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Taylorology Issue 91
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* 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 *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Marguerite Clark
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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.
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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 ac
res. 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.
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Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following:
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Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
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Taylor, see
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