smugly became less of a sn.o.b.50 Bette Davis's day at Cushing Academy, 192526: Rising bell at 7:00 a.m., breakfast at 7:30. Chapel at 8:30, though attendance may not have been required. English IV at 8:50, Latin IV at 9:45, Math IV at 10:30. After lunch: Ancient History at 1:15, at 2:00 French III, and, on Fridays, Bible II at 2:50.51 On June 12, 1926, Bette Davis appeared onstage at the Cowell Chapel in the play The Charm School, presented by Cushing's senior cla.s.s in conjunction with the Drama Club. Bette played the part of Elise, the president of the senior cla.s.s at a school much like Cushing. Harmon O. "Ham" Nelson's Syncopators provided the music.52 From the Cushing Academy Breeze, June 1926: One of the fairest girls we know

Is Bette Davis-"Ham" says so.