***************************************************************************** * T A Y L O R O L O G Y * * A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor * * * * Issue 91 -- July 2000 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu * * TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed * ***************************************************************************** CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE: Marguerite Clark ***************************************************************************** What is TAYLOROLOGY? TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life; (b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it for accuracy. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Marguerite Clark Most of William Desmond Taylor's film directing was done for Famous-Players Lasky (Paramount). That company's two top female stars at that time were Mary Pickford and Marguerite Clark. Although Taylor never directed Marguerite Clark, her popularity and prominence in the silent film industry merits this collection of reprinted contemporary interviews. (Another interview with Marguerite Clark was reprinted in TAYLOROLOGY 63.) * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * March 1916 George Vaux Bacon PHOTOPLAY Little Miss Practicality Who is she? How old is she? What color are her eyes? What color is her hair? Is she married? Is she engaged? Where was she born? Was she ever on the stage? Does she prefer the movies or the stage? Is she the daughter of a theatrical family? Sheaves and bundles of letters have been written asking these and a thousand other questions till the stress of them caused the Editor to dip the editorial quill grandly in the official blue ink and demand that there should be written an official and accurate account answering questioners once and for all. It was a roasting hot day in early September, and I found her in her pink and white dressing room on the studio floor of the big Famous Players' studio building on West Twenty-Sixth Street, New York (which burned to the ground the day after I was there), making-up preparatory to taking automobile and going forth through the city for some exteriors to be made part of that most charming of love stories, "Molly Make-Believe." We shook hands, did Margaret Clark and I, for we are old friends, since I spent an evening trying to interview her in her dressing room at the Booth Theatre a year or so ago, when she was playing the title role in that most wistfully beautiful little play, "Prunella." I sat on a divan, and she took her place before her big mirror and went to work with grease paint and things while we talked. Of our talk, first of all, here are the facts answering the questions that so many have asked: Marguerite Clark is what is termed in the theatre as professionally an "actress and vocalist." That is to say, she is a singer as well as an actress. She was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, on the Twenty-second of February, 1887, so she is twenty-eight years old, has the same birthday as George Washington, and is American to her heart's core. She went to school at Brown County Convent in Ohio, and made her first stage appearance in Baltimore in 1899 under the direction of Milton Aborn, the operatic manager. She was engaged next at the Casino Theatre in New York as an understudy for "The Belle of Bohemia." This was followed by an engagement in 1901 in "The Burgomaster," and at the Herald Square in October, 1901, in "The New Yorkers." In 1902 she was engaged by De Wolf Hopper to play Polly in "Mr. Pickwick," and in 1903 made her first pronounced personal success in "Babes in Toyland" at the Crystal Gardens. After that, she played with De Wolfe Hopper again in "Wang" and in "Happyland." Her favorite part is that of Peter Pan in the play by Barrie of that name, in which she toured the country. She was the original Zoie in "Baby Mine" which was her first starring part, under the management of the Shuberts, and which was a tremendous success. Since that time, she has played Shakespeare Jarvis in "The Lights o' London," and the title roles in "Merely Mary Ann" and "Baby Doll," not to mention "Snow White," "The Affairs of Anatole," and the aforementioned "Prunella," which was one of the most exquisitely beautiful little plays ever produced in New York, and which firmly established her reputation as an artist and that of its producer, Winthrop Ames, as a master of beautiful stage craft. Following her engagement in "Prunella," Miss Clark was engaged by the Famous Players, with whom she is at the present time, and for whom she has appeared in a number of elaborate and successful productions, such as "The Little Sister of Jose," "Gretna Green," and "Seven Sisters." Let me wind up this dictionary of biographical data by adding that her eyes are brown, her hair is a reddish brown--almost titian--, she is not married, has no idea of being married, and swears that she was never engaged to be married in her life. She is not a member of a theatrical family. She and her sister were left in reduced circumstances by the sudden death of their father after a disastrous financial reverse, and Marguerite went on the stage to recoup the family fortunes, doing so with decided and overwhelming success. All this information, I assure you, Dear Reader, I educed from the winsome, whimsome little lady only by an exhibition of tact and diplomacy unequaled by any diplomatists abroad or at home living today. If Sir Edward Grey, or our old pal von Bernstorff could have heard me, I would undoubtedly now be a minister plenipotentiary somewhere, for Miss Clark hates and loathes and despises, above all things in the wide, green, sea-encircled world, to be interviewed. Moreover, she says so. "Why," said she, "should I tell about myself? Isn't it true that the less of a mystery one is, the less interesting one becomes?" "In the case of some young ladies, it may be admitted without scruple that that is true," I answered cryptically, watching her deftly bead her eyebrows with a dainty little brush; "but not in your case." She raised her eyebrows at the mirror. (I could see their reflection.) "Indeed. And why not in my case?" she demanded. I permitted myself the ghost of a sigh. "You," I said, if I may be allowed to be so crude as to utter the truth baldly, have charm. The essence of charm is its infinite variety. One never wearies of variety." "But one may be killed by it," she remarked, still looking into the mirror and working with the eyelash brush. "Yes," I admitted. "Antony was killed by Cleopatra's: but what man does not envy Antony! Can one ever know enough about Cleopatra? Impossible. Like all fascinating women, the essence of her fascination was a mystery even to herself; no amount of stuff so banal as facts could ever detract one iota from it. Charm is that soul of all that is beautiful; facts are the everyday wares of political individuals, professors, bar-tending persons and others who have no imagination--not to mention lawyers, who, I feel sure, are especially accursed by an All-Wise God." She laughed. "Facts are tiresome and ridiculous to some, I know," she said primly, "but you know I am very matter-of-fact. Oh, quite matter of fact. I know I don't look it; but I am. I am working simply and solely to earn my bread and butter, and my ambition is to find a good play. Do you know of one? No. It is a pity. I shall remain in the pictures until I find one. You see how matter of fact I am. I confess that I really much prefer the stage to the pictures. I know that I am not supposed to say so; but I do. After all, one loves to be able to talk." "Dear little star," said I, "of course. There are only two kinds of people in the world. Those who talk well and those who do not." "Ah," she went on, "I know that pantomime is really a wonderful thing. There is a tremendous amount of art in it: but I confess that the stage and the lights and the people, and the fine, sonorous phrases written by a master for me to speak fittingly have a fascination that I cannot forget. I will never be able to forget it: but one must live. I work in the pictures and I give the best that I can. That is my duty to the people who come to see my work." She smiled faintly and wound a brown curl around her finger--did little Miss "Molly Make-Believe." "You are certainly a little Miss Practicality, that's what you are," said I, from the depths of a soul of crystalline bromidity. "I am practical," said she, "but it's because I've had to be ever since I was a little child. When my sister and I were left, both pretty young, with just a little money in the bank by the death of our father, we decided that we would not touch our capital, but would start out to make some more money so that we would always have a little to add to it. That was how I came to go upon the stage, and we have our first little capital to this day!" "You women are all thrifty," I murmured. "Would that there were more of it in me, amongst men, at least." "Well," she replied, "with men it is different. When a man goes 'broke' he can nearly always borrow some money from a friend, or get a small luncheon with a glass of beer for a nickel; but with a girl it is different. No man can realize what a terrible thing it is for a girl to be without any money. She is far more cruelly at the mercy of the world than any man is. I tell you, it is very necessary for a young woman to be practical." I thought that over and agreed with her. It is true. Money means so much to a girl! After all, about all that money gives us men is something to eat, a bed to sleep in, some amusement and clean linen; but money for a woman means a thousand luxuries that are more vital to her comfort and enjoyment of life than any of our masculine necessities. "And love?" I murmured. "What of that?" "Oh," said she, "after you have called me practical, it is hardly fair for you to ask me about such an impractical thing as love, is it?" "Well, it is one of those fascinatingly experience-promoting ailments that even the most practical are very apt to have." "Yes, that is true but it is unfortunate that the heart has no mind. I was just thinking of a woman who is a particularly dear friend of mine, and who is very clever, yet when she becomes devoted to anyone, seems to become at the same time utterly devoid of common sense. She has been made a fool of twice, the last time only recently, and the strange part of it is, each time in exactly the same way. One man said he loved her and promised to marry her, and she trusted in him, till he finally just disappeared; then, not six months afterwards, another man came long and did exactly the same thing! Love is not for the practical." "Never having been in love," I replied, "of course I cannot say definitely; but from what I have read of it in books--" "Not half of it has ever been printed," she answered. "Which you deduce from what you also have read in books?" I suggested Machiavellianly. She turned around and looked at me with that charming little ghost of a smile. "Yes," she said, "Mr. Questioner, I speak from a knowledge that I gained from a book." "Yes," I agreed, "one learns so much from books--sometimes!" We both laughed. "Were you ever in love--really?" she asked point blank. This was a startler. She was adopting Napoleonic tactics--interviewing the interviewer. "How can you ask such a question?" I replied. "Have I not said that all my knowledge of such things I got from books." "Ha ha," she laughed. "I know another man who used to say that, and I found that his affairs were second only to those of the justly renowned Anatole." "Well then," I confessed, "I will admit that the talk about books is only an attempt at an alibi. I have been in love--many times. My heart is always broken. That's the way the sunshine gets in." "A very philosophical way of looking at it," said she; "but personally, I have no desire to have MY heart broken. I have always taken good care not to leave it around or lose it, and so far it has never even been cracked. I think it is worth clinging to. Why, I should think one would be unable to work, or think, or anything when one is miserably broken-hearted." "You are right--according to the books," I agreed. "Oh the silly books! I wish you would forget them!" She stamped her foot. "--By the way, speaking of books, have you ever read 'Molly Make- Believe?'" "It's the story about the young man who was lonely, and of his sweetheart who never could find time to write him a letter to cheer him in his loneliness, isn't it?" "Yes." "Isn't it strange? There are people like that." "Yes. Yes; yet one would think that the little acts of kindness which cost nothing and which can be done so easily, would never be neglected, particularly by people who really feel that they love each other; but I believe that most of the unhappiness in the world comes from the neglect, not of great things, but just of those little things. It is the little things that count, after all. It is the smile, the little word of graciousness, the small courtesy here and there, the mite of thoughtfulness that show one what another really thinks. Many of those little things are unconscious, which make them all the more to the point. If one doesn't like a person, one naturally does things that show it, and if one does like a person, one cannot help showing it, unconsciously as well as consciously. There is something deeper than the mere surface in that matter of liking and disliking, too." Miss Clark finished her makeup and swung around in her chair, leaning her chin on the back of it. "Don't you often find--or don't you always find, rather--that when you meet people, you either like them or not, without any particular reason, and that that first opinion never changes? I believe that that is at the bottom of the reason why it seems so impossible to do away with things like war. People just naturally like or dislike one another, and nothing seems able to change it. "I know that I cannot help loving some people, and others, whom I know I ought to like, I just can't. Do you feel that way?" "Frequently," I admitted, thinking of a bill collector who is really a nice fellow and of whom under ordinary circumstances I might have made a pal. "It is a wonder to me that you were never married," said I. "Well, I am not," she answered. "Nor engaged?" "No." She abruptly turned and began brushing her curls. Then in came a large man with a suntanned face. "Are you ready, Miss Clark?" he added. "Yes." "Very well, the machine is waiting." And I went downstairs with the whole company, all made up and ready for a day's work under the broiling sun. Down in front of the studio, in the sunny street, Miss Clark skipped into the big motor car where the others were waiting for her and waved her hand. "Good bye," she called, "I hope you don't read too many books!" And away they all went, leaving me alone on the curbstone. Oh yes, there is one other thing I forgot. Miss Clark has a small automobile, dislikes driving fast in it, and bought it one afternoon on the spur of the moment. She is also fond of bright colors, and (like myself) loathes steel engravings. All in all, she is just a charming, fascinatingly pretty girl, whose charm is such a strange, wayward, elusively and delightfully feminine thing, that it can no more be set down in words than one can paint humming birds with a sign-painter's brush. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * January 1918 Edward S. O'Reilly PHOTOPLAY "She Says to Me, Says She--" "The last time I was talking to Marguerite Clark, she says to me, says she,--" Yes it is true. Why I should be the fortunate one to be selected by the gods, is past understanding, but it happened. After searching the dictionaries and Poet's Own Guide for words to describe her winsome sweetness, I have despaired. Miss Marguerite in person is like Miss Clark on the screen, only she really talks. You who have seen her pictures know that there is nothing more to be said. It all happened because an editor had a bright idea. "Tex," said he, speaking casually, "I have a job for you." "Fine," said I. "What is it?" But I had misgivings. "You are to interview Marguerite Clark." He said it just as calmly as if he was talking about interviewing an ordinary queen or princess. I flatly refused. "Why pick on me," I argued. "In the first place I don't know anything about the pictures, and in the second place the writer who could do that subject justice would have to know more words than Shakespeare. In the third place I simply won't do it in the first place." But Editor Simon Legree insisted and threw out a hint about stopping my pay checks. Now there is a peculiar trait in my character. Whenever the boss stops the checks I always refuse to work. I've always been that way. So just to avoid a misunderstanding I agreed to tackle the job. "I am tired of doing all the thinking for you writers," said Editor Simon. "You must do it yourself." Then for fifteen minutes he told me how to do it. "Find out something about her home life. Does she live with her mother? Can she cook and does she, and can she sew?" Without any effort I could think of about a thousand things I would rather do than interview Miss Marguerite. For a long time I have worshipped her from afar, and it seemed kind of sacrilegious to bust right in and ask her if she could cook. At last the fatal summons came and I reported in a new necktie to Randolph Bartlett, who was supposed to fix things. He escorted me to the Paramount office. A man from the office, who seemed to know all about Marguerite, came with us, and we hiked for the studio. Three seconds after we entered I was seized by four husky persons and thrown into the street. It seems that I was smoking a cigarette, which is against the constitution and by-laws of the studio. This act of hospitality made me suffer with satisfaction. It was an excuse to escape, but the man from the office brushed me off and hauled me back into the studio. I have been in several battles and free-for-all riots, and once attended a peace meeting, but never in my life have I been in the midst of such a unanimous pandemonium. In one corner a gang of rough necks was throwing an Englishman out of an office, forty-seven carpenters were pounding and sawing and a gang of I. W. W.'s were running madly around trying to wreck the place. Emulating Bartlett I began to hop, skip and jump, hither and yon, trying to dodge the enemy. He succeeded fairly well but I was wounded several times. One outspoken individual with a yellow shirt yelled,-- "Hey, you big longhorn, get out of the set." Now I never met that fellow before in my life, so how did he know me. Anyway the joke was on him, because I wasn't setting at all but was leaping hither and thither. All at once I happened to glance down, and there She was, right under my left elbow. Dazed, I heard the man from the office intoning an introduction. Then I realized that Miss Clark was actually going to shake hands with me. I stuck my hand down, and she caught it, and I held her hand, and she smiled and I grinned, and she held my hand, and-- I have that hand yet. I will carry it with me to the grave. After the first shock I knew that I must say something. So I mumbled something about the editor and his plots. "But you know I have never consented to an interview," said Miss Clark. There it was. With my usual skill I had said exactly the wrong thing at the right moment. I was about to mumble and apology and dive for the door when Bartlett came to the rescue and took me gently by the hand. That man is a wonder. He talks just as easy, and every once and awhile says something pat and to the point. In a moment I found myself seated as one corner of a triangle, while he was talking fluently and well, apparently without any embarrassment. The man from the office had given me quite a large collection of information on our way to the studio. One of the things he had told me was that Miss Clark was playing in one of a series of pictures called "The Sub- Deb." I had thought it was a war picture and that Miss Clark went down in a submarine or something. Fortunately I did not speak and betray my ignorance. After we were in the studio it was easy to see the story was about a riot in the subway. For a few minutes after Miss Clark had shaken hands with me I was in a trance. When I recovered my poise she was talking, and I listened. "The reason I never consent to an interview about the pictures is because I really have nothing new to say," she was saying. "People who know the subject have dealt with the question so much better than I could. Now what I think about the pictures is that there should be more out of door scenes. "Directors lately seem partial to elaborate indoor sets. There is nothing in an indoor set that cannot be done as well or better on the stage. A photoplay is not handicapped by stage limitations. It has a field all its own and should exploit that field. "Take my picture 'Wildflower' for instance. It was a light little story but the setting was enchanting. Beautiful out door scenery. That picture is still popular." After listening to what she had to say I don't see why Miss Clark should refuse to talk about pictures. Then I heard Mr. Bartlett talking about "The Amazons," one of Miss Marguerite's latest pictures. He was remarking how delightfully at ease she appeared in boy's clothes. I would never have had the nerve to say that. "Well, you see I am rather accustomed to them," she replied. "On the stage I played several parts that demanded boy's clothes, 'Peter Pan' for instance. So it was really not a new experience." The man from the office had mentioned, nine or ten times, the fact that Miss Clark had recently purchased a $100,000 Liberty Bond. In the stress of listening I had forgotten the bond, but Bartlett remembered, and mentioned it. She admitted that she had gone on the government's bond to the extent of the sum mentioned. By this time I thought that it was up to me to horn in on this conversation some place, so I said-- "Where did you get the money?" "Why, my admirers think I earned it," she answered naively. There it was again. It isn't possible that a greater admirer of hers lives today, than myself, yet I had not thought of that. Deciding that conversation was not my forte I subsided and let Bartlett do it. For some time I had noticed a quiet little gray haired lady wandering about the studio, talking to the directors and occasionally making a note on a sheet of paper. "That is my sister," confided Miss Marguerite, waving her hand. "She is the official family spanker and makes me behave. We live together." That started it, and we learned some interesting facts about her home life. It seems that Marguerite is a serious minded person who loves her home and has little time or inclination for play. "My work at the studio requires so much of my time that there are really few hours left for social life," she said. "We live very quietly, my sister and I. Usually I spend my evenings reading. When I get a little vacation there is always something to be attended to--the dentist or the dress maker. Sometimes I run out to Chicago and visit my relatives. Of late I am trying to do some serious reading. The old classics I neglected in school days. I have no time for the lighter modern fiction. The magazines for instance." This last remark pleased me very much. I wish the editor could have heard it. Thought of the editor reminded me of my duties. He wanted certain information and I was there to get it. "Do you cook?" I asked. "No," she said. So that was one point settled. "Do you sew?" I persisted. "Sometimes, but I am afraid I am a failure," she confided. "Lately I have been doing some war work. Tried rolling bandages, but after several hours' work I only finished two. I tried to make them too neat. So now I am knitting socks for the soldiers." Sherman was wrong. Speaking of soldiers reminded me of a little story and I told it. General Pancho Villa is a photoplay fan. At the time he captured Mexico City he attended the theatre frequently to see the pictures. One night Miss Clark's picture, "The Seven Sisters," was shown. Villa, the boss of the bandits was highly delighted and extravagant in his praise of Marguerite's beauty. "What did he say about me?" she queried. There I was up against it again. If I told her the truth I would be thrown out, for Pancho ever was an untutored savage. So I told a polite little lie, hiding my embarrassment behind my hat. I hate to lie, and the only reason I do it is because of force of habit. Miss Clark talked on a little while and I gleaned some more facts. She has two homes; a flat in Manhattan and a country place in Westchester County. She likes the country home best, and rides a horse and raises flowers. My impression of Miss Clark, formed by viewing her pictures, was that she was a happy hearted little elf smiling her way through the sour old world. She is all of that and something more. She is a serious minded little person intent on doing her work well. Even the directors say that she is less trouble than anyone in the cast, and obeys orders like a little soldier. For the last few minutes of our conversation a discontented looking man had been hovering in the background. For some reason I took a dislike to him. He proved that my hunch was right when he interrupted to say that the time was up, and Miss Clark had to get on the job of Sub-Debbing. "I wish you would take a look at this here set," he says. Some of these things the actors say about the directors may be right after all. So we shook hands again--that makes twice. The last I saw of her she was standing, tip-toed, on a chair peeping through the range finder of a big field gun of a camera. Then I was led out into the open air. As I was towed down the street I was babbling superlatives of little Bab the Sub-Deb. That editor is not such a bad fellow after all. So that is why I haunt the theatres where Marguerite Clark's pictures are being shown. When I catch a friend I impale him against the wall with my finger, throw out my chest and begin,-- "The last time I was talking to Marguerite Clark, she says to me, says she--" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * October 1919 Maude Cheatham MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC When Marguerite Says Good-bye! "Happiness is the most important thing in a woman's life," announced Mrs. Harry P. Williams, as she slipped forward in her chair and vainly endeavored to touch the floor with the tip of her tiny pump. I agreed. Happiness is always an interesting subject, and Mrs. Williams being our dear little favorite, Marguerite Clark, I felt that her ideas on her new- found joy would be especially so. "A woman may win success and even a certain amount of fame," she continued, "but, after all, this means very little and the fullness of her life is best found in a happy marriage. You see, I have thought this all over many times, for I waited quite a while before I married. It seemed to me there were so many unfortunate marriages--one seldom hears of the happy ones--that I felt it safer to drift along as I was than to take the big chance. Though I wasn't particularly happy, neither was I miserable, as were so many whom I knew whose dream castles had fallen. "I had known Mr. Williams for ten years, but we had seen very little of each other, for he was either at his home in Louisiana or abroad, and we were just good friends. Then, suddenly, in the face of the war and while awaiting his orders to go across, we discovered it was more than friendship. "We became engaged in May and were quietly married in August. We had to meet the same problem that had come to so many, but there was never a question in my mind that the only thing to do was to be married at once." As she talked I watched this radiant little creature whose life has become one pean of happiness and knew that she had never given another role the charm and sweetness with which she was endowing this new one of--wife! She is so tiny, so girlish, that I would not have been the least surprised had she raced across the room for her doll instead of talking in this wise, grown-up way about love and marriage and happiness. "Mr. Williams was mustered out soon after the armistice was signed," went on Miss Clark. "You know, he never got across, which broke his heart, but oh, dear, away down deep in mine I was glad that we were spared the parting; though I had planned how brave and fine I would be. "After eighteen months in service, he felt he could take a rest, and he is giving this year to me. Every time I go on location or take even a little trip, some one suggests that it is another honeymoon. That suits me perfectly, for I hope to go on having them the remainder of my life. Last week we went up to Pine Crest and, as I am unaccustomed to mountain roads, I was terribly frightened. Oh, I NEVER could have endured it if Harry had not been driving. Then, we finally arrived safely, I commenced to worry about the return trip, so you can see what a lovely time I had--frightened all the way up and worried all the way down!" Homes have become almost a fad with Marguerite Clark, for she has always insisted on taking an apartment or a house wherever her work called her instead of living in hotels. Mischievously she tells that in the eight months they have been married they have had four houses, which she thinks is doing pretty well. The home of Mr. and Mrs. Williams during their stay in Los Angeles was ready for them on their arrival from New York, and in fact, an hour after reaching the city they were breakfasting at their own table. It is a most attractive house and, while the interior arrangement is elaborate and very beautiful, it has also a homey atmosphere which is very satisfying. It wins you very quickly. Leading down several steps from the library is a lovely palmroom, with French windows opening into the garden, and here a roomy swing with many pillows, a table piled high with magazines and books, gave evidence of it being a favorite nook. It was here that Miss Clark and I were having our little chat, and she told me, with housewifely pride, that each morning before going to the studio she personally interviews the servants, plans for the day, thus keeping in close touch with the domestic affairs. She is passionately fond of flowers, and there was a profusion of gorgeous blossoms all about the house, while her own pink boudoir was a bower of pink and lavender sweet peas. "In November," said Miss Clark, "my present contract ends, and we will go to New Orleans for the winter." "And then?" I questioned. "Then," she repeated, "I do not know what I shall do. I'm not planning. Probably I'll make a picture or two each year, but I shall never make the regular number again." "Will it be hard to give up your career?" I asked. "Not in the least," gaily answered the little star. "Oh, of course, it is fine to know you can stand alone and can amount to something worth while by your own efforts, but really, I have always been quiet and domestic in my tastes, and then I love New Orleans and the Southern people, and I could be very happy just being Harry's wife and living quietly in Louisiana." "Then we may never have another 'Snow White' or 'Seven Swans' to take us back to our childhood, or an adorable 'Prunella' or a gay little sub-deb?" I mourned. "Oh," she cried, joyously, "you liked the fairy tales, too? I LOVED them myself and have been so sorry that the public didn't want more. They were so beautiful, it was like living in Fairyland to make them. I've always liked the comedy roles, too, and had such fun with Topsy." And we both laughed at the memory of her roguish "Imp of Satan." Just at this instant Mr. Williams came in. While she fluttered about him, he beamed upon her, and I had a glimpse of a bit of earthly heaven, for happiness is surely abiding with them. "Every one hasn't a perfect husband, as I have," laughed the little wife, from the arm of his chair. "Are they rare?" teased the husband. "There is only ONE!" demurely answered Miss Clark. He is indeed a charming, likable chap, truly Southern in manner and speech. "When Harry drops his g's," said Marguerite, "it is delightful, but when I drop mine, it is just illiterate, for, you, see I'm only Southern--by marriage!" And she gaily tossed him a rose. Mr. Williams is a great baseball fan and never misses a game. Down in Patterson, La., where the Williams family have their extensive lumber interests, he has a team of his own, and he has discovered several of his former players shining with the coast league. Miss Clark frequently accompanies her husband, and she declares that she much prefers a game with lots of runs, plenty of fielding, bases full, exciting double plays, with a few costly errors thrown in, to one of those errorless scientific pitchers' battles that delights the real fan. "Anyway," she remarked, "women always deal in personalities, and even in a ball game they immediately select their favorite players and then root vigorously for that team." I soon discovered that husband does not enjoy sharing his wife with motion pictures and, in fact, he is not very enthusiastic about pictures anyway. He has never been the least of a fan and has seen only a few of Miss Clark's films. In speaking of her future plans, Mr. Williams said: "Of course, I wish Marguerite to do as she pleases, and I realize that it may be hard for her to break away from her professional work. She will probably make a picture or two each year, but I confess that I shall not be sorry when she gives it up entirely." Later we visited Miss Clark's bungalow dressing-room next to the studio, that had been leased and redecorated, most artistically, for her coming, and she is as pleased as a child with this cunning playhouse. "It is just like having a merry little picnic," chirped Miss Clark, as she skipped about in her widow's costume, which she wears in her new picture, "Widow by Proxy." "Shows that it isn't the size of the star that makes the play," she laughed, as we recalled that it was May Irwin who had played the stage version to success. Even a little chat soon convinces one that the sweetness and simplicity of Marguerite Clark herself and her acting comes from her love of all that is beautiful, and just her association with motion pictures has proven a most beneficial influence which will leave its stamp in the memory of countless fans for many years to come. She is delightful, with her whimsicalities, and we are always sure she will give vent to dainty fancies and imaginations, and those little touches of sweet femininity which have so endeared her to an adoring public. Let us hope that she will continue to give us the "picture or two" each year, for we really cannot spare Marguerite Clark from the screen. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * April 1921 Alice Hall PICTUREGOER Marguerite Make-Believe Night in New Orleans! Starlight and the flare of myriad coloured lanterns--the thrumming of guitars and the sound of gay and silvery laughter--a handful of confetti and a glance from a pair of gleaming hazel eyes--Mardi Gras, with its crowds of masked revellers--and, was it, could it be, Prunella? I wondered the next day, as I sat opposite Marguerite Clark at a cosy little table in the old-world French restaurant, hidden away in an almost- forgotten courtyard where the long shadows lingered lovingly on the quaintly trimmed box trees, whether she had indeed been my Prunella of the night before. She was bubbling over with delight and enjoyment as she told me about the wonderful time she was having, of the dances and parties her husband's friends were giving in her honour, and how, increasingly as the days went by, she was growing to love the old South. "I was so homesick," she said, "when I was in New York for the early part of the winter, making my last picture. And once I thought I could never be happy away from the hustle and noise! But down here, all the romance and beauty of our grandmothers' days seem to be imprisoned, and life is taken at one's leisure, instead of being rushed through with no thought save for success and efficiency." Marguerite had ordered our lunch. "I know all these strange, foreign dishes," she said; "some of them are delightful, but others you might not like. New Orleans is almost a bit of another country, isn't it? One entirely forgets, sometimes, that one is in America. I agreed, as I glanced around the low-ceilinged room in which we had met. The red-tiled floor, the casement windows, the old polished brass and pewter, the brightly-coloured tablecloths, even the golden butter in the little earthenware jars--they were all reminiscent of those little wayside inns where hospitality is brought to a fine art, and where even the simplest food is savoured with friendliness. "I love these quaint places," said Marguerite. "Of course, one has to go to the big hotels sometimes, but when I can choose for myself, I always want to come somewhere like this. I simply hate being grand!" There is something so essentially child-like about Marguerite Clark that, as one watches her expressive face, one immediately thinks of her as the girl who will never grow up. She seems to have discovered the secret of perpetual youth; and with it, moreover, to have combined the grace and charm which the wisdom of experience alone can bring. I soon found that, as she had said, there was nothing "grand" about her, and by the time the quiet, solicitous old waiter had complied with her requests, Marguerite was talking to me as if we had been friends for years. "I think I was the sort of child who lives in a dream-world all her own," she told me. "I believed in fairies until I was an almost impossible age, and in one way I believe in them still. With my mother and father both dead when I was eleven, and with only a very dear elder sister to care for me, I knew the meaning of sorrow at a much earlier age than most girls do. Three years I had of real school life, at a Convent in my home State of Ohio (yes, I'm a Middle-Westerner), and then came the beginning of my professional career. "I suppose every girl who plays in amateur theatricals dreams of the night when the all-omnipotent manager from the great city will be a guest at the important function. In my land of make-believe this had happened over and over again; but one evening the dream came true, and when I was acting in a little charity affair, I heard it whispered that Milton Aborn had seen and had approved of my performance. "And with Mr. Aborn I made my first real stage appearance one night in Baltimore, Maryland, when the South brought me good luck, as it has always done," said Marguerite, with a gay little smile. "And then," I went on, "came your successes in musical comedy in New York. I remember you so well in 'The Beauty Spot' and in 'The King of Cadonia.'" "Oh, what ages ago it seems!" and the little dark-haired girl sighed and looked at me with a half-amused, half-sad expression in her beautiful eyes. "But I was not to find my destiny in musical comedy, as you know; instead, I went into an all-star cast for 'Jim the Penman.' Then I created the role of Zoie in 'Baby Mine,' and after that came my play, 'Prunella.' Here, I think, was the parting of the ways for me, for it was a photograph of mine in the title role which came to Adolph Zukor's notice, and which led him finally to offer me a starring role upon the screen." Who of Marguerite Clark's many admirers does not remember her first venture upon the silver sheet? In this picture, an adaptation of the stage play, 'Wildflower,' she immediately reached the hearts of thousands of picturegoers, and with her fresh, blossoming loveliness, her impetuous, natural and utterly unspoiled girlishness, made a place for herself in the realms of shadowland which is still peculiarly and exclusively her own. Wherein, exactly, does the charm of Marguerite Clark lie? I watched her, as leaving the topic of her early screen work for the moment, we discussed things theatrical and social, past and present, of New York, the ever-changing and always fascinating. She is, as you who see her upon the screen already know, small and dainty, less than five feet in height. Her hair, of a soft, rich brown, lies in its silken waviness upon clear white brows, while her large hazel eyes, set rather wide apart, carry in their depths an appealing candour, a trustfulness which refuses to be denied. Beautiful features, too, has Marguerite Clark, with that every-present gleam of youth stamped in some intangible fashion across her personality. I did not think she looked older, as we sat in the changing lights of the quaint old courtyard--and yet--there was something different, perhaps, from the playful girl I had known two or three years ago. A hint of added graciousness, an intensified charm of manner--unconscious, but speaking of the life of the leisured Southern woman of wealth, position and culture, the life with Fortune, the Fairy Godmother, seems to have chosen that Marguerite shall lead. "Tell me something about your romance and marriage," I said, as we lingered over our coffee. "They have meant a good deal in your career, I know." "Sometimes I think they have ended my career! But that's not meant to sound unhappy, you know, for in some of my moods I should be glad to give up my film work. Still, after having drunk so deeply at the fountain of ambition all these years, it is difficult to abandon all one's own plans for the future--and, please, let me warn you, don't ask me what these same plans are, for, honestly, I don't know!" Marguerite's was a war wedding, and her courtship a whirlwind one. But she and her husband were old friends long before 1918--the year that saw their marriage--drew to its fateful close. Young Palmerson Williams had known the fascinating, elf-like little creature in the days when he had been a boy at prep school, making ready for his years of study at Yale. He was the son of a wealthy and aristocratic New Orleans family, and when his college life came to an end he returned to the South to identify himself with his father's big business interests. So, to all intents and purposes, he and Marguerite would remain just pleasant friends for the rest of time--nothing else. But in 1918, when the star was still working under her lengthy Famous- Players contract, she arranged to tour a part of the States on behalf of a gigantic Liberty Loan flotation. "The South always had appealed to me," Marguerite said, "so what more natural than that I should choose it for my collecting ground? I was dreadfully teased by everyone at the time for having decided to make for the Mason and Dixon line instead of going North; but, anyway, I had such numbers of personal friends down South. Oh, other friends, I mean! Not only my husband-to-be!" So when I had laughingly assured Marguerite that I, at least, had never considered her anything but the victim of sheer coincidence, she went on to tell me that Mr. (then Lieutenant) Williams had been the first purchaser of her bonds in New Orleans, and of how, with leave miraculously obtained, he would arrive at other cities on her route of march, and insist always upon being at hand as general organiser of the campaign. Then came the wedding--Marguerite, who had been the heroine of so many romances in the world-of-make-believe, a heroine every bit as thrilling as one in real life! "It has been worth waiting for," she said dreamily, as we watched the sun sinking lower and lower. "I would never make up my mind before, because I wanted it to be the real thing." Then the gay smile flashed into her eyes again. "But it was amusing at first to have someone looking after me so carefully, when, except for my sister Cora, I had always been so awfully independent. My contract with Famous-Lasky had not expired, and I had some more pictures to make, so my husband used to come out to the Coast whenever he could manage it and give me some expert advice on the making of films! Then, when my work came to an end, he did his best to persuade me to give up the camera entirely, and, indeed, I seem almost to have done so, as I have only starred in one production of my own." "And that," I said, "was 'Scrambled Wives,' was it not? And adapted from a Broadway stage show?" "Yes. Irene Castle Treman's husband is one of the organisers of the company, and Irene herself is going to make a series of pictures soon." "And I had almost forgotten one important item," I said, as we arose from our most unfashionably extended luncheon. "I simply must have lots of photographs of you." "Then come home with me," laughed Marguerite. "Oh, not REALLY home, of course, but to the Williams' house on Saint Charles Avenue. I am staying with my husband's people for the Carnival season, and there I shall be able to let you have all the pictures of myself that your journalistic heart desires. Marguerite's roadster was patiently awaiting our pleasure as we left the old-world courtyard behind us. Soon we found ourselves amongst the throngs of sightseers and the homeward-bound business crowds; and in a few minutes I was being carried back by way of a bulky portfolio to the days when new Marguerite Clark pictures were frequent, and oh! how enjoyable episodes in the enthusiastic movie fan's life. Marguerite in "Wildflower"; Marguerite in "Prunella," in "The Crucible," and in "Still Waters"; Marguerite as the fairy heroine of "Snow White" and "The Seven Swans"; as inconsequent "Topsy" and pathetic "Little Eva"; as the naughty hoyden in "The Amazons"; as the fascinating young person in that never-to-be forgotten "sub-deb" series, the "Bab" stories, and Marguerite in the picture which so delighted her fanciful, imaginative mind, "Molly Make- Believe." Newer photographs there were, too, of Marguerite in "Come Out of the Kitchen," in "Luck in Pawn," in "A Girl Named Mary," in "All of a Sudden Peggy," in "Easy to Get," and in "Scrambled Wives." Photographs galore, to which I helped myself in truly shameless style, gloating the while over my unexpected treasure-trove. "And here," said Mrs. Williams, abandoning Marguerite Clark and all that pertained thereto, "are pictures of my own beautiful home outside the city, where my husband and I have, more or less, settled down. We have horses and dogs, and chickens, and flowers, and all the things I wove into my make- believe stories, but never imagined I should ever really own. Our dogs are really quite important beasts, you know, and I am beginning to realise the responsibility of owning one of the most famous kennels in the South. At first I treated the dear things like 'just dogs,' you know, but now I feel they are far too precious for that!" Good fortune, it is easy to see, has not spoiled our Make-Believe Marguerite. She may have come into her real kingdom, found her fairy prince, and have attained as certain a chance of living happily ever after as we poor mortals have the right to expect; but with it all, she will never lose her sweet, child-like simplicity of heart, her love of innocent gaiety; and, best of all, her keen insight and matured wisdom which have been but kindly gifts the passing years have showered upon her. "Tell me," I said, as Marguerite and I stood in the doorway of the big house on the Avenue, "did you wear your Prunella costume last night?" "Now don't tempt me to divulge that deadly secret! My husband and I deceived even our dearest friends, and he would never forgive me if I took an unscrupulous newspaper woman into our confidence! But I'll tell you one thing: Carnival time in New Orleans is a fairy tale come true--especially if you're with the person you love the best in all the world!" And with Marguerite's mischievous laughter ringing in my ear, I left her with my question unanswered. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * July 1921 Frederick James Smith MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC The Lilliput Lady Marguerite Clark sat on a chaise longe in her apartment overlooking Central Park and swung her tiny feet in schoolgirl fashion. They failed to reach the floor by some five or six inches. We also sat on the aforementioned chaise and tried not to be self-conscious of our undue length. We actually blushed at the size of our feet, doing our best to disregard our legs, and we buried our elongated arms amid the cushions. We thought of the emotions of Gulliver and shuddered. Miss Clark is a diminutive little person, as you know. But you do not REALLY know until you have sat beside her. We did our best to hide our confusion in questions. Miss Clark answered them all seriously and cautiously. She kept on swinging her tiny feet, but she admitted that interviewers were always confusing things when they wrote about her. We blushed an elephantine blush. "People talk about me as if I were hundreds and hundreds of years old," she began. "I'm not." And the swinging feet became positively angry in their orbit. "And goodness, how it hurt when everyone said I had retired from the screen. I haven't--at least, not completely. The truth is, I am going to do about two or maybe three pictures a year. My husband is quite willing for me to do that." "How do you reconcile married life with a career?" we hazarded. "It cannot be done," said Miss Clark, and the swinging feet fairly sighed. "It must always be one thing or the other. Now, my husband is a dear, but he can never understand why night hours are necessary in a studio, or why the lights won't ruin my eyes, or why one has to be at work at a certain hour in the morning. You see, husbands are like that. It is age-old and you cannot change it." Right here you are drawing a mental picture of a huge lord and master dominating little Miss Clark. We were, but at that moment a masculine voice sounded from the interior of the apartment, and Miss Clark called, "Dearie," into the distance. With which appeared H. Palmerson Williams, the husband in question. Imagine my shock at discovering Mr. Williams to be almost as diminutive as his tiny wife. Indeed, as we shook hands, we felt more hopelessly Gulliver-ish than ever. Then ensued a most domestic conversation anent shoes, which Miss Clark has to have made to order, of course. Finally, Mr. Williams disappeared--to wrestle with a downtown shoemaker. "Isn't he a dear?" asked Miss Clark, settling herself back on the chaise longe again. "Let's see, what were we discussing?" "Husbands," we prompted, "and married life." "Well, honestly, I love them both," and Miss Clark swung her feet comfortably. "Of course, I've missed my work--it had been such a part of my life. We live in a typical old Southern mansion at Patterson, Louisiana, just out of New Orleans. My husband's people before him lived in the same home. It's all comfortable and restful and, oh, so secure feeling. I talk over the dinners with the old colored servants, feed the chickens and just relax. There is languor and restfulness in the very air. That is how my days pass. Then there are social things in New Orleans, quite unlike anything you can find anywhere else in America. Of course, I get restive at times. "My husband promised to let me do two or three pictures a year. I am going to do that. My next may be a comedy, to be done abroad. It is all indefinite yet. You see, I am too lazy and comfortable to rush anything." "Is there a possibility of your doing 'Peter Pan'?" we inquired. "I doubt it, although I would love to play it. If I could do some gorgeous thing like 'Peter Pan,' I would make it my final picture and definitely retire. I want people to remember me at my best. When I left the stage for pictures I was lucky to be starred in Winthrop Ames' exquisite production of 'Prunella' and, with that as a final stage effort, I never felt the call back to the footlights. I would rather have folks remember my stage work through 'Prunella.' I wish I could do something equally fine in pictures--and then good-bye." Miss Clark actually sighed and the swinging feet subsided. "We're way off the subject of marriage," we suggested. "Gracious, I am no authority," said Miss Clark, and her feet resumed in panicky swings. "You can get by safely if you both know that you must give and take. The only rule I know is to remember that you are not marrying one person, but a family--and to be just as diplomatic with the family as you are with your husband!" Just then the Lilliput analogy was completed by the appearance of a young woman even tinier than Miss Clark. "She's one of my two protegees," Miss Clark said by way of introduction. We tried to get one of our mammoth hands into a pocket out of the way and to look nonchalant. But Miss Clark came to our rescue by shoving the protegee into the distance. "Let's talk about pictures," went on Miss Clark cautiously. "You see, my husband will be sure to read this interview. "In the first place, I do not think photoplays, save for the occasional exception, are so good as they were a year ago. Everyone is striving for super-productions and spending fortunes on stories that are too weak for features. Everyone seems to think a mob scene or a glimpse of a cabaret makes a super-production. No, I am quite positive I see a deterioration in pictures. "It is easy to criticize," went on Miss Clark, "but there are many points for improvement. Consider the manners of the photoplay." "We did not know the screen had any," we contributed with our customary humor. "You would almost think so," resumed Miss Clark. "Directors who know better--or ought to--let actors work around studios with their hats on and permit horrible manners to be displayed over and over again. What do you think this will gradually do to young America?" "Young America will always wear its hat except when its mother dies," we interpolated, with the aforementioned customary humor. "Maybe it is all subtle propaganda on the part of the hat manufacturers." "Now, seriously," pouted Miss Clark, "it's really a big problem. We must take pains with the motion pictures or manners will disappear from our land." With which we seized our own hat and retired. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * April 1925 Beatrice Washburn PHOTOPLAY Marguerite Clark -- Today The little village of Patterson, Louisiana, where Marguerite Clark has lived with her husband ever since she left the screen, lies about eighty miles west of New Orleans in the picturesque Evangeline country. If you saw "The White Rose" you will recognize it all; the long, lazy bayous lined with water hyacinths, the live oaks hung with moss, the wild roses, the palmettos, the mocking birds that sing from dawn to midnight. It is different from Broadway, different from Hollywood, different from anything in the world but old Cajan Louisiana where the inhabitants still speak French... Mrs. Harry Williams is still "Miss Marguerite" to the villagers. When the speak of her it is with something very like reverence, for is she not sending five Patterson girls through college and is not "Mr. Harry" doing the same for nearly twenty youths? "They haven't any children of their own, but they do everything for our children," says Patterson as one man. Charity quite literally begins at home for Mr. and Mrs. Williams--no farther away than the long village street on which they live. Patterson is flattered, too, that the famous screen actress and her husband really do live there. They don't look upon their estate as merely a weekend affair and, aside from occasional trips to New Orleans and very occasional ones north, they spend all their time in the country with their thirteen dogs, their chicken farm, their flowers and their lumber mills. "Harry is so crazy about sports that we do travel about a bit for the football and baseball games at the different colleges," said Mrs. Williams, who is as quiet and unassuming as though she had been mistress of the big old house since babyhood. "But," she added, with that smile which is just as charming as when you saw it in "Bab," "there really isn't anything very picturesque about us. We live a quiet country life like anybody else. I am busy with my flowers and my dogs, flowers grow like magic in this warm country and I am free to mess in them all I like. Harry's office is near enough for him to come home to lunch and in the evening we play bridge or Mah Jong or go to the local moving picture house. Although ours is only a small place the films are as good as in the cities." Mrs. Williams has changed very little since those enchanting days of "The Seven Sisters." She is still tiny and demure and her red brown hair is worn in a shingle bob just as it has been for the last six years. She assures you that it is going to stay that way. "One can't wear curls forever and it is so much more convenient this way," is how she expresses it. Her eyes are just the color of her hair and she still deserves the tribute of being one of America's best dressed women. Also, if she has left the screen it doesn't mean that she has lost interest in it. "The fans still write me by the hundreds," she confided. "Isn't it adorable? I still get letters from all parts of the country and from people of all ages. Most of them write me charming personal letters saying how glad they are that I am happily married and devoted to my husband. Many of them come from screen aspirants, both young and old, and to all of them I say the same thing--Don't try for the motion pictures unless you have money enough to wait for success and character enough to stand disappointment. To tear off to Hollywood without money and expect to burst into fame is a heartbreaking proposition, and to become famous without experience is almost unheard of. The fans see the honor and glory without realizing the months and sometimes years of hard work that lies behind it." Mrs. Williams admits that she was offered the role of "Peter Pan" which Marilyn Miller is now playing in New York, and she also admits that some day she may return to the screen. "I don't expect to," is all she can be induced to say, "but it is possible that I may." The directors still send her scenarios and young authors still besiege her with manuscripts in the hope that she may tire of domestic life and return to the screen. To all of them she makes the same answer, either written or oral, that she cannot give her life to her husband and to the public too. "When I first left the screen I thought it would be possible for me to do two pictures a year," she explained. "But I soon found that it could not be done. You cannot run two jobs at once, and Mr. Williams, like any normal husband, is not anxious to have me work again. Still I do keep up my interest in the pictures and am particularly interested in the strides made by historical pictures in the last few years. Such productions as 'The Sea Hawk,' 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame,' 'The White Sister,' 'Scaramouche,' 'The Covered Wagon' are of tremendous educational as well as artistic value. Mary Pickford is and always has been my favorite screen actress and I am a great admirer of Lillian Gish." Mrs. Williams doesn't believe in woman's suffrage. She has never voted in her life. Nor does she place even the tip of her finger in her husband's business. As to the rumor circulated so many times about an heir to the Williams fortune Mrs. Williams herself denies it with a sad little smile. "I only wish it were true. I would love nothing better, for I adore children. But my husband and I have to make up for it as best we can by helping out other people's children and giving them a start in the world. Perhaps some day we shall adopt one of our own but we have not come to that decision yet." Mr. Harry, as the townspeople call him, easily owns half of Patterson. His lumber mills are the principal industry, his pine and cyprus forests stretch as far as the horizon, and the great estate where he and his wife live is measured in miles instead of acres. True, it fronts on the long, main street of Patterson, a few blocks above the drug store and the post office and bank, but it backs on the furthermost limits of Louisiana. The thirteen dogs are a host in themselves, running across the shady lawns and romping in the sunshine as only dogs know how. Mary Pickford, Jack Dempsey, Tino, Clip, Zelly Grandpa and Bobby vie for their mistress' affection with the dignified parrot who speaks fragments of French and Spanish. Attached to the household are five motor cars and a staff of negro servants with their families who, according to the immemorial custom of the South, need almost as much attention as children. There are only two white servants, the chauffeur and Mrs. Williams' personal maid. While the former actress does not drive any of her own cars she and her husband are both intensely interested in sports. They take trips up to Tennessee for the Fall games at Sewanee and Vanderbilt universities where they have several adopted students. The Williams house is large and old and spreading. It isn't a Colonial mansion with pillars and no one could mistake it for anything but what it is--a home built on inherited wealth, stability and tradition. Wide verandas skirt it on every side--verandas that are furnished like rooms for the Southern climate with chaise longues, divans, tea sets, writing tables, books, magazines and all the other little intimacies of a semi-tropic life. It has twenty-five rooms with a bathroom for every bedroom and "Miss Marguerite" herself has a suite finished in pale green Venetian furniture with rose silk hangings. She has also a collection of perfumes that would make the most sophisticated flapper sigh with envy. "Everyone brings me perfumes," said Mrs. Williams naively. "I think I must have nearly a thousand bottles. Friends bring me samples from all over the world," and she proudly exhibited bottles made like tiny lions, crystal bottles from Italy, little flasks like nymphs, vials from Egypt and Persia and Southern France, all filled with the most seductive fragrance. All around the big, rambling old house are sleeping porches, for in Louisiana you sleep near a breeze when there is one, and all about it are flowers--roses, oleanders, camellias, sweet olive, night blooming jessamine, crepe myrtle which Mrs. Williams and her three negro gardeners tend with the most assiduous care. Freezes come suddenly in this part of the world, when they come at all, and there is liable to be a hurry call for blankets, burlap and excelsior with which to cover the flowers. The Williams name throughout the South represents not only wealth but inherited wealth--money that has been acquired through generations until it comes to be taken as a matter of course. Mr. and Mrs. Frank Williams, the parents of Marguerite Clark's husband, live in New Orleans and many a passing tourist has stopped to admire the dignified stone house in St. Charles avenue with its spreading velvet lawns. There are three other sons beside Mr. Harry--one of them and his wife live next door to them in Patterson. There are four grandchildren. None of the family ever "splurge." You never see their name in the papers except in the society column and then only in the most conservative way. The former actress was made Queen of one of the most exclusive organizations in the world, the New Orleans Carnival balls, and held her court at the Alexis ball in 1923, the first time a woman not a native of New Orleans has been accorded such an honor. But while she is a member of the very inner circle of New Orleans social life she sees very little of it, preferring to spend her time in Patterson with her dogs and flowers. Two things impress you particularly about Marguerite Clark. One is what, for lack of a better word, you might call charm, a something that you cannot put your finger on, that is not brains or beauty or breeding but a combination of all three. The other is her modesty. You might think that a woman who has reached the very top of her profession by her own efforts, and who is mistress of one of the big fortunes of the country might have due cause to be conceited. But she is as unassuming and simple and reserved as when she left her girlhood home in Cincinnati to go on the stage with DeWolf Hopper in "Mr. Pickwick." She admits that she has worked hard, admits that she is very lucky, that she adores her husband, that she has no regrets for giving up her career and says quite frankly that she is the happiest woman in the world. "I know it sounds like a platitude to say so but a happy marriage is life's best gift to any woman," is her belief. "A career is necessarily limited. There comes a point when you can go no further and even if you have gone a long way life is empty without love. But there are no limits to happiness when you are married to the man you love. It develops every year. I don't believe that marriages are made in heaven--not even mine. It takes time and tact and thought to make a happy marriage, just as it does to make a successful career. But in the end it repays you more than the career ever can do." Although she believes that a woman's place is in the home and not interfering with her husband's business Mrs. Williams is a great believer in education for women. The girls that she is putting through college are all being trained in careers so that they may take care of themselves. "A good education is one of the best assets any woman can have," she declared, "whether she is going on the screen or in the business office or is going to stay at home with her husband. I think that training on the legitimate stage is most important. Even if you want to enter the motion picture field later on it is invaluable training towards screen work." Like most really successful people she believes that she has been extraordinarily fortunate and that very little of it has been due to her own efforts. "I realize that for some people to have given up their career would have been impossible," she said. "But, while I was endowed with a real love of the stage I was also born with a domestic streak--a tendency that makes me like to knit baby blankets and embroider handkerchiefs and fuss with flowers. And I can truthfully say that only my love for my husband would have replaced my love for my work. He has made up for me, a thousand times over, anything that I have given up." Mr. Williams is quiet, cultivated and as devoted to his wife as she is to him. Together they have made Patterson a place of interest to the movie fans throughout the country, Patterson with its long, main street, its one drug store, its post office and moving picture house, its little wooden railway station out on the edge of the town where the Sunset Limited from San Francisco to New Orleans roars through once a day without even deigning to stop. It is just such a little town as you have looked out at from the windows of the Pullman and wondered what the train was waiting for. "And SHE lives here all the year round," said the conductor of the Patterson Local No. 6, in a hushed voice. "Yes, ma'am, many's the time I've carried her and Mr. Harry to town for a football game. And when they went to Europe last year they went up on this very train to New Orleans. No, ma'am, there aren't any taxis in Patterson. You'll have to ride up on the mail truck. Here, Joe--" to a husky negro youth who pilots the U. S. mail, "drive the lady up to Mr. Harry's." And No. 6 with its two day coaches and wheezy engine is off across the bayous and the plantations toward Jeanerette and Broussard, all the little Louisiana towns with their old French names and the spires of their Catholic churches piercing the horizon. It seems almost like one of the fairy tales that Marguerite Clark used to play herself when the prince woke the sleeping beauty and bore her away to his palace. And as you leave them on the sunlit verandas of their big old house, Mr. and Mrs. Williams surrounded by the puppies and the flowers and the devoted negro servants and walk through the oleanders and roses, back through the bright green lawns and sleepy streets of the little town it is with the old fairy tale ending still ringing in your ears--"and so they were married and lived happily ever after." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * April 1930 Barbara Brooks NEW MOVIE MAGAZINE Just Among Those Present On the east of the picturesque Evangeline country, a low house almost hidden in a grove of trees. Wide, vine-covered galleries, suggestive of ante- bellum days. An old-fashioned garden enclosed in hedges of blossoming roses. The brilliant-plumaged cardinal and the mockingbird dart in and out of the odorous magnolia trees. Peaceful in its dignified setting is that estate on the outskirts of the town of Patterson, Louisiana. Along the garden path, with shears and culling basket on her arms, comes the chatelaine of the lovely home, a dainty figure in ruffled flowered gown. Four or five diminutive Chihuahua dogs dash up and down the path before her, ludicrously important in their chase of indolent butterflies. It is Marguerite Clark, in a setting far more becoming than any of the pictures that made her the idol of the movie-going public ten years ago; whose fan mail from all parts of the world broke Hollywood records--and who gave up homage and fame for love. Another picture of Marguerite Clark. Her husband's family home in New Orleans. A big stone mansion set on a high-terraced lawn in an exclusive neighborhood of the most fascinating city in America. She walks down the wide stairway from the second floor, conventionally but modishly gowned in golden brown. A bit of mechlin at throat and wrist; a small string of pearls around her nick; no rings. Her beautiful auburn hair, with its natural wave, brushed simply from her forehead. Quiet. Self- poised. Cordial and charming her welcome. So unchanged her appearance that one cannot help but blurt, "You look exactly the same as you did ten years ago." And in return one gets the same dazzling, mischievous smile that sold hundreds of Liberty Bonds in New Orleans eleven years ago and perhaps won her husband. For it was when she and other screen stars same to the South on a Buy-a-Bond service that she met her husband, Harry B. Williams, one of the wealthiest and most prominent men of the state. The courtship moved quickly. One took no chances of letting so bewitching a girl out of sight, especially when stories were told of a line of disappointed suitors from ocean to ocean who could testify to her determination never to marry. "For no reason at all," she said, when telling about it, "I had decided that I would not get married. It wasn't that I had set my heart on a career: it was simply that marriage had not entered my thoughts." But she did marry, which proves that all young Lochinvars do not come out of the west. There was no golden honeymoon on her husband's yacht; no browsing around the Far East; no intriguing shopping in Paris as one might ordinarily expect, when a beautiful girl marries a millionaire. Instead, Marguerite Clark was forced to put her shiny new wedding-ring in her jewel box, forget she had had a distinguished name fastened to her already-famous one, and return to Hollywood for a year. For she was under screen contract. "I made nine pictures that year," she said reminiscently. "The first [sic] one, 'Scrambled Wives,' was released, I believe, in 1921." "Were you sorry to leave the screen?" I asked her. "No," she answered, "and I have never regretted for one moment that I gave it all up. I have not wanted to go back, either, although since the talkies have been created, I have had offers to return, which I have refused." "What made you decide to go on the stage in the beginning?" I asked her. "Won't you tell me all about it? Did you have the urge for a career?" "Well, I was only thirteen years old when I went on the stage," she said. "Somehow a decision was made for me. My father and mother were dead and my sister took care of me. When the offer came, she was the one who apparently had the ambitions for me. We had to go about it surreptitiously, for none of our relatives had ever been on the stage and probably would throw up their hands in horror at our becoming stage folks. There was one relative, a rich old uncle, who we thought would be particularly shocked. There wasn't much danger of his finding out what I was doing for he spent most of his time in Europe. By the time he came back, I was pretty well established, so we thought we might as well break down and confess how we had deceived him. "And to our surprise," Marguerite laughed merrily at the memory, "instead of his being displeased, he was frankly proud of me, and he showed his pride quite materially. "I liked the stage. I liked the people: they were so friendly, so frank, so genuine. Of course, sister was with me constantly; I was educated on the wing, you might say, for we had to engage a governess every time we went to a new town. Life was full--and happy. I didn't have time to learn how to do the things that most girls my age were learning: I couldn't play bridge, nor other games. Tennis, golf, and outdoor sports were denied me. But I had plenty of wholesome exercise, and I took a vast interest in learning my parts. I suppose I was a precocious youngster, for I was the only child in the company and perhaps there was a tendency to spoil me." "And the movies? How did they get you?" "Again the decision was taken from me," she said. "I wasn't particularly anxious to leave the stage, for I loved stage work. But when the offer came from Hollywood, sister thought I might as well try it--and I made good, I suppose," she ended. Made good, I mused. I remembered performances of "Prunella" and other pictures where the sign "Standing Room Only" was put up nightly in New Orleans. For New Orleans adopted petite Marguerite Clark Williams wholeheartedly. Her appearance today on the street, at a football game, in the ball room, attracts as much attention as her first appearance in public after her retirement from the screen. And she still responds with the same delightful smile that captivated her audiences from the footlights. Is she lonesome away from the bright lights, from the adulation of the public, from flattering fan mail? "The days pass so quickly," she told me, "that I never have time to be lonesome. I have my flowers to look after while I am in Patterson--think what a real garden has meant to me after so many years playing in make- believe gardens. Then there are my dogs: we have many of them. The five Chihuahuas are my special care, but we have several hunting dogs. And my husband's interests are mine, of course. We take frequent trips North; we spend a great deal of time in New Orleans and life is very full--and happy," she added, "even though I have no children." I noted the first wistful tone in her beautifully modulated voice. Perhaps Marguerite Clark has not yet found the Carcassonne of her dreams. Her husband's interests? They are so large and varied that his wife's tiny feet must have trouble keeping up with him. Lumber is his inherited vocation. He is also mayor of Patterson, and "hees Honor is a fine mayor, yes," say even the humblest of the French-descent residents of the beautiful little town in the parish of St. Mary. He has been instrumental in getting for Patterson one of the finest airfields in Louisiana, well lighted and accessible, and about the best equipped field between New Orleans and Texas. He is also the head of the Wedell-Williams Air Service, flying planes all over the South. His avocations? Living in Louisiana, loving an outdoor life, he is an ardent sportsman and he is frequently seen with gun or fishing tackle. He enjoys yachting. Motoring, too. And he is now a full-fledged air pilot, being one of the first in the state to become air-minded. Marguerite accompanies him on most of his trips. "I love flying," she assured me. "It is wonderful, exhilarating. Although," she chuckled reminiscently, "I didn't always think so. I remember the first trip my husband took from Patterson to New Orleans. I left that day for the North. 'Wouldn't you like to fly to Chicago?' he asked me. I informed him that I preferred the safe, sane method of travel--you see I had not yet gone up--and I started on the train worried for fear something might happen to him. I remember I wired twice to find whether he reached New Orleans without mishap. That night, there was a railroad wreck: something had gone wrong with my safe-and-sound vehicle of transportation--while my husband, taking what I considered a precarious way of reaching New Orleans, was the one who had to be reassured as to my safety." "Have you ever piloted a plane?" I asked her. "Why, I can barely pilot myself across crowded streets," she laughed, "so I would hardly be trusted with a plane. But we take many trips: it requires only forty minutes to come to New Orleans, whereas if we took the train or motor car we'd spend three hours on the road. And it is so safe, so beautiful a method of traveling." The air route is used frequently by Marguerite Clark Williams and her husband these days. For she is in demand at the most exclusive functions in New Orleans in the pre-Lenten social season. In 1923 she was crowned Queen of Alexis, one of the smart carnival organizations, and a veritable Titania she was on that occasion. Although she loves people, she enjoys sitting on the side lines, studying character. "It doesn't distress me to wait for anyone in a railroad station or a crowd," she said, "for I am never bored. I like to look at different types, making up stories about them, wondering where they are going, what their lives are--people are so interesting, aren't they?" I came back to movie chat. "What do you think of the talkies?" I asked. "They're wonderful," she replied. And when I remarked that with her trained voice she would make a hit in them, that she should be back on the screen, she shook her head vehemently. "Oh, no," she said. "I finished with the pictures, with public life, when my contract expired. I worked hard on them, too, far harder than on the stage, because the work is more strenuous, more exacting. And now I'm perfectly content to be 'among those present' in the audience at the talkies." So that's what happens to a career when a girl falls in love, I thought. "Do you like clothes like most women?" I asked, a foolish question to a perfectly gowned woman. "Of course," she responded, "and I like them far more than I did when I was on the stage or in the pictures. It's not much fun, you know, to put on gorgeous costumes because you are compelled to wear them. Now I can make my own selections and I find it is a joy to pick out what I really like." I remembered and reminded her of an exclusive French shop in New Orleans where frocks were made for her to wear in her last pictures, the Maison Helene, now out of existence, where every stitch was made by hand, where tucks and gathers and smocking were put in by descendants of some of the finest old Creole families. Gentlewomen whose work under the supervision of the creator of the shop, a member of one of the first families in Louisiana. Dresses that looked for all the world as though they were fashioned for a little girl of twelve years, dresses of sheer linen, of chiffon; beautiful negligees and blouses. In huge boxes, dozens of handmade garments preceded the star to Hollywood for her last appearance on the screen. "I wish I could still have some of their exquisite work," said Marguerite Clark Williams, when we were exchanging memories of the famous atelier. Curled up in a big chair in the handsome Louis Quinze reception room of the Williams mansion in New Orleans, the former stage and screen star looked like a little girl as we chatted. A trifle heavier, perhaps, than in her days of stardom, although she said she has gained but four pounds since her marriage, weighing today an even hundred pounds. Her lovely auburn hair is still bobbed and will not be allowed to grow, so she assured me. Her long lashes sweep her cheeks, giving her big hazel eyes a velvety deep brown hue. I peered closely as she sat under the soft lamplight of the early dusk, to find a wrinkle, some telltale mark of time. But I was agreeable disappointed. I couldn't see anything but contentment and placidity. Why not? Her life is cast on contented and placid lines. She won't play bridge, because she says she started in too late to learn. "You see, not having learned the rudiments of the game before marriage, I feel it would be an imposition on people to ask them to play with me. I married into a family of splendid bridge players, and I developed a sense of inferiority about any game. Mah Jong was different: it was new to others as well as myself. So I took to that as long as the fad lasted. But bridge doesn't interest me and other things do--so why should I take time from what I love, to force myself to something I don't care for?" Something to that, I thought, as I recalled a feverish foursome I had just left at a bridge table. A last picture of Marguerite Clark Williams. The dining-room of one of the famous New Orleans French restaurants. It had been turned into an old English garden in honor of the daughter of William J. Locke, who was visiting the city. Beautifully gowned women. Soft music playing under artificial moonlight. Dainty and graceful, a sparkling little figure picked her way through the make-believe garden with its English hedges, Marguerite Clark herself, a vivid, sparkling figure. A bodice of golden lame, a full skirt of golden lace reaching to the floor. Tiny feet encased in golden slippers with jeweled buckles. Smaller in stature than any other woman and yet distinctive. What is it that makes her the cynosure of all eyes wherever she goes? It is not her past successes on stage and screen, for the public is fickle and memories are short. It must be her innate charm, personality, you might call it, that evinces itself wherever she may be. Among the moss-grown live oaks and bayous of her country home in the beautiful Teche land; in the more sophisticated atmosphere of city residence, she always finds friends for herself as she found them when, a thirteen-year-old child, she won the hearts of the stage folks with whom her early life was cast. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following: http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/ http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/ http://www.silent-movies.com/Taylorology/ Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/ or at http://www.silent-movies.com/search.html. For more information about Taylor, see WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991) *****************************************************************************