A Wild Olive of Nitrate

A short follow-up to last week's post on The Wild Olive by Basil King:

Sold at auction four years ago by eMoviePoster.com (note watermark), above is the only poster I've ever seen for The Wild Olive. Should've bought it. The Canadian dollar was trading on par back then, and the winning bid wasn't so much as five Yankee sawbucks.

The Wild Olive was, as the adverts said, adapted from the celebrated novel of Basil King. It was released in 1915, becoming the first Hollywood feature to come from a novel by an Islander. The Inner Shrine (1917) and The Lifted Veil (1917), also adapted from King novels, rank second and third. Then came The Spreading Dawn (1917). It was inspired by a King short story, so doesn't really count. Meanwhile, L.M. Montgomery fans were still waiting to see Anne Shirley on the screen.

The Wild Olive was the sixty-fifth of director Oscar Apfel's 120 films... so, mid-career, right? Myrtle Stedman and Forrest Stanley star as heroine and hero. Myrtle Stedman was a silent film star, but I'm not sure I've ever seen her in anything. Stanley I recognize from a bit part in what is just about the best episode ever of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. This would be 1955's "Breakdown", in which he plays an accountant who is fired by Joseph Cotten. Total screen time: 42 seconds. Myrtle Stedman was long dead by then. The Wild Olive was made when both were enjoying career highs.

It also stars Mary Ruby and Edmund Lowe. I know the latter best as the adulterous Dr Wayne Talbot in Dinner at Eight.

Would that I knew Lowe from The Wild Olive, but as with all adaptations of King novels, the film is lost. All I've been able to see of Lowe's performance comes in this still from the July 1915 edition of Motion Picture News:

The most detailed description of what we're missing comes courtesy of T.C. Kennedy in the 3 July 1915 edition of Motography. I present it here in full, recognizing that it will serve as a spoiler anyone who has not read the novel:

The Oliver Morosco Photoplay Company, in association with Bosworth Inc., offers as its latest release on the Paramount program "The Wild Olive," an adaptation of the celebrated novel by Basil King. The choice of story and the co-starring of Myrtle Stedman and Forrest Stanley result in a picture of sterling quality and lasting attraction, and one which deserves to enjoy the popularity of the  book from which it is adapted.
     The plot concerns itself with the romance of a wealthy mountain girl who is willing to sacrifice her own happiness to clear the name of the man she loves. The rugged, imposing country of the Alleghany lumber regions adds a virility which makes for a strong and lasting appeal. The change of background from the rough lumber camps to the gay and cosmopolitan Argentine presents a contrast which is striking. Myrtle Stedman, seen as Miriam Strange, "The Wild Olive," and Forrest Stanley as Norrie Ford, interpret their parts splendidly, and are surrounded by a capable cast, in which are Mary Ruby as Evie Wayne; Charles Marriot as Judge Wayne; and Edmund Lowe as Charles Conquest.
     Norrie Ford, accused of murdering his uncle, is convicted on strong circumstantial evidence. He escapes from the deputies, and is offered a hiding place in the cabin studio of a mountain girl, who believes him innocent. There he hides until morning, and then starts for South America, bearing letters of introduction from the girl, who, in answer to his request for her name, tells him to call her "The Wild Olive."
     In the Argentine, Ford, aided by the letters, secures a position, and through his industry and integrity soon works his way to the top. As his letters to "The Wild Olive" are returned by the postal authorities, he gives up hope of ever seeing the girl to whom he owes his life. He becomes engaged to Evie Wayne, a New York girl, and the niece of the firm's senior partner. Evie returns to New York and her uncle transfers Ford to the managership of the New York office.
     Ford, on his return to New York, finds that Evie Wayne is the girl chum of Miriam Strange, "The Wild Olive." Miriam, who has waited for him, is heartbroken when she learns that he is engaged to Evie. But she remains true to her chum, and consents to marry Charles' Conquest, whom she had previously refused, on condition that he clear the innocent Ford of the murder charge which hangs over him. Evie learns that her fiance is charged with murdering his uncle, and breaks their engagement. Ford's disguise is penetrated and he is arrested, but the death bed confession of the actual murderer leads to his acquittal at his second trial. Conquest, realizing how greatly Miriam loves Ford, releases her from her promise, leaving her free to marry him.

What else is there to say?

Well, for one, The Wild Olive appears to have been quite faithful to the original. There are minor differences: the "lumber regions" of the novel are in Vermont, Miriam offers no letters of introduction, and Ford writes no letters himself. The greatest liberty seems to have been inspired by King's title. In the novel, no one calls our heroine "The Wild Olive" – least of all Miriam herself – rather Ford likens her to a wild olive "grafted into the olive of the orchard". That same issue of Motography features a dramatic still in which we see lumbermen helping Ford escape the law (something only hinted at in the novel).

Variety praised the film's opening scenes "in which there is some good natural scenery." I'll take the magazine at its word, though I gotta say this looks a bit awkward:

The Day (New London, CT), 8 July 1915

Anything else to say about something I've never seen?

I got nothing.

Silence.

Related Posts:

The Barefoot Fugitive and Other Mysteries

Basil King's Silent Unseen World
The Miracle Man on Paper and Nitrate Film

A Poem for Mother's Day from the Great War

Century-old verse by Miss Elspeth Honeyman, whose brothers served in the 29th Battalion (Vancouver). From Canadian Poems of the Great War, chosen and edited by John W. Garvin (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918).

MOTHERHOOD, 1916 

          The night comes down and the wind is chill,
               (Are both my boys asleep?)
          Daylight tinges the distant hill,
               (Why is it I cannot sleep?) 

          A passing lad and a whistled tune,
               (France is so far away!)
          Roses bloom and the month is June,
               (The heat is the worst, they say.) 

          The list was long in the morning's news,
               (They are so young to die!)
          Which strong heart will the bullet choose —
               Where will his body lie? 

          Boys go clattering down the street,
               (Which will come back to me?)
          I hear the tramp of the soldiers' feet,
               (Dear God, that such things be!) 

          What will they buy with the blood of men?
               (Hearts break, but they do not die.)
         Victory, Honour, — and War again?
               (Dead faces turned to the sky?)

The Barefoot Fugitive and Other Mysteries

The Wild Olive
[Basil King]
New York: Harper, 1910

Basil King wrote the bestselling novel of 1909.

Who knew?

Hardly anyone.

That novel, The Inner Shrine, was published anonymously. Its story of a woman's reputation sullied by the base claims of a cad captivated readers almost as much as the mystery of its authorship. Speculation centred on Henry James, Edith Wharton and the daughter of William Dean Howells as King kept to the shadows. When The Wild Olive appeared the following year it was credited only to "the author of 'The Inner Shrine'." I'll be damned if the new work didn't do nearly as well. In its summary of sales for 1910, Publishers Weekly placed The Wild Olive third, behind Florence L. Barclay's The Rosary and A Modern Chronicle by Winston Churchill.

There's no accounting for taste. The Wild Olive is far better than the Barclay and the Churchill; it's also better than The Inner Shrine. In fact, The Wild Olive is the best

Basil King book I've ever read. It begins in mystery: a barefoot man, a fugitive, scrambles through darkness in the Adirondack wilds. Coming upon a tasteful, well-appointed house, he walks through open doors to find Judge Wayne, the very man who had just hours before sentenced him to death.

A great coincidence, I know. There will be others.

The fugitive – name: Norrie Ford – only entered the house because he thought he'd heard a noise made by one of his pursuers. 'Twas in fact the light tread of a lithe young woman dressed in white. Silently, she beckons Ford back outside, then leads him in silence to a remote artist's studio somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Champlain. There he's left, hidden from the law, surrounded by sketches and watercolours depicting trappers, voyageurs, Indians and nuns. The woman in white reappears daily, bringing food, clothing and companionship of a sort.

The clothes she brings belonged to her deceased father, a Virginian who made a great deal of money in the northwest of Canada. "I was born on the shores of Hudson Bay," she tells Ford. "My mother was married to a French-Canadian voyageur." Not a suitable topic for polite dinner conversation, perhaps, but Ford's saviour is proud of her past. Her present, however, is off-limits; she won't reveal so much as her name.

This mysterious figure may be a bastard born, but Ford recognizes her as the most refined of women; something to do with having been raised in a Quebec City convent, no doubt. And yet she retains such inhibition, such a spirit of freedom:

In her eagerness to buy the domestic place she had not inherited she reminded him of something he had read or heard of the wild olive being grafted into the olive of the orchard.

Ford is keen to impress that he is innocent of the crime for which he was convicted – the murder of an uncle – but to this wild olive his words means nothing:

"He was very cruel to you – your uncle? – wasn't he?" she asked, at last.
     "He was very cantankerous; but that wouldn't be a reason for shooting him in his sleep – whatever I may have said when in a rage."
     "I should think it might be." He started. If it were not for the necessity of making no noise he would have laughed.
     "Are you so bloodthirsty – ?" he began.
     "Oh no, I'm not; but I should think it is what a man would do. My father wouldn't have submitted to it. I know he killed one man; and he may have killed two or three."

Just as her mother helped her father escape from prison, so too the wild olive aids Ford in alluding the authorities. After an untold

number of days – a couple of weeks, I'm guessing – she serves as guide through dense forest to the shores of Lake Champlain. There he's handed a plan of escape to Canada, complete with canoe, map, money, train schedule and a ticket for England on RMS Empress of Erin (read: Empress of Ireland).

And so, Norrie Ford is given a second chance at life as "Herbert Strange", the... er, unusual name recorded on the steamer ticket. In this effort to make something of himself, Ford follows the mystery woman's suggestion that he make for the Argentine. "I happen to know a lot about it," said she. "Everybody says it's the country of new opportunities."

Indeed, it is. On a whim – he recalls passing mention made by the wild olive – the newly christened Strange seeks employment with Stephens & Jarrott, an American firm with offices in Buenos Aires. Eight years pass. Strange rises through the ranks, becomes engaged to a Jarrott relation, is transferred to New York, and then attends a dinner party at which he is seated to the left of the wild olive. To her right is Judge Wayne.

What are the chances?

Not bad, actually. One expects coincidences in an Edwardian novel, and there are several here, but setting aside the first, none beggar belief. The mystery woman's casual reference to Stephens & Jarrott, a firm to which she has the thinnest of connections, set Ford on a course that would bring him back to her. It was all quite unintentional on her part, but there you are... rather there he is.

I won't say any more for fear of spoiling the plot – it's so remarkably clever – except to say that the final page came as a complete surprise. The Wild Olive doesn't end so much as trails off leaving so many mysteries intact. What sent the wild olive's father to prison? How did her mother get him out? What of her French-Canadian husband? How did Ford escape his jailers? For goodness sake, what happened to his shoes?

Bloomer:

"You can't realize what all this means to me. If we succeed – that is, if you succeed – I hardly dare to tell you of the extent to which I shall be grateful."
     He felt already some of the hero's magnanimity as to claiming his reward.
     "You needn't think about that," he smiled. "I sha'n't. If by making Evie happy I can serve you, I shall not ask for gratitude."
     She looked down at her muff and smoothed its fur, then glanced up swiftly. "No; but I shall want to give it."

Trivia I: The most sympathetic character in the novel is Judge Wayne, a good soul who recognizes and struggles with the injustice of the justice system. When first we encounter the man – during Norrie Ford's first night on the lam – we see that he is going blind. Because he is beyond the help of the best German oculists, "poor Wayne" has descended into darkness by the time he and Ford share the same dining table. Ah, but the judge's hearing has grown more acute, right? I spoil things in revealing that he recognizes Ford's voice. However, Wayne keeps the knowledge to himself, choosing not to turn Ford in because, of course, justice is blind.

King himself was going blind when he wrote this novel.   

Moving Picture World
July 1915

Trivia II: In 1915, The Wild Olive became the first of seven Basil King novels to be adapted to the screen. A lost film, one of the very few images known to have survived is the publicity shot above of silent film star Myrtle Stedman as the Wild Olive. In the novel, she has a dog named Micmac. Forgotten English actor Forrest Stanley plays Norrie Ford.

Object: An attractive 346-page hardcover with eight illustrated plates by Lucius Hitchcock (who also provided illustrations for The Inner Shrine). My copy, a first edition, was purchased last month at Ottawa's Patrick McGaherne Books. Price: US$20.

Access: The Prince Edward Island Public Library Service succeeds were all other public libraries fail. Twenty-seven of our academic libraries have it in their holdings. Curiously, a third are found in Alberta.

Loads of copies being offered online at prices ranging from US$5 to US$564. Ignorance and greed aside, there is no reason for the wide range. Anyone looking to invest in a copy is warned that the Harper edition went through numerous printings, and was followed by a cheaply produced Grosset & Dunlap reissue. Those considering the later are warned that it features only one of the eight plates.

Speaking of ignorance and greed, print on demand vultures have been all over The Wild Olive. This post gives me an excuse to share an absurd old cover (right) from defunct Tutis Classics.

Good news is found in the fact that The Wild Olive can be read and downloaded here at the Internet Archive. I must add that an excellent audiobook recording read by Simon Evers is available gratis here through Librivox. Recommended!

Related posts:

Not Very Occult
RMS Empress of Ireland: 100 Years

Read This. Don't Get It Wet.

The Fraser Institute

811 Dorchester St, Montreal, Quebec

Related post:

Pierre Trudeau's Letter to the Children of Troy

Small-town Boy Makes Good, Founds Small Town

Jean Rivard

Antoine Gérin-Lajoie [trans. Vida Bruce]

Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1977

280 pages

This review now appears, revised and rewritten, in my new book:

The Dusty Bookcase:

A Journey Through Canada's

Forgotten, Neglected, and Suppressed Writing

Available at the very best bookstores and through

Biblioasis, Amazon, Chapters/Indigo, and McNally-Robinson.

Related post:

About Those Ugly NCL Covers

'A Tribute to St. Mary's [sic], Ontario'

Dawn on the River Thames, St Marys, Ontario (detail)
Anyès Kadowaki Busby
2016

This month marks the eighth anniversary of our move from downtown Vancouver to the picturesque town of St Marys, Ontario. As a young Montrealer longing to live in Manhattan I would've been horrified. In my thirty-second year, when my wife and I moved west to Vancouver, I complained that the city was too small. And yet here we are, living in community that isn't an eighth the size of my alma mater.

I wouldn't have it any other way. The Montreal I love seems increasingly foreign. The city will always be my true home, but it's becoming difficult to negotiate. Visits, which aren't at all infrequent, find me frustrated in looking to dine at restaurants that no longer exist and shop in stores that have long since closed. Other old haunts have been remade, remodelled and propelled out of price range.

No complaints. Montreal is the greatest city in North America.

Manhattan?

What was I thinking?

That said, St Marys has a growing place in my heart. It's here we've made a home for ourselves – in a large Victorian Italianate, overlooking the Canadian Thames, dwarfed by the town's Presbyterian Church.

I'm not the first Quebecer to fall for this small town. In the nineteenth century, Megantic's foremost Son of Temperance, Archibald McKillop, recognized "beautiful St. Mary's [sic]" in his "A Tribute to St Mary's [sic], Ontario".

"Such scenery nowhere is / For many leagues around", writes the poet.

Now consider this: Archibald McKillop was blind.

Such is St Marys' beauty!

The poem in its entirety follows.

A TRIBUTE TO ST. MARY’S, ONTARIO

                           Where beautiful St. Mary’s
                                Lies nestling ’mongst the hills,
                           The pleasing prospect rare is,
                                Its grandeur me enthrills. 

                           From flow’ry gardens nigh me
                                The balmy breezes blow;
                           The classic Thames runs by me
                                With peaceful, gentle flow. 

                           What kindly, friendly greetings
                                Have cheered me on its shore;
                           And O! such temperance meetings
                                I’ve never seen before. 

                           Good Affleck, Pierce and Manning,
                                Carswell and Watson too,
                           With famous Ross were planning
                                What temperance men should do. 

                           (For here, in Grand Division,
                                The Sons of Temperance met,
                           To work for Prohibition,
                                The law that we must get.) 

                           Thou town of peerless beauty;
                                 Ye friends so kind to me;
                           It is my pleasant duty
                                 To sing this eulogy. 

                           Such scenery nowhere is
                                 For many leagues around;
                           And in this fair St. Mary’s
                                 Let peace and wealth abound.

Collected Verse
Archibald McKillop
Winnipeg: [n.p.], [c. 1913]

Related posts:

Local Poet!

Temperance Verse for New Year's Day

Gay on Sunday: The Temperance Poems

Tour de Force Reawakens!

Word comes from Canadian Notes & Queries headquarters that my column about Pierre Berton and Charles Templeton's Tour de Force trivia game is now available online. You can read it – gratis – here.

But wait, there's more! This evening at The Walton in Toronto comes the opportunity for the game's  aficionados to show their stuff.

My title as Tour de Force champion is for the taking.

A bow tie event.

Related post:

Passing Go With Canadian Notes & Queries