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Write today for a copy of our helpful book, "The Care and 

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AUG 14 1919 

) &B435497 


Expressing the Arts 

Volume I 

The Magazine of Magazines 

Important Features in This Issue 

The Movie of the Past 
A Vivid Article on the Puppet Show 


Latest Poem, "The Photoplay" 


On "The Playwright's Opportunity" 


"The Height of Indiscretion" 


On "The Age of Propaganda" 


The Effect of Prohibition on the White Way 

Number i 


The Writers Produced by the Stage Year 



Published monthly by the M. P. Publishing Company, a New York Corporation with its principal offices 
at Bayshore, N. Y. Eugene V. Brewster, President and Editor; Eleanor V. V. Brewster, Treasurer; E. M. 
Heincinann, Secretary. Editorial offices at 177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y., to which address all mail 
should be sent. 

Subscrip t; nn $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in 
Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50. Single copies, 35 cents, postage prepaid. One and two- 
cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both olti and 
new address. 

Application made at the Brooklyn, N. Y., Post Office as Second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1919, by the M. P. Publishing Company in the United States and Great Britain. 

177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, R Y. 



~ fm^ 



Letters of Welcome 

Permit me to be one of the first to welcome your 
new venture, Shadowland, with the sincere wish 
that it will at once take its place side by side with 
its stalwart elder brothers, "The Motion Picture 
Magazine" and "Classic." 

The advent of a new periodical seriously de- 
voted to the best interests of our profession must 
always be a matter of importance to the producer, 
the actor, and the exhibitor, as it marks the ever- 
growing influence of the motion picture industry, 
and the widening of the public interest in all that 
concerns our art. 

Even those whose experience is limited to the 
last decade are astonished at the amazing growth 
of picture literature. A few years ago the best we 
produced was discussed in a perfunctory way and 
serious criticism- was almost unknown. Today the 
great dailies in all cities have ably edited columns 
of criticism, and magazines like those bearing the 
imprint of your firm make their appeal to a vast 
and discriminating public. It is this wonderful 
growth in popular interest that proves convincingly 
the great place the moving picture holds in the 
world of amusement and education; and it is to 
publications like yours that both the producers and 
the public must look for guidance and inspiration. 
Verv truly yours, 


As one of the shadows, may I be permitted the 
privilege of offering my most earnest wishes for 
the success of your new magazine, together with 
my subscription for ten years. 

With the assurance of my most distinguished 
salutations, I am, 

Yours very truly, 


Please accept my very best wishes for this 
new enterprise. Your activities in the field of mo- 
tion picture publications in the past have been of 
great service to the industry in stimulating inter- 
est of the public and I am confident that Shad- 
owland will be a valuable addition to the litera- 
ture of the moving picture. 

Yours sincerely, 


It pleases me very much indeed to learn that 
you are planning to publish another magazine 
dealing exclusively with cinema activities. Surely 
you could have chosen no more appropriate name 
for this new publication than Shadowland. 

The serious treatment accorded the screen by 
"Motion Picture Classic" and "Motion Picture 
Magazine" has done much to put this new art be- 
fore the public in the proper light and indicates 
that all you \ do with Shadowland will add 
greatly to the] prestige and development of this 
rapidly advancing industry. 

In your new venture, permit me to wish you the 
very best of success. 



"The Motion Picture Classic" and "The Mo- 
tion Picture Magazine" have stood for the best in 
motion pictures. No magazine can do less and 
hope to thrive. Shadowland, / am sure, will be 
welcomed by the lovers of the best in motion pic- 
tures. It is thus that Famous Players sends its 
word of welcome and its wish for prosperity. 


Famous Players-Lasky Corp. 





From Famous Player s-Lasky Corporation come 

all good wishes and greetings to the new magazine 

On the forthcoming appearance of Shadow- 

which will hold a unique place among the photo- 

land please accept my best wishes and heartiest 

play publications and, we believe, realize all its 

congratulations. As I recall the progressions 

highest hopes and expectations. 

which have effected the motion-picture since its 


invention, I feel how significant is the growth 


which began with you. "The Motion Picture Mag- 


azine" continued splendidly with "The Classic" 

Famous Player s-Lasky Corporation. 

and now takes still a further step forward with 

/ remember the wood-cuts and black-and-white 
of the original numbers of "The Motion Picture 
Magazine" very well. As the business was refined 
there arose naturally the demand that the cruder 
publicity which was being given to the movies also 
be refined. The outcome of this was "The 
Classic," with photogravures, etc. And now even 
the modem form of that is to be surpassed and 
Shadowland is to give us, in addition, color. 
All this is undeniably significant. The motion- 
picture industry owes a real debt of gratitude to 

I have your letter regarding your new publica- 

the editors who cham-pioned it in its rough infancy 

tion, Shadowland, and I am more than glad to 

and now have the pleasure of seeing a maturity 

welcome literature of that style of composition, in- 

which is artistic and full of the possibilities of 

asmuch as I suppose you will make it a sister- 



publication to "The Classic," which I consider 


well worth while. 


Wishing you every success with your new work. 


Yours sincerely, 

Goldwyn Pictures Corporation. 

-~— - 



I have just learned of your intention to begin 
the publication of a new motion picture magazine 

It affords me great pleasure to offer my sincere 

— Shadowland. 

appreciation of the good news that your new mag- 

I don't see how there could be a magazine to 

azine, Shadowland, will soon be in our hands. 

excel "The Motion Picture Magazine" and 

I believe that good things are never too plenti- 

"Classic," with their artistic pictures, clever arti- 

ful. And judging from the success of "The Mo- 

cles and fearlessly just criticisms. At the same 

tion Picture Magazine" and "The Classic," 

time I know you woidd not make a new step un- 

Shadowland will undoubtedly enjoy an extensive 

less it were a step forward; so I do not doubt that 


Shadowland will set a new standard for motion 

With every good wish, I am, 

picture journalism. We are all waiting for the 

Cordially yours, 

first issue with a lot of pleasurable interest. Please 


accept my best wishes for its success. 
Cordially yours, 




They Welcome Shadowland 

Welcome to Shadowland — may its shadow 
never grow, less but increase in bulk with every 

The increasing field of motion pictures makes 
peculiarly apropos at this time the advent of the 
new magazine. 

That it will be worthy is assured by the splen- 
did record of "The Motion Picture Magazine" 
and "Classic," published by the same organiza- 

Motion pictures have reached a position of such 
importance in the affairs of the world today that 
they thoroughly justify the great amount of in- 
formation concerning them and those who make 
them — which embraces those engaged in every 
phase of the industry. 

Essentially an art, the newest and most delight- 
ful of arts; including as well the most modern 
scientific devices; it is of course imperative that 
they be treated in an artistic manner and with a 
full appreciation of the principles involved, tech- 
nical and otherwise, when discussed in the pages 
of a periodical. That this will be the case with 
Shadowland I have no hesitation in prophesy- 

May good fortune attend the development of 
the youngest of the magazines devoted to one of 
the youngest but most successful and far-reaching 


Famous Flayer s-Lasky Corp. 

If Shadowland should prove only a "shadow" 
of "Motion Picture Magazine" and "The Classic," 
it will be a corking publication. 


May I congratulate you upon your contemplated 
publication of another motion picture magazine to 
be called Shadowland ? // your new publication 
is to be as interesting and as attractive in make- 
up as your other two magazines, then it is useless 
for me to wish you success, because it is already 

Magazines like "The Classic" and "The Mo- 
tion Picture Magazine" have done a great deal to- 
ward lifting photoplay to a higher plane. 

With my very best wishes, 


Allow me to tender my subscription for Shad- 
owland. The name pleases me. It would be 
splendid always to have the shadow of one's possi- 
bilities, or of the field in which one is striv-'ng, 
stretching on ahead of one. Though one walked 
beyond it, surmounted certain difficulties, the 
game would not be worth the playing if there were 
not new issues to contend with, new shad-ows to 
pass over. 

Each new screen magazine that comes out fills 
me with the hope that there soon will be one that 
not only reviews what has been done, but con- 
ceives of the immense future for pictures, and 
helps, by recording of experimentation and fore- 
casting new fields of development, to make our 
shadow ever a worthier form to fill. 

Wishing you all success, 


Page Six 


.. ■:■<:■.;.■....;!.■■',. 





By Edwin Markham 

Author of "The Man with the Hoe" and other poems 

"Only the movies," I hear you say, 
Watching the crowds at the photoplay — 
The movies that flash on a thousand walls 
The stories the minstrel sang in the halls — 
All stories recited to eager ears 
In the evening hour when the chimney cheers. 

"Only the movies," you lightly laugh, 
"Only a whirl of the endless chaffy 
Yet the photoplay unlocks the night, 
Revealing the wonder of stars in flight, 
Or opens the door of the unseen sphere 
Where the atoms dance in their strange career 

Only the movies, and yet for a span 
Flashes the pageant of earth and man — 
All of the shapes that are shaken with breath 
And taste at last of the wonder of death. 
The stars and the atoms, and all between, 
Glimmer and go on the magic screen! 


Page Eleven 


Above, The cross 
of Judson Mem- 
orial glowing into 
the night of Wash- 
ington Square and, 
right, the Hotel 
Plaza reflected in 
the lake at Central 

Page Twelve 


A Camera Tour of O. Henry's 
New York 

All photographs copyright by Jessie Tarbox Beals 

Above, Madison 
Square at dawn 
and, left, the Met- 
ropolitan tower at 

Page Thirteen 


A rainy 

Page Fourteen 



The guillotine scene 
from Tony Sarg's mar- 
ionette production of 
Thackeray's "The 
Rose and the Ring" 
and, below, the pup- 
pet character of King 
Padella, riding his 
comedy marionette 

RECEXT efforts to revive interest in the once popular 
marionettes — efforts which seem to have been made 
. throughout the world during the past two or three 
years — bring out the fact that the puppet show was the motion 
picture of the past. Indeed, marionette entertainments were 
called motions in the middle ages and the puppet manipula- 
tors termed motion-makers. 

Marionettes — tiny puppets moved by strings — unquestion- 
ably presaged the motion picture. They were the universal 

entertainment of all classes. Did not Jeremy Collier call 
Punch "the Don Juan of the people?"' They were at best 
a crude reproduction of life but there was something at once 
comic and grotesque, beautiful and adroit about them. And, 
above all else, they made — just as the motion picture of 
today makes— an appeal to the imagination of humanity. 
They stirred dimly thought dreams, awakened the dull brains 
of the plodding serf, entertained the alert. About the marion- 
ette show there was an atmosphere of the fsery, an illusion of 
unreality, of a fanciful world apart. And all this went 
straight to the child heart of the races now long dead, just 
as the photoplay reaches direct to the folk of our day. 

During the past theatrical season Tony Sarg, the artist, 
presented a season of his marionettes at the Punch and Judy 
Theater in Xew York. Mr. Sarg, whose career has been 
linked with the renaissance of the marionette for years, each 
season gives a puppet season in New York. This year Mr. 
Sarg presented an adaptation of Thackeray's "The Rose and 
the Ring" in a prolog and three acts of eight scenes. There 
were sixteen players, including the wicked King Padella's 
flirtatious horse and a lion of no mean — or rather, a decidedly 
mean — ferocity. That Mr. Sarg's tiny marionettes were able 
to play for some weeks on Broadway is an interesting commen- 
tary on the quaint hold the puppet still has upon humanity. 

But, before discussing the renaissance of the marionette, 
it is interesting to trace its remarkable history. Centuries 
distant historians will be tracing the motion picture probably 
in much the same way — with one difference. The photoplay 
will never wane, unless it is before some new device of as 
yet unfathomed beauty in reflecting the moods of life. 

The marionette is of distinguished lineage. It amused the 
ancient Egyptians o' night along the winding Xile, for figures 
with movable limbs have been found in the tombs of the land 
of Pharaoh and amon» the remains of Etruria. The marionette 

Pase Fifteen 


thrived in ancient Greece and thence 
moved on to Rome. It has been popular 
for centuries in India, China and the Far 
East. Indeed, it may have had its earliest 
development in India. It is interesting to 
note that the Sanskrit equivalent of stage 
manager is sutradhara, or thread-holder. 
All thru Turkey and Mohammedan coun- 
tries the puppet show has held sway 
for ages. In distant Java it is so popular 

that women 
dress as pup- 
pets and imi- 
tate the move- 
ments of the 
mannikins in 
silent plays. 

In Western Europe the real home of the marionette has 
been in Italy. It is very likely that it was handed down from 
the golden days when Rome was mistress of the world. For 
centuries it developed in Naples, Milan, Rome and thru all 
the remote provinces. The marionette reached Germany in the 
twelfth century. It was introduced in France by Pierre, some- 
times called Jean, Brioche, during the reign of Louis XIV at 
the Pont Neuf in Paris, where he extracted teeth between per- 
formances, and it swept on England in the seventeenth cen- 
tury. America saw its first marionette shows on the east 
side of New York, these crude theaters being brought over 
by Italian immigrants. 

The marionette theater was used by the Christian church 
throughout Europe in the middle ages to further the cause 
of religion. Here history shows that the Church first attacked 
the puppet show and then adopted it to its own use, just as 
the churches of yesterday flayed the photoplay and today are 
extensively using it. Marionette performances, like the mo- 
rality dramas of the time, were based upon Biblical episodes, 
such as the Prodigal Son and Jonah and the whale, and 
upon the lives of the saints. A pamphlet of 1641 still exists 
to relate: 

"Here a knave in a fool's coat, with a trumpet sounding 
to a drum beating, invites you to see his puppets. Here a 
rogue like a wild woodman, or in an antic 
shape like an incubus, desires your com- 
pany to view his motion." {Motion being 
the term then applied to the puppet enter- 

In 1575, Italian impresa- 
rios, having brought the ma- 
rionette theater to England, the 
Lord Mayor of London issued 
an order authorizing: "Ital- 
lian marionettes to settle in 
this city and to carry on their 
strange motions as in the past 
and from time immemorial." 

In 1667 Pepys, in his fa- 
mous diary, recorded seeing a 
puppet show. The plays of 
that day ranged from "The 
Sorrows of Griselda" and 
"Dick Whittington" to "Robin 
Hood" and "The Vagaries of 
Merry Andrew." 

In 1709 The Taller gave an 
article on Powell's noted ma- 
rionette show and in 1711 The 
Spectator reviewed the per- 
formance of one Pinkethman, 
a "motion-maker," whose en- 
tertainment presented the di- 
vinities of Olympus in action. 
Pinkethman's name is linked 
strongly with the British de- 
velopment of the puppet, al- 
though he had a strong rival 
in Crawley, whose show re- 
vealed "The Old Creation of 
the World, with addition of 
Noah's flood." This was par- 
ticularly dazzling, owing to the 
fact that Crawley employed 
real fountains. His advertise- 

"Baek stage" in Tony Sarg's mar- 
ionette theater. Mr. Sarg is stand- 
ing in the center of the loft op- 
erating one of his "•players." Note 
the "actors" hang- 
ing from their sup- 
porting and oper- 
ating bars of wood 

Page Sixteen 


ment in pamphlets of the day glowingly describe a scene 
with "Xoah and his family coming out of the ark with 
all the animals two by two and all the fowls of the air seen in 
prospect sitting upon trees; likewise over the ark is the sun 
rising in a gorgeous manner; moreover, a multitude of angels 
in a double rank." Thus, Crawley hit upon the first screen 
sunset fade-out, although he used the sun in reverse form. 

The marionette theater kept on developing. From sacred 
things, the puppets began dancing "jiggs, sarabands and 
country dances," aside from presenting the antics of Squire 
Punch. , The great vogue of the marionette theater in Britain 
was due to the popularity of Punch, and in France to a simi- 
lar character called Guignol but just as popular. The Punch 
and Judy show entertained England for centuries. Punch is 
an abbreviation of the Italian Punchinello, in turn derived 
from a word meaning clown, buffoon or puppet. (Which is, of 
course, another angle upon the part Italy played 
in the evolution of the marionette.) Historians 
profess to believe that Punch dates back to the 
burlesque actors of old Rome, for a portrait 
bronze of the famous Roman clown, Maccus, is 
a duplicate of the comic physiognomy of Punch, 
hooked nose, nut-cracker chin and all. 

Towards the end of the eighteenth century 
Flockton"s presented five hundred figures at 
work at various trades. Brown's Theater in 
Arts, about 1830, revealed the Battle of Trafal- 
gar, Xapoleon's army crossing the Alps and 
"'the marble palace of St. Petersburg." 

Literary men of all ages have been fascinated 
by the marionette, from Ben Jonson, Swift, 
George Sand, Goethe and Lessing down to Mau- 
rice Maeterlinck. Voltaire enjoyed the puppet 
show and used to invite marionette entertainers 
to his house in Cirey. The marionette theater 
was a hobby with Goethe, who loved the puppet 
show all his life. Goethe, indeed, acknowledges 
a remarkable indebtedness to the puppet enter- 
tainment, in that one of the shows suggested 
Faust to him. Joseph Haydn composed for the 

During the middle ages the marionette ap- 
proached the photoplay closest when shadow en- 
tertainments were given, the shadows of the 
moving puppets being cast upon a screen. Here, 
indeed, was the first photoplay, and it was de- 
cidedly popular. 

The marionette theater enjoyed remarkable 

waves of favor. In 1642 
the wave of Puritanism 
thru England caused 
all theaters, except those 
showing marionettes, to 
be closed. Thus the 
puppet became the one 
of reigning vogue in 
once merrie England. 
There was a remarkable 
revival of interest in 
France between 1888 
and 1891, when Henri 
Signoret produced in 
marionette form such 
(Continued on page 76) 

Two more scenes 
from Mr. Sarg's 
presentation o f 
"The Rose and 
the Ring," intro- 
ducing the ro- 
mantic Betsinda. 
The puppets are 
some three feet 
in height, some 
requiring as 
many as 24 strings 
to operate 

Page Seventeen 


The Barrymores — John and Lionel — are re-opening in 
Arthur Hopkins' production of Sem Benelli's vivid, 
highly colored drama of medieval cunning, "The Jest." 
And Broadway will again have an opportunity to see 
John as the sensitive young Gianetto and Lionel as Neri, 
the swashbuckling mercenary 


Page Eighteen 

UtSobeJl. lU* 




WVOvx. \\\oJO 




She's Queen of the May 

Doris May is Thomas H. Ince"s 
latest screen discovery and a star 
in her own name. She started on 
the silversheet as Doris Lee and 
then, with the coming of stardom, 
shifted her cognomen to May 
Which is as it should be. Isn't 
May the month of buds and sun- 

These "snaps'" of Doris, in 
Peggy Jeans, were taken 
about her Culver City, Cal.. 
home. Miss May loves the 
outdoors. She can dance, 
swim, dive, play a piano, a 
banjo and a harp, fence, box. 
drive a car and twirl a good 
game of baseball 

Page Twenty-Three 



Photograph by Abbe 

"I don't consider suc- 
cess just having your 
name in electric 
light s," says Fay 
Bainter. "I want to 
have a repertoire com- 
pany of my own. Then 
I will consider myself 
a star." 

'Vet bring I to my work an eager joy, 
A lusty love of life and all things human." 

OW does it feel to be so 
successful?" I asked Fay 

"It doesn't feel," she said. 

Therein she gave, unconsciously, 
the essence of her point of view, the 
quintessence of her personality. 

"Besides," she said, slathering on Ming Toy's make-up 
with that whole-souled energy characteristic of her very word 
and action; "besides, I don't consider it successful — just 
having your name on Broadway in electric type. Necessarily, 
that doesn't mean acting. I don't consider that as success at 
all. I cannot understand why it is considered such a con- 
summation. I never, literally never, think of that angle of it. 

"This is what I would like to do. I would like to have 
the leading woman's part in a repertoire company of my owe'. 
Then, and only then, I should consider myself a star." , 

"You don't consider yourself one now?" 

"Absolutely not. 

"I want to act, just act and to do that I believe that on£ 
must take every sort of a part, be able to interpret life in 
all of its phases ... not just a side light here and there . . . 
a trick or two. That is the reason why I tried musical comedy. 

A Song 
of Success 

I wanted to prove that I could do it and 
succeed at it despite the fact that I can't 
sing a note and am certainly not 'the type.' 
"I shall never take an oriental part 
again. I have made up my mind definitely 
to that. I don't care what sort of a part 
I have so long as it is different, so long 
as it is not oriental. . . . I'm an adven- 
turess and I admit it ... in my profes- 
sion I am a rank adventuress . . . besides 
..." she gave me one of Ming Toy's lit- 
tle whimsical smiles, "I'm turning gray," 
she confided, tragically, "from wearing 
those heavy Chinese wigs. Really, it's a 
serious matter with me. I spend every 
spare moment in a hair-dresser's being 
drowned with tonic." 

We were sitting in Miss Bainter's dress- 
ing-room at the theatre, which is hung in 
rather a Chinese-patterned chintz and 
contains a chaise-longue, on which she, for 
one, never reclines, and numerous taffeta 
cushions. We were consuming her mid- 
afternoon habit, a chocolate ice-cream 
soda, and she was "receiving." 

There came a fluctuating but constant 
stream of visitors 
to the door — and 
not one was turned 
away — and not one 
went away without 
being affectionately 

by White 

Page Twenty-Four 



questioned and exclaimed over and 
encouraged and made much of . . 
irrespective . . . there were old 
friends and new friends and un- 
known friends . . . professional 
friends and celebrities and other- 
wise . . . and to each and every 
one of them "Faysie," as they al- 
most all of them called her, gave 
of herself, prodigally and without 
stint. Never once did I hear her 
say "/ am going to do this," or "I 
am doing that." The personal pro- 
noun seems to have been self-elimi- 
nated from her vocabulary. 

One friend told her of the wed- 
ding of a girl they both knew 
which was to take place that same 
night. The conventional fact of 
a satin wedding gown was alluded 
to. Fay Bainter was staring into 
the mirror in front of her, register- 
ing the various details with widen- 
ings of her merry brown eyes and 
little emphatic nods of her tawny 
vital young head. She was quite 
totally oblivious of all save the 
mental images the recountal was 
conjuring up for her . . . her lips 
moved, almost inaudibly, "and 
orange blossoms?" she asked tense- 
ly, "and orange blossoms . . . too 
... oh, my ... !" She finished 
with a long-drawn in sigh of rapt 

"Would you leave the stage to 
marry?" I asked her, "like this girl 
is doing?" 

"And she's been on the stage for 
ten years, too," interpolated the 
friend who had been avidly record- 
ing the nuptial details. 

"Time she did leave, then," said 
Fay, succinctly, and as if dismiss- 
ing the halcyon subject, albeit re- 
luctantly, and then to me: "leave 
the stage ? Why, of course I would. 
Not for three or four years, per- 
haps, but then I shall be quite 
ready — and without a qualm. 

"You see, I've been on the stage 
since I was four years old and I'm 
twenty-five now and after you've 
done that sum 

in subtrac- 
tion you'll 
see why I'd 
be ready for 


"Ming Toy" 

had been 

( Continued 

on page 74) 

'"In three or four 
j ears," says Miss 
Bainter, "I shall be 
quite ready to leave 
the stage, and with- 
out a qualm. I've 
been on the stage 
since I was four — 
so you'll see why 
I'd be ready for 

Photograph by Sarony 

Page Twenty-Five 


Page Twenty-Six 






Ernestine Meyers 

Who is 

Gracing the 


Stage in an 

Act with 
Paisley Noon 

Plutngraph by 

Page Twenty-Seven 


I'hotngranhs by Kuuenc Hutchinson 


Seven years ago Lucy 
Cotton came to New York 
from Texas with her 
mother and sister. She 
began posing for artists 
and finally went on the 
stage with Ina Claire in 
"The Quaker Girl." She 
understudied the star and 
made her first hit 

'AY, way back 

in the sixties, 

far south of the 
Mason-Dixie line, there 
lived a family — Cottons, 
they were — who had to 
themselves a charming 
home, a huge plantation, 
a troupe of slaves, . . . 
'n everything. Then 
came the war, and the 
young lad, who had 

known only the environment of luxuriousness, was 
bereft of all his treasures except ... his bride. 
The dainty Mrs. Cotton wanted most seriously to 
do something to help. But her husband, who had 
had no experience whatsoever in aiding the upkeep 
of an income, was horrified to have her presume a 
woman's slightest thought should be devoted to it. 
So there was nothing left for the little wife to do but 
settle down in their pretty home — it was VERY 
pretty, if more compact — and make it the brightest 
spot on earth. 

Years passed . . . and Houston (I love the 
way Lucy says it, "Yu-stun "... in that mellow 
intonation of hers), grew to look upon the daughters 
of Mr. and Mrs. Cotton as the Three Graces. Amy, 
always gay and free from doubt or fear, to them was 
Faith. The youngest girl was Ruth. She was Lady 
Graciousness. They called her Charity. But when 
it was the symbol of joy, of outlook, of Hope, they 

An Investment 
in Cotton 

wanted, they turned to the middle-sized Grace, ou'r 

I turned to her now. She was busily absorbed 
in untying a box which had just come from the 
modiste's, and looked with her parted lips and scin- 
tillant eyes, for all the universe . . . hope-ful. 
"O, whatever we are and shall become, there is no 
argument about it," Lucy sung, "we owe to mother. 
She has been wonderful. Just the right guide and 
all that a parent should be. That goes far towards 
MAKING a girl. Mother was not demonstrative. 
But she was a woman of deeds. Why, the neigh- 
bors in Houston, (remember, Yu-stun, slow and 
ever so soft!), thought she was crazy to send her 
children to the opera every week and always into 
five dollar seats. They could not understand why 
mother would much rather stay at home from one of 
their teas in order to be present while our instruc- 
tors were at the house coaching us in dancing, 
dramatic work and music, so that she could help 
later when we practiced. You see," with a lucy- 
cotton smile, "if I love only the Beautiful now, it is 
because mother earnestly and very conscientiously 
reared me in that manner. She never chose for u^ 

Page Twenty-Eight 


C. Blythe 

our literature. She 
knew that,we had been 
shown what was fine 
and what was not 
would be distasteful. 
She never commanded 
us about our recrea- 
tions or demanded cer- 
tain kinds of friends. 
Her standard she had 
willed when we were 
babies to become innate 
in us. Therefore, she 
knew that we knew, 
and felt as free." 

By this time the con- 
tents of the box were 
being held up for su- 
pervision. It was white 
satin and the lace that 
trimmed it was exqui- 
site. Lucy was speak- 
ing. I recalled my 
whereabouts and heard, 
"I am going to be a 
bride today. Only in 
the picture, OF 
COURSE. 'Sun-up' is 
its name, and— oh, I 
beg your pardon." She 
opened the door and 
came back with a pack- 
age. Quickly the 
wrappings were torn 
off, and a bouquet, . . 
colossal, . . of roses, 
and sweet-smell- 
ing ferns was revealed. 
One long breath, and 
Lucy, a picture in her 
flushness, exclaimed, 
"Isn't it heavenly to be 
able to work for people 
like this? Mr. Bacon 
is so kind — and thor- 
ough. We really did 
not have to use these 
lovely things, but he 
would never hear of ar- 
tificial flowers. Every- 
lx»dy around here is 
splendid to me. 

"Mr. Earle, the camera man, has helped tremendously in 
his advice about make-up, and the director, Mr. Bailey, when 
I did do anything well, never hesitated to comment. And, 
when you know that a staff like that is depending upon you 
to do good work, why, you cannot help but do BETTER. 
It is a mistake for supervisors not to encourage their sub- 
ordinates." Evidently, all the people under whose auspices 
the work of Miss Cotton was performed never made that mis- 
take. She, from the first, had been told to go on, go ahead, 
go far. She had it "in her," was the slogan. 

Step by step her course has grown. Slowly, surely, . . . 
ever so surely. And it all started on the right track, I like to 
believe, because she came from Yu-stun, : . . or because 

she had been inspired to 
live up to being Hope, . . . 
or because "Mrs. Cotton 
wanted most seriously to do 
something to help." 

Seven years ago, Lucy 
and Ruth were brought to 
New York by their mother. 
They had had the good for- 
tune to meet Schuyler Ladd, 
who wanted Miss Daniels, the 
to have HIS good fortune and 
charmed (and charming), and 

Houston is Lucy Cotton's birth- 
place. Way back before the 
war the Cottons owned a huge 
plantation, a charming home, 
and legions of slaves. The war 
ended all that and eventually 
caused Lucy Cotton to try the 

director of Teachers' College, 
meet them. Miss Daniels was 
knew (Continued on page 74) 

Page Twenty-Nine 


Four Fame and 

the judgment of its famous jury of judges. 

After months of work and careful elimi- 
nation, the judges have been able to decide 
upon four of the leaders. This is not a 
final and definite decision upon the leaders, 
and the ultimate winner may not be one of 
these four young women, but the probabili- 
ties are that the Fame and Fortune winner 
is on the quartet whose portraits grace these 

One of the four is Pauline ("Toots") 
Sandell, of 127 Kingshighway Park, St. 
Louis, Mo., a decided blonde type of beauty. 
Miss Sandell has blonde hair, dark blue eyes 
and is exactly five feet four, weighing 120 
pounds. Her age? Since she may win the 
contest, that must remain a secret. Miss 
Sandell has had a year's stage experience in 
vaudeville and musical comedy, and she has 
posed in an amateur photoplay. She par- 
ticipated in a fashion pageant given on Au- 
gust 3 in St. Louis. 

Another leader is Helen Lee Worthing, 

i-grftph hy Cones, San Antonio, Tex. 

Above, Blanche MoGarity 

A FTER examining the thousands of por- 
l-\ traits entered in the Fame and Fortune 
JL JL Contest conducted during the past year 
by The Motion Picture Magazine, The Motion 
Picture Classic and Shadowland, the judges 
are slowly approaching a decision. 

It has been the plan of the contest, which 
closed July 1, to select three or four leaders, 
invite them to come to New York, where tests 
and experimental films would be made, and 
then to name the ultimate winner. The three 
magazines would secure an initial motion pic- 
ture position for the lucky contestant, and unite 
in giving special publicity for two years to the 
winner. With the tremendous circulation of 
Shadowland, The Classic and The Magazine 
this naturally means fame and fortune in every 
sense of the words. If the initial position 
secured by the magazines is not productive of 
immediate success, the publications will secure 
other opportunities, having thoro faith in 

Pape Thirty 

S hapq ^ unp 

Fortune Stars 

of 1073 Beacon Street, Boston. Mass. 
Miss Worthing, like Miss Sandell, is 
a blonde beauty. She has dark blue 
eyes, blonde hair, is five feet six in 
height and weighs 130 pounds. Miss 
Worthing is a Louisville, Ky., girl. 
She appeared briefly in stock as a 
child, but her experience has really 
been limited to amateur theatricals. 
Miss Worthing gave a great deal of 
her time to war and Red Cross work. 
She drove her own car on these 
errands of mercy. While living in 
Kentucky, Miss Worthing was a 
member of the famous Louisville 
Dramatic Club. 

There is no more promising con- 
testant among the lucky four than 
Blanche McGarity, of 236 Blum 
Street, San Antonio, Texas. Miss 
McGarity comes of a famous family 
of border pioneers and fighters, and, 
judging from the many varied and 
striking pictures she has submitted, 
she has every screen requisite. In- 
deed, Miss McGarity played a small 

part in the film "The Forfeit." She was born on 
a Texas ranch, has blue eyes, light golden hair 
and is 4 feet 11 ->4 inches tall, weighing 101 

The fourth is Anetha Getwell, of 1520 North 
La Salle Street, Chicago, 111. Miss Getwell has 
had some motion picture experience in Chicago. 
She has light brown hair, dark blue eyes, and is 
five feet six inches in height. 

It is interesting to note that all four young 
women are blondes and that seemingly all parts 
of the country contribute equally to .the super- 
honor roll list. It is probable that the next 
issue of Shadowland will announce the fur- 
ther findings of the Fame and Fortune judges. 

The jury of the Fame and Fortune Contests 
numbers such notable screen figures as Mary 
Pickford, Thomas Ince, Ceut de Mille, Maurice 
Tourneur, Commodore J. Stuart Blockton, 
James Montgomery Flagg, Howard Chandler 
Christy, Samuel Lumicre and Eugene V. Brew- 
ster. The contest was launched on December 1 
and closed at midnight of July 1, running ex- 
actly eight months. During this time tremen- 
dous interest was manifested in the contest in 
every part of the world, entries coming from 
as remote spots as the Malay Settlements, re- 
mote spots of South America, New Zealand, etc. 

Page Tliirtv-One 


At Home 
with the 

Geraldine Farrar and her 
husband, Lou-Tellegen, have 
taken a home at Culver City, 
Cal., close to the Goldwyn 
film studios. Miss Farrar is 
spending the summer before 
the movie camera and, for 
the first time, her husband is 
her leading man 

Page Thirty-Two 


HERE are loves that 

endure for the lifetime 

of a kiss, the length of 

light laughter, the bud and 

bloom of a rose. There are loves that last 

and grow stronger when watered by tears. 

It was springtime in Arcadie, rosy spring 

in the orchards, green spring on the hills. 

white spring in the hearts of the men and 

maids of Grand Tre. The dim grey gloom 

of the old church of Our Lady of the Pity 

was lightened with flashing 

glances, the sparkle of dark 

eyes below demure lashes, 

smiles that darted swift as 

the swallow's wing. 

"I love you," said the 
glances. "And I you," said 
the smiles. "You are go 
beautiful— ^none of the others 
have hair so soft and dark as 
yours!" "You are strong! 
You are brave!" "I will love 
you as no one ever loved be- 
fore." "I will be faithful 
till the heart of me is dust." 

"It is God's beautiful way!" Father Fe- 
lician said softly; "there will be need of me 
at your house before the leaves fall, Bene- 
dict Bellefountaine!" 

The two old men stood together in the 
doorway of the stone church, watching the 
pairing couples moving down the path. The 
last of these couples was a girl of flower 
slimness and sweet young curves, and a 
youth with the shoulders and thighs of one 
of the gods that walked the earth before men 
grew too wise for them. 

"It is plain to see how it is with them," 
Benedict sighed. "Since the days when he 
carried her, a laughing little wench on his 
back there has been no one but Gabriel. It 
is hard to say when she fell in love with 
him; rather she has always been in love 

Page Thirty-Fi 



with him, tho I think they do not know 
it yet." 

"They will find it out soon, by the look 
of things," the old priest smiled, "and then 
there will be a wedding, and afterwards another 
of God's miracles — a home. They call Evange- 
line in the village 'the Sunshine of Saint Eulalie,' 
and she will fill her husband's house with sun- 
shine and— please God — with strong, rosy chil- 
dren who will lay flowers on our graves, Brother, 
in the years to come. A good world, Benedict 
Bellefountaine, a good world!" 

But the other shook his head doubtfully. 
"There is a shadow over Arcadie," he mur- 
mured; "strange things are brewing. This 
morning I thought I heard guns, tho it was 
but a woodpecker's drumming, and the scent of 
my orchards is bitter like the tang of gunpowder. 
And all this week past Gail, the Half-Witted, 
has been walking the fields wailing, 'Woe to 
Arcadie — woe to Arcadie, the Fair!'" 

To him at least there seemed no shadow any- 
where across the world, only golden light, and 
the strange, piercing pain of bird's mating calls 
— and themselves suddenly alone 
under the far, wide sky. 

They had paused by the gateway 
that led to the fair acres of the 
Bellefountaine farm, and had been 
speaking gaily of the promised 
yield of grain and the new hatched 
brood of ducks swimming in the 

pool beneath the willows, when they grew silent, and looked 
into each other's faces, and tremblingly away. "Zvangeline," 
said Gabriel, breathlessly, "oh Evangeline — how beautiful 
you are, — Evangeline — " 

His voice lingered along her name as tho it loved it. 
He leaned across her shoulder and she felt his great frame 
shaking, and her hands stole to her soft low girl bosom. 

"Evangeline," Gabriel said again, brokenly, "do — you 

The light in her eyes was like stars shining in a deep for- 
est pool. "I know," Evangeline nodded; "it is strange, 
Gabriel, but I think I have always known. Still — tell it to 
me now." 

"I love you, Evangeline." "And I love you, Gabriel." 
'You are so beautiful; none of the others have hair so dark 
and fine and fragrant as yours." "You are so strong, mon 
homme! So brave." "I will love you forever and ever." 

The old fuge of Love! The old harmonies of sighs and 
whispers and broken words with the lilt of laughter running 
thru the old mating song of mankind. 

The sky was red with sunset when they came, hand in hand 
up the lane to Benedict Bellefountaine, smoking his long 
pipe in the latticed door; the light on their faces was not from 
the sun. It dazzled his old eyes, bringing the easy tears of 
the aged. He kissed his daughter's forehead and then Ga- 
briel's. "Let it be soon, my children," he told them, smiling. 
"I would see you happy before I die." 

"Before the leaves turn," Gabriel answered, "I will have 
our cottage built. It is early still — there is time for much to 
be done ere autumn," and he looked down at the girl hun- 
grily, the blood leaping to his brown cheeks, as she lifted her 
face gravely to his kiss. 

Much may be done in the space of a leaf's life — aye, you 
were right, Gabriel, much may be done. Adown the leafy 
lanes of Arcadie goes Gail, the Half -Wit, keening his 
prophecy of woe, and the lads make mock of him ; but what 
of th-ose ships that sail ever nearer and nearer over the water 
toward the Arcadian shores? 

England had asked from her unwilling subjects an oath 
of allegiance, had asked and had been refused. What? prom- 
ise to take up arms against France, their mother? To strike 
at the beloved breast that had nourished them? As well ask 
the men of Arcadie to open their veins 
and drain them of the French blood 
that flowed warm within! England, 
the arrogant, had asked and had been 
refused — what next? 

They looked into each 
other's faces and trem- 
blingly away. "Evange- 
line," said Gabriel breath- 
lessly, "oh, Evangeline — 
how beautiful you are — 
Evangeline — " 

Page Thirty-Six 


When the thunder rolled over the peaceful valleys in a 
summer storm, "Cannon," thought old Benedict Bellefoun- 
taine, with a heavy heart; and when the lightning pierced the 
sky with bayonet o'f flame, "The torch"; and when the rain 
beat against the diamonded casement, "women's tears." 

"My father is troubled sorely," Evangeline told her lover. 
"Can it be that aught will happen?" 

"No, no!" he reassured her from his joy, "there is nothing 
wrong that can come to a world as beautiful as this, Dear 

And so, engrossed in their own enchantment, the summer 
slipped away and the little cottage that Gabriel was building 
for their home was almost done. In the great farmhouse of 
Bellefountaine Evangeline moved shyly about her tasks, her 
lips curved always in a little smile, while the hands that 
smoothed her store of home-woven linen were caressing and 
tender like a mother's fondling the clothes of her first born. 

And as they worked and dreamed the storm gathered un- 

"Come down, Evangeline," pleaded the lover, standing one 
morning in early September beneath her window. "You 
know it is this afternoon that General Winslow has com- 
manded all the men of Grand Pre to come to the church and 
listen to His Majesty's edict, and — it is long to wait for a 
kiss till this evening!" 

"Father Felician says that it is good for men to learn 
patience!" she reminded him, archly; "however — " she took 
a rose from her bosom and kist it, "you shall have this to 
solace you till evening. Come home from the meeting with 
my father, and you shall taste bread of my own baking, and 
a marvellous cake, a very miracle of a cake of white flour and 
spices and citron that came from the Indies on the last 

But the cake was never eaten, for at dusk came a 
white-faced neighbor woman stumbling up the lane 
and screeching out the dire news. 

"Our men! They've locked them up i' the chapel, 
and English soldiers guard the doors! We shall 
never see our men again!" 

Evangeline, white as her kerchief, calmed the 
frightened handmaids, smiling gallantly with lips 
from which all color had drained. " 'Tis not likely 
they will detain them long. Why should they — they 
have done no wrong? Come — let us take their places 
for to-night and care for the stock. To-morrow will 
bring happier tidings." 

But under the light words her heart was sick 
and cold. "Gabriel!" she whispered, as she fed 
the lambs in the sheep fold, "Oh, Gabriel — and I 
only gave you a rose!" 

For five anxious days, 
five dragging nights 
Grand Pre was a widowed 
village, and the women 
went about their unfa- 
miliar tasks with stunned 
looks and eyes wept dry. 
On the sixth day Father 

Before the image, Evan- 
geline knelt and prayed. 
"Lady, Thou knowest the 
heart of a woman, Thon 
hast wept a woman's tears. 
Lady comfort Gabriel and 
tell him that I am faith- 

Felician, whom the English had excepted because 
of his holy offices, came to the farm of Bellefoun- 
taine with a heavy heart and led Evangeline aside 
from the curious serving maids. 

"My child, God is good and wise, and we must 
not ask to understand his ways," he told her, 
"Can you bear ill news?" 

"I can bear anything except the loss of Gabriel 
— and my father," she answered steadfastly. 
'Tell me — what has become of them? What is 
to become of us all?" 

"The English have decided to take the Arca- 
dians from their land," the old priest said in a 
voice become feeble within the last week. "They 
are to be transported on the ships that have lain 
all summer in the harbor, taken to America and 
there scattered so that they may never bear arms 
against England." 

"The men only?" Her face was wild, and he 
hastened to reassure her. 

'No, no! Everyone is to go, men and women 
and children, and their lands are to be seized. It 
is hard, very hard." His faded eyes rested upon 
the peaceful landscape before them, the gentle 
fields, dotted with grain sheaves, 
the little town nestling in the 
dip of the hills. "I had hoped 
to sleep the long sleep in the soil 
of Grand Pre, my beloved, but 
— the Lord knows best ! We are 
in the Lord's hands." 

"So long as it be together," 
Evangeline spoke calmly, "what 

Page Thirty-Seven 


Told in story form from Wil« 
liam Fox's production based 
upon Longfellow's poem, Evan- 
geline. Directed by Raoul Walsh 
with Miriam Cooper playing 
Evangeline, Albert Roscoe ap- 
pearing as Gabriel, James A. 
Marcus as Basil, the blacksmith, 
Spottiswoode Aitken as Bene- 
dict, Evangeline's father, Paul 
Weigel as Father Felician and 
Willium Ryno as the notary. 

"Something tells 
me that I should 
see you before I 
die, Gabriel, my 
dear one," she 
whispered, "the 
time will come 

does it matter? Any place in 
the length and breadth of the 
world — so long as we be to- 

Father Felician, looking into 
her luminous face could not tell 
her the terror that nagged his 
soul — the fear that in the con- 
fusion and hurry of embarking 
there might be separations, 
families torn asunder, heart- 
break and suffering. 

The October morning was gay over Grand Pre, sprinkling 
the red tiles of the rooftops with a spray of gold, showering the 
white walls of the houses with leaf shadows. From the chapel 
issued a file of haggard men who searched the groups of by- 
standers with wild anxiety, seeking their own among the weeping 
women and children awed into silence by the strange happenings. 

Benedict Bellefountaine, walking among the first of the pris- 
oners, gave a great shout of horror. "Look, neighbors I" he 
pointed a trembling hand, "they are burning our homes! Four 
generations of Bellefountaines lived beneath that rooftree, brought 
their wives thither, died and were buried from it — look at it now!" 

From out the crowd of distraught women a slender girl figure 
came running, wound warm white arms about his neck. "Father, 
where is Gabriel? My poor father, do not look at the flames 
of our home — we will carry home with us in our hearts, we three, 
and rebuild it again in new lands!" 

All along the line women were casting themselves upon the 
breasts of their men, and the soldiers, sickened by their task and 
anxious to get it over quickly, were dragging them away. Every- 
where the white face of despair met the eye. Amid their pitiful 
huddle of household possessions, with the whimpering children 
dragging at their skirts, they stood for the most part strangely 
silent, like figures in some uneasy dream. 

"Evangeline!" the call was low, but she heard it with the ears 
of the soul and sprang to the side of her lover. He held out 
his manacled hands to her in a gesture of infinite love and long- 
ing, "Dear heart, have courage! I love you always— remem- 
ber that — if anything should happen 1" 

"And I you, Gabriel," she answered, laying her head 
against his breast. For the first time it came to her that there 
was a possibility of separation, but above the panic of her 
heart she managed a brave smile. (Continued on page 72) 

Alone she took up her 
seeking, sometimes in 
populous places, some- 
times following some 
fugitive clue into the 

Page Thirty-Eight 

- ■■ ■ 


Wild Thrills 
I Have Met 

By Ruth Roland 

THRILLS, expected and unex- 
pected, go hand in hand with 
the making of screen serials. 
After months and months of filming 
thrillers — (wont say years and years, 
it sounds so old and gray haired) — I 
have decided that there are just two 
things that really worry me. They're 
stage-coaches and wild horses that 
like to topple over backwards. 

Anyone can guess why I dont care 
particularly about the horses, but a 
word or two anent stage-coaches is 
necessary. Scenario writers aren't 
satisfied to have stage-coaches move 
in stately fashion through their scripts. 
A stage-coach immediately suggests a 
runaway down a mountain side, with 
high rocks on the right and a preci- 
pice on the left. 1 dont know why 
they have this effect — but it's true. 
Even so, I wouldn't worry about the 
dangerous trail down the mountains if 
stage-coaches weren't so rickety and 
there wasn't the ever present danger 
that one of the horses might trip, might 
get tangled in the harness and might 
drag all the other horses out of the 
trail to oblivion. 

Something like this happened dur- 

■'After months and 
months of filming thrill- 
ers," says Ruth Roland, 
"I have decided that 
there are just two things 
that really worry me. 
They're stage-coaches and 
wild horses that like to 
topple over backwards" 

a scene of "Hands Up. 

ing the making of "Hands Up." One 
of the horses fell and was trampled to 
death, the stage-coach began to totter 
in every direction and I jumped. Lucki- 
ly I escaped uninjured, but we had to 
make the scene over, with a new horse 
added to our team. 

And, speaking of horses, I rode one 
blindfolded with no bridle or saddle in 
I carried a hairpin hidden in my hand to 
jog the animal into action. But Mr. Horse needed no jogging. He 
ran down the mountain and headed for a drop of some 150 feet. 
All the players shouted to me and, blindfolded and all, I dropped 
off. But I didn't escape. The horse kicked me and badly tore the 
ligaments of one of my legs. I was laid up for five weeks. 

Do you know that when they picked me up I still clutched my 
hairpin in my hand? 

Possibly I get my dislike of wild horses and runaway stage- 
coaches from an accident that occurred when I was a child. Mother 
had me out riding as a baby when her horse ran away. I was 
thrown thirty feet but, when they picked me up, I was uninjured. 
In fact, I was still clutching a doughnut I had been eating. 

"Hands Up" required a lot of dangerous work. For instance, 
the Phantom rode a dangerous horse called Rex. If you saw the 
serial you will remember that this character wore a long, flowing 
robe. Then, when he was carrying me besides, he was practically 
at the mercy of his horse. We had an expert cowboy for the task,, 
but he admitted afterwards that, for the first time in his li'fe, he 
had been plumb scared when he rode Rex (Continued on page 78) 

Page Thirty-Nine 


Prohibition and 

By Louis Ray 

New York celebrated the passing of liquor with a 

number of parties. At one of these, given by H. L. 

Meader, Annette Moore, above, posed to represent the 

passing of John Barleycorn 

"Place me on Sunium's mat-bled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
T-here, swan-like, let me sing and die: 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
Dash down yon cup of Samian winet" 

THUS sang Byron — Byron of the 
prophetic soul. While other poets 
developed a national feeling and 
were crowned with laureateships Byron's 
protesting temperament sensed far ahead 
the distress of other lands. His vision, 
indeed, encompassed America in the year 
of the big drought. He beheld a Shep- 
ard of Texas leading sheep-like senators 
into the pastures of prohibition and 
voiced a popular indignation with "a 
land of slaves shall ne'er be mine." And 
then with true contempt for the abridg- 
ment of personal liberty he advised his 
followers to "dash down" the wine. 

Qf course, by "dash" Byron meant to 
drink, though his opponents cling to the 
belief that he intended the cup of wine 
to be destroyed violently. He was a true 
devotee of Bacchus and his fellows, to 
say nothing of his girl Terpsichore. And 
so he might be called the Paul Revere of 
the cabaret. He sounded the warning — 
and Broadway listened and paid no heed. 
And now with the eclipse of Bacchus 
the cabaret seems 
doomed. These resorts 
of the Rialto, these 
oases upon the desert 
of monotonous money- 

A pre-dry wave 
New York caba- 
ret at the Hotel 

Page Forty 

grubbing, these places wherein the buyer, the deacon, the 
broker, the student, the New Yorker-with-relatives-on-his- 
hand, the New Yorker-with-time-on-his-hand, the flapper and 
the grandmother were regaled with entertainment the while 
they paid fancy prices for a hot bird and a cold bottle have 
seemingly had their day, or rather their night, and are passing 
into the limbo of forgotten things along with the plays of yes- 
teryear, the Grand Duke Nicholas, red-light districts and 
Ford jokes. 

It is too bad — too bad for the sentimentalists of Broadway 
who believed in the permanency of the Great White Way. 
They, after all, are the ones to suffer most. The cabaret pro- 
prietors and cafe managers can easily be absorbed into some 
other get-rich-quick industry. Perhaps, they will rush into 
the present bull market of the stock exchange. Perhaps, they 
will produce plays by Samuel Shipman. Perhaps, they will 
promote prize-fights. At all events, with their ingenuity and 
energy, they will not shed long the idle tear. 

But the sentimentalists, on the other hand, will groan 
beneath a mountain of despair. Life for them will not be 
worth living outside of the locker-room of their favorite 
club. Broadway for them will become the Sad, Black 
Way. Theirs will become a life of continuous reminiscence of 
the "good old days" when Jack's was the center of the uni- 
verse, when Rector's beckoned the happy throng, when Healy 
and Shanley proved that Irishmen could run enormously 
profitable restaurants — and cabarets, when a host of Parisian- 
named places brought zest to the town, when the furthermost 
extension of the lobster belt reached Reisenweber's and the 


The Cabaret 

mond Reid 

Cafe des Enfants at Columbus Circle and 59th Street. 
Most of the cabarets will make, it is safe to say, a brave 
fight for existence with the aid of soft drinks. But the snap of 
the fingers will be gone, the jazz spirit will be missing. With- 
out them no cabaret can hope to live. Certainly the cabaret 
never exerted an appeal by virtue of its cuisine. It was always 
the entertainment presented therein that attracted — entertain- 
ment that pleased easily because it was provided to the accom- 
paniment of the flowing bowl. A delightful illusion was cre- 
ated and the patron consequently never indulged in critical 
analysis. So long as there was sparkling song, so long as 
there were pretty women to sing or dance it, and — most impor- 
tant — so long as there was the cup that cheers the patron was 
satisfied. A fig for the chef and his exorbitantly-priced dishes. 
'"We didn't come here to eat," said the patron, "we came here 
to put the bar in cabaret." 

The cabaret as it is known to Broadway and the imitations 
of Broadway throughout the country is an institu- 
tion of recent origin. Of course, it had its begin- 
ning in Paris. But it was the Continental musical 
comedy librettists who seized upon it as a subject 
and popularized it. They gave theatrical life in 
such pieces as "The Merry Widow" to the famous 
Maxim's, the Cafe de Mort Rat, the Cafe de la 
Paix, the Jardin de Paris, the Bal Tabarin, the 
Folies Bergere, and a score of others. And the result was the 
enterprising American showmen and restaurant proprietors 
began to dot New York's landscape with cabarets fashioned 
after the Parisian model. They were quick to see that the 


Sixteen men on a dead man's chest," might have 

been the song sung by Miss E. Hildred, above, at Mr. 

Meader's ''dry era" party- 

stage representations of the French re- 
sorts intrigued the public. Very well. 
the public will have the opportunity of 
patronizing these resorts transplanted 
to Broadway. Thus there came into 
existence here Maxim's, the Jardin de 
Paris, the Montmarte, the Bal Tabarin, 
the Cafe de l'Opera, the Cafe de la 
Paix, the Folies Bergere, and a host of 
other places with French names. 

It was at the height of the cabaret 
craze in 1911 that the last-named resort 
was opened. Under the direction of 
Jesse Lasky, now the most prominent of 
the movie magnates, and the late Henry 
B. Harris the Folies Bergere was to rep- 
resent the last word as a Parisian res- 
taurant revue. A special building was 
constructed wherein tables were ar- 
ranged about the lower floor and bal- 
cony at which the patrons were served 
with refreshments while being enter- 
tained by a revue and variety perform- 

The plan was too revolutionary, how- 
ever. The Folies Bergere proved a dis- 
mal failure and the building was soon 
remodeled and renamed the Fulton 
Theater. Since then the public has 
gradually accepted the restaurant revue 
until now the white-light district is 
filled with entertainments of this char- 

Maxim's, in Thirty-eighth Street, en- 
joyed a tremendous vogue, having been 
opened shortly after "The Merry 

Page Forty-One 


The cabaret on Widow" was launched upon its successful 
the Strand career. Visitors to New York who flocked 
to the musical comedy also had to include 
Maxim's in their plans otherwise their trip 
to the metropolis was not complete. Then came a pretentious 
restaurant on the site of what is now the Brokaw Building. 
Given the name of the Cafe de l'Opera it introduced a custom 
whereby only evening clothes were to be worn by its patrons. 
This custom soon meant an early death for the restaurant, 
for the would-be patrons rebelled at the restriction and nocked 
to restaurants where they could wear what they pleased. 

The cabarets at that time consisted chiefly of girls who 
danced and sang popular hits of the day, male quartets and 
soloists who confined their attention to ballads. Occasionally 
a couple of eccentric dancers in bizarre costume were intro- 
duced. Most of the restaurants in the so-called lobster belt, 
extending from Thirty-fourth Street to Columbus Circle, took 
up the vogue. And its popularity spread to all parts of the 
nation. Visitors to New York eagerly sought "the best cab- 
aret in town" upon the advice of the hotel clerk. And the 
business of providing entertainers was one that entailed the 
introduction of booking agents who did nothing else but route 
the performers from restaurant to restaurant. 

New York in its characteristic search for novelty soon grew 
tired, however, of the cabaret. It needed some other diver- 
sion to attract it. It began to appreciate that the entertain- 
ment offered was not sufficiently unlike that of the vaudeville 
and musical comedy shows. The cabaret proprietors, alert to 
this attitude, looked around for some means to stem the grow- 
ing tide of indifference. And they hit upon the idea of per- 
mitting the public to dance in their restaurants. And to keep 
the public ever interested they introduced by means of their 
performers various dances of grotesque names — the Turkey 
Trot, the Bunny Hug, the Grape Vine. The public was again 

The dance craze, originating in New York, swept over the 
nation. The restaurants became more popular than ever be- 
fore. They engaged orchestras especially skilled in rag-time 
effects, and large spaces were roped off where the patrons 
might indulge their love of the new steps. A flood of gold 
poured into the coffers of the cabaret managers. They no 
longer talked exclusively o' gin and beer, but of one-steps 
and hesitations and this and that dancer. 

Then, one day, with the same suddenness as with which 
it started, the dance craze ended. The cabarets were forced 
again to seek some new methods of separating the public and 
its money. This time they went in for pretentious revues 
modeled after the musical comedies of the stage. Soon a 
restaurant began to be known by the revue it offered. Such 
places as the Palais Royal, the Moulin Rouge, the Strand 
Roof and the Pre-Catelan sprang into existence, each adver- 
tising conspicuously an "after-dinner revue." 

The restaurant-revue, growing each day in popularity, be- 
gan to compete with the musical comedy attractions to such 
an extent that theatrical producers sought legal redress in the 
shape of heavy licenses where admission was charged and 
prohibited singers and dancers under contract to them from 
appearing in the revues. Their efforts did not accomplish 
much. And it was not long before the theatrical producer de- 
cided to beat the cabaret man at his own game. 

Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr., instituted a midnight revue atop the 
New Amsterdam which he termed a "Frolic." He engaged 
various well known artists and a large group of pretty girls, 
and a performance was given which lasted for a little over 
an hour, including an intermission during which the public 
was given the privilege of dancing. The idea caught on at 
once. New York had become ripe for a typical Parisian res- 
taurant-revue. The entertainment was so diverting that tables 
were reserved far in advance. Being presented at such an 
hour refreshments were always in great demand. Thus Doctor 
Ziegfeld defrayed the cost of his elaborate revue. What 
is more, his financial reward was so splendid that he opened 
a revue of similar character at nine o'clock. Morris Gest 
followed Mr. Ziegfeld in becoming another theatrical expo- 
nent of the midnight revue, presenting successful shows on 
the roof of the Century Theater. 

The cabaret men have not seemingly minded the oppo- 
sition of the theatrical men. They continue to present their 
revues, scouring the vaudeville pastures chiefly for their ma- 
terial and eagerly obtaining the services of ice skaters, ex- 
perts in jazz dancing and rag-time singing to woo the easy 
spenders along the great trail of gaiety. 

But with the coming of prohibition theirs will not be to do 
or die. Theirs will be to reason why the land of the free 
should at this late day substitute as its symbol the camel for 
the eagle. 

Paee Fortv-Tw© 


The Height of 

By Hadi Barron 
and Saxon Cone 

Illustrations by Oscar Frederick Howard 

Curtain Rises to Disclose 

THE library of Miss 
Reno Ney Vada's Cali- 
fornia bungalow in the 
most plutocratic section of the 
movie colony. All California 
bungalows in aforesaid colony 
are palatial. This is, there- 
fore, palatial. Vague shapes 
show in the semi-darkness . . . 
gate-legged tables . . . chaise- 
longues ... an occasional slen- 
der palm. At the back, case- 
ment windows give out onto a 
moonlit garden of roses . . . 
and silhouetted sharply against 
the white glow from the win- 
dows are the figures of a 
woman and a man locked in a 
close embrace. The air is 
hushed and breathless . . . 
almost vibrantly wait- 
ing. . . . 

Thru the door to the 
left sound distant 
strains of dance music. 
As the 

rises fully .. ' 

the two 
silhou- ** 
etted faces 
meet in a 

kiss. ... As the kiss gets — ah — nicely under way the doors 
are flung open and several people appear on the threshold. 
They start back as they perceive the osculatory pair. 

Woman's Voice (spitefully) 
Oh, I beg your pardon ! Such an intrusion. So sorry ! 
(The intruders retire, whispering factitiously among them- 
selves. The pair at the window break away from one an- 
other in horror.) 

Man's Voice (aghast) 
Good God, Erne Letterman! 

Woman's Voice (horrified) 

Do you suppose she saw us? To recognize us, I mean? 
Oh say you dontf 

(The man does not answer at once but fumbles about along 
the wall stumbling profanely over tables and chairs and 
finally locates an electric switch. In the flood of light they 
are revealed as a piquant, not to say press-agented young 
woman in an equally piquant evening-gown and a typical 
movie-idol variety of young man. Their eyes meet and fuse 
in a blank despair. 

The Man (with a groan) 
This is a bally mess I've got you in for! I ought to be 
horse-whipped ! Instead of which I shall probably be stoned 
■ — nice little stinging scorpion stones from nice little stinging 

tongues. If I could only protect you "Do you suppose she 

at my own expense! If only you saw us— to recognize 

,, . t j . , ,-, j /-. j us, I mean. Oh, say 
weren t involved too! Good God, dont!" 

I see now — the woman does pay. 
But to think that you — you — should 
have to pay for me — my darling! I 
simply cant bear it ! 

The Girl (hopefully) 
Perhaps it wont be so bad as we think. Of course she 
recognized you. There's no mistaking your inches nor your 
shoulders nor your celebrated profile. But I . . . well really, 
I look a great deal like Therese in the darkness. They were 
even thinking of having her double for me in my last picture 
. . . and in the dark. . . . 

The Man (grimly) 
In the dark is right! I'll say! I suppose there isn't much 
difference, then, between several doses of applied henna and 
hair like the paleness of minted gold 

The Girl (clasping her hands) 
Dont . . . dont, Roger! I can't listen to flattery on the 
brink of ruin. I've — I've always kept so — so free of this sort 
of thing. There's never been a breath to touch me. Oh, dont 
you suppose she might have taken me for Therese? 

The Man (doubtfully) 
I dont know. She sounded so damned pleased. 


Page Forty-Three 


does adore scandal . . . and she's always been hopeful of it 
among us. And there never could be much of a scandal about 
Therese — she's too promiscuous. Besides . . . knowing 
about us . . . and then . . . (with another 
groan, pointing to the jewelled ornament in 
her hair). She must have seen that against 
the moonlight. No use, we're lost! 


«»?? f. si 

The Girl (bitterly) 
I'm lost, you mean ! A man can live down 
anything — anything I tell you. A woman — 
never. Oh, why, why did I let you do that- — 
and here of all places? Why can I never re- 
sist you? Why does your spell reach out and 
take hold of me wherever I may be, whatever 
I may be doing? The scent of those roses is 
not more powerful to me . . . 
not more drugging. . . . ( She 
begins to weep, daintily, des- 
perately) and . . . and we've 
kept people from s-suspect- 
ing for s-so long. . . . 

". . . and . . . and 
we've kept people 
from s-suspecting for 
s-so long." She begins 
to weep, daintily, des- 


The Man (taking her hands •£ 

Sheila . . . dearest ... 
why do we try to hide it any 

longer? Dont you love me enough to come out before th? 
whole world and confess our secret ? Make a clean breast of 
it? Dont you, my dear? 

The Girl (shrinking) 
But — with a married man ! A married woman ? My dear, 
the thing simply isn't done — wouldn't go. No, no, we could 
never live it down. Everybody in our set would snub us. 

The Man 
But there are other places, other people 
look at things differently, who are not so- 
might even go away 

The Girl (with a Duse-like gesture) 
Away? After all our struggles to get where we have in 
our Art? After all our struggles to get in, socially, with the 
best of this colony? After we have just succeeded? Oh, 
I cant ! Dont ask me ! 

The Man (pacing the floor, consumed with remorse) 
I was a cad. I should have thought of you, not of myself. 


Of your reputation 
rather than of my de- 
sire. But you're so 
damnably beautiful in 
that gown, Sheila. So 
enticing. So seduc- 
It doesn't seem fair of you, Sheila, to look like that. . . . 

, . . people who 
-so narrow. We 

The Girl (looking out of the French windows and- giving a 
little, convulsive cry) 
Hush! Here is Therese rom'rig now! She's been walk- 
ing in the rose garden — and she's alone, too. . . . 

The Man (drily) 
That isn't half so incomprehensible as it would be if she 


The Girl (hurriedly) 
No, no, but dont you see? She hasn't been in there with 
the others. If we could only make them think that it was 
her you were kissing. . . . 

The Man (getting it at last) 
By Jove! But what about the thingumbob? 
to the jewelled bandeau in her hair.) 

(He points 

The Girl 
Leave it to me. Go out there (shepoints to small door to 

Page Forty-Four 


right) and come back in about ten minutes. (He exits and 
Sheila opens the French casements and calls to someone out- 
side. Calls: Oh, Rogjn it's cur dance . . . ycu naughty, 
neglectful man! 

(Therese enters, on the umbrageous side of thirty, yet 
holding on to the coat-tails of youth like grim death. You 
know the kind. She wears a gown still lower than Sheila's 
but without the same effect, which she probably knows.) 

Therese (with the inscrutable glance one woman gives an- 
other slie — ah — loves — ) 
Sorry, de-ar, it's only me. 

Sheila (smoothly) 
I saw you, and so I assumed that Roger was somewhere 
near. He usually is, you know. My dear, I only wish I 
had your talent for men. It amounts to positive genius! 

Therese (surprised but willin' to be flattered) 
Oh no, now . . . bien . . . la, la, . . . we-11. . . . 

Sheila (effusively) 
Indeed it does! Erne Letterman was just saying to me 
that Gertrude Van Vleck told her that she heard Charlie Cod- 
dington tell Saxon Sills that the man who married you would 
be awfully plucky — er, that is, of course I mean lucky. And 
then, a woman's success is known by the number of husbands 
she has had nowadays, 
and you've had — how 
many is it to date, 

Four, not counting 
the one I lost naturally. 
That was Bartwell 
Bremer, do you remem- 
ber him? Poor dear, I 
cant help but be glad 
that he passed away be- 
fore Prohibition came. 
He was one of the few 
men I ever saw who 
could drink two Clover 
Clubs, three Manhat- 
tans and a stein of 
lager at dinner and 
still be able to quarrel 
with the waiter about 
the amount of the check 

Sheila (a trifle distrait) 
Five husbands of 
your own — that you 
were married to, I 
mean, beside all those 
you weren't. Positively, 
that is a record! 

Sometimes it's a bit inconvenient, though. The other day I 
met a man at a house party who looked vaguely familiar, but 
I couldn't place him until we had had quite a nice little flir- 
tation, then something he said made me think who he was — 
my second husband, my dear, if you please! 

Sheila (interested) 
What was it he said? 

Therese ( quoting ) 
I say, Baby-Doll, did you know you had a deuced tempting 

1 i .tie mouth ! 

But the} - all say 
vou . . . 


I dont see why that reminded 

Therese (yawning) 
Oh, it wouldn't, except that I got my decree on the 
strength of that remark. You see, it was the maid he was 
saying it to the last time. Men have absolutely no imagina- 
tion, my dear. All of my husbands made love to me in exactly 
the same words, gave me the identical excuses for being out 
late, and said precisely the same things on the witness stand ! 
It's only in moving picture leaders that men ever say anything 

Therese ( patronizingly ) 

Oh, well, it's all in 

getting the knack of it! 

"My dear, I only 
wish I had you ■ 
talent for men. It 
amounts to positive 
genius. And what 
a love of a gown! 
A positive man- 

Page Forty-Five 


Sheila (a trifle distrait) 
A screen career is a great thing, isn't it? My husband 
simply adores to see me in the pictures — I'm so silent, he 

Voices (in the distance) 
/ada, J&da, Jada, Jada Gin Gin Gin. 

Therese (moving toward the door) 
I believe they're shimmying — dont you adore to shimmy? 
I suppose I . . . 

Sheila (desperately) 
My dear — I never saw your gown till this 
minute — there's so little of it! It's a love, a 
positive man-trap! Those shapeless things 
just suit your figure, but (standing off and 
contemplating it) there's something lacking — 

(Therese (coldly) 
That's the style nowadays, my dear, to have 
just as much lacking as the law allows! The 
more of the wearer and the less worn. This 
is what Worth calls the "Eve model"- — ■ 

Sheila / 

Oh, I didn't mean that — but just a little 
touch somewhere to make for — ) 

Sheila (knowing her woman) | 

And what a love of a gown! But there's 
something lacking (Therese looks suspicious). 
Oh, no, no innuendo — but just a little touch 
somewhere to make for absolute perfection. 

(She appears to have a sudden inspiration- 
al thought, takes jewelled ornament from her! 
hair, places it about Therese's head, then, with I 

clasped hands of admiration, surveys her.) 



isn't a woman here can touch you, nor a man who doesn't 
wish he could (old stuff, but it still goes strong). That 
thingamabob in your hair is just what you need, you ought 
to wear one always, (aside) It attracts the attention away 
from the face! 

I thought you would like it when I bought it. Do you 
know, I always try to think what you would like, Roger. 
(Archly) I wonder why that is. It is quite beyond me why 
I do it. 

Perfect! Absolutely perfect! I have outciled 

But really, dear, this is too kind of you ! 
I dont know ... I dont see. . . . 

Sheila (gaily) 
Not another word! Besides, here comes 
someone (as Roger enters) looking for you if 
I'm not very much mistaken — well, now that 
the company is here the crowd will proceed to 
disperse. (Blows them an arch kiss, shakes 
a waggish forefinger, goes out laughing.) 

Roger (perfunctorily) 
Therese, where the deuce have you been? 
I've been looking for you aM evening. 

Therese (pouting in her best ingenue manner) 
Oh, have you! I fancied you managed not to see me rather 
cleverly when I tried to catch your eye after dinner. 

Roger (lighting a cigarette) 
What an imagination it is! 

Thtrese (continuing to pout) 
Positively you talk exactly like a husband at times! When 
a man begins to make excuses a woman may just as well 
begin to make plans — for another man! 

Roger (c&nciliatingly) 
By George, you're looking awfully well to-night, there 



: I 


Roger (manfully doing his duty) 
I hope it's because you care what I like. You know, 
Therese, and / know, and you know that I know — 

Therese (sighing) 
Well, let's walk a bit, old thing. Doesn't the scent of the 
roses sort of — go to your head — in the moonlight? 

Roger (as they stroll leisurely out) 

Rather! I should say! 

(As they disappear down the aisles of roses the doors open 
and several men and women stroll in, among them Effie Let- 
terman and Miss Reno Ney Vada — all very dernier cri, so 
to speak.) 

Page Forty-Six 


Effie (dramatically) 
I tell you I saw them with my own eyes ! Kissing, actually 
kiss-ing. Haven't I seen close-ups of them sans number? 
Wouldn't I know? 

How vulgar! 

Unpardonable ! 
unpardonable . 

Miss Ney Vada 

Others (in unison) 
. . unpardonable . . . absolutely 
. completely unpardonable. 

Effie (cattishly) 

Poor Roger! You needn't tell me its his fault, he was 
simply dragged into it by that designing little, scheming 
little — (pauses as Sheila enters, etc.). 

(Enter Sheila door right humming a careless little song. 
She meets their glances of surprise and distrust with a sweet 
naivete. ) 

Sheila (guilelessly) 
Has anyone seen old Roger this evening? I suppose it's 
due to low visibility, but he seems to have disappeared. 

(Silence, painful and prolonged. 
Glances. Raised eye-brows. Facial in- 
terrogations. Mustached cachinations .) 

Effie (rallying) 
My dear, I rather took you to be an 
authority on that subject! 


Sheila (amusedly) 
My dear, how naive of you ! 

"Has anyone seen old 
Roger this evening?" 
said Sheila, guilelessly. 
"I suppose it's due to 
low visibility, but he 
seems to have disap- 

Miss Ney Vada 
It's worse than vulgar. One may 
be vulgar and get away with it. One 
may never be provincial. 

Effie (pensively) 
If it had been the ducky chauf- 
feur, or that ever-recurring extra man with the soulful eyes, 
or that lamb of a Czecho-Slav you've adopted for a pet — it 
would have been too cute. Those things will happen — but 
Roger — it simply isn't done! 

Miss Ney Vada 
It's too bad, but we shall have to cut them off our lists, 
c'est tout! We couldn't run the risk of this occurring when- 
ever they're guests together. . . . 

The Ingenue 
And then, think of our public! Think if a word of this 
should get to the press reviewers! Not even Roger's popu- 
larity would stand under the scandal, — it would absolutely 
ruin his career! 

(The French windows reopen to admit 
Therese and Roger, the former wearing 
the incriminating bandeau. The women 
exchange furtive glances. Effie nods 

Sheila (gaily) 
Behold the prodigals! I suppose you 
have forgotten your two dances with me, 

Roger (with a melting glance at Therese, 
who presents a rather distrait ap- 

There are times, my love, when a man 
is almost justified in forgetting — his 

Therese (to Sheila) 

I'll have to make your husband's apol- 
ogies, dear. It was my fault that he for- 
got, but you see, I mean didn't see — 
oh dear, I cant seem to . . . anyway, 
you have him now, with my best wishes. 
(She goes out, smiling archly.) 

(Effie and Miss Ney Vada and train 
follow. ) 

Effie (audibly to audience) 
I was mistaken. It was Therese he was kissing. She 
never forgets her role. How nearly I convicted the poor dears 
of bad taste! 

Miss Ney Vada (cutting in) 
And to think how nearly / convicted that sweet Sheila- 
person of such peasant instinct. I'm positively . . . some- 
thing to atone . . . (last words lost as party exeunts). 

Sheila (collapsing into the nearest chair) 
Saved! My God, my God, what a close call! Well, we'll 
never commit that indiscretion again ! Oh, I'm weak! 

Roger (approaching her with ardour, tempered with 
Never? Never is a long day. . . . 
Sheila (rising precipitately and backing away from him) 
Have a care, Roger! Of course, I mean never — except 
before the camera ... or under lock and key! 
(Curtain drops hastily.) 

Page Fortv-Seven 


Sketching from Nature 

THERE is no hard and fast rule or rules on sketching 
from nature. Every artist has his own method and no 
two methods are alike. Every pupil that comes out of 
art school starts sketching as he was taught, but he soon 
changes his method to a better one, or at least to one that 
better suits his temperament and style. In giving my methods 
I do not pretend that they are better than anybody's else — I 
simply assert that this method is the best for me. Take it for 
what it is worth. 

First mi all we must draw a sharp line of demarkation be- 
tween sketching from nature and painting finished pictures. 
Thumb-box sketches were originally small sketches made in 
a very short time, say an hour, and were used as mere notes, 
or samples, or impressions, from which larger paintings were 
made in the studio later on. Lately, at some of the thumb- 
box exhibitions at the Salmagundi Club and elsewhere, the 
artists all seem to think thumb-box sketches were elaborately 
finished small pictures. Most of these pictures had appar- 
ently been made in the studio and had been gone over and 
retouched time and again. 

In sketching from nature the first thing to do is to pick 
vour subject, which must be very simple. It may be a cloud, 
a tree, a road, a fence, a house, or anything, but it should be 
practically only one thing. You will have all you want to 
do to get one thing done rightly, because, as everybody knows, 
the light and atmospheric conditions are much different at 
three-thirty from what they were at three. A few minutes 
makes a lot of difference. If it is a cloud effect we are paint- 
ing, we all know that perceptible changes are taking place 
every few seconds. The same may be said of everything else 
we paint except that the changes are not so perceptible. Not 
only is the sun moving constantly, thus changing the high 
lights and shadows on the object to be painted, but the at- 
mospheric conditions are also changing. 

Having selected your subject, the next thing to be consid- 
ered is the composition. Shall the tree be placed to the left 
or to the right, and shall the top of the tree end at the top 
of the canvas or shall the upper half be omitted? Shall the 
horizon line be above the center of the canvas or below (of 
course, it should never be in the center) ? Shall we include 
that stump in the foreground or shall we draw an imaginary 
line just above it, which is to form the bottom of our picture ? 
Shall we include that small bush on the right and that post 
on the left, or should we make our picture a little smaller or 
a little larger? 

Having definitely settled just what part of the landscape 
and sky we are to include in our picture, we begin by sketch- 
ing in the bare outlines of the things we are to paint. This 
can be done with a pencil or with a bit of charcoal. Having 
drawn accurately, yet roughly, the outlines of our sketch we 
now start the painting. Presumably we have our paints all 
set on the palette together with a little can of medium. I 
place zinc white in the center, light chrome yellow next to the 
left, and yellow ochre next. To the right of the white I place 
Harrison red, next alizarine crimson and lastly permanent or 
ultramarine blue. For my medium I use a mixture of one 
part turpentine, one part linseed oil and one part copal 
varnish. I prefer this mixture because it dries quickly, obvi- 
ates varnishing later, and prevents the colors from "sinking 
in" and looking "dead."' 

I start my sketch by using plenty of medium and very little 
color — in other words, a mere wash. This first painting is 
merely to get my values, and I generally use only crimson and 
blue, with sometimes a little white. I paint my whole sketch 
thus, sky and all, being very careful to get the values as 
accurately as I can. When this is done I stand off and study 
the monochrome for inaccuracies. If there is any doubt, I 
dim my vision by almost closing my eyes and peeking thru 

my eye lashes. In gazing at the landscape thusly I shut out 
all color and see simply a picture in grays. 

After perfecting my purple-wash picture to my satisfaction, 
I am prepared to start the real picture. Experience has taught 
me that if this under-painting is carefully done, my final 
picture will meet with my approval; and if it is not, my sketch 
will be a failure. There is no such thing as "let well enough 
alone" in making the under-painting. The best possible is 
the only thing to do. This under-painting in purple may 
have taken me half an hour or more on a 8x10 canvas or 
it may have taken even longer if I had trouble with my values. 

I am now ready for the final painting itself. I mix up a 
good-sized mass of paint, and with a stiff, flexible, bristle 
brush I scoup up a quantity of the mixture and lay it on. By 
this time the under-painting has become so tackey that it will 
not mix with the final painting. I do not rub it on the canvas, 
or "paint" it, but I lay it on. I sometimes begin with the 
trunk of the tree, or with the house, or whatever the main 
object is to be, and I sometimes begin with the middle dis- 
tance. Some painters prefer to begin with that part of the 
picture which shows the highest note, or brightest light, and 
second, with that part of the picture that shows the deepest 
shadow. Thus, having obtained these two values, they know 
that all others must bear a proper relation to these two. In 
other words, they begin at both ends of the speculum and 
after having gone thru various gradations of color value 
they meet somewhere in the center. Other artists prefer to 
begin with the highest point of light and from that work down 
step by step to the darkest shadow. The only trouble with 
this method is to tell how large the steps should be. If the 
gradations are too severe the shadows will be black, which, of 
course, should not be. Nothing is black in nature. There is 
color in every shadow. And, if we should begin with the 
darkest shadow and go step by step up to the highest point of 
light, if by chance our steps are too large we end in pure 
white, which is again wrong, because there is no pure white 
in nature. And so, the best plan seems to be to place a little 
jab of paint of the right value on the point of highest light 
and a little jab of paint over the darkest shadow. We then 
know that all other values must be somewhere between these 

After having laid on the paint generously on every part of 
your canvas so that the under-painting is completely covered, 
the picture should be almost complete. In laying on the 
masses of thick paint over the under-painting there is no harm 
at all if some of the edges of the under-painting show 
thru. If it does, so much the better. Please note that I 
use the expression "laying on." This is important. The mo- 
ment you try to "paint," that is, rub your brush back and 
forth as they do when they paint the side of your house or 
barn, then you begin to get a muddiness or grayness to your 
picture which is fatal. Your picture must look fresh and 
brilliant, and if you mix your colors too much you will lose 
this brilliancy and freshness entirely. Every object you look 
at, particularly the sky, is alive with variegated colors. Your 
canvas must be very much the same. If you mix three pri- 
mary colors together you are bound to get gray, which we call 
mud. Therefore, it is well to keep your palette clean and to 
lay on your colors pure. If you make a mistake in laying on 
your final colors, dont lay on some more in an effort to cor- 
rect the error but with your palette knife remove the objec- 
tionable color and try it again. When your sketch is done 
take a walk for a few minutes, then come back and look at 
your picture from a distance. 

If it "carries" well, you have had a successful day. If it 
does not, the probabilities are that you have made some vital 
error in your values. 

The Painter. 

Page Forty-Nine 


The Playwright's Opportunity 

By Lee Shubert 

[Mr. Lee Shubert is one 
of the representative men 
of the American theater. 
Consequently, his com- 
ments upon the opportuni- 
ties for the native play- 
wright carry unusual sig- 
nificance. Are you writ- 
ing a play? Then, read 
Mr. Shubert's article. If 
you're not — But, then, 
you are. Everybody is!] 

NOT a great many 
years ago, Ameri- 
can managers 
were accused of favoring 
European playwrights. 
During the war the supply 
of plays from England, 
France and Italy greatly 
decreased, and as for Aus- 
tria, Germany and Russia, 
these sources were alto- 
gether cut off. Now that 
we are enjoying peace days 
again, the question natu- 
rally arises as to whether 
we may continue to look to 
Europe for the bulk of 
plays to be produced here 
in the next season or two. 

For the benefit of those 
who have written for the 
American theater and the . 
hundreds of thousands 
who cherish the hope of 
turning out successful 
plays, let it be recorded 
that now is the golden op- 
portunity. Never in the 
history of the theater in 
this country has the time 
been so propitious for the 
playwright with a reputa- 
tion or the man or woman with the knowledge of play con- 
struction or for a person with a good story to tell, as it is at 
present. The demand for plays with merit greatly exceeds 
the supply. The situation is such that producing managers 
are inclined to offer special inducements to new writers to 
enter the field. 

Which is to say, that the "made in America" idea is just 
as firmly intrenched in the theater with the sincere desire to 
further the plan, as it is in any other branch of American art 
or industry. Managers have always encouraged the native 
playwright, and the comparatively small number of successful 
American writers for the stage is not so much that producers 
make it difficult for unknown authors to get their plays read 
and produced, but rather because so few writers with talent 
for dramatization have gone in seriously for playwriting. If 
we do not get the plays to read we certainly cannot offer them, 
and when we find ourselves short of plays, we have no alterna- 
tive but to go into the open markets of Europe. 

During the war, when the theaters on the, continent were 
for many months at a time practically a dead issue, we im- 
ported plays because new playwrights on this side were not 

developing as quickly as 
they should have. Para- 
doxical, as it may seem, 
it is nevertheless true, 
and despite our efforts to 
support embryo writers, 
we find very few willing 
to take up the profession 
with the same spirit and 
enthusiasm necessary for 
success in any other pro- 
fession. There are ele- 
ments of play making 
that are technical, points 
of writing that are wholly 
of the theater, and none 
can acquire this knowl- 
edge without making a 
study of it. Without this 
fundamental knowledge 
of the theater playwrit- 
ing becomes irksome and 
means that when a manu- 
script is submitted by a 
person who lacks this 
knowledge it has to be 
turned over to a "doctor." 
In this connection the 
would-be playwright dif- 
fers from the student in 
any other profession, be- 
cause he is obsessed with 
the idea that his way is 
the right one, and noth- 
ing can divert him from 
that opinion. The result 
is that the manager is ac- 
cused of being permitted 
to produce only plays of 
men and women who 
have attained some suc- 
cess in the theater and 
are, therefore, without 


vision and slaves to con- 
ventionalities and fixed 
rules of stagecraft. But every manager knows this is not true. 
At best, the theatre is a huge speculation from the time the 
manuscript is read until the curtain goes up on the first per- 
formance. For this reason alone we can hardly be criticised 
for trying to minimize its uncertainty as regards the selection 
of plays. Even the combination of the best authors and the 
best play-readers is far from fool-proof in picking plays, and 
often this experienced partnership goes far astray of public 
opinion. The fact that a particular author's name may appear 
more frequently on playbills than that of another, and the 
further fact that so few new names appear at all, is not be- 
cause the managers force the one to write for them and dis- 
courage the other. Quite the contrary. We welcome one 
manuscript with as much appreciation and with equally as 
much optimism as we do another,, if anything, rather more 
hopeful that the new writer will have a promising play than 
the man with the reputation. While managers do what they 
can to aid the beginner in the theater, they do not want nor do 
they expect a halo for this service, for it is obvious that the 
more people writing for the stage, the larger our market from 
which to select. {Continued on page 76) 

Page Fifty 


w What Every Woman 
Should Know 


By The Rambler 

ARIS is officially known as the harbinger of 
fashions. Time was when Paris styles were 
brought over here primarily for the benefit of 
the extremists, were worn by women who could afford to tickle 
their fickle fancies with new fads, and who recked not the cost 
of a costume which might not prove to be as popular a success 
as it was a novelty. 

But alas, that state of affairs is no longer possible. The 
little woman in Kankakee now knows the latest Paris fashion 
very nearly as soon as her sister (if only under the skin) who 
haunts Newport's Bellevue Avenue in summer, and The Avenue 
in winter. 

The reason for this leveling of distinction is motion pictures. 
Actresses of the stage have long been the accepted means of 
popularizing styles, but today the actress of the shadow world 
is an even more poignant factor. For not only is she, or rather 
her shadow self, seen in even the tiniest helmet, but her salary is 
very nearly three times that of the footlight actress. Lavishly 
does the motion picture actress invest in Parisian and American 

fads and fancies of fashion. So 
quickly does she spread the new 
manner of styles throughout the land, 
that designers are becoming quite 
frantic in their effort to keep the 
supply of exclusive models up to the 

The other day while speaking to 
a Fifth Avenue designer of models 
for the elite, I was shown several 

The American woman is 
learning how to relax 
beautifully as does the 
Parisienne. Bonwit-Tel- 
ler & Co. of Fifth Ave- 
nue, New York, offer this 
luxurious negligee of 
rose pink chiffon and soft 


(p) Undenvood & Underwood 

Page Fifty-One 


very smart drawings of thin young 
women poured into long slender gar- 
ments featuring tight skirts, Russian 
blouses, and a long waistline. 

"These are the styles of today, Ma- 
dame," he said with his suave little ges- 
ture which comes from much playing 
up to ruffled feminine vanities, "but 
for tomorrow — ah — I already have my 
people working on the skirts that are 
short and full, and waists with short 
sleeves. I must keep constantly chang- 
ing my models or my customer — ah — 
she meets herself in the street a dozen 
times in cheap — cheap — copies!" 

Thus one finds the fashions of to- 
day in a rather hodge-podge condition. 
Almost anything is acceptable, and the 
more odd it is the more apt it is to be 
credited with the blue ribbon badge of 

One fact is certain, Paris is wearing 
the short skirt model. The Parisian 
skirt hangs close to the figure, altho 
in many instances the straight line is 
broken by an overskirt of eccentric or 
conventional design. 

Fannie Ward writes entertainingly 
from the French capital concerning the 
length of skirts, " — and the gowns! 
The necks are cut so low and the skirts 
so high that it looks as if the modistes 
were trying to 

Every woman 
should possess a 
dance frock. This 
youthful model of 
taffeta is shown by 
Bonwit-Teller (k 
Co. It comes in 
pink, blue or white 
with self color 

make both ends 
meet and had 
nearly succeeded 
despite the hard- 
ships of war! 
Raymond Hitch- 
cock once said 
that it was his 

Photographs © Underw 

To replenish the wardrobe for the last days of the 

summer vacation, nothing is smarter than this satin 

skirt and ruffled blouse, model from Bonwit-Teller 

& Co. 

Page Fifty-Two 


desire to give a good show and deceive 
no one. Well, the Parisian designers 
have evidently tried to visualize this 
idea with their latest models. A one- 
piece bathing suit is arcdc attire in 
comparison with some of the latest un- 

From Paris also comes the verdict 
for short sleeves, altho because a 
French woman generally insists upon 
wearing gloves, a slight preference has 
been given to the three-quarter sleeve, 
thus compromising with the tremen- 
dous expense of long gloves, and while 
we are speaking of gloves an attempt 
is being made to popularize the glove 
fashioned of glace kid and flaunting 
a gauntlet trimmed with fur, or embroi- 
dered in colors matching the costume. 

It is said that the Redingote is to be 
featured this winter. This is one of 
the oldest garments in the history of 
fashion. It used to be called a polo- 
naise because it was introduced into 
Paris court fashions by a queen who 
was a Polish 
princess. The 
long overgarment 
was a feature of 
her national 
dress. It seemed 
neither unusual 
nor surprising to 
her. To the 

The last of the 
bathing season 
brings forth the 
bathing cape. This 
model is one of 
the smartest to be 
bought on the Ave- 
nue. From Bon- 
wit-Teller & Co. 

Photograph by 
Underwood & Underwood 

French it was both. And was seized upon 
as a new epoch in fashions. 

Today the house of Cheruit is reviving 
this eighteenth century cloak. As shown 
by Cheruit, the polonaise or Redingote of 
today is a long straight coat with a slight 
fulness over the hips. The whole hangs 
limply from shoulder to hem and is girdled 
about the waist by an immense sash. Dark 
serge or satin is the favored material. 

This revival of the polonaise which 
reaches to the hem of the gown undoubtedly 
accounts for the fact that there is a revival 
of knee-length coats in tailored suits. Fall and winter 
will undoubtedly see the banishment of the suit coat 
cut off at the hips, and the popular appearance of the 
knee-length model. 

-Meanwhile evening gowns are of two distinct types 
and the well-gowned woman must consider the occasion 
before dressing for her after- 
sundown hours. 

If she is to go where danc- 
ing is the feature of the enter- 
tainment, a dance frock should 
be worn. These are short, and 
provide a certain freedom of 
movement bv cunnin^lv de- 

Best & Co. offer 
stripes matching in 
silk stockings and 
parasols as an adjunct 
to Indian Summer 
wearing apparel 

Page Fifty-Three 


Photograph by Apeda 

The American 
woman has be- 
come a connois- 
seur of lingerie. 
Best & Co. of- 
fer the latest in 
flowered chif- 
fon camisoles — 
and under- 

vised slits in their 
clinging skirts. 
Taffeta is the ap- 
proved material for 
dance frocks at the 
present moment 
and provides a 
crisp freshness to 
the sultry scene of 
any warm Indian 
summer evening. 
On the other hand 
if dancing is not 
to be the form of 
amusement, my 
lady should have in her 
possession several dis- 
tinct evening gowns. The 
shade of difference is the 
dignity so evident in the 
real evening gown. Long 
lines, a train that is ser- 

Evening gown im- 
ported from Paris by 
Bonwit-Teller & Co. 
The fashionable 
train and jet over- 
dress are favorites at 

with tulle or organdy brims we have been wearing during the 
past two summers are the mid-summer hats of smartest tulle 
that the Paris milliners have sent us. Some of these hats are 
crownless and for those who object to having their hair dis- 
arranged by the breezes soft layers of tulle are provided as a 
crown. The brim of the crownless hat consists usually of 
frills of silk net. Any woman who can match her well- 
coiffed locks with a hat such as this may be sure of looking 
particularly lovely. 

For the replenishing of the vacation wardrobe, the Fifth 
Avenue shops are showing smart satin skirts, as the one sport 
garment that is always in good taste. For the cooler days 
of the bathing season, Bonwit-Teller has imported a unique 
cape which buttons snugly across the shoulders and yet does 
not detract from the smartness of the silken bathing suit. 

Another certain luxurious smartness, stolen half from the 
Parisienne and half from the sun actress, is the beauty of 
the American negligees. Fifth Avenue shops are featuring 
shimmering silks and chiffons fashioned in loose flowing 
models which retain not only a certain lure but style as well. 

A similar condition exists in the manufacturing of lingerie. 
If any American woman today wears cotton unmentionables, 
nobody knows it. The daintiest of chiffons, the most fragile 
laces, and the most appealing shades of ribbon are fashioned 
into the most fascinating lingerie America has ever seen. The 
shops are indulging in an orgy of beautiful lingerie and the 
American woman is turning her purse inside out to purchase 
this most bewitching folly of fashion and — who can blame 

pen t i n e ly 


from the 

skirt, but a 

train for a' 

that, are the 

disti n ctive 


Black over 

white or dull 

blue are the popular shades and 

jet is the thing in trimming. 

Speaking of trimmings, those 
little things that make or mar a 
costume, ostrich feathers are the 
ornaments of the hour. One sees 
them caught in sashes, forming 
ruffles for sleeves, and even used 
to form a whole overskirt. Truly 
the bird with the long neck has 
come into his own, at least tem- 
porarily, which is the most that 
can be said for any fashion. 

A delightful contrast to the un- 
reasonable velvet crowned hats 

Photograph © by Underwood & Underwood 

Page Fifty-Four 





Prizes to be Awarded for the Best 
Photographs by Amateurs 

SHADOWLAND is to have a 
Department of Photography. 
Being primarily a picture 
book, photography will enter large- 
ly into its make-up, but we don't 
intend to let the professional pho- 
tographers monopolize this maga- 
zine. All publications that are de- 
voted to motion pictures and the 
stage, depend, for their illustra- 
tions, on professional photogra- 
phers. This is so from necessity, 
and not from choice. Yet the truth 
is that in all contests where prizes 
are awarded for the best photo- 
graphs, it is the amateur and not 
the professional who usually wins. 
This may not be true of portraiture, 
but it is doubtless true of all other 

Roughly speaking, there is a 
camera in every town in the United 
States and one in nearly every 
home in many towns. The camera 
is a great luxury. When one learns 
to use it properly there is no end 
of pleasure and profit to be derived 
from it. The first thing a person 
does when he or she gets a camera 
is to snap everything in sight. Per- 
haps all the family are lined up in 
front of the house, and after they 
have straightened up and read- 
justed themselves out of their nat- 
ural proportions, they are snapped 
by the proud photographer. Then 
the house itself is taken, then the 
dog, the cook, the horse, the barn, 
etc. But after a time one tires of 
this sort of thing and the camera 
is laid aside until visitors come or 
until the vacation arrives, or a pic- 
nic is planned. 

But there is another use of the 
camera which many have not yet 
learned, and that is, the art of tak- 
ing artistic pictures. In this de- 
partment I shall try to show my 
readers how to enter this wonder- 
fully interesting new field. In the 
meantime we want all those who 
know what art in photography 
means to send us contributions for 
this department. We shall print 
each month as many of the good 
ones as we can make room for and 
we shall award cash 
prizes for the most ar- Water 

tistic ones. We wish to study: 

hear from the amateur On the 

photographers only. ^"J 

Write on the back of Bay 

Page Fifty-Five 


Star the photograph your name and address and the 

Crazing title of the picture. It is immaterial whether the 

print is large or small, but the larger the better, 
because it is a very simple matter to reduce the 
size of the picture, and very difficult to enlarge it; yet if the 
picture is very small it will probably be useless for our pur- 
poses. We cant undertake to return any photograph sub- 
mitted, but each and every one will be preserved, and the 
better ones placed on exhibition in our editorial rooms. 

Following are a few photographs taken by the editor of 
this department some years ago. The last, entitled "An 
Afternoon's Ride," is a picturesque subject and is nicely 
lighted. It would have been better, however, if the little girl 
had entered into the spirit of the occasion and put a little 
action into her pose. It is obvious that she is camera-con- 
scious. The boy was apparently not old enough to know 
what a camera was, and therefore the photographer suc- 
ceeded in getting a good pose out of him. 

The second picture, entitled "Star Gazing," is another 
good bit of lighting and posing, if we do say it ourselves. 
This picture was, of course, taken in the sunlight with the 
lens well stopped down. 

The first picture, entitled, "On the Great South Bay," is 
picturesque, but it has very few of the elements of a fine 

The third example, entitled "A Mid-day Meal," shows a 
couple of children about to have luncheon on a pail of ber- 
ries that they have just picked. The principal charm of this 
picture lies in the naturalness and ease of the posers. 

Editors are frequently asked the question, "What kind of 
photographs are best for reproduction — dull finish, or glossy 
ones, black or sepia?" The answer, in our case at least, is 

that any kind will do, but that black and 
white prints are preferred. Sepia, blue, 
brown, green and other tones do not usu- 
ally reproduce as well as black and 
white. Above all, do not attempt to tint 
your photographs with various colors if 
you expect to have them reproduced. One 
color is bad enough, but two or more 
colors make a photograph almost impos- 
sible for reproduction unless the engraver 
goes to the expense and trouble of re- 
photographing it through color screens, 
which, in our case, cannot be done. 

Generally speaking, there are two 
kinds of photography: the sharp, clear, 
contrasty prints, and the soft, fuzzy at- 
mospheric ones. In nearly all prize con- 
tests the latter get the prizes. It is not 
so difficult to learn how to snap a scene 
or an object with just the right lens 
opening, in perfect focus, and giving it 
just the right time; but it is very hard 
indeed to make such a picture "artistic." 
Study any great picture, such as a Corot 
landscape, or a Millet figure painting, 
and observe the different values. Note 
that the objects in the foreground are 
strong and that color gradually disap- 
pears or "grays" as it recedes into the 
distance. If such a scene were snapped 
with a small hand camera, universal 
focus, all objects would appear on the 
photo with equal distinctness, and the 
only thing to help the eye determine what 
was near and what was distant would be 
the size of the various objects. If there 
were a fence running from the foreground 
into the background the posts in the fore- 
ground would be large and those in the 
distance very small, thus giving perspec- 
tive, but very few lenses would give the 
correct color values of those posts, provided the universal 
focus were used. The same fence in a painting would contain 
pure, rich color in the foreground, and less and less color in 
every post as it approached the distance and on the horizon it 
would be a light colorless gray almost the same tone as that 
of the lower sky. How to get this color perspective in photog- 
raphy is hard to explain- — experimenting is the best teacher. 
In this connection it is important to observe that when the eye 
gazes at a landscape it gets an "impression." That impres- 
sion is instantaneous, and it cannot be complete and all-in- 
clusive. In other words, the eye cannot possibly take in each 
blade of grass in the foreground and each post of the fence, 
and so on. The impression is general. It does not include 
detail. From this fact arose the great school of artists known 
as "impressionists," and what is true in painting is also true in 
photographing. The painter no longer paints every twig and 
leaf on the tree, and neither does the artistic photographer try 
to bring out every little detail of the scene. Nearly all good 
pictures have some central object or "center of interest," and 
all other objects in the picture are subservient and of secondary 
importance. When you look at a picture your eye unconsci- 
ously wanders to one particular part of the picture and that 
is the center of interest. If a picture has two or more centers 
of interest, it is not a perfect picture. Very often a photog- 
rapher, and even a painter, finds that he has two pictures in 
one, and he then cuts up his negative, or canvas, making two 
separate pictures so that each has but one center of interest. 
For example, suppose you snap a very pretty scene which 
contains a large tree on one side and a large barn on the 
other with a road between. Now, unless you have a quick 
and sure eye for composition you are quite likely to get two 
pictures instead of one, unless you succeed in making the 

Page Fifty-Six 


road the center of 
interest using the tree 
and barn as balance. 
Of course the road 
should not be exactly 
in the center of the 
picture, and neither 
should the barn and 
tree be equally distant 
from it. because the 
center of interest 
should never be in the 
center. You may find 
it advisable, before 
mounting such a pic- 
ture as I have de- 
scribed, to trim the 
print on one side or 
the other, eliminating 
part of the barn or 
part of the tree. And 
now, returning to per- 
spective and values, 
you will find it an ex- 
cellent plan to focus 
your lens on the center 
of interest, which is 
usually in the fore or 
middleground, allow- 
ing the objects in the 
distance to fade into 
comparative obscurity. 
In other words, if it 

Above, A mid-day 

meal; below, An 

afternoon ride 

be some sheep 
which are fifty 
feet from your 
camera, focus at 
fifty feet. Then 
the trees and 
hills in the dis- 
tance will be out 
of focus and 
they will appear 
properly sub- 
dued so as to 
give them the 
proper perspec- 

In the next is- 
sue of Shadow- 
land we hope to 
illustrate this 
article with 
photographs by 
our readers. If 
you have any 
pictures laid 
away that you 
think are artis- 
tic send them 
along. If not, 
please get busy 
with your cam- 

The Amateur 

Page Fifty-Seven 


The Age of Propaganda 

By Hudson Maxim 

IN recent years there 
has been a rapidly 
growing recognition 
of the value of public 
opinion. As a man 
thinketh, so he is, and so 
he does. Likewise, as the 
multitude thinketh, so it 
is and so it does. 

The great war has 
demonstrated the fact 
that public opinion, more 
than anything else, 
shapes the destiny of na- 
tions. The opinion of the 
world can not be ignored. 
The unscrupulous atti- 
tude and actions of Ger- 
many in precipitating 
and in conducting the 
world war, lacerated the 
sense of justice and right- 
eousness of all the other 
nations of the world, and 
allied against her the an- 
tagonistic opinion of 
even all the nations not 
actually allied against 
her in arms. 

The military despot- 
ism of Germany was not, 
however, blind to the 
value of public opinion. 
No man or group of men 
ever more appreciated 
the value of public opin- 
ion than the Kaiser and 
his ring of military ban- 
dits. For that reason, for 
twenty - five years prior 
to the outbreak of the 
war, the Wilhelmstrasse 
was the greatest school of 
public opinion in the 
world, or rather, the 
greatest manufactory of domestic public opinion. 

Public opinion, like a garment, is very largely a manufac- 
tured article. The religion, the political opinion, and the 
patriotism of a people, very largely depend upon leadership, 
upon the instructions of their leaders, teachers and guides. 
Therefore, when the Kaiser precipitated Armageddon, the 
German people were unitedly with him and stood solidly 
behind him, because for twenty-five years they had been 
taught that their own self-interest would be served and they 
would be enriched and generally benefited by the success 
of German arms, which success seemed certain of realiza- 

But the Kaiser and his coterie of bandits under-rated the 
potentiality of the public opinion of the rest of the world. 

We must recognize, in this connection, the fact that the 
Kaiser had taken the precaution to back-fire against antago- 
nistic opinion in the principal prospective enemy countries 
— England, France, Italy and America. He did this by 
fostering and promoting in a very effectual way a propa- 
ganda of pacifism. 

In the pulpit and in every public forum and in the public 


press throughout these 
countries the doctrine 
was preached that war 
at all times is essential- 
ly wrong; that non-re- 
sistance is better than 
resistance; that the only 
true arm of defense is 
the inculcation of the 
lessons of brotherly love 
and a spirit of kindli- 
ness and non-resistance. 
The pacifists strongly 
urged that the United 
States should not pre- 
pare for national de- 
fense, but on the con- 
trary that this country 
should set the other na- 
tions of the world a 
great moral example by 

It seems strange now, 
in view of the lessons of 
the great war, that such 
fallacious i doctrines 
should have been be- 
lieved. But they were 
believed, with the result 
that this country did not 
prepare properly for de- 
fense, and when the war 
came it found us naked 
before our enemies. Had 
it not been for the colos- 
sal fleet of Great Britain, 
Germany would have 
won, and this country 
would have been con- 
quered and plundered. 
We had a very close call 
as it was. We got into 
the war just in time, not 
a moment too soon, to 
throw our weight into 
the balance and save our Allies and ourselves from defeat. 
The more the great mass of the people become educated 
and enlightened, the more difficult it is to lead them with- 
out understanding, or at any rate to lead them without first 
showing them good and sufficient reasons for following. The 
time has passed when the great mass of the people will 
blindly follow any leader, without asking questions. 

Abraham Lincoln said that it may be possible to fool the 
whole of the people part of the time, or a part of the people 
the whole of the time, but that it is impossible to fool the 
whole of the people all of the time. The time is getting 
shorter and shorter when the whole people can be fooled, or 
when a part of the people can be fooled all of the time. 

The pregnant lesson that the people have learned through 
the war from the demolition of the doctrines of the pacifists, 
in which so many sincerely believed before the war, now 
serves to make the people more wary of placing their entire 
confidence in the oratorical emotionalism of any propaganda. 
Nevertheless, there is a very large class of persons in the 
United States being led by Bolshevist propagandists. 

By the term Bolshevism, I mean any and all -isms, of 

Page Fifty-Eight 


whatever name, that have for their object the equalization 
of rewards for services rendered to employers and society, 
regardless of the kind and amount of service rendered; any 
-ism which has for an object the leveling of social and 
economic values; any -ism which has for an object the in- 
fraction of any rights which the fathers of this country de- 
clared inalienable — life, liberty, freedom of conscience, the 
ownership of property and the pursuit of happiness; any 
-ism based on the belief that all men are created intellec- 
tually, physically and morally equal, which intends to in- 
vert the laws of Nature in an attempt to bring all men to 
equality, not by elevating the lower classes, but by lowering 
the upper classes to the level of the lower classes. 

Such has been the aim of Bolshevism in Russia. Such 
has been and is the aim of I. W. W.-ism, anarchism and 
other -isms that are being taught, both secretly and publicly, 
throughout this country. 

The time has passed when the mere possession of property 
and position in this world can secure their retention and en- 
joyment. The struggle for existence now obtains savagely 
in every sphere of human existence. Those who have prop- 
erty or any valued possessions, if they wish to hold what 
they have, must now defend them. Hence the question be- 
comes pertinent as to what is the best means of defense. 
The time has passed when the great proletarian class can 
be held in subordination by belief in and reverence for the 
divinity of kingship. The time has passed when a minority 
can govern the great majority by force. 

There is available but one way whereby the great prole- 
tarian class may be governed, and it is through education 
and through understanding that in a society like that of 
the great American commonwealth the welfare of each in- 
dividual is based directly upon the security under which he 
is able to profit by and enjoy the fruits of his earnings 
for services rendered. Hence, the security and welfare of 
each individual are pregnant concerns of every other indi- 
vidual in the commonwealth, because methods or systems of 
government, laws or practices, made to enable one class to 
profit or benefit at the expense of another class must, in the 
end, prove self-destructive and ruinous to all classes. 

There is but one way to salvation and security. It is by 
systematic, persistent and broadly intelligent educational 
propaganda. Much may be done from the public forum, 
especially from the pulpit. Much may be done in the press. 
But above all, and very, very superior to all, is the power of 
the motion picture. 

It used to be said with truth that he who writes the songs 
of a people shapes the destiny of the people. The time has 
now arrived, however, when they who write the motion picture 
scenarios are they who are shaping the destiny of nations. 

What is said in public speeches must be translated or con- 
verted by the hearer from oral symbols into mental images, 
and what is read must be translated in the mind from visual 
to audile symbols, and from audile symbols into mental im- 
ages, for we are able to realize the abstract only by rendering 
it into the concrete. The intangible must be made tangible. 

Again, the great majority of the people it is necessary to 
reach are more actually than figuratively children of a larger 
growth, and like children much prefer that enjoyment be 
combined with instruction. The motion picture most happily 
combines enjoyment with instruction. 

Most readers of newspapers, magazines and books are 
solitary readers. They read to themselves alone. The pub- 
lic speaker is able to appeal to but a very few of those 
necessary to reach. But the motion picture appeals to every- 
body. Its appeal is universal. 

Thus it will be seen that the value of the motion picture as 
an instrument of public educational propaganda transcends 
any and every other means, for the motion picture is supe- 
rior to every other means, not only in special particulars, but 
also in every particular. What is seen with the eyes needs 
no translation or conversion — it consists of imagery, ready 
to be received by the mind, with which the mind has the 
habit of being impressed and of remembering as actual im- 
pressions of experience. The memory is very tenacious of 
what is actually seen with the eyes. 

There is no possible way that any appeal to the public, of 
whatever character, can be so effectively made as through 
the motion picture. The films news services and travelogues 
portray current events with great impressiveness. The march- 
ing of troops, the play of big guns, fighting-ships in action, 
street parades, fruitful harvests, results of fire and flood, are 
all vividly portrayed on the screen, and every person in every 
part of the country is kept in touch and in sympathetic ac- 
cord with all persons and events in every other part of the 
country. National pride and patriotism are fostered. 

Great and useful lessons are taught by power of example. 
Results of scientific research into every secret of Nature, the 
lives and development of plants and animals — all are seen 
upon the screen. The history of past times is re-enacted, with 
the dress and arms and armor representing every period. 
We are able to see with our own eyes how the Pyramids were 
built ; how the Roman galleys and the Roman legions manoeu- 
vered and fought; how ancient cities were stormed and taken, 
and how modern armies and modern fleets bring against each 
other all the demoniacal enginery of death and destruction 
evolved by the genius of this inventive age. 

In the portrayal of the manners and customs of polite society, 
good manners are taught. By seeing innocence betrayed, in- 
nocence is taught to guard itself. But in this respect great 
care should be exercised not, in order to put innocence on its 
guard against betrayal, at the same time to give instruction to 
those who would betray. Although there is evident good done 
in placing the unwary on guard, by showing up the tricks 
and sharp practices of confidence men, swindlers and gam- 
blers, and the methods employed by burglars and hold-up 
men, still there is evident harm in giving instruction to crimi- 
nally-minded persons in the methods practised by criminals. 

The time is here, and now, when concerted, intelligent, per- 
sistent steps must be taken to shape public opinion by useful 
instruction, for by such means, and by such means only, can 
internal trouble, even if not internal revolution, be prevented. 
It is a matter vital to the interest of every owner of property 
in the country, to every man with a home, and to every man 
and woman who believes in the sacredness and inviolability 
of the home. If the home is to be made secure it must be 
defended, and property can have no value when there is no 

The time is here and now, when the better classes in this 
country must act and do the right thing for internal national 
defense, and that right thing can best be done through the 
instrumentality of the motion picture. 

A Happy Mortal 

I am the richest man in the world. Rothschild, Rocke- 
feller and others have larger balances at the bank, but they 
all have more unsupplied wants than have I. If I had their 
gold I could not eat any more nor any wholesomer food, 
could not wear any more clothes, could not have any more 
real friends, could not have any more home comforts and 
could not read more books. If I had their gold I would 
have more responsibilities, more worries, more dangers, more 

obligations, more troubles and more longings. I want no 
automobiles and no steam yachts; no mansions with dozens 
of servants; no stocks, bonds and mortgages to worry me and 
to tempt others; no money that I cannot use on earth, and 
but little to leave for the ruin of my children. There- 
fore, since I have everything I want, I am the happiest, and 
hence the richest man in the world. 

— The Philosopher. 

Page Fifty-Nine 


Where the New Stage 

By Arthur 

SOME sixteen new 
playwrights reached 
Broadway with full- 
length plays during the 
theatrical season just end- 
ed. They call for special 
attention because among 
their number may be at 
least part of the hope of 
a bright future in Ameri- 
can drama. Some sixteen 
is by no means a poor 
showing for newcomers. 
There is hesitancy in stat- 
ing the number exactly, 

for records of a 
busy year cannot 
be as precise as 
an earnest chron- 
icler might wish 
— just as there 
would be diffi- 
culty in defining the 
length of the season it- 
self. Such questions are 
as debatable as those 
propounded by the for- 
mula of "Alice in Won- 
derland": "Which is 
whether?" or "How long 
is when?" But, whoever 
these newcomers may be, 
each calls for careful 
scrutiny to see if he (or 
she, for this age boasts a 
feminist movement) , 
bears the mark of the 
Muse on his forehead. 

To realize the impor- 
tance of this, it is neces- 
sary to r#few the cir- 
cumstances^m a k i n g it 
likely that the United States of America 
is soon to give its drama a place in the 
sun. For circumstances are what appear 
to cause the playwright to be born at all, 
rather than special endowment on his 
part. Without the age the man seems 
useless; but when we have the age it 
seems inevitable that the man will some- 
how appear to take advantage of it. 
There has been no great period of na- 
tional prosperity that has failed to pro- 
duce its corresponding advance of arts 
and letters. Concerning modern drama 
in particular, we have had Shakespeare 
in the Elizabethan period in England; 
the period of Calderon in Spain when 
Castile was in full flower ; Moliere in the 
heyday of the French court, and Ibsen in 
the train of a great aesthetic movement in 
Europe and the Scandinavian countries. 
The great material prosperity of this 
country, with its unprecedented opportu- 

nities for education and better living, has evolved a pro- 
nounced public dramatic consciousness, attested by over- 
whelming popularity of motion pictures, increased amateur 
dramatic production, mushroom-like growth of little theatres 
and unequaled circulation of printed plays. Call for newer 
and better plays has been proportionately great. Established 
dramatists, unable to meet this insatiable demand upon their 
best efforts, have found their ranks thinning through age and 
mediocrity of forced production; and these ranks must be 
filled by the new generation. 

So far, in this passing time of adjustment to changed con- 
ditions, the really great native playwright has not arrived; 
the "great American play" that has been fondly prophesied 
for a decade or two, probably remains unwritten ; universal 
aesthetic attention became focussed on American artistic de- 
velopment because Europe staggered under the 
ravages of a world war, and all the while the 
blossoming period in America awaits the impor- 
tant arrival of the famous Unknown. 

Thai we have a large, untouched, reserve sup- 
ply of playwriting talent is indubitable. It was 
Alan Dale's cook who, by calling her master's 
attention to the fact that she had begun to write 
the aforesaid great American drama, definitely 
separated playwriting as a distinct department of 
American indoor sports. Then it was that critics 
really noticed that in this land of the free (un- 
disciplined writers) and home of the brave (suf- 
fering audience), every bucolic barber and con- 
descending cabman was dashing off a second act. 
For a while the epidemic received purgative treat- 
ment at the hands of re- 
viewers and paragraphers ; 
Upper left, An- and then a serious critic 
t , h » n ) m Pa " 1 gelly; here and there ma(k bold to 

left, W. U. Hemp- , . ,, ,• n -. u 

stall; belotv, John champion the national itch 
Taintor Foote as something bound to en- 

Page Sixty 


Playwrights Come From 

Edwin Krows 

rich professional blood. This healthier regard, dating from the 
late nineties of the century past, actually has brought a large 
number of new American playwrights to the fore; and it is a 
matter for congratulation that the average number produced 
in each succeeding season in the past, has not waned in this. 
Taking the names of the newcomers alphabetically so there 
may be no cries of favoritism, the roster reads: Gustav Blum, 
Hilliard Booth, Martin Brown, Wilson Collison, Harry L. 
Cort, Abijah Dudley, John Taintor Foote, W. D. Hepenstall, 
John L. Hobble, Whitford Kane, Anthony Paul Kelly, John 
Larric, Leighton Graves Osmun, George E. Stoddard, Rita 
Wellman and Percival Wilde. Blum collaborated with Larric 
in writing the Shubert production, "A Sleepless Night"; 
Booth wrote "Diane of the Follies" for Woods; Brown, "A 
Very Good Young Man," for Hopkins; Collison prepared 
''Up in Mabel's Room" for Woods; Cort joined Stoddard in 
making the book and lyrics of "Listen Lester" for John Cort; 
Dudley wrote the book and lyrics of "Come Along"; Foote 
contributed "Toby's Bow" to John Williams; Hepenstall and 
Kane wrote "Dark Rosaleen" for Belasco; 
Hobble wrote "Daddies" for the same pro- 
ducer; Kelly evolved "Three Faces East" 
for Cohan and Harris; for Arthur Hop- 
kins Osmun wrote "The Fortune Teller"; 
to the same manager Miss Wellman sub- 
mitted "The Gentile Wife," and Wilde 
collaborated with Samuel Shipman on 
William Harris' "Dark Horses." A couple 
of these plays were Atlantic City try-outs; 
but theatres of the boardwalk metropolis 
have as siood a claim 

dreds of nights 
on the glitter- 
ing thorofare. 
In no case 
may a proph- 
ecy concern- 
ing a given 
dramatist's fu- 
ture fairly be 
based on his 
play. Play- 
wrights rarely 
"arrive" on 
the work they 
consider their 
best. Usually, 
the drama that 

to the name of 
Broadway as any of 
the sidestreet houses 
that profess hun- 

Upper right, Perci- 
val Wilde ; right, 
Bide Dudley; be- 
Zou', Whitford Kane 



wins produc- 
tion is so sadly 
battered by 
outside hands 
on the way 
that the author is too heart- 
sick to appreciate the laurels 
then awarded by the press 
agent. The most the would- 
be prophet may do is to con- 
sider the dramatist's origin, 
training and possible sin- 
cerity. On the other hand, 
where the desirable qualities 
of sincerity and good crafts- 
manship are discernible in 
maiden productions, there is 
no valid reason why they 
may not found the supposi- 
tion of an earnest, respectable future. 

Most older dramatists, not jealous of their younger con- 
temporaries, are disposed to believe that great success of a 
first production will prove fatal to its author. He has 
reached the top of the ladder at a single bound; but, in face 
of the fact that the youthful Sheridan, after a two-year 
interval, followed his brilliant comedy, "The Rivals," with 
another masterpiece, "The School for Scandal," they feel 
that he cannot preserve the proper frame of mine in which 
to pay future devotions, because he has not been duly 
humbled by his art. But they may call on history, too; for 
John Home never wrote another "Douglas" — and to date 
Elmer Reizenstein has not written another "On Trial." 
Notable in connection with this phase of the matter are the 
names of John L. Hobble, author of "Daddies," and An- 
thony Paul Kelly, author of "Three Faces East." Their 
plays ranked among the positive "hits" of the season; yet 
both are young men of negligible experience in the so-called 
"speaking" theatre. 

Page Sixty-One 


Kelly has not about him 
the same air of mystery sus- 
tained by Hobble. He did 
not come, so to speak, "out 
of the nowhere into the here." 
Before "placing" his play 
with Cohan and Harris, he 
enjoyed a reputation as one 
of the best and highest-paid 
scenario writers in the cine- 
matographic field. This posi- 
tion gave him pertinent train- 

How fine it must sound to them that "Tony" Kelly began as 
a rodman in surveying gangs for the Santa Fe and Southern 
Pacific railroads! Or that Wilson Collison, author of "Up 
in Mabel's Room," was a drug clerk in Columbus! Or that 
George E. Stoddard, co-author of "Listen Lester," worked in 
a railroad freight department — not saying that he was a book- 
keeper, but rather leaving it to romantic imagination to be- 
lieve him a baggage-smasher! But the facts in the case prove 
that one and all went through some transitional steps that 
may be called, in this light, by no other name than appren- 
ticeship to the writing profession. 

Very often this apprenticeship lies in newspaper work. The 

Upper left, Wilson 
Collison; center, 
Harry L. Cort and 
George E. Stoddard 
working upon a 
musical comedy; 
right, Martin Brown 

ing, for in it he was called upon to adapt many stage 
plays to the screen, and, in dissecting them, became 
familiar with general features of stage technique. 
According to his own account, his play was written 
within two months. The day after completion he read 
it to Sam Harris, the manager, who in turn passed it 
on to his partner, George M. Cohan. Less than forty- 
eight hours then passed before contracts were signed for the man who 
play's production — "the entire transaction," as the firm's is able to 
press representative has observed, "probably constituting a write a 
record in the case of a play by an unknown." good news- 

For John Hobble, the production of "Daddies" was a pro- paper 
fessional sunrise. He was a Kansas cattleman, but had by "story" has 
no means the untutored mind that the bare statement implies. fully grasp- 
He had always hoped to write plays; and in furtherance of ed the sa- 
that intention came to New York about ten years ago to study lient fea- 
dramatic construction first-hand in the theatres of the big t u r e s of 
town. Throughout the time he wrote plays, and for a like playwriting 
period — until this red-letter occasion — those plays were re- — unity o f 
turned as unsuited to production. story, logi- 

It is the habit of newsmongers to pick for emphasis the cal sequence 

more sensational features of a new dramatist's past life; and of events, 

much harm is done thereby to the large body of would-be (Cont. on 

playwrights who fondly imagine then that the work is easy. p. 78) 

Page Sixty-Two 


The Misleading Widow 

By Hamilton King 

BETTY TARRADINE had sinful red hair and a talent 
for men which amounted to positive genius. She had, 
and not secondarily, a genius for the prodigal spend- 
ing of moneys, and the non-payment of what she considered 
"perfectly insolent bills." Finish the description by saying 
that everybody loved her nearly to death for the good and 
sufficient reason that they just simply couldn't help themselves 

have men following at her nonchalant, ten-inch heels like so 
many whipped dogs . . . what more does a village need? 
Naturally, she must violate at least ninety per cent, of the 
Ten Commandments. Naturally, my dear! 

Betty Tarradine and her chum, Penelope Moon, had in- 
habited the austere village for a period of three months and 
had a;iven it a consecutive and running series of at least thrice 

and you will know all that it is necessary for you to know 
about Betty Tarradine. 

Of course, the small New England village in which she 
had come across and purchased her "love duck of a house" 
didn't hold the same simple opinion. They, or it, wanted to 
know a considerable deal more about Betty Tarradine. "Any 
woman with such hair," said the village; "and such a way with 
men — we-11 ... !" The "well" was damning and conclusive. 

In such a village for a woman to be young, a widow "so she 
says," to have hair as red as the most delicious sin and to 

Fictionized by permission from the Famous 
Players-Lasky film production based upon the sce- 
nario of Frances Marion, in turn derived from F. 
Tennyson Jesse and H. M. Harwood's stage play, 
"Billeted." Starring Billie Burke as Betty Tarra- 
dine, with James L. Crane as Capt. Peter Rymill, 
Frank Mills as Col. Preedy, Madaline Clare as 
Penelope Moon, Fred Hearn as the Rev. Ambrose 
Liptrett, and Frederick Esmetton as Mr. McFar- 
land. Directed by J. S. Robertson. 

And then she woke up 
and knew, quite sudden- 
ly, with a pounding heart, 
that she could send her- 
self a telegram saying 
that Peter Tarradine was 

that many shocks when there 
came the smasher in the rapidly 
spread information that the one 
and only hospital for wounded 
soldiers could not possibly ac- 
commodate the overflow, that 
some of the officers would have, 

perforce, to be billeted privately, and that that woman, the 
Tarradine woman, you know, had actually contracted for two 
officers to stay beneath her unhallowed roof. It could only 
mean One thing. The village to an inhabitant had never had 
an evil thought . . . but ... it could only mean ONE 
thing! To a woman, at least, the town pursed up its im- 
peccable lips, elevated its head, and gathered its spotless 
skirts about its orthopedic heels. 

Naturally, all things are essentially natural, it behooved 
the spiritual adviser of the village, the Reverend Liptrett and 
his still more reverend sister to remonstrate with the, at least 
potential, Magdalene. It was their Duty, as they saw it, and 
they always saw it. Had they ever failed in the doing of their 
du"y? Had they? They asked the village. Hadn't they 
paid semi-weekly visits to that shameless girl who had brought 

Page Sixty-Three 


home with her from parts unknown a . . . baby? The un- 
speakable girl who defied the village and said that Love was 
All, and that once there had been One who had said, ever so 
gently, "Forgive her for she loved much." Hadn't they 
labored with that girl? Persisted with her? That she 
brazenly went and rid the village of herself by the theft of 
her own life only went to prove more conclusively that the 
wages of sin is death, which they had told her and told her 
and told her. 

Hadn't they visited and visited Seaman Abbott, who was a 
confirmed drunkard with the heart of a child, until he, de- 
praved soul, took to drugs and committed so many frightful 
atrocities that he had to be "put away" where, in hideous 
confinement, he railed blasphemies at God and the ministers 
of God and even the sisters of the ministers of God. Their 
duty . . . they hoped they never failed in that. . . . 

And now there was this Tarradine woman with the in- 
criminating hair. 

"A light woman, Ambrose," the "good Miss Liptrett" told 
her brother, with something the effect of a child who munches 
over a succulent apple, "a light woman, a pleasure woman, 
my dear Ambrose, they are dreadful to deal with, very, very 

During this soul-saving conversation the "light woman" 
was feeling anything but light, which, we are bound to admit, 
was not the customary state of grace with her. In this par- 
ticular instance, as Penelope Moon agreed, she had good and 
sufficient reason for being both downcast and misanthropic. 
When one pursues, or tries to pursue, a high and exalted duty 
to one's self and one's country, and then is circumvented by 
fat, greasy objectionable butchers and bakers, who wave fists 
which clutch long-columned white slips, and 
mumble forth unreprintable threats and re- 
criminations . . . where is the world being 
made safe for democracy? Where indeed? 

"As I was saying, Pen," Betty tearfully 
adjured her commiserating companion, "as I 

was saying to the butcher, all / want to do is to give these two 
poor, convalescent officers good red meat and plenty of it, 
and I asked him what possible harm there could be in that? 
And then, the . . . the brute ... he yelled, actually yelled, 
Pen, never caring for one instant about how sensitive my ears 
are and always have been, he yelled that what th' hell, th' hell, 
Pen, did he care about two fat, wine-fed off'cers when his 
family were eating war-bread and not enough of that! Of 
course that doesn't seem right, but the boys first, Pen, we've 
all been taught that! 

"The baker said practically the same thing, only in a dif- 
ferent dialect, and so did the dry grocer and the green grocer. 
They're shockingly bad-mannered. The gas-and-electric man 
was also to be heard as well as seen, and a variety of others. 
I really couldn't get all of their lists of ailments. The hue 
and cry was money, Money, MONEY!" 

"But, dear, but Betty, darling. ..." 

"To cap the climax," finished Betty Tarradine, waving a 
desperate cigaret which seemed to wreathe its pale gray 
smoke like loving, ghostly fingers about her red, red hair; 
"old McFarland was here this morning, and had the little 
taste to tell me that my bank-account has been ruthlessly over- 
drawn. He was quite, quite horrid. He hinted, and not at 
all delicately, at horrid things. I might have been eighty and 
withered and toothless for all the difference I made to him. 
It's rather a mess, Pen. ..." 

"Did he have any suggestions to make, knowing you so 
long and all that, I should have thought. ..." 

"Oh, he did say that I might borrow some on Pete's life 
insurance . . . but what good would there be in that? Be- 
sides, Peter might hear of it and I just have the queerest 
feeling about letting him know that I haven't recovered one 
bit — from extravaganzia, you know . . . no. . . . Now, who 
the devil ... ?" 

The Reverend and Miss Liptrett having slid in rather than 
await the ceremony of being announced were greeted to 
Betty's inadvertent remark. They took it stoically. It was 
no more, it was even a little less, than they had anticipated. 
She was smoking, too, how true to form she was running! 
Red hair, youth, men, cigarets, they had now only to await 
the drinks and the last proof of moral disintegration would 
be complete. 

"We hear, my dear Mrs. Tarradine," observed the Rev- 
erend Ambrose, seating himself daintily on the tip-edge of a 
dainty wicker chaise-longue, "we hear that two officers are 
to be billeted here. We trust this is not the truth." 

Betty widened her child-like eyes, small blue pools of 
truth the Reverend Ambrose found himself thinking and at 
the discovery of his own thoughts, blushed to the sparse roots 
of his sparse hair. 

"Of course it's the truth," said Betty; "Colonel Preedy 

The evening was closing 
down, like a pair of fold- 
ing cable wings, over the 
Tarradine establishment. 
Betty had been bandaged 
and fed up on port wine 

Page Sixty-Four 


and his aide, Captain Ry- 
mill. We hear they're quite 
dears. We expect to have 
an awfully jolly time. 
Champagne suppers and 
all that. For our country, 
you know. Clever, tho, 
isn't it, to have patriotic 
duty and pleasure so si- 
amese-twinned ? " 

Miss Liptrett took to 
her smelling salts, and the 
Reverend Ambrose shook 
out his stiffly starched 
pocket handkerchief. His 
sister believed in mortify- 
ing the flesh. This, he 
felt, was going to be 
harder than he had antici- 
pated. It was painful, 
really painful. Mrs. Tar- 
radine was a child, a baby, 
who must have a candy- 
coated, dangerous pacifier 
iemoved from her pink 
lips. Too pink, the Rev- 
erend admitted to himself, 
albeit reluctantly. 

"But, my dear Mrs. 
Tarradine," the minister 
of God rallied himself 
from the strange sensation, 
and surely unprecedented, 
of falling into a rose-pink 
mist; "my dear Mrs. Tar- 
radine, surely, surely not 
without a — a chaperone? 
My sister, Tabby here, 
would be only too pleased, 
I am sure. Our duty ... 
we always. ..." 

Betty Tarradine gave 
one of her laughs. They 
were exclusively her 
laughs. "How funny of 
you!" she chortled; "you 

see, my dear man, I've been married. I'm quite, quite within 
the law. He, Peter, my husband, I would say, left me be- 
cause I was so damned . . . so terribly, I mean, extravagant." 

Miss Liptrett swayed slightly. 

The Reverend Ambrose shook his head. "How very, very 
sad," he said, " 'those whom God hath joined together.' How 
do you take it, my dear Mrs. Tarradine ? My poor, suffering 
sister in our Lord?" 

"My heart would be broken," said Betty, blithely, "if I 
had that kind of a heart." 

"Did you . . . did you love him, my dear Mrs. Tarradine?" 
asked the Reverend Ambrose, ever so gently. He had never 
known before what the small word "dear" may come to mean. 

"To desperation," said Betty Tarradine, succinctly; "and 
I drove him to the same state." 

"And now?" pursued the minister of a just God; "and you 
feel now . . . ?" 

"I dont feel," said Betty, rather shortly, and rising, "the 
milk's spilt and I haven't the time nor the agility to lap it up. 
Thank you so much for calling, Miss Liptrett. ..." 

It came to Betty in the middle of the same night. "Its" 
with Betty were always her inspirations. She had been 
dreaming . . . rather horribly. She had been dreaming of hands 
holding closely columned white slips and on the back of each 
hand there seemed to be a face, and each face was the 
round, fat blinking face of the Reverend Liptrett. And then 

"I see," said Miss Lip- 
trett, through frigid lips, 
"a man beneath her bed, 
the man and he is not 
asleep. Not by any 
means. It can mean only 
one thing. Naturally" 

she woke up and 
knew, quite sud- 
denly, with a 
pounding heart, 
that she could send herself a tele- 
gram saying that Peter Tarradine 
was dead and she could show it 
to McFarland and he would ar- 
range for her to collect all of 
Peter's life insurance, which was 
ample and considerable. Peter 

might never know. He was so far away. He had told her 
that if there was an opposite end of the earth he was going 
to ferret it forth and remain there. Generally, Peter did as he 
said he would. Besides, there would be compensation in such 

a sum. The Law of Compensation — that was the thing 

She stole into Pen's room and told her all about it. 

In the morning she wrote the telegram and Pen, who was 
detailed to meet Colonel Preedy, sent it to her. 

When the Colonel arrived he found a most charming person 
with scarlet hair, clad in black, and weeping studiously. He 
was called upon to be consolatory and he was nothing loath. 

It was in such a manner that Captain Rymill, the Colonel's 
aide, entered upon the heels of his superior officer, and begged 
to be allowed to add his services at such a time. "Her hus- 
band," he muttered, "beastlv sad. . . ." 

Page Sixty-Five 


The scarlet-haired widow glanced up, with a coy sniffle. 
Peter Rymill stumbled, apparently over nothing. Betty gave 
an unwidow-like shriek directed to some remote heaven and 
blasting to the ear and promptly, and for the first time in her 
unhysterical career, fainted completely away. 

It was daybreak when Betty sufficiently recovered to be 
able to take stock of the situation. A situation inevitably ap- 
pealed to her. This one, as the sun slipped its cloudy blankets 
and winked redly at the world, began to. It began to appeal 
enormously. Her blue eyes gained two stars and the stars 
twinkled. There seemed to be little red things gleaming in 
her hair. But her mouth was curved in a little, crooked smile 
and the smile was very tender. Peter was under her roof. 
Under the same roof again, sleeping . . . old Peter . . . 
something about it was nice, nicer than anything had been in 
a long, long while. Had she been lonely? Of course not! 
That was too absurd. But old Peter, here, back from the 
war, and wounded . . . old Peter . . . 

She rose and drest and stole down the stairs. She 

"What do you think of me?" asked Betty. 

"What I have always thought." 

"No better?" 

"No worse." 

They both laughed. She never had been able to laugh as 
she had always been able to laugh with old Peter. 

"I had to have the insurance money. I sent myself the 

"Clever. I didn't give you credit." 

"Neither does anybody else. That's why I had to send it." 

They both laughed again. And it was no laughing matter. 
But the morning was so young. Ridiculously young. 

"I sha'n't spoil your game." 

"That's jolly of you, Peter. You always were a four- 
squarer. But honestly, I have been more economical. But 
you see, billeting officers. . . there are matters of rare beef 
steaks and fresh fruits and out of season things. . . ." 

"I know. Charity is expensive, especially patriotic charity." 

"You are kind." 

"Sorry," he said, "to spoil wanted to get out. She wanted to 
your fun, my dear lady. hear the birds wa ki ng up and the 

Matrimony. ' A sacrai roses ■ • ; she wanted the smeU of 

ment y'know ... oh, the morning. She hadn't wanted 
years ago. Quite so. Ta, these things in a while, a long 
ta • • ■" while. Not since she had first 

known of her love for Peter Tar- 
radine. One has to have gone a long way, it is said, before 
one can care about the birth of an April daisy. Suddenly it 
came to her that she had gone a long way, longer than anybody 
believed, under her frivolous manner, under her flippancies. . . . 

Nobody would be up. Peter was convalescing. 

"Hullo," said Peter Rymill, "I came down jolly early, I 
suppose. I wanted to hear the morning throw off the 
blankets. Haven't felt this way since . . . since I was a kid." 

They walked out into the garden. Into the first garden in 
a new-born world. It was stirring from its sleep, and there 
were perfumes, delicious. The morning was delicately blue 
and it was blushing. . . . 

"Not at all. The hospitality is all yours. At least, we 
have no call to quarrel now, Betty." 

"No," agreed Betty, and discovered how ardently she 
yearned for mortal combat. 

"I changed my name when I went away, you know," 
contest Peter. 

"I thought so. Did you suspect that Mrs. Tarradine 
might be — me?" 

"Of course not! How can you think so! And in New 
England. I never suspected you of New England, Betty. . . ." 

"Shall we play the game thru?" 

"Of course. Why not?" 

"I think Penelope is going to like Colonel Preedy. It's in 
the air." 

"Then we'll be a foursome. You always did go in for 
situations, Betty." 

"I know," said Betty, soberly, and threw away the June 
rose she was holding. 

Later on, Peter Rymill came back (Continued on page 77) 

Page Sixty-Six 



House and 

By George B. Case 

Illustrated by scenes taken in and about 
Thomas Ince's California Home 

[Being a department for those 
who want to bring art and good 
taste to their homes, as well as 
comfort and luxury.] 

THE greatest of arts is the 
Art of Living. Without a 
Home you cannot live. 
A Home should be a place one 
seeks for rest, entertainment and 

Chaotic homes cause indiges- 
tion, bad temper, fevers and death. 
Chaos is caused by ill-advised 
decorations, bad arrangements, 
colors and tones not in harmony 
with disposition and personality, 
and last, but 
not least, the 
absolute lack 
of the use of 
common sense 
in the study of 
home arrange- 

It is a fact 
that energetic, 
forceful and 
combative dis- 
positioned peo- 
ples are antag- 
onized by such 
colors as reds, 
pinks, and 
There are re- 

Page Sixty-Seven 


corded cases of 
sickness where 
patients were un- 
able to respond to 
either treatment 
or their own nat- 
ural vitality un- 
til removed from 
rooms that had 
strong colors to 
one of soft neu- 
tral tones, where 
immediately they 
became restful, 
temperature de- 
creased and con- 
valescence was 

If your body is 
ill you hire a doc- 
tor, take his med- 
icine and get well 
or die. Do like- 
wise if your home 
is ill and dont 
quibble when it 
comes to a ques- 
tion of making it 

If you have a 
natural taste and 
knowledge for the 

Above, the 
Ince dining 

room; right, 
living room ; 
below, b e d- 

Page Sixty-Eight 


decorating and 
arrangement of 
your home the 
problem is a sim- 
ple one, but if you 
lack these quali- 
ties employ one 
whom you know 
to have them and 
then leave it to 
him or her, as the 
case may be, to 
complete, without 
interference from 

Dont start un- 
til you are thor- 
oly prepared 
to do it properly 
and then leave 
the worrying to 
your decorator 
and furnisher 
and when he 
turns it over to 
you as being com- 
plete, you will 
find it free of all 
foreign elements, 
confusing and ir- 
(Cont'donp. 79) 

Above, a side 
porch; left, the 
lavender room ; 
below, another 
view of living 

Page Sixty-Nine 


.' - 

Greetings to thee, friend; come hither and I will conduct 
thee on a pleasant journey. Come! Let us reason together. 

* * * 

A gentleman who hangs up his hat in Chicago and calls 
that his home does not wish his name mentioned but wants 
me to tell him my opinion of evolution. First, here is the 
greatest authority of all, Herbert Spencer, who says that 
evolution is "A change from an indefinite, incoherent, homo- 
geneity to a definite, coherent, heterogeneity through continu- 
ous differentiations and integrations." 

After this formula was pronounced, the universe probably 
heaved a sigh of relief as it filed away this plain, simple, 
obvious account of itself. 

The true history of creation is now pretty generally under- 
stood, even by the school children, and as the years go by 
the doctrine of evolution takes firmer root and seems destined 
to be universally accepted. But, evolution takes us up to 
man and there it stops. What next? — that is the question. 
Assuming that this inscrutable mystery which we call God 
was the contracting engineer of the universe, and that He 
evolved the heavens, the earth and the mineral, vegetable 
and animal kingdoms, and finally man — what next? The 
reins are now in man's hands. The will of man now con- 
trols. Man determines what animals shall survive and what 
shall not; man destroys this tree or plant and grows another; 
man creates new varieties of fruit, plant, tree and cereal and 
breeds new varieties of domestic animals; man tames the wild 
beast, makes the desert blossom as the rose, turns the course 
of rivers, levels mountains and harnesses the elements to do 
his bidding. But man himself has stopped evolving. He is 
not so strong nor so fleet as his savage ancestors, nor can he 
see nor hear as well, yet he is superior in every other way. 
He is not so strong yet he is vastly more powerful for he has 
captured steam and electricity. His eyes are not so good yet 
he can see better for he has the microscope, X-ray and the 
telescope; and furthermore the pictures he sees are made per- 
manent by photography. His ears are not so good but he 
can hear better for he has the telephone, the phonograph and 
wireless telegraphy. His legs are not so dexterous yet he can 
move faster for he has the bicycle, the locomotive, the automo- 
bile, aeroplane and the motor boat. His hands are not so 
powerful and large, but he can make more and better imple- 
ments for he has tools and machinery. In fact, every de- 
partment shows a rest of bodily development and an increase 
in mental faculties. 

Query : Shall evolution hereafter be confined only to man's 
mental and spiritual growth? And if so, what has the future 
in store for man's personality? Shall not his soul go on 
evolving? If so, where? Even The Sage cannot answer this! 

Success knocks at every man's door and keeps 
knocking. Look carefully and you will see her there 

trying to get in. 

* * * 

Certainly, I am opposed to liquor selling, and it is a very 
good law that they have passed, making it a crime to manu- 
facture liquor. 

There is no earthly reason why people should drink liquor 
when there is plenty of water to be had. It is also a crime 
to smoke tobacco and cigars, and there should be a law for- 
bidding that. Smoking is a filthy and unhealthy habit. It 
does no good to anybody, and often does a great deal of harm. 

And while we are about it, why not abolish chewing gum, 
drinking ice cream sodas, eating candy, cake and ice cream, 
and all such unnecessary luxuries? For that matter, what 
is the use of dessert at all? And while we are on the subject 
deciding what is good for people and what is not, and what 
we want them to do and what we don't want them to do, why 
not pass a law forbidding the manufacture and use of soups 
for dinner? Why soup? In olden times people sat down 
and ate their roast pig or their bread and milk or shoulder 
of lamb with some potatoes and bread and butter; and what 
was good enough for them is good enough for us. Therefore 
let us abolish all course dinners. Why not confine the human 
family to a diet of bread and milk? The race would be more 
healthy, and it would be a tremendous economy! At the 
same time, while we are in the economy business, I see no 
necessity for pictures, statuary, paintings, vases, canes, col- 
lars, neckties, rings, stickpins, dogs, cats and a thousand 
other things I might mention. These are all superfluous 
luxuries and we should learn to do without them. 

The stopping of the liquor traffic is the first step. Hooray ! 
Let us take the next step, then another, and another until 
finally we will be living near to nature's heart like Robin- 
son Crusoe, the Indians, the Cliff Dwellers, yea, like Adam 

and Eve. 

* * * 

Mr. L. T. B. must wait for his answer because I 
have not yet made certain whether the size of Charlie 
Chaplain's shoes is 1 6 or 1 7. 

* * * 

In answering questions about the salaries of actors and 
actresses I must draw a distinction between real money and 
stage money. The publicity man and the players have a 
habit of speaking in big figures because it sounds nice. It 
is quite true that Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks and 
Charlie Chaplain make something like a million dollars a 
year each, and I guess it is real money. But when they tell 
me that geniuses like Fatty Arbuckle are receiving ten thou- 
sand dollars a week, I am inclined to think that a large part 
of it is stage money. If not, it certainly pays to be fat even 
if you are not funny. 

Mrs. Thompson — The several Bibles of the world are the 
Koran of the Mohammedans, the Tri Petikes of the Buddhists, 
the Five Kings of the Chinese, the Three Vedas of the Hindus, 
the Eddas of the Scandinavians, the Zendevester {or Zend 
Avesta) of the Persians and the Scriptures of the Christians. 
Of these the Koran is the more recent, dating about the mid- 
dle of the Seventeenth Century. 

* * * 

I have the pleasure to announce to a Jacksonville young 
man that Mother Goose was real. Her maiden name was 

Page Seventy 


Eliza Foster, born 1665, married Isaac Goose 1693, joined 
Old South Church, Boston, and died in 1757 at the age of 

^ * ^ 

I know of no particular objection to taxing bachelors. It 
is about as successful as taxing anything else or about as 
absurd. Our reasons for taxing things (except land) are 
usually very ridiculous. They taxed windows in England 
once which finally resulted in windowless houses. Tax bache- 
lors? Certainly, tax all luxuries. The only fear is that if 
we taxed bachelors too much they might commit suicide, pre- 
ferring death to matrimony. Some old philosopher has ob- 
served, "The married man is like the bee that fixes his hive, 
augments the world, benefits the republic and by a daily vigi- 
lance without wronging any, profits all; but he who con- 
demns wedlock (for the most part) like a wasp, wanders, 
an offense to the world, disturbs peace and makes misery as 
his due reward." 

* * * 

M. Miriello is informed that the word dago is a corruption 
of Diego (James), San Diego being the Patron Saint of the 
Spanish. It was first applied to the Spaniards in Louisiana 
but later to the Italians and Portuguese. 

C. M. B. asks if I know how many words there are 
in the Bible. I don't unless I can accept Dr. Home's 
statement. He spent over three years in making the 
following compilation, which time could pe haps have 
been put to better advantage: books, 66; chapters, 
1,189; verses, 31,173; words, 773,746; letters, 3,- 

^ ^ $z 

I don't think that the query of John T. Middoon is very 
timely. He asks the origin of the expression "Almighty Dol- 
lar." I know of no such thing as the Almighty Dollar. Dur- 
ing the last two or three years all the dollars I have had have 
been anything but almighty. A dollar today is not worth 
much more than a dime was a few years ago because you can't 
get so much for it. I believe that Washington Irving was the 
first to use the expression "Almighty Dollar," but Ben John- 
son speaks of " ' Almightie-gold." 

Am I opposed to the prohibition amendment? Certainly I 
am. But I am not strong on the theory of violation of per- 
sonal liberty that I hear so much about. Liberty? What is 
liberty? Where can I find liberty? Everywhere I go I am 
confronted with the "rights of others." May I smoke or go 
barefoot, or naked? — Not if it interferes with your alleged 
rights. May you do as you please? Yes, provided you do 
not do that which infringes on my rights. If I choose to 
say that your form of worship interferes with my rights who 
is to say whether it does or does not? Nobody wants to re- 
spect the liberty of others when he thinks it interferes with 
his own. Where can I go, what can I do, and what price 
must I pay to secure the right to be let alone? There is no- 
body since the time of Adam, except Robinson Crusoe, who 
enjoyed real liberty. In fact, Adam did not enjoy much 
liberty after Eve appeared upon the scene. Liberty is a thing 
of the past. We are bound hand and foot with the rights of 
others. Men are now absolutely dependent on one another 
and we cannot expect much liberty as long as we have to 
respect the rights of ten thousand other men on whom we 
must depend for our milk, our bread, our meat, our clothes, 
our coal, our books and so on. 

~¥ 5{C ifC 

Let every man p-ovide himself with a pair of judg- 
ment scales, in which to weigh the merits and deme-its 
of his fellows. Since the best of men have their faults, 
and the worst of women their virtues, let us put them 
on the scales and judge if they are worthy. To disca-d 
a friend because he has two faults where he has twenty 
virtues, is folly. 

No less than three anxious inquirers have written asking 
me where Hell is. They will probably find out for them- 
selves some day. Acherusia, a cavern on the borders of Pon- 
tus in Asia Minor, was fabled to lead to Hell or the infernal 
regions, and through this cavern Hercules was believed to 
have directed the three-headed watch-dog of Hell, Cerberus, 
to the earth. There seems to be no dispute about this, and 
no other places have laid serious claim to the distinction ex- 
cept New York, Monte Carlo, Paris and Chicago. 

^ ^ % 

Miss M. T. R. is respectfully informed that the famous 
Mary who had a little lamb was a real girl. She was a 
Massachusetts girl and her lamb was one of twins dispos- 
sessed from the pen by its cruel and unnatural mother just as 
it was later dispossessed from school by the heartless teacher. 
A young riding master, named Rowlston, preparing for Har- 
vard, was at school on that memorial day and it was he who 
wrote the verse which rivaled those of Dante and Milton — 
so far as fame is concerned. The famous lamb was un- 
doubtedly born under an unlucky star (although I have not 
its horoscope) for it was finally killed by the horns of an 
angry cow. 

sfc % ^ 

Somebody wants to know if I believe that Fridays 
are unlucky. Being an American, how can I? 


Columbus sailed from Palos on Friday, August 3, and dis- 
covered the new world on Friday, October 12, 1492. On 
Friday, June 13, 1498, he discovered the American conti- 
nent. On Friday, March 5, 1497, Cabot received his papers 
from Henry VII, which resulted in the discovery of North 
America. On Friday, September 6, 1565, Menendez founded 
St. Augustine, the oldest town in the United States. On Fri- 
day, November 10, 1620, the Mayflower first disembarked 
a few emigrants at Provincetown, and on Friday, December 
22, her passengers finally landed at Plymouth Rock. Wash- 
ington was born Friday, February 22, 1732. The union of 
the colonies was made on Friday, May 20, 1775. Bunker 
Hill was fought on Friday, June 12, 1775, and the Saratoga 
surrender took place on Friday, October 17, 1777, which 
resulted in our recognition by France. The surrender at 
Yorktown was on Friday, October 19, 1781, and on Friday, 
June 7, 1776, Richard Henry Lee read the Declaration of 
Independence to the Continental Congress. Let us all be 
very careful then not to undertake anything serious on a 
Friday, for we are sure to have bad luck. 

% 5-; :fc 

Those who believe in lucky or unlucky days should re- 
member that there can be no gain without some loss, and no 
loss without some gain. If your horse wins, someone lost. 
If you had good luck at cards, someone lost. If you find a 
purse, someone lost. If your stocks go up, someone lost. 
Hence, what might be a lucky day for you would be an un- 
lucky day for someone else. Likewise, when you are pray- 
ing for fair weather, the farmer is praying for rain; and in 
summer, when you are praying for a rainstorm, the yachts- 
men and mariners are fearing it. 

^ ^ ^ 

You refer to Pythagoras. It was Pythagoras who said, 
"There is nothing true in this world," to which Aristotle an- 
swered, "The proposition is either true or false; if false we are 
not bound to believe it; and if true, there is something true in 
this world, and your proposition is false." 

% ^ ^ 

"Smart Aleck" is informed that I am not related to Rus- 
sell Sage nor am I made of the material from which they 
make a certain kind of tea that is supposed to prevent the 
hair from fading. You can't tell anything about names. 

^ ^ ^ 

Eugene Sue was not a lawyer. Hall Caine is the antithesis 
of Abel's brother. Hardy 'was not noted for endurance. 
(Continued on page 73) 

Page Seventy-One 



(Continued from page 38) 

"Always to the last day of my life and 
beyond that, I will love you and be 
faithful to you." 

He stooped to kiss her, but a guard 
dragged him away. Their last glimpse 
of each other was a brave smile, a lift- 
ing of the hand. "Good-bye, Beloved 
— for a little while — " 

A little while — a lifetime, Evange- 
line — Gabriel ! 

The ship that bore the Sunshine of 
Saint Eulalie and her father out of the 
harbor of Grand Pre, with the smoke 
from the ruined village blowing across 
her decks and veiling their desolation 
in merciful haze, was not that which 
bore Gabriel. When at last she be- 
came convinced of that she had a mo- 
ment of black despair, as tho a flash 
of second sight had shown to her what 
was to come. Then, bravely, she 
laughed away her fears. 

"When we reach shore," she told her 
father, almost gaily, "we shall find him 
waiting. It is foolish to borrow trou- 

In the long journey she was the 
leaven in the sodden hopelessness of the 
prisoners, comforting those who had 
been torn from their families, bringing 
smiles to the pale frightened faces of 
the children, courage to the souls of 
the men. And even when there was no 
Gabriel waiting at the end of the jour- 
ney she did not falter. 

"It is too soon for him to come — I 
was foolish to expect it!" she said 
cheerfully, "we will wait here for him." 
They waited, and the autumn died on 
a pyre of crimson and golden leaves, 
and the winter came, but not Gabriel. 
Something of the sweet roundness was 
gone from Evangeline's cheeks, but her 
eyes were bright and tearless. "Come, 
Father," she bade old Benedict Belle- 
fountaine steadfastly, "we will not wait 
any longer, for it has come to me that 
Gabriel would not be like to hear of 
us here. We will go and find him in- 
stead. Father Felician has told me 
that one party of our people went down 
the river they call the Mississippi; no 
doubt he was among them and has tar- 
ried to make a home for us, knowing 
we were coming." 

So, with staff and a small pack of 
possessions they set out on their weary 
quest, and with the opening of the 
spring they came to the yellow waters 
of the river they sought. And there on 
its banks they found familiar faces, 
neighbors of Arcadie, already settled in 
tiny log homes. "Gabriel and his 
father, Basil, the blacksmith, left us 
and went down the river two leagues 
from here," they told Evangeline; 
"there they have tilled a few acres and 
built a cabin." 

That night Evangeline dreamed that 
she was held in the strong arms of her 
beloved, and woke with her heart high 
with hope. In a canoe, driven by 
friendly Indians, they went down the 
stream, and on the morning of the sec- 
ond day saw smoke ascending to the 
clear blue sky from the chimney of a 
rude cabin. Basil, the blacksmith, 
came to meet them, but Evangeline, 
looking for Gabriel, scarce saw him. 
The smith spoke slowly, "It is strange 
you did not see my son- — he left me but 
yesterday. He goes to the Ozark 
Mountains by the Indian trail to trade 
for furs. I sent him hoping to cure 
him of grieving for his lost Arcadian 

There in the strange new land Basil 
had set up a shrine to the Virgin, the 
Lady of Sorrows, a rudely carved im- 
age of wood. Before it Evangeline 
knelt and prayed. 

"Lady, thou knowest the heart of a 
woman, thou has wept a woman's tears. 
Lady, watch over my Gabriel in his 
comings and goings. Lady, comfort 
him, and tell him that I am faithful." 

Another spring cast its bridal blush 
over the land. The petals fell from 
alien apple blossoms, and they wan- 
dered, seeking the missing lover, in tiny 
hamlet and frontier town. Sometimes 
there was report of him. Once they 
came to a cabin where Gabriel had 
halted only three days before, but they 
never quite caught up with him. Late 
in the second autumn word came to 
them that he had established his lodge 
in the wilderness ten leagues up a tribu- 
tary stream in the country of the Shaw- 
nees. Evangeline would have fol- 
lowed at once, but the Indians refused 
to take a canoe up the stream that was 
already ice-coated. 

When at length she reached it the 
lodge was deserted, tho there were 
signs that it had been recently occupied. 
Standing in the place that his feet had 
so recently trodden she fought for pa- 
tience and courage; fought and won. 
"Something tells me that I shall see you 
before I die, Gabriel, my dear one," she 
whispered; "perhaps it may be soon, 
but the time will come some time, and I 
shall never rest day or night till, it 

Again began her search, no longer 
gaily, but with the endurance of strong 
faith, the patience of strong love. Old 
Benedict Bellefountaine grew feeble as 
the months passed and became years, 
and at length closed his tired eyes on 
the world that had been so unfriendly. 
"Give it — up, my child — " he begged 
her with his last breath; "marry some 
other and find happiness while you are 
still young — " 

But Evangeline shook her head. 
"There is none other but Gabriel," she 
said, "for me in all the world." 

Alone she took up her seeking, some- 
times in populous places, sometimes 
following some fugitive clue into the 
wilderness. Unnoticed youth slipped 
away, and the dark hair that her lover 
had kissed grew grey, but her eyes were 
the eyes of the girl Evangeline. 

"Have you seen Gabriel, son of Basil 
the blacksmith?" she would ask of all 
she met. "He is very tall and straight 
and handsome, my Gabriel — you could 
not forget him." 

She had forgotten that years bring 
changes. To her it was always the 
youth Gabriel she sought, the young 
Gabriel she would find. 

So, in her hopeless search a score of 
years slipped by and she came to the 
city of Philadelphia, where a red dis- 
ease was raging, filling the streets with 
wagons piled with dead. Here she be- 
came a nurse, and the little figure, 
slight still but no longer deliciously 
curved, was seen in the horrors of pest 
house wards, and gliding from one sick 
chamber to another. 

And at length her search was over, 
her faith was justified. 

She had paused by a bedside in one 
of the hospital wards and gently lifted 
the sheet from the still form beneath. 
An old man lay on the pillows, hollow 
and grey of cheeks, shrivelled of frame, 

This was Gabriel — Gabriel — the 
stalwart — the brave — of Arcadia. 

Evangeline gazed on the wasted form, 
then the room rang to her cry, "Gabriel! 
Oh, my beloved!" 

The lids fluttered back from the fast 
dimming eyes, he looked up and saw 
her — knew her. On the threshold of 
death he halted to whisper her dear 
name, "Evangeline — " 

As the halting accents died away she 
knelt and kist him solemnly, an old, 
frail woman kissing an old wrinkled 
man. But to her eyes it was the lover 
of her youth she kist, to his it was the 
old Evangeline, beautiful and young. 

Upon her breast she pillowed his 
head that had gone unpillowed so long, 
and so held he. slipped out of life, his 
lips even in death forming her name. 

Over the lifeless head Evangeline 
bowed her own. "Father," she whis- 
pered, "Father, I thank Thee!" 

This is the tale of Evangeline and 
her love. This is a tale of a love that 
was patient and brave and strong, and 
if tears shall fall in the telling they are 
not tears of sorrow, but of thankfulness, 
and we may say with Evangeline: 

"Father, we thank Thee that such 
things may be." 

Page Seventy-Two 


(Continued from page 71) 
Samuel Smiles was not over cheerful. Howells is not at all 
boisterous. Longfellow was not tall. Gay was not noted for 
gaiety. Burns was not at all fiery. Chatterton was nothing 
of a chatterbox. Akenside had no such pains. Goldsmith 

saw but little gold and less jewelry. 

% % % 

Roger Bacon was an astrologer and an alchemist, and 
while in search of the Philosopher's Stone, discovered gun- 
powder by accident. It was this, more than anything else, 
that made Roger famous; but, when future historians come 
to estimate the results of this seeming great discovery, they 

will write it infamous. 

^ ^ ^ 

A correspondent asks me to print the most famous of Lim- 
ericks. Nobody can say which is the most famous, for there 
are several that have gone the rounds and which are repeated 
year after year, among which I will mention two: 

There was once a man with a beard 
Who said, ""lis just as I feared, 

Two Owls and a Hen, 

Four Larks and a Wren 
Have all built their nests in my beard!" 

In the drinking well 

(Which the plumber built her,'; 

Aunt Eliza fell, 

We must buy a filter. 

^ sfc ^ 

A high school lad wants to know the maxims of the seven 
wise men of Greece. Here they are: 

Know thy opportunity Pittacus. 

Most men are bad. — Bias. 

Know thyself. — Solon. 

Consider the end. — Chilon. 

Avoid excess. — Cleobulus. 

Nothing is impossible to industry. — Periander. 

Suretyship is the precursor of ruin. — Thales. 

That Rousseau was at times addicted to the use of unrea- 
soned superstitions is shown in his "Confessions." On that 
memorable day at Les Charmettes, being distressed with 
doubts as to the safety of his soul, he sought to determine the 
point by throwing a stone at a tree. "Hit, sign of salvation; 
miss, sign of damnation!" The tree being near at hand and 
a large one, the result was of course reassuring. 

^K 5js ^ 


If, while on this earth, we live such lives as have created 
personalities worthy of immortality, worthy of perpetuation, 
worthy of a nobler end and wider scope than this w T orld af- 
fords, does it not seem reasonable that those personalities 
shall go on evolving like every other living thing? The 
fittest of every species always survives — never dies. All 
nature proclaims this law. Nothing can be destroyed. The 
minutest atom will exist forever. When we have, or God 
has, created a superior character, soul or personality that has 
made the best of its environment, circumstances and possi- 
bilities, can we, by any stretch of the imagination or by any 
law of nature or of evolution, say that it is probable that 
that soul, character or personality shall be destroyed at the 
grave? The case or body goes back to mother earth whence 
it came, for it is only a dwelling, but the soul must go back 
to the God that created it. The brain dies, but that is but 
a workshop. The body is soon absorbed and becomes a part 
of nature's materials. But the Intelligence, the Will, the 
Personality, must leave its temporary residence and cannot 
die. If the soul has evolved and improved, while on earth, 
it seems reasonable to assume that it will go on evolving and 
improving in some higher form of life. It is the law T of 
growth. It is the struggle for permanency of existence. 

Victor Hugo said that the greatest Pelasgian was Homer; 
the greatest Hellen, /Eschilles; the greatest Hebrew, Isaiah, 
the greatest Roman, Juvenal; the greatest Italian, Dante; and 
the greatest Briton, Shakespeare. 

Not every person will agree with V. H. If a vote were to 
be taken, Moses would probably get more votes than Isaiah, 
and either Julius Cozsar or Augustus or Marcus Aurelius 
more than Juvenal, and if the list were extended, Franklin 
might be named the greatest American, Goethe the greatest 
German, and perhaps Hugo himself the greatest Frenchman. 

^ % % 

Was it not a mistake to build us with ears facing for- 
ward, to hear all the good that others say to our face? 
For, if they faced aft, we might profit more by hearing 
the truth spoken behind our backs. 

^ *K % 

G. T. R. — 16, is informed that '"Her Condoned Sin" was 
an old Biograph- Griffith 6-reeler, with these players: Blanche 
Sweet, Henry Walthall, Mae Marsh, Robert Harron, Lillian 
Gish, Dorothy Gish and Gertrude Bambrick. It was reissued 
January, 1917. Note that all these players are now stars, 
whereas when they played in this picture probably not one of 
them got more than $50 a week. 

% * * 

Thank you, "The Jaks," jolly tar, for your interesting let- 
ter. Heave ho, my lads, heave ho, and bring you back to 
terra firma. Hope you will like The Sage better than The 
Answer Man. (Course you will!) 

* * * 

Think nothing but beautiful thoughts of beautiful 
things. Dream of nothing but beautiful color and ten- 
der hues: Seek for nothing but lovely tones and 

graceful lines. 

% % % 

The reason that all human beings of both sexes — young 
and old, big and little, ignorant and learned — respect gray 
hairs, is that we all intuitively feel the superiority of the sea- 
soned and matured mind. Otherwise we should despise them 
as we do things that are going into decay. Not one man in 
a thousand is ripe until he is sixty, and until that time his 
opinion is not worth much. Young men for action, for fight- 
ing and all physical pursuits, but for everything else the man 
of middle age — which is from fifty to seventy (always pro- 
vided that man has lived sensibly and temperately) for not 
until about fifty or sixty do we really come into possession 
of our best faculties. 

Put not your faith in astrologers, dear Miss T. B. Zoroas- 
ter, Pharaoh, Nebuchadnezzar, Cwsar, Crassus, Pompey, Dia- 
tharus, Nero, Julian the Apostate and Napoleon all perished 
unfortunately, yet they had been promised all things aus- 
picious and favorable in the predictions of the astrologers. 

^ ^ sfc 

The star of empire rises in the south, soars northward and 
sets in the west. From Rome to London, from London to 
New York, from New York to Chicago, and from Chicago 
to San Francisco mil be the march of the power center, and 
the Pacific coast will lead all others in population. Egypt 
and Assyria were once the world powers; then the scepter 
passed north and west to Rome and Greece, then to Spain 
and France, then to Germany, then to Great Britain, then 
across the Atlantic, and next it will pass across the continent. 
The north always conquers the south, in the long run, for 
the northerners are always hardier and the southerners more 
indolent owing to nature's indulgence. Ten out of eleven 
people live north of the equator. The farther north they get, 
the harder they have to work and hence the better they are. 

This little essay will suffice as an answer to "Socrates," who 
desired to be the first correspondent to have his question an- 
swered in the first issue of Shadowland. His wish has come 
true, but his was not the first letter received. THE SAGE. 

Page Seventy-Three 



(Continued from page 29) 

that her friend, Alon Bement, the head 
of the Art Glasses in the University, 
would be also. Indeed, Mr. Bement 
asked the girls to please be kind enough 
to pose for a portrait that one of his 
classes was doing. And somehow, some 
way, it slipped out thru the pupils, to 
the ears of Charles Frederick Nagle, 
the painter, that here had been discov- 
ered unusual models. He called on 
them at the Hargrave Hotel, and it was 
arranged that they pose for him as 
Martha and Mary in the phase when 
Jesus is approaching. It is in the Brit- 
ish Museum now, known as "The 
Home in Bethany." Following that, 
consequently, came the acquaintance- 
ship with Howard Chandler Christy 
and Charles Dana Gibson. They sat 
for them, and also for a head done by 
Emile Fuche, called "A Study in Blue 
Gray," which today has its place in a 
Fifth Avenue gallery. 

One Sunday morning, Lucy awoke to 
find that Harrison Fisher had declared 
to a dozen newspapers (illustrating 
with a photograph), that in Miss Cotton 
could be decried the ideal Southern 
beauty type. Ariadne Holmes Ed- 
wardes, the composer, happened to men- 
tion, while her maid was within ear- 
shot, "I'd like to meet that girl!" and 
Hattie right-about-faced and said, "You 
can, she lives on the floor below. I at- 
tend to her suite. Do you want to be 

"It is from Mrs. Edwardes," Lucy 
said, as she was being helped into her 
gown, "that everything I have now had 
its source. It's funny, isn't it? — people 
warned me that without influence with 
men I should never get along. And 
yet, all the potent things that ever hap- 
pened to me came because of just such 
sweethearts as Ariadne. She knew my 
longing for the stage, — the way I had 
been trained for it, — and that the best 
possible way to begin would be in the 
chorus. She took me to Ina Claire, 
who was then at the Park Theatre mak- 
ing 'The Quaker Girl' a hit. They 
were only going to play six weeks more, 
but Miss Claire had me placed in the 
company, and told me to watch her 
closely, so that if the chance ever pre- 
sented itself I could go on as her un- 

"I loved what I had to do. I for- 
got I was in the chorus. I absorbed 
every mannerism of Miss Claire, and 
subconsciously memorized her lines. 
In the wings, Clifton Crawford often 
was kmd enough to show me the dance. 
Well, the very Inst week of the per- 
formance, Miss Claire was taken ill, 
and I was called upon. I went thru 
the whole thing in a daze. I couldn't 
believe that it had happened. That I 
was there, the Quaker Girl, singing 
. . . and dancing on Broadway. 

"One more channel opened, like that 
when we were in Boston, and it was 
after that performance that Otto Har- 
bach said to me, 'Some day I should 
like to write a part for you in one of 
my plays.' And, jokes of jokes, here I 
have been running all season in 'Up In 
Mabel's Room' — his play. 

"Another coincidence was when Mr. 
Brady engaged me to be MEG in LIT- 
TLE WOMEN, and I went back to 
Houston and performed in the very the- 
atre that I had seen Mr. Brady's wife, 
Grace George in, a few years ago, — 
and had been so thrilled that it was 
then my desire I knew was ... to 

Miss Cotton unearthed from out the 
tissue paper two miniature satin 
pumps. She fingered them lightly as 
she adjusted orange blossoms in their 
lace rosettes. Then she continued: 
" 'Polygamy' followed the next season. 
It was a fortunate experience to be in 
the same cast as Katherine Emmet, Wil- 
lard Mack, Ramsaye Wallace, Crystal 
Heme, Mary Shaw and Howard Kyle. 
But that ended, too, and I was then 
placed in 'Suki.' The part I did not 
care for. Something told me to change. 
And we should obey our instincts. In- 
stinct is the first prompting we hear. 
It is the Little Voice. Argument is 
the thing that comes on top of that and 
tries to make us fluctuate. Well, I did 
not wait for . . . argument. I went 
direct to Augustus Thomas and ex- 
plained. He laughed at me for awhile. 
He even asked me if I thought I was a 
great tragedienne. But when I told him 
I thought he was only joking to ask that 
of me, he sent me to John Golden, who 
introduced me to his partner, Winchell 
Smith, who said he had THE part for 
me, and which for two years kept me 
playing in 'Turn to the Right.' ' 

Lucy's charm instantly opens up all 
the hearts of those with whom she comes 
in contact. And yet, ultimately, when 
her triumph does blaze forth, it will be 
because of being capable. If she de- 
velops into our leading American ac- 
tress, we should also remember that had 
it been destined otherwise, she could 
have used her voice in operetta, or 
twirled herself into the place of premier 


(Continued from page 25) 

called to the footlights Fay Bainter's 
sister chatter! with me. "She wont talk 
about herself," I said, rather desperate- 
ly, "she's gone with positive enthusiasm 
into the lives and histories of all these 
other people . . . but about herself 

"Faysie is always like that," said her 
sister, "and she's just a dear, a perfect 
dear, too sweet and lovely for anything. 
She is our 'papa' we say at home, pay- 

ing all the bills, making all our plans, 
running everything, at least financially. 
Of course, when she's actually at home 
we don't allow her to be bothered with 
anything in the running of the house, 
but she orders the servants and attends 
to leasing and the banking and all that 
sort of thing. She's the very best sort 
of a 'papa.' 

"We always knew Fay would be fa- 
mous, altho she never seemed to har- 
bor that idea herself — ever since I 
can remember Fay has been the bright- 
est child, the brightest girl in any gath- 
ering of people in which she has ever 
found herself . . . and popular . . . 
she really ought to have a protective 
barrage to keep her from being over- 

"She's so unspoiled," I remarked, 
"and so full of that misused term, 
'pep.' " 

"She never thinks of herself at all," 
her sister said, with a little, loving 
reminiscent smile; "and she is always 
just as you have seen her today, just 
crazy about everything and everyone 
and full of interest in the hopes and 
plans of other people." 

Various people at various times have 
written learned tomes on the power of 
personality, on sheer personality, on 
personality plus, etc., etc. A talk with 
Fay Bainter is a mere matter of taking 
these philosophizings in concentrated, 
palatable form. 

She is not beautiful, with the beauty 
of the bisque doll. She has neither a 
classical nose nor a classical mouth. 
She hasn't extraordinary eyes nor a 
Ziegfeld Follies figure. She isn't sweet 
eighteen, or whatever the proscribed 
age may be. She hasn't adopted any 
pose. She doesn't carry with her a bag- 
ful of mannerisms. She doesn't try to 
"make the best of herself." She is dis- 
tinct as well as distinctive merely be- 
cause she simply and literally cannot 
help it. She is supremely herself. 

If she were divested of her super- 
abundant life, if she were to become 
inanimate, mere clay — one might well 
imagine passing her by without com- 
ment, without surmise. Therefore, she 
is sheerly personality triumphing over 
the little matter of eyes and nose and 
mouth. One looks at her and knows 
that she is not beautiful. Yet one looks 
at her and is ready to swear that she is. 
The main point is that one keeps on 
looking. She is charm made flesh and 
blood. She is personality made mani- 
fest on Broadway. She is great be- 
cause she honestly believes that she is 
not. She is unnatural because she is so 
completely natural. She is more than 
human because she is so intensely, 
nearly and dearly human. She is Fay 
Bainter. And if an interviewer wrote 
that sentence and then stopped he, or 
she, would have written the first and 
the last word— the perfect interview. 
She is Fay Bainter. 

Page Seventy-Four 



"In nothing do men approach so nearly to the Gods as in giving 
health to man." — Cicero. 

And thus do I find myself sitting on the same white-washed fence 
with the other Gods. 

^ ^ ^ 

What is the most important thing in the world? Drum- 
mond said that the greatest thing in the world was love, but 
I don't agree with him. What good is money, love, influence, 
popularity, books, art, music, land and estates, yea, a king- 
dom, without health. Yes, indeed health is the most important 
thing in the world. If it is health, how much do you know 
about it? Horace Fletcher made some bad mistakes, one of 
which sent him to a premature grave, but, nevertheless, he 
said some very wise things, among them the following : 

"Were I an iron and steel automobile, instead of a flesh and blood 
automobile, which I really am, could I get a license for myself, as a 
chauffeur, to run myself with safety, based upon my knowledge of 
my own mechanism and theory and development of my power?" 

If you are in good health you will probably pass this para- 
graph and think no more of it; but some day you will find 
yourself on the sick list, and then you will wish that you 
had obtained a license to run your machine intelligently. So 
halt, brother, and read this sign: 

"Don't exceed the speed limit." 

If you do, you will be arrested and then the doctors will 
take you in charge. 

I don't know whether I would rather be in the hands of 
the doctors or of the sheriff and jailers. If in the latter, I 
would stand a fair chance of getting out; if the former, the 
Lord knows whether I would ever get out at all, at all. There 
are doctors and doctors. No two were ever known to agree 
upon the same thing. I can quote eminent authorities on 
both sides of any question. I can prove that milk is the best 
food possible and that it is the worst food possible. I can 
prove that two meals a day is the best kind of life insurance 
and I can prove that two meals a day is signing one's death 
warrant. I can prove that exercise is excellent and I can 
prove that it is fatal. And so on, and so on. 

There is really only one doctor in the world, and his name 
is Doctor Nature. All other physicians are simply assist- 
ants to Doctor Nature. Every wise doctor will tell you, when 
you are laid up with typhoid or some other disease, that he 
can't cure you, that the disease must run its course, and all 
he can do is to keep you comfortable and prevent infection. 
If you cut your finger, everybody knows that Doctor Nature 
will heal it up for you if you give him a chance. From your 
own human medicine chest he will send down to the spot 
just the right chemicals to heal the wound. All you have to 
do is to keep all foreign substances from the wound so that 
Doctor Nature can do his work unmolested. A little peroxide 
or something of that sort simply to keep Doctor Nature's 
enemies off. It has nothing to do with the healing. 

Nearly every day somebody asks me how to get thin or 
how to get fat. In fact, among several hundred acquaint- 
ances I do not recall one who is perfectly satisfied with his 
or her weight. Books and books and books have been writ- 
ten on this subject and yet the public seems to be unin- 
formed. After all, it is a very simple subject and very easy 
to understand. Some foods turn into fat and others do not. 
Which do and which do not is pretty generally known. 
Every person burns up so much fat every day, active per- 

sons using up a great deal and inactive persons using up very 
little. Every time you snap your finger you burn up tissue. 
If you chop wood all day you will burn up a lot. If you 
do nothing but read the papers, walk around the block, talk 
to your friends, eat and sleep, you will not burn up very 
much; and if at the same time you eat large quantities of fat- 
producing foods, you are pretty sure to gain weight. While 
it is true that some persons are born to be thin and some are 
born to be fat it is equally true that any person will gain or 
lose weight according to their activities and diet. It is mere- 
ly a question of how much cargo you take aboard the ship and 
how much you unload per day. If you should sit in your 
chair all day reading a novel without taking a mouthful of 
food or drink you would find yourself much lighter at night 
than you were in the morning, even if you don't perspire per- 
ceptibly. You are losing weight all the time through your 
breath, through your eyes, through your pores, etc. It is 
simply a matter of arithmetic. If you take on board every 
day two pounds of cargo and only unload one pound, you 
are bound to gain one pound a day, and that is as plain as 
A, B, C, unless you are D, E, F. 

^ ^ ^ 
Overeating is and always has been the greatest friend of 
the physician, for we all eat too much, and the surplus over 
necessity forms a poison which has to be eliminated through 
boils, pimples, colds and other diseases; but, since eating is 
such a pleasant amusement and since we should make sure 
that the brain and other organs have sufficient variety from 
which to select their nourishment, let us eat, drink and be 
merry and then burn up the unused surplus by plenty of 
vigorous exercise. 

:£ $z Hfi 

Disease, pain and trouble are due to ignorance. Knowl- 
edge cures all. The only difficulty is in getting the right kind 

of knowledge. 

^ ^ ^ 

There are 725,000,000 air cells in your lungs, which, if 
spread out, would cover 290,000 square inches. In twenty- 
four hours eight tons of blood pass through your lungs to 
relieve itself of carbon dioxide and to take in oxygen. There 
are about 2,000 miles of tubing for your blood to circulate 
through, and a drop of blood travels about 168 miles a day. 
To produce good health you require two pounds of oxygen 
for every pound of food in your blood, and to get this oxygen 
you must breathe deeply and breathe pure air. Nine-tenths 
of us use only about one-half of the 290,000 square inches 
of lung area, and therefore the other one-tenth have twice as 
good health as we have. To open the windows and doors, 
and to get out in the open is good, but that is only half the 
medicine — to fill your lungs is the proper dose. 

sfc 5fc :£ 

To be fat is a misfortune and a disease — in many cases a 
crime. Tom Reed, who came and went before Taft and who 
was no Lilliputian himself, declared "no gentleman' ever 
weighed over 200 lbs." Yet, those who are thin yearn to be 
fat, just as those who are fat yearn to be thin. We are never 
satisfied — always reaching for that which is just beyond our 
grasp. Overeating and under-elimination are disease's best 
friends. The big eater must pedestrian ize extensively after 
each meal, drink half a gallon of water daily, and fill up fre- 
quently with ozone. Burn it up — that is the thing to do. 

Page Seventy-Five 



(Continued from page 17) 
classics as Aristophanes' "The Birds" 
and Shakespeare's "The Tempest." In 
Munich a municipal theater took up 
the work and carried it on until the 
outbreak of the world war. Here the 
puppets did the plays of Maeterlinck, 
the comedies of Schnitzler and the folk 
plays of Hans Sachs. Ever}' modern 
device of stagecraft was utilized, even 
to a miniature revolving stage. 

Winthrop Ames and Clayton Hamil- 
ton had perfected plans to bring the 
Munich marionettes to America in 1914 
when the war swept the continent. 
Probably the Munich theater is now a 
mere memory. 

Active interest in the marionette has 
cropped up here and there in America. 
Tony Sarg brought his puppets with 
him from London. Aside from Mr. 
Sarg, some excellent marionette produc- 
tions have been staged at the Chicago 
Little Theater by Maurice Browne. 

Mr. Sarg first took up the marionette 
idea when he had his studio in London 
in the Old Curiosity Shop of Little 
Nell — and Charles Dickens. Here he 
began giving entertainments for the 
amusement of his friends. But the idea 
of reviving the marionette kept grow- 

In New York, Mr. Sarg began by 
giving entertainments in Greenwich 
Village and later, aided by Winthrop 
Ames, he presented entertainments in 
the Broadway theaters. Now his yearly 
marionette engagements are part of 
every stage season. 

Mr. Sarg takes an absorbed interest 
in the marionette. He considers it par- 
ticularly significant that the puppet 
should return to world interest during 
and after the great war. "It is inter- 
esting that the marionette, which 
springs from the child heart in hu- 
manity, should reassert itself at this 
time— significant of the way the war 
has stripped us to the simplicities of 

Mr. Sarg employs a miniature stage 
upon which he utilizes striking stage 
effects. His dummies are three feet or 
less in height, and, as the scenery is 
built in proportion, an illusion of far 
greater size is obtained. If, by chance 
a human hand appears, its seemingly 
abnormal size is startling. 

From a loft or scaffolding, hidden 
behind and above the stage, Mr. Sarg 
and his marionetteers manipulate the 
puppets. Each figure is suspended by 
a number of cords or threads from a 
short bar of wood. Each character is 
handled by one person, who moves 
about on the scaffolding with the sup- 
porting block of wood in one hand, 
while he or she gives movement to the 
strings with the other hand. This is 
identically the same way that the ma- 
rionettes of the middle ages were han- 

dled. Nothing has changed except that 
the modern marionettes are far more 
elaborate as to mechanism. Some of 
the Sarg characters have as many as 
twenty-four strings, which, of course, 
require remarkable dexterity, as well as 
a delicate sense (upon the part of the 
puppeteer) of the dramatic and of 
graceful movement. 

We watched Thackeray's "The Rose 
and the Ring" from the "wings." Mr. 
Sarg, two masculine aids and three 
young women — the latter in artistic 
overalls, corduroy tarns and bobbed hair 
a la Washington Square, moved about 
the tiny platform, putting Thackeray's 
famous characters thru their mimic 
romance. The "players" when not 
actively engaged in the drama, were 
carefully hung like butcher shop fowl 
at one side. In each case the dialogue 
was spoken by the puppeteer handling 
the particular manniquin in question. 

Mr. Sarg confided to us the difficulty 
of getting able puppeteers. "Women 
are best, because their fingers seem most 
sensitive," he said. And he related the 
technical requirements of a marionette 

"Long sentences of dialogue are 
necessary," he explained, "because the 
spoken words must be long enough to 
cover the marionette's movement. A 
short bit of repartee would leave an 
action half finished. Every movement 
is conspicuous and must mean some- 
thing directly attached to the further- 
ance of the story. And, when lines are 
spoken, the character speaking the lines 
must be the only marionette in action. 
Otherwise, confusion would be caused 
the audience. Out front one centers 
one's interest naturally on the puppet 
in movement and instantly connects the 
dialogue spoken off the stage with this 
particular character." 


(Continued from page 50) 
If I am compelled to withdraw a play 
by a new author, it is with personal re- 
gret, not so much because of the finan- 
cial loss as it is that for every play by a 
new writer that fails we lose, perhaps, 
hundreds of other plays by men and 
women who become disheartened when 
a newcomer fails. Usually these writers 
think the managers are responsible for 
the success or failure of the play, mak- 
ing it so either by casting or by pro- 
duction. I do not deny that this may 
happen, but generally speaking, it is 
not true. They seem to forget that for 
the manager to produce a play indiffer- 
ently means that the manager deliber- 
ately throws away the cast of the pro- 
duction and the initial cost is just as 
great for a failure as for a success. 
Instead of incubating a feeling of dis- 

trust for theatrical managers, if the 
young writer would look over the roster 
of successful authors and take a page 
from their book, they would see that 
half of the established men and women 
writers of today were not heard of a half 
dozen years ago. Everyone must make 
a beginning. As an illustration I cite 
the case of Samuel Shipman. Mr. Ship- 
man has been writing for the stage a 
great many years, but he was never suc- 
cessful until the day he acquired the 
necessary technique. This season there 
are three plays of his current on Broad- 
way and all of them successes. As an 
example of a modern playwright whose 
methods might well be followed, I 
recommend Miss Crothers, who has two 
successes to her credit this season, "A 
Little Journey" and "39 East". Both 
of these plays shortly are to be brought 
out in book form, and I earnestly recom- 
mend to embryo playwrights that they 
study these plays as diligently as they 
would a work on the drama. Similarly 
they should read the published plays of 
well known authors, and it goes with- 
out saying that seeing plays is a won- 
derful schooling. 

Of all the professions, playwriting is, 
perhaps, the most lucrative, the most 
congenial and in many respects the most 
independent. Yet there are fewer men 
and women interested in studying the 
theatre than any other professional pur- 
suit. One successful play will make an 
author rich, whereas in any other pro- 
fession it takes years to become estab- 
lished and build up a respectable clien- 

Time and again I have seen men 
and women step out of obscurity into 
the limelight almost over night, and 
very often they have done so by means 
of their first play. 

The same opportunity is still open. 


What is the fantasy, wistfully fair, 
Haunting me daily, murmuring at 
Shadowland reveries, twilight-hued,. 
Elusively, gloamingly bright? 

What is the strain of a half-finished 
Throbbing with mystery, lilting and 
Summons, dismissal, bewilderingly 
Notes of a bitter-sweet wo? 

It trembles like poisoned moon-radiance 
and gleams 
In each rose-clad spirit of dawn, 
It may be the soul of a dream that is 
Or a love that will never be born. 
— The Drifter. 

Page Seventy-Six 



(Continued from page 66) 
and picked it up carefully and tenderly. 

Life in the Tarradine establishment 
moved with a momentum that not even 
the village could have conjured up for 
it. Xot that the village wasn't talking. 
Never that. Hadn't Peter Rymill been 
seen and heard in the various shops of 
the village settling "that Tarradine 
woman's" long overdue accounts? 
Hadn't Reverend Miss Tabitha Lip- 
trett heard him paying the butcher's 
bill, seen him for the matter of that? 
It could onlv mean OXE thing. Natu- 

And the Colonel-Person . . . was he 
or was he not seen with Penelope Moon 
mooning along the less frequented ways 
and bvwavs of the outraged village? 
He WAS. And their looks. 

These were not the things, however, 
that were disturbing the inmates of the 
temporary billet. 

There were darker matters afoot. 

The darkest was. that Peter Rymill 
seemed to find Penelope Moon a verita- 
ble tonic for his eyes, if staring at her 
three-fourths of his waking time was 
any conclusive proof. Bert}", tormented, 
thought that it was. 

On the other hand. Colonel Preedv 
seemed to Peter Rymill and Penelope 
Moon to have nothing on earth better 
to do than get his vision scarletly en- 
tangled, and nothing more to say than 
a sing-song repetition of the praises of 
the Titian variety of woman. 

As for Bert}- Tarradine. a Colonel 
was "a triumph." she said. 

Penelope spoke daily of returning 
home. Peter Rymill protested that that 
was all rot. damned rot. Bettv was 
miserably silent, and still more miser- 
able because she n'as silent. 

The one amusing thing in all their 
world was the fact that the Reverend 
Ambrose literally denied his God to 
propose the sacrament of matrimony to 
the scarlet-haired woman. 

""He was too ridiculously funny." 
half-wept the overwrought Bert}- in de- 
scribing the scene; "he sandwiched his 
amorous declarations with fearful air- 
ings of his wretched little scruples. In 
one breath he said T love you to dis- 
traction'" and in the next he affirmed. 
T will save you from damnation." In 
the third he cried out that I was "the 
blessed damozel leaning down from 
heaven' and in the fourth that I was 
'a snare and a delusion/ Eventually. 
he tottered away, wilted, starchless. 
probably penitential." 

After dinner Penelope stayed at the 
table with Betty- while the men sought 
the terrace for their smokes. Penelope 
was white and said that her head ached 
like the very devil. 

"Ill tell you. Bert}-." she admitted 
suddenly, 'Tin a little rat. I suppose. 

but I'm mad over Colonel Preedy and 
I can't stay here and see you two love 
each other . . . Betty. don*t cry, don't 
dear . . . I . . ." 

Betty sobbed noisily. 

"You g-goose," she sniffled, "you 
bat, you blind bat, you bug in a r-rug 
. . . I'm not in love with your old, 
ol-d Colonel. I'm in love with Peter, 
with my Peter, with my Peter Tarra- 

"With — your husband? My dear- 
est . . .!" 

"With Peter Rymill. who isn't Peter 
Rymill at all. but just Peter, old Peter. 
Peter- whom-I-love !" 

"Betty, oh. Betty- . . . what can 
you do?" 

"D-ie!" groaned Bert}-, tragically, 
"d-ie . . . like a rat in its h-ole . . . 
in . . . its . . . h-ole. . . ."' 

Bert}- did the next best thing she 
could to dying in a hole. She was 
perched airily and rather inauspicious- 
ly in a cherry tree the afternoon fol- 
lowing her confession to Penelope when 
she overheard Peter and Penelope com- 
ing down the path and Peter was say- 
ing that they had had orders to move 
on. They sat on the bench directly 
beneath her and when she parted the 
branches to peer through Pens head 
was on Peter "s shoulder. She didn't 
wait to hear what he was saying, which 
solely concerned the absent Colonel, but 
fell through the branches and rolled 
ignonimously upon the gravelled path 
at their very feet. 

When they picked her up. Peter with 
strange mutterings which might have 
been blasphemies or endearments, she 
couldn't take a step. "Sprained ankle," 
said Peter, looking unduly greenish- 
white; then, seeing Colonel Preedy in 
the near distance he hailed him. "Carry 
Betry to her room." he called, "she's had 
a bally tumble." He added: "He's so 
mad about her, I'll give him his chance. 
I've lost mine, so what the . . .!" 

Penelope glared at Peter and brought 
up the rear. 

The evening was closing down, like 
a pair of folding sable wings, over the 
Tarradine estabbshment. Betty had 
been bandaged and fed up on port wine. 
Penelope was packing in her room and 
dropping more tears than garments into 
her Innovation. Colonel Preedy was 
packing in his suite. Peter was waft- 
ing about the corridors, ghost-like and 
beset. Beset with his old love for 
Betty-. Betty- who had driven him mad. 
but never so mad that his love for her 
wasn't the maddest of all. In all the 
four corners of the earth he had tried 
to forget her. and in the battle-din. 
And he hadn't been able to. It had 
beaten him down. What if she did 
spend money? What if she did do 
mad. bad, foolish things? What did 
it matter what she did? Essentiallv. 

she was Betty, scarlet-haired, extrava- 
gant, made to love!" 

He groaned and tried the knob of 
her door. She would be sleeping, child- 
like, after her fall ... he knew . . . 
he knew. . . . He would go in and 
kiss her, kiss her for goodbye, kiss her 
tears away . . . just once, just for the 
last time. He would kiss her and go 
away . . . yes, kiss her and go away 
. . . leave her for someone else . . . 
for Preedy. no doubt . . . good God. 
how the damned thing clawed at his 

She was sleeping and he stole over 
to her bed and bent over her. Child 
that she was . . . baby . . . playing 
through the playhouse of the world 
. . . pouting when the playhouse didn't 
suit . . . baby, but how he loved her! 

Someone was coming in . . . some- 
one else. He dropped to his knees and 
rolled under her bed. It was Preedy 
. . . the hound . . . the hound . . . 
Preedy . . . but what was he doing? 
Prowling on Betty's dressing-table, 
handling her things, furtively . . . 
what the hell, had Preedy gone unac- 
countably mad ? Had the War got him, 
after all? Preedy . . .he was steal- 
ing a picture . . . stealing . . .why, 
it was Penelope's picture and he was 
kissing it. Preedy was kissing it, and 
with never a glance at the woman sleep- 
ing on the bed. Old Preedy and little 
Penelope ... of course. He under- 
stood a lot of things now. Love . . . 
deuced queer, but heavens, how it 
hurt . . .! 

Someone else was coming. Peter al- 
most laughed aloud to see the dignified 
Colonel bolt for the clothes press and 
close himself in. 

The door opened and Penelope stood 
on die threshold, very red of face. 
"Betty, they insist," she began, then, 
angrily, "Miss Liptrett. can't you see 
that she's asleep?" 

"I see," said Miss Liptrett. through 
frigid Lips, "a man beneath her bed, 
the man, and he is not asleep. Xot by 
any means. It can mean only OXE 
thing. Naturally." 

Peter crawled forth. He rose to his 
full height and then sat familiarly 
down upon the bed. Betty- opened her 
eyes, sun-eyed the group, then looked 
at Peter. They widened and misted 
and suddenly her heart was in them, 
and it was all for him. for Peter, for old 
Peter . . . He understood and encir- 
cled her with his arm. Miss Liptrett 
was on the immediate verge of collapse. 
Peter gave a short laugh. 

"Sorry," he said, "to spoil your fun. 
my dear lady, all of you, because you 
are, you know, having one hell of a 
good time. Xow calm yourself . . . 
after all you are far more acquainted 
with hell than either my wife or my- 
self. Yes. my wife. Matrimony. A 
sacrament, y'know . . . oh, years ago. 
i Continued on page 78) 

Paae Seventv-Seven 



(Continued from page 62) 

economy and attractiveness of presen- 
tation, and, of course, power of select- 
ing interesting material. 

Pcrcival Wilde, co-author of "Dark 
Horses," and author of the prologue of 
"The Woman in Room 13," had begun 
literary work as a book reviewer for the 
New York Times and Evening Post, 
when, in 1912, his first short story 
was published. W. D. Hepenstall, 
co-author of "Dark Rosaleen," is an 
Irish newspaperman and short story 
writer. Until five years ago he was 
on the staff of the Belfast Morning 
Telegraph, and since that time has 
done work of the same character in 
America. "Bide" Dudley, who wrote 
the book and lyrics of "Come Along," 
conducts a theatrical column on the 
New York Evening World that is said 
to have increased that newspaper's cir- 
culation some 20,000 copies. He came 
to New York eight years ago, after 
working as a humorist on the Kansas 
City Star, the Denver Post and other 

John Taintor Foote, author of 
"Toby's Bow," in which George Marion 
made a triumphant return to the stage, 
comes from the more dignified literary 
field, having some celebrity as an au- 
thor of animal stories — dog tales, in 
particular. Beyond that, little of a 
biographical nature is known of him. 
Martin Brown is another man of mys- 
tery, although in his case probably not 
through any express desire on his part. 
There is a rumor that he is a former 
newspaperman; but he has not been on 
hand to verify it. 

It is natural that some of the new- 
comers should have arrived via the 
stage itself — as an actor, like Frank 
Craven; stagehand, like Frederick Bal- 
lard; press agent, like Channing Pol- 

lock; or director, like John Emerson, 
who was literary executor for Clyde 
Fitch. Thus, Whitford Kane, co-author 
of "Dark Rosaleen," is an actor of 
celebrity, and was appearing with 
Frances Starr in "Tiger! Tiger!" at the 
same time that his own play was being 
prepared for production. Gustav Blum, 
co-author of "A Sleepless Night," also 
grew up from within the theatre, hav- 
ing been an actor as well as director 
of the East- West Players. 

Harry L. Cort entered the theatre 
from an unusual angle — as the son of 
his own producer, John L. Cort. 

The screen is so closely allied with 
the theatre that it is but reasonable to 
suppose that in time almost as many 
stage authors will graduate from its 
ranks as from the stage itself, becom- 
ing a third great source of dramatists, 
with the theatre and the newspaper. 
Leighton Graves Osmun, who wrote 
"The Fortune Teller," in which Mar- 
jorieRambeau starred, had considerable 
experience in filmdom before "placing" 
his stage play. Mr. Osmun is the most 
consistent illustration of the power of 
faith I have ever met. I visited him 
last January in his California bunga- 
low at Hollywood, just after he had re- 
ceived the telegram announcing accept- 
ance by Arthur Hopkins, and while 
still in the first flush of excitement. He 
took up playwriting for the "regular" 
theatre on the advice of an occultist 
who charted his destiny in the stars. 
The better to follow out this destiny he 
dropped even his bread-winning work 
to devote himself wholly to the stage. 
Certainly the prompt outcome repaid 
him for the chance he took. He now is 
living in a small Jersey community 
near New York, working on other plays, 
one of which has been accepted, too. 


(Continued from page 77) 

Naturally. You see, the dirt has been 
in your own minds, no place else. A 
vacuum cleaner, my dear lady, excel- 
lent, for drawing up the dirt, then a 
good disinfectant. I dare say you'll 
come around. Yes, my wife. Quite 
so. Ta, ta. . . . " 

The Reverend Liptrett and his more 
than Reverend Sister took their duty 
with them and withdrew. 

Peter Tarradine took his wife into 
his arms, then yelled: "Come out of 
the clothes there, Preedy, and go spoon 
with your Moon . . . best of luck, old 
chap! . . . Oh, Betty," he said, so 
soon as they were gone, "oh, Betty, the 
years we waste, the years we waste . . . 
give me the kiss I haven't had since 
the world before last. ..." 


(Continued from page 39) 

with me down the side of a canyon. 
"Lady, you came mighty near going 
West," he admitted. 

Oddly, wild animals never worry me. 
For "The Tiger's Trail," a scene show- 
ing a tiger leaping at me was essential. 
It was arranged that I stand just in- 
side the door of a cage occupied by 
one Romeo. I carried a piece of raw 
meat and, as Mr. Romeo jumped, I 
dropped the meat, leaped thru the 
cage door and slammed it safely shut. 
The camera was placed at such an 
angle that the meat incident did not 
register. All this moved safely. 

But the reverse happened a day or 
so later with a seemingly safe scene. 

The story of "The Tiger's Trail" 
called for me to be thrown to the lions 
by two huge negroes, the lions, of 
course, not being dangerously near. 
But an unexpected accident happened. 
The broken, rusty hasp of the cage 
door stuck out just on a level with my 
eyes and the negroes hurled me straight 
into it. The director saw my danger 
just too late. The hasp just missed my 
eye, tore the skin badly, but luckily I 
still have my sight. It all goes to 
show that you simply never can tell. 

It is odd how contemptuous you get 
of so-called wild animals. I recall 
how we started working with three 
African lions in "Hands Up." We had 
huge screens built, behind which the 
camera was mounted. The director and 
the cameraman took their posts behind 
the screens and everyone sought a safe 

Before the first day was over we 
were all out in the open and the screens 
had been torn away. Indeed, some of 
the property men had to be admonished 
about kicking one of the lions out of 
the way. The director still believed 
in safety first. 

But there's no such thing as safety 
first in the making of photoplay serials. 

Still, I'm writing my own story for 
my next serial. 


She has betrayed me. 

She was my best friend. I trusted 
her with everything I had, my confi- 
dences, my secrets. I even gave her the 
name of my dressmaker. 

I invited her into my house, I enter- 
tained her at my table. I was glad, yes, 
glad when I saw that my husband ad- 
mired her. 

And she has betrayed me ! 

I never suspected, though she must 
have practiced her perfidious wiles un- 
der my very eyes, laughing at me, no 
doubt for a blind fool. She was my 
friend and I trusted her. 

And now, bereft, betrayed, my home 
a ruined thing, what is left for me? 
The divorce court, you say? 

No, no, you do not understand. It 
was not my husband she stole from me. 
It is much more serious than that. One 
can get other husbands. 

But I shall never be able to find such 
a good cook again. 

Men dying, make their wills, but wives 

Escape a work so sad; 
Why should they make what all their 

The gentle dames have had? 

Page Seventy-Eight 



Voices hushed, translucent lights, and music's sobbing strain; 
Faces stripped of world-hewn masks, a fleeting glory gain: 
Upon the screen the old. old theme of Love's immortal reign. 

Shades of dusk, moon's magic spell, the thrill night's charms inspire: 

A silhouette of man and maid enthralled by Heart's Desire; 

A shadow-realm where youth and love and stuff o' dreams conspire. 

The flash of time, the spreading dawn, the golden moments fleet : 
The crucial hour of sorrow's tryst, the parting bitter-sweet; 
And then the End triumphant when Hearts long severed meet. 

The picture o'er, light's dazzling gleam, loud music burst from thong: 
A medley of discordant notes from surge of passing throng: 
Impassive masks donned to conceal dreams memory dares prolong. 

Yaia Macbeth Jones. 


{Continued from page 69 ) 

ritating influences that you felt but 
were unable to locate before. 

Hospitality, lazy comfort and 
quiet luxury are the three great feel- 
ing factors in a well-ordered home. 

It is just as necessary that your 
guest be instantly pleased with his 
surroundings as he enters, as it is 
that your dinner be well cooked and 
served and to instill that desire in 
your friends to come again. The 
chair he sits in must fit him and his 
surroundings must appeal. 

Last, but not least, the creating 
of a feeling of its being an unusual 
home and not cheap should be stud- 
ied very carefully. This is not so 
much the question of the amount of 
money spent as it is taste and ar- 

I have always been pleased and 
particularly proud when clients of 
mine have said: "What a wonder- 
ful home you have given me." rather 
than if they had said: "What a 
beautiful chandelier": "What a rare 
rug": or "What a sweet-toned 
piano": or "What exquisite pic- 


My idea of a real home, real com- 
fort and real luxury is one you feel 
rather than see and this can only be 
created by treating the ensemble 
rather than the detail. 

Avoid the decorations that make 
your friends gasp with astonishment 
and apparent delight and you may 
feel quite sure that when your home 
is so ordered that they call and just 
slip in and lounge around in abso- 
lute good fellowship, you have 
reached the ideal in home decora- 

From time to time in this maga- 
zine I am going to take up the dis- 
cussion of various homes with illus- 
trations, temperaments of owners, 
etc., and I shall be pleased at all 
times to answer questions as to dec- 
orating, arrangements, remodeling, 
horticultural architecture and in fact 
all things necessary to be thoroly 
acquainted with in order to make 
the environment of your home that 
of a holy, sacred place, which you 
will alwavs wish to be in. 


Only a memory fading away 

As vaguely sweet as a flower prest — 

Or the perfumed thought of the time I dreamed 

You lav against mv breast. 

Only a memory giving again 
The breaths of the roses that died last 
A fleeting smile at the death o' day 
For that slender follv beneath the moon 


A shadow . . . light as a bubble blown . . . 
I piece it together, bit by bit, 

Frail as a wild wind-flower . . . oh. Love . . . 
My heart is breaking because of it '. 

The Dreamier. 

In This Issue of Shadozvland 

Edwin Markham is the world- 
famous poet, writer and lecturer, be- 
lieved by many critics to be the 
greatest living poet. He is best 
known for his "The Man With the 

Hudson Maxim is the inventor 
and thinker, famed for his numer- 
ous devices which have revolution- 
ized modern warfare. He is the au- 
thor of a number of books on varied 
subjects and was foremost in Amer- 
ica's campaign for preparedness. 

Lee Shubert is the well-known 
theatrical producer and one of the 
leading men of the American theater. 

Arthur Edwin Krows is a well- 
known authority on the theater and 
motion pictures. He is the author 
of an excellent book on the develop- 
ment of stagecraft. 

Louis Raymond Reid is managing 
editor of The Dramatic Mirror. 

The Color Gallery 

Shadowlaxd acknowledges its 
indebtedness to Alfred Cheney John- 
ston for the portraits, reproduced in 
color, of Billie Burke. Mollie King. 
Elaine Hammerstein, Dorothy Phil- 
lips and Jean Paige; to Abbe for the 
pictures of Elizabeth Risdon and 
Yvonne Shelton: and to the Hoover 
Art Company, of Los Angeles, for 
the picture of Yivian Martin. The 
portrait of Miss Burke is copyright- 
ed by Mr. Johnston. 

-Healthful hoavAy 

c^uiclcly sxccMjLtred. 

. Marie 
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fuh Use Marie Antoinette SMn 
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wonders. Gives magniflVent glow of healthful beauty. 
Pleaches skin immediately, without flaMng or rub- 
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and radiant. Removes Blackheads. Tan aiid freckles 
di-appear Far superior to vanishing and o"her 
creams. Does not irritate. No grease. Removes 
blemishes and redness on either hands, face or ne<*k_ 
Tadies enthused_ One trial convinces. Send $1.00 
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Use Marie Antoinette Flesh Builder: builds up 

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busts A night cream with real food value for tissue 

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'• j'iMi ■"> 

Paae Seventy-Ni 


Two Million People 

have pronounced the 

Motion Picture Magazine 

the best and the leader in its particular filed. It was the 
first Movie Magazine ever published and has always had 
the largest circulation. It contains all the newest and 
finest of stories, articles and illustrations. 

If you like SHADOWLAND you will like the Motion 
Picture Magazine— and it is only twenty cents a copy. 

The October Number will be on sale at all news stands 
on and after 

Saturday, August 30 

Place your order with your newsdealer now, for even an 
edition of 400,000 will not last long, and only a few days 
after it is out you will get the usual "Sold Out" answer. 

Don't Miss This Biggest, Oldest and 
Greatest of All Movie Publications 


Motion Picture Magazine 

Page Eighty 



The Greatest Cast 

ever assembled for any Picture 
appears in support di 

In Louise Provosts story from the People's fiomo Journal . 


Directed by Marshall ifcilan 

You'll remember them in these photoplays: 


"The Danger Mark" 
"The Hidden Hand" 
"The Death Dance" 



"Out of the Wreck" 
"The Whispering Chorus" 
"We Can't Have Everything" 


"The Devil's Toy" 
"The Squaw Man" 
"Cheating Cheaters' 


"Sporting Life" (Leading Man) 
"White Heather" 

(Leading Man) 


"Auction of Souls" 
"Trail of Yesterday" 
"No Man's Land" 
"The Way of the Strong' 


"Unpardonable Sin' 
"Daddy Long Legs" 

Watch for "Her Kingdom of Dreams" at your theatre 


Page Eighty-One 




G R U G E R 

HE children's hour — filmed! There is hardly any pleasure so keen 
as taking children to the motion picture theatre. 

Heavens above, how they do enjoy themselves! 

Mother used to set aside a regular children's hour, and read or tell stories. 

But now, they go to one of the better theatres where Paramount and Art- 
craft Pictures are playing. 

To tell the truth, Mother vastly prefers this to the old children's hour. 

Because she enjoys it, too. Doubly, in fact, — the children's enjoyment and 
her own as well. 

The public has sensed the fact that Famous Players-Lasky Corporation can 
be depended on to keep Paramount and Artcrcjl Pictures just what all parents 
would like them to be — both for themselves and for the youngsters. 

Which is just another of the underlying reasons why ten thousand communi- 
ties are for them. 

(paramount <^GHcra£t 

jHotion (pictures ^ 

These two trade-marks are the sure way of identifying Paramount 
and Artcraft Pictures—and the theatres that show them. 



Paramount and 

Artcraft Stars' Latest 


Listed alphabetically, released up to June 30th. 
Save the List! And see the Pictures! 


John Barrymore in 
*Enid Bennett in 
Billie Burke in 
Marguerite Clark in 
Ethel Clayton in 
•Dorothy Dalton in 
Dorothy Gish in 
LI la Lee in 
"Oh! You Women" 
A .Tohn 
Vivian Martin in 
Shirlev Mason in 
♦Charles Pav in 
Wallace Reld in 
Bryant Washburn in 

"The Test of Honor" 

"Stepping Out" 

"Good Gracious Annabelle" 

"Come Out of the Kitchen" 

"Men, Women and Money" 

"Other Men's Wives" 

"I'll Get Him Yet" 

"A Daughter of the Wolf" 

Emerson-Anita Loos Production 

"An Innocent Adventuress" 

"The Final Close-Up" 

"Hay Foot. S'raw Foot" 

"You're Fired" 

"Putting It Over" 

Paramount -Artcraft Specials 

"Little Women" 

"Sporting Life" 
'The Silver King" 
'The False Fares" 

(from Louisa M Al"ott's famous 

A William A. Brady Production 

A Maurice Toumeur Production 

S arring William Faversham 

A Thomas H. Ince Production 

"The V'oman Th^u Gavest Me" 

Hugh Ford's Production of Hall Oaine's Nrvvel 
"The Firing Line" S'arring Irene Castle 

"Secret Service" Starring Robert Warwick 


Cecil B. iii-Miilr's Production 

"For Better, For Worse" 
Douglas Fairbanks in 

"The Knickerbocker Bu^karoo" 
Flsle Ferousnn in "The Avalanche" 

D W. Griffith's Production "True Hoart Susie" 

*W. S. Hart in "Square T> rt al Sanderson" 

Marv PkMord in Captain Kidd .Tr " 

Fred Stone in "Johnny Get Your Gun" 

Paramount Comedies 

Paramount-^rhuckle Comedy "A Desert Hero" 

Paramount-Mack Sennett Comedies 

"Hearts and Flowers" 

"No Mother to Guide Him" 
Paramount-Flagg Comedy 

"Welcome Little Stranger" 
Paramciint-nrew Co^edv "Squared" 

Paratiount-Brw Pictnqraph One each week 

Paramount-Burton Holmes Travel Pictures 

One each week 

And remember that anv Paramount or Artcraft 

picture that *ou haven't se*n Is as new as 

a book you have never read 

*Supervision of Thomas H. Ince 

Page Eighty-Two 





RUTH ROLAND says: Ripe, red cherries and 
Adams California Fruit Gum I think are 
equally delicious. I love them both. 

Painted from photograph by Photoplayers' Studio, L. A. 





This robust little girl shows the good 
health and happiness that is characteristic 
of Mellin's Food babies. 

Write today for a copy of our helpful book, "The Care and 

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Bottle of Mellin's Food. 

Mellin's Food Company, 

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ZJZr 1 T£>Z 





Miss Evelyn Gosnell 

in "Up in Mabel's Room" 

THE greatest asset any man can 
possibly have is the faculty for mak- 
ing people like him. It is even more 
important than ability. 

The secret of making people like you 
lies in your ability to understand the 
emotional and mental characteristics of 
the people you meet. 

Did you know that a blond has an en- 
tirely different temperament than a bru- 
net ?-— that to get along with a blond type 
you must act entirely different than you 
would to get along with a brunet? 

When you really know the difference 
between blonds and brunets, the differ- 
ence in their characters, temperaments, 
abilities, and peculiar traits, you will save 
yourself many a mistake — and you will 
incidentally learn much you never knew 
before about yourself. 

4: ^e ^ ^ ^ ^ 

PAUL GRAHAM was a blond, and 
not until he learned that there was all 
the difference in the world between the 
characteristics of a blond and those of a 
brunet did he discover the secret of mak- 
ing people like him. 

Paul had been keeping books for 
years for a large corporation which had 
branches all over the country. It was 
generally thought by his associates that 
he would never rise above that job. He 
had a tremendous ability with figures — 
could wind them around his little finger 
— but he did not have the ability to mix 
with big men ; did not know how to make 
people like him. 

Then one day the impossible happened. 
Paul Graham became popular. 

Business men of importance who had 
formerly given him only a passing nod 
of acquaintance suddenly showed a de- 
sire for his friendship. People — even 
strangers — actually went out of their way 
to do things for him. Even he was 
astounded at his new power over men 
and women. Not only could he get them 
to do what he wanted them to do, but 
they actually anticipated his wishes and 
seemed eager to please him. 

From the day the change took place he 
began to go up in business. Now he is 
the Head Auditor for his corporation at 
an immense increase in salary. And all 

Are\ou a 

The Secret of Making 
People Like You 

this came to him simply because he 
learned the secret of making people like 

You, too, can have the power of making 
people like you. For by the same method 
used by Paul Graham you can, at a glance, 
tell the characteristics of any man, woman or 
child — tell instantly their likes and dislikes, and 
Here is how it is done : 

Everyone you know can be placed in one 
of two general types — blond or brunet. There 
is as big a difference between the mental and 
emotional characteristics of a blond and those 
of a brunet as there is between night and day. 
You persuade a blond one way — a brunet in 
another. Blonds enjoy one phase of life — 
brunets another. Blonds make good in one 
of a job — brunets in one entirely different. 

To know these differences scientifically is 
the first step in judging men and women: in 
getting on well with them ; in mastering their 
minds : in making them like you ; in winning 
their respect, admiration, love and friendship. 

And when you have learned these differ- 
ences — when you can tell at a glance just what 
to do and say to make any man or woman like 
you, your success in life is assured. 

For example, there's the case of a large 
manufacturing concern. Trouble sprang up at 
one of the factories. The men talked strike. 
Things looked ugly. Harry Winslow was 
sent to straighten it out. On the eve of a 
general walk-out he pacified the men and 
headed off the strike. And not only this, but 
ever since then that factor}' has led all the 
others for production. He was able to do this 
because he knew how r to make these men like 
him and do what he wanted them to do. 

Another case, entirely different, is that of 
Henry Peters. Because of his ability to make 
people like him — his faculty for "getting under 
the skin" and making people think his way, he 
was given the position of Assistant to the 
President of a large firm. Two other men. 
both well liked by their fellow employees, had 
each expected to get the job. So when the 
outside man, Peters, came in he was looked 
upon by everyone as an interloper and was 
openly disliked by every other person in the 

Peters was handicapped in every way. But. 
in spite of that, in three weeks he had made 
fast friends of everyone in the house and had 
even won over the two men who had been 
most bitter against him. The whole secret is 
that he could tell in an instant how to appeal 
to any man and make himself well liked. 

A certain woman who had this ability moved 
with her family to another town. As is often 
the case, it is a very difficult thing for any 
woman to break into the chill circle of society 
in this town, if she was not known. But her 
ability to make people like her soon won for 
her the close friendship of many of the "best 
families" in the town. Some people wonder 
how she did it. It was simply the secret at 
work — the secret of judging people's character 
and making them like von. 

YOU realize, of course, that just knowing 
the difference between a blond and a brunet 
could not accomplish all these wonderful 
things. There are other things to be taken 
into account. But here is the whole secret : 
You know that every one does not think 
alike. What one likes another dislikes. And 
what offends one pleases another. Well, there 
is your cue. You can make an instant "hit" 

Wallace Reid 

Star in "The Valley of the Giants" 
A Paramount-Artcraft Picture 

with anyone, if you say the things they want 
you to say, and act the way they want you to 
act. Do this and they will surely like you and 
believe in you and will go miles out of their 
way to PLEASE YOU. 

You can do this easily by knowing certain 
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you from one quick glance exactly what to 
say and to do to please them — to get them to 
believe — to think as you think — to do exactly 
what you want them to do. 

Knowing these simple signs is the whole 
secret of getting what you want out of life — 
of making friends, of business and social 
advantage. Every great leader uses this 
method. That is why he IS a leader. Use it 
yourself and you will quickly become a leader 
— nothing can stop you. 

You have heard of Dr. Blackford, the 
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will not employ a man without first getting 
Dr. Blackford to pass on him. Concerns such 
as Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing 
Company, Baker- Vawter Company, Scott 
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Blackford large annual fees for advice on 
human nature. 

So great was the demand for these services 
that Dr. Blackford could not even begin to fill 
all the engagements. So Dr. Blackford has 
explained the method in a simple, seven-lesson 
course, entitled "Reading Character at Sight." 
Even a half hour's reading of this wonderful 
course will give you an insight into human 
nature and a power over people which will 
surprise you. 

Such confidence have the publishers in Dr. 
Blackford's Course, "Reading Character at 
Sight," that they will gladly send it to you on 
approval, all charges prepaid. Look it over 
thoroughly. See if it lives up to all the claims 
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And if you decide to keep it — as you surely 
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Remember, 3-ou take no risk, you assume no 
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and learn how to make people like you, while 
this remarkable o£~er is still on. 


Independent Corporation 

Publishers of the Independent Weekly 
Dept. B-14410, 119 West 40th Street, New York 

You may send me Dr. Blackford's Course of seven 
lessons, entitled "Reading Character at Sight." I will 
either remail the course to you within five days after 
its receipt, or send you $5 in full payment of the 

A d dress 


Page Three 


The End of the Fame and Fortune Contest 

TWENTY-FIVE honor roll leaders in The Fame and 
Fortune Contest of Shadowland, The Motion Picture 
Magazine and The Motion Picture Classic were in- 
vited to participate in special motion picture tests, filmed at 
the Roslyn, L. I., estate of Eugene V. Brewster, publisher of 
the three magazines. 

Twenty young women — the pick of 100,000 contestants 
from all parts of the world — were present and, under the eye 
of Wilfrid North, the well known director, were given thoro 
tests. Many newspaper men and motion picture cameramen 
for the various news weeklies were present. 

The young women participating were: Blanche McGarity, 
of 2.36 Blum Street, San Antonio, Texas; Anetha Getwell, 
of 1520 N. La Salle Street, Chicago; Helen Lee Worthing, 
of 1073 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.; Toots Sandell, of 127 
Kingshighway Park, St. Louis, Mo.; Marcia Lea, of 490 
Riverside Drive, New York; Anita Booth, of 55 East 34th 
Street, New York; Bobbie Delys, of 6140 W'oodlawn Avenue, 

Chicago, 111.; Lucille Kle Bold, of 47 Dunn Street Atlanta, 
Ga.; Vera B. Hulme, of 4 East 30th Street, New York; Shir- 
ley Blackshaw, of 260 Laurel Street, Manchester, N. H. ; Fay 
Brennan, of the Hotel Harrington, Washington, D. C; Me- 
lanie Gordon, of 1871 California Street, Washington, D. C. ; 
Carolyn Brooke, of 918 South 16th Street, Birmingham, Ala.; 
Isabelle and Margaret Falconer, of 42 West 72nd Street, 
New York; Dorothy Reynolds, of 244 Riverside Drive, New 
York; Virginia Brown, of 565 West 162nd Street, New York; 
Ethel Mae Chadbourne, of the Government Hotel, R-S Build- 
ing, Room 138, Washington, D. C. ; Evelyn Jewel Poutch, 
of 611 Western Parkway, Louisville, Ky. ; Josephine Stadler, 
of 548 Bainbridge Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

The judges are now considering the test pictures and an 
official announcement will shortly be made. It is very proba- 
ble that The Motion Picture Classic for November will cam 7 
the full findings of the judges. 

The contest is to be made an annual institution. 

A Bird's Eye View of the Screen and Stage 


THE actors' strike shows no signs of a settlement as 
Shadowland goes to press. The war between the 
Actors' Equity Association and the Producing Man- 
agers' Association has resulted in the closing of some thirty 
New York theaters and all houses in Chicago, besides affect- 
ing other cities. Vigorous efforts are being made by the 
playwrights to bring about peace. A new actors' organiza- 
tion, the Actors' Fidelity League, has appeared, fathered by 
che producers. The American Federation of Labor is solidly 
■hind the Equity, according to official announcements by 
Samuel Gompers. 

One of the interesting developments has been the taking 
over by the Actors' Equity Association of the Lexington Opera 
House for a season. Here all-star entertainments are being 
given, the biggest of the stars being Ethel and Lionel Barry- 
more. Ethel Barrymore has appeared in scenes from "Ca- 
mille" and "Romeo and Juliet." 

The Equity announces a stellar revival of "The School for 
Scandal"' with John Drew, Ethel Barrymore, John Barry- 
more and Lionel Barrymore. 

Meanwhile two New York theaters are open: the Fulton, 
with "John Ferguson,'' and the Playhouse, with "At 9:45." 
William A. Brady, the producer of "At 9:45," is playing 
the butler in his own melodrama. The Hippodrome opened 
briefly with "Happy Days," but the strike closed its doors. 

Meanwhile, rehearsals of new productions are at a stand- 
still and the White Way is dark and silent just at the time 
when the rush of the new season's productions is at its height. 

The loss due to the strike was placed at a million dollars 
on September 1. 


The actors' strike has not touched the cinema, altho signs 
are apparent both in the East and on the coast that the 
players might easily be tempted to follow the Equity lead if 
called upon to do so. 

Jack Pickford has been signed by Goldwyn. This adds 
one more to the Goldwyn string of stars, which numbers 
Geraldine Farrar, Madge Kennedy, Mabel Normand, Pauline 
Frederick and Tom Moore. 

Vivian M. Moses, former publicity director for Select 
Pictures, is now associated with Guy Empey in picture pro- 

Vivian Martin has left Famous Players-Lasky. Bessie 
Love is leaving Vitagraph. 

David Griffith has purchased 'Wild Oranges" for special 

Commodore J. Stuart Blackton's productions, commencing 
with "Dawn," will be released thru Pathe Exchange, Inc. 

Edith Storey is said to be returning to the screen with 

William Farnum is doing "If I Were King," Justin Hunt- 
ley McCarthy's romantic drama. Farnum plays Villon, the 
vagabond poet. 

Antonio Moreno has re-signed with Vitagraph. 

Elsie Ferguson is going to England to do three productions 
for Famous Players-Artcraft. Hugh Ford will direct. 

World Film has signed Jackie Saunders to star. 

Elsie Janis' first Selznick Picture will bear the title, 
"A Regular Girl." 

Constance Binney has completed her first Realart pro- 
duction, a visualization of "Erstwhile Susan," Mrs. Fiske's 
success with Mary Alden in the Fiske role. 


You pass, a shadow in a laud of dreams, 
And yet the silence of your passing seems 
To echo with the wild and wistful songs 
Your people wail, in bitterness, of wrongs 
As old as time, more sorrowful than death. 
But when our tears would fall, like tender breath 
Of summer wind, where Northern sunlight gleams, 
Comes laughter and the joy of ice-freed streams 
That, vast and deep, flow forth to friendly seas. 
Oh child and woman, whom life's tragedies 
And joys have made a thing of cloud and fire. 
You are a People's pride and their desire. 
The strange and lovely beauty of your face, 
Your subtlety, your strength, bespeak your Race. 
So we, who scorn %er ways, her woes despise. 
Find hope for Russia in your steadfast eyes. 

Eleanor Shipley Halsey. 

Page Four 

'CLB4 3778 7 

Volume I 

Expressing the Arts 

The Magazine of Magazines 
OCTOBER, 1919 

Important Features in This Issue 

An unusual article by the man who best knows 
this picturesque part of New York 


John 'Wenger and his unique ideas 

THE ACTORS' WAR Louis Raymond Reid 

America's first histrionic strike 


The newest literature in review - 

"CAMERA!". . Hadi Barron and Saxon Cone 

A complete one act comedy 


A remarkable discussion of the films and their 

Number 2 



Published monthly by the M. P. Publishing Company, a New York Corporation with its principal offices 
at 177 Duffield Street. Brooklyn. N. Y. Eugene Y. Brewster, President and Editor: Eleanor Y. Y. Brewster, 
Treasurer; E. M. Heinemann. Secretary. Editorial offices at 177 Duffield Street. Brooklyn, N. Y.. to which 
address all mail should be sent. / 

Subscription $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in 
Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50. Single copies, 35 cents, postage prepaid. One and two- 
cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both old and 
new address. 

Application made at the Brooklyn, N. Y,, Post Office as Second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1919, by the M. P. Publishing Company in the United States and Great Britain. 




Publisher and Editor of Shadowland, Motion Picture Classic and Motion Picture Magazine. A copy- 
right portrait study by Samuel Lumiere, official photographer of the three publications 

Painted from Fhotograpli by Alfred Cheney Johnston 


From a Painting by 
W. Fitz 


ONLY six years ago Greenwich 
Village was a quiet idyllic 
part of old New York. Lovers 
of history would come and view curi- 
ously its time-honored historical 
houses, squares and burial places. 
Some of the oldest and most exclusive 
families lived in the mansions on the 
north side of Washington Square and 
its by-streets. Artists and writers had 
taken possession of the south side of 
the square. Here they lived in dilap- 
idated dwellings used as studio build- 
ings, a quiet life 
among themselves. 
They worked, fre- 
quented the near- 
by restaurants in 
little Italy, unmo- 
lested by the grue- 
some commercial- 
ism of a New York 
that seemed so far 
away, quite outside 
of their own retired 

There were 
hardly any stores 
in this vicinity, the 
streets desolate in 
daytime, dead at 
night. And now 
Greenwich Village 
has become a 
strange and myste- 
rious community. 
Newspapers, espe- 
cially the Sunday 
supplements, have 
told you a lot about 
Greenwich Village, 
about its peculiar 
restaurants, with 
bizarre colored 
furniture, about 
tea-rooms where a 
peculiar sort of 
people assemble, 
the kind of hu- 
mans you are ac- 
customed to call 
Bohemians; where 
impossible things 

My Greenwich 

By Guido Bruno 

Illustrated by Wynn Holcomb 

in the air! A gathering of constantly- 
changing men and women that have a 
past or have a future and live in both. 
A gathering of people that worship the 
highest ideals, constantly building bridges 
from one illusion to another, not noticing 
the mud that covers their roads and that 
is thrown after them from all sides. 
saints condemned to life in the crude 
hard realistic ivorld, you playground of 
sensation — thirsty women with a yelloiv 
streak and of men that mistake the desire 
to sow wild oats for artistic inclination. 
starved and gave the world the best it 
had, ivhere fortunes were squandered and 
fortunes made, where heavens of earthly 
bliss prevail and tortures of hell are suf- 
fered, ivhere night and day cease to be the 
regulating element of the ivorld, ivhere 
neiv ideas are developed into systems, 
into systems that will be overthrown to- 
morrow and substituted by others that 
will not live any longer 

are being sold in almost unreal shops. 
You have heard about women here 
wearing bobbed hair and smoking 
cigarets, sitting round tables with- 
cut table-cloths, talking of art and 
of matrimony and of social problems 
in quite a peculiar way; about men 
who let their hair grow long, prefer 
flowing neckties, and who are ever 
ready to serve you their theories of 
life — quite a tickling sensation after 
your family dinner in a Harlem ele- 
vator apartment. 

Publicity has 
done it all, and I 
have the sad honor 
to have brought it 

But for a French 
pastry-cook, a pro- 
prietor of an ice 
cream parlor and 
an Italian printer 
journeyman, who 
owned a handful 
of type and an old 
fashioned hand 
press, there would 
never have been a 
"Bruno's Garret," 
never a ''Green- 
wich Village Ga- 
zette" which be- 
came later "Bru- 
no's Weekly" 
Charles Edison, 
Thomas A. Edi- 
son's son, would 
have never come to 
Greenwich Village 
to start here his 
Thimble Theater, 
his dancing on 
Square, his musi- 

Washington Arch, 
the gateway to Green- 
wich Village. Just 
across from the arch, 
in an attic, Guido 
Bruno started his fa- 
mous little news- 

Page Eleven 



s, and New York would not have 
w its famous Latin Quarters. 
Greenwich Village had ever been 
ire than a geographical conception 
to me, something quite different from 
merely an old part of the city. True, 
there are old quaint houses and crooked funny streets, Italian 
restaurants in imitation of Europe with red ink and French 
table d'hotes, but I could tell you of at least a dozen neigh- 
borhoods in New York and perhaps a hundred in the United 
States which are quite as quaint and quite as old and per- 
haps more picturesque than Greenwich Village . . . but, 


There is a 
hovers above 
the houses, 
the leaves of 

"but" and it 
the roofs of 
rustles thru 
the trees and 

seems to form a rare and 
scarce patina over the stones 
of its grave-yards and the 
iron of its house gates. 

Did you know that 
houses have souls and that 
you who are living in steam- 
heated, electric lighted ele- 
vator apartments, are living 
in houses with dead souls? 

Your telephone wires 
pierced their hearts. Your 
steam pipes put them upon 
a bed of Procrustes and 
your tapestries muzzled 
them. On bleak nights you 

can hear the wind moaning outside your roof asking in vain 
for admission. He cannot deliver his message for neighbor- 
ing souls. It is on such nights that you turn restless in your 
bed listening to strange noises; you switch on your light and 
reopen your book which you laid away in the evening. . . . 

Greenwich Village seems to be the mysterious link between 
the great past of the big spirits who lived here and the 
unknown future of those who worship them. The old time- 
worn houses seem to have voices which you do not hear but 
which you will feel if you are one of the chosen few. And 
then the trees in its parks will look different to you from 
every other tree in the world. Its old dilapidated mansions, 
its cottages and frame houses now occupied by the humblest 
tenement population will regain for you the by-gone splendor. 
The deserted streets on rainy and stormy nights will bring 
you in close communication with the souls of men who made 
life worth living for everybody who can read or feel. 

Someone once called New York the head of the United 
States and justly can Greenwich Village be called the brains 
of New York. 

Since the days of the Revolution, which gave our nation 
independence, until yesterday and until this very day, almost 
everything big and of consequence can be traced to this little 
community. Thomas Paine lived and died here. Edgar 
Allan Poe came to Greenwich Village to spend his honey- 
moon, and to dream, to love, to starve and to write some of the 
things which have made his name immortal. Mark Twain 
and Robert Louis Stevenson used to sit and chat on Washing- 
ton Square while their housekeepers were cleaning their 
near-by apartments on Fifth Avenue. O. Henry spent most 
of his time in New York in Greenwich Village and some of 
the stories that made him famous are pictures of its life. 
Bayard Taylor and hundreds of others lived here. 

Page Tivelve 


Roosevelt had his headquarters on Washington Square and 
Abraham Lincoln made some of his important speeches here 
shortly before his assassination. Genius always struggled for 
recognition in the boundaries of the village and here it found 
its hrst recognition by another generation struggling similarly 
hard and paying its price for the laurels awarded by posterity. 

The Village Paper 

It was in 1915. I was broke, had come from the West 
where I had sold the monthly magazine that caused my ruin 
for the price of a ticket to New York. My search for friends 
had proved futile. I used to live on Washington Square and 
there I sat now on a bench, with SI. 50 in my pocket and a 
large store of ideals, ambitions, energy. ... I wanted 
to do something. 

There is not a lovelier place in the city than Washington 
Square. It carries a touch of intimacy that makes dear the 
boudoir of our beloved one. It has the dignity of a church 
and the friendliness of an inn-keeper who values us as gladly- 
sheltered guests. 

It was a wonderful evening and I took in the romance of 
it all. All at once it came to me! Over there the university: 
on the north side of the square all the aristocratic mansions: 
on the south side the aristocracy of mind in shabby lodging 
houses and studio buildings! Of course, this is the Quartier 
Latin of America. And I thought of the curious people that 
I knew lived in the neighborhood. How the}- worked: how 
they spent their lives in the happy so!-:tiiude of creating. I 
made up my mind to tell the world about this strange spot in 
the most commercial business city on earth. I had to talk to 
somebody. I decided then and there that I would start a 
paper, call it Greenwich Village, and make it a picture of I 
neighborhood: quaint, most intimate, dignified, peculiar in 

spots, learned here and there but 
also with a ragged edge. The 
only shop I could see in this 
neighborhood was the very ice 
cream store which is still oppo- 
site the terminal station of the 
Fifth Avenue busses. I found a 
verv nice chap there who seemed 
enthusiastic about my idea of a 
Greenwich Village magazine. "T 
am a printer," interrupted a 
rather rugged looking Italian 
who had listened to our conver- 
sation. "I have type and an old 
machine; if the paper isn't too 
big in size I would like to print 

I accompanied him to his shop, a little room two by four, 
everything most primitive; but I had no money and so I 
decided to take advantage of the offer. Xext morning I went 
out soliciting advertisements to cover the expense of my first 
number. I found everybody willing to advertise in my new 
paper. The Episcopal-Methodist Church, a few Italian gro- 
ceries, a real estate firm, a German bakery on Sixth Avenue. 
Those were hard days. I helped to set the type, to print the 
paper and what a long weary process it was ! But finally we 
got it out. The first number we issued in five hundred copies. 
I took them around to the newsdealers and left them there 
on consignment. I lived on the floor above the ice cream 
parlor; the rent then was about a tenth of what it is to-day. 
^Somebody called it Bruno's Garret and the name stuck. I 
rather liked the intimacy of it and 

printed beneath the title page of the Below The Green- 
next issue of (Continued on page 75) wicn Village Inn 




Page Thirteen 



Little Billie Wagner, of "The Gaieties 
of 1919", reveals a remarkable under- 
standing of Egyptian picture-writing in 
the accompanying study. Billie, we 
suspect, would have pleased even a 
critical Pharaoh 

Page Fourteen 


Putting the New Stage 
Art into Motion Pictures 

By Jameson Sewell 

IT will be but a short time before an adventurous and far 
seeing motion picture producer utilizes the newer stage 
art in making photoplays. That, in brief, is the 
opinion of John Wenger, an artist and creator of stage 
settings who is singularly fitted to know. 

Mr. Wenger has made a study of motion pictures at first 
hand. For many months he has created special scenic 
settings at the Xew York Rivoli theater, New York's 
de luxe photoplay house on Broadway. All this, aside from 
creating settings for the Metropolitan Opera House and the 
Boston Opera Company and being an artist of consider- 
able distinction. 

"The time is not far distant," believes Mr. Wenger, 
"when the art of Max Reinhart and Gordon Craig will 
be applied directly to the production of motion pictures. 
Not that the artist has not already manifested himself in 
the cinema. 'Broken Blossoms' is a thing of singular 
beauty and imagination, of one painting in movement after 
another. 'Broken Blossoms' is the first of the sort of pic- 
tures the future is bound to bring. Yet David Griffith, 
the maker of this bit of animated art, reveals a singular 
lack of the artistic sense in his 'Fall of Babylon.' This 
is just a spectacle of crowds and clashes, of court favor- 
ites in tights and extras in tin armor. It is better done, 
doubtless, than anything of its kind but it is not the work 
of art that is 'Broken Blossoms.' 

"We have had one or two other examples of the new 
art, as for instance Maurice Tourneur's 'Prunella' and 



Just before this, how- 
ever, Mr. Wenger con- 
tributed to the Boston 
Opera Company. After 
the demise of the Wash- 
ington Square Players, 
S. L. Rothapfel, then 
managing director of 
the Rialto and Rivoli 
theaters, sent for Mr. 
Wenger and placed 
him under contract to 
design sets — "scenic 
interludes" — for the 
Rivoli theater. Mr. 
Wenger began with the 
film presentation of 
-The Blue Bird." 

Altho managerial 
changes have taken 
place, Mr. Wenger is 
still the art director of 
the Rivoli and Rialto 
theaters. His settings 
at the Rivoli, built to fit 
a stage but four feet 

Two interesting examples of 
stage sets designed by Mr. Wen- 
ger. The upper scenic interlude 
was presented at the New York 
Rivoli as a background for a 
Bolm ballet 

'The Blue Bird.' These 
were but a step into the 
unexplored field of new stage 

John Wenger was born in 
Russia. After developing his 
ability as a painter and con- 
tributing a bit to the Rus- 
sian stage, Wenger came to 
America ten years ago. Dur- 
ing the years that followed, 
his paintings were exhibited 
at the National Academy of 
Design, the Pennsylvania 
Academy, the Architectural 
League and at various ex- 
hibitions. He became a mem- 
ber of the exclusive Salama- 
gundi Club. 

Wenger had always loved 
the stage and in it he saw 
infinite aesthetic possibilities. 
Some four years ago he gave 
an exhibition of stage models. 
Frank Conroy, then a guid- 
ing spirit of the Washington 
Square Players, saw the ex- 
hibition and, impressed with 
Wenger's ability, commis- 
sioned him to make a set- 
for that famous ama- 
rganization. Wenger 
the settings for 
lL' "He," Schnitz- 
Scene" and 
*ton Square 


deep, have attract- 
ed wide attention. 
Some of Mr. 
Wenger's sets 
give the aspect of 
remarkable depth, 
despite the un- 
usual limitations 
of the stage. 
These sets h a v e 
been the back- 
ground for vocal, 
musical and 
dance interludes 
to the de luxe pro- 
grams. Since Mr. 
Wenger has been 
at the Rivoli and 
Rialto, h e con- 
tributed the scen- 
ery and costume 
designs to the 
Metrop ol i t an 
Opera House's 
production of 
Izo;r Stravinsky 
and Alexander 
Benois' 'Tetru- 

As art director 
of two of New 
York's leading 
picture palaces, 
Mr. Wenger has, 
as he expresses it, 
"come very close 
to the public." 

"I always keep 
one thing in 
mind : to help 
people under- 
stand the music. 
Harmony in color 
can, of course, 
help tremendous- 
ly. I use my can- 
vas to create 

More settings designed by 
Mr. Wenger. At the lower 
left is a setting arranged by 
Mr. Wenger for the Metro- 
politan opera, "Petruskha" 

musical atmosphere, to 
suggest, to start the audi- 
ences thinking. 

"I do not try to illus- 
trate a number but to 
help it. I never try to 
create a concrete setting 
idea but to deal with the 
abstract. Any stage re- 
production of nature is 
artificial. Then why not 
be wholly artificial — and 
be fanciful and fantastic? 

"I find that the public 
likes, best of all, sympa- 
thetic things — the things 
(Continued on page 75) 

Page Seventeen 


Only a short 
time ago Miss 
Murray was a 
divinity of the 
dance. Then 
along came mo- 
tion pictures 
and the lure 
caught the god- 
dess of T e r p- 
si chore. Miss 
Murray has 
been very popu- 
lar on the screen 
but she is going 
to return to the 
stage soon 

Photograph © by 
Ira L. Hill Studios 

Page Eighteen 

Painted from © Photograph by Count de Streleclii 

'wIaaMTVKj XjOLsrtJ 


Fred Stone 
Invades Cheyenne 

Before ah audience 
of 15,000 at Chey- 
enne's famous 
round-up recently 
Fred Stone proved 
he wasri't a mere 
movie cowboy. 
Fred "bulldogged" 
a steer and rode 
"Rawlin's Kid," one 
of the fiercest out- 
law horses at the 

*ry*~ -rK^c^y^. v •• - *?v*~ ;wm£. *w;- 


Photographs © by 
Underwood & Underwood. N. Y. 

Page Twenty-Three 


Allan Dwan has 
been filming the 
late Richard Hard- 
ing Davis' romance 
of a South Ameri- 
can revolution out 
in California. At 
the left is the battle 
of the hacienda 


A non-revolutionary moment in "Soldiers 

of Fortune," with Norman Kerry as Mr. 

Davis hero and Anna Q. Nilsson as the 

fair and fluffy heroine 

Pictures Courtesy Mayflower Photoplay Corp. 

Page Twenty-Four 




Mr. Dwan 
utilized six 
men in 
this scene, 
some of 
them, il 
is said, 
being real 
of the 
M. Villa 

Page Twenty-Five 


The Complacent 

WHENEVER I think of Madge Ken- 
nedy, as I saw her last week I think 
of the word tranquillity, and whenever 
I think of the word tranquillity then, by the 
same token, is the personality of Madge Ken- 
nedy suggested to me. Calm things . . . fair 
things ... a grey dove of peace in the un- 
obtrusive sunlight ... a mirrored lake, deep- 
ly blue and placidly undisturbed . . . the 
slope of the Westchester hills, serene and beau- 
tiful . . . all the gentlenesses of life when the 
tempo is legato. 

It is not, or not, the usual thing to chat with 
a star who is admittedly doing nothing. '"Just 
resting.'" proclaimed Miss Kennedy (who is 
essentially, first, last and all the time, Mrs. 
Harold Bolster). It is quite an extraordinary 
sensation not to listen to plans for this or that, 
decisions, theatrical opinions, ambitions, etc., 
etc. Yes, it is decidedly extraordinary to talk 
with a star who is doing nothing at all arid 
who, paradoxically, thinks that nothing at all 
to do is the pleasantest sort of an occupation. 
N'othing by way of work, that is . . . 

"You see," she said, by way of explanation 
of her happy leisure, "I have a one track mind. 
Which is a great misfortune. More versatile 
people can work and play at one and th • 
same time, and therefore keep on indefinitely 
without serious dam ge to themselves. If I 
could go out in the evening, after a long day 
at the studio, for instance, and dance my head 
off, or do any silly, forgetful thing, I'd be all 
right- — but you see, I'm just not that way. 
When I work I just plain work, and I cant 
do one o.her thing. I go to the studio at nine 
in the morning, and I'm never even relaxed 
enough to be cheerfully late, work all day, 
rather intensely, and then go home at night 
and go to bed so as to be ready for the next 
day — and I keep that up and keep it up . . . 
until I snap. 

'I 'snapped' while I was out in California 
... of course," added this Wife-Yery-Much- 
in-Love-Widi-Her-Husband, ' Mr. Bolster's 
being in the service may have had something 
to do with it . . . we've been separated too 
much as it is . . . but at any rate I just sud- 
denly knew that 1 had got to stop the whole 
thing, and not make any plans or have so much 
as an idea on the subject of plans . . . and 
then Mr. Bolster came out to California to get 
me and bring me home, and we had a wonder- 
ful, wonderful trip, and here I am! I haven't 

a plan, nor an idea. 

Madge Kennedy's person- 
ality suggests calm things 
. . . fair things . . . 
a grey dove of peace in 
the unobtrusive sunlight 
... a mirrored lake, 
deeply blue and placidly 
undisturbed . . . the 
slope of the Westchester 
hills, serene and beauti- 
ful .. . all the gentle- 
nesses of life when the 
tempo is legato 

>'lmtu«rai>Ji (P) by lia 1.. II ill 

I dont know what 
1 m going to do, 
nor when I'm go- 
ing to do it. But 
I do know that 
when I do feel 
ready to begin it 
will be with a new 
zest again, a new 
grip. I'll see things 
in a fresher, keener 
light. I'll have 

Page Twenty-Six 


By Anne Paul 

new ideas and a new perspective, and 
without these things art, even the most 
consummate, • becomes staled and 

"I'm taking in all sort? of new 
ideas and new impressions and getting, 
I hope, new illusions . . . and all of 
these will go into my work, whenever I 
take it up again. . . ." 

She gave her serene little smile and 
patted the small black travelling case 
at her side. "I'm a commuter, too," 
she said, "I come into town once or 
twice a week with my little suit-case 
and take home such interesting things 
as spices and blue lingerie ribbons and 
celery salt, and then I order all the 
things cook needs at the same time. 

"We've taken a house at Briarcliff 
for the summer. ^ A delightful place 
with a still more delightful view. My 
mother, who was with me in California, 
of course, and just stopped over in Chi- 
cago, is coming on soon and we are 

IMiuttixraiihs <£> by Ira I.. Hill 

Madge Kennedy has a gentle manner, 
a gentle will, gentle hands, an air of 
tenderness. She is most wholly and 
absolutely woman. She wears her Art 
as she wears her gowns - unobtrusively 

keeping it as a surprise for her 
We're seriously considering buying 
in the country and living there all 
the year 'round." 

"So that you may have a me- 
nagerie?" I asked. 

''No, I dont believe in domestic 
menageries. Dogs, for instance. 
One grows too fond of them, and. 
invariably, something happens to 
them — and there is heart-break. I 
suppose it is my super-domestic 
attitude, but that's the way I 
feel about it. I did have a darling 
bear-cub in California, but Mr. 
Bolster gave him to the Zoo out 
there. He couldn't have lived here 
because he had to eat catalpa 
leaves. He was a very particular 
bear. An Australian one. The 
original of the Teddy Bears. 

"We'd (Continued on page lis) 

Pagf Twenty-Seven 





Mae Murray and her hus- 
band, Robert Leonard, 
have been occupying a 
summer place at Maniaro- 
neck, N. Y., in the West- 
chester hills 

Page Twenty-Eight 


Pla\time finds Miss 

Murray and Mr. 

Leonard on their 

tennis courts 

Page Twenty-Nine 



Exclusive Pictures Taken for 
Shadowland by Nelson Evans 

•Catherine MacDonald has 
been rapidly coming to 
the front rank of film 
players — due as much to 
her singular beauty as to 
her dramatic ability. Miss 
MacDonald's work in 
"The Woman Thou 
Gavest Me" made her the 
star of her own producing 

Pane Thirty 


Mis? MacDonald calls 
Pittsburgh her home 
town and she stopped 
briefly at the New York 
Winter Garden on her 
way to celluloid success. 
Then metropolitan artist- 
began to fall down and 
worship — and Miss Mac- 
Donald went west to con- 
quer new fields — and the 

Page Thirty-On, 


<--_•-:.: : .j 


The Southampton, L. I., beach — the Mecca of Society folk 

Mrs. Flewellen Chambers 
with her big Japanese parasol 
on the Southampton beach 

Mrs. J. W. Wright snapped on the sands 

All Photographs © International Film Service 

Page Thirty-Two 


Society at the Beach 

Miss Doris Godwin and 
baby Jacqueline Godwin 
enjoying the beach breezes 

Mrs. John E. Liggett, wife of 
the heir to the Liggett tobac- 
co millions, at the beach. 
Mrs. Liggett will return to 
the stage this fall with the 
permission of her wealthy 

Mrs. Frederick Humphreys 
and Mrs. Stewart Davis 
watching the sad sea waves 


All Photntmiiihs © International t"i Itri Service 


Page Thirty-Three 



The motion picture 
camera has caught the 
placidness of nature in 
this glimpse of the mirror 
lake. And there is noth- 
ing quite so restfully 
placid as Mother Nature 

The turbulent rush of the 
mountain stream is a 
vivid contrast. Here one 
catches the tang of the 
primeval pine 

t 'ih-i , ,j.i - . i ■ j . fritjii 1'iiNt si: L 'hk-.v I'.iraiiiitum 

Page Thirty-Four 


By Jane Ward 

THIS was before the world went mad. This was before 
the old gods of Might and Right of Birth went toppling 
into shattered shards of day. And on the great estates 
of Prince Michael Orbeliani the px-asants still labored like 
dumb beasts not knowing that they had souls or kinship 
with God. 

"I simply wasn't visible at all!" Marcia Warren laughed. 
She had a generous laugh that parted her full, deeply crim- 
son lips over strong even white teeth. "It wasn't that they 
snubbed me. Little Father, that would have implied that, 
humble, vile as I was they had condescended to see me. Sail, 
I shouldn't complain — " 
she made a mock obei- 
sance. " have I not been 
permitted to hold a dip- 
per of water for His 
High - and - Holiness. 
His Great-and-Mighti- 
ness, and. Little Father 
— he has nice eyes!'' 

John Warren, a grey 
man with a face wrin- 
kled as though his flesh 
no longer fitted his 
soul, looked at the 
fresh, glowing girlhood 
before him with the 
straining, puzzled near- 
sightedness of the old 
trying to see and un- 
derstand the young. "I 
wish." he said slowly. 
"I wish we were back 
in the States, back in 

old MapletOD with its Methodist ice-cream festivals and its 
elm trees and friendliness. I wish there was some fresh- 
checked youngster sitting on the front steps under the wistaria 
courting you. Russia isn't any place for young people who 
ire just starting to live, — or old people who are just about 
ready to stop living. A man may spend all his life in a 
stranger country. Marcia. but he gets homesick to die in his 
own land!" 

Marcia chose to ignore the latter part of the words. "I 
fancy Mapleton would be a tight fit for me. Little Father." 
she stretched out her young arms in a splendid, free gesture, 

I need room, lots of 
room to live in. I 
couldn't be satisfied 
with tight little 
Thoughts, and neat, or- 
derly little ideas that 
-mcll of moth balls. 
and have been made 
over out of other peo- 
ple's views And — 
omehow I dont diink 
I could be satisfied 
with the fresh -cheeked 
^>ungster either. I'm 
- -well. I'm rather a 

"I simph \*a;ii"t visible 
at all!" Marcia Warren 
laughed. "I -houldn't com- 
plain have I not been 
permitted to hold a clipper 
of water for Hi> High-and- 
Holine^ and. Little 
Father, he ha.- nice eyes!" 

Page Tkrrr 



Related in story form from the photoplay of 
Thompson Buchanan, produced by Diva Pic- 
tures, Inc., for release thru Goldwyn Pic- 
tures. Starring Geraldine Farrar as Marcia War- 
ren, supported by Lou-Tellegen as the Prince, 
W. Lawson Britt as Peter Poroschine, Arthur 
Carew as Count Aljx Voronssof, Alec B. Francis 
as Prince Michael Orbeliana, Edwin J. Connolly 
as Robert Warren, Naomi Childers as Baroness 
Olga Ainilahvaria, Mine. Rose Dione as Erina 
Rodina and Lydia Yeamans Titus as Mamie 
Connors. Directed by Frank Lloyd. 

big person, if you know what I mean, and when I love he 
will be a big man. Maybe not a very respectable man, nor 
a good man even, but big with great splendid sins and flashes 
of God, Himself—" 

Dread gripped him. He shook her arm. "Marcia! You're 
speaking of someone real — is it — is it the young Prince?" 

Her smile was like a steady flame. It was as tho a lamp 
were lighted in some far chamber of her soul illuminating 
her. "Yes, Little Father" — proudly, "it is Michael. It will 
always be Michael, I think. The first time I saw him — years 
ago when we were children I knew somehow — with a kind 
of clairvoyance that I was a woman-child. No other man 
lias ever made me feel that, Little Father — oh, of course its 
impossible, I knew it then, when he 
was only a straight, solemn boy with a 
kingly way of carrying his head, — and 
one small hand laid on the neck of his 
great hound. But I'm not going to be 
sorry, ever, only glad that he's in the 
same world that I am where I can see 

She had been beau- 
tiful — that woman 
in the Prince's 
arms, beautiful in a 
still marble fash- 
ion- a woman to 
>t ir sables re(?;illy 


him sometimes in the distance — I care so very much!" 
"My poor child," John Warren said brokenly, "will your 
wonderful, fine life be like a strain of music that is never 
played, then? You should have had love, Marcia, you 
should have borne children — " 

She touched his hand lightly. "I shall sing my song, 
Father, dont worry!" she told him, "and all children are not 
of flesh and blood. When the time comes I shall bear my 

Late that evening she stood in her bare little room, austere 
as a nun's, looking vaguely out across the great veldt, stark 
under the cold light of the stars. A wave of loneliness bitter 
with tears washed over her soul, a prescience of barren years 
of unfulfillment. Would it noi. after all be better for her if 
she went back to the pleasant friendliness of little places, 
green fields, white towns, homely commonplace things? But 
even as she asked the question she answered it, never! Shouid 
she be a coward and flee from Life, should she exchange 
reality, even tho it was the reality of pain and hunger for 
shadows of peace? 

'I am not afraid!" she challenged Life. "You cannot 
conquer me — there is nothing you can do that shall con- 
quer me!" 

A hesitant rap on her door was followed by her father's 
voice, "Marcia! Are you still up? A strange thing has 
happened," he stood in the doorway, a candle in his hands. 
"The old Prince has sent for you to come to the castle to 
sing to him. It seems he heard you one day as he was 
riding by, and thought your voice was like his wife's, dead 
years ago." 

And so it happened that for the first time in her life Marcia 
Warren, whose twenty years had nearly all been spent in 
Russia where her father was the manager of Prince Orbeli- 
ana's oil wells set her free-born foot over the doorsill of the 
She stood in the great, dark hall, waiting for the 
Prince to summon her; all about her suits of 
armor leered out of the shadows, vague tapestries 
stirred in the chill draughts, blazoned escutcheons 
gleamed with crimson that was like the blood of 
peasant generations. 

In this hall no doubt the dark Lords of the 
Manor had dealt out life and death to their serfs, 
had drunk and wassailed to still the howling of the 
winter wolves on the white barrens, into these dis- 
mal portals they had received the terrified maidens 
come to pay the ruthless lord his manor-right of 
their virginity upon their wedding eve — it seemed 
to her vivid imagining that the shadows were not 
cast by the great torches in their high scones but 
by old, ill deeds done long ago, shadows of selfish- 
ness and pride and sin. 

The present Prince was a good man, she had 
heard her father say, and her heart argued for the 
younger Michael and yet — who had decreed that 
they should be fed by other's hungering, that they 
should dance, as they were dancing now in the great 
ball room below the balcony while the women in 
the village brought forth dead babies, starved in 
the womb? She crept to the edge of the balcony 
and looked down with sombre eyes upon the glit- 
tering scene below, the slim, scented women of the 
aristocrats with their silken skins and jewels, the 
men with curled hair and beards, brave in white 
and gold lace, vain of their varnished boots, blase, 
contemptuous of lip and glance. The glow from 
the chandeliers was caught in the facets of a thou- 
sand jewels, filling the room with darting flashes, 
cold sparks of light. With a shudder, as tho she 
looked on something loathsome, Marcia Warren, 
daughter of the Pilgrims, turned away. "There is 

Ua day coming — " she said aloud, "when the Piper 
will want his pay." 
And since the Prince still delayed in sending for 

Page Thirty-Six 


' !■ J" ' •'-■'■ r. 

her, she moved on down the hall to where at the end thru 
parted velvet curtains a breath of blossoms sent out invita- 
tion. Five minutes later she stood again in the hall, pressing 
her clasped hands upon the tumult of her heart. Those 
slender arms, very white along his shoulders, — those low 
broken murmurs, snatches of trembling laughter and that 
kiss. Her lips felt hot and moist as tho in mockery. She 
had been beautiful — that woman in the Prince's arms, beauti- 
ful in a still marble fashion, wondrously gowned, a woman 
to wear sables regally, to draw the glances of the crowds — 

"Why should you be surprised that he is to be married?" 
she asked her heart, trying to sting it from its numbness with 
the lash of scorn, ''it is the nature of a man to mate with his 
kind, an aristocrat with aristocracy. What is it to you who 
he holds against his heart, whose lips he crushes, why do 
you— Oh God!" 

She pressed her teeth upon her lower lips, and closed her 
eyes but even behind the lowered lids she could see them as 
she had seen them a moment ago, as she would see them 
thru sleepless nights to come, the strong, noble face that she 
had hung like an ikon in the shrine of her heart bent ovjr 
the icy beauty of Olga, Baroness of Breslov, pressing upon 
the perfect lips a kiss that shook her, watching it. She 
scarcely was aware of what she did until she stood in the 
dim-lit library before the frail old figure, sunken in its 
velvet chair and began to sing. 

Then out of the agony and travail of her heart came forth 
a song. The dusk throbbed to its world passion, world pain 
— the notes were like silver ingots hot from the crucible, 
molten in the fires of the soul. When the last echo had 
quivered into silence the old Prince lifted his frosted head 
and looked keenly at the young spent face among the shadows. 
"You are a great singer, my child," he told her gently, "some 
day the world shall crown you with a crown beside which 
our coronets will be worthless as straw." 

These words were to come back to her years later, as she 
stood in the wings of the great Opera at Petrograd waiting 
to make her first appearance as prima donna, years in which 
she toiled until she was spent in body and soul over tedious 
exercises, struggling to put aside her grieving for her father's 
death, and that other grief which mercifully grew gentler 

with the Suddenly her spirit was caught in a great surgr 

years until °* J oy ant ' sne De 8 an to 8 ' n 8 

she was al- 
most able to think of Michael as of one who had died very 
long ago. 

As she stood in the jewelled gown of Thais the glare of 
the footlights revealed a figure rounded in;o gracious woman- 
hood, a face serene and thoughtful with a beauty that was 
more than physical. If the dusky fullness of the lips, the 
hollows of the throat, the curving breasts cried to the be- 
holder, "I am made for the sweet offices of love," the low 
forehead and dark eyes disdainful of coquetry said gravely, 
"I am made for thought." 

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" whispered one girl of the 
ballet to another, looking toward the still, white figure, "they 
say she hasn't any lovers but I cant believe that." 

"I've heard that she is a revolutionist," the other mut- 
tered, "my seamstress told me — she says Peter Poroschine, the 
Red Leader, is mad about her! Ah, there goes her cue — do 
you suppose she's frightened — just think, the house is filled 
with titles tonight, a cousin to the Czar in one of the boxes — " 

Beyond the footlights, a blur, a murmur as she stood be- 
fore them so different in her nun-like purity from the other 
prima donnas, fleshy, stereotyped, corseted. A blur, and one 
face leaping to her eyes out of the thousands turned to her, 
and in one cosmic moment all her hard won peace was gone. 
He was sitting in one of the boxes with his wife and another 
man with glossy, brilliantined beard and long, restless white 
hands. He leaned a little forward, and she thought he made 
an involuntary sign of recognition, as tho his soul had greeted 
a kindred soul. And suddenly her spirit was caught up in 
a great surge of joy, and she began to sing. 

The papers the next morning were full of the sensational 
success of the young American singer, but the club rooms and 
tea tables buzzed with another tale. Prince Michael had at 
last succumbed, he had gone straight from his box to the 
singer's dressing room, he had remained with her ten minutes 
— an hour — two hours according to the imagination of the 
raconteur, he had already established her in an apart- 
ment on the Mall— he had been repulsed, he hadn't been re- 
pulsed. What luck for her — a Prince of the royal blood, hand- 

Page Thirty-Seven 


She was suddenly 
filled with a kind 
jf animal fury, the 
woman creature 
fighting for her 

some as a young god, 
too, and quite free to 
love whom he chose, 
for didn't the whole 
world know of his 
wife's disgraceful af- 
fair with tount Otto? 
And after all she 
might be charming and 
have a golden voice 
and all that, but, my 
dear, she was only an 
American — a nobody- 

And while the wise- 
acres wagged industri- 
ous tongues Marcia 
Warren was living in a 
world apart, a little 
world with only two in- 
habitants, a little world 
as small as the heart of 
a woman, yet touching 
the nethermost stars. 
For Prince Michael had 
told her that he loved 
her, told her with a 
trace of the aristocrat 
in his voice but with 
truth in his eyes, and 
that night when she 
knelt after her old 
child fashion to sa> 

the childhood prayers she thanked God. very earnestly that this 
thing had come to her to remember when she should be old. 

For, with rather re- 
markable innocence she 
did not understand 
what Michael wanted 
of her, and in strange 
awe of that innocence 
that made a sort of 
sanctuary about her 
like a nun's robes, he 
did not enlighten her 
until there came a mo- 
ment when her nearness 
and his man-need of 
her flung aside all 
scruples and he took 
her into his arms and 
kist her wide, grave 
eyes shut, and her lips 
into a crimson flower. 
Then, feeling her trem- 
ble, he set her down 
and they faced each 
other across the memory 
of that stolen, heady 
moment of joy. 

"Marcia, I want you ! 
I must have you," 
Michael said hoarsely, 
like a tragic boy, "after 
that kiss — Dear, we be- 
long to each other! 
What do conventions 
matter, what does any- 
thing matter before 
that! I want you as 
I never wanted woman 
before, for I love you 
as I never loved a 
"Your — wife," Marcia said steadily, and touched his 
hand gently in mother pity for him, forgetting her own 

pain. "Then, even 


if that barrier were 
gone we could never 
marry, you an aris- 
tocrat, I a woman of 
the people. Are you 
asking me to be your 
mistress, Michael?" 

"I am asking you 
to lie my love!" he 
said bitterly, for he 
saw that he had lost 
the battle. "You 
cannot love me if 
you will let a wo^d 
stand between." 

"It is a ivorld that 
stands between us." 
she corrected, "and 
the world will have 
to fall into ruin and 
be made new ajjain 
before I can come to 
( Cont'd on page 76 ) 

Michael — hag- 
gard and un- 
shaven in 
strange, mud 
splatched gar- 
ments! She 
clung to him, 
faint with dread 

Page Thirty-Eight 


24 p. m. Two 
trying hours ele- 
vating the cinema 
before a rude — 
and rather unap- 
preciative — direc- 

Page F.orty-Fhe 


Painting in a Sedan Car 

LAST winter, while motoring on Long Island, 1 espied 
in the distance near a little frozen stream a few sticks 
J and a bundle of clothing, and, as we came nearer, 
observed that the sticks were an easel and the bundle of 
clothes was an artist. His feet were deep in the snow, his 
hands were covered with heavy cloth gloves, on his shivering 
knees rested a box of colors, in his fist he held a brush and 
we could see little clouds of mist every time he breathed. 

"Poor fellow," sighed my companion, "some poor artist — 
what a hard life! Why, that's worse than a day laborer's 

Many times after that I had occasion to note the hard- 
ships of the out-door painter, and particularly last March. 
The month had come in like a lion and was not going out 
like a lamb. Twice my easel blew down — once, canvas and 
all with the buttered side down. I then hung a large rock 
from the easel, which settled one problem, but I could find 
no solution to the puzzle how to prevent my palette from 
imitating an unreefed sail in a three-reef breeze. And that 
young March gale seemed to pick out the most inopportune 
time for hurling a gust at my right hand just as I was about 
to paint a slender branch of a tree, which produced a trunk 
where a twig should be. 

On another occasion, I started out early one crisp No- 
vember morning. The sun was trying to break thru some 
thick clouds and the frost made everything sparkle with 
color. Walking down a farm lane thru the meadow, I came 
upon a dandy scene that I started to paint. It was marshy 
and wet, and my boots broke thru the frozen crust into the 
mire. Then it began to rain, and my sketch became more 
of a water color than an oil. My feet were already wet, but 
I stuck it out, and got a pretty fair sketch, but it cost me 
a bad cold. After that I began to think, Why was it that 
artists have to work under such difficulties and discomforts? 
And why need they waste so much time making preparations 
and waiting for proper conditions? I remembered the old 
saying : 

"For every evil beneath the sun 

There is a remedy, or there's none; 
If there is one, try and find it, 
If there is none, never mind it!" 

I had heard that Bruce Crane, Leonard Ochtmann, Charles 
Gruppe and others had used such devices as moving vans, 
farm trucks, tents and peddler's wagons for movable studios 
and that these were rented of farmers or of anybody around 
who possessed anything on wheels. I had also heard that 
some artists combined carpentership with art and builded 
for themselves temporary shacks near the scenes that they 
had selected to paint, and then awaited the proper atmospheric 
conditions. But I believe there is a better plan and here it is : 

It so happened that last spring when I exchanged my 
last year's touring car for a new one, I decided to buy a 
Sedan. I figured that a convertible Sedan had all the ad- 
vantages of a touring car, and none of its disadvantages. 
With all the windows down and side posts removed it was 
practically a touring car, and in a few moments it could be 
converted into a completely closed car, suitable for town use 
in winter and for rainy or dusty weather in summer. A 
Sedan is completely enclosed in glass. Mine is a seven- 
passenger, with plenty of room for carrying large framed 
paintings, easels, canvases, sketchbox, etc., and hence, it has 
become my portable studio, easily and rapidly moved from 
place to place. 

Archimedes discovered the law of specific gravity while 
taking a bath in his tub; Sir Isaac Newton discovered the 
law of gravitation by observing an apple fall from the tree; 
and James Watt invented the steam engine by watching 
the lid of his mother's tea kettle rise and fall with the escap- 
ing steam; and your humble servant invented "Painting in a 
Sedan Car" (compared with which the aforesaid inventions 
pale into insignificance), and just because he knew enough 
to come in out of the rain. 

There is plenty of room in a Sedan car to place your 
easel in front of the rear seat. On a little folding stool under 
the easel I place my paint box. On the seat by my side, I 
have ample room for tobacco box, pipe, ash tray, paint rags, 
luncheon and canvases. The scene I am to paint can be 
seen from either of three directions. In fact, you can paint 
three different pictures without leaving your comfortable seat, 
or moving your car. Many a full day have I spent on the 
very same spot, making as many as three sketches or studies. 
In winter, I have an oil stove standing on the floor of the 
car alongside my easel, which, of course, I do not keep 
lighted when the car is in motion. In summer I paint in 
my Sedan when wind or sun outside are bothersome. In 
the early spring I paint in my Sedan to avoid the damp 
ground and high winds. So, you see, the Sedan is a cure 
for all ills that artist flesh is heir to, including heat, cold, 
dust, rain and wind. Some wag has said that "laziness is 
the mother of invention." That may be so, and I will not 
deny that my invention is conducive to laziness. But I 
assert in all seriousness that there is nothing in this life 
quite so agreeable, comfortable and inspiring as Painting 
in a Sedan Car. 

The Painter. 


Managing Director of the Rivoli and Rialto Theaters 

Cartoon Drawing by Wynn Holcomb 

Page Forty-Six 


Photograph © Underwood and Underwood 

Marie Dressier speaking to chorus girl strikers at the Amsterdam Opera House 

The Great Actors' War 

By Louis Raymond Reid 

JUST as the first week of August, 1914, has gone down 
in the history of the world as marking the beginning of 
the greatest war of mankind so the first week of August, 
1919, will record the occasion of the greatest conflict in the 
history of the stage. For many years the clouds of war have 
been gathering upon the theatrical horizon but they were 
lightly regarded. Actors might organize, it was confidently 
stated in theatrical circles, and be eventually affiliated with 
federated labor, but there would never be any real hostility 
between them and 
the managers be- 
cause the latter 
held the purse 
strings and the act- 
ors — tradition had 
it — would never 
stick together. 

And then with a suddenness which bore a remarkable simi- 
larity to that which marked the beginning of the world con- 
flict the actor-manager war broke out. The Battle of Broad- 
way was on and before a week had been passed it threatened 
to extend thruout the nation and part of Canada. 

While no acts of violence, no atrocities have been resorted 
to, testifying anew to the gentlemanly character of the forces 
on each side, friendships by the scores have been broken, 
millions of dollars have been lost or sacrificed, bitter accusa- 

Striking actresses be- 
longing to the Actors' 
Equity Association. 
Left to right, Francis 
Carson, Daisy Bel- 
more, Edna Warker, 
Clara Campbell, Olga 
Sarianoff and Elenore 

We Belong 


Photograph. © Vn-1?nvoo<l and Vndenvinxl 

Page Forty-Seven 



The leaders of the 
Equity Association on 
parade. Left to right, 
John Cope, Grant 
Stewart, Frank Gil- 
more and Francis Wil- 

tions and recriminations have passed 
back and forth, lawsuits by the 
dozens have been instituted, daily 
communiques have been published, 
strategic maneuvers to win the sup- 
port of the public have been begun 
on each side. Indeed, every device 
known to warfare except actual destruction of life and prop- 
erty has been called into use by the powerful forces in con- 
flict. It is the greatest sensation that has ever been recorded 
in the theatrical world, paling into insignificance that struggle 
many years ago between the "syndicate" (a group of man- 
agers dominating the activities of the stage and which con- 
sisted mainly of Klaw and Erlanger, Charles Frohman, Rich 
and Harris" and Alf Hayman) and the "independents," who 
were seeking to break down the monopoly and who comprised, 
among others, such managers as the Messrs. Shubert, David 
Belasco and Harrison Grey Fiske. 

At that time it was solely a fight of managers against 
managers. The actor was an interested onlooker inasmuch 
as his services were being sought by each side at remarkably 
lucrative salaries. His traditional dignity was supposed to 
shield him from the abuse and bad feeling of a managerial 
controversy. He was first and last an artist, supremely in- 
different to questions of contracts and other affairs of business. 
With the passing of time, however, the actor began to take 
a keener and keener interest in his relations with his man- 
agers. He began to see and appreciate the practicality of 
organization as an effectual protection of his rights. And it 
was in this appreciation that may be observed the spirit which 
led to the crisis which confronts the theater today. Actors 
not only organized, but they stuck together in a campaign 
for principles which they believed just. And when they could 
not win by what they termed moral suasion they struck. And 
they struck with all the picturesqueness and dramatic instinct 
of which their natures were capable. They held mass meet- 
ings at their headquarters and in hotels at which emotion 
characteristically ran high. They paraded the streets in motor 
cars and afoot, enlisting the aid of public opinion. They 

held a pretentious parade which, was marshalled with that 
fine and peculiar feeling for electrifying effects as are as- 
sociated with stage presentations. They obtained a theater 
wherein they could attract patronage that would aid their 
strike fund. They picketed with zeal tho not with consider- 
able originality those theaters against which they had de- 
clared a ban. They established offices in various restaurants 
and hotels for the purpose of conducting their multifarious 
activities in connection with the strike. 

And while the actors were busy the managers planned 
their campaign with enterprise and adroitness. They also 
had their organization, headed by the alert and resourceful 
firm of Cohan and Harris, and upon the advice of shrewd 
lawyers they proceeded to harass their opponents with elabo- 
rate lawsuits and with the assembling of strike-breaking casts. 
They recognized the value of propaganda and, possessing 
great wealth at their command, printed large advertisements 
in the press stating their side of the case. They instituted 
a large press bureau with two of the most able publicity men 
of their theater in charge and the}- appreciated the moral 
value of wholesale resignations from actors' clubs in gaining 
defections from the ranks of their opponents. 

Supreme confidence reigned on each side. Each side was 
convinced of the justice of its stand and of its ability to win. 
And the public, at first amused by something really new 
under the sun, became increasingly confused by the charges 
and countercharges, the changes in the theatrical map, the 
different incidents that were headlined daily in the press. 
But interest never waned. 

Whether the strike lasts a fortnight or six months wide- 
spread disaster will have been effected in the theatrical 
world — a result which will be observed for many seasons 
to come. After all it is simply another phase of the age- 
long struggle beween capital and labor. Perhaps it will 
inspire a great playwright, a Galsworthy, to write a new 
"Strife" in which the issue will be settled. But perhaps that 
is hoping too much. Perhaps it would be best to let the 
public decide the issue. After all it is (he public which pays 
and pays and pays. 

Paee Forty-Eight 


What Every 
Woman Should 

By The Rambler 

FASHION has taken an amazing turn 
for "fall of the year'". Such a riot of 
color in suits, frocks and hats. Such 
daintiness of soft creamy laces, gorgeous 
spangled bands, metal trimmings and lovely 
old Spanish and Oriental lace a-flutter 
with romance. Such a variety of gloves in 
lovely mauves, ambers and greys with tiny 
embroidered flowers, gay, stunning bags, 
bizarre necklaces of gold and jade of 
antique and jet. 

It seems like springtime we are going into 
instead of autumn. But, 'tis a time for 
frivolity. We have struggled long enough 
under a weight of somberness and must need 
bring much beauty to help a sad world to 
forget. For four years war news and cas- 
ualty lists were carried across under water 
by the big cables, the big ships carried sol- 
diers, doctors, nurses. But now, frivolous 
fashion chatter flashes down there in tlie 
dark and the liners carry French models, 
sketches, beautiful fabrics. 

Fashion has reverted to elaborate costum- 
ing after the comparatively simple styles of 
war years History is repeating itself in the 
wide swing of the pendulum due to a re- 
action in feeling of her people who have 
been wont to express them in their dress. 

It is interesting to note that American 
women are going back to line, to the rounded 
figure, to the new and different suit with 
formal cut, to the elaborate afternoon toil- 
ette, the gorgeous evening wrap. The Ameri- 
can ideal of femininity has been a figure 
softly modelled as a boy's with but the sug- 
gestion of a curve here and there in its long 
sweep of line. The slender silhouette still 
prevails, but there is evidence that the 
American woman is seriously considering 
the remodelling of her figure in accordance 
with the French styles and will manage to 
introduce into her silhouette the suggestion 
of roundness rather than boyish slimness. 

This means radical changes for American 
designers. The earlier indications of a re- 
vival of Louis XV and XVI modes are bear- 
ing positive results in a vogue of full skirts, 
apparently fitted waists and distended hips. 
In other words the silhouette is being modi- 
fied until it shows no relation to the straight 
line contour which has prevailed so long. 
This is particularly good news to the Ameri- 
can woman because the new lines are admir- 
ably suited to her. 

This new silhou- 
ette is shown in Evening gown of gold 
the new coat dress cloth, design in sap- 
as well as in the P^e ^™- B°nwit 
. .-, , .. r™ leller & Lo., of JNew 
tailored suit. The York, supplied the 
new autumn suit is model 

Page Forty-Nine 



strictly tailored. Its lines have none of the softness of recent 
seasons and in some instances there are bindings of black 
braid that make the effect even more severe. Many of the 
coats, reminiscent of Louis XV, have the '"nipped-in" shoulder 
and the belted coats are giving way to the coats with semi- 
fitted waist line with coat skirts that are full and flaring and 
largely pocketed at the hips. The skirts to these suits have 
more material in them but they are still straight in line. In 
general one may say that the length of the skirt will be about 
ankle length or a few inches above while the coat will be 
of any length below the hips. 

The one-piece frock will continue to be worn. One of the 
first necessities of Autumn wearing is the practical little frock 
of serge or tricotine developed along simple lines and there 
is a revival of interest in the redingote frock with simple blouse 
and gathered tunic. 

For formal afternoon and evening wear there is nothing so 
popular at the present moment as lace. Women will gladly 
return to the loveliest and most feminine of fabrics, assured 
that at the present time they are encouraging one of the great 
industries of France. Over a crepe de Chine lining of any 
color the lace is hung with considerable fulness — -the fulness 
concentrating at the hips. The bodice over a mere strip of 
lining shows the pattern of the lace to great advantage over 
a white skin, and tiny shoulder straps cling to the low-cut 
bodice which is without sleeves. 

The skirts of tulle or satin afternoon and evening frocks 
are almost elaborate; if they are not flounced or ruffled they 
are draped or puffed up into panniers. This mode depends 
upon contrast for effectiveness and snugly cut bodices are 
demanded by the very elaboration of the skirts. The return 
to the apparently fitted waist in dresses also in suits has given 
rise to the idea of corsets with slightly higher upper parts. 
Some are being made a bit higher, but extremely high and 
stiff corsets are not likely to be revived. 

It seems destined to be a season of great extravagance but 
also one of great dignity. We shall see less of frocks of 
youthful simplicity that required extreme youthfulness to wear 
them properly, and in their place we shall see gowns of line 
and character that are suited to mature charm. While evening 
gowns will remain without sleeves, afternoon gowns will favor 
the elbow and three-quarters length and the long tight sleeve 
will give way to the long sleeve that is straight and loose at 
the wrist. 

For early fall wear, French milliners are showing a good 
deal of felt in soft, rich qualities and also in bright colors. 
Velvet is combined with felt to a large extent with a crown 
of one and brim of the other material. Chic fall hats in 
medium sizes are made of duvetyn or wool velours, either of 
which is sufficient excuse for decorations of wool embroidery. 
There is also the bizarre little Persian trifle of many colored 
silk, soft velvet hats, hats distinctive with the new baby ostrich 
trimming and the indescribable French cachet interpreted in 
fabrics of silk, wool or velvet. 

Modish veils show ornamental borders of chiffon, braided 
net or embroidered traceries on a chiffon hem repeating the 
design woven in the meshes of the veil. Wooden beads also 
are used on veil borders. Veils that belong with special hats 
are draped in some instances to stand up around the crown 
while the lower part falls over the face. 

Smart and different styles in separate coats for fall and 
winter wear are as a rule, extremely simple in line but the 
colors run riot, with warm reds, browns and blues in the 
ascendant. The materials are particularly lovely with plushes, 
velvets and waterfall silks much in evidence. Two-color com- 
binations in soft wool velours are new in this season's coats 
and stripes and plaids are among the novelties for utility 
coats. There is also a fotted redingote of separate coat which 
will find favor with lovers of strictly 
tailored garments. 
Paillette evening dress A h ; Mv practical str aight line 

with colorful roses at , ,- '. j <• 1 • 1 

the side. Gown by st . vie oi coat ma de trom plain velaurs 
Bonwit Teller & Co. or mixed coating fabrics is cut on 

Page Fifty 


The Albin 

NOT so long ago the Painter 
handed us an art proof of 
"Naomi, the Greek" — as we 
thought, an excellent copy of some fine 
old Greek fragment. This was our first 
view of the "Albin Marble" camera 
studies. Being of an investigative turn 
of mind we nought out their creator. 

'T have sought for over twenty years," 
Mr. Albin said, "to make the camera 
as elastic a medium of personal expres- 
sion as even paint and canvas. The 
'Marbles' are straight photographs di- 
rect from life but rather more or less a 
'stunt' and not to be confounded with 
pictorial photography as an Art. 

"I came across the germ of it during 
research work. After constant experi- 
mentation I secured a print of a lovely 
nude, which I handed to a friend, a 
famous sculptor. Quite unsuspecting, 
he marvelled at the delicate modelling, 
fascinated by the uncanny realism of 
the statue and after close scrutiny de- 
clared the sculptor to be a genius. 

"Right there I knew that I had won; 
for, as I have said, the print was a 
photograph, direct from life, without 
any preparation of the model whatso- 
ever, with whitening or any of those 
sickly whitewash, imitation-plaster-cast 

"Fake, of course, but since it has 
made possible a few things worth while, 
I suppose it will be forgiven. 

"The day will come, and soon, when 
money will be spent to secure Art, di- 
rectors who are first artists, and less 
on the conglomerate abominations of 
junk and fake architectures, astound- 
ing but quite senseless. Just wait and 
watch for the frantic and pathetic imi- 
tations of that masterpiece, 'Broken 

"As for the nude on the screen or in 
still photography — yes and no. 

"Hitherto, on the screen, it has been 
so disgustingly, inexcusably naked. 
Thank God the public has so com- 
pletely damned it. Some day an artist 
will produce a thing of sheer beauty, 
nude but not naked. - 

"Possibly the 'Marbles' may provide a 
means of preserving unto posterity rec- 
ords of such lovely figures as possessed 
by many a stage 
and screen beauty. 

"The process of 
the 'Albin Mar- 
bles' is so involved 
as to be difficult to 
patent and must 
therefore remain 
the secret of one 



An Albin Marble 
photograph from 
life of Sylvia Jewel, 
one of the most fa- 
mous of art models 
who is now appear- 
ing on the screen 
in "The Soul of a 

Page Fifty-Three 


Peaks Among Books 

By Heywood Broun 

THE best novel of the year has been written by a play- 
wright. No book of the season has received such 
enthusiastic notices as Somerset Maugham's "The 
Moon and Sixpence - '. Maugham is well known here and in 
England as a playwright, for he has furnished light vehicles 
for John Drew, Billie Burke, Margaret Anglin and a num- 
ber of. American stars. As a novelist his following is not 
nearly as numerous, altho "Of Human Bondage" was hailed 
by a small group as a remarkable achievement. There is the 
slightest of relationships between Maugham the playwright 
and Maugham the novelist. His plays are the veriest 
fluff while his books are all of the most serious intent. The 
difference is marked even in the titles. When Maugham 
writes a play he calls it "Smith" or "Penelope" or "Mrs. 
Dot" or something else which suggests that it will do for the 
tired business man who has been unable to get first row seats 
for the musical comedy. And the plays invariably make 
good the mood suggested by the title. 

But with books Maugham is quite a different person. "The 
Moon and Sixpence", for instance, offered a problem even 
before it was read because nobody except Maugham knew 
what it meant. He agreed at length, however, to let his 
readers into the secret and explained that, when he was a 
boy, his nurse used to tell him of a very foolish man who was 
so eager to find the moon that he overlooked a sixpence which 
lay at his feet. Grown to man's estate, Maugham says that 
the moral of the story has lost savor with him, for he thinks 
that perhaps there is more wis- 
dom in looking for the moon 
than in stooping for sixpence. 
However, the hero of the 
new Maugham book does 
something more than overlook 
the sixpence. As a matter of 
fact, he fairly grinds it under 
his heel in his quest for the 
moon. This hero is an En- 
glishman named Strickland, 
who at the age of forty sud- 
denly decides to go to Paris 
and become an artist. He de- 
serts his wife and his two chil- 
dren and leaves a curt note 
saying that he is not coming 
back. Of course, his wife and 
all his friends believe that an 
affair with some woman or 
other is at the bottom of his 
strange behaviour. A friend 
of the family is sent to Paris 
to intercede with him and dis- 
covers to his surprise that there 
is no woman in the case and 
that Strickland actually has 
gone to Paris to become an 
artist. The emissary from the 
family tries to convince Strick- 
land that he is a fool to attempt 
to take up a new career so late 
in life since he has almost no 
chance of obtaining anything 
more than a third or fourth 
rate success. But Strickland 
has no patience with this line 
of reasoning. "I tell you I've 
got to paint," he explains. "I 


Cartoon study of Richard Barthelmess in 
"Broken Blossoms," by Wynn Holcomb 

cant help myself. When a man falls into the water it doesn't 
matter how he swims, well or badly: he's got to get out or 
he'll drown." 

And Strickland sticks to his art and becomes a great 
painter, altho his genius is not recognized until after his 
death. The book is striking because it goes squarely against 
the Anglo-Saxon tradition that love, or sex attraction, is the 
one definite dynamic force in life. Certainly, American 
patrons of the theatre, the screen and the novel have learned 
to expect stories in which men win battles, build railroads, 
write operas or stop drinking for the sake of a woman's 
smile. Strickland is different. His interest in women is 
merely incidental. It is physical and transient. 

"I dont want love," he says. "I haven't time for it. It's 
weakness. I am a man and sometimes I want a woman. 
When I've satisfied my passion I'm ready for other things. 
I can't overcome my desire, but I hate it; it imprisons my 
spirit; I look forward to the time when I shall be free from 
all desire and can give myself without hinderance to my 
work. Because women can do nothing but love, they've given 
it a ridiculous importance. They want to persuade us that 
it's the whole of life. It's an insignificant part. I know 
lust. That's normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women 
are the instruments of my pleasure; I have no patience with 
their claim to be helpmates, partners, companions." 

Strickland lives up to this creed and is absolutely ruthless 
in all his human relationships. He allows no affection, no 

friendship, even, to come be- 
tween him and his art. To be 
sure, other novelists have writ- 
ten about geniuses who were 
thorogoing egoists, but Maug- 
ham is extraordinarily success- 
. ful in his portrait, because he 
succeeds in convincing the 
reader that the man is au- 
thentically great. This effect 
is gained by a number of ef- 
fective devices. First of all, 
he gives us only a few glimpses 
of the man's work but these 
are so vivid that we are en- 
couraged to go on and complete 
the survey in our minds. Also, 
he is careful never to let 
Strickland himself make any 
claims to greatness. The man 
is not allowed even to attempt 
to explain his work. He is 
pictured as frankly contemptu- 
ous and indifferent to what 
people think of him. He is not 
even anxious for recognition 
by posterity. Strickland paints 
simply to please himself and 
when he is done with a picture 
he loses all interest in it. This 
is an egoism so colossal that it 
is disarming. Only one char- 
acter in the book is allowed to 
realize completely the greatness 
of the artist. All the rest are 
skeptical. In other words, the 
reader is allowed to become in 
his own right one of the dis- 
cov- (Continued on page 74) 

Page Fifty-Four 

The Influence of the Screen 

By Mme. Olga Petrova 


no greater 
influence today in 
the life of the pro- 
letariat than the 
influence of the 
screen. This in- 
fluence has grown 
from the wonder- 
ment expressed by 
a handful of 
spectators, in the 
first improvised 
picture theater, at 
the fact that pho- 
tographs could 
move, run and 
apparently live to 
the influence that, 
but a few months 
ago, caused many 
to forsake simple 
and peaceful 
modes of life to 
wage bitter and 
unrelenting war 
against the com- 
mon enemy of our 
latter day civili- 

Of course, there 
are those who still 
lift a pitying eye- 
brow at the mov- 
ing picture in 
general and an 
incredulous one at 
any influence it 
may have in par- 

With these we 
are not directly 
•concerned, but 
w i t h the thou- 
sands who fill the 
picture theaters 
from the North to 
the South and 

from the East to the West, we are very closely and certainly 
concerned indeed. 

One is continually told that the audience goes to the theater 
to be amused and not to think. 

Never was statement more stupid and paradoxical than 
this. Every person, unless he be imbecile, intoxicated, or 
otherwise mentally comatose, thinks, consciously or subcon- 
sciously, just as he breathes consciously or subconsciously. 
It is the quality of the thought he thinks that is the open and 
variable quantity. It is the thought suggested to the onlooker 
by the happenings on the screen that engenders the influence 
which may react to his benefit or to his harm. 

As to what is amusing — 

One man's fish was ever another man's poison and while 
•one woman feels that she has not spent a profitable quart 
d'heure unless she weeps copiously, another rolls her eyes 
-ecstatically over the wooings of Mr. Douglas Fairbanks. 



Another remark 
that one hears 
continual ly, 
whenever the in- 
fluence of the 
screen for harm 
is mooted, is the 
remark that peo- 
ple are perfectly 
well able to judge 
for themselves 
what is good or 
not good for them, 
without the inter- 
ference of a self 
appointed bene- 
factor of the pub- 
lic morals. That 
the discrimina- 
tion of the last 
mentioned indi- 
vidual may be of 
a questionable va- 
riety goes without 
saying, but the 
necessity for sane 
discrimination is 
apparent, for the 
same reason that 
we have religious 
advisors, medical 
advisors, legal 
advisors and so 

If the quality 
of thought ap- 
preciated and ac- 
cepted by the mob 
were by nature of 
such soundness, 
from a personal 
or communistic 
standpoint that 
guidance were un- 
necessary, then 
the gaol and the 
church, the school 
and the reforma- 
tory would dis- 
appear automatically and the towers and minarets of Utopia 
would reflect the whiteness of a hitherto unsuspected dawn. 
The mass is fed therefore upon food which is more or less 
predigested by the school and the church, not to mention 
the mother or the newspaper and last but by no means least 
by the screen. 

Now, thinking being one thing and reasoning a horse of 
quite another colour, the mass forms its conclusions for the 
greater part by just such artificial processes as these, taking 
them on surface values. 

To expect that same mass to reason these copy book maxims 
pro or con would be to expect a miracle. 

I once heard a person say, "Show me what newspaper a 
man reads and I will tell you his political opinions."' That 
remark might be translated for the screen, "Show me which 
artist's pictures a person most frequently sees and I will 
tell you that person's general outlook on life." 

Page Fifty -Five 


This statement may sound broad but to one who receives 
as man)' personal letters as I do, both on the subjects of my 
own plays and the plays of other artists as well, it under- 
estimates rather than exaggerates the truth. I have found 
that the bulk of these letters take for gospel that which they 
see upon the screen and are powerfully affected thereby. 

This being the case, it behooves those who have the re- 
sponsibility of guiding the public mind, pictorially speaking, 
to see to it that that mind shall be given such quality of 
thought that shall not lead it to lesser state of grace. 

For instance — while one admits that sex and crime have 
their place in art and on the screen, one would make it a 
sine qua n on that if lapses from certain laws are to be made 
the basis for screen amusement — call it what you will — the 
offenders must be brought to face the inevitable consequences 
of their wrong doing. These consequences should be shown 
in as great detail as the offence so that the criminal may not 
be hysterically proclaimed a hero or a martyr, or the puella 
publico, as a sweet, guileless young thing who "Gawd knows 
couldn't help it." 

Such pictures as Raffles, just to take a case in point, are 
to my mind exceptionally dangerous and bad propaganda 
for the unreasoning. 

Here is a man who under the guise of friendship eats his 
friend's salt, takes him by the hand, and under cover of the 
darkness and a sleeping household, robs him. 

In the film of Raffles all the sympathy of the beholder is 
enlisted on behalf of this common, dirty sneak thief. Instead 
of the play's showing what a ninety -nine out of a hundred 
cases would have logically happened to him in actual life, 
gaol, and which by the way would tend to show that even 
apart from the ethics of common decency, it is an economic 
blunder to steal, he is shown as a hero of romance and is, of 
course, allowed to escape free and clear. 

Pictures showing heroines in Riverside Drive apartments 
beringed and befeathered, surrounded by a bevy' of obsequious 
serving wenches and an army of prize Pekingese, while they, 
the heroines, hold streaming handkerchiefs to their eyes to 
the accompaniment of a subtitle which informs us that 
'"Mother simply had to have an operation and it was the only 
way," are common to fatuousness. 

The fact that clinics are provided in every hospital where 
medical and surgical treatment is free of charge, of course 
never enters the nasty minds of the scenario writer or the 
still more nasty, because more commercial, producer. The 
"sacrifice of her honour" is the tasty tid-bit which must be 
served up on a platter of gold with a piquant sauce of neurotic 
and weak-spined hysteria. 

To show later the hospital or the river would fill the pro- 
ducer or the carefully educated public with disgust at such 
crassness of realism. 

Such sordid details must be spared the delicate suscepti- 
bilities of those who a few reels earlier thrilled deliriously 
at the aforesaid sacrifice, particularly if accompanied by a 
thrilling display of torn shirtwaists and dishevelled hair. 

No! No hospital, no river! the audience must be placated, 
the heroine must be whitewashed at the eleventh hour so that 
there may be no arrier'e perisee among the Simon Pures of 
the flock. 

That rara avis in the screen play, the woman who goes out 

malice aforethought to select her mate with or without the 
law as beseems her best and then faces squarely the con- 
sequence of her own action, no matter what that consequence 
may be, is on the other hand a villainess of the deepest 
die and rarely gets by the scissors of a thoroly moral censor 
board. The sympathy of the mass is not with her. She has 
given them probably no thrills in the first place. She has not 
been dragged by the hair to the apartment on Riverside Drive, 
she has not profited to the extent of showing us a bevy of 
maids and a collection of prize Pekingese thrust unwillingly 
upon her as the result of mother's operation, and she has not 
howled to high heaven that she couldn't help it, depriving 
us thereby of the final exercise of our inalienable right to 
forgive. Again I say that this pandering to the nasty desire 
for nasty things, to the morbid and hysterical craving of those, 
whose principal object in coming to the theater, is to see for- 
bidden and therefore attractive sins which they are, after all, 
sinning by proxy is bad stuff, very bad stuff, indeed. And 
there is another thing which helps to make this state of 
affairs inimitably worse. That is the advertising or pub- 
licity which the producer or exhibitor employs to stir up the 
worst side of human nature to a pitch of curiosity which will 
redound to their inevitable harm and to his undoubted profit. 
It is only a few months ago that I saw a full page ad- 
vertisement in a New York Sunday paper which bore adver- 
tising to this effect in its largest and blackest type: 

"She led one man to ruin 
Another to dishonour 
And a third to DEATH. 
See Miss Blank in ." 

I made a point of seeing this picture. I was anxious to 
know what punishment could possibly be found mete for a 
lady of such disturbing (pictorially) proclivities. 

I must say that that film thoroly and entirely lived up 
to its advertised specifications. But the punishment! Why, 
of course, there was none. She couldn't help it, her husband 
said so, in a title after which the scene faded out on a lengthy 
and thoroly nauseating "clutch." 

This is only one instance of the harm that advertising, as 
just one of the many, but powerful ramifications of the in- 
fluence of the screen, can accomplish. Take any advertising 
paper and read some of the idiotic and dangerous "muck" 
that is used to exploit certain screen productions. 

Only one thing seems to me to throw any hope on the situa- 
tion and that is that a pendulum can only swing just so far 
in one direction. It must finally swing the other way. We 
have had crime epitomized. We have had every kind of 
thrill, forbidden and otherwise, with the exception perhaps of 
the details of the punishment to fit the crime, until with the 
inevitable reversion of the pendulum, who knows but that 
some day we shall be thrilled to the soul at the sight of a 
daisy growing in the grass, or a sun setting across a silver 
sea. The advertising will tell us that it is the most beautiful 
sunset ever photographed and the sexual aberrations of the 
heroine will not even be mentioned. 

When I think of Broken Blossoms, Mr. Griffith's great 
because simple masterpiece, I see the signs of the times. 

God send them soon. 


All the old landmarks are swept away, 
The hanging bridge o'er the tiny stream 

That seemed a river to Wonderland 
In the youth-days of our Dream. 

All the old landmarks are swept away, 
Years are cruel — and years are fleet, 

I walk strange ways where once I traced 
The wandering of your feet. 

The sign-posts are down along the way, 
Memories that grip my throat with pain, 

Odd, little lanes to Yesterday, 

Woods that echo with summer rain. 

All the old landmarks are swept away, 

Rivers, and fields where the lilies grew, 
And oh for the pain in the sad refrain, 
The lovelight in eyes that were strange and blue. 

■ — The Dreamer. 

Page Fifty-Six 




.A Comedy in One Act 
By Hadi Barron and Saxon Cone 

Illustrations by Oscar Frederick Howard 

Rising Curtain Reveals : 

THE pergola 
porch and a cor- 
ner of the lawn 
before the Artie Allyns 
Long Island country 
place at Rosedale. 
French doors open in'.o 
the house and beside 
the doors is a long 

stretch of white-washed . : 

wall. Tubs of oddly 
cut bay, wicker chairs, 
cushions and rugs are 
scattered about, and 
there is plenty of con- 
crete evidence that the 
Artie Allyns have been 
"done" by a decorator. 
In the extreme right 
foreground is a sum- 
mer house discreetly 
hidden under Gloire 
de Dijon roses and 
there is a single rustic 
seat beginning to show 
traces of over work. 

A full moon, such as always shines on the third act of 
one of Mr. Belasco's plays, illumines the scene with mellow 
glow. From within the house come the strains of the latest 
shimmie on the victrola and the lisp of dancing feet and 
entwined shadows flit by the open door and across the 
moonlit lawn. 

A Female Guest accompanied by a Male Ditto come out 
of the house and look vaguely at the moon. 

The Male Guest (lighting a cigaret) 
The Allyns do themselves awf'ly well. Topping feed, that 
dinner, but prohibition does take the pep out of a meal. 

. ■ M 


Allison knew her pout 
was pretty, having 
practised it before her 
dressing table mirror 

The Male Guest (tactlessly) 
Some dress Allison's got on (or off) tonight 
you notice? She's a tonic for the eves. 


The Female Guest (yawning) The Female Guest (with a suggestion of a sniff) 

I'll say so! It's as dull and respectable as a woman in What woman isn't that! As for the gown, it wasn't to 

a high-necked gown — or at least one that's only two and tonic our eyes that it was acquired. If you ask me, I should 

seventy-five per cent decollete. say, "Cherchez l'homme'" 

Page Fifty -Seven 


"What beautiful things you say, 
my Poet," said Allison raptur- 
"It is because I have a beautiful 
inspiration, my Poem" 

The Male Guest {bright- 
Come to think of it, I be- 
lieve I have seen her and 
that poet-fellow Sawtell 

talking pretty frequent!}' . . . 

The Female Guest 
And then — the times we haven't seen them at all! Oh, 
there's no doubt but what he's the raison-d'etre of this 
merry little gathering, and we're merely in the "among those 
present" class — all except Elise Grafton, and she's figured 
out to keep Archie amused. 

The Male Guest 
She's figured out sufficiently — I'll concede that point. But 
I thought old Allyn was devilish strict — went in for monog- 

amy, respecta- 
bility and all 
those odd ideas 
. . . the same 
o 1 d stuff, y' 

The Female 



I imagine he 
keeps his morals 
in his wife's 
name as he 
does his real 
estate. Most 
men do. S'h'h 
. . . someone 
is coming . . . 

(Leslie Saw- 
tell comes out 
of the house. 
He is tall, slim, 
with a sugges- 
tion of free 
verse in his per- 
sonality — ro- 
mantic hair and 
talented eyes. 
He looks about 
a s tho expect- 
ing to see some- 
one and discov- 
ers F. and M. 
guests. ) 

Oh, didn't see 
you at first! I'm 
in full retreat. 
Dodo Hastings 
is showing 
symptoms of re- 
suming the even 
tenor of his 
ways and sing- 
ing T o s t i's 
" Goodbye " — 
and I fled. As 
a singer, Dodo 
is an awfully 
good plumber. 

Female Guest 
T e e - h e e ! 
Whad' you say, 
old thing, shall we toddle in? I think I discover Togo with 
a tray of glasses . . . their private stock . . . 

The Male Guest 
(with a hollow groan as he follows her into the house) 
Grape Juice! Lemon Pop! Nestle's Food! 
(Left in possession of the pergola and the moon Leslie 
consults his wrist watch and looking rather nervously about 
him comes down the steps and crosses the lawn to the sum- 
mer house. Once within, however, his confidence returns. He 
assumes an ardent pose.) 

Leslie (obviously rehearsing) 

The same moon . . . over Babylon . . . and you and 

I . . . Oh, I have loved you for these thousand years . . . 

Lady of the Argent Moon . . . (dropping to normal tone). 

Not a bad line, there . . . (he takes out a note-book and 

Page Fijty-Eight 


scribbles it down), it might come in well in my next ron- 
deau . . . Lady — of — the Argent — Moon — 

(Allison Allyn comes hurriedly and furtively from the 
house, looks about her and runs across the lawn. She is 
svelte, symmetrical and seductive, and for the rest there are 
the small matters of hair as densely black as the massed 
black night, skin argenter than the afore-quoted argent moon 
and lips like the red insult of some red flower. A man's 
woman. She enters the summer house and clutches Leslie's 
arm with exaggerated caution.) 

Sh! Sh! 

Leslie (nervously) 
Do you think anyone saw you? That would be awful — 
I mean for you, of course . . . 


Well, I'd hate to have them know — but I'd rather like to 
have them suspect. When a woman ceases to be an object 
of suspicion you may be pretty sure she's ceased to be an 
object of attention. I'd be furious with anyone who said 
that I was carrying on an affair, but I'd absolutely cut 
anybody who ventured to say that I couldn't. (She seats 
herself on the bench and looks up at him, archly.) Do you 
know that we haven't been alone, alone together, today — ■ 
except for that stingy little stolen moment in the butler's 

Leslie (with tragedy) 

I'll say I do.' I've worn out my patience and my watch 
looking for this moment to arrive. 

Allison (with a pout) 
I thought you seemed to be bearing up bravely at dinner. 
You talked steadily with your lips to that little Fayette Fayne 
idiot, and with your eyes to that scarlet-haired Elise Grafton. 
You never caught my eye once! 

Leslie (taking her hands) 
The only way I can be even so much as civil to a woman 
now is by pretending that she is you. 

Allison (relenting) 
Well, as long as you dont carry the pretense too far . . . 
(she looks suggestively at him). 

Leslie (accepting the suggestion and kissing her forthwith) 

You little witch! You Adorable! 

(Lest the audience should grow weary the editor has un- 
emotionally deleted a surplus supply of kisses here. The 
reader may season with them to individual taste, during the 
following scene. It's a straight case of not being able to 
go too far.) 

Allison (with a pretty pout. She knows it's pretty, having 
■ practised it before her dressing table mirror. ) 
And you dont ever say these things, or do these things to 
other women . . . ? 

There are no other women. To me you are Eve herself, 
original Eve. Eve incomparable! the first, the only woman 
in the world . . . Eve, my Eve, at whom I may gaze only 
thru the barred gates of Paradise. 

Allison (rapturously) 
AVhat beautiful things you say, my Poet! 

It is because I have a beautiful inspiration, my Poem! 

Allison (with, doubtless, argentine dreaminess) 
How long have you loved me, my lover? 

Leslie (with a gesture, SOME gesture) 

I have loved you ever since you were a Queen in Babylon 

and I was the least of your slaves. Behold! (he drops, with 

drama, to his knees before her and kisses the hem of her 

imported model). Your slave then, my 

Queen, thruout the ages, and tonight tt .„. , ^ . „ 

' , . . , , ° ,1 , ° "Alhe! Damitall, 

. . . ah tonight . . . (heaves a bron- where are you 

chial sigh) more than ever your slave now?" 

Page Fifty-Nine 


tonight, most Glorious! -Where have you been," said 

More than ever before . . . Ar f ie dar ^' " th . at s a11 * ™ 

. to know. Where have you been 

tonight. ... w j tn tnat back-door Romeo, 

Soprano Voice within the that- ' 

house with the tremolo stop 


"Oh barren pa-ain, oh bit-ter loss! 

I kiss each beeead and strive at last to le-arn 

To kiss the Cross, Swee-eetheart, 

To — kiss — the — Cross—" 

Allison (tragically) 
To kiss the Cross! Yes, that's what love is! A cross to 
kiss! A bitter Cross to kiss! A beautiful, terrible thing! 
(More perfervidly, in evident enjoyment of her despair.) If 
only Archie were not so narrow, so provincial in his attitude 
toward the whole affair, but he insists upon being disagree- 
able. Why, the other night we were playing Blind Man's 
Bluff, so naively, so innocently, I am sure he peeked and 
caught you kissing me. There's nothing the man is not capa- 
ble of! And afterwards — (she flings up her hands) — Oh, la, 
la ! To have heard him go on one would have thought I had 
been doing something out of the way. 

Lesl ie (indignantly) 
The bounder! Why, he's archaic, medieval — he'll be ex- 
pecting you to darn his socks next or to be the mother of his 
children. Does he think that being married gives him a 
monopoly of you? Doesn't he know that the watchword of 
this age is co-operation? 

Allison (vindi- 
If I could 
only get some- 
thing on him 
with which to 
seal his lips ! As 
a matter of al- 
most-fact, I just 
know he is car- 
rying on an af- 
fair right now 
with Elise Graf- 
ton because he 
acted so grumpy 
when I w as 
making out my 
list and sug- 
gested including 
her. When a 
husband ad- 
mires a woman 
you may have 
your suspicions, 
but when he says 
he cant see her 
for a forest of 
trees, you may 
be certain there 
is something go- 
ing on! 

Leslie ( achiev- 
ing a change of 
subject by the 
simple expedient 
of a soulful 
You are sim- 
ply radiant to- 
night, m y 
Queen ! The 
moon is infinite- 
ly becoming to you. You should always wear a night like 
this, Lady of the Argent Moon, a purple night all spangled 
with the stars. . . . 

(Man has come out on the veranda and after looking 
about calls, crossly) 

Allie! Damitall, where are you now? 

Leslie (scrambling In his feet) 
Your husband ! 

Allison (dropping poetry for prose) 
Oh rats! (shakes her fist in direction of voice). You just 
wait — if a little scheme I've been working works right I'll 
have you where I want you, old thing. What's tobasco for 
the gander . . . (rising) but I suppose we'll have to go 
now. Do I look kissed or anything? 

Leslie (nervously) 

I hope there isn't any make-up on me. Women do rul' 
off so nowadays. 

(They saunter forth with the exaggerated innocence of 
the guilty, Allison humming a little tune.) 

Allison (gaily) 
Hullo, Arch, where've you been — but there! I suppose 
that's a tactless, not to say a foolish, question with the fair 
Elise so accessible ! 

(Continued on Pave 77) 

Pa%e Sixty 


The Doll's House 



EOPLE are al- 
ways treating me 
as if I were a 
said Wanda Haw- 

\Tanda Hawley lives 
in a veritable doll s 
home; a little four- 
room bungalow in 
Hollywood. The little 
film discovery has 
taught Latin, played 
accompaniments to 
such musicians as 
Albert Spaulding and 
posed for artists. Then 
came her big screen 



This is the only thing 
I can think of about her 
that reminds me of Ibsen 
at all. 

This and the fact that 
she lives in a veritable 
doll"s house; a little four- 
room bungalow which 
faces a grass - covered, 
flowery bungalow court, 
together with about nine 
other bungalows all ex- 
actly alike and all look- 
ing very tiny in compari- 
son with the big Holly- 
wood houses around them. 
For the rest, she is all 
"PegO'My Heart" and not 
even a little bit "Nora." 

She was looking very 
exquisite and very con- 
tented; sitting comfort- 
ably relaxed in a big 
wicker rocking chair. She 
had worked hard all day. 
(An ordinary American 
wonders if Ibsen's Nora 
would have made such a 
fuss about being treated as 
a child if she had worked 
hard all day. Probably 
notl) Anyhow, there was 
nothing of Nora's restless- 
ness about Wanda nor 
was there anything of the 
stage ingenue. She made 
the" remark about being 
treated as a child simply 
and quite apropos of the 

Page Sixty-One 


By Elizabeth Peltret 

(She had translated a Latin 
phrase for a scenario writer at 
the studio that morning and, as 
a result, had been asked by 
everyone on the set where she 
had learnt the translation; it 
seemed impossible to them that 
anyone could be so beautiful 
and still know Latin.) 

Wanda taught Latin while 
she was taking a post-graduate 
course at Normal school. Not 
only this, but she has earned 
money almost ever since she can 
remember. First with her mu- 
sic, playing accompaniments — 
she played for Albert Spaulding 
before he was so famous as he 
is now — and later, when she was 
studying vocal music in New 
York, posing for artists and 
photographers. She is the most 
perfect blonde imaginable and 
her skin is a thing of wonder; 
so soft and delicately fair that 
she needs almost no make-up for 
the screen. Verily, one CAN 
have everything — beauty and 
brains and all ! But I was tell- 
ing you about her work for the 

Her first moving picture, 
"The Derelict," with Stuart 
Holmes was a triumph for her. 

Miss Hawley is so exquisitely delicate 
that she gives one the impression of 
always playing at things. She is Ro- 
mance incarnate. Probably that is 
why she was selected to do Laurette 
Taylor's role in "Peg O' My Heart" on 
the screen 

(She was called Wanda Pettit 
then.) That was two years ago 
and she has been steadily improv- 
ing in technic and depth ever since 
as witness her latest pictures "Old 
Wives for New/' "We Can't Have 
Everything," and "For Better, For 
Worse." Now she has been given 
the title role in "Peg O' My 
Heart," the most longed-for part in 
all Hollywood. 

On the night I saw her, she had 
stayed at the studio until half past 
eight. (When one is busy becom- 
ing a screen star one works.) All 
she had had to eat during the day 
had been one sandwich. 

Leaving the studio at eight-thirty 
her husband was not to be found. 

He had waited outside for hours 
but had chosen just that moment to 
go to the corner for some cigarets, 
so we walked (Cont. on page 74) 

Page Sixty-Tivo 


The Fighting Actors of the A. E. F. 

By John Hopkins 

TWO bodies of work- 
ers came thru trie 
fire and blood test 
of the world war with fly- 
ing colors — the Salvation 
Army and the players. 
The achievements of the 
Salvation Army are now a 
matter of history. This 
article is an effort to 
record something of the 
activities of the actor in 
one field of war work — 
keeping up the morale of 
his brothers on the firing 

The generosity and the 
self-sacrifice of the player 
in times of need have al- 
ways asserted themselves. 
The players in this coun- 
try for instance, did a 
tremendous work in put- 
ting over the various Lib- 
ert}" Loan drives and war 
saving stamp campaigns. 
They fought shoulder to 
shoulder behind the fight- 
ing men. But in this lim- 
ited space we have only 
time to deal with the 
actors who fought with 
the soldiers. 

It was natural that the 
vast American Expedi- 
tionary Force should pro- 
duce a number of acting 
companies, just as it pro- 
duces its individual base- 
ball and football teams. 
The first of these dramatic 
organizations — and the 
only one officially recog- 
nized — was the Argonne 
Players, organized in the 
Lorraine sector in July. 1918. These players made history. 

The Argonne Players first numbered twenty players. The 
first performance was given on the Fourth of July. From 
that day the Argonne Players became a growing and advanc- 
ing organization, never losing its identity. The actors were 
not permitted to devote their whole time to entertaining their 
brothers, nor did they desire to — for a bigger work was on. 
They played during their out-of-the-line intervals, return- 
ing to their various regiments when their units moved back 
to the fighting zone. 

The Argonne Players were organized from men of the 
77th (Metropolitan) Division, made up largely of Xew York 
City men. The personnel of the division naturally num- 
bered many players and. as the Argonne Players grew, they 
came to include Percy Helton, the well known juvenile actor. 
Jack Waldron. a comedian and dancer, Howard Greer, who 
designed all the scenery, posters and costumes, Fred Roth 
and Alfred Dubin. who wrote the books and lyrics of the 
productions, Stuart Sage, Harry Cahill. Mario Rudolfi 
and others. 

The initial performance, given on the Fourth of July. 


One of the First 

was a minstrel show pre- 
sented in the municipal 
theater at Baccarat, in the 
Vosges. The theater was 
located some twelve kilo- 
meters from the 
line and the audience in- 
cluded a visiting French 
general and 15.000 dough- 

From that opening per- 
formance the Argonne 
Players went thru a series 
of thrilling experiences, 
absolutely ualike those 
ever encountered by a 
body of actors. They 
played in all sorts of 
places : quiet vineyards far 
from the front, in shell 
shattered chateaux, irr 
wrecked barns under fire 
and in the open air under 
camouflaged trees. Many 
times shells burst a few 
feet away from their im- 
promptu stage but the 
players came thru un- 
scathed. One shell might 
have wiped out the whole 
cast. Just one member 
lost his life. David Hock- 
stein, die violinist, his 
death occurring in the 
trenches under fire. 

The Argonne Players 
developed a style of per- 
formance all their own. 
They created a revue, 
which they termed "The 
Amex Revue,*' compris- 
ing a succession of vari- 
ous acts. This was un- 
like the musical comedies 
with choruses and typical 
numbers given by the various other American acting units 
which were created later and at total variance with the 
British pantomime performances. 

The Argonne Players encountered many colorful experi- 
ences. Once early in October, 19 IS, while playing on the 
edge of the .Argonne "Wood in a ruined cathedral minus a 
roof, a flock of enemy bombing planes suddenly appeared 
overhead. The Boche airmen noted the lights of the per- 
formance and began dropping explosives. Some of these 
fell fifty- feet away, but the players kept on with their roles, 
altho the officer ordered the lights flashed out. The 
Argonne Players boast of the fact that the Germans never 
once held up a performance. Sometimes, however, they were 
forced to play in gas masks. 

Earlier in 19 IS. in August to be exact, the Argonne 
Plavers went thru another bombing experience while giv- 
ing their revue in the Vesle sector on the grounds of a 
chateau formerly occupied by the German crown prince. 
Hidden by camouflaged trees, they kept on with their revue. 
Here thev utilized the crown prince's own piano, a small 
walnut instrument inlaid with (Continued on page SO) 

Argonne Plavers 

Paee Sixtv-Tkree 



Beatrice Dakin is- 
one of the pleas- 
ant features of the 
Ziegfeld 9 o'clock 
Revue and Mid- 
night Frolic atop 
the New Amster- 
dam Theater 

J'hotoyrapll by 
Alfred Phoney Johnsto 

Page Sixty -Four 


kicked six ripe apples 
with the toe of his long- 
vamped shoe; lit a cigaret, 
threw the cigaret away, 
heaved eight prodigious 
sighs, which, aside from 
registering emotion, consider- 
ably inflated his chest and 
then dropped on his side be- 
neath the apple tree. 

Muriel Harper Ashley 
took an engagement ring off 
one finger and put it res- 
tively on another various 
successive times, powdered 
her small decisive nose un- 
necessarily, kicked an apple 
herself, and finally dropped 
happily, to the side of Fer- 
dinand Oliver. 

''Oh, darling!" groaned 
Ferdinand Oliver. 

"Oh, ducky!" moaned 
Muriel Harper. 

"Being engaged is hell!" 
intoned Ferdinand. 

''Being married would 
be . . ." 

Fictionized from the MetrO'May Allison Photoplay 

«w ' "".» v a v By Ann 

Heaven ! supplied rer- 
dinand Oliver. 

Suddenly he sat erect. He rumpled his ferocious hair 
with ferocious fingertips. His eyes blazed. His nervous 
hand sought, found and clenched the nervous hand of 

"I'll tell you what it is," he began, "we'll put an end 
to this misery. It's not my fault I was born too late to be 
of any use to you or to myself. No, siree. It's my mother's 
fault, and my father's fault. Yes, it's their faults. I dont 
know on which side the fault is the greater. But I shant 
suffer for it. Not any longer. I believe they did this with 
malice aforethought. They knew it would come to this. 
It's just like father!" 

Muriel Harper laid a placating hand upon his increas- 
ingly belligerent shoulder. Privately, she considered him 
perfectly magnificent. "There are only three more months," 
she reminded him, "and you'll be twenty-one — " she added, 
"and mine," but very softly, for she was shy, and this 
was first love, and she had not learned the vocabulary 
as yet. 

Ferdinand Oliver turned upon her and waved his his- 
trionic hands. "Three months," 
he affirmed, with fervor, "are . . . 
is . . . well, am the straw that 
will break this camel's back! 
We've been engaged three years 
— and that's just three years too 
long, and we're not going to be 
milk-and-water engaged any lon- 
ger. Not if / know it!" He 
turned flamingly upon her, "What 


Makes them hurt too. lugs a 
instance, long engagements so 

to know, with considerable- 
more of ferocity than amour. 

Muriel felt that the mo- 
ment required adequacy of 

"Let's go see mother," she 
volunteered, "she'll . . . 
she'll know . . ." 

Ferdinand Oliver lacked 
three months to his desirable 
majority, but there his lack 
ceased. He made up for it 
in many other ways . . . 
such as a Bear-Cat racing car 
and several bank accounts 
and other little assets of a 
like nature. Also, there were 
various wills made out in his 
favor, and a great many eyes 
were upon him, social, finan- 
cial, and otherwise. 

There was nothing to stop 
him from getting the racing 
car and racing on to his 
and Muriel's consummation, 
that he could see. He had 
reached, he felt, a limit.. Be- 
sides, it was Spring. And 
Spring does odd things to a 
chap. Makes things lovelier, 
nd pulls at one. Makes, for 
many insults. Makes mar- 

The little Bear-Cat car 
stopped so many times 
on the way down to 
the country estate of 
the Ashleys ... so 
many unnecessary 
times, speaking me- 
chanically. "I have to 
kiss you so much, you 
see," explained Ferdi- 

Page Sixty-Five 


Three hours later 
the young Ferdinand 
Olivers had supped on 
nectar and ambrosia 
and were just about 
to replace the garish 
electrics by the pale 
immanence of the per- 
vasive moon 

riage to the Only Girl imperative 
. . , insistent ... 

There was nothing at all the mat- 
ter with the Bear-Cat car. It was 
in the pink of condition. It didn't 
feel, not in the least, the pale green 
budding of the young May. But, 
you see, its driver did. That's why 
it stopped so many times on the 

way down to the country estate of the Ashleys ... so many 
unnecessary times, speaking mechanically. So many times 
in unfrequented spots, where there wasn't much possibility 
of any passer-by. Perhaps if it hadn't stopped so many 
times . . . 

"I have to kiss you so much, you see," explained Fer- 
dinand, rather at random, after several of them, "to make 
up for all the time we've wasted not being married." He 
groaned, with a tragical gesture, "the time we've wasted," 
he repeated, ''the t-i-m-e!" 

"I do love you," said Muriel. She found it a completely 
satisfactory speech to make upon all and any occasion when 
with Ferdinand Oliver. It was, at least, inevitably ade- 
quate and all that could be expected of her. And she felt 

it . . . oh, she felt 
it . . . in every 
pore . . . 

The Ashley coun- 
try place had an 
appearance of deser- 

"Golf, I suppose," 
suggested Muriel, of 
her well-known pro- 

"We'll get the li- 
cense in the village," 
suggested Ferdinand, 
"and then 'phone 
for a minister from 
here, and be married 
here where you . . . 
where you made 
mud-pies as a kid- 
die, Blessed One." 
The license was 
comparatively sim- 
ple. A mere matter 
of lying a bit, just 
whitely, you know, 
about ages, etc. Fer- 
dinand wondered, 
savagely, why he 
hadn't done all this 
before. Last Spring, 
even, when the nag- 
gings were so bad. 
On the return trip 
with the license there 
were various little 
stops of t h e long- 
suffering and wholly 
unemotional Bear- 
Cat. Perhaps if 
they had gone right 
on . . . well, per- 
haps if they had, 
they might have 
intercepted "Soapy" 
Higgins and his 
partner, the "Par- 
son," in their little 
afternoon recreation 
of removing most of 
the Ashley plate and jewels. As it was, the elder Ash- 
leys came in just in time to allow "Soapy" to remove 
the flat silver and make his getaway, while the Par- 
son, less agile, was reduced to a clothes-press in Muriel's 

The unsuspecting Ashleys, mere et pere, greeted the young 
people on the porch. 

They were of the rare gender who have not forgotten the 
pangs of their own earlier Mays. They seemed to know 
just all about young Ferdinand's flaming cheeks and cold 
hands and the lump in his throat and the constriction icy- 
like, in his chest. They seemed to be quite in tender accord 
with the vague, eager uneasiness of Muriel. When they pro- 
claimed, together, throatily, "We want to get married, we 
must, we must!" they looked at one another and smiled, 
rather beautifully, rather reminiscently, as tho they heard 
the whispering of still animate hours, laid away, with rever- 
ent touch, in lavender. 

"Of course," said the elder Ashley, "there must be a min- 
ister, according to a proper sequence of events. First an 
engagement, then a license, then a . . ." 

His weighty statement was summarily interrupted by 
the appearance of a somewhat, somehow, ecclesiastical 

Vage Sixty-Six 


individual, rather 
rumpled, much at 
a loss and consider- 
ably out of breath. 
Apparently, and 
quite unaccountably, 
he had come from 

To the four inter- 
rogative pairs of 
eyes focussed upon, 
him he said: 

"I'm Parson." 

It was succinct. 
It was likewise 
something in the 
nature of an ancient 

"There's the hand 
of God in this," 
muttered Ferdinand. 

"Amen," whis- 
pered Muriel, and 
then she took his 
hand and pressed it, 
and there was an 
interlude . . . 

During the inter- 
lude Ashley, pere, 
had arranged for 
the ceremonial, and 
it took place forth- 
with, with the odor 
o f the opening 
hone y suckle all 
about them, and a 
few early, mating 
birds calling over 
them, and the flush 
of the May sunset 
caressing them with 
a faint rose lumin- 
osity. Now and then 
the Parson had to be 
prompted, having a 
vague way of trail- 
ing off into rapt 
silences and Ferdi- 
nand Oliver had to 
be prodded in order 
to take the ring from 

Father Ashley's hand, because he was gazing into Muriel's 
eyes and was the world forgetting utterly. Otherwise, the 
sacrament was complete. 

Afterward they had tea on the porch, and the Parson 
suggested that he depart, having, he told them, just dropped 
in, it being a little, informal habit he had, and yes, he 
would do it again, without a doubt. 

After tea, Ferdinand suggested that they be moving on. 

"There's father to be reckoned with, you know," he said. 
"I dont feel quite up to father, tonight. He's a bit pyro- 
technic when he's balked. I think we'll be moving on. We'll 
just drop in on some hotel for the night." 

Three hours later the young Ferdinand Olivers had supped 
on nectar and ambrosia and were just about, in their hotel 
room, to replace the garish electrics by the pale immanence 
of the pervasive moon when there came a sharp rapping at 
their inviolate doors. 

Muriel reared up among the pillows. Her small pink face 
took on the pillow-tone. "I . . . its your . . . your father, 
Ferdinand," she quavered, "oh, I felt that the worst was to 
come. He ... he must have been behind us a-ll»the . . . 
t-time ..." 

The rapping grew 
rather brutal. De- 
mands were being 
made. "What kind of 
a house did they think 
they were in?" bel- 
lowed a desecrating 
voice to the tune of 
the rapping 

The rapping grew rather brutal. 
Demands were being made. "What 
kind of a house," bellowed a dese- 
crating voice to the tune of the rap- 
ping; "what kind of a house did 
they think they were in? What 
KIND? This house had a name 
to keep up. Nothing of this sort 
had ever occurred before. They 
would leave or they could be assisted to leave. Violence 
wasn't sought for by the owner of the voice, but violence 
it would be if they were not clear of the premises in half 
an hour at the latest, at the most. They were to go at once. 
They were not to wait for nothing — not for NOTHING!" 
When it was possible to edge in a word, Ferdinand faintly 
inquired the nature of their particular outrage. He sug- 
gested that they had been decorously wedded at the home of 
the bride's parents ... admitted, of course, that his own 
paternal blessing had been conspicuous by its absence but 
surely, as for respectability . . . and they were very tired 
. . . the day had been strenuous . . . please to go a-way . . . 
He might have said more but the rapping recommenced 

Page Sixty -Seven 


accompanied by the fearful information that th' hell they 
said . . . married . . . not much ... a thief, a com- 
mon thief, had pulled the marriage stunt for them, and there 
was no more respectability there than . . . than . . . well, 
what had a thief, a second -story man to do with the Voice 
That Breathed O'er Eden . . . and they weren't the ONLY 
tired ones . . . and WERE they goin' to quit before it 
became necessary for the other guests to . . . that their 
;ood name might remain unblemished? 
1 There was a terrible silence on the nuptial side of the 
door. Then Ferdinand said, going out into the 
corridor, very quietly, "We'll leave." 

A final rap and a threatening "Half an hour!" 
and there was silence. 

"That chap . . ." vouchsafed Ferdinand when 
the noises had ceased and Muriel, shivering, had 
pulled the bed-clothes precisely to the breathing 
point of vantage of her nose; "that chap ... a 
thief . . . played a trick on us . . . oh, rotten 
. . . rotten . . . what a mess . . . !" 

"We . . . we didn't know," blushed Muriel, 
half inaudibly. 

"We cant go out there," proclaimed Ferdinand. 
There was an admission of outrage in his voice. 

"Of course not," quavered Muriel. Her eye 
sought the fire-escape . . . and lingered . . . 
"We might go . . . out there," she suggested, 
"and . . . and wait . . ." 

Ferdinand Oliver turned his pajamaed person 
carefully about and surveyed the escape. "Lets," 
he said. 

Midway down they crouched . . . and waited. 
From the well of inky darkness the reiterated 
rappings did not sound so imminent and dread- 
ful. After awhile, they suspected, and rightly, 
that a master-key was opening their locked door 
and that their departure was being profanely, if 
relievedly, commented upon. "Of course,'' Fer- 
dinand would mutter, "father's responsible for 

Near to morning the) - crept stiffly back. They 
might, they thought, just MIGHT, get in a bit 
of rest before morning. Then they could go for 
good and adjust this fiasco. 

They went for good considerably before morn- 
ing. It might have been the scorching shame 
they had put upon the place; it might have been 
some mere playful incendiary, but the worth}' 
and reputable hotel took to itself flames in the 
wee hours of the morning and burned cheerily 
and completely to the ground surrounded by a 
full circle of night-clad, blasphemous or resigned 
persons, according to their several dispositions 
and possessions. 

Ferdinand Oliver rescued his racer, ensconced 
Muriel and set off for the Ashleys again to see 
what might be seen. 

The Ashleys were again awaiting them upon 
the porch. Both amiable persons gave strong evi- 
dences of sleeplessness. 

"Where HAVE you been?" they called, as the racer made 
the final curve, "oh, WHERE have you been?" 

There was a third person with them. A man. He wore 
a badge and a suspicious expression. Both were fully dis- 
played. He was, Mrs. Ashley explained, rather tearfully, 
a detective. 

"Your father ..." she said to Ferdinand. 

"Of course," said Ferdinand, and set his mouth. 

"That terrible person . . . Parson he called himself," 
Mrs. Ashley continued, holding fast to Muriel, "is a com- 
mon thief. That much this man has discovered. He re- 
moved most of the flat silver in company with an individual 
called "Soapy" before he , . . before he , , . oh, my 

child, before he DIDN'T do anything to you and Ferdie. 
How terrible it all is! How terr-ible!" 

Muriel thought so, too, and began to sob. The night had 
not been without its terrors. There were those rappings . . . 
those accusations . . . the black pit of the night viewed 
from the fire-escape . . . the icy clutch of Ferdinand's 
hand . . . the overwhelming fact they were still . . . still 
engaged . . . or if not engaged . . . what then . . . what? 

Muriel and Ferdinand discarded their unengagement-like 
night apparel and were about to go forth in search of a 

bonafide clergyman when Ferdinand's father arrived upon 
the hysterical scene, accompanied by a severe looking per- 
son, sex, feminine. 

There was nothing of the irate parent in the aspect of 
Ferdinand's erstwhile belligerent parent. His air was quite 
distinctly apologetic. He seemed to be holding very tight 
to the severe looking person who wore, none the less, gay 
feathers in her hat and had a touch of rouge on either cheek. 

Ferdinand's father began to talk, quite volubly and ex- 
citedly. "You see," he said, "we just ran across one another 
last night when I was . . . when I . . . I'm sorry, son, 
I didn't just know . . . when I was looking up this gentle- 
man with the badsre for vou. We , . . this ladv and I . . . 

Page Sixty -Eight 


we were sweethearts long . . . long ago . . . We ... I 
. . . one can be . . . widower . . . too long . . . sort 
of atrophy, you know I . . . sort of stiffen up . . . about 
. . . hardening of the heart-erics, yo.u know . . . ha, ha, 
oh, ho, ho!" 

It was rather lamentable. Ma}' sat grotesquely on the 
paternal shoulders. Ferdinand Oliver blushed for his parent, 
even while it came to him that his three months' deficiency 
no longer meant anything in his father's young, young life. 
Nothing meant anything save the spinster with the rouge spots 

on her cheeks . . . 

"And now," suggested 
the elder Ferdinand, amic- 
ably, "I propose that I go 
for a clergyman, order a 
nuptial feast and we have 
a double ceremony, here, 
this blithe May morning. 
What do you say, my son?" 
Ferdinand groaned and 
collapsed on to the railing. 
"'Toddle along," he admon- 
ished his rejuvenated par- 
ent; ''so long as it's the 
guaranteed article and I can 
SLEEP I'm with you. 
Make it snappy, old top, 
just as one bridegroom to 

When the elder Ferdi- 
nand returned, some half 
hour later, to the porch that 
Mrs. Ashley and Muriel 
had bowered with roses, he 
had with him a Yen- Rev- 
erend Jenkins, with the 
uttermost sort of a Prayer 
book and Hymnal in hand 
and an expression that was 
a marriage sacrament in 

Only Ferdinand was 
missing. When he was 
sought for, and found, he 
was found to be struggling 
valiantly with the "'Parson" 
of yesterday, who had so 
complicated and fire- 
escaped and otherwise fired 
their honeymoon eve. Par- 
son had come back for 
more. His table service, he 
had felt, was not complete. 
Ferdinand had just dealt 
him a ringing blow when 
the Reverend Jenkins scaled 
the staircase to reach the 
scene of combat. 

"But upon my soul," ex- 
claimed the Reverend Jen- 
kins, "that is Jedediah Par- 
sons. He was a class-mate 
of mine. What does this all mean ? If he married you young 
people, you are married, fast and tight." 

Jedediah Parsons was recovering from young Ferdinand's 
well-aimed blow. 'T must have fallen asleep preparing my 
sermon ... or something . . . " he said rather painfully. 
The Reverend Jenkins lifted him to his feet. "This chap's 
had amnesia," he said, "it will explain the whole thing. But 
he's Jedediah, all right, all right . . ." 

Ferdinand raised a beckoning finger to Muriel. 
Ferdinand Senior turned upon them, his spinster by his 
side. "Where vou soinsi?" he wanted to know. 

Ferdinand gave a prodigious yawn. It was quite a his- 
trionic, nicely contrived yawn. Muriel rubbed her pretty 
eyes with a pretty weariness. 

"You see, Father," said Ferdinand, "we . . . we didn't 
get much sleep last night ... to speak of . . ." 

Then Ferdinand said very quiet- 
ly, "We'll leave"' 

Mistaken Identity 

By G. C. Beck 

Mabey it happened 

That you were walking down the street 

And met a sweet little lady 

With whom you felt very familiar 

Because you had known her so long 

On the screen. 

And you almost said "Hello" 

Before you discovered 

That she only resembled 

Your little favorite. 

For you felt sure 

That if it had been 

The one you had in mind 

She would have been very glad 

To see you. 

And you went on 

And mabey you saw 

A fascinating woman 

Whom you recognized 

As your most heartless vampire 

Of the screen. 

Yet you lifted your hat 

Before you were aware 

That it was only her counterpart 

For you knew 

That she wasn't really bad 

Or conceited 

And would be truly glad 

To see you. 

Or mabey you saw 

A tall, bronzed man 

Who seemed alone in the crowd 

And you rushed eagerly up 

For you had no doubt 

That your superman 

Who embodied your true ideal 

In the shadow realm 

Of western chivalry 

Would be glad to see you 

And to shake your hand. 

Or mabey it was 

A slim little man who looked 

Yery serious. Yet you thought 

It was your favorite clown 

Of the pictures. 

And you laughed to yourself 

In anticipation 

Of the queer grin 

With which he would greet you 

And the odd walk, or the funny fall 

He would gladly do 

For your especial benefit. 

And tho you realized 

That you had only met 

Their prototypes 

You went home proud 

To know in your heart 

That you really had so many friends 

Who were rich and famous 

And who would always be glad 

To see vou. 

Page S?xty-Ni?K 


ssm» &&J?dJ& dA 

To be happy, learn what you know not, and teach what 
you know. 

% % ^i 

A literary man of note sends me a list of books and wants 
to know my opinion of it. He says that the best sensa- 
tional novel is The Woman in White; the best dramatic 
novel, The Count of Monte Cristo, the best domestic novel, 
The Vicar of Wakefield; the best marine novel, Mr. Mid- 
shipman Easy; the best novel of country life, Adam Bede; 
the best military novel, Charles O'Malley; the best religious 
novel, Ben Hur; the best sporting novel, Sarchedon; the 
best political novel, Lothair; the best novel written for a 
purpose, Uncle Tom's Cabin; the best imaginative novel, 
She; the best pathetic novel, Old Curiosity Shop; the best 
humorous novel, Pickwick Papers; the best Irish novel, 
Handy Andy; the best Scotch novel, The Heart of Midlo- 
thian; the best English novel, Vanity Fair; the best Ameri- 
can novel, Scarlet Letter, the best novel of all, The Heavenly 

Is it not strange that he does not find a place for such 
classics as Lorna Doone, Jane Eyre, Cloister and the Hearth, 
Don Quixote, Gil Bias and the greatest of all, Les 


% % ^ 

That is quite apropos now, what the governor of 
North Carolina said to the governor of South Carolina 
— "It is a long time between drinks." 

William T., I fear you will never be as great as your father. 
We hear of "chips of the old block," but the truth is that par- 
ents seldom transmit their great intellectual powers to their 
children. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Shakespeare, Milton, 
Buff on, Cuvier, who are fair examples of the great intellects of 
their time, did not transmit their power to their progeny. 
What is known as genius is not transmittable. The creation of 
a man of genius seems to require a special effort of nature, 
after which, as if fatigued, she reposes for a long time before 
making a similar effort. Distinguished men seldom have dis- 
tinguished sons. 

% % H* 

A fond mother wants to know if I believe in letting small 
children have dictionaries to study. Dear me, no. Unless 
they are something like this: 

Bed time — shut eye time. 

Dust — mud, mud with the juice squeezed out. 

Fan — a thing to brush warm off with. 

Fins — a fishes' wings. 

l ce — water that stayed out in the cold and went to sleep. 

Monkey — a very small boy with a tail. 

Nest egg — an egg that the old hen measures by, to make new ones. 

Pig — a hog's little boy. 

Salt — what makes your potato taste bad when you dont put it on. 

Snoring — letting off sleep. 

Stars — the moon's eggs. 

Wakeiulness- yes that are all the time coming unbuttoned. 

As Thoreau says, there is something almost petty about 
an ultra-refined taste, for it easily degenerates into effeminacy, 
and it does not consider the broadest use. Good taste is a 
quality of the mind that can be, but which seldom is, culti- 
vated by refining influences and intelligent effort. Nobody 
studies how to acquire taste, yet it is a quality akin to genius, 
and one that can be acquired, whereas genius cannot. It is 
that faculty of the soul which discerns the beauties of a 
thing with pleasure and its imperfections with dislike. 

A young divinity student at Wesleyan University 
asks me to write a few words on waists. No, for no 
doubt it would be a waste of words. 

Speaking of waists, there is not so much to be said now as 
there was a few years ago when our best ladies looked like 
wasps with figures like an hour glass. Their waists are quite 
sensible now — not because women are very sensible but be- 
cause it just happens so. No longer need they fear an Anti- 
Corset League, but it would be a mighty good thing if there 
were an Anti-High Heel League. Why women insist on walk- 
ing upon stilts, when nature has provided them with two per- 
fectly good and lovely feet, is more than I can understand. 

*fc 5fc ^ 

Mr. Morton, you will never set the world on fire. You are 
too conservative, too cautious and too evenly balanced. He 
who fears to climb lest he fall, or to lie down lest he be tram- 
pled upon, or to walk lest he be overtaken, will never freeze 
nor burn; he will simply sizzle, dry up and blow away. 

* * * 

"Two twin fans" want to know what I think is the great- 
est photodrama ever produced. That is a hard one. Years 
ago when I saw Vitagraph's, "The Christian," with Earl 
Williams and Edith Storey, I said that this was the greatest 
yet done and I stuck to this for several years, altho Vita- 
graph did another and shorter play which I still think 
should rank high among the greatest — ''The Battle Hymn of 
the Republic." Later, when I saw "Cabiria", "Civilization," 
and "The Birth of a Nation" I thought these were the great- 
est, although they really come under the head of photo spec- 
tacles. Leaving out the spectacles, I am inclined to think 
that the greatest photodrama is "Revelation," with Nazi- 
mova. "Broken Blossoms," by Griffith, is far greater in 
several respects, but I am inclined to place the former at 
the top of the list. As for the greatest farce I think I would 
name Chaplin's "Shoulder Arms." For the greatest comedy 
I think I would name Mary Pickford's, "Daddy Long Legs." 
I would like to name several other great pictures that come 
to mind as I write, but I fear to name ten, lest I omit ten 
others that I will afterwards recall as being equally great. 

Of this, more anon. 

* * * 

A suffragette beams on me and inquires if I be- 
lieve in "clubs for women." Well now, it depends 
upon the kind of clubs. 

Page Seventy 


Maurice G. Layne of Detroit wants to know how actresses 
keep their eyes wide open for a minute or more without tears. 
It is simply a matter of practice. Have you never seen those 
fellows in the shop windows dressed up to look like wax 
figures ? By long practice these people can stand in a certain 
posture for many minutes at a time without a single blink 
and without a single perceptible movement of the chest. I 
dont think it will do you any harm to try to keep from wink- 
ing, but it certainly will not do your eyes any good. But, if 
you must wink, wink both eyes I 

Waco Forrest of Zeus, Va., wants to know "what's the 
most coveted pedestal of a movie actress." I am sure I dont 
know, unless it be her understanding, in other words her 
legs. Whether her greatest ambition is fame, fortune, or 
glory, I dont know, because they all differ. I fear, however, 
that many of them think more highly of a shapely ankle and 
a well modeled face than they do of a good heart and home. 

You are wrong, T. J. B., about Solomon's wisdom. 
Undoubtedly the reason that Solomon was so wise 
was that he had 700 wives to consult, whilst I have 


* * * 

Why not invent a class of critics who can see the good as 
well as the bad? There is some good in everything and in 
everybody, but the critics seldom see it; for, like flies, they 
pass over our good parts and light only on our sores. The 
critic creates discouragement when what we need most, per- 
haps, is encouragement. It is important enough to learn our 
faults, but it is just as important to learn our merits; so let 
us boost more and knock less. 

Of course I think that motion pictures are a permanent 
institution. For nearly 1,000 years the drama has been to 
the world one of its chief sources of entertainment, culture 
and education. Motion pictures began its career only ten or 
fifteen years ago and even now it shows signs of competing 
with the drama. The motion picture is a mirror in which we 
see vice in its hideousness and virtue in all its purity, and we 
learn to despise the one and to adore the other. On the Greek 
stage a drama consisted in reality of three dramas, called a 
triology, and was performed consecutively in the course of one 
day. The moving picture play performs the same thing in one 

The greatest product of creation is the woman with 
beauty, brains and virtue. The only trouble is, the 
Creator never made one. 

^ 5fc ^ 

My young friend from Syracuse is quite right but there is 
such a thing as carrying economy too far, which recalls the 
following lines which I find in my note-book : 

He never took a day of rest — 

He couldn't afford it; 
He never had his trousers prest — 

He couldn't afford it ; 
He never went away care free, 
To visit distant lands, to see 
How fair a place this world might be, 

He couldn't afford it. 
He never went to see a play — 

He couldn't afford it; 
His love for art he put away, 

He couldn't afford it; 
He died and left his heirs a lot, 
But no tall shaft proclaims the spot 
In which he lies; his children thought — 

They couldn't afford it. 

^ ^ ^ 

As you say, Lazarus, it never rains but it pours, yet every 
cloud has a silver lining. As the artist and the poet love the 
storm, so must we learn to love the clouds of life because they 
help to make the coming sunshine brighter. 

A young lady asks if I advise against marriage between 
persons of unequal age. Well, it is customary for man and 
wife to be nearly of the same age, yet history records many 
happy marriages to the contrary among which might be men- 
tioned that of Mahomet, who at twenty married a wife of 
forty ; Shakespeare, who married Anne Hathaway seven years 
his senior; Dr. Johnson, who married a lady twice his own 
age; Howard, the philanthropist, who, at the age of twenty- 
five selected a wife of forty-two; Mrs. Rowe, the author, was 
fifteen years the senior of her husband; Margaret Fuller, who 
married Count D'Ossoli, ten years her junior; and Jennie 
Lind, who was ten years older than her Otto Goldschmidt. 
If two persons really love each other, it matters little about 
their ages so long as they enjoy each other's companionship. 
An old man of the library might prove a burden for a young 
wife who loves society, the theater, admiration and dress, and 
so might an elderly matron of the household prove uncon- 
genial to a young man who loved the outside world more 
than his home; but, given two persons with similar tastes 
and plenty of admiration for each other, they usually get 
along splendidly, even if there is a wide difference in their 

To do a mean thing is bad, but to keep on doing it 
is wicked. It is easier to quench a spark than a fire, 
so stop NOW. 

^K ^ ^ 

I am sure I dont know what will become of the Kaiser. 
Since he is Wilhelm Second, if history repeats itself, he will 
have a sad fate. Nearly all the Seconds in history were treated 
pretty rough, among the unfortunates being Alexander II of 
Russia, Edward II of England, Napoleon II of France, Rich- 
ard Second of England, James II of England, Abdul Hamid 
II of Turkey, Nicholas II of Russia, William II of England, 
William II of Holland, William II of The Netherlands, 
Henry II of France, Henry II of England, Ludwig II of 
Bavaria, Louis II of France, and Louis II of Hungaria. I 
dont care what they do with Kaiser Wilhelm II so long as 
they do it quick and put him in a safe place until his Creator 
calls him to a hotter one. 

^ ^c ^ 

To see the faces of common people in the street has always been 
one of my greatest pleasures. I am convinced that we not only 
love ourselves in others, but that we also hate ourselves in others. 
In every man there is a little of all men. It is a fact that there 
are many people who read merely that they need not think. 
But I hope that you are not one of that kind, my dear Antonio. 

"Truth" is informed that the Sage doesn't pretend to keep 
track of the marriages and divorces in the profession. When 
last I saw J. Warren Kerrigan he was not married and 
therefore I cant tell you whether he is married to Lois Wil- 
son and has two children, as you say. I understand that the 
greatest living authority on such matters is the Answer Man 
of the Motion Picture Magazine, so you had better consult 
him. Also, I dont wish to go on record as stating why 
Owen Moore doesn't live with his wife, Mary Pickford. Com- 
mon sense would suggest, however, that it is quite impos- 
sible for them to be together all the time, even if they wanted 
to, since they always play in different companies and usually 
in different parts of the country. 

As for the unpopularity of Jess Willard, I think you were 
correctly informed, because he was never very popular and 
is, of course, less so now than ever. He reminds me of a 
big stuffed pig, stuffed mostly with conceit and overconfi- 
dence. It is well that "Jack the Giant Killer" knocked the 
stuffing out of him, because now we shall have a real cham- 
pion and a popular one. 

^ ^ ^ 

Beasts have passions, humans have reasons; but since we 
are human beasts we must keep our passions within reason. 

Page Seventy-One 


The chicj cause of laughter, paradoxical as it may seen, is 
our love of order, beauty and consistency. We laugh only 
when the law of order, or of beauty or of consistency has 
been violated. The sources of all merriment are in the cordial 
sympathies of our nature. Laughter is a near relative of the 
highest and most instinctive wisdom, being brother to judg- 
ment and imagination. Hearty laughter is a sure sign of a 
healthy nature for both thinking and acting, in spite, of the 
fact that idiots laugh. Surprise or incongruity lie at the bot- 
tom of laughter. Human deformity 'would be ludicrous were 
it not for sympathy and humanity. 

When young, we have all we can do to keep from 
laughing when we shouldn't; when old, we have all we 
can do to laugh when we should. 

It is not too early to repeat the old saying, Christmas is 
coming. Now is just about the time to begin making prepar- 
ations. Most people wait till about the middle of December, 
and thus double their expense and trouble, and the expense 
and trouble of everybody else. A moment's thought will con- 
vince anybody that the prices of holiday goods are greatly 
in excess of the prices of the same articles at other seasons. 
A large part of the so-called holiday goods are merely veneer 
and tinsel and of only temporary utility. The manufacturers 
make up holiday articles to catch the eye more than for per- 
manent use. Especially is this true of such things as toys, 
dolls, frames, desk articles, and ornaments, particularly those 
that sell for a dollar or less. Standard, staple articles, such 
as are sold the year round are always more reliable than 
those that are made up for the holiday trade, and the prices 
are more reasonable. Large profits are expected on holiday 
goods. Furthermore, we are all excited during the holiday 
season, and we flit hither and thither wondering what we 
shall buy for this one and that, and the crowds only add 
to our bewilderment. Perhaps some of us even let the grocer 
and the butcher bills go for another month, so as to have 
plenty to spend on presents; whereas, if we should begin 
buying now we would not feel the strain on our wallets. 
Again, the clerks and shop girls are sadly overworked dur- 
ing the holiday season, and they have not the time nor the 
patience to treat us as they do now. It is not fair to them, 
nor to the horses and drivers, to pounce upon them as we do, 
all in a week or two. The best plan is this: write down a 
list of all those to whom you wish to make presents, and 
from time to time set opposite their names several articles 
which you think would be appropriate to give them. The 
next time you are out shopping, look around all the stores, 
buy what you want, assign it to the favored one on the list 
and then set your mind on completing the list on subsequent 
shopping tours. In this way you will have ended a hard 
task by December first and will have saved a lot of time, 
money, energy, and worry. 

It is more blessed to give than to receive. My address is 
177 Du field St., Brooklyn, X. V. 
% % ~m 

So you think I am insane. Thanks, immensely! Pascal, 
Socrates, Schopenhauer, Auguste Compte, Descartes, Leibnitz, 
Tolstoy, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Balzac, Edgar Allan Poe, 
Shakespeare, Goethe, DeQuincy, Byron, Coleridge, Cowper, 
Dante, Dickens, Carlyle, Ruskin, Darwin and Sir Isaac New- 
ton have all been put down by the learned brain specialists 
as insane, unsane or semi-insane, and have been declared by 
the holy order of science to be demifous, clinically psycho- 
pathic, morally paralytic or physiologically deformed, and to 
have been afflicted with "veritable disease of the ego," the 
maniacal phase of circular insanity, chronic neurasthenia, 
paranoia, or some other form of psychic disorder bordering 
on madness. In other words, anybody who accomplishes some- 
thing worth while is insane. And so, my dear "Philosopher," 
I feel that I must have made an impression on you. Thanks! 

I will answer you, Mrs. M., the best I can, but briefly. The 
will to survive is at the bottom of everything. Education, in- 
telligence, the desire for power, and a desire to appear supe- 
rior to our fellows are simply manifestations of that will to 
survive under more favorable conditions than they. As we 
become more civilized we begin to look on our fellows less and 
less as rivals and more and more as brothers. And here lies 
the true test of civilization. The selfish man is the not-yet- 
civilized man. It is his altruism that civilizes him. The his- 
tory of primitive man proves all this. The first impulse of 
man was to save himself; the second was to save his family; 
the third to save his fellows. Not until he is able to say, "The 
world is my country, all mankind, my countrymen," is he 
thoroly civilized. The doctrine of patriotism in which a 
man loves his own flock only and hates all others is evidence 
of only partial civilization. All of which, if true, proves that 
Germany has never vet been a civilized nation. 

Another '"Evolution Fanatic" persists in trying to draw me 
out again on this very dry topic. According to evolutionary 
philosophy there are three great processes of all true develop- 
ment, as follows: Aggregation, or the massing of things; Dif- 
ferentiation, or the varying of things; and Integration, or the 
reuniting of things into higher wholes. From a careful study 
of this one phenomenon! science could almost decide that 
Progress was the object of nature, and that Altruism was the 
object of progress. 

Why was the long, cruel, unloving process of evolution 
chosen, when it must have been foreseen that Man was event- 
ually to take the reins in hand and complete the work? It 
has taken hundreds of thousands of years to evolve Man. 
and although he is now physically complete, bodily develop- 
ment having been arrested, the relentless Struggle goes on, 
and Man unwittingly becomes the executioner in the tyrannic 
trial of Survival of the Fittest. 

Says Lucretius, eyes were not made to see with, but 
being formed by a fortuitous concurrence of atoms, 
sight followed by an unforeseen accident. If eyes were 
made to see, seeing must have existed before eyes; if 
it did not, why eyes? And if seeing did not exist be- 
fore eyes, how could eyes be made for that which is 
not — for nothing? Vive la logique! 

My observation has been that the highest type of intellectual 
people attend grand opera and the drama when plays by such 
as Shakespeare, Ibsen, Goldsmith, Sheridan and Bernard 
Shaw are presented. In the next class below is the type of 
less intellectual people who like the modern plays with morals, 
and problem plays. In the next class below is the type who 
likes vaudeville. In the next lower class is the type who pre- 
fers musical comedies. In the bottom class is the type who 
want burlesque, commonly called leg shows. There is no 
set rule about this, for there are too many exceptions. But 
each class is sufficiently peopled to cause the writing of this 
paragraph, in answer to an inquiry. You seldom find a per- 
son who likes Shakespearean plays and musical comedies 
also, and }OU seldom find a person who likes cheap burlesque 
and grand opera. 

Here's a quotation, and if you dont know the author and 
tried to guess you would not get it right in a thousand guesses : 

"Who loves not wine, women and song 
Remains a fool all his life long." 

The author is none other than Martin Luther. 

— The Saoe. 

Page Seventy-Two 



on their route, whose manager in turn sends 
this publicity to the local newspaper. To 
the artist this service is furnished gratis with 
the exception of the photographs which he 
may order thru this department at whole- 
sale rates. So the Joy Brothers never ar- 
rive at a new town without being properly 
introduced by the press. 

Yet for artists to work direct with the 
United Booking Office is not a steadfast 
rule. Suppose the Joy Brothers had sub- 
scribed to a theatrical paper and knew that 
there were such "lifts"' as vaudeville agents 
— that acted in the capacity of the lawyer, 
secured bookings and assumed entire re- 
sponsibility of their vaudeville welfare. 

Thus, when arriving in New York, they 
promptly hie to such a representative's quar- 
ters. The red-headed office girl is not im- 
pressed that half a continent lay between 
home and their burrowing into vaudeville. 
After her many promises of "come back to- 
morrow/' the agent finally sees them. With 
alternating bent knees they stand at his 
desk and explain their ambition. Head- 
liners, not beginners, were his specialty. 
Yet, that intangible something which Mr. 
Albee calls the artist's soul, manifests itself 
in their square-chinned application. 

"Well, boys,'' he says, almost surprising 
himself with his kindliness towards these 
new recruits, "I'll see if 1 can fix you up." 
Then they, "grand right and left"' into and 
out of the break-in system identically as had 
they gone direct to the United Booking 

Arriving to the point where they are 
glowing with enough polish to be rewarded 
with big time engagements, their agent 

{Continued from page 42) 

keeps them booked thusly: 

The Joy Brothers wire there has been a 
break in their itinerary. The agent hustles 
over to the United Booking Office. To the 
Southern booking manager, he says, "Do 
you want the Joy Brothers for the week of 
the twentieth? - ' Whereupon the Southern 
booking manager examines his date books 
and files. "No, all filled. Can offer you 
the twenty-seventh, however." 

"All rightee," agrees the Joy Brothers' 
agent, and pencils the date in his memoran- 
dum book. Next he hustles over to the 
New England booking manager to see if he 
can get the week of the twentieth. Per- 
chance this manager may have four open 
weeks. The Joy Brothers' agent eagerly 
grabs them, which necessitates sometimes 
an amiable, sometimes a stormy dispute with 
the Southern manager, for the cancellation 
of the single week. Then, the Western man- 
ager may at that moment receive a wire that 
Madame Headliner has become ill, opening 
eight weeks in his territory. He in turn 
tries to unload this time upon the agent, 
and the readjustment begins over again. 

Very recently, to avoid such over-lapping, 
the L T nited Booking Office has established 
a priority system. Now, when the Joy 
Brothers' agent accepts as limited an amount 
of time as one week, it is registered on a 
card and immediately stamped by a time 
clock. Even five minutes later, should a 
booking manager offer the agent a greater 
number of weeks, whose dates would in- 
clude that of the single one, previously 
made in another territory, it positively can- 
not be cancelled. This new ruling has 
eliminated for the artist on the road any 

speculation that today he might be informed 
he was to play Boston next week and to- 
morrow Chicago instead. Like the great 
public school system, where the facilities of 
conducting the progress of students is under 
daily discussion, by the biggest minds in 
the educational field, the vaudeville booking 
offices are also organized with committees 
and boards, having a personnel of an equal 
standard of legislation, to keep the hundreds 
of acts, traveling the country from coast to 
coast, moving as regularly and systemati- 
cally as does the United States mail. 

But dissolving and assimilating again the 
logic of Mr. Albee, who has come up thru 
all the strata of the amusement game, is to 
remember what he has stated, namely that 
beauty, abundant financing and clever pub- 
licity cannot make an artist a success if she 
is not born one. He ever decries his own 
experience as a theatrical manager by say- 
ing, "It is impossible for me to see the 
success in a beginner, nor can the most 
analytical critic. Exclusively is the public 
such an X-ray, and the public will not ac- 
cept an artist where there is not reciprocity 
between its heart and hers." 

Truly, such an axiomatic study coincides 
with the vaudeville beginners herein cited. 
The Joy Brothers were born comics even 
in the school room. The mathematical wits 
of Arthur Griffith were sharpened in his 
mother's womb. The war of Janet of 
France's country was our own, and thus 
she was a footlight symbol that touched our 
hearts. Verily, if there is a rule for suc- 
cessfully entering vaudeville, it is accord- 
ing to Mr. Albee's — "Heaven and not man- 

the two blocks to the Mount Olive garage 
which he owns, and I stood on the outside 
while his wife went in and "robbed" the 
cash register. 

"I am so dreadfully hungry," she re- 
marked, "and tired" — later, her husband, a 
boyish young man of twenty-four, with dark 
hair and large, dark eyes, came into the 
confectionery store while she was eating 
shrimp salad and ice cream — ("I wish you 
would eat sensibly," he said a little crossly. 
He hadn't had his dinner either). 

After dinner, the three of us went to the 
doll-house bungalow on Wilcox Street, 
where the Hawleys live. 

"When 'Peg' is finished," said Wanda, "I 
am going to begin having dinner at home 
again. But now, I wouldn't attempt to 

She doesn't keep a maid. 

"There is so little work here," she said, 
"and I love doing it." 

She looks so exquisitely delicate that she 
gives one the impression of always playing 
at things; as tho anything she might touch 
would immediately cease to be grubbing 
work for her. I thought of her as I had seen 
her during the making of "Secret Service." 
She looked like Romance incarnate. Her 


(Continued from page 62) 

costume was dainty, beruffled, low cut at the 
neck. She sat in an old-fashioned arm 
chair, her hands resting quietly in her lap. 
The camera was not on her but she was en- 
tirely in character. She looked, I thought, 
as tho she had deliberately put herself in the 
correct mood and then just as deliberately 
forgotten that it wasn't real; like a child 
playing show. But to return to my inter- 

She leaned back in her wicker rocking- 
chair, content in the knowledge of work well 
done. Burton — Friend husband — sat oppo- 
site her. He had run upstairs to change hur- 
riedly after coming home from the garage 
and only discovered too late that he had put 
on a shirt over-much starched by the laun- 
dry. He was faced with the uncomfortable 
necessity of sitting as tho he had swallowed 
a ram-rod or of subduing its swelling pro- 
pensities by occasionally poking it into flat- 

"Do you know," said his lovely wife half 
teasingly, "it is so hard for me to get used 
to having a husband again, now that Burton 
is back from the army . . . ("I hate 
these starched shirts," said Burton) 

"While he was gone," Wanda went on, "I 
had a little two-room apartment and I used 

to have some of my girl friends come in and 
we would go to a picture show or read eve- 
nings when I didn't have to work." 

Her favorite pastime is going to moving 
picture shows. As with all really ambitious 
players, her work has become her hobby, too. 
She couldn't stay away and be content. 

"But now," she added, "if I want to do 
anything I have to remind myself that my 
husband is home and must be consulted 
about the matter. I : think that getting 
wives accustomed to consulting their hus- 
bands about things when they have lost the 
habit is a serious after-the-war problem." 

"But suppose they never had the habit?" 
(this from Friend Husband). 

"Now, Dearest " laughingly and the 

subject turned to what they plan to do when 
Peg is finished. 

After "Peg" Wanda Hawley is going to 
have the bungalow all fixed up in cretonne 
and give a dinner party. "And then I'm 
going to town — ( Los Angeles ; a thirty-five- 
minute ride) — and buy some clothes; I 
haven't been outside of Hollywood since the 
beginning of 'Peg.' " 

She is entirely without affectation. For 
instance, she told an interesting little story 
(Continued on page 74) 

Page Seventy-Three 


{Continued from page 54) 

erers of Strickland, which serves to bind 
him much more securely than if the writer 
had said at the beginning of the book, "Now 
I tell you this man is a great artist and that's 
all there is to it. You must accept my 
judgment in the matter." 

Maugham is too shrewd for that. He 
tells the story thruout in the first person 
using various characters to give varying 
points of view about Strickland. But the 
chief story teller is one of the chief skeptics. 
The fullest report which he gives on the 
art of Strickland is as follows: 

"I will not describe the pictures that 
Strickland showed me. Descriptions of 
pictures are always dull, and these, besides, 
are familiar to all who take an interest in 
such things. Now that his influence has so 
enormously affected modern painting, now 
that others have charted the country which 
he was among the first to explore, Strick- 
land's pictures, seen for the first time, would 
find the mind more prepared for them; but 
it must be remembered that I had never 
seen anything of the sort. First of all I 
was taken aback by what seemed to me the 
clumsiness of his technique. Accustomed 
to the drawings of the old masters, and con- 
vinced that Ingres was the greatest draughts- 
man of recent times, I thought that Strick- 
land drew very badly. I knew nothing of 
the simplifications at which he aimed. I 
remember a still-life of oranges on a plate, 
and I was bothered because the plate was 
not round and the oranges were lop- 
sided. The portraits were a little larger 
than life-size, and this gave them an un- 
gainly look. To my eyes the faces looked 
like caricatures. They were painted in a 
way that was entirely new to me. The land- 
scapes puzzled me even more. There were 
two or three pictures of the forest at Fon- 
tainebleau and several of streets in Paris: 
my first feeling was that they might have 
been painted by a drunken cab-driver. I 
was perfectly bewildered. The colour 
seemed to me extraordinarily crude. It 
passed thru my mind that the whole thing 
was a stupendous, incomprehensible farce." 

Naturally enough, the reader will align 
himself on the other side and say, "Why 
the simpleton doesn't know a great artist 
when he sees one." At least that was our 
attitude and we almost felt like a successful 
art critic when we read how people came 
forward to bid for Strickland's canvases 
after his death. The book takes Strickland 
from Paris to Tahiti, where he comes to an 
obscure and fearful death, but thruout 
Maugham has managed to show a glint of 
a spirit, however harsh and selfish, strug- 
gling toward an idealistic goal. Mingled 
with the praise of the book, there has been 
some comment that the novel is immoral 
since Strickland's conduct thruout is strict- 
ly anti-social, but after all, the book lays 
down a course of life for geniuses only 
which will not affect the morals of most of 
us. More than that, it seems to us that 
Maugham has maintained an impartial at- 
titude thruout. He neither attacks Strick- 
land nor defends him. He merely presents 
him and leaves the rest to the readers. 

But tho "The Mcon and Sixpence" is 

perhaps a more engrossing and unusual 
novel than ''Saint's Progress", Maugham 
can hardly challenge Galsworthy's position 
as the great neutral among novelists. Per- 
haps it would be fair to make the title in- 
clude playwrights, for everybody remem- 
bers "Strike" as the most perfect example 
of evenhanded justice which a playwright 
ever bestowed on warring characters. 
"Saint's Progress" is a beautiful piece of 
work. Even- character has his due, but in 
spite of the impartiality of the book there 
is no lack of passion. Certain scenes are 
emotionalized to a point where they all but 
hurt. The story concerns a clergyman who 
tries to meet all the various war problems, 
particularly the changes in sex morality, 
with the formula of the Church of England. 
In the novel the formula proves inadequate, 
but Galsworthy does not commit himself as 
to whether the fault lies with the formula 
or with the folk who disown it. 

We found "Saint's Progress" a singu- 
larly moving story and an engrossing one 
tho it is by no means crowded with inci- 
dent. And yet we hankered sometimes to 
have Galsworthy choose between his char- 
acters and say, "This one is right and this 
one, for all his logical talk, is wrong." But 
when we wrote that there were times when 
his impartiality made one want to shout 
"Dont be so damn fair. Pick a side; take 
off your coat; and get in it," Keith Pres- 
ton of Chicago countered by remarking 
that on the other hand he always felt like 
advising the excitable Wells to "Keep your 
shirt on." 

Certainly, Wells has never become quite 
so much wrought up about anything as re- 
ligion. His work, whether better or worse, 
is much more intense since he discovered 
God the invisible king. "The Undying 
Fire" is among the most vehement of his 
books. Galsworthy may remain in doubt 
as to a religious formula for the problems 
of the da) - , but not so Wells. He has a 
faith to meet all facts. And he has small 
patience for skeptics. In "The Undying 
Fire" he by no means plays fair, for all the 
characters whom he sets up as opponents of 
his theories are so broadly burlesqued that 
they are hardly capable of giving an effec- 
tive battle. As a result, all the good talk 
goes to the character who acts as the mouth- 
piece of Wells. The book has the merit, 
however, of great eloquence. Tho it is 
mostly talk, it is talk of a surprisingly bril- 
liant sort. The plot is the merest formula, 
for Wells has taken the story of Job and 
used it as the frame work for a modern 
story. There is very little evidence that he 
is interested in what his characters do, but 
plenty to prove that he does care what they 

Another brilliant partisan in the literary 
field is Blasco Ibanez. He is less inter- 
ested in talk than Wells, for he traces 
not so much the careers of individuals as 
man in the mass. "La Bodega," for in- 
stance, is a fine, colorful, passionate story 
of social revolution in Spain. It is also a 
book of propaganda for prohibition, but this 
is incidental. Blasco Ibanez thinks that red 
revolution will come only when the peasants 

of Spain are no longer distracted by red 

Leonard Merrick is on the high tide of a 
revival which has brought back to the read- 
ing public his "Conrad In Quest of His 
Youth," one of the most pleasant defenses 
of philandering ever written. Merrick 
grows as moral as many another literary 
preacher in "The Actor Manager" and "The 
Position of Peggy Harper," but "Conrad In 
Quest of His Youth" is a gay flight with 
all the moral ballast left in the hangar. 

Joseph Conrad has gained even more 
popularity than usual with his flaming ro- 
mance, "The Arrow of Gold," in which he 
has discarded his usual literary device of 
beginning on the roof and working down 
to the cellar and then back to the roof again. 
This tale begins at the beginning and goes 
straight on to the end. 

E. V. Sackville West has won a high 
position for herself with a first novel called 
"Heritage," which has a fine feeling for 
the sight and sound and smell of things. 
Another book which gives us much of the 
influence of external things on man is John 
Walter Byrd's "The Born Fool." 

Of the non-fiction books of the last few 
months the most amusing which we have 
read is "Set Down In Malice," by Gerald 
Cumberland. In this a young English jour- 
nalist writes all the things about his liter- 
ary acquaintances which nobody should tell 
and which evervbodv wants to know. 


{Continued from page 73) 

about a really exquisite sport skirt she has. 
It only cost her, she said frankly, about 
seven dollars. 

"We were invited to an affair at the 
Hollywood Hotel. I worked until half -past 
five and then when I came home found that 
I hadn't a thing to wear. I haven't had time 
to take care of my clothes; everything was 
mussed or torn or had something wrong 
with it. So I went to a little store down here 
on the Boulevard. The only thing they had 
that fitted was a last-year's sports skirt. 
This is it. They took two pleats at the sides 
and you see the result!" 

It was truly remarkable. 

"But just wait until you see some of the 
things I am going to get — after 'Peg.' ' 

It was almost one o'clock when I left but 
the Hawleys — both of them — took me all 
the way home in their car tho they were both 
very tired. Such happy, ambitious young- 
sters, not merely selfishly ambitious, but 
ambitious for each other! You have seen 
newspaper articles that began by asking 
what was of most importance to a woman, 
beauty or brains, fame and money or love 
in a cottage. Have you ever thought that 
it could be possible for one person to have 
all of these things? No? Well, it is, for 
here is Wanda Hawley, who came out of 
rainy, foggy Seattle, lives in a cottage in 
Hollywood, and is known all over the world, 
ready to prove it for you by the genuine 
smile in her eyes. 

Page Seventy-Four 



(Continued from pag> '. 

my paper, ''Published in Bruno's Garret on 
Washington Square." I never thought my 
paper would interest others but the old res- 
idents of Greenwich Village and its floating 
population of artists and writers who lived 
here mostly because it was cheaper than any- 
where else in town. "The New York Times'" 
commented on it in several columns of 
its news pages. The other dailies followed 
the lead. Soon I received a crop of letters 
from all over the United States requesting 
sample copies. All this was very encourag- 
ing but did not enable me to pay my rent 
and pay for my food. The French pastry 
cook who kept a little shop on Fourth Street 
was my only friend. He gave me unlimited 
credit and I actually lived almost two 
months on French pastry. It was the most 
dreadful period of my hfe. I had tea and 
French pastry for breakfast: tarts and na- 
poleons, biscuits and cream rolls for lunch 
and for dinner. I worked from early morn- 
ing till late at night, writing next week's 
issue from cover to cover, going about gath- 
ering advertisements and inspiration, try- 
ing to impress my advertisers with my pros- 
perity never asking for payment in advance, 
and when the money came in. I had to pay 
the printer (and mighty little he got) and 
buy paper for the next issue. About Christ- 
mas I moved to the old house on the corner 
of Washington Square and Thompson Street 
and announced that any artist who was do- 
ing serious work could hang his pictures on 
exhibition in my •"Garret."" free of charge: 
any poet could come any Wednesday and 
Saturday afternoon and read his poetry to 
an audience that I would get for him. This 
was new then in Xew York and artists and 
poets came to take advantage of my offer. 
In the course of two years and a half I had 
forty-six exhibitions by forty-six different 
people and all are now well-known. Clara 
Tice with her little nudes attracted in my 
garret for the first time the attention of a 
public and of the Society for the Prevention 
of Vice. Bernhard Wall who recently 
etched a portrait of President Wilson had 
his humble first exhibition here. Newspa- 
pers wrote miles of funny and serious stories 
about Bruno's Garret. After the start of 
the world war English, French. German and 
Italian artists made their headquarters in 
the garret and attributed greatly to its cos- 
mopolitan independent atmosphere. The 
poetry readings were a great success. I 
printed for the first time contributions of 
the since universally recognized free verse 
poets. Alfred Kreymborg's "Mushrooms"' 
(as he called his unusual poetry) caused the 
paragraphers and calumnists everywhere to 
poke fun at my garret. My poetry readings 
became the rendezvous of the most fash- 
ionable people in New York. 

And inside of nine months my corres- 
pondence was brought in in big mail bags, 
the sight-seeing busses stopped in front of 
mv old little frame buildine. which bv the 

en erected a hundred and fifty 
years ago by the hrst public grave digger 
of Xew York, Washington Square then be- 
ing Potter's Field. 

One day Charlie Edison who had pa- 
tronized the garret frequently unknown to 
me by name asked me if the same things 
that I was doing for painters and writer? 
couldn't be done for musicians. We formed 
a partnership, built Edison's Thimble The- 
ater opposite the Brevoort Hotel and issued 
an appeal to all musicians and composers of 
America. Anyone could come and play here 
or sing to audiences which we got for them. 
There was no admission fee charged and 
everybody remembers what a pretty and inti- 
mate show-house the Thimble Theater is. 
Soon I thought of utilizing the theater for 
little plays. I got a small group of excel- 
lent professionals together, called them the 
Bruno Players and we had memorable per- 
formances. This again being the first at- 
tempt of a small intimate theater in Green- 
wich Village. Unmolested by the police we 
played Strindberg*s "Countess Julie."' Sada 
Cowen"s "The State Forbids.'* an astonish- 
ingly free birth-control play; we had Jap- 
anese actors and a play by George Bernard 
Shaw. Charlie Edison gave concerts on 
Washington. Square twice a week. On two 
afternoons each week we gathered all the 
children of Greenwich Village on the Square 
and had dancing teachers arrange for them 
delightful open-air dances. "Greenwich 
Village" had been published fortnightly: 
now it became "Bruno's Weekly." Its cir- 
culation was 52.000 a week distributed all 
over the United States. This happy activity 
had continued for almost two years and a 
half. Others came down to the village, 
started art galleries and art shops, tea 
rooms, dancing halls, book shops, purely 
commercial places. A sort of Coney Island 
grew up almost over night: the quiet of the 
village was disturbed. The sacred peace 
was broken. Money changers had invaded 
holy ground. Slumming parties came night- 
ly to "do the Village." The police had to 
interfere very often with the high Hfe in 
basements and cellars. Artists, writers, and 
old residents fled as fast as they could. And 
then we entered into the war. More serious 
business called us. 

We had our fun and, I believe, done a 
good deal to foster even-thing new in art 
and literature. Bruno's Weekly had given 
ideas to editors all over the country. The 
art exhibitions in Bruno's Garret which 
had been looked upon as freak creations of 
ultra-modern painters moved up-town to re- 
spectable art-galleries. The Garret had ful- 
filled its mission. Little theaters grew up 
even-where and so the little Thimble The- 
ater had fulfilled its mission. Charlie Edi- 
son became manager of Thomas A. Edison. 
Inc., and left for good. 

But the village flourishes to-day. Rents 
have gone sky-high, Greenwich Village had 

established its reputation, and the unc 
able elements disappeared as quickly as they 
had come. Here it is after the war, the 
"gay corner" of Xew York. 

Did you say you wished to "tour"' Green- 
wich Village ? 

You must come down in the evening. 

Then it is that village of which you 
dream, the background to so many big 
things, the essential in so many big lives, 
the one part of this city where you can 
forget the city and seven million co-inhab- 
itants of yours. There is the arch with its 
simple architecture, the monumental gateway 
to the square. Lights here and there. High 
up on the tower of a hotel an electric-lighted 
cross and still higher a few stars, and 
if you are lucky and the night is clear, the 
moon. And then you cross over to the other 
side of the square and there are small nar- 
row streets. 

The square is deserted and only a few 
passengers, waiting for the next bus, make 
up the small group beneath the arc light. 
But the streets are peopled with men and 
women who stand around the Italian gro- 
cer}- shops and pastry bakeries ; they worked 
all day and kept silent: now they live their 
own real Hfe. There are cafes as you can 
see on the rivas of small Italian coast cities 
where you really drink coffee and eat pastry 
and play dominoes. And then turning one 
of those streets and unexpectedly, like the 
background of a miniature playhouse, a lit- 
tle chapel looms up before you. The doors 
are open, candles before the altars are a 
testimony that the saints are not forgotten. 
\"\ omen are sitting on the stairs selling ro- 
saries, little statuettes and paper flowers. 
Men and women and children are passing 
in and passing out. Follow the thundering 
elevated and turn again to the square. As 
many windows as you see lighted in these 
mansions of yore used now as rooming and 
lodging houses — so many homes do they 

Can you help thinking of it: "If I were 
a poet or an artist. I surely would live here 
and nowhere else?" 

But, dear reader, because of your living 
here you would not be a poet or an artist. 


(Continued from page 1-7) 
they understand. Something simple like 
moons and stars, the drift of smoke, a 
strong variety of color, touches them di- 
rectly. They probably do not know why 
but simple beauty strikes home to them. 
".All this is interesting work. But I see 
a greater field ahead in stepping from the 
theater to the studio. How beautifully, for 
instance, could music be reproduced with 
fanciful settings, settings representing imag- 
inative depth? And then to step to such 
works as those of Maeterlinck. When is 
the motion picture camera going to cease 
to deal with such realities as potatoes, cab- 
bages and onions and hfe itself to the 

Page Seventy-Five 



{Continued from page 38) 

you, openly in the sun, with God looking on." 

"Then the world will fall into ruins!" 
Prince Michael cried passionately, "'for the 
turning of the night into the da)' is not more 
certain than that you and I shall one day 
come together. It was written so before the 
stars were made!" 

It was only the first of many sieges he 
laid to her resolution but she steadily re- 
fused, sensing that there was much of the 
dross of Self in his Love, holding her own 
as too high and holy a thing for profana- 
tion; even when his wife openly confessed 
the shame of their marriage by leaving Pet- 
rograd with Count Otto of the glossy beard 
and white hands, she refused to encourage a 

"Marriage with me would outcast you, 
beggar you, and in the eyes of your Church 
and of the world it would be no true mar- 
riage," she said wearily, and when he forgot 
caution and told her baldly what the world 
whispered of them, she only smiled, a little 
quivering smile. "We know the truth," she 
told him, "oh my Prince! Cant you see 
that I am trying to protect our Love? It is 
all I have had of Life — all I shall ever 

For she did not believe in miracles, and 
only a miracle could clear away the barriers 
between. Even when the storm clouds of the 
Revolution began- to gather it did not occur 
to her that here might be solution. In her 
early days in Petrograd when she had been 
a struggling student she had allied herself 
with the young radicals of the Student 
Quarter drawn to them by her innate love 
of democracy and sturdy American detesta- 
tion of class privilege. Even after she be- 
came an opera idol she kept up this con- 
nection, and now suddenly she found herself 
at the heart of the storm. 

The poor, feeble puppet Czar came tum- 
bling down from his painted throne, the 
aristocrats and rulers were flung into the 
prisons they had so often filled, or fled from 
the city to crouch in hiding from the de- 
spised peasants, red anarchy stalked thru 
the streets of Petrograd, leaving its bloody 
footprints broadcast on the pavements, 
touching its torch in grisly mischief to the 
roofs of stately palaces. 

Prince Michael Orbeliani, already more 
than half a democrat at heart, left the city 
for his estates in the Caucasus to deal with 
his peasants single handed, and Marcia 
Warren, sick at soul, remained in her beau- 
tiful apartment in the city, from the win- 
dows of which she saw sights that drained 
the blood from her cheeks. Nothing in the 
few months of her love-time had been so 
hard for her as the thought that she could 
not share his danger with him; she had been 
strong enough to refuse happiness but her 
courage quailed and faltered at refusing to 
suffer with him. 

She was sitting at her piano touching the 

keys with listless fingers one morning when 
Peter Poroschine, the Red Leader, made his 
way in, contemptuous of door-bells or cere- 
mony. He was a great, coarse-featured 
brute of a man with thick, squat hands, 
covered with red hairs and a kind of animal 
odor about him. She shuddered instinctively 
under the covetousness of his look, tho she 
tried to speak with the old friendliness. But 
he waved her words aside, laughing with a 
queer sidewise laugh that exposed yellow 

"This is a busy time, let's to business" — 
she saw that he was drunk with his new 
power — "we revolutionists are choosing our 
women before we turn them over to the 
State. I might have a damned, haughty 
aristocrat if I chose, but no! You knew 
years ago that I was mad about you, Mar- 
cia, but you were after bigger game then. 
Now there isn't anyone bigger than I am, 
and I've come for you — " 

He saw her recoil, and anger thickened 
his coarse face with blood. He caught at 
her shoulder with a snarl. "So we're put- 
ting on the airs of a cursed aristocrat since 
we have had a Prince to kiss us!" he thrust 
his bestial face close, "well, all I need to 
do is to say the word — tell my merry friends 
out there that you're a friend of the nobility 
and there'll be a hemp necklace around that 
pretty neck in a jiffy!" 

She faced him, head proudly high. "You 
cant frighten me, Peter Poroschine!" she 
told him, "I would welcome death rather 
than give myself to you!" 

He could have taken her then and there, 
but her clear gaze cowed him. He turned 
his anger into another channel. "I can tell 
you a piece of news, Madame High-and- 
Mighty, that will take you down a peg, 
perhaps. Your damned Prince has returned 
to town!" 

Now, indeed, she quivered as tho his 
words had been blows, "No! That's a lie to 
frighten me. How do you know — where is 

Poroschine laughed savagely. "Oh, he 
was seen all right by one of our spies. He 
had on the revolutionary uniform, and he's 
at his old rooms now! But in half an hour 
he'll be safe — in hell ! And then, My Lady 
Disdain, I'll attend to you!" he flung open 
the door, calling outside, "Feda, come here, 
my pretty chicken!" 

The woman that entered was a veritable 
giantess, with hands like hams and a bristly 
moustache that gave her dull face a fierce 
aspect. Poroschine pointed to the stricken 
Marcia, "There's the girl. Guard her well 
now, if you prize your worthless life, and 
I'll return in an hour or so." The door 
crashed to across his words. 

Marcia sprang to her feet, flung herself 
at the door, and felt her arm seized in the 
grip of iron. The hag laughed shrill)'. She 
was evidently half witted, but bright enough 

for Poroschine's purposes. Looking up into 
the hideous face, maddened by the slow tick- 
ing of the clock in the corner, telling away 
the moments of her lover's life Marcia 
struck with all the power of her frenzy 
straight into the woman's eyes. 

In an uncanny silence they rolled upon 
the floor, tearing at one another with their 
bare fingers, struggling for a throat hold. 
The blood from a dozen scratches filled 
Marcia's eyes, wet her lips. She was sud- 
denly filled with a kind of animal fury, the 
woman creature fighting for her mate. Only 
half the other's size she somehow found her- 
self kneeling upon her broad muscular 
chest, and tying her arms close to her sides 
with the silken sash of the morning gown 
flung across a near-by chair. Then, drag- 
ging the snarling but helpless bulk into a 
corner where her shouts would not be heard, 
she sprang to the door and flung it wide. 

How she made her way to her lover's 
rooms she could never remember afterward, 
only a vague impression of wild faces, the 
sharp pain of her panting lungs, a half re- 
membrance of a man with kind eyes who 
had given her a ride in his automobile for 
part of the way, stairs that seemed to be as 
high and steep as mountains, a door knob 
that would not turn in her nerveless fingers 
and at last — Michael, Michael haggard and 
unshaven, in strange, mud-splotched gar- 
ments, staring at her wild appearance with 
startled eyes. A word told her errand, she 
clung to him, faint with dread. 

"What shall we do?" he said hopelessly, 
"I have no friends who would hide us. And 
if they take you — God forbid! We had bet- 
ter die together, here and now!" 

"Wait!" she bade him, "there is one place 
where they would never think of looking for 
you and that is — my rooms! He will not 
return there until he has found you, and in 
the meantime we can think — can plan. 
Come ! We must go quickly or it will be too 
late — " 

Another furtive journey thru the mad- 
dened streets, and they were back in Mar- 
cia's room. In the stress of the moment she 
forgot the woman she had left behind the 
portieres. She clung to Michael, "Safe!" 
she whispered. "Oh, thank Heaven!" 

But she had not counted on their enemy. 
Even as she spoke heavy footsteps grated in 
the corridor outside and Peter Poroschine 
stood before them, laughing triumphantly 
over folded arms. "You were not very flat- 
tering, Marcia, when you rated me for a 
fool!" he chuckled, "I put myself in your 
place, and the rest was simple. I rejoice to 
see, your Highness" — he made a derisive 
bow, "that you have no weapon, it simpli- 
fies matters." He prolonged his triumph, 
savoring it enjoyingly, "and now, Marcia, 
what have you to say to the little proposition 
I made to you an hour ago?" 

(Continued on page 77) 

Page Seventy-Six 



( Continued ft 60) 

i - i 
a '• • . . " " - - retreat Well, of all the da ... ! 

.". ' " '.. 

Got a light, old man? Thanks, aw'fly! 
I suppose tobacco "11 be the next to go and 

a th D 55 a Constitutional Amend- 
ment making hell illegal . . . (he passes 
gracefully into the house i . 

( Allison looks up at her husband with 
a wide and baby star. 


Dont tell me that stupid cook has got 
salt into the ices again, or that the toy pom 
has a cold or anything like that. You have 
the most dire expression '. 

Where have you been, that's all I want 
to know. Where have you been. I say. with 
that collar-ad-cootie, that spoon specialist, 
that cheap rhyme-peddler, that back-door 
Romeo, that . . . 

AS :- 

If vou are talking about Mr. SawtelL 
Archie, which I find it hard to believe, you 
are only giving a free demonstration of 
vour own ignorance. His free verse is % \ 
well known. 

Arch it - - . 

Hump ! Free verse and free love usually 
jo hand in hand. I tell you I wont have 
vou flirting with that abysmal ass under 
my very nose. 

Then well find a shadier spot. In the 
meantime, need we discuss this here, 
Archie? You can beat me later, you know, 
when the house has quieted down for the 

Archie {between his teeth) 
\~ou ought to be beaten. It would be 
different if you could even t hink you had 
uv Thing on me. You haven't. You never 
have had. I've never so much as looked 
at another woman since I first looked at 
you. ( He goes off. abruptly, in a huff. Al- 
lison laughs, bitterly.) 

All men are liars. That's in the Bible. 
But there's one exception . . . my Poet 

(A man's figurr arr; ing a small motion 
picture project machine comes around the 
corner of the house. Allison starts then 
runs to meet him. 

Mm '.'. . 
We're ready. [Mrs. Allyn. It was a damn 
ticklish job. but I dont think anyone knew 
they were being tick* - 1 

Allison .. \ 
Are you sure that ; : :. rook everything I 
wanted? The tennis match this mo rn frig 
the swimming in the pool, the poker crowd 
and — the other picture?: 

M i 
Everything, Mrs. Allyn. The one in the 

summer house was a humdinger. 111 tell the 
world ! 


You're positive it was what I wanted: - 
The girl with the red hair and the green 
smock and the tall, dark man? 

The Mm 

Them's the birds! 

Allison ( breathlt : 
And they di d . . the; were. . . . 

The Mom Ma (with unctuous reminis- 
I've seen Thora Beda and all the best 
kissers in the profession and I never yet 
saw anything to equal this afternoon. 

Allison {clenching her hands) 
Ohhh! The designing little cat — what 
Archie sees in her — it will serve them right 
to show them up before everybody. These 
sanctimonious men ... I know "em. And 
a red-haired woman . . . b'r'r'r! I guess 
after this Archie will have to turn his nose 
the other way if he doesn't care to see my 
ires d'eoeur carried on beneath it. ( To 
the movie man) Where can you throw the 
pictures? We'll have it done at once. 

The Movie Man g the blank space 

of whiten .. i wall) 
There's a screen for it. "Mrs. Allyn. ( He 
begins to set up his apparatus. Allison 
goes to the door, claps her hands, address- 
ing her guests. 

Listen, everybody! I've a little surprise 
for you. You're going to see yourself as 
others see you. I've had a couple of movie 

men with cameras hidden in the various 
shrubberies all day taking pictures of you 
and now he's going to show them. Every- 
one come out on the veranda, please. . . . 
i The guests file out on the veranda laugh- 
ing and talking with here and there evident 
traces of suppressed nervousnr — 

One Male Guest (to another) 
If that camera caught me registering 
i " emotion I've felt today. I'm going to 
look around now and choose the nearest 

tie Female Guest (to another) 
A fiendish scheme. I call it. taking pic- 
tures of our faces behind our backs! 

Archie ( seeking out his wift 
Oh, say now, Allie. this is hardly fair. 
without any warning, yknow. . . . 

Allison {looking at h ■':::. ■"_ 

Why. why should you mind ? You haven't 
registered anything more than a corking- 
game of t enni s and several full house- at 
cards, have you? 

(Archie retires, glowering. Everyone 
finds chairs and amid a certain atmosphere 
of tenseness the performance begins. 

Archie is discovered with three other 
guests on the court, doing various expert 
back hand strokes, etc.. and gland a 
now and then about him as tho la - a For 
someone he is not able to find. There is a 
look of hurt in his eyes which the camera 
has caught. 

He is also to be seen play;. _ 

with Elise Grafton and three mal a. ■ - 
The camera does not discover that he 1 
more than the r -". rivility requires at the 
scarlet-haired lady before him. His 
have the same inquiring expression. 

The camera • ad the summer house 

is shown under its innocuous roses. Elise 
is discovered sitting on the worn bench and 
kissing the hem of her garment with ah 
prehistoric fervor is — Leslie Sawtett. As 
raises his impassioned face a lip-reader 
might have detected something about moon 
. . . and argent . . . and, vaguely, ancient 
Babylon. . . . 

Guest.: . . voice) 

Ssssonu ssscene! 

Elise ( u 
Take it away . . . take i: .-:. . yyyl 

Allison (rising whiter than & ' ider 

the suddenly gibbous moon) 
Take me indoors, Archie, I've never cared 

for comedy burlesque — even on the screen. 
( They rise and pass the guests on the way 
to the house. Allison gives the collapsed 
Leslie a withering, blasting, devastating 
glance and muttering something about 
"Male vamps" disappears from new. From 
within the house her voice trails sweetly 
forth into the stricken moonlight.) 

Allison's voice 
Itty bitty hubby boy . . . Allie's itde 
Artie-Art. . . . 

Guests groan in unison. Leslie lights a 
cigaret. Goo<inight is flashed across the 
pseudo screen.) 

Curtain Falls Even As Babvlon. . . . 


( Continued fro-m page 

Michael took a step forward, furious. 
"Til be damned if you — " 

Out of the dark corner moved a giant fig- 
ure, taking from the table as it passed some- 
thing long and slender that gleamed. Mor- 
cia alone saw her. and the moan of despair 
on her lips halted in sheer surprise. The 
slender thing that glittered like steel rose in 
the air and descended — into Peter Poro- 
schine's heart. 

""He was cruel to me — I hated him!" the 
hag gurgled, and fell on her knees, crawling 
across the carpet to touch the girl's skirt 
with reverent fingers. 

Michael felt Marcia's shudder against him, 
no longer the leader, the protectress, but a 
woman, with woman's need of being sheltered 
and loved. He took her hands in his great 
clasp. "Marcia, look at me. my dearest. 
There is no barrier between us any longer — 
I had meant to tell you. The peasants 
burned Ott's castle and he and — she per- 
ished in the flames. I am not a Prince now, 
only a man who needs his woman. Marcia. 
come with me. Woman God Made for Me!" 

"Wither thou goest. m_v lord." Marcia 
said with a great gladness. "I will ec — "' 

' :: _v: : ; . -S-: -:r. 





THE Long Island School of Art offers excellent 
training to amateurs and art students. Our system 
of individual instruction eliminates the time-worn 
academic training so unnecessary in landscape paint- 
ing. Pupils are instructed in a technique most suited 
to their temperament and ability, a system which 
will assure success, an all year season allows the 
students to begin their course at any time. Our city 
studios are always open to our pupils for criticism, 
and students wishing to stay at our L. I. studios for 
the summer, will find excellent boarding near-by. 
Frequent social affairs will bring them in personal 
contact with many of our most famous artists. Address 


173-175-177 Duffield St. Brooklyn, N. Y. 

■ — back to the 


What with the war over, the little old bonds 
tucked safely away in the tin box, the boys home, 
and the Bolsheviki on the run, isn't it time we got 
back to normal and proceeded to enjoy life in a 
useful, healthy, good old-fashioned way? Before 
the war — remember those peaceful, homey evenings 
— the good-natured jibes, the jolly little round at 

Kow's the time to get back to those good old 
days, and you'll need some new cards to start the 
game rolling again — your only pack is probably 
past recognition. Therefore — as long as you have 
to buy a new pack, let us furnish it. We have on 
hand cards we call the STAGE PLAYING CARDS, 
each card bearing the photograph of some popular 
player on its back. There are 52 cards and joker, 
tinted in pastel shades of pink, cream, green and 
gold, gold-edged; flexible, highly finished, lively and 
durable, at 65c. a pack. 

These cards are not only useful but they are an 
ornament to any living room table, and in offering 
them to you at 65c, we feel sure that you will 
take advantage of the unusual opportunity. 


175 Duffield Street Brooklyn, N. Y. 

The Shadowland Waltz 

Whether or not you "trip the light fan- 
tastic toe," you will like the gay rhythm of 
the Shadowland Waltz. 
You will find the words and music in the 
October "SHADOWLAND." 
Mr. Stanley Brothers, Jr., the well-known 
composer, dedicated this new waltz to our 
new magazine. The music is deliriously 
beautiful, and this waltz-song will doubt- 
less make a hit. 

We are giving vou a copy of it in 
"SHADOWLAND"," because everything 
that concerns SHADOWLAND concerns 

Thousands of young Americans — and older 
ones, too — will be dancing the Shadozvland 
Waltz and reading the "SHADOWLAND" 
magazine this winter. 


Come and tread a measure with the stars of the 
Stage and Screen; the poets and the artists and 
the wags of the town. Forget the cares and worries 
of the day and waltz your way to Happiness. 
"SHADOWLAND" will stand by you! 

The M. P. Publishing Co. 
175 Duffield Street Brooklyn, New York 

American Art 

We have on exhibition at all times a large 
collection of paintings by the most famous 
of American artists, including fine examples 
of George Inness, R. A. Blakelock, Elliott 
Daingerfield, H. W. Ranger, J. G. Brown. 
G. H. Smilie, Arthur Parton, Carleton and 
Guy Wiggins, Edward Moran, Eugene V. 
Brewster, etc., etc. 

Illustrated Catalogue in Colors 

mailed to any address for five cents in stamps. 


175 Duffield St., Brooklyn, N. Y. 


{Continued from page 27) 

love to have a cow in Briarcliff — but we've 
no place to keep one . . .unless" . . . 
whimsically . . . "we bought a tent." 

Until one becomes accustomed to the 
little quizzical gleam in Miss Kennedy's 
grey eyes one finds it difficult to reconcile 
this quiet, unassuming, gently spoken young 
person with the famous comedienne of "Fair 
and Warmer", "Twin Beds", etc. But 
when one does get the little gleam, token of 
real humor, the little trick of the hands, one 
senses the real comedy — the comedy which 
may be akin to tears. 

I asked her how she had liked Los An- 
geles . . . allowing, of course, for Mr. 
Bolster's enforced absence. 

"All but the inability to shop," she said; 
"one can get next to nothing there in the 
way of gowns and hats. Personally, I be- 
lieve that clothes are an Art, second almost 
to none, especially to people of the stage. 
And the whole question of clothing is 
whether or no you adequately express your 
own personality thru your clothes. I have 
rather a difficult time doing that. I cannot 
wear the dashing thing of the fashionable 
moment. I have to be conservative in color 
as well as line and yet try to be smart, as 
well. I have to have, simply must have, 
New York for that — and Collins. It is so 
very important that a gown be not merely 
becoming but a very part, and always an 
unobtrusive part, of the person wearing the 
gown. A woman to my way of thinking is 
never well dressed unless you see her before 
you see what it is she has on. You must 
know that she looks charming, yet not know 
just why. It requires thought to achieve 
that impression, or lack of impression, and 
also help, skilled help. That I could not 
find in California. That is, in Los Angeles. 
I should think that same Los Angeles might 
be a happy hunting ground for some ar- 
tiste in the way of modes." 

After which, we taxied to Stern's while 
Miss Kennedy filled up the little suit-case 
with pensive, pale blue lingerie ribbon and 
various odds and ends dear to the feminine 
heart. Hers is excessively feminine. She 
has a gentle manner, a gentle voice, gentle 
hands, an air of tenderness. She is most 
wholly and absolutely woman. She wears 
her Art as she wears her gowns, unob- 

As we were parting she said, rather 
dreamily, "You know . . . I've always 
wanted to do a romantic drama on the stage 
. . . who knows. ..." 

We shook hands. "Ah!" I thought; "the 
creative mood is stirring in its sleep . . J" 

There was a Movie 'Ero, and he had 

A Greek-god torso and 

A Brinkley face — 

Ten cars — a wife — 

A Sweetheart and 

A Che-ild. 

Four million Fans, 

Some scandal — 

Curly hair — 

I-Love-You-Eyes — now Did 

You ever, ever hear 

The like o' that??? 

G. H. 


The Great 
Popularity Contest 

The Motion Picture Magazine, 

The Motion Picture Classic 

and Shadowland 

Will conduct a contest to dis- 
cover the most popular star of 
the screen. Some of the great 
players of the past are still 
with us, but others have re- 
tired and new ones have 
entered the firmament. Who 
is now the most popular star? 
Is it Mary Pickford, Nazi- 
mova, Lillian Gish, 
Charlie Chaplin, Douglas 
Fairbanks, Pauline Fred- 
erick, Richard Barthel- 
MESS, or some other silent 

Readers of the MAGAZINE, 
Classic and Shadowland 
will be able to decide this 
burning question for them- 
selves by registering a vote in 
the approaching contest. The 
STAR who stands first in the 
affections of the voters will 
receive the GRAND PRIZE. 
For winners of the 2nd, 3rd, 
4th, 5th, and 6th places prizes 
will also be provided. 

But the feature that will dis- 
tinguish this popularity con- 
test from all others will be the 
award of prizes to the voters 
who take part in it. If you 
are interested in securing first 
place and a prize for your 
favorite star and a prize for 
yourself read the announce- 
ments of this contest in the 
November Numbers of the 
Motion Picture Magazine, 
The Motion Picture 
Classic and Shadowland. 


175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Page Seventy -Eight 







The End of a 
Perfect Day 

ERHAPS you are one of those experienced 
patrons of motion pictures who can tell within 
fifty seconds of the first title whether a picture 
is going to be any good. 

The directing and the dressing and the general "putting on" of 
the picture come in for instant comparison with all your standards 
of picture-quality. 

If you are one of these you have found out that there is a name 
in motion pictures which sums up all the genius and equipment of 
the finest modern photoplay, 

— Paramount- Artcraft. 

To see that name in the advertisement of a picture is to know 
before you pay that you will get what you want. 

Check it up. 

You will find that Paramount-Artcraft always makes a fitting 
end of a perfect day. 

The Paramount-Artcraft Pictures listed alongside will be coming 
to your theatre. Save the list and ask the manager when. 

(paramount - GHcra£i 

jHotion (pictures 

These two trade-marks are the sure way of identifying Paramount- 
Artcraft Pictures — and the theatres that show them. 


The New Paramount- 
Artcraft Pictures 
for September 

Listed alphabetically, released 
up to September 30th. Save 
the list! And see the pictures! 
Billie Burke in 

"The Misleading Widow" 
"Sadie Love" 
Marguerite Clark in 

"Widow by Proxy" 
Dorothy Dalton j'ji 

"L' Apache" 
Elsie Ferguson in 
"The Witness for theDefense" 
Houdini in 

"The Grim Game" 
Vivian Martin in 

"The Third Kiss" 
"His Official Fiancee" 
Wallace Reid in 

"The Valley of the Giants" 
"The Lottery Man" 
Robert Warwick in 

"Told in the Hills" 
"In Mizzoura" 
Bryant Washburn in 

"Why Smith Left Home" 
George Loane Tucker's Produc- 
tion in 

"The Miracle Man" 
Thomae H. Ince Productions 

Enid Bennett in 

"Stepping Out" 
Dorothy Dalton in 

"The Market of Souls" 
Charles Ray in 

"The Egg Crate Wallop 

"April Folly" 

A Cosmopolitan Production 

Paramount Comedies 

Paramount-Arbuckle Comedy 

one each month 

Paramount-Briggs Comedy 

one each week 

Paramount-Mack Sennett 


two each month 

Paramount Magazine 

issued weekly 

Paramount-Post Nature 


issued every other week 

Paramount-Burton Holmes 

Travel Pictures 

one each week 
















MvtM „M „ H n « m« r 3 "H t1 K m B riM 


If you are a lover 

of youth 
and beauty 

If you are fond 

of wit 

and gallantry 

If you know 

the spice 
of adventure 

If you like 

to play 

If you are 

in style 

If you believe 

that too 
much work 
makes Jack 
a dull boy 

Read the Motion Picture 
Classic where youth, beauty, 
wit, gallantry , adventure, 
style and mental recreation 
are enshrined. 

on news-stands 

:ure Classic, 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 


{Continued from page 63) 

gold, which they later took back to America 
with them. 

It was about the time of the Chateau 
Thierry drive that the players began to 
enlarge their company and develop their 
revue along broader lines. All this time 
they had been encountering tremendous 
difficulties in building scenery. They had 
found it impossible to get either canvas 
or dyes. This taxed their Yankee ingenu- 
ity for a time but they soon had a scenic 
equipment built from captured burlap, 
which they painted in futuristic style from 
pigments made of crushed fruits. 

The revue had begun to be talked about 
all along the American line by this time 
and, during the Chateau Thierry drive, 
they moved with their division down into 
the Argonne Forest. The officers realized 
that their men needed recreation during the 
tremendous days of the drive and the 
Argonne Players were stationed in a barn 
at Florent, where their revue ran for thirty 
days. All the men coming out of the front 
lines passed thru Florent on their way back 
to the rest sections and all the replace- 
ment men moved up thru the town, so thou- 
sands of doughboys watched the show dur- 
ing this trying period. 

''The Amex Revue" developed some odd 
features. Harry Cahill, a soldier, was dis- 
covered to be a remarkable feminine im- 
personator, altho he had never done this 
sort of work before. Paris went wild later 
over Cahill and the members of the Ameri- 
can colony purchased costumes for him of 
Lucille. Another favorite act was an 
emotional playlet done by Helton and 

A little later the Americans captured a 
big German theater in the forest, a theater 
which apparently had been used by the 
huns as an amusement center. It was 
equipped with a bathing pool, a cinema 
theater, and bowling alleys and there the 
Argonne Players enjoyed a luxurious run of 
three days. It was at this theater that Alex- 
ander Woolcott, the New York dramatic 
critic then serving in France, ran across 
them. Woolcott sent back an interesting 
article about them, centering upon the pic- 
turesque way in which the non-tempera- 
mental actors in khaki cooked their dinner 
upon the stage after the performance and 
then how, rolling up in blankets among the 
scenery, the}' peacefully went to sleep. 

During the last three nights of the war, 
before the armistice came, the players were 
near the Luxemburg border, where they 
were under a terrific fire from the retreating 
huns. After the end of hostilities, the play- 
ers began what developed almost into a tour 
of France. They played at man}- railroad 
centers for incoming and outgoing soldiers. 
Meanwhile the Y. M. C. A. outfits, the Sal- 
vation Arm}- workers, and the war corre- 
spondents had carried word back to Paris 
of their unusual entertainment and they 
were brought to the new Theatre Des Champ 
Elysees late in November when, for three 
nights, they played to capacity and turned 
some 18,000 away. 

One of their interesting after-the-war ex- 
periences was a performance given at the 
big military hospital at Savernay, where 

they played in a theater seating 3,000. This 
theater was built and managed by Schuyler 
Ladd, another American actor. 

In December, 1918, they gave a perform- 
ance for Margaret Wilson, daughter of the 
President. She cabled to her father to be 
sure to see them upon his arrival, and on 
January 18, 1919, they played before the 
presidential party at the Theatre Des 
Champs Elysees. It was a brilliant audi- 
ence, numbering, aside from President and 
Mrs. Wilson, Marshal Foch, Lloyd George, 
and many diplomats and officers. Their 
audience gave their '"Amex Revue of 1918" 
a thunderous reception. Moreover, it was 
the first and only performance of its kind 
ever given before an American president. 

Between this date and their performance 
before Miss Wilson they had toured exten- 
sively, appearing at the headquarters at 
Tours, in Bordeaux and the seaport towns. 
After the presidential performance the} 
played all the rest areas in France for the 
entertainment of the American lads. Dur- 
ing all this time their audiences had con- 
sisted solely of soldiers, except at the presi- 
dential performance, altho a few French 
and British had watched the performance as 

The Argonne Players had planned to visit 
Monte Carlo, Nice, London, and several 
English cities, but orders came for them to 
return to America to aid the Fifth Liberty 
Loan drive. Once in New York their plans 
were again shifted and, after appearing for 
two New York engagements, they were dis- 
banded. Before sailing from France Gen- 
eral Pershing complimented them on their 
work, at the same time congratulating the 
players upon their coolness under fire. They 
sailed for home on April 17th, arrived on 
April 25th, having entertained the officers 
and soldiers during the trip over via the 
Mt. Vernon and, after their appearances at 
the Manhattan and Lexington opera houses, 
they disbanded on May 31, 1919, having 
existed as a unit for eleven months. 

Dozens of other acting companies ap- 
peared during this time but the Argonne 
Players were the only organization author- 
ized by the War Department as a recognized 
unit. During most of their time they were 
under the command of Lieut. Warren Dief- 
endorf. In the eleven months they played to 
a million men, sometimes giving ten per- 
formances a da}\ Once they played from 8 
o'clock one morning to 4 o'clock the next. 
They traveled by motor truck; actors, scen- 
ery and costumes being transported in the 
truck, an aeroplane trailer carrying the 
props. Sometimes they gave their revue 
right on the truck, with automobile lights as 

Aside from the loss of David Hockstein, 
Howard Greer and Fred Rath were wounded 
in action. Percy Helton was cited for brav- 
ery on the battlefield. So it is clear that the 
fighting actors did their bit both in and back 
of the line. 

Now the Argonne Players are a memory. 
But the days when they performed at the 
front, with shells dropping all about them, 
aren't likely to be forgotten — by the actors 
themselves or the doughboys who found re- 
lief and relaxation in their work. 


The Most Democratic 
Magazine in America 

THE MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE is not the magazine of 
any class or order. It appeals to the millionaire and to the man in 
the street. The debutante reads it and so does the working girl. 
People in all walks of life find it interesting. Even the stars have a 
"crush" on it because it brings them nearer to the fans who adore them 
and whom they adore. 

If you like motion pictures you will like the old reliable MOTION PICTURE 
MAGAZINE. It was the first magazine in the field and it will be the last 
to leave it. It has grown up with MARY PlCKFORD, FRAXCIS X. BUSH- 
MAN, Pearl White, Anita Stewart, Maurice Costello, Charlie 
Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks and Theda Bara. Upon occasion they 
all trek over to Brooklyn to visit it. When you hold a copy of the MOTION 
PICTURE MAGAZINE in your hands you have all the stars looking over your 
shoulder. You are reading what they read, and what they find new and 
interesting is pretty sure to interest you, too. 

The November Number will brighten all the news stands. It will have 
a BlLLlE BURKE cover showing the star with one of her pets — a red crested 
cockatoo from Singapore. Beyond the cover you will find beautiful pic- 
tures, first rate screen stories, splendid articles and striking illustrations. 
The wise old man of the Motion Picture Industry — the famous "ANSWER 
Man"— who knows every player of the Silversheet, every director from 
BRENNON and Griffith to De Mille and Ince, and every location from 
Bermuda to Los Angeles, will answer questions propounded by particular 
correspondents, but which are of such general interest that thousands of 
readers will, as usual, stop, look, and listen to him first of all. 

In the November Number, old friends of ROSEMARY Theby will hear the 
latest news about their favorite; the increasing popularity of THOMAS 
Meighan is discussed; H. B. Warner reveals himself in an interview; 
BEBE DANIELS tells why she is about to forsake farce for drama and Hazel 
SIMPSON NAYLOR cross questions Cecil de Mille. 

Notwithstanding the high cost of living, the MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE 
still costs only twenty cents. If anybody knows where to buy a better 
magazine for the money, we wish he would let us know so that we can 
see what a better twenty-cent magazine looks like. 

MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE, 1 75 Duffield St., Brooklyn, N. Y. 


Page Eighty-On? 



SEEING is believing. When we announced 
our intention of publishing a new magazine 
of the stage and screen and kindred arts, our 
friends took up the idea with enthusiasm. They 
told us that SHADOWLAND would make a hit, 
and it did. IT STRUCK TWELVE! It ap- 
peared on the news-stands August 23 and the great 
American reading public immediately spotted it 
as a good thing. The first edition was sold out 
within three days and the first number was only 
a trial number anyway, a sort of shadow of the 
SHADOWLAND that is to come. 

Rome was not built in a day. The oak is the 
monarch of the forest but it begins as an acorn 
and only reaches its lofty height by taking Time 
for a partner. SHADOWLAND is a human 
magazine. It did not spring full-armed from the 
brow of Zeus, nor does it pretend to be the mother 
of wisdom. It has not reached perfection. But 
its feet are on the way. It will get into its stride 
presently and then we shall see what we shall see! 

Meanwhile telegrams and letters — letters on busi- 
ness letterheads and letters on French grey — pale 
pink — cream white, buff and pale blue note paper 
continue to flutter in. The perfume of the STARS 
-the dynamic air of BIG BUSINESS, the "sig- 
natures" of famous ARTISTS and the abiding 
sentiments of FRIENDSHIP reach us in every 
morning's mail bag. Happy is the magazine that 
can begin life with 

Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Alice Brady, 
Virginia Pearson, Marion Davies, Elsie Ferguson, George Beban, 
Antonio Moreno, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Francis X. Bush- 
man, Olga Petrova, Commodore Blackton, Norma Talmadge, Ralph 
Block, Theda Bara, William S. Hart, Geraldine Farrar, Samuel 
Lumiere, Mabel Julienne Scott, Pauline Frederick, Richard 
Barthelmess, Clara Kimball Young, Ruth Roland and Elsie Janis 
for friends. 

Shadowland is proud of its friends and — hear us Apollo! — it is re- 
solved so to live and move and have its being that all its friends will 
be proud of it. 



Page Eighty-Two NEWVORK 

Bach to the Home of Olives 

Palmolive Soap comes from tKe Orient and now 
&oes back — a pilgrim returning to its native land. 
It travels in the kit of all who journey Eastward — 
the perfected combination of the Palm and Olive 
Oils so highly prized by ancient users. 

For the smooth, creamy, profuse lather which today 
assures refreshing comfort wherever the user &oes, 
owes its efficiency to the famous natural cleansing 
agents discovered 3,000 years a&o by Ancient E^ypt. 

Palmolive is sold by leading dealers and supplied 
by popular hotels in ^uest-room size. It has followed 
the fla^ to every part of the world where American 
soldiers, sailors, and Nurses have been on duty. 


Milwaukee, U. S. A. 

Toronto, Ont. 

Palmoliveln feuest size is used by famous hotels; 
for instance, the Linnard feroup have arranged to 
furnish Palmolive to Quests. This feroup includes- 
the following hotels, known from coast to coast: 
the Palace and Fairmont at San Francisco; the 
Alexandria at Los Anfeeles; the Maryland, Hunt- 
ington and Green at Pasadena; the Belvedere at 
Santa Barbara and the palatial new Ambassador 
at Atlantic City. 

r- J_L^ 



"Fits on the foot like a glove on the hand " 

fie very first t fling 
in the morning— 

Comes the query — "What shall I 
wear?" If it's the Grey Georgette 
Gown — then thank fortune for 
"F. B &C.'\ because that's another 
way of saying — "Shoes to match." 

"F. B&C." is the softest, most 
durable Kid Leather in all the 
world. It comes in a host of 
dainty, delightful shades to blend 
with your every gown, and the 
better-grade shops will gladly 
show you shoes of the Qenuine. 

Write for our illustrated booklet "Foot Notes" 

Fashion Publicity Company 

Department Q New York City 



A Message to Pedestrians 

ON an autumn evening as you trudge homeward through the first 
snow flakes of Winter, you will pass a dozen news stands filled 
with the gaily-covered magazines for which America is famous. If you 
are an engineer, you will find a technical journal; if you are interested 
in religion you will see various uplifting and inspiring publications; if 
you follow the fashions into the actual practice of dressmaking, you will 
find magazines devoted to the cutting and fitting and decoration of gar- 
ments; if you are a farmer, you will find a journal that will help you in 
the management of your farm; if you are a banker, you will find a 
financial oracle; if you are an advertiser, you will find Printer's Ink; 
if you are a literary wight, you will find The Bookman and The At- 
lantic Monthly; if you like fiction, you will find the Black Cat and 
fiction magazines galore. Every taste and inclination; calling; craft; 
hobby; business and profession has its magazine. 

Those beautifully printed publications are our esteemed contempor- 
aries. None of them, so far as we know, is our rival. For, whatever 
else you may buy at a news stand, there is ONE INDISPENSABLE 
MAGAZINE waiting for you there. It has nothing to do with bank- 
ing or railroading or farming or dressmaking or- engineering. It is 
neither technical nor academic. It appeals to the high and the low ; the 
rich and the poor; the learned and the unlearned. Fathers, mothers, 
sons and daughters derive equal pleasure from it. It has a worldwide 
appeal because it is concerned with the greatest agency in the world 
for the entertainment of man. It is the running partner of the SI LE- 
VERS FLEET. It is the magazine that establishes a personal and authen- 
tic relationship between the PLAYER and the PUBLIC. 

If you are sympathetic; if you are good-natured; if you are unselfish 
enough to admire the achievements of others; if you are grateful to the 
players who lend their shadows to the Screen, you will become a reader 
of the Motion Picture Magazine. You will find it waiting for you 
on the news stands at all times and in all weathers and you will have a 
feeling of personal satisfaction as you carry it home. 

The Motion Picture Magazine 

175 Duf field Street 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 

IHIiHillllllllllllM | l!lll!ilIII!||li!IIIIil!lllll||||||||||iillliiPJ|||||p 

Page Three 


v'lllllllllllll I ■ I ■ II tl II I IIB 1 1 II 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 H I II II I IH 1 1 1 1 II II ■ I 111 || 1 1 1 1 1 1 II H 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 n 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 n n 1 1 n n n I n 1 1 1 ! 1 1 1 ! 1 1 1 ! I n 1 1 !! im ! 1 1 ! i !! 1 1 ! n , , ||m|| m|||||ii 

Greatest of All Popularity Contests 


VC^ho ?s the one great Star of the Screen ? 


Concerning this matter there is great difference of opinion. Every fan, in fact, has his own idol. The Wall 
street broker swears by MARY PICKFORD ; his wife thinks TOM MIX is the best actor the cinema has 
produced; the office boy has a "crush" on THEDA BARA and the stenographer collects photographs of 

What do you think? If you had a vote would you give it to NAZIMOVA or to LILLIAN GISH ? Would 
you vote for a man or a woman or for little BEN ALEXANDER? 

Shadowdand, Motion' Picture Magazine, and Motion Picture Classic — the three great magazines of the 
Motion Picture world — have decided to refer this question to their readers by taking a popular, world- 
wide vote. In regard to matters concerning the stage and theater their audience is the most intelligent and 
discerning; the most wide-awake and well-informed in the world today. If any picture patrons can pick 
out the leading star, it will be those who read Shadowland, the Magazine and Classic. 

The coupons \yill show you how to enter your own name and the name of your favorite player. But you 
may vote on an ordinary sheet of paper in Class Number 2 provided you make the ballot the same size 
and follow the wording of this coupon. We prefer the printed coupons for uniformity and convenience in 

There will be prizes for voters and prizes for stars. 

Votes registered in Class Number 1 "will probably be cast by favor. Votes registered in Class Number 2 
will call for a wide knowledge of the Motion Picture business, keen powers of perception and skill at de- 
tecting the trend of popular favor. You cannot guess the winner offhand. 

Rules of the Contest 

1. The Contest will open on December 1, 1919, and close on June 

30, 1920. 

2. There will be seven ballots as follows: 








1919 ballot 

1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 
1920 ballot 

3. The result of each month's ballot will be published in each one of 
our magazines the second month following such ballot. 

■i. No votes will be received prior to the opening date or after the 
date of closing. 

5. Each person entering the contest and observing the rules thereof 
shall have the privilege of voting once in each class, each month, 
for each one of our magazines. Vou may send us one vote in 
each class for Shadowland every month, and the same for 
Motion Picture Magazine and yet again the same for Classic. 
Thus, you will have three votes in Class No. 1 each month, and 
three votes in Class No. 2 each month. 

Class Number 1 

Shadowland, Magazine and Classic: 

175 Dtiffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

I consider 

the most popular player in the entire field of Motion 







C/ass 7s.umier 2 

Shadowland, Magazine and Classic: 
175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

I believe that 

will win the Rig Three Popularity Contest with 

Name : 






Watch for list of prices and further details in December numbers of Shadowland, Magazine and Classic. 

Remember! this is the greatest ftlayer contest in history 

~i 1 1 1 1 1 ■ 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 n 1 1 1 1 m 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 it i m 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 n 1 1 1 n 1 1 1 1 1 1 u 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 n n 1 1 i i i 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 n n 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 m 1 1 1 1 1 » 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 "i »~ 

Page Four 


A Bird's Eye View of the Screen and Stage 


of the big British playwrights 

this year 



ter and C. Hadden Chambers 
have just arrived. Pinero and 
Barrie are in the offing. 

Ina Claire becomes a star 
this season with the opening of 
the Belasco production of 
Avery Hopwood's "The Gold 
Diggers" at the Lyceum thea- 
ter in New York. 

Broadway is just now under- 
going an avalanche of melo- 
dramatic murder mystery 
plays. Already present are 
"At 9:45,'* "A Voice in the 
Dark" and "The Crimson 
Alibi." And George M. Cohan 
will shortly offer 'The Ac- 

New York theater tickets 
have advanced from $2 to 
$2.50 and $3.00. 

A. H. Woods is presenting 
Marjorie Rambeau in "The 
Unknown Woman." 

Winchell Smith has with- 
drawn from the producing 
firm of Smith and Golden. 
John L, Golden will continue 

George Monroe, the come- 
dian, is returning to the stage 
in the new Shubert "Passing 

Justine Johnson and Walter 
Wenger, the producer, were 
married in New York recently. 
Mrs. Wenger will soon be 
starred by her husband in 
"Profane Love," founded upon 
a Balzac story. 

Margaret Mayo has ob- 
tained a divorce from her hus- 
band, Edgar Selwyn. the play- 

Cyril Maude is now playing 
in England in a new drama, 
"Lord Richard in the Pantry." 

Ethel Barrymore is rehears- 
ing a new play by Zoe Akins, 
called "Declassee." Miss Akins 
is the author of "Papa" and 
""The Magical City." 

Doris Kenyon and John 
Cumberland have the leading 
roles in Wilson Collison and 
Avery Hopwood's farce, "The 
Girl in the Limousine." 

Arthur Hopkins will soon 
produce a new play bv Augus- 
tus Thomas. 

. Marie Tempest is to return 
to America. She has just 
finished a tour of South 

Clyde Fitch's "The blue 

are coming 
W. Somerset Maugham was here 



Vara Macbeth Jones 

A bauble-world your realm no longer seems, 
Vast Shadowland, whose heralding seemed jest! 
Whose mirror, Yesterday, flashed meagre themes 
That earned a fleeting smile or sigh at best, 
Then passed from memory like the stuff o dreams. 

For your novitiate soon ended. Time 

Has wrought a miracle in scope and power; 

You hold the Sesame to every clime, 

For worlds you bridge. And add to Art's rich dower 

Life's pictorial, sun-printed and sublime. 

And neither dare we hold your aim in scorn, 
For oft we glimpse a sermon, vivid, real; 
Find golden mirth for tired hearts that mourn, 
And new-born faith — our aching minds to heal 
When idols totter — here ideals are born! 


W'ynn Holcomb's conception of the heroine 
of "The Miracle Man" 

Mouse" has been musicalized as "The Little Blue Devil," 
with Lillian Lorraine and Bernard Granville in the princip. ' 

Muriel Ostriche, the film 
star, will soon be seen in "The 
Dream Girl." 

Hugo Riesenfeld, director 
of the Rivoli and Rialto thea- 
ters, has written the score of 
a musical show, "The Love 
Lamp." Harry B. Smith is 
the author of the book, 


Harold Lloyd is said to be 
rapidly recovering from the 
effects of an accidental bomb 
explosion in Los Angeles. 

John Wenger, the subject of 
an article in the last issue of 
Shadowland, has been se- 
lected as art director of the 
new Capitol Theater. 

Kay Laurel is to be starred 
at the head of her own com- 
pany. Jack O'Brien will di- 
rect Miss Laurel. 

Metro has purchased James 
Cullen's "The Cave Lady," 
for May Allison's use. 

Abraham Schomer has signed 
Emily Stevens and Muriel 
Ostriche for his production, 
"The Sacred Flame." 

Vitagraph has re-signed 
Earle Williams for a term of 
years. Vitagraph is planning 
to present Antonio Moreno, 
now appearing in serials, in 
features after the first of the 
new year. 

Sydney Chaplin has re- 
turned from Europe. 

Marshall Neilan has pur- 
chased the rights to Booth 
Tarkington's Penrod stories 
and he will place them with 
Wesley Barry, the freckle- 
faced boy of many pictures, as 
the young hero. 

Agnes Ay res is now a feat- 
ured William Fox player. 

Edith Storey is now on the 
coast, working upon her first 
Robertson-Cole production. 

Among the big plays shortly 
to be produced by Vitagraph 
are "The Great Divide," "The 
City," "The College Widow," 
and "The Fortune Hunter." 

Jack Pickford's first Gold- 
wvn production is a visualiza- 
tion of John Fox, Jr.'s "The 
Little Shepherd of Kingdom 

David Griffith's new East- 
ern studio, on the John Flag- 
ler estate at New Rochelle, is 
now well under wav. 

Page Five 

I 191 


Expressing the Arts 

The Magazine of Magazines 

Volume I 

Important Features in This Issue: 
AUTUMN STUDY .Ralph Blakelock 

First reproduction of a painting by this celebrated 
artist whose death occurred recently. 

DEATH IN FEVER FLAT. . . . .George W. Cronin 

An absorbing one act drama by the author of 
"The Sandbar Queen." 

A DREAM OF DREAMS. ...C. Blythe Sherwood 

The remarkable story of Michio Itow, the Jap- 
anese dancer, and his unique plans. 

THE LESSON OF URBAN. . .Kenneth Macgowan 

The influence of a big personality upon the 
American stage and screen, with first published 
reproductions of his latest work. 


Frederick F. Schrader 

An interesting discussion of a present day stage 

EVOLUTION OF JAZZ Louis Raymond Reid 

The development and picturesque history of jazz. 



The newest footlight attractions in review. 

Number 3 


Published monthly by the M. P. Publishing Company, a New York Corporation with its principal offices 
at 177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. Eugene V. Brewster, President and Editor; Eleanor V. V. Brewster, 
Treasurer; E. M. Heinemann, Secretary; Frederick James Smith, Managing Editor. Editorial offices at 177 
Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y:, to which address all mail should be sent. 

Subscription $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in 
Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50. Single copies, 35 cents, postage prepaid. One and two- 
cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both old and 
new address. 

Application made at the Brooklyn, N. Y., Post Office as Second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1919, by the M. P. Publishing Company in the United States and Great Britain. 


~fc> IE 

177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 





Faulted from Photograph by Evans, L.. A. 

SUcAsruZa^ : f-pXsn*jL*«^. 

Fainted from Photograph by Geisler and Andrews 










1— 1 















A Dream 

By C. Blythe 

The name, the 
history, the per- 
sonality, the symbol for 
which it stands, is — alto- 
gether — too b i g for a 
magazine story or any 
other printed kind. He 
takes much more space 
than can be measured to 
bind the limits of the 
"beginning" and the 
"end" of the tale. He re- 
quires a finer instrument 
than the writer as inter- 

It is the sort of mate- 
rial out of which Stuart 
Walker makes plays. 
Briefly, it is the fable of 
a boy! One who dreams 
and dreamt- — dreamt earn- 
estly in Japan. A boy 
who has sought the world 
over for his home and 
has come to realize that, 
literally, he belongs to no 
place. That he has in- 
herited the right to make 
one where he will. A boy, 
who studied in Germany; 

Photographs below by 
Marcia Stein 

Michio Itow, a 
boy who studied 
in Germany; 
played in Paris; 
and found, at 
last, what he was 
and who and 
why, in England 

played in 
Paris; and 
found, at last, 
what h e was 
and who and 
w h y in Eng- 
land. A boy, 
who i n Lon- 
don, one week, 
w a s starving. 
and had to 
pawn even- 
thing he pos- 
sessed, only to 
wake up t h e 
next week t o 
find his name 
on all the bill- 
boards; him- 
self one of the 
most desired, 
the most 


of Dreams 


talked-of personages of the 

The land of the Weep- 
ing Willow Tree! That is 
Itow's background. Violet 
skies, wistaria scent and 
sandalwood. But away, way 
back. Because Itow, when 
very young, left the Hana- 
yagi School in Japan, to 
continue his studies at the 
celebrated Dalcrose School 
in Dresden. And after spe- 
cial courses in art and 
drama and literature, he 
went on seeking answers 
to his queries about these 
branches in Ii dia, Egypt, 
Africa, China and Italy. 
He wanted to trace Art to 
its very beginning. His one 
desire was to grasp every- 
thing there was to know 
about it. 

Itow's august father was 
an architect. Itow's family 
in Tokio were prominent 
and wealthy. Itow did not 
have to work but he always 
loved the t he a t e r . . . 
always! It was all play to 

Page Eleven 

- ■ ■ ' ■ ± ■ ■ ■ 

Photograph, by Arnold Genthe N. Y. 

The land of the Weeping 
Willow Tree is Itow's 
background. Violet skies, 
wistaria scent and sandal- 

him. It was the thing 

he cherished most. A 

few more or less Nippon 

pennies meant only, as 

Itow says, "what you 

call here 'pin money'. I liked rice cakes and the 

tea parlors were charming." But the theater, to 

Michio, did "not mean then or will it ever, just a 

stage and footlights. 

"Drama," Itow told me from his couch of orange 
velvet, "is as fine a combination as the Ballet. The 
Ballet is the inseparable triumvirate of music, color, 
and rythm. Drama adds another sovereign — litera- 

"You do not know here, in one of the most beau- 
tiful cities of the universe, what drama is. You 
schedule first, when the piece is to open, and then 
you get ready to decide what it is going to be 
about. You say that in September this play will . 
be presented. And yet, it is only two or three weeks 
before the PREMIERE that you begin to rehearse. 
What is the result? On the opening night every- 
one is horribly fatigued. If they are not certain of 
their lines they do not care. They are too tired. 
And the scenery? Never is it complete. The paint 
is still wet. The design not quite finished. 

' This is not right. It is unnatural. It is forced. 
The atmosphere is tense. Everything and everyone 
could snap — in a flash. That is not artistic. That 
sort of creation could never produce Art. Why, we 
must be SUAE in Art. iVe must not ask until we 
know what we want. We must not offer until we 
have something to give. We have to be calm . . . 

"In Moscow, — there you have your example of 
drama. A play given by the Stan islawski's Theater 
is gone over and over and over, not for one month, 
not for two months, but for a whole year. By the 
time the actors come before you, they are not acting. 
They are living adaptations of their roles. 

"Ask the 'chorus girl,' there or the woman of 
the Ballet in any foreign country, why she is 
doing that sort of thing, and what possible rea- 
son-has she to remain content at only being a 'bit' 
of the performance, and she will answer, — how 
well I know! — T love it!' Question any of your 
'ponies' or your 'show girls' here and what do 
they say? They have but one retort — 'MONEY!' 
And yet, it is queer, is it not? — that in the 
Orient, we are all crazy to come West. After all, 
even if drama did have its origin in the East, its 
modern examples are chiefly found in the Occi- 
dent. In the Orient, we may be true. But in the 
West, you see, you are new. 

"That is where, and that is how, the East and 
West separate. The East has the perfect spiritual 
understanding of Art; the West, the perfect, ma- 

"The East," Itow continued, letting the shadow 
of his hand fall on the wall, "sees the shadow 
and does not question about the hand. The West 
knows exactly what the hand is for and under- 
stands its composition but it dismisses utterly, the 
perception of the shadow. And that again, is not 
Art. It is not balanced. The world cannot be 
divided against itself like that. These two, to- 

Page Twelve 



gether, must grow to 
comprehend that when 
you move the hand away, 
you move the shadow 
away, and that when you 
toy with your fingers, 
the shadow dances also." 
Itow rose. He went 
over to his desk and re- 
turned to me with a pre- 
sentation. It was a dec- 
orative pamphlet and in 
gold, on green, one read, 
"Michio Itow's School, 
9 East 59th Street." 
A R T I S T, on the first 
page, represents Itow's 
belief that Art is a sym- 
bol of love, and the em- 
bodiment of this symbol 
is the artist. Inasmuch 
as Art is a symbol of 
love, Itow is certain then, 
that it must be universal, 
— giving a spiritual in- 
terpretation to the visible 
and a material signifi- 
cance to t h e invisible ; 
and that he only is an 
artist who makes these 
two relations manifest. 
One cannot be an 
artist, in the true sense 
of the word, if he walks 
in one of these paths to 
the neglect of the other. 
The world cannot accept 
him as an artist unless 
he has a perfect under- 
standing of both the 
spiritual and the mate- 
rial with the skill to rep- 
resent them both in a 
significant form. 

"This much, however, 
I will say," he contin- 
ued. "The East may 
have its dreams . . . 
but you have your pro- 
ducers. Of course, that 
is not perfect. What 
matter d r e a m s to the 

principle of good when they remain latent, inactive? And, 
suppose you do construct towers that kiss the sky and plays 
that crowd the theatre,— how can their fulfilment be truth- 
ful when they are without dreams? 

"There is no doubt about it; now is the time to bring 
these two together. The East can derive so much from the 
West. And the West, I am positive, is beginning to awaken 
to the fact that it has a great deal to learn from the East. 
My one goal, at present, is to help to make this ideal possible. 
"As a child, I wanted to dance. I had to dance. But I 
did not know why. After years of study my answer came. 
It was because dancing dealt with only the beautiful and 
because everyone has his own feeling and his own expres- 
sion. My dance is the expression of my feeling thru the 
movements of my body. 

"Then I became the dancer, Michio Itow. I did not 
know why. Art . . . Beauty. . . . Love . . . these are 
eternal. And when the dancer dies, so does the dance. But 
introspection finally brought the light and I see to-day my 
duty to myself. / know now why I am. 

Photograph by Arnold Genthe N. Y. 

Michio Itow will return 
to Japan to organize a 
Japanese Ballet. From 
there the world will be 
his route 

"My dance is also going to be 
the medium to my crusade. I go 
back to my country this summer 
so that I can organize the Jap- 
anese Ballet. It is going to be 
a colossal thing, — a wonderful 
thing. My company, however, will be limited to twenty-five. 
I shall not send for them. They will come to me. That is 
only how I know they will be those who want the painting, 
motion, tone that I do. We shall study a long time in Japan. 
And then we shall perform, twelve weeks, or so, in Paris. 
From there the world will be our route. And do you know 
what I am going to do with the receipts? 

"I am going to purchase something that I have always 
desired to have for myself and my friends. An island . . . 
one of the most exquisite Japanese landmarks in the Inland 
Sea ! I have seen the ceiling of Italy. I have marveled at 
the green in Switzerland. But, no place is more heavenly 
than the island I have in mind to buy in Japan. 

On that island will be built my (Continued on page 74) 

Page Thirteen 



To appear on Broadway this season in a new David Betasco production 

Photograph by Abbe N. T 

Page Fourteen 


Stage setting designed by Urban for The Strand Theater 

The Lesson of Urban 

By Kenneth Macgowan 


HE movies are slowly making the acquaintance of 
Joseph Urban. Three years ago he created a stage 

setting for the Strand 
Theater. Two years ago 
he. redecorated the stage of 
the Riako. Xow this sea- 
son he has designed and 
built a gorgeous new pic- 
ture frame for the Rivoli 
and. according to the gos- 
sip of celluloid Broadway, 
he is to make a series of 
settings that will gradually 
fill the whole circuit of 
Paramount-Artcraft theaters 
across the country. 

It is a slow way of get- 
ting acquainted and it 
hasn't yet brought Urban 
into actual production. But 
— like most things in him 
history — it has been a swift- 
er acquaintance than the 
drama made with this great 
scenic artist. 

Joseph -Urban came to 
America in 1912. He had 
been art director of the 
Vienna Hoftheater until Fe- 

An Urban dc 

lix Wemgartner, the conductor, and Henry Russell, head of 
the Boston Opera House, induced him to leave Austria and 

come to the new home of 
music-drama in the Back 
Bay. For something over 
two years his rich and 
brilliant settings, together 
with a good ensemble, made 
opera in Boston far more 
satisfying and moving than 
it ever was at the star-rid- 
den Metropolitan before 
the war and public opinion 
forced Mr. Gatti to give up 
his Italian scene painters 
and employ men like Ur- 
ban, Anisfeld. the Russian, 
and Wenger and Pell-Ged- 
des, the Americans. But 
that was not until the sea- 
son of 1917-iS. 

Meantime. George C. Ty- 
ler and Florenz Ziegfeld 
had rescued Urban from 
the war-wreckage of the 
Boston Opera House. Tyler 
got Urban to paint the set- 
tings for Phyllis Xeilson- 
Ziegield Follies Tern's ■"Twelfth Xight" 

Page Fifteen 




Mr. Urban's stage ar- a nd the Edward Sheldon fairy 
rangement for Offenbach's spectacle, "The Garden of Para- 
operetta, Belle Heiene, ,. ,. , ., r ir>ii 
burlesquing the legend dise > *™ n K the seas ° n , of i9 ^t 
f Troy 15. Both plays failed, and if 

Ziegfeld had not appeared the 
next spring with a contract for 
"The Follies," Urban's vogue on Broadway would have been 
still longer postponed. Incidentally, "The Follies'' would 
have remained the same hochepot of American beauties that 
they had been since Ziegfeld began in 1907. 

Then came the huge masque of "Caliban" for the cele- 
bration of the Shakespeare tercentenary; after that, more 
Follies; musical comedies for Klaw and Erlanger; a little 
short-lived Shakespeare for James K. Hackett, and half a 
dozen unsuccessful comedies and dramas — with the capitula- 
tion of the Metropolitan Opera House to the new stagecraft 
•and its principal American protagonist somewhere in between. 

But in all Urban's seven years in America the mass of the 
big Broadway public and the millions of The Road have 
yet to see his work in serious drama. They can judge it 
only by opera and musical comedy. Fortunately, however, 
in these variegated fields practically all that he has to give 
in theory or practice has been foreshadowed. 

Urban's work is a part of the great movement towards a 
new sort of imaginative and vital and expressive type of 
production which swept Russia, Germany and to some ex- 
tent Paris, London and Dublin from 1905 to 1915. Its twin 
gods were Gordon Craig and Adolph Appia. They were sup- 
plied with the usual number of propjiets — Max Reinhardt, 
Stanislawski, Jacques Rouche and a score more. 

The "first tenet of the new faith is the expression in scenery 
and lights, of the atmosphere of the play. The scenery must 
net try to win applause for itself like some vainglorious star. 
It must exist only to make the mood of the play clearer to 
the audience. Thus the setting for "La Belle Heiene"' and 
the lighting indicated in the sketch, picture a fantastic Greece 
as airy and joyous and irresponsible as the music of Offen- 
bach's delicious satire on the Homeric story of Helen of Troy. 

A second tenet is simplicity. The artist must get rid of 
everything that is going to clutter up a stage and interfere 

with actors on the one hand and clear beauty and expressive- 
ness on the other. Take the scene in heaven from Listz's 
"St. Elizabeth," as Urban ha::- sketched it for the Metropolitan 
Opera House. The golden streets of that city are nowhere 
to be seen nor the angelic hosts. Indeed, a little of the base 
earth is still to be seen at each side in the trees of the forest 
at whose feet Elizabeth dies in the preceding scene. And 
yet in that great blue sky and the single grace-filled arch, 
heightened by a miraculous and lambent light, there is all 
of the heavenly kingdom of the saints. The gates of heaven 
stand wide! 

The modern stage artist simplifies but he does not make 
barren. He retains the thing which suggests to the mind of 
the audience, far more than he could ever paint. Consider 
the sketch of the church scene in Gounod's "Faust." Follow- 
ing a suggestion of Erler, the Munich artist, Urban has con- 
centrated the whole cathedral and all the authority and mercy 
of the Church in a single great column of the nave. Above 
us we feel the whole majesty and grace of Gothic architecture. 
Note also, that while suggestion has brought us the whole 
edifice of faith, the simplicity from which it springs permits 
the girl Marguerite to stand out in her proper dramatic 
proportions. In an elaborate cathedral scene, complete and 
detailed, she would be lost. Here she stands revealed. 

The new scenic artists brought into the theater the simple 
and, one would imagine, obvious principles of all pictorial 
art which the conventional scene painters neglected in trying 
to paint real shadows and build canvas churches and tinsel 
heavens. A good many of the older men — and young ones 
of no more ability or mental grasp — are now trying to imi- 
tate the men of the modern school. But, however much they 
may try to be simple or to use suggestion and symbolism, 
one test usually vanquishes them. They may adopt the 
impressionist's "broken color" as the moderns have done 
instead of flat, mixed paint — hiding the thinness of their 
canvas and giving sparkle and life to their colors — but they 
never master design. They can not compose. Their stage de- 
signs have none of the proportion and balace of mass and of 
light and shade which you will find in such a sketch of the 
new movement's Urban's drawing for "The Jewess." 

/■iagf Sixteen 

Sua o owl an z> 

Now what of all this belongs to movies ? Certainly the 
decorative value and architectural distinction which Urban 
can give to the stage frame about the silver-sheet. So much 
has already been taken by the movies. But why not more? 
Why net ask another artist with a different style to do what 
Hugo Ballin has done for Goldwyn in his simplified settings? 

Imagine the scene from "Faust" on the screen. The same 
single column, soaring out of the camera's eye up to the 
infinite. The same dim background, lit with half shadows 
revealing nothing — unless it is the terrors of Mephistopheles 
that hang about the girl. Strength and reality in that great 
column. All the spirit of the Church in its uplifting lines 
and in the comforting flicker of the candles. AH" the threats 
and terror of the devil in the black distances. 

Is it worth remarking — in the hope that some producer 
may profit by it — that such a church (made of one column, 
one piece of ""property"." some nondescript wings or draperies 
and about one-tenth the ordinary amount of electric current) 
would be surprisingly more expressive than a board and 
plaster atrocity for which cur failure harassed movie-makers 
now spend thousands. 

And what can be done with the church can be done with 
a slave market. A huge Greek column seems just a bit 
taller and bigger if ycu show only ten feet of its gigantic 
base. A whole Arabian Nights city — as gigantic in the mind's 
eye as Brenon's palaces of "A Daughter of the Gods" — 
can be fused from the base of a column, the corner of a 
great wall, the foot of an arch, a window with the silhouette 
of a turret in the distance, and a dozen of such little bits of 
a great immensity which only exists in the imagination of 
the audience. 

But the producer will doubtless go on spending money. 
He likes plaster streets that cost S20JXK). They make him 
feel important. 

It takes an artist — or an ordinary movie fan — to walk 
down the corridors of the imagination. 

That is the lesson of Urban. 

Urban 's present work and mediods are a curiou? out- 
growth of his early career. As a boy he went to an school 
in Vienna, while his father, who happened to be the super- 
intendent of schools, thought him safely ensconsed in a law- 
class. Xot satisfied with one art school, young Urban went 
to two at once — the Viennese Academy of Fine Arts in the 
mornings and the Polytechnic in the afternoons. One gave 
him architecture from the angle of pure art, the other from 
the practical side. When Urban s fadier discovered that his 
boy was disobeying his instructions and avoiding the studv 
of law. the parental wrath descended. Voung Urban's art 
career would have come to a sorry end. had he not made 
a friend and 1 " patron of the president of the Academv and 
architect to- the emperor. Baron Hasanauer. He placed 
Urban in his cwn studio: and. at 2.S. secured him a com- 
mission to redecorate one of the palaces of the Khedive of 

From this early triumph. Urban went on to a great mass 
of work which included the building of castles for such 
nobles as Count Esterhazy. the Rathskellar in the Rathatis 
in Vienna, country villas, and the Czar's Bridge over the 
Xeva in Petrograd (the result of winning an international 
competition), and the management of imperial jubilees. 
W hen he first designed rooms to house art exhibitions, his 
work began to tend towards the sort of expressive decora- 
tion which he now contributes to the stage. In 1900 he went 
to Paris to arrange the Australian art exhibit at the expo- 
sition. He found a great many more paintings on hand 
than could possibly be hung, and as sole juror he prompdy 
threw cut all the academic, conventional and recognized 
artists for the younger men. The result, when Urban re- 
turned to Vienna.' was a row ; which resulted in a score of 
artists leaving the Vienna Academy with him to found a 
famous "secession" society-, for which he designed a remark- 
able building. 

The creation of such exhibition rooms obvicuslv suggests 
work for the stage. For the walls in a museum should ideaUv 

Mr. Ltbau'r setting fur "The Jewess." an Enrico Caruso opera to be given at the Metropolitan this seasc 

Page Seventeen 


Setting designed by Mr. Urban suggest the nature 
for the Metropolitan presenta- of the pictures on 

tion of raust. Here Mr. Urban , r . , 

symbolizes the whole Cathedral ™ w 3 ust as much 

by a single pillar as scenery 

should suggest 
the mood of the 
action in a play. In 1904, his friendship with 
the director of the Vienna Hof Burgtheater led 
Urban to join another artist, Heinrich Lefler, in 
the designing of scenery. During the next eight 
years he made settings for the Vienna Hof Burg- 
theater, the Vienna Hof Operntheater, the Ko- 
mische Opera in Berlin, and in various theatres 
in Braunschweig, Mannheim, Cologne, Stuttgart, 
Lauchstaett, Charlottenburg, Hamburg, Duisburg, 
Budapest, and finally in 1912 he came to America. 

The logic which drove the architect into scenic 
decoration is unescapable. His early study had 
served him well by bringing him a wide knowl- 
edge of periods and detail. It also brought him 
a fine appreciation of the importance of new 
methods of lighting the stage. He has never met 
footlights in public buildings and he prefers for 
the stage the wonderful, varied shadows of day- 
light and the depths of night, which have decor- 
ated palace, wall and gate as no row of staring 
footlights ever could do. Scheming out sources of 
beautiful and effective lighting in his buildings, 
Urban learned the great lesson which he ex- 
presses thus: 

"Paint not so much with colors, surfaces and 
artificial perspectives as with the actual glories 
of light itself." 

In a similar way, Urban's training as an archi- 
tect showed him that the essential problem in stage 
design is how to make a place upon the stage 
express the mood of what goes on there. The 
architect has always fated a double problem that 
roughly corresponds to this. 

The complexity of the architect's work — rang- 
ing from plumbing to matters of pure design — 
is a splendid preparation for the immense num- 
ber of practical details that enter into either a 
stage or a screen production. He sees that the 
designing of scenery is a great deal more than 
a matter of painting a picture on a backdrop and 
calling it a production. That is the fault into 
which the Russian painters — Bakst in particular 
— have fallen. Out of his experience as an archi- 
tect as well as a producer, Urban has drawn a 
deep belief in scenic design as a rounded art of 
many factors. 

"The new art of the theatre," he has said, 'is 
more than a matter of mere scenery. It concerns 
the entire production. The scenery is of no use 
at all unless it fits the play and the playing per- 
fectly. The new art is a fusion of what is pic- 
torial with what is dramatic. It demands, not only 
new designs in scenery, but new stage directors 
who understand how to train actors in speech, 
gesture and pose to harmonize with the setting. 
They must know how to establish a single key 
for the whole production. It must be a key in 
which simplicity and suggestion are the most 
essential factors." 


He writes of Isabelle and Jane, 
Until I nearly go insane. 
He writes of Jessamine and May, 
Until my raven locks grow gray. 
He writes again, and cnce again 
Of all these girls in loving strain. 
But, oh! I wish once in his life 
He'd write an ode to me — his wife! 

/.'/ louche Hancock. 




Frog* am original maimtin^ 
By Ralph Blakelock 

Tainted from © Photograph by Lemiere 


Painted from Photograph by Maurice Goldber" 

QjU ( 




Fainted from Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 

OtuxzJU__ * r hr a^^J^eJ^Ly 


Page Twenty-Three 


Constant Constance 

loud and say T want.' Sub-conscious — those were 
my longings. Unspoken — all of my prayers." 

"You see, as a child, I loved to dance. Mother 
let me take lessons from Isadora Duncan's sister. I 
was four years old when I started and how well 
I remember the class ! We were all youngsters. The 
mothers used to sit around, and gape with wonder at 
the tininess of us, and become furious with jealousy 
when we had to take off our shoes and stockings. It's 
different nowadays, isnt it? . . . 

"Well, I went to school in Paris and came back to 
Westover, in Connecticut, to be 'finished'. I was never 
'finished,' however, because it just happened . . . 
that at one of our fetes, in which I danced, Mr. Win- 
throp Ames was present. Mr. Ames told me that he 
would give me an engagement if ever the chance arose. 
The opportunity came later in a little play which he 
produced called 'Saturday to Monday'. I left every- 
thing at Westovej*, you can't blame 
Constance Binney me . . . and accepted the offer: 

to dance Altho the P iece was vel T P ret ty. & 

only lasted from Saturday to Mon- 

1k "TOTHING worth-while was 
I \/ ever stained without suffering 
A. T and hard work," said Miss 
Binney. "That is one of my lines in 
Miss Crother's play, and I love it. It's 
so true. It comes back to me every 
minute . . . when I want something, 
. . . when I want something awfully — 
and it makes me realize that the only way 
in which I can obtain that thing is to strive 
for it. And the bigger the thing the more 
I have to strive. I suppose I'll be striving 
all my life, I want so much." Miss Binney 
laughed. A delightful Penelope Penn 
chuckle. "Of course, I mean striving in 
wanting, too. We must not give up our 
dreams when they begin to materialize. Be- 
sides, it seems to me that when we want hard 
enough, we're praying. And prayers are al- 
ways answered, when they're right, aren't 

"Did you want hard enough to become a 
stage celebrity and a screen star?" 

"That's just it. — All my life I've wanted 
to play. I was crazy to get into the theater. 
But I wished and wished so much, that I 
worked terribly hard towards it. . . . And in 
all that time of conscientious study, I never 
had a minute to spare in which to cry out 

Page Twenty-Four 


By C. Blythe Sherwood 

day. But Mr. Gest saw me and asked 
me to be in 'O! Lady I Lady!' the musi- 
cal comedy by Mr. Wodehouse and Mr. 

Dreams and wishes began to come true 
then. I danced in the Wodehouse piece 
and the papers noticed me. I danced in 
extra bits and when the leading lady, 
Vivienne Segal, was taken ill, I substi- 
tuted in her place. It was funny. I'd 
never sung before. I was horribly fright- 
ened at first and I used to finish the 
song as soon as I could — and I'd fill up 
the verses with dancing! 

"The first wonderful season closed — 
that was last year — and they wanted me 
to keep Miss Segal's part in the Chicago 
company. But I don't exactly know what 
it was— something . . . Subconscious— all 
told me to remain her longings! 

here; advised me not Unspoken— all 

leave New Vnrk her prayer! 



Plintugraiih by Kilwanl Tbaya Monro*- 

now that dreams had begun to come true. So I accepted an offer 
from Mr. Ziegfeld to appear on his Roof. I stayed only one 
night, however. I didn't care for it. It's queer how easy life is 
when you know, even sub-consciously, what you want. 

"A few days after I left Mr. Ziegfeld, I was invited to a tea. 
And perhaps, I was able to go just because I was not doing any- 
thing at that time. Mr. Henry Hull was there and he said 'Don't 
you remember, we # played together, years ago, in your father's 
office, when we were children?' — And, of course, I did. It all came 
back. Henry, in knickers. I, curls and socks. Father had intro- 
duced me to this nice young chap who was working with him in his 
law office when I called one day. 

"Of all the Hull boys, — Henry, Howard, who is Margaret Anglin's 
husband, and Shelley, who died last year and left us one of the sweet- 
est memories in the theater-world, — Henry was the last to go on the 
stage. For a long while he was with my father. He never thought 
of the stage in those days. Neither did I. That afternoon, at the 
tea party, Henry suddenly said: 
" 'Can you act?' 

" T don't know. I never did, but I want to,' I answered. 
" 'Well, please go to see Miss R achel Crothers, to-morrow. You're 
just the type she needs to play opposite me in our new play "39 East." ' 
."I went to Miss Crothers. •Please read this,' she said, offering me 
a hand-written script. I stumbled thru the lines somehow. But that 
was just the way they were supposed to be delivered . . . stumblingly. 
And I was nervous. I wept. And that was (Continued on page 74) 

Page Twenty-Five 


»ni. L> A 

Page Twenty-Six 


Why Wild Ducks Are Wild 

What would you do if 
you were a duck and 
a charming young per- 
son like Gloria Swan- 
s o n . attired as a 
"blind" all in grass, 
tried to lure you to 
your fate? Could a 
mere duck resist? 

The "walking blind" is a 
Japanese idea. In the land 
of the Mikado sportsmen 
hunt wild geese attired like 
Miss Swanson — a sort of neu- 
tral garb somewhere midway 
between a hula-hula frock 
and a hay rick 

Page Twenty-Seven 




Photograph (right) by Alfred Cheney Johnston 

Billy Wagner is one of 
the chief charmers of the 
Shubert production, "The 
Gaieties of 1919." The 
whole show has no pret 
tier girl than Billy 

Folk of 

Lola fisher is a distinct 
and piquant stage person- 
ality. The Clare Kummer 
comedies introduced her 
to interested Broadway. 
She will be seen in a new 
piece very shortly 

Photograph (left) by Moffett. Chicago 

Page Twenty-Eight 


Marion Sunshine will, we 
hope, soon return to the 
New York footlights. Re- 
member the old Keith 
team of Tempest and 
Sunshine. Marion was the 
bright half of it, figura- 
tively speaking 

Page Twenty-Nine 



Miss Suratt has 

just returned 

from Europe 


She will soon be 
seen on the New 
York stage, 
probably in 

Photographs by Hixon-Connelley. Kansas City. Mn 

Page Thirty 


"Scandal," Cosmo Hamilton's drama, is 
just now attracting wide attention on 
Broadway, after pleasing the blushing city 
of Chicago. It New York blushing? 
Well — Mr. Hamilton's heroine pretends 
that she is married, in order to get her- 
self out of a difficult predicament, and 
the pseudo-hubby invades her boudoir, 
demanding the prerogatives of a real hus- 

Of course, he only means to teach her 
a lesson. Here are Charles Cherry as the 
near-bridejcroom and Francine Larrimore 
as the flapper heroine. At the right is the 
ultimate outcome. They find that they're 
really in love, naturally 

Page Thirty-One 





Two glimpse* of Alia 
Nazimova in the forth- 
coming Metro adaptation 
of I. A. R. Wylie's novel 
of India, "The Hermit 
Doctor of Gaya," and, 
across the page, a study 
of Elsie Ferguson in the 
Famous Players • Artcraft 
visualisation of "The 

Page Thirty-Two 


r £ if 7 '. .•.". ■' - 7 i " '. 


The Only Owen 

All Photographs 
by Vlctoi Gdiz 

Page Thirty-Four 


Erstwhile Susan 

By Jane Ward 



HY any lady should feel for marryin' Pop!" mar- 
velled Barnabetta, "as tho there wasn't enough 
troubles in this world already yet." 

The Dutchess paused from her scratching in the unpro- 
ductive gravel of the side yard to utter a solicitous "cluck." 
The contents of the churn slapped the sides with unabated 
vigor. Kingdoms might fall, thrones totter, Pop might go 
wooing but butter must "come" by five o'clock of a Thursday 
afternoon, whatever! 

Barnabetta — a combination of the two parental names 
which had been Mrs. Dreary's single flash of poetry in a life 
of dull prose — swept back the elf locks from her forehead 
with the back of one thin little arm, and continued her 
soliloquy, a habit which she shared with the immortal Hamlet 
and for a similar reason — there was no one who cared to 
hear what she said, or would understand if they did hear. 

"I may be wonderful dumn but / aint dumn enough to 
marry Abel Butcher, even if Pop did give him the say J 
should — him with his long face and his goat whiskers, and 
so awful near, too!" 

The Dutchess cackled, probably with mirth and ate a 
grasshopper. Pickings were poor at the Dreary farm for 
small white girls and big white hens and this was a bond 
between them, this and the fact that they both belonged to 
the despised sex. They were both contemptuously "female." 
It was a quaint scene they presented to the young man who 
approached up the walk between its bright borders of phlox 
and bachelor's buttons — Barnabetta's foolishness, ■ her 

brothers called them. The late afternoon scattered largesse 
of gold through the branches of the gnarled old cherry tree 
on Barnabetta's gingham pinafore, her intent, serious little 
face under the straggling locks of bright brown hair, on the 
friendly hen apparently conversing with her at her feet. The 
old churn was clumsy to manage but a delightful dull red, 
the old house was ramshackle but a charming lichened gray. 

"I beg your pardon!" smiled the young man, and swept 
his hat off with a beautifully manicured white hand, "but 
could you suggest how I can get an automobile out of a hole 
in the bridge down yonder? The front wheels are pretty 
thoroly stuck, and I'm afraid it will take a horse to move it." 

Barnabetta's mouth opened, and remained open, no words 
issuing. In all her seventeen years no radiantly wonderful 
being had ever taken off his hat to her. The Mennonites 
didn't hold with such foolishness, as tending to make females 
forget their proper station. Then a strange thing happened. 
Barnabetta grew — before his face and eyes, beautiful, as 
tho behind the dull little face a rosy lamp had been lighted 
and she shone softly. 

"My!" breathed Barnabetta rapturously, "My!" And so 
saying she turned and led the amazed young man down to 
the barn from whence she emerged leading old Tilly, an 
apathetic mare to whom this duty was no new one, for Pop 
Dreary, to eke out his income had thriftily loosened the 
boards in the bridge and made quite a little sum hauling 
luckless automobiles therefrom. 

During the walk to the bridge the young man chatted 

Page Thirty-Five 


"I -aint dumn enough to 

marry Abel Butcher, even 

if Pop did give him the 

say I should'" 

pleasantly, trying to put her at 
her ease. His name, it appeared 
was David Jordan, and he was 
touring with his sister Theodora 
and his friend Edgar Barrett. 
But Barnabetta spoke not at all, for the simple reason that 
she had nothing to say. The taking off of a white Panama 
hat had revolutionized her world. The others in the car 
smiled at the odd little figure, and the lady in the marvel- 
lous silk coat and floating blue veil held out a white gloved 
hand patronizingly. 

"Oh" cried Barnabetta, from the over-welling deeps of a 
full heart, "aint you too beautiful yet! And so stylish al- 

Old Tilly performed her function methodically and the 
car stood on the further side of the gap. David Jordan tried 
to put a bill into Barnabetta 's hard little hand but she shook 
her head. "No, Mister, I'd take shame to be paid, but — if 
you'd feel for me to have those books, I'd feel to take 'em 
somepin' wonderful!" and her eyes burning with desire she 

pointed to the dull-look- 
ing text book and two 
magazines lying on the 

"What a quaint 
child!" Theodora Jordan 
drawled as the car sped 
away from the blue- 
pinafored figure clasping 
its treasure to her flat 
little breast, "and what 
uncouth language ! To 
think that English is 
murdered in this fashion 
not twenty miles away 
from Waterford College 
and the tutelage of the 
eminent Doctor Barrett, 
philologist and Ph. D!" 
Edgar Barrett refused 
a smile. He was a cyni- 
cal young man who took 
himself very seriously 
and so far he had man- 
aged — by superhuman 
guile — to remain single 
in spite of the earnest 
efforts of, so he believed, 
hundreds of women to 
marry him. Theodora 
Jordan, snobbish, ultra- 
cultivated and beautiful 
felt that the goal of 
orange blossoms and 
Mendelssohn was in 
sight however and was 
concerned to see the un- 
dignified and un-schol- 
astic efforts of President 
Jordan to crane his neck 
around in order to watch 
the absurd little Men- 
nonite maid. 

"It would lie an in- 
teresting experiment," he 
intoned, as the car swept 
about a curve, erasing 
Barnabetta, "to experi- 
ment with an untutored, 
unsophisticated mind 
like that. Indeed it has 
long been one of my pet 
theories that it is possi- 
ble in a single generation to disprove heredity." 

"If she had had a snub nose and mouse colored hair he 
wouldn't be theorizing," the haughty Miss Jordan reflected, 
"luckily there isn't a chance in the world of putting his 
theories to test." 

Theodora spoke without counting on Fate, that bony 
spinster who has no sympathy for the matrimonial plans of 
her sex. Between the Dreary farm, Pop and Jacob and 
Emanuel, the cooking, the churning, the cleaning and what- 
ever, and the serene halls of Waterford College twenty tangi- 
ble miles intervened, and — a whole world, and yet — 

It all developed from Pop's marriage. Upon a morning 
some three weeks later Barnabetta having breakfasted her 
three lords of creation, carried buckets of hot water upstairs 
for their shaving, pressed their trousers and shined their 
three pairs of heavy cowhide shoes was summoned to hear 
the masculine edict. 

"Barnabetta," Pop scowled, "I'm marryin' me to-day with 
a well-fixed sensitive lady. And two females in the house 
at onect aint so necessary — they're a turrible expense already. 

Pane Thirty-Six 


I've give Abel Butcher leave to have you, and the sooner you 
git married yet, it's better." 

Barnabetta drew a gaspy breath. She took a step forward, 
looking at the walls as tho she expected them to fall upon 
her and crush her at once, but forced her quaking lips on. 
'"Pop, I want to go to — to college and get learning! I feel 
for books somepin' fine. An — an I wont never keep company 
with Abel Butcher — not never, never, Never!" 

For an instant pure surprise removed the power of speech 
from Barnaby Dreary. Then his face grew a slow, dull 
purple. Taking a single step forward he picked his daugh- 
ter up by the back of her frock and holding her dangling 
like a kitten spanked her with a huge, freckled paw. "You, 
a female having the dare to say what you'll do!" 

Jacob regarded the contretemps with round, dull china blue 
eyes. He was a fat, pimply youth who shared the Mennonite 
view of the opposite sex but he was canny. "Beatin' aint 
so good fer females, Pop," he urged. "It weakens 'em fer 
work already." 

This sensible view of the matter appealed to Pop Dreary 
who set Barnabetta down upon her feet with a final shake, 
satisfied that he had dealt with the situation in a practical 
.manner and that hereafter his daughter would know her place 
already. If he could have foreseen the thunderbolt that he 
was about to hurl by his own act into his peaceful domestic 
scheme he would have removed his marrying regalia of black 
broadcloth, that smelled of moth balls, and unaccustomed 
stiff collar and have fled to the fields to put in a thrifty day 
among the turnips rather than take a chance with a wife. 

But Miss Miller, the well-fixed lady had an income of one 
thousand a year and Barnaby Dreary was already spending 
it upon thorobred hogs and a new cow house, so, unwitting 
the future he departed to commit matrimony, and returned at 
supper time, escorting the new Mrs, Dreary. This lady was 
lean and long and according to Barnabetta's wide-eyed gaze, 
"wonderful stylish." Her hair was frizzled until it resem- 
bled the interior of a hair mattress, and arranged in terraces, 
eked out with a switch of a different shade. Her dress was 


Fictionized by permission from the scenario of 
Kathryne Stuart, based upon the novel "Barna- 
betta" by Helen R. Martin. Produced by Realart 
Pictures Corporation, starring Constance Binney. 
Directed by John S. Robertson. The cast: 

Barnabetta Constance Binney 

David Jordan Jere Austin 

Barrett Alfred Hickman 

Juliet Miller (Erstwhile Susan) Mary Alden 

Jacob Dreary Bradley Barker 

Emanuel Dreary George Renavent 

Abel Butcher Leslie Hunt 

Barnaby Dreary Anders Randolph 

"worldly," a black silk, ruffled and frilled and she moved 
with mincing step, holding her elbows close to her sides in a 
manner the height of the genteel. 

Barnaby was subdued and uneasy, and wonder of wonders 
he was carrying the lady's carpet bags, instead of leaving 
her do the toting! He jerked an elbow toward Barnabetta, 
explaining sourly, "this here's my darter, Jool-yet, and those 
there are my boys, Jacob and Emanuel. And now you better 
git our work clo'es on and git me my supper yet." 

The new Mrs. Dreary disdained her husband's suggestion 
completely, and undulating to Barnabetta kissed her, a loud 
tender smack. "Ah, dear spouse," she beamed, "it is evident 
you do not understand the delicate nature blossoming here! 
My sweet child, I want you to feel that we are not only mother 
and daughter but comrades, confidants, playmates!" 

Barnabetta almost swooned. It was the first kiss that she 
had ever received. It seemed to 

her a bold thing, almost indecent "And two females in the 
— yet oddly pleasant. But her house at onect aint so 
father's scowl sent her scuttling necessary-they're a mr- 

., .... ., « ~ rib lie expense already 

across the room to lift the heavy "^ 

Page Thirty-Seven 


carpet bags 
and turn to- 
ward the 
stairs. "I aint 
so sen'stive, 
yet, or stylish. 
Better I 
should do the 
toting" she 
said matter- 
of-factly. But 
her stepmoth 
er stopped her 
and with a 
graceful wave 
of the arm, a 
la Del Sarte 
toward the 
youths, indi- 
cated the bags. 

dear sons!" 
she smiled, 
"Surely my 
esteemed gen- 
tlemen you 
will not per- 
mit of a lady's 
carrying bur- 
dens in your 
presence." A 
storm was 
brewing in 
Jacob's out- 
raged stares 
and Emanuel's 
dropped jaw 
but Jool-yet 
seemed un- 
aware of it. 
Her next re- 
mark, deliv- 
ered softly to 
no one in par- 
ticular, was 
without guile. 
"I require 
harmony about 
me, — my deli- 
cate, sensitive 
nature — and 
we will have 
harmony. 1 
am, as I told 
my revered 
spouse, well- 
fixed, and the money is all in my name!" 

Upstairs the three Dreary males regarded one another du- 
biously over the despised carpet bags. Jacob glowered. 
"Tarnation, Pop, are you a-goin' to let that bedslat female 
have the dare to run us, yet?" 

Barnaby Dreary scratched his head. "I'll larn her," he 
growled; "no female woman can run me, all! I'll larn her 
to disobey her Mister. ..." but his tone lacked resolu- 
tion. Downstairs, at this moment Barnabetta and her step- 
mother stared into one another's faces, and then a new 
strange sound gurgled out on the startled atmosphere of the 
dark old kitchen. Barn-'betta was laughing! 

"Poor Pop! And to think I took so sorry fur you to marry 
him! But — ain't you going to dress plain, now? Us folks 
always cut off our hair and put on caps and brown stuff 
dresses when we get a Mister yet." 

She had serene failli in her appearance despite the fact that the oine. 
girls who passed along the corridors stared at her with giggling whispers 

Mrs. Dreany 
smiled self 
satisfiedly, and 
down her vo- 
luminous ruf- 
fles with a be- 
ringed hand. 
"I think not, 
m y charming 
daughter. Be 
patient and 
you will ob- 
serve a num- 
ber of changes 
in this house- 
hold. Among 
others I intend 
that you shall 
have an op- 
portunity t o 
partake of 
learning and 
to that end I 
have already 
summoned the 
village school- 
master to pre- 
pare you for 
t h e advanced 
curricula o f 
that fountain- 
head of wis- 
dom, those 
halls of in- 
tellectual en- 
deavor, Water- 
ford College." 
flung the back 
of her work- 
worn little 
hand across 
her lips. And 
over it she 
stared, unbe- 
lieving her 
ears, at this 
wondrous b e - 
ing who had 
c o m e lfke a 
fairy - god- 
mother to 
bring ■ her 
dearest dreams 
true. "You 
couldn't t o 
mean, Mom!" she gasped, "you couldn't to mean it, yet!" 

"Yet, my sweetest child, is not refined parlance," Mrs. 
Dreary chided, "and do not call me Mom. Call me Juliet — 
not, indeed, that that is my name, for I was erstwhile Susan, 
but Juliet is so symphonious, so harmonic, so much more in 
tune with my true and poetic nature! As for the college, it 
is true, as you shall see." • 

The Drearys saw many strange things within the next 
few weeks, saw a female actually sitting, of an evening, be- 
fore the melodion in the parlor — that room, sacred to fu- 
nerals, and singing "Listen to the Mocking Bird" instead of 
pressing the trousers of the household, saw Barnabetta bent 
over unwholesome volumes filled with foolishness instead of 
greasing her better's shoes, saw the ungodly spectacle of, 
Jacob and Emanuel furiously carrying up their own shaving 
water, saw Barnaby Dreary medi- (Continued on page 67} 

Page Thirty-Eight 


Genius in a Strait-Jacket 

By Frederick F. Schrader 


I RECENTLY saw an actor taking part in a benefit per- 
formance who astounded me. The play was a little 
parlor comedy in which he played the part of a husband 
who has to deal with an hysterically sentimental young man 
who is in love with his wife. He astounded me because I 
had never seen him do anything so artistically finished and 
quietly effective. I had al- 
ways seen him play eccentric 
policemen, and had seen him 
often in the course of years. 
Like myself, the public knew 
this actor only as a counterfeit 
policeman — and the only reason 
was that he had never been per- 
mitted to do anything else. 

I know an actress, once a 
Broadway favorite in light 
opera, who was so glad to make 
an honest living in moving pic- 
tures that she consented to play 
an Irish Molly of the most pro- 
. nounced type. But terror over- 
came her when she realized that, 
once identified with 'the role, 
she would be irrevocably doomed 
to play Irish Mollies the rest of 
her life. Nothing but a fluke 
saved her from that fate. But 
she was justified in her appre- 

Her terror betrays a peculiar 
condition besetting the Ameri- 
can stage. 

It is the '' type - mania. 

Specifically, if an actor be- 
comes marked as the successful 
interpreter of a certain type of 
characters, his value as the por- 
trayer of any other class of roles 
is restricted or actually made 
impossible. If chance assigns 
him to the metier of domestics 
with a dialect, he can seldom 
emancipate himself; he must 
dwarf and repress his artistic 
stature to fit his condition of 
servitude. Thus, the American 
stage has a well-defined class 
cult, with all its prejudices and 

In "'the good old days of the 
drama" no such distinctions pre- 
vailed and the fact that it is now 
well established works a regret- 
table injur)' to the drama in the 
gradual suppression of creative 
artistic power in the actor. 

Beyond the general division 
of actors into classifications 
designated as "leading man", 
"'heavy'", "juvenile", "walking 
gent", "first old man", "light 
comedian", "low comedian", etc. 
(and relatively the same with 
the women), no special tags 
were formerly employed to de- 



A Character Study by Wynn Holcomb 

termine a player's line of work. This -ystem provided a 
latitude which enabled the individual to shine in diversified 

The modern system of casting a play takes no account of 
the former method. It really is not a system, but a happy- 
go-lucky manner of getting results, according to which actors 

are broadly, if not literally, 
rated as "bar keepers", "detec- 
tives'", "political bosses", "slim 
girls", "fat girls", "cooks", 
"dagoes", "priests", "chauf- 
feurs", "crooks", etc. — the list 
is endless, of course. 

In brief, the actor has no 
fixed professional classification. 
Whatever he happens to be born 
to, so to speak, is what he re- 
mains. His artistic organism 
and temperament are less likely 
to be considered than the color 
of his hair, age, height, size, 
weight and complexion. In this 
manner one of the chief ele- 
ments of art, to imitate nature, 
is sacrificed, "and the spiritual 
and .mental endowments of act- 
ing are subordinated to the 
purely physical — the imagina- 
tive part gives way to the crass 
materialism of bulk, fiber and 

When 'John T. Raymond 
played Col. Sellers; when Stew- 
art Robson played Bertie the 
Lamb; E. H. Sothern, Lord 
Dundreary and the Crushed 
Tragedian; Mrs. W. J. Flor- 
ence, the wife of tne Hon. Bard- 
well Sloate, and Florence, Capt. 
Cuttle in Dickens' "Dombey and 
Son", they gave a concrete dem- 
onstration of acting as a fine art, 
because they buried their own 
identity* in their parts. Lionel 
Barryrnore did this in his de- 
lineation of Col. Ibbetson; 
Frank Keenan did it in playing 
Jack Ranee, the sheriff, in "The 
Girl of the Golden West". We 
still have a number of character 
actors who employ real art in 
depicting types of American life. 
But we have all been compelled 
to see wholly inadequate and 
sometimes wholly distorted fig- 
ures on the stage within spheres 
that were beyond the realization 
of our players, not because they 
were not tie "type", but because 
they had ceased to regard act- 
ing as a creative art by neglect- 
ing to absorb from the study of 
books of biography and man- 
ners the endowing elements of 
interest Ae we have no longer 
(Continued on page 76) 


Page Thirty-Nine 



Page Forty 


Fall and winter models 

b\ Milgrim and Company 

Photographs by Abbe 

Removing your 
eyes for. a moment 
from the dashing 
cold weather finery, 
you may note Miss 
Davies" pumps. A 
little bird whispers 
to us that they're 
F. P. C. kid's 

Page Fort\-One 


Department of 

Shadowland's Selection of 
by Amateurs 

fyOMMENT: Our many friends 
m among the amateur photograph- 
^_V ers, will see from the general 
quality of the prints selected just what 
character of picture — and workman- 
ship — Shadowland intends to fos- 
ter. One bit of advice: Snaps of 
"baby" or ''doggie," no matter how 
"cunning" and lovely one's friends 
may pronounce them, usually lose all 
interest outside the home circle. Many 
of the prints submitted would only be 


By S. H. Seelig 

c/o Boston Camera Club 

48 Boylston Street 

Note: AH of Mr. Seelig's 
prints show careful study, origi- 
nality and good craftsmanship. 
We reproduce "The Vamp" as 
an object lesson to other ama- 
teurs of the value of little things 
close at hand as material for 
good studies. Mr. Seelig will 
find. his Vamp better composed 
by trimming slightly on the left: 
the composition slides into the 
right hand corner. 



By Julius Krebs 

745 Hunterdon Street 

Newark, N. J. 

Note: We congratulate Mr. 
Krebs. This marine, a snap- 
shot, has all the qualities of a 
fine photo-art study. Just right 
in color, tone, balance. Rather 
an evening study than "Dawn." 
We suggest — a good enlarge- 
ment — ex. gr. 16 x 20 and sub- 
mission to «ny art publisher. 
Readily saleable. 




Page Forty-Two 




Photographs Submitted 
Ouring the Month 

of interest in the amateur's 
own kodak album. Again, 
the amateur's greatest sin, 
trying to crowd the whole 
countryside into one print, or 
loading it with detail, is fatal 
to all pictorial quality. 

Do what all successful 

amateurs do, study carefully 

every good photograph or 

rather painting you can see. 

C. A. 


By S. H. Seelig 

Boston Camera Club 

48 Boylston Street 

Note: We include 
this soft-focus study as 
a pointer to so many 
entrants who have sent 
their Brownie-snaps of 
"baby" or "little sis- 
ter" — good snaps but 
not "pictures." A care- 
ful study of this sub- 
ject will show how 
easily such a "snap" 
may be made attrac- 


By J. R. Winter 
Cheyenne, Wyoming 

Note: Evidently a carefully 
selected subject — time- exposure 
and ray filter — with ortho plates 
or film. A good argument for 
the use of tripod by amateurs. 
Delicate, sky-values — in fact very 
fine tonality thruout. We feel 
that by careful trimming on the 
left of composition, we have 
much improved the balance. 

Page Forty-Three 


The Evolution of Jazz 

By Louis Raymond Reid 

IT is the age of jazz. The 
war — we'll have to lay it 
to the war — has brought 

us syncopated lawlessness. A 

jumble- tumble of emotions 

finds its expression in weird 

noises, in blues — Memphis 

blues, matrimonial blues, Beale 

Street blues, senatorial blues, 

actor-manager blues, prohibi- 
tion blues. And we can thank 

(or curse, if we choose) the 

negro. He it was who, with 

incorrigible sense of gaiety and 

rhythm, took Terpsichore on a 

toot. The result? She is 

afflicted with an acute case of 

delirium tremens. 

New York has offered a 

refuge. So has Chicago. So. 

have other cities which au- 
daciously boast an underworld 

in these piping times of peace 

and prohibition. Sometimes it 

appears as if Terpy would 

never again be invited into a 

Keeley cure of waltzes and 

two-steps — so great has been 

her fall. Yes, indeed, jazz is 

a hopelessly drunken, reeling 

thing. It breathes the spirit 

of the underworld — of that 

underworld' which has almost 

become legendary in insouci- 
ance and youthful vigor. With 

its irresistible sway it has 

restored New York, New 

Orleans and San Francisco in 

the affection of that cynical foreigner who once declared those 
cities to be the only worth while ones in the United States. 
A broad assumption, it is true. But is it not obvious that 
this foreigner knew only two classes of people — the gay and 
the t stupid? And surely New York, New Orleans and San 
Francisco at one time expressed only the gay. 

Jazz — no one knows the derivation of the word — had its 
origin in the African jungles. Savage, monstrously mascu- 
line, primitively passionate, it formed an integral part of the 
negro's character just as certain as did his plaintive folk 
songs that sprang from the cotton plantations and his flash- 
ing era of ragtime. With curiously sensual wriggles of the 
body he danced it. With tom-toms, human bones and vari- 
ous other noise-making devices he played it. Gradually it 
crept out of Africa. It made its way via the slave ships 
to New Orleans, where it definitely established a foothold, 
stole triumphantly north to Chicago, finding access to 
shadowy retreats in the so-called black belt, and made its 
way into the gaudy resorts of New York's tenderloin. 

The negro had done his part. It remained for the white 
man to take up the burden and capitalize it for the benefit 
of a jaded world. The latter, with his keener commercial 
sense, his greater lust for life, his insatiable greed for novelty 
and excitement, made it a supreme melodic atrocity, a fas- 
cinating grotesquerie of noise, a prehistoric combination of 
innocence and vice. 

Jazz caught the fancy of the young. A world fed up 
with war and destruction had to offer some freedom, and 

Page Forty-Four 

Pronounced the foremost exponent of the "shimmy dance" 
now in the Shuberts' "Gaieties of 1919" 

the relief from high nervous 
tension was found in dancing 
wildly and living, as Nietzche 
would say, dangerously. Com- 
placent and languorous girls 
suddenly became wild women. 
Amiable and respectable fel- 
lows suddenly became wild 
men. And the dance was on 
and joy was unrefined. All 
the while there issued from 
various elevations noises such 
as the world had never known 
before. Every conceivable in- 
strument and device which 
would give sound, strange and 
unmelodious, were pressed into 
service. Barrels, whistles, 
dishpans, washboards, kettles, 
bottles, all found a new use 
as instruments of torture. And 
if these were not enough in- 
genious j a z z e r s performed 
weird tricks with staid saxa- 
phones and ludricrous trom- 
bones, even going to the ex- 
tent of muting the latter with 
derby hats. 

And the young on their way 
to the draft boards and the 
transports and social functions 
and shopping tours experi- 
enced a new sensation in their 
feet which rapidly spread to 
the shoulders, arms, chest and 
hips. The music of the jazz 
resurrected the spirit of St. 
Vitus. People suddenly de- 
veloped an amazing ability to transform themselves into 
jelly. Such extraordinary bodily expression attracted sedate 
dodoes who were resting comfortably on the shady side of 
sixty and lured them away from their monotonous tasks of 
coupon-clipping. They too abandoned themselves to the 
shimmy with pride and eager eye. They would keep up 
with youth at all -costs of dignity and watchfulness over 
rheumatic joints. 

Tho the leading exponents of jazz are well known, 
the identity of the original standard bearer is obscured in 
mystery. Some of the dance-defying pioneers on the fron- 
tiers of respectability who have hewn their way into the 
innermost recesses of jazzland claim that old John Spriccio 
of New Orleans is primarily responsible. At any rate it is 
certain that he knows all the music of the. negro and can 
transform it, when necessary, into any kind of inharmonious 
blues or hesitation. But there are many, many others who 
have similar accomplishments and who belong in the front 
rank of jazzers. 

Bert Kelly was one of the first to invade the north. He 
concentrated upon Chicago and it was not long before he 
and his group of musicians became a sensation of the night 
life there. Walter Kingsley is authority for the statement 
that the word "jazz" came into existence at a party which 
Thomas Meighan, the movie star, gave in Chicago to sev- 
eral well known stage and screen players, Kelly's instru- 
mentalists provided the music. Motion pictures were taken 
of the party, and on the film show- (Continued on p»ge 72) 



in Fever 


One Act Play 
By George W. Cronin 

illustrated by 
Oscar Frederick Howard 

r>CENE. In the 

V Great Far West, 
k^ i.e., far frora the 
"Movie" West. 


Hank, proprietor of the 
Good Hope Road- 

Lon Purdy, about whom 
the play is concerned. 

Mizpah, his wife called 

The Stage Driver. 

The Ghost of Harvey 

The Ghost of the Other 

The time is the pres- 
ent, about 11 P. M. 

This is not a Bret 
Harte play nor is it de- 
signed for W. S. Hart. 
And it should be per- 
formed with none of that 
customary and spacious 
braggadocio of western 

A Jolly Soul 

(Hoarsely) Pitch into 
her, boys ! Tune up your 
gullets ! 

( With quivering 
bathos) "She was born 
in old Kentucky — " 

Another Such 

(With peeve) Aw, shut up, that's Mouldy! Giv's 
Tennessee warble, Hank. 

Voice of Hank 


side and a bright shaft is visible thru 
the rear windows.) 


Padie stared fixedly at 

him and half raised 

with a startled little 


( Rather rich and fine) 
'When your heart was mine, true love, 

And your head lay on my breast, 

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm 

That the sun rose up in the west — " 
( There is a momentary pause, filled in by) 

A Voice 

Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn. Hank. 


(As in misanthrope) Aw, women- — 

(During the laugh that follows, an auto- horn blares out- 

Stage's come. Stage's come! 

( There are sounds indicating the rapid evacuation of the 
Bar, and a moment later one of the rear doors is jerked open 
and the Stage Driver enters, dragging in two heavy suit-cases 
which he deposits near the small table with appropriate grunts, 
meanwhile encouraging the passengers to enter.) 

Stage Driver 

Uh ! perty lumpy bags — come in folks, come in ! Seems 
like you might be carryin' all your b'longin's. 

( The two passengers enter; the man, quickly, nervously, 
almost furtively; the woman, with that weariness which 
ignores everything except its own condition.) 

Page Forty-Five 


"What the devil's the 

matter with your 

doors?" demanded 


Stage Driver 

pleasures.-' Aint got none I 

The Woman 

(Scarcely raising her 
head, and speaking with no 
emotion, in a dead dry 
voice) You didn't use to be 
so pernickity, when you was 
punchin' on the range, Lon. 


( Waspishly) And you 
didn't use to look like a 
hag, neither, Padie. 


( With a- momentary 
flash) Drink's poisoning 
your tongue, too. 


. ( Viciously) Who's drink- 
ing? Caint I take a thim- 
bleful now'n then without 
all this jawin'? 


You aint takin' thimble- 
fuls. You're just soakin 
it up. You'll be gettin' 
snakes if you keep on. 'n 
then, what'll / do? (Re- 
suming her air of weary in- 
difference) Not that I care' 
so much what you do with 
yourself — or what becomes 
of me. Nothing matters. 


(Petulant and aggrieved) 
There you go, actin' abused. 
How about mv rights 'n 

Come in and set, lady. Dont be 
scared. Looks a little spooky but 
Hank'll have a glim fer ye in two 
shakes. (Places a chair for her) 

Here, I know you're plumb tuckered. Make y'self t' home. 

(Looking around at the drear surroundings) 'S fer yer able. 

The Man 

I thought the stage went thru to Hollow Eye tonight ? 
Stage Driver 

Well, sir, she do, if she do, but this time she dont. I've 
been havin' to run ten miles on low already and I jest dont 
dast take her cross that thirty miles of sand the way she is. 
She'll drink water like a thusty hoss and like' as not lay 
down and die on us half wav out. Then where'd we be? 
No, sir, you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat till 
I kin do a tinkerin' job tomorrer mornin'. So I'll step into 
the bar and tell Hank you're here. (At the door to the Bar) 
Hank'll do the best he kin for ye. He's a square man. Good 
night to ye! (Goes out, leaving door half open.) 

The Man 
(Briefly) Good night. (Looking abdill) What a hole. 
Like somebody died here and they'd gone off and left it all 
stand just the way it was. (He goes to the open door at the 
rear and stares at the nqked moonlit buttes.) 

The Man 
Them hills gets my goat. They're nothin' but blitherin' 
skeletons, and this bunch of shacks tney call Fever- Flats 
looks more like no more'n a damn bone yard to me. (Shut- 
ting the door.) Ugh! it's told in here. Feel like I was 
sittin' on my own grave's edge. 


Oh, shut up, you make me sick. 

(Hank enters; a ruddy, vigorous young man, strangely out 
of place among all this rubbish. He wears a barkeeper's apron 
and speaks cordially.) 


Howdye do, folks! Howdye do! Well, this a kinda rough 
lay-out fer you-all. Y'see the stage is due here at five, and 
stops fer grub, then makes Hollow-Eye by about nine, but 
here 'tis . . . (pulls out watch) half an hour of midnight 
an I s'pose you aint et, yet eh? ( Lights the glass lamp.) 


Thanks, we've had sandwiches, hut maybe my husband's 
like something. 


(Significally) Wet. 

(Padie shrugs indifferently, and fixes Jr-r hair. As she 
turns toward Hank the light for the first time falls full on 
his face. Padie stares fixedly at him, anil half rises with a 
little cry.) 


(With a quick startled glance at Hank, speaks to Iter in a 
sharp, threatening roic<) Padie! Sit down! Are ycu gittin' 
plumb loco drivin' out so late in autymobiles? (To Hank, 
apologetically) You kinda flustered us, mister, cause you 
have little a look of a friend of -cum died suddint. 

fa%e Forty -Six 


Mournful case. Pardner o' mine. No, you're not much like. 
He was tall, heavy-built and lighter complected. Must a 
been consid'ble older, too. 


(Almost in a whisper) No. 

Older, I say. My wife's kinda wrought up by this here 
little spell of travelin'. 

(Sympathetically) Oh, you're not used to it, eh? 

(Slowly and deliberately) We've been at it — (draws out 
the word into a burden) years. 


(Impatiently) That is, off'n on m' dear. Only off'n on. 


(Monotonously) All the time. 


( Trying to be a little jocose to break the oppressive atmos- 
phere) Should think you might hanker after your own nest, 


(Rising rudely) Well, 
just keep your thoughts! 


( Complet ely abashed ) 
Yes Ma'am. Your room 
is just at the top of the 
landin'. I'll make ye a 
light. (He hustles away 
upstairs to cover his em- 
barrassment, taking the 
suit-cases with him. ) 


(Irritably) You're al- 
ways tryin' to belittle me 
in public. Is that any way 
fer a wife to act? I wanta 


What do you always lie 
so for? 


( With rising voice) 
That's my business. I'll 
do as I damn please. And 
dont you go too far, cross- 
in' me. I wont stand it. 
Some day I'll up, an — 


(Contemptuously) Beat 
me. That's all that's left 
to you, wife-beater. 

(Lon raises his hand as 
tho to strike her but lets 
it jail as Hank reappears 
on the landing.) 

long since we've had in women folks, at least ladies. 


(Moving toward the stairq Thanks, we have some. 
(Lon to Padie as Hank, hidden from audience, descends.) 


You might as well be decent, Padie. You aint got none 
other but me. 


(Bitterly) Yes, you've took me from 'em. We've been 
trapsin and trapsin till I'm plumb sick. Yes, I'm — • (Her 
voice breaks and she runs blindly toward the stair, almost 
into the arms of Hank, which further increases his consterna- 
tion. ) 


(Holding her off) Stidy, stidy. There's the ladder, m'am. 
Cant I fetch you somethin'? Tody? 

(Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door.) 


( To Lon in friendly fashion) Women folks is cur 'us, cur'us. 


(Surlily) Take my advice and keep free of 'em. 


It was a woman did fer my 


(With increased interest) Oh, 
you've got a brother, eh? 

(Simply) Had. 


Where is he ? 


Excuse me, m'am. 
Have you your own 
towels by you ? Ourn 
is pretty scaly, it'sso 

Padie bent towards 
him as he came near 
the top steps. "You'd 
better read it to me," 
she said. "'Maybe the 
landing'll not hold the 
two of us" 

Page Forty-Seven 



Down at Laguna Madre, Arizony. 

(Leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table) 



No, not quite. I've been all around them parts but never 
in Arizony 


Taint what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty 
satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here. 



Why dont you move? 

(Haltingly} How — what were you saying — about a 
woman ? 


A woman done for him. That's what they said, I dont 
know. I didn't git there for a long time. There was a mix-up. 


Well, well. That's strange. 


(Eagerly) I spose you heard of it? It was all in the 
papers. It even got as fer as Denver. 




I'm goin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in 
this here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's, 
just finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. 
But I'm pullin' my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be buried 
here! Would you? 


(Dryly) I'd rather not, 

The double doors swung 
open as before, revealing a 
figure standing motionless 
outside, bathed in moonlight. 
At the same time the flame 
in the glass lamp began to 
flicker and-wane 

No, I dont remember. But 
I've read of similar cases. 


You've been in Arizony, I 

'spose ? 


£0 she took me fer a friend that's croaked, eh? That's 

Eh? What's that? Who? 

Your wife. 



Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark- 


Thought you said he 
was light ? 


Mebbe I did. Well, 
he mought have been a 
trifle lighter'n you, but 
then, size him up by the 
average, he was dark. 
Let's fergit him. Bring 
us a bottle of yer best — 
and see that the glass is 



To be sure. 

(Lon sits with . his 
head between his hands, 
brooding. The voice of 
Hank rises from the bar, 
rendering the second 
voice of the Tennessee 


(In the bar) 
There's many a girl can 
go all round about 
And hear the small birds 


And many a girl that 

stays at home alone 

And rocks the cradle and 


(As the song ends, the 

door at the rear opens 

(Continued on page 60) 

Page Forty-Eight 


What Every Woman 
Should Know 



By The Rambler 

All photographs oopyright by Underwood A Underwood 

HE- world is so full of a number of things, 
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings," 
mused mi-lady as she strolled down the greatest 
avenue in the world, past the wonderful fashion marts and 
thru the side streets, past the smaller but also smart shops, 
pausing frequently to marvel at the tempting array of every- 
thing dear to the feminine heart so artistically displayed in 
the big windows. 

"The world is so full of a number of things" — she thought 
again, but — "happy as kings"? Well, kings should be 
happy, for one thing they dont have to worry about fashions, 
wearing as they do always the same kingly garb, crowns 
included, season after season. But how can a woman be 
happy when she contemplates such a bewildering display of 
fashions, all so inconsistently different, contradicting one 
another, as it were, right before one's eyes! "Such a num- 
ber of things," indeed! 

And mi-lady is right. Individualism is the cry of the age, 
and individualism in dress is one of the results. We hear of 
the new silhouette and we see it demonstrated in voluminous 
overskirts, double hip pockets, gracefully draped and be- 
flounced frocks, skirts with ruffles and frills; and then we 
turn to observe a slim figure swathed so tightly in velvet or 
satin that she can hardly put one foot before the other, and 

Unusual and becoming 
boudoir costume with 
trouserettes and coatee 
. of heavy silk with 
fanciful border from 
Franklin Simon 
on every 
side we see 
the one-piece gown of slender lines. 

When all these modes are unmistakably in the fashion 
how can any one silhouette be said to be the mode? The 
most noticeable feature of the present day mode is its 
catholicity and there can be no distinctively new silhouette 
nor is any real novelty of design a possibility. Small wonder 
mi-lady is bewildered at the apparent inconsistencies of 
present day fashions. 

The fact has been accepted among artists that every 
woman is a distinct type belonging to some period in history, 
and now the world of fashion is recognizing it and has 
finally decreed that instead of setting up a few standard 
styles and demanding that all types wear practically the 
same modes, there shall be a wide enough range of styles to 
cover every period of history and every type and enable every 
woman to find the most becoming attire. 

Every woman's problem, then, is to classify herself. In 
short, let mi-lady hie herself to' her mirror, study the reflec- 
tion there and decide upon her type. The rest is exceedingly 
simple, as a tour of the shops will show. In the exclusive 
Fifth Avenue and smaller establishments we find not only 
fashions belonging to a particular period but fashions echoing 

Page Forty-Nine 



\ |H| 

all the little details 

that characterize them Jane Marsh designed 
as belonging to a par- ^ k t^hit? J. 
ticular type. vet A pearI buckle 

For the piquant holds in place a sweep- 
woman with dainty ing feather fancy 
coloring, the Dresden 

Shepherdess type, the models show the soft 
clinging lines of the Renaissance period with 
lovely effects achieved in satins and soft 
flexible silks, draperies that assume the shape 
of panniers and the blouse which is in one 
piece with the girdle with surplice closing, 
quaint and becoming. 

For afternoon and evening wear the Dres- 
den Shepherdess type of model displays 
gowns of dainty tints and fabrics, ruffled 
taffetas and lace berthas, airy nets with rib- 
bon trimmings, delicate crepes and chiffons 
with flowing lace sleeves. One model wore 
a hat with picturesquely drooping brim with 
black and pastel shades; another, a chic 
round velvet turban with an irrepressible 
spray of feathers, and a very young girl was 
particularly alluring in a poke bonnet of 
draped velvet such as grandmother wore. 

Capes maintain their tremendous vogue 
and an afternoon and evening cape of taupe- 
velvet with fur collar charmingly accommo- 
dated the fuller skirts affected by these 
models, while a motor or traveling coat of 
homespun with novel yoke and sleeves and 
muffler collar was at hand for utility wear. 
For mi-lady of Oriental beauty there are 
the brightest of colors, 
the richest of fabrics — 
a gay commingling of 
colors and the glimmer 
of metals and brocades. 
The daytime dresses 
worn by models repfe- 

Victory blue silk 
duvetyn street 
frock, drapery at 
back suggests the 
dignity of early 
Victorian days. 
Dress from Russek's 

"age Fifty 


senting this type are more or less straight but elaborate with 
embroidery, braid and other trimmings. For formal afternoon 
wear there is a gown of black velvet with a front tablier of 
brocaded velvet weighted with gold and jet fringe, and girdle of 
gold metal with gold tassels. The velvet is draped from the left 
shoulder, where it is caught by a gold buckle. The gowns for 
evening wear are built along clinging lines and graceful curves 
and, carrying out the idea that this type of woman depends upon 
.the quality of fabric and bizarre ornamentation to achieve the 
proper degree- of elegance, the effect is one of almost barbaric 

Fanciful effects are noticed too in' her wraps and furs, sumptUr 
ous garments, shapeless almost in cut, or luxurious brocades, 
supple velvets and fleecy duvetyns with colorful linings. But it 
is with her hats especially that mi-lady of Oriental beauty comes 
into her own. One model dis- 
played a millinery triumph of 
splendid brocade with lining of 
Chinese royal blue taffeta, a nar- 
row edge of black Chantilly lace 
and a blue and silver ribbon 'round 
the crown. Another was of black 
velvet with rose and silver lining 
and a rose and blue ostrich falling 
into cascades of graceful spray. 
Dost see the picture? 

Above, this unusual gown 
from Russek's is of dainty 
blue duvetyn crepe attrac- 
tively beaded with cut jet. 
Wide bands of Hudson seal 
border the sleeves and skirt. 
A girdle of black silk cord 
encircles the waist; and 
below, this modish suit is of 
blue silk duvetyn with high 
beaver collar, coat in knee 
length with soft narrow belt 

And there is the prim Priscilla, the 
demure stately beauty, belonging to the 
days when lovers sang sentimentally 
"The Spanish Cavalier," "I'll Hang 
My Harp on a Weeping Willow Tree." 
She does not hope to achieve the ex- 
quisite loveliness of the Dresden Shep- 
herdess lady nor the colorful splendor 
of the Oriental beauty, but she com- 
bines the charm and sauciness of today 
with the dignity belonging to Queen 
Victoria's early reign and the result is 

For the edification of this alluring 
type of femininity one model wears a 
dress of heavy satin with wide hip ful- 
ness and so much depth that the sides 
take on a pannier aspect. The waist is 
merely a fitted straight bodice with 
square open neck and sleeves that do 

Page Fifty-One 


Right, two grays of moleskin 
and squirrel make a most in- 
teresting combination in this 
elegant wrap from Maisson 
Bernard. Rose brocade 
crowns the taupe velvet- 
brimmed hat; and above, 
with a vestee of handsome 
seal this lovely red duvetyn 
suit has an unusually distinc- 
tive air. Best & Co. 

not reach below the 
elbow. A quaint 
afternoon frock is of 
"Morning Glory" silk 
with draped tunic and 
draped lace fichu. 
Lace forms the vest 
and ends of the flow- 
ing sleeves beneath 
which are fitted and 
buttoned oversleeves 

of sheer fabric. Another formal frock is of soft 
pink taffeta with graduated flounces of lace about 
the rather full skirt, narrower ruffles of lace outlining 
the "bib" front of the bodice, short puffed sleeves 
•with lace ruffles and pink sash. So reminiscent 
were these frocks of "When Grandma was a girl" 
that we were not surprised to see that the models 
wearing these gowns wore early Victorian coiffures 
with ear-rings to match and carried the small beaded 

and bouffant bags that Victorian ladies knew 
as "reticules." 

There is a noticeable return, too, to furs 
of Grandmother's day, and the little Vic- 
torian lady of today may find herself wearing 
a becoming coat or cape combination of sable 
and mink. With these quaint creations the 
returned "picture hat" with its graceful 
drooping brim and swirl of paradise feathers 
is singularly fitting and becoming. 

For the business woman and the woman 
who affects the tailored type of dress there is 
a deal of diversity in the styles apart from the 
strictly mannish kind that are characterized 
by smart simplicity and exquisite tailoring. 
This season suits have taken to masquerad- 
ing. Some of the suits have various modes 
of camouflage which make them appear like 
dresses, while some of the frocks look like 
coats. Coats, too, have turned into garments 
that are half coat and the other half cape. 

Page Fifty-Two 


Coatlike frocks give their wearers a 
trim, well-dressed appearance and for 
that reason will be extremely popular. 
This type of costume has been dear 
to the heart of the French woman and 
is now being universally adopted by 
the American women who so long 
have favored the tailor-made suit for 
street wear. 

Each season, however, sees a further 
departure from the suit. We have 
come to realize that we are never well 
dressed in a blouse and skirt after 
removing the jacket of a suit. One of 
these new coat dresses take the place 
of either a suit or a light weight top- 
coat on mild autumn days, and one 
may go to business, shop, lunch or 
even dine with the feeling of being 
well dressed. 

Generally speaking, the business or 
tailored woman will cling to the type 
of dress that is trim, smart and sen- 
sible. She will not wear trailing 
skirts, uncomfortably full ones, nor 
yet the unreasonably short frocks af- 
fected by French women. Coats of 
the new tailleurs are much longer 

than those of 
last year. Many 
o f them are 
length, although 
some are even 
longer than this. 
Fulness does 
not appear in 
the back. No 
matter how flar- 
ing the sides 
may be, the 
back of the 
jacket must be without fulness. 

For the lover of the separate blouse, 
the choice of meteor for blouse material 
is extremely practical. Brown and rasp- 
berry shades are especially attractive. 
The short sleeve which ends just above 
the elbow or merely covers it is preferred 
for over-blouses, the necks of which 
are high in the back, but show a rounded 
opening at the front. These blouses are 
effective with separate modish skirts. 
For the street (continued on page 79) 

Page Fifty-Three 


■■■■ *■*■■- 


Right, Maurice E. 
McLoughlin, t h e 
California ex-cham- 
pion and one of the 
most popular of 
tennis stars, as he 
appeared in the 
recent National 
Lawn Tennis 
Tournament at 
Forest Hills, Long 
Island. Lejt, Pat- 
terson, one of the 
Australian stars 

A glimpse of 
the cluhhouse 
and bleachers 
at Forest Hills 
during the 
match between 
Walter Johnson 
and William T. 
Tilden for the 
National tennis 

PhotoKraplis © by Underwood & Underwood 




Study of a Lady 

A portrait by Charles Albin, one of the 
official photographers of Shadowland, 
The Motion Picture Magazine and The 
Motion Picture Classic. The subject of 
this study appears in "A Dream of Fair 
Women," the official test motion picture 
of the Fame and Fortune Contest 



Page Fifty-Five 


Percy Hallroom finds that 

his desire to be a Doug 

Fairbanks helps him vastly 

at the necktie counter 

Prudence Peabpdy has been 
reading in the film maga- 
zines about the Mack Sennett 
bathing girls. Prudence just 
knows that Marie Prevost 
has nothing on her 

Page Fifty-Six 


Mrs.Vanderbrook Jenks 
(Social Register) ha? 
just discovered that 
men < in the movies 1 
always like ingenues, 
and she decides to in- 
genue at any cost 


Miss Hortense Eloise 
Stonefeller, 3rd., I i. e.. 
society flapper I, decides 
that she must be an 
Alia Nazimova — or 




J. M. S. Morganthau doesn't 
allow the banking district 
worries to prevent him from 
longing to be a Bill Hart, 
tense jaw muscles, ready 
trigger finger, and all 

Page Fifty-Seven 


The New Season 
Dawns Reluctantly 

By The Critic 

Illustrations by Wynn Holcomb 

THE great actors' war is over. Peace is here and new 
productions are as thick as returned officers with 
medals. While it lasted, the players' strike was alto- 
gether a happy event. 

Broadway was ghastly dark after sunset. Its electric night 
life, for instance, consisted wholly of a chewing gum adver- 
tisement and the usual Selznick movie signs on ever}' other 
corner. Otherwise, that is, Broadway was dark. 

Dramatic critics could be observed' romping merrily along 
the streets, as light hearted as when they were boys. Now 
and then they wrote caustic pieces for their papers on the 
decadent movies. 

The streets were jammed with actors. Stars who weren't 
entertaining the proletariat on 'the sidewalks were giving 
benefits at the Lexington Opera House and in other hastily 
secured theaters. 

One or two non-Equity productions managed to weather 
the strike of scene shifters, electricians and mere actors, but 
with sadly upset casts. Managers began to play roles them- 
selves. George M. Cohan did a barber in his "Royal Vaga- 
bond" and William A. Bradv histrioniced as a butler in his 


as the flapper heroine of 

in the Equit) presentation of "CamiHe'" 

"At 9 :45." Folks you never 
suspected would or could act 
began to do the former. 

Just when the whole thing 
was at its merry height, the 
strike ended. Pleasantly for 
all sides, apparently. Man- 
agers returned shrinkingly to 
their private offices, dramatic 
critics again began coming late 
to the theater with bored but 
resigned expressions and the 
avalanche of new season plays 
got under way. 

The season is still in a sort 
of incoherent state. Yet a few 
productions are already rais- 
ing their heads above the sur- 
face. For instance, there's Booth Tarkington's comedy, 
"Clarence." After reading the eulogies of the New York 
critics we sort of gained the vague impression that the great 
American comedy had arrived. 

But "Clarence" didn't knock us wholly off our feet. Nicely 
amusing it is and all that, but not the whirlwind the critics 
paint it. Of course, we saw it under rather unhappy circum- 
stances. We sat in the last row of the orchestra while a 
middle-aged ingenue with curls and catarrh occupied stand- 
ing room just back of our right ear. All this rather cramped 
Mr. Tarkington's subtleties for us. 

"Clarence," however, is funny. Bully in places. Tark- 
ington has built it around the way a returned soldier 
straightens out a distraught but typically American house- 
hold. Clarence isn't a philosopher or anything like that, 
but just an awkward private the draft had accorded the 
post of driving army mules. Clarence, as splendidly played 
by Alfred Lunt, lies sort of midway between Ed Wynn and 
Charlie Ray. 

Clarence is a remarkable character, but also are two others, 
the son and daughter of the household, wonderfully drawn 
by the understanding Tarkington and wonderfully played 
by Glenn Hunter and Helen Hayes. Hunter's adolescent 
Bobby Wheeler is a gem — a glorious presentation of that 
awful cocoon period of boyhood. 

Sem Benelli's cheery little tragedy, "The Jest," has been 
revived with John and Lionel Barrymore in their roles of 
last season. To our way of thinking, the Barrymores easily 
lead the American histrionic profession. 

It is rather of late date to comment upon Benelli's piquant 
study of rape, murder and insanity in the festive middle 
ages. If you are planning vengeance upon your landlord, 
for instance, we recommend "The Jest." For this tragedy 
sets out to present the triumph of mind over matter. John 
Barrymore plays a cringing coward who has been brow- 
beaten all his life by a big, noisy mercenary. After he loses 
the fair daughter of the neighborhood fishmonger by force, 
he sets out to get even. 

And he does. He does! The tragedy has sweep, power 
and grip. The splendid acting of the Barrymores is beyond 
praise. If there is anything better than John's high-keyed 
playing of the cowardly painter, Giannetto, it is Lionel's 
vivid presentation of the swash- (Continued on page 71) 

Page Fijty-Eight 


Fair and Warmer 

By Gladys Hall 

IF Billy Bartlett hadn't been wallowing about in the last at clubs and elsewhere . . . confirmatory ones. He had seen 
yellow rim of what he might have termed hell if he had things with his own eyes . . . and then there was the hurting 
been that kind of a man, it might have occurred to him fact that Laura had been engaged to Philip Evans' before 
as an enormity that he was spending an evening "alone with she did him, Billy, the ecstatic honor of preferring him. 
a woman". He might have included it in the category of "Philip was impossible," she confided to Billy once ... on 
things not quite "nice". For Billy Bartlett was essentially "their honeymoon . . . "he flirted with anything and every- 
"nice". Nobody ever disputed that indisputable fact. Not thing, black, white or yellow, so long as the creature wore 
even his wife. skirts. It was altogether abominable." 

Billy Bartlett had been sort of miserable for quite some Now, it seemed, the promiscuous Philip was turning his 

months. He had been vaguely miserable since the first night eyes in the direction of Billy Bartlett's Laura, and Billv 
Laura had not run to meet him on his return from the office, Bartlett's Laura did not appear to remember the term, 
had not hurtled herself into his all too receptive arms, had "abominable." 

not muttered unintelligible noth- And so things had drifted 

ings into his ear. A dull ache FAIR AND WARMER wretchedly along for Billy and 

had started on that night. The ' . . , " . . ., . thrillinglv, it seemed, for Laura 

dull ache had persisted. It had Fictioiuzed-by permission from June Matins ^ ^ hi(kous 
grown to chronic violence when * nd A " P- Younger s scenario based on Avery Th had been 8 

Laura remarked, during the Hopwood s comedy. Produced by Metro Pic- in th e"ir usual strained silence 
course of that inexplicable eve- l ™ e \ 9°^ w 'n» ""S? f 7 and Billv had remind ^ Laura 

nmg, that she had "run into" D ^ eCted „ b >' Henr > r 0ttO ' The cast: that the Jack Wheelers from the 

Philip Evans and he had taken Blanny Wheeler May Allison apartment above were comina in 

her to tea. She had added, de- J acfi Wheeler Pell Trenton i ater for bridge. 

fensively, that there was no harm Billy Bartlett Eugene Palletle Laura had flushed to an in- 

in that as she could see. Billy Laura Bartlett .... Christine Mayo stantaneous and bewildering red. 

knew, vaguely, that there was a Philip Evans William Buckley She had said, almost angrily, that 

great deal of harm in Philip Tessie Effie Conley Billy was purposely obtuse',' pur- 
Evans. He had heard tales . . . posely torturing her, that he knew 

Page Fifty-Nine 


After the first sip one didn't seem to mind so 
much. After several one didn't mind at all 

Blanny regarded the 

tea-cart with pigeon 

toes and awe. It had 

a fearful aspect 

she was dated for the 
opera with Phil and 
that she couldn't and 
wouldn't hurt Phil's 
feelings by an 
eleventh hour re- 
fusal. Billy thought, 
silently, that some 
people's feelings 
were always being 
swathed in cotton 
wool. While h i s 
, . . he shivered . . . 
and said that the 
nights were growing 
cool. . . . 

Laura seemed to 
feel a need to rush 
on. She said a lot 
of unpleasant things. 
She said that Billy 
was cruel, that he 
was blind and also, 
and many times, she 
said that he was 
stupid and duller 
than the proverbial 
dish water. She 
compared Billy to a 
great many things 
relative to dish 
water. She asked 
Billy what he meant, 
anyway, and didn't 
he suppose she 
wanted any life just 

because she had gone and married him ? Didn't he? Was a tomb 
to be her portion with a corpse that never even walked? She fin- 
ished up by demanding that he give her a divorce. Her freedom. 
Her soul again. 

Billy's white face reflected his stricken soul. He pinched him- 
self to find out if this thing were true. He pinched hard and he 
remained in the same sick state. It was true, then. He realized, 
sitting dully there before her, that he loved her. There was some- 
thing final in his love for her. He'd never get beyond it. It was 
a prison house ... of pain now. But a prison house he couldn't, 
wouldn't leave for the license of the world wide. Yes, he loved 
her, and she was using his love for her as a scourge. 

When he asked her what, he had done; when he reminded her 
that she had loved him once, she ignored the second observation to 
shriek hysterically: "what have you done? What have you done? 
Nothing! Ab-so-lutely nothing!" 

Later on, the Jack Wheeler came down. Jack began explaining 
upon his entrance that he had forgot when he made the date that 
he was due at the Mystic Shrine. When he said it he winked at 
Billy. Billy saw that he winked but he was impervious to the 
meaning. Blanny went in to watch Laura dress and Billy, who 
had known Jack a long time, blurted out the ache in his heart. 

Jack laughed. "That's a woman for you,'' he said; "all you 
need to do, old man, is to give her a dose of her own 'quinine. Play 
a game yourself. Flirt a bit. Keep her waitin' nights. Let her 
discover a scented note or so. Be a devil of a fellow." 

Billy shook his solemn head. "I dont want any woman on terms 
like that, Jack," he said; "I want the real article — or nothing." 

Jack gave a disgusted grunt and rose to go. "You'll get noth- 
ing, old man," he said, "this Mystic Shrine stunt of mine covers 
& multitude of sins. Nothin' like it. 'Nightie. You and Blanny 
play cards like good kids and I'll stop iri for her on my return- 

Page Sixty 

if I return." With which cryptic utterance he departed. 

Half an hour later Laura departed, too. Billy felt that 
.she had departed, finally. At least, she would never come 
back any .more to him. An end had come. 

He couldn't help talking to Blanny. He felt sorry -for her 
and he felt bitterly sorry for himself. He felt that he had not 
deserved this. He had been willing to give to his utter- 
most. Some small return should have been his. 

Blanny was there and he talked to her. He didn't think 
of her as a woman, even as a person. He had got out of the 
habit of thinking of the opposite sex as women anyway — 
since Laura had cut like a flame into his grey days and burned 
all other interests into nothingness. 

He told Blanny about that, about how much he loved her, 
and how he had never loved before and never would again. 
He told her, whimsically, that he was that kind of a man, 
a one-woman man, he said, and repeated it. It had a high 
sound to it. He said that Laura was different. She was 
like a kaleidoscope. She shifted, he said. It should make 
him love her less, he knew, but it didn't. It had, alas, the 
opposite effect. He loved her now, at this moment, to despera- 
tion. He got onto the subject of death as an alleviation. . . . 

After awhile Blanny broke in on him, softly. She had 
like woes. Jack stayed out so much. Seemed to like to stay 
out. There was one poignantly unforgettable occasion . . . 
the night he had stayed out first. She had cried herself to 
sleep. She had grown old, that very, particular night. 
Things were all wrong. The world was unfair. Love was 
a snare and a delusion. Men were not to be trusted . . . 
she added, timidly, "some men" . . . but Billy did not regis- 
ter the soft apology. He was only catching one word in ten, 
anyway. His mind was with Laura, at the opera, and Philip 
at her side. Philip, who should not dare to touch the hem 


of her garment. . . . Philip who had cared so much. 

He did get the fact, tho, that Blanny was sympathetic. 
She was pouring the fragrant oil of her sympathies upon his 
more than troubled waters. He began to feel a bit warmer. 
The raw edges of the just-inflicted wound did not smart quite 
so violently. He looked at Blanny. 

She was little and soft, and, he decided with a gleam of 
treachery, appealing. Not radiant, like Laura, of course. 
Not vital and compelling ... a sweet little . thing ... a 
balm. . . . 

Billy's own hurt goaded him. It was not fair for this 
little soft thing to be deceived by Mystic Shrines and such 
like claptrap. Was there ho chivalry.-' Still, what did chival- 
ry get one? Mortal wounds and pain that rusted away one's 

He blurted out to Blanny that there was no Mystic Shrine. 
He took a vicarious pleasure in the pain that stabbed into 
her eyes. He was not able to supply what there was in 
place of the toppled Shrine. Blanny's imagination did. that. 
Outrage entered her 'appalled mind. She declaimed against 
Laura and Jack, singly and in doubles. She declaimed amaz- 
ingly for a soft small person. It came to Billy that once 
Kipling had versified about the "Female of the Species." 
Kipling, he concluded, had the right idea. 

It resulted, after several twin diatribes, upon what to do. 

Billy thought that going to the devil might be good. 
Blanny thought so, too. She inquired the most direct route 
to the devil. Billy thought drink. It had a motivating 
power, he had heard. 

Blanny said that she didn't . 

keep any drinks in her apartment. ««£ £$ o? ~^ed 
Her mother had brought her up f rom its s hell just below 
differently. Billy said that his the footboard of the bed 

Page Sixty-One 


mother had had the same idea . . . made it sort of clubby, 
didn't it? . . . but that Laura insisted upon the requisite 
stuff for cocktails and a Moet or two. There was enough on 
hand, he felt sure, for a short cut to the nether regions. The 
rest of the material was surprisingly handy. He was the other 
man, she was the other woman. 

Blanny said it was all awful but her heart was broken 
and she would 
show Jack 

Billy said 
his heart : was 
broken and he 
would show 
Laura Bartlett. 

Forthwith he 
produced a 
laden tea cart 
containing in- 
enough for va- 
rious satanic 
round trips. 

Blanny re- 
garded it with 
pigeon toes 
and awe. It 
had a fearful 

Billy re- 
garded it and 
bade farewell 
to the vanished 
Might Have 
Been. He had 
had ideals 
Tonight he 
would drown 
them. He 
would drink 
and there was 
"another wo- 
man" right to 
his hand. He 
would do his 
worst : . . his 

He mixed 
the drinks. He 
knew one did 
vague called 
mixing the 
and he mixed. 

Oh, he mixed. 

Laura thought he had mixed when she had sipped the 
first half of the first round. 

Going to the devil was rather a noxious proceeding, she 
thought with the first sip. But after the first sip one didn't 
seem to mind so much'. After several one didn't mind at all. 
One didn't know at all what one was doing. ... 

Blanny thought that Billy was being awf'ly silly. He 
played the pianola and they danced. Blanny knew that 
she had never danced in such a wise before. 

Then, Billy had an affectionate gust. She felt affectionate. 
Broken hearts . . . they talked quite a great deal about 
broken hearts . . . Billy said he was bleeding to death . . . 
she kist him and then he said that he wasn't. 

Billy talked about love. He said he was getting a new 
perspective. Blanny didn't know that he said that because 
his enunciation was suffering en route to the devil. 

Still later, hours, eons, eternities she felt, were slithering 

Also, there was the kiss Blanny had given him just before his com- 
plete immersion. Rather sweet — and ummy-ummy — and all that 

by. Still later, sleep attacked them both. Something told 

them that sleep under the circumstances would never do. 

They would have to be doing something livelier than sleep. 

The devil was never like that. 
They mixed more rounds. 
Things were very round, indeed. 

When things were roundest the door opened and Laura 

stepped into 
the room. Back 
of her was 
Jack Wheeler. 
Philip Evans 
was back of 

There was, 
from the three 
spectators, an 
abysmal si- 

From Billy 
there was a 
series of hic- 
coughs, pain- 
ful in the ex- 
treme. Also, 
his eyes rolled 
about like 
marbles on a 
slippery floor. 
He had the at- 
titude of a 
flounder cast 
ashore after a 
very wet ses- 

From Blan- 
ny there was 
ness and a flow 
of wet and 
very sloppy 
tears. Her 
husband gath- 
ered, too, the 
brimstone fact 
that she an' 
Billy, she an' 
Bi\\y-Boy, had 
arrived with 
expedition at 
the devil. That 
it was nice at 
the devil that 
she thought 
she would stay 
Only Jack could 
sounds, but then 

ever, amen, 
from the strange 

at the devil for ever n 
gather the information 
Jack knew his Blanny ... or had so thought. 

Laura tore her hair. She told Philip to go away from the 
scene of her final disgrace. Se said that she would spend 
the rest of the night packing and that, if need be, she would 
hail a policeman to save her from that — that creature! She 
said, acidly, but it was all lost on Billy, happy Billy, floating 
in his alcoholic mist, that the divorce proceedings Would be 
begun bright and early this a. m. 

Jack tore what of Blanny's hair he could get his furious 
fingers into. Blanny told him a mystic shrine had toppled. 
Jack told her that she had toppled along with the shrine, 
and there was nothing mystic about it, either. 

He informed Billy, relapsing into Morpheus, that he had 
better gibber to God instead of the Devil because he was 
destined to meet him in the morning. He, Jack, would re- 
turn when he had "dealt with (Continued on page 68) 

Page Sixty -Two 



Thotoeraph by Abbe 

Annette Bade 

Page Sixty-Three 



Patience is a virtue — Try and read this Department 
thru. It is dull here and there, I admit; but still it 
sparkles now and then. Dont skip anything. Many a gem 
is passed by, in the mines, because it does not glitter. All 
is not good that is written — sometimes it is wrotten. I cant 
shine all the time — even the moon cant do that, but I shall 
trim my iittle lamp and set it in the window. 
* ♦ * 
Were the ancients wiser than the moderns? That is a 
question that has never quite been settled, so let us settle it. 
The ancients were certainly greater in some things, and we 
are certainly greater in many things. Nobody will dispute 
this, I ween, hence the question is settled. But this is a 
matter for a catalog, not for a paragraph. Certain it is that 
more is required, in our time, to make a wise man, than was 
formerly required to make several sages. The ancients had 
their orators but they had not our phonographs. They had 
their pictures but they had not our Motion Pictures. They 
had their vessels but they had not our steamships. They 
had their lyres, but they had not our organs, orchestras and 
pianos. They had their messages, but they had not our 
telegraph, telephone and wireless to deliver them with. They 
had their books and libraries, but they had not our libraries, 
encyclopedias and magazines in every home. They had their 
Socrates, but have we not a thousand educators where Greece 
had ten? An education to-day is quite different than it was 
'when most of our present sciences were unknown. 

^ ^ ^ 

In ancient times t'was all the rage 

For each rich man to keep a sage; 

In middle ages t'was the rule 

For men of wealth to keep a fool ; 

But with myself and Fatty's fame, 

You've sage and fool to entertain. 

Yes, I suppose Mary Pickford will be retiring in a few 
years and that by that time there will be a worthy successor. 
While there is nobody yet in sight, there is a possibility that 
Blanche McGarrity, winner of the Fame and Fortune Con- 
test, will be wearing little Mary's shoes. Soon the advance, 
agents will be heralding Blanche's first appearance. But 
you cant make a star in a month nor within a year. Rome 
was not billed in a day. 

Miss Lucille Walton is informed that — 

Ruth St. Denis has not appeared on the screen, but her dancers 

Elsie Ferguson can be reached at Famous Players Co., 485 Fifth 
Avenue, New York. 

Nazimova's address is Metro Studio, 3 West 61st Street, New York 

Bert Lytell has brown hair, hazel eyes, height 5 ft. \0Y> and 
weighs 1SS lbs. As to whether he is married or not, ask him. 
My apologies are due Donald Coney for calling a nonsense quatrain 
a limerick. But does not a rose by another name swell just as sweet? 

Big brains do not always grow in fng bodies. Some of 
our greatest men were little men. Among the little warriors 
were Napoleon, Charlemagne, Hannibal, Caesar, Welling- 
ton, William of Orange, Earl Roberts, Dewey, Nelson, Sheri- 
dan, Joe Wheeler, Alexander the Great and Frederick the 
Great. Among the little statesmen were Hamilton, Tilden, 
McKinley, Burr, Harrison, Douglas and Seward. Among 
the -'little authors were Shakespeare, Pope, Balzac, Holmes, 
Kipling, Keats and Voltaire. Among the little musicians 
were Wagner, Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven, Rubensteiu. Schu- 
bert, Liszt, Paderewski, Hayden and Weber. Furthermore, 
it is not always the big men who march in the procession. 
The big men, who mould and change the thought of the 
world, are often those wfw are never seen or heard. 

Everything everywhere is beautiful. If it does not 
appear so, there is dust on the mental optics. 

Yes, friend Socrates, the world is full of unrest and dis- 
content. Strikes and walk-outs are the order of the day. 
Everybody wants shorter hours and more . pay. What a 
blessing to humanity that horses, cows and chickens cant 
think and talk! If they could they would be holding sedi- 
tious mass meetings, forming labor unions, proclaiming lib- 
erty — fraternity — equality and threatening to revolt against 
the slavery which is even worse than that which existed be- 
fore the Civil War. But, thank the Lord, the chickens go 
on laying, bless their hearts, and the horses continue to lessen 
our toil, and the cows continue to supply our breakfast 
tables without a murmur. 

A young gentleman from Milwaukee says he doesn't like 
my Department and can see nothing in it. Perhaps he ex- 
periences a similar emotion when he looks in the mirror. 
When a person says he sees nothing in a book, he very often 
means that he doesn't see himself in it; which, if it be not 
a comedy or a satire, is quite likely. I am sorry I cant please 
all my readers. Anyway, I shall do my darndest. 

The trouble with you is, Jonathan, that you are a special- 
ist and live in a shell. Specialists should remember that man 
is a combination of brain, heart, imagination, taste, nerves, 
bone and muscle. It is right to bend even' energy to become 
proficient in one thing, but every man requires variety of 
occupation and variety of discipline. It might not be a 
bad idea for the preacher and the carpenter, the musician and 
the wood-chopper, to change places once in a while. The 
carpenter may preach a very bad sermon, but it would make 
him a better carpenter. 

Strive not to realize the ideal, but to idealize the real. 

Page Sixty-Four 

All men do not see alike. All men do >wt hear alike. All 
men dp not think alike. All eyes, ears and brains are dif- 
ferent, and nature made them so. Nature, like Shakespeare, 
never repeats. Therefore, my perverse brother, when your 
opinions differ with mine, I am as confident that you are 
wrong as you are that I am; but, nevertheless, 1 wont forget 
that your eyes, ears and brains are different from mine, and 
that the good Lord may have given you a better set. 

With hats that prevent them sitting up straight, and high 
heels that prevent therri walking straight, and weighted skirts 
that prevent their lines being straight, arid corsets that pre- 
vent their internal organs keeping straight, and curling irons 
to prevent their hair being straight, prohibition to keep their 
morals straight, and the ballot to keep men straight, — 
woman, bless her heart, should now be quite happy. 

-Rebel" Mitchell, of Isle of Palms, S. C, is informed that I am 
not from Chicawgo nor from Bawston. I live in Brooklyn, when 
I'm home. 

No, Miss J. M. K... of 1438 Third Street. Milwaukee, Jack Kerrigan 
is not married, to my best knowledge and belief, as the lawyers say, 
nor is Eugene O'Brien, the Imperfect Lovei. I know nothing of 7% 
T. M. E. R. & Z. Bonds. If you will send me some 1 will try and 
let you know if they are safe. As for "How long is a plate of 
spaghetti?" and "What becomes of the wool in the hole in a sock?" — 
I leave for the jokesmiths. We have more serious matters before 
the house. 

I dont see how I can advise you, Dr. W. T. L., about 
what kind of clothes to wear. Every man should be well 
dressed and should keep one eye on the fashions, but only 
fops and dudes become slaves of fashion. Above all, wear 
good clothes; have them fit well, and dont have them cut or 
colored so that they attract attention. Clothes dont make 
the man but they make the impression. 

we should freeze from loss of heat by evaporation plus con- 
duction. Iron, tin and water are good conductors of heat. 
Furred animals cannot live long after the fur has been 
removed, and their skins varnished; they would -freeze to 
death in a warm room, for varnish is a good conductor of 
heat. And likewise with a shorn animal, plated with tin, 
if we can imagine such. The poorest conductor of heat is 
dry air, and that is the condition we must seek in selecting 
underwear. The garment that will keep the skin dry, and 
that will not conduct heat away too freely, is the one we should 
select, particularly if it also has the faculty of preserving 
a layer of dry- air next the skin. Wool is a poor conductor, 
and therefore makes a good undergarment, except that it does 
not absorb moisture quickly, and dries very slowly and is 
difficult to wash thoroly — try to dry your face with woolen 
and see! The body is constantly giving off poisonous 
moisture. Wool collects and preserves it, and when wool is 
damp it becomes a good conductor of heat, and therefore 
makes a poor undergarment. Linen is a good absorbent, and 
dries very quickly. Linen handkerchiefs and towels are in 
common use because they absorb and dry quickly, and are 
easily washed. The best undergarments are probably those 
made of porous linen. They keep the skin comparatively 
dry, and the numerous cells in the material form a layer of 
dry air which next to a vacuum, makes the best non-con- 
ductor of heat known to science. There are numerous brands 
of garments on the market known as linen mesh, and all are 
excellent.. Some of these contain pores or holes as large or 
larger than pin heads, and resemble thick mosquito netting; 
yet this sort of underclothing has more warmth — or, rather, 
retains more warmth — than the thickest woolens. Many will 
not believe this until they try it, and even then, an imaginary 
chill or a first feeling of coolness often convinces them to 
the contrary. Two suits of underwear, the inner of linen 
and the outer of wool or silk, appears to be scientifically 
sound, for this system has the double advantage of avoid- 
ing moisture, thereby retaining the body-heat, and of creat- 
ing a layer of dry air between the garments. Most persons 
will find however that linen underwear and woolen outerwear 
answers even- purpose. 

Children judge a man by what he is; women judge 
him from what he says; philosophers from what he 
thinks; society from what he wears; the world from 
what he makes. 

It is pretty generally conceded that the same weight of 
undergarment should be worn winter and summer, the dif- 
ference to be made up with outer garments which are removed 
when entering a warm room. The old notion that there is 
warmih in red flannel, wool, or in any other material, is a 
fallacy, for there is no more warmth in these than in tin. We 
must consider ourselves as moist, warm bodies surrounded 
by a cooler atmosphere, and the question is. how can we keep 
in. hold or retain this warmth? Our bodies are furnaces. 
We take in fuel (food), and the fire it creates gives off heat 
which we must imprison. Therefore we must consider 
whether wool, cotton, silk, or linen, etc., will best act as a 
fender and prevent our own heat from getting away too 

We lose heat in four ways: radiation, evaporation, con- 
duction and convection. It is by radiation that a hot body 
heats a cold one at a distance. It is by evaporation that a 
liquid is changed* to a gas and in so doing extracts heat from 
:he surface on which it lies. It is by conduction that heat 
travels quickly along a poker when one end is put in the 
fire. It is by convection that liquids and gases are heated; 
and air heated by our bodies, being lighter than cold air 
ascends. (Hence, a person lying down will freeze quicker 
than one standing.) If we should wrap our bodies in tin, 
or iron, or the like, we should freeze from loss of heat by 
conduction. If we should cover our bodies with wet garments 

There never was a long happiness. There must be calms 
between th-e storms, th^re must be tears between smiles. 
Fortune generally pays us for the intensity of her favors by 
the shortness of their duration. We would never learn fully to 
appreciate the sunshine if we did not often h-ave the clouds. 

They say that poor old blind Homer died of chagrin be- 
cause he couldn't expound a riddle propounded by a simple 
fisherman, "leaving what is taken what we took not we 
bring." Poor Homer — no wonder he died. Aristotle and 
Philetas were also painfully perplexed about the famous 
sophism called by the ancients, "the liar." If you say of 
yourself: "I lie, I lie," and in so saying tell the truth, you 
lie. If you say, "I lie," and in so saying tell a lie, you tell 
the truth. Think it over! 

I guess the poet was right when he said, "Sweet are 
the uses of adversity," but I am inclined to think that 
the uses of prosperity are sweeter. 

I cannot be sure, but I am led to believe that a large majority of 
the criticisms of picture plays that appear in the magazines, news- 
papers and periodicals are written for pay or thru "influence." 
All producers, players and directors have "friends at court," and if 
they haven't they know that money will generally buy what friend- 
ship does not supply. I believe, however, that the Motion Picture 
Magazine and Classic have never yet been accused of favoritism and 
I know that monev cannot buv favor in any of the publications of 
The M. P. Publishing Co. 

Page Sixty-Five 


It is rather a strange fact that actors are seldom orators or 
even good speakers, and it is equally curious, as Hazlitt 
says, that authors are seldom good' conversationists. Actors 
should be seen and heard at a distance, speaking lines that 
have been made for them; authors should be read and not 
heard. Descartes, La Fontaine, Buffon, Marmontel and 
Corneille, of France, and Milton, Dryden, Butler, Addison 
and Goldsmith of England, are among the most noted ex- 
amples of fine pens and poor tongues. Charles II., the wit- 
tiest of English monarchs, was so tickled with "Hudibras," 
that he caused himself to be introduced, in the character of 
a private gentleman, to Butler, the supposedly witty author; 
but, after the first interview, the king was quite sure that 
'such a stupid fellow" could never have written such a 
clever book. On the other hand, Steele, Swift, Pope, Con- 
greve, Coleridge, Burns, Gait and Scott possessed literary 
and conversational powers of the highest order. 

The producers of some of our lurid, yellow melodramas, defend 
themselves by saying that they are holding a mirror up to nature. 
Perhaps, but it seems to be a dirty mirror. 

An actress is very much like a clock, which may 
have a pretty face, hut whose value depends upon its 

Several readers tell me that they like my little paragraphs 
in large type, while others have told me that it spoils the 
looks of the page. A proverb is said to be the experience 
of many and the wit of one; might be added that an 
epigramist is one -who sees much and writes little — or writes 
it in few' words. When I succeed in saying a whole lot in 
a few words, I swell out my chest and smile approvingly at 
my terminal facilities. Life is short, and so is this depart- 
ment; hence I shall avoid long articles as much as possible, 
and try to put up potted wisdom in small packages, but in 
large type, that he who runs may read. 

Courtesy is the password that admits you to the House of 

* * * 

Rich is he whose wealth satisfies his wants, tho he 
live in a hovel; Poor is he whose wealth does not satisfy his 
wants tho he live in a palace. We are rich or poor in 
what we want, not in what we have. Adam owned the earth 
once and wasn't satisfied. 

Who seeks a new path, may get lost; but someone 
will find the path, and it may become a road. 

When the Christian Scientists and New Thoughtists say 
that pain is unnecessary because it is the product of Mind, 
they fall into conspicuous error. What is happiness but 
the intermission of pain? What is pleasure but the enjoying 
of that, the deprivation of which would give sorrow? Man, 
in his normal state, is happy; and when he is deprived of 
good health, or of that which he wants, he suffers pain. When 
he is not in pain, he is completely happy. When he is com- 
pletely happy, he is not in pain. A child suffers just as 
much as a man, proportionately, when it is deprived of a 
toy that it wants, and that deprivation causes as much pain 
to it, as would the deprivation of a kingdom, to a man. But 
give the child its toy, and the man his kingdom, and they 
are at once happy again. The only way to reconcile New 
Thought with this, is to assume that the brain is to become 
so distorted as not to recognize the absence of wished-for 
things. If we can so blind the mind that it will refuse to 
see all that is disagreeable, and so that it can forget pleasures 
past and not seek pleasures future, then, perhaps, can Mind 
prevent pain. 

Give to your friends, consideration; to your enemies, tol- 
eration; to yourself, moderation ; to your creditors, remunera- 
tion; to your aggrieved, restoration; to your benefactors, com- 
mendation; to your father, emulation; to your mother, adora- 
tion; to all men, commiseration. 

One of the wisest of my readers says that she would like 
to see "Broken Blossoms'" in a plain theater, with ordinary 
music and without any special lighting effects and colored 
scenes. She says that a great deal of this beautiful play is 
due to camouflage and stage effects. She adds that she 
would like to see the villain knocked out in the prize fight, 
for the reason that otherwise, he is made a brave man and 
that a brave man could not brutally beat a harmless, help- 
less child. Again, she insists that the hero and the heroine 
should not have been killed in the last act — that there was 
no necessity of killing everybody off and leaving a bad flavor 
in the mouth for a week afterwards, all of which gives food 
for thought. 

* * * 

Make use of your friends not by using them but by 
being of use to them. 

* * * 

I am asked if I believe in higher wages. Certainly, 
cause wages should rise in proportion to the rise in the cost 
of living, altho they do not do so as rapidly. Many 
employers do not raise wages because they cant raise the 
money. Should women get men's wages? Bless your heart, 
yes, but dont they get them already? 

It is easier to talk like a philosopher than to live like 
one, just as it is easier to preach what you dont prac- 
tice, and to practice what you dont preach. 

Courtesy is a. passport that admits and passes you every- 
where.. It is a step-brother to tad and diplomacy. Courtesy 
is the art of being agreeable. Tact is the science of knowing 
how to get what you want and dont deserve, from a bigger 
muii. without getting hurt. Diplomacy is skilful deception 
lliul enables our nation to fool another without treading on 
its corns; or, in other words, — lying in State. 

"J. A. B." asks, "Can you give any information about 'Mrs. 
Grundy,' who is so often referred to as a most censorious person?" 

"Mrs. Grundy" is a mythical sort of person whose opinions on 
social topics are deemed of such importance that when anything 
unusual happens in society the question is at once asked, "What 
will Mrs. Grundy say?" There is a reference to Mrs. Grundy in 
one of the popular comedies originally produced as far back as the 
year 1798. In the play, a farmer's wife who is jealous of the good 
fortune of her near neighbors, the Grundys, says to her husband^ 
"If our Nellie were to marry a Baronet, I wonder what Mrs. Grundy 
would say ?" 

It has also been said that the use of the phrase became popular 
when Felix Grundy, a member of the House of Representatives and a 
United States Senator, appeared in Washington with his wife who 
became a leader of the social set, and whose opinions naturally 
carried great weight. Hence arose the comment on any particular 
occurrence of "What will Mrs. Grundy say?" 

Page Sixty-Six 


(Continued from page 38) 


tating assertion, 

And at length his meditation took the 
form of action. Rising heavily from his 
chair by. the checked oilcloth table he shuf- 
fled into the parlor and approached his 
spouse with undershot jaw. "Stop your 
dum screeching, female!" he roared; "my 
patience is all! I married you yet to do 
the chores, an' I dont feel for no singing 

"Listen to 'the mocking bir-r-r-r-r-rd!" 
trilled Juliet, Erstwhile Susan blithely. 
Barnaby's great fist shot out, hovered above 
the frizzled crimps threatingly, then 
ciumpled down. Like a stone Dreary fell 
to the floor and lay still, his eyes rolling in 
his head, his lips moving soundlessly. Bar- 
nabetta ran to his side, trembling, but Mrs. 
Dreary remained calmly seated at the melo- 
dion, gazing meditatively at the stricken 
man. "He has brought it upon himself. 
'Twas ever thus," she murmured; "I fear 
me that mine honored spouse will not 
hereafter be in a position to impose his will 
upon his household." 

And she spoke prophetically. Paralyzed 
completely save for his voice and temper, 
Barnaby Dreary raved from beneath his 
patchwork counterpane in vain as Juliet, 
(Erstwhile Susan) continued calmly, her 
revolutionary way, completely cowing the 
boys by her superior vocabulary, and aiding 
and abetting Barnabetta to the extent of 
finally departing with her to enter her in 
Waterford College. 

Barnabetta, in a stiff silk, modelled after 
her stepmother's with tiers of ruffles, with 
her soft hair tortured into frizzles, and 
wearing a manner of conscious gentility, 
elbows pressed to sides, little fingers 
quirked, sat in the office while Juliet con- 
versed with the registrar. She had serene 
faith in her appearance despite the fact 
that the other girls who passed along the 
corridors and stared at her with giggling 
whispers wore simple little serges, and did 
their hair in smooth braids and coils. 

And as she .sat there in painful propriety 
her eyes fell on a tall, well-dressed man 
with scholastic beard coming out of an 
inner office. President Barrett felt himself 
with more or less truth to be the cynosure 
of admiring eyes. He defended himself 
with a .mantle of aloof dignity and moved 
down the hall, apparently reflecting upon 
the Evolution of Man, when suddenly — 
horrors! A small, ridiculous figure, in out- 
landish garments stood before him, holding 
out a friendly hand. 

"Mebbe you dont remember me? I'm 
Barnabetta Dreary — and I pulled your auto 
out of the hole in the bridge when you 
couldn't make! Em glad to see you again 
yet — no, no, not yet!" she reverted to the 
impressive speech of gentility, "I have 
come to pursue my curricula in your vener- 
able institution, and I am most happy to 
have met you again." 

Blushing furiously, Edgar Barrett stam- 
mered something and fled, conscious that 
in some strange way the outlook for a 
pleasant year had considerably brightened. 
During the months that followed he saw a 
transformation take place in the little Men- 
nonite. Barnabetta was no fool. She saw 
very soon that her clothes, her frizzes, her 
anxiously acquired mannerisms were some- 
how absurd, and changed them adroitly 
to the pattern of the other girls. Natur- 
ally quick she made amazing progress in 
her books, and at the end of her first year 
stood head and shoulders above her class, 
Yet in one respect Barnabetta had not 
changed. She still cherished for her step- 
mother Juliet — Erstwhile Susan- — an awe 
and veneration unchanged by her new- 
found standards. Underneath the acquired 
sophistication she was still a Mennonite and 
Mrs. Dreary was the only female that had 
ever had the dare to stand up against Pop 
already. On her part Erstwhile Susan took 
great delight in introducing Barnabetta as 
my precocious daughter, returned from a 
session at the fountainhead of learning." 

Pop and the boys were glumly silent, 
but Abel Butcher, longer of face than ever, 
"nearer" of purse came often to sit upon 
the Dreary steps and stare at Barnabetta 
with grudging approbation that noted the 
tasteful arrangement of her shining brown 
hair and her simple, indescribably "world- 
ly" clothes and compared them favorably 
with the dumpy, waistless Mennonite dam- 
sels. "Tho I suppose yet, you'd be a 
wonderful expense t' a man!" he sighed, 
and then jealously, "mebbe you could to 
get a Mister at that college, yet?" 

Barnabetta blushed, but shook her head 
demurely, tho two faces flashed to he"r 
mind, that of David Jordan, lean, quizzi- 
cal, with the grave, gentle eyes, and that 
of Edgar Barrett, always the President of 
a college for young ladies, but apt to for- 
get the trend of his erudite remarks anenl 
English Essayists when he glanced, — as he 
did with increasing frequency- at her corner 
of the classroom. 

During the next two long vacations Bar- 
nabetta remained at the college, tutoring; 
working in the library, and occasionally 
going out driving in the dark green Presi- 
dential car, to the furious dismay of Miss 
Theodora Jordan, whose hopes were still 
unrealized, and seemed to be actually 
threatened by a little Dutch chit from No- 
where. It made her almost, but not quite 
as angry to observe the eager quickening 
of her brother's glance when it rested on 
Barnabetta's vivid little face, and when, 
the morning after her graduation, David 
announced with satisfaction that he had 
persuaded the brightest little Political Econ- 
omist in the world to be his secretary for 
the summer and help him with his cam- 
paign for the senatorship Theodora ven- 
tured frigid remonstrance. 

"Really David! Do you think it's quite 
discreet — quite wise/ Of course she's so- 
cially an impossible little creature, but she 
isn't bad looking in a quaint way, and — 
it's very important not to imperil youi rep- 
utation just now — with so much at stake." 
A strange look on the lean, lined face 
warned her to stop where she was, and in- 
wardly fuming, Theodora swallowed her 
anger as well as she could, and managed 
ta be quite polite and quite amazingly 
disagreeable to Barnabetta when she ar- 
rived. From the girl's letters to Juliet — 
Erstwhile Susan — that estimable lady got 
no hint of the trouble in the girl's heart. 
She wrote cheerfully that she was glad to 
have a little part in electing the wonderful 
Mr. Jordan to the senate, and was working 
hard but was well, and how was poor Pop 
and the boys? Mrs. Dreary, frizzier than 
ever and ruffled to her pointed chin, read 
the letters aloud with pride as she fed the 
paralytic his milk toast. 

"Where's the grape jell I said I felt 
fer?" growled Pop, unheeding, "why didn't 
you ain't? You, a female have a dare to 
disobey your Mister, I'll learn you, Joolyet, 
I'll learn you yet!" 

T deem it highly probable," his spouse 
reflected, "that our estimable child will one 
of these days fill a worthy position in the 
world, and then, my beloved Barnaby, with 
what pride will we reflect upon our humble 
part in elevating her thus." 

One day in early November Mrs. Dreary 
placidly turning the handle of the churn 
with one toe while she perused a romantic 
novel, looked up as a shadow fell across 
the book to find Barnabetta standing in the 
doorway of the kitchen. Under the modish 
little hat the girl's face was very pale and 
there were lavender shadows beneath her 
eyes, which brimmed with tears. Forgetting 
to be genteel Juliet, Erstwhile Susan, hur- 
ried to her and gathered her against the 
hard jet bangles of her gown. 

"I've been — silly, Mom!" Barnabetta 
smiled shakily after a moment. "I be- 
lieved that the Constitution could make all 
women free and equal, but it cant! I'm 
just Barnabetta Dreary, Mennonite, and — 
as Miss Theodora Jordan told me, I ought 
to be thankful that I have had more ad- 
vantages than most of my class and not 
ungratefully try to. aspire to the class 
above!" She dried her eyes, took off her 
hat and tied a gingham apron about her 
slim waist. "Now, I'm going to finish the 
churning, and afterwards — " mischief 
twisted her lips in spite of their quivering, 
"afterwards I'll press Jacob and Emanuel's 
trousers yet, to show that I realize my right- 
ful position as a female!" 
• But as they all sat, a little later about 
the supper table a step sounded on the 
walk and David Jordan was among them, 
with eyes for Barnabetta alone. "Theodora 
(Continued on page 12) 

Page Sixty'Seven 



(Continued from page 62) 

Blanny and assist him on his way. He 
departed, with Blanny still gurgling, under 
his arms. 

Laura spent the remainder of the- night 
dragging suit-cases about and giving Billy 
"pieces of her mind", which he never re- 
ceived, being noisily somnambulant. 

It was odd for Laura to talk to an ada- 
mantine Billy. It aroused in her a faint 
curiosity. It invested Billy with a sort 0/ 
dignity, a withdrawal, a reserve . . . Laura 
felt piqued . . . even she thought, in his 
cups— the wretch, he had not ought to be 
impervious to her presence . . . what was 
that he had told her about being earth in an 
earthy bed . . . that he still would see her 
and hear her and his heart . . . what was 
it? . . . would blossom in- flowers of pur- 
ple and red. Had he been deceiving her all 
along? He and that baby-doll, Blanny? 
Two of a kind, certainly. Had they been 
playing a single game? Cleverly? Going, 
just last night, a bit beyond the limits. Was 
that it? Had Billy never been hers? Oh, 
men. . . . 

Early in the morning Laura went out. 
She wanted to 'phone Philip Evans that she 
would not meet him for luncheon. She 
didn't know why she wouldn't, but she felt 
that she didn't want to leave until . . . un- 
til she left for good . . . while that Blanny 
person was about. . , . 

When she returned the furniture movers 
were in the hall. She had notified them the 
day before when, under Philip's whirlwind 
ardor, she had decided about the divorce 
and the immediate break-up. 

Perhaps they would frighten Billy, the 
imminence of the furniture movers. 

It did. He reared up in bed and im- 
plored Laura for more time. He said it was 
undignified of her. It was literally .im- 
posing the "Take Up Thy Bed and Walk". 
It was an outrage from the dark ages. It 
was extreme humiliation. 

The furniture movers shifted noisily. 
Laura reminded him that humiliation was 
his middle name. 

Something stirred beneath the bed- and 
the furniture mover yowled. 

Billy groaned and dropt back. Laura 
glared at him and then transferred her glare 
to the spot at ' which the furniture mover 
was staring. Blanny's head protruded like 
the head of a turtle from its shell just be- 
low the footboard of the bed. 

"I came down for . . ." began Blanny, 
crawling out, "I didn't know you were out, 
Laura, I came for ..." 

"I hope you got what you came for," 
screamed Laura; "oh, oooh, this is out- 
rageous! This is perfidy! This is . . . 
oh, what isn't it, will someone tell me?" 

" 'Tisn't decent, mum," vouchased one of 
the movers, readily; "that's what it isn't." 

"I know what it is, mum," vouchsafed a 
second, "my missus 'as the same 'abits, 
mum. Orful, that's what I calls it." 

Laura moaned again. "To think I 
trusted you," she kept saying, "you ... of 
the race of man . . . while all the time 
... all the time , . . oh, take me home 
.... to mo-ther!" 

Blanny vanished into the bathroom be- 
yond. It was all too much for her. There 
was no Mystic Shrine, she remembered that. 
She felt that she hated Billy for telling her 
so. It had caused all the trouble. It was 
just like the time a big boy had told her 
that there was no Santa Claus. It had hurt 
in the same way. She had never enjoyed 
her Xmas any more after that. Now she 
could never enjoy her husband any more. 

Hysteria was rising rapidly when the 
maid came to the foreground and said -she 
had not been axed, but what with all the 
goin's on she felt she oughter tell that Mis- 
ter Bartlett, bless him, was innercent as a 
lamb and the young lady from Apartment 
66 had just come inquirin' for her man. 
All the fuss was fer nothin' if she was axed, 
which she wasn't and so could she be ex- 

Jack, hard upon her heels, overheard and 
was grandiloquently forgiving. He felt that 
he had to atone for the Shrine. He even 
told Blanny, between kisses, that the Shrine 
was merely a name for jack-pots and he had 
used it to save her feelings, which were 
delicate and her principles which were 
Methodistic and hence anti-poker. He 
added that she was his baby-waby, ittie- 
bittie, tootsie-wootsie, and he'd get her 
spiffed himself some night, yes he would, 
and to come home to Poppa and not be 
naughty, any, any more. 

Jack also hissed in Billy's ear to take a 
bracer .... not the kind he had had in the 
night . . . but a mental bracer. To get a 
little back-bone where his wish-bone had 
been and to tell Laura to go as far as she 
liked, and then some, and that if she wanted 
a divorce he'd not only let her have it, but 
go and get it for her, that there were as 
good fish, etc., ad nauseam. 

Billy thought it was good dope. Going » 
to the devil had not been without its due 
effect. There was a stimulus,, removing 
this morning-after tragedy. Also,' there was 
the kiss Blanny had given him just before 
his complete immersion. Rather sweet . . . I 
and ummy ummy and all that . . . other 
fish . . . well. ... 

Of course, he loved Laura. He knew ( 
that right enough. There could never be 
another Laura ... but he had cut his eye- 
teeth and he wasn't going to drool about 
any longer ... he was going to bite. ... 'I 

At high noon Laura came into him and 
he. didn't give her her customary first word. 
He sat erect and rampaged his hair and 
looked fierce and devil-may-care and told 
her that she needn't trouble about the 
divorce, that he would get it himself and 
be dam' glad to . . . and that he guessed 
that would be about all . . ..a fare thee 
well ... he said, he wished her luck. 

Laura began to weep. A little shaft of 
light lit up her understanding. Life sud- 
denly presented itself to her -without any 
Billy anywhere at all, and lo, Life grinned 
at her with fleshless force. 

She remembered their honeymoon . . . 
and something gripped her throat. . . . 

She remembered the plans they had made 
and the dreams they had dreamed. . . . 

She remembered last night . . . and I 
Philip Evans . . . slipping a note to a 
chorus girl at the table next theirs. . . . 

She remembered the song she had heard 
"Love Comes But Once. ,'•'. ." 

She stumbled over to him and got down 
on her knees. She was desperately home- 

"Oh., Bill," she sobbed; "oh, Bill, can 1 "/ 
you love a fool . . . can you love a 

fool ;-.-. .?" 

Bill gathered her in his arms. "Does the 
fool love me?" he wanted to know. 

"Oh, does she?" came from his shoulder, 
"oh does she! Oooooh Bill!" 


Oh, glitter of diamond and moonshine of pearl, 
Oh, hangings of velvet and incense of wealth, 
Wherefore are the days of the larkspur and song, 
Of the birds singing blithely of springtide and health? 

Oh, proud, haughty blooms, floral, patrician, 

Oh, motor-lined, mart and velvet-laid pave, 

Wherefore are the meadows sweet-yielding their wild bloom 

And the road open clean to the skies that I crave ? 

Oh, fair hothouse women and jewel-bright wines, 
Oh, faintness of perfume and wraiths of regret, 
Wherefore is the nectar of milk and of honey 
And the sweet, free-limbed maid that I cannot forget? 

Gladys Hall. 

Page Sixty-Eight 



( Continued from page 48 ) 

soundlessly, revealing the vast expanse of 
moonlit plains and desolate buttes. Lon 
shivers and turns up his coat collar, finally 
facing about to discover the cause of the 
chill. Observing the open door, he goes to 
it, closes it and locks it, the click of the key 
being distinctly audible. He then returns 
and sits as before, and again the song 
comes. ) 


{In the bar) 
"There's many a star shall jangle in the 
There's many a leaf below. 
There's many a damn that will light upon 

the man 
For treating a poor girl so." 
{Now both of them double doors swing 
open, without sound. Lon shivers, then, 
looking over his shoulder, suddenly gets up, 
glares about him and makes hastily for the 
door to the bar where he almost collides with 
Hank entering with bottle and glass.) 

Here, mister, I was just comin'. 


What the devil's the matter with your 


Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When 
the wind's southwest they fly right open. 
Got to be wedged with a shingle. {He goes 
over to the doors, slams them shut, picks 
up a shingle from the floor and inserts firm- 
ly between them.) 

{Relieved) H'm. Well, that's all right. 


Now it's blame cur'us the way the old 
place gets. You'll here those floor boards 
creak at times like as if some 'un was 
sneakin' over 'em b'ar foot. Feller told me 
onct it was made by contrapshun and tem- 
per'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon {know- 
ingly) there's more goes on around here 
than we give credit fer. {Hank dusts off 
table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon 
seizes them eagerly and begins drinking. ) 

{After a couple of glasses) You mean — 
spirits ? 


Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. 
But it's a fact, there's more liquor goes over 
the bar than gits paid fer. 'Taint stole, 
either. It just goes. ... As old Pete Gun- 
derson used to say, "I'm a hell of a th'usty 
p'usson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of 
a th'usty spirrut." I sometimes wonder — 

{Padie appears above, in a loose dress- 
ing sack, her hair hanging in a great wavy 
mass, and holding a pitcher.) 

Lon, please fetch some water. 


{Not moving) I dont dast dare go out in 
the night. I've caught a chill from today's 


{Going up the stairs) I'll fetch it you, 

{She comes down to meet him and the 
two are momentarily hidden from the audi- 
ence. Lon continues to drink steadily, pour- 
ing down one glass after another. Hank 
reappears, treading with a certain gayety, 
and goes out rear, whistling the Tennessee 


{Leaning out of the shadow of the stair- 
way toward her husband) Aint you comin' 
up soon, Lon? 


{Ignoring the query) Scarecely no re- 
semblance whatever, 


{With sudden fierceness) You lie! {She 
ascends to the top of the landing. Outside 
a pump creaks dismally.) 


{Relenting a little) You'll be seem' 
things, Lon,Tf you keep it up. 

{Rising perfectly steady) Mind your 
business. Wish to hell I had a newspaper. 
{He goes out thru the door to the bar, while 
Padie runs a comb reflectively thru the ex- 
uberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank en- 
ters and stops a moment, half blinded by 
the light, then looks up, and shading his 
eyes, smiles.) 


{Coyly) Is it the light in your eyes, 

{Daringly) It's you, m'am, are blinding 
them. {He runs up the stairs with the 
pitcher. ) 


{Bending toward him as he comes near 
the top steps) You'd better reach it to me. 
Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us. 


It'll hold two that have such light hearts 
as we. 


Ah, you dont know mine, mister. 


{Reaching her the pitcher) There, the 
clumsy mut I am ! Spil't the cold water 
on your pretty bare toes! 

{As she leans over to take the pitcher her 
hair falls suddenly about his head, almost 
covering his face.) 


{Drawing it back, with a deft twirl) I've 
most smothered you! 


I wouldn't want a sweeter death. 

{Looking down into his eyes) Indeed, 
you're the picture of — an. old lover of mine. 


I'd rather be the picture of the new. {He 
makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, 
but she puts a hand on his shiulder and 
pushes him gently back.) 

You've been very kind to a wanderer — 
from Arizony. Dont spoil it. Good night! 


{Turning about, mutters) Good-night! 
[He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon 
re-enters, studying a newspaper. Lon seats 
himself, still absorbed. Hank favors him 
with a glare of positive hatred. ) 


( With a sneer) All fixed fer the night, 


{Grunting) G'night. 


Well, I hope you like this country' better'n 

{Starting out of the news) The hell you 

Your wife was wishing herself back there. 

{Settling back to his paper and bottle) 
Well, that's where she come from. I dont. 
Women alius want what they aint got. 

"When your heart was mine, true love, 
And your head lay on my breast, 
{He goes out, closing the door) 
You could make me believe by the falling 

of your arm 
That the sun rose in the west." 
{During the singing of this last stanza, 
the double doors swing wide as before, re- 
vealing a Figure standing motionless out- 
side, bathed in moonlight. At the same time 
the flame in the glass lamp begins to flicker 
and wane, Lon holds the paper closer to 
his face, finally almost buries his nose in 
it, as if conscious of the Presence but stub- 
bornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure 
moves, and as it crosses the threshold the 
feeble light expires, Lon, however, still sits, 
as if absorbed in the newspaper, pretending 
to sip from his glass. The Figure in a thin 
mocking voice, echoes the song of the. other, 
standing just behind Lon's chair.) 

Page Sixty-Nine 



(Continued from page 69) 

The Figure 
(■A. thin echo) 
You could make be believe by the falling 
of your arm 
That the sun rose up in the west."' — 

(Lou picks up the .soiled pack of cards 
from the table and begins to shuffle them 
mechanically, nor does he once turn toward 
the apparition.) 


(In a hoarse whisper) And what'r you 
doin' here? 

( The Figure sits down nonchalantly in 
a chair a little to one side of Lord's. He is 
dressed in the western style, that is, with- 
out style, corduroys, heavy boots, flannel 
shirt. In fact, he looks almost natural. But 
there is a curious dark mark in the center 
of his forehead — or is it a round, dark 

(Petulantly) Caint you stay where you 
was put — with a heap o' rocks on top o' ye? 

The Figure 
(Thinly ironical) Cant seem to give up 
the old Jbabits, y'know. 
{Thickly, tossing the pack down) What 
the hell's a corpse got to do with habits? 

( Unmoved) You pore fool, you'll learn 
when you come over. 

(Huskily) Come over — wha'r? 

Where I be. 

(Sings in a quavering voice.) 
''There's many a girl can go all round 
And hear small birds sing" — 

(Snarling) Dry up on them corpse tunes 
o' yourn, Harvey Mace. 

(Leering) Oh, you reckernize me, eh? 
You reckernize your old friend and pard- 
ner, do you, Lon Purdy? 

(Sullenly) I knowed you'd come. 


( Triumphantly) And you believe in me, 
eh? Well, that's good too. 


(Stubbornly) Believe? Well! I knowed 

I'd be seein things soon, what with the 

booze. I knowed it'd be the snakes or 

you. Padie told me I'd be seein things. 

(Maliciously) So you believe in her, any- 
way. Well, how's Padie-— and the chil- 
dren ? 


You know damn well we aint had none. 

What, no children! How unfortunate! 
The house of love not to be graced with 
fruit , , . sterile, sterile. 


(Belligerently) Er you referrin to me? 

To your spiritual union only, my friend. 
Physically, I know, nothing was wanting 
for a perfect match, — female form divine 
to mate with bit blond beast. A race of 


What the hell'r you gabbin? You alius 
had a lot of talky-talk. That's what made 
a hit with Padie, before, before — 

Before the Other Man came along and 
cut us both out. 

"And many a girl that stays at home alone 
And rocks the cradly and spins." 

(Reflectively) Yes, I'm afraid we both 
stood up pretty poorly alongside him, I 
had the words, the brain, the ideas. I could 
charm her, tantalize her, quicken her mind, 
arouse her imagination. That's why I cut 
you out with her. 

(Sneering) Gab! 

Yes, gab. It was one better to her than 
mere brute — guts ! You personified 
strength. You didn't have nerves enough 
to be afraid of anything. You had endur- 
ance, cheek, deviltry, and a kind of raw 
good nature. These took with the gay, 
immature girl she was until I came. You 
had— Guts; I had— Gab. 

And the Other Feller? 

He had the Gift. 

What you mean? 

He was a full , man. His personality 
exuded from him like incense. It wrapped 
and enfolded you and warmed you, and 
yet it was not a grain feminine, but deeply, 
proudly masculine. You tolerated him, I 
— loved him. I had the fine passion for 
Padie but when I first saw the two of them 
together I knew she was his, or (with a 
keen, stern look at Lon) ought to be . . . 
and she has been, always. 


(Jumping to his feet, and knocking over 
his chair) You lie like hell! She's mine! 
She's been mine all these three years! I 
won her and I own her! What little of 
love she ever had fer you or him is buried 
down in Laguna Mad re with the bones of 
both. of ye! And all hell can't take her 
from me ! 

(Rising tall and pale) He kin, and he's 
done it! You thought you'd got her. But 
he's had her, or rather, she's had him in 
her heart ever since they took the rope 
from his neck and pronounced him legally 
dead, and justice vindicated, and laid him 
away in the desert All that time since, he's 
belonged to her. When you laid by her 
side nights, it was his arm she felt about 
her waist, not yours; his breath was on 
her cheek, and his heart was beating against 
hers. Oh you poor, poor fool! 


(Throwing his glass straight at the 
ghost) You lyin pup! 


{Bursting into a gale of eerie laughter) 
Ha! ha! ha! you poor fool! Now you be- 
lieve in me! 

(Lon whips out his revolver and aims 
at the ghost, then slowly returns it to the 
holster, as he realizes the futility of the 
move. ) 


Go on, my boy! Let's have another one 
here (he points to the dark hole in his 

(Lon, wiping his own face with the back 
of his hand, and shuddering, slumps down 
into his seat and stares vacantly at the 

(He stresses the words with intense 
irony. ) 

Do you remember the last time you 
pulled that trick? What a foxy one it was! 
How astutely placed. Planned, my friend. 
I remember' when we two went up the 
canyon together, just such a shining night 
as this, I asked you why you had bor- 
rowed—the Other Man's horse, and you 
said, vours was a little lame. Oh! excel- 
lent dissembler! Most crafty of liars! You 
stole that horse! You stole that horse to 
put a rope around the Other Man's neck! 
You knew the pinto was shod different from 
any pony in those parts. You knew where 
they'd track him to, when they found the 
job you'd done. Then we sat down to 
smokes and cards. And I remember the 
curious glitter in your eyes. I was dealing. 

(The Ghost shuffles the cards on the table, 
then lays down the pack in front of Lon.) 



(Lon mechanically obeys.) 

Page Seventy 





[Pealing) And after several hands, you 
brought up the subject of Padie. And I 
told you I was out of the race — and that 
you'd better get out too, because the best 
man already had her. And then — and then 
1 sensed you were going to draw, and when 
I had my gun out, it was empty. Clever 
boy! Von had it fixed right. And so you 
plugged me square. And the moon and 
stars went out for me and I dropped into 
the black gulf. 

(Lon throwing his hand down, buries his 
face in his hands, groaning.) 


(Pitilessly) You left me with my face 
to the stars for the coyotes to find. Then, 
very cooly, you turned the Other Man's 
horse toward home and s. nt him off crack- 
ing, And you jumped to a pinon log that 
led off to a ledge of lava where your foot 
prints wouldn't show. And you turned up 
in half an hour with the boys in town. 
Then you inquired casually where the 
Other Man was. You knew you devil! 
You knew they'd never get an alibi from 
him for that night, cause — Padie was with 
him. Padie had her dear arms about his 
neck while you, clever dog! were out fix- 
ing to put a rope there. And you done it, 
too! Won her?_ Yes, you did— like hell! 
After the trial' was over, and the dead 
buried, me and him. you passed a dirty 
whisper around town about her, and then 
married her, to save her good name. That's 
how you won her. 

( There is /in immense silence, broken 
only by the heavy breathing of Lon. which 
cetnes in rattling gasps.) 


'There's many a star shall jangle in the 

There's many a leaf below. 
There'.- many a damn that will light upon 

the man 
For treating a poor girl so." 

But I aint forgot all you done for me. 
Neither has the Other Man, (with deep 
solemnity) and he's come — to settle too — 


(Staggering up) No! I dont believe in 
you! You're nothin at all! There aint no— 

(Lon sways and catches at the table; as 
he swings around, the figure of Another 
stands outside the door, a tall figure with 
something whits twisted about its neck. 
Lon with a cry of horror puts out his arms 
as if to ward off the apparition and backs 
slowly toward the left 'wall.) 

First Ghost 
(Coming toward him) Murderer! be- 
trayer! We've come to settle! 


(Screaming) No! no! no! I dont be- 

(He falls, and the pile of rubbishy fur- 
niture topples over on to him with a crash. 
The two apparitions vanish. The door to 
the bar is plung open and Hank leaps in, 

at the same moment that Padie appears 

above, whitely clad.) 

Lon! Lon! What's the matter? 


( Going toward the pile of stuff) Go back ! 
It's something terrible. 

(He heaves the heavy pieces from the 
body and drags it out, as Padie, with a 
long cry, flies dow>i the stairs. He feels 
the breast quickly and rises before Padie 
reaches the table.) 


I'm afraid he's done for. 

(Drawing a deep quivering breath) Oh. 


He must a fell. 

I knew drink'd do fer him. 

Did you — love him — so much? 

{Very low) Once — a little. 
(With sudden fierce joy) 1 dont care! 
Now — I kin — live! 

Hank ; 

(Looking out over the desert where tlu 
dawn begiv.s to show) Both of us. 


(Continued from page 58) 
buckling Neri — and vice versa. Maude 
Hannaford may be dramatically inadequate 
as the fishmonger's 'golden-haired offspring, 
but .she presents a seductive picture of 
Florentine beauty. 

"Scandal," Cosmo Hamilton's racy com- 
edy, seems likely to interest New York for 
awhile, despite the fact that it pleased 
Chicago. "Scandal" is another of those 
deliberate dramatic blush constructors. 
Beatrix Yanderdyke, a typically Snippy 
Stories flapper, becomes involved in a diffi- 
cult situation and lies her way out of it by 
declaring that she is married to a wealthy 
yachtsman. He aids her scheme, but when 
the flapper's happy family arrange a hasty 
honeymoon, demands the rights of a hus- 
band as a lesson to the ingenue. This takes 
place in the flapper's pink boudoir and is 
calculated to set the callow folks .out front 
blushing. But the one real flash of "Scan- 
dal" comes in the last act, when Hamilton 
stops trying to achieve a daring situation. 

"Scandal'' will please those who take 
Robert \V. Chambers seriously. It is rather 
well done by Charles Cherry, well man- 
nered tho elderly, as the pseudo- husband 
and pretty Francine Larrimore as the devil- 
ish Yanderdyke person. Miss Larrimore 
has a fearful voice but her piquant per- 
sonality surmounts that handicap. And she 
is growing in ability to hold up a scene. 

There are lots and lots of other things 
on Broadwav. Consider the Shubert late 

summer show, "The Gaieties of 1919." We 
rather liked this in its first edition with the 
noisy, but amusing Ed. Wynn. After the 
strike it was re-presented with a new cast 
headed by Nora Bayes. The second com- 
pany did not equal the first, although Gilda 
Grey, exponent of the shimmie and fem- 
inine quaker de luxe, is still present. Gilda 
is unforgettable. We will never be able to 
shake off our memories of her. "The Gaie- 
ties" had one haunting little melody, 'The 

"Mystery, marriage, murder" reads the 
advertisement of "At 9:45," which is an 
Owen Davis melodrama — one of those 
things that keep you guessing who is the 
real culprit until the last curtain. That 
is, it is supposed to. We guessed in the 
middle of the first act and guessed right. For 
fear that you will consider us conceited, 
we'll explain our process. We simply 
eliminate all the characters upon whom Mr. 
Davis carefully showered suspicion. Some 
day a playwright is going to try this in re- 
verse — and make a fortune. "At 9:45" has 
interest, however, if you like this sort of 
thing. The leading woman, Marie Goff. ia 
a distinctly pleasant new personality. 

Just now we can't recall much about Lew 
Fields' "A Lonely Romeo," except a scene 
in a man's hat shop. We suspect that the 
libretto of George White's "Scandals of 
1919" was written by a dancer. The thing 
is just a series of terpsichorean interludes, 
most of them serving to keep up your cour- 
age while you wait for little Ann Penning- 
ton to reappear. Ann is still our favorite 
example of condensed seductiveness. She 
i.» quite as appealing as ever. 

The new Hippodrome entertainment is 
up to standard. They are taking a leaf 
from the Mack Sennett ledger nnd playing 
up the bathing cuties and diving nymphs. 
One young woman, Mae Eccleston, does a 
sensation dive from the top of the huge 
Hippodrome into the big tank. 

' Returning for a moment to the late 
lamented strike, let us comment upon the 
interesting performances given by the strik- 
ing actors at the Lexington Opera House. 
A scene from "Camille," done by Ethel and 
Lionel Barrymore and Conway Tearle, will 
stick in our memories for a long time to 
come. Lionel's portrayal of the father is a 
remarkable bit of work and a masterly ex- 
ample of make-up, while Ethel, seeemingly 
ten years younger in her new slenderness, 
now and then struck a moving and poignant 
moment as the ill-fated heroine. 

More anon. 


'I might not, if- 1 could: 

I should not, if I might: 
Yet if I should I would, 

And, shoulding, I should quite! 
I must not, yet I may: 

I can, and' still I must: 
But, ah! I cannot — nay. 

To must I may not, just! 
T shall, although I will, 

But be it understood, 
If I may, can, shall — still 

I might, could, would or should'" 

— The Christian Scientist 

Page Seventy -Ott? 



(Continued from page 44) 

ing the musicians there was a caption which 
read "The Band That Makes You Jazz." 

Kelly's band eventually made the pil- 
grimage to Bagdad-on-the-Subway where it 
was engaged by Frisco to furnish the ac- 
companiment for this amusing and novel 
representation of toughdom. Incidentally, 
Frisco should be given credit for his efforts 
in popularizing jazz. A unique personality, 
he seemed the living symbol of the fascinat- 
ing savagery of the underworld. Tipping 
his derby — and a derby was most essential 
to the proper expression of the rough-and- 
spicy jazz — and violently srrioking cigars 
tilted at a dangerous angle he worked his 
legs into a veritable frenzy of locomotor 
ataxia. His audiences howled with delight. 
Here was the real thing at last, they de- 
clared. A fig for your parlor prancing and 
' your lounge lizards who executed soft steps 
with almost feminine grace and deftness. 
Here was rich red blood, strong and supple 
limbs, self-satisfied savagery, dancing to 
wild, weird music with ever-increasing 
abandon. Because he seemed to embody 
the physical character of the Barbary Coast 
he gained the sobriquet of Frisco. It stuck 
to him. It helped to. make him famous, 
but back in Dubuque, la., he is known as 
George Lewis. Forming a partnership with 
Loretta McDermott, a shapely little dancer, 
whom he had met in a Chicago resort, he 
went to New Orleans where the couple 
jazzed to the accompaniment of the darkies. 
They traveled on to Mobile, back up to 
Chicago and thence to New York where 
they emerged into undisputed fame and for- 
tune. It is said that the late Vernon Castle 
gave considerable encouragement to Frisco, 
advising him of the potent spell which the 
jazz would have for New York if the dance 
were capitalized at the psychological mo- 
ment when the- modern cabaret and music 
hall steps had completely worn out their 

One night Frisco and Loretta McDermott 
appeared in a revue at the Fulton Theater. 
The show was a failure, but the audience 
went wild over the dancers who could be 
so appealingly primeval. Florenz Ziegfeld, 
Jr., ever on the alert for the new and novel, 
engaged them at once for his after-theater 
show on the roof of the New Amsterdam 
Theater, and there, great and instantaneous 
success greeted them. 

Jazz became the order of the night. 
Vaudeville scouts and cabaret impresarios 
beckoned to the south for more geniuses of 
jazz. A golden treasury was promised, for 
was not the town enthusiastic over some- 
thing that was new, something that stirred 
its jaded pulses? Reisenweber's at Colum- 
bus Circle engaged the Dixieland Jazz 
Band which had scored a big success in 
Chicago and which boasted a clarinet 
player who had the uncanny ability to take 
his instrument to pieces down to the mouth- 
piece and keep up with the band. This dis- 

tinction belonged to one "Yellow" Nunez. 
This organization played all kinds of 
"blues" numbers and eventual!}' got into 
tile courts over a song. And it was dur- 
ing the litigation over the ownership of 
the number that Nunez, in reply to a ques- 
tion from the court, as to the definition of 
blues, said: 'Judge, blues is blues — a lit- 
tle off key but harmony against the rules." 
The court decided that "blues" could not 
be copyrighted inasmuch as the}' could not 
be described and orchestrated. 

Jazz players seem to get most of their 
effects from cornets and clarinets, perhaps, 
because those instruments lend themselves 
most easily to imitations. In a number 
called "The Livery Stable Blues" the cor- 
netist of the Dixieland Band even went so 
far as to introduce the neighing of a horse. 

A. J. Baquet, born in New Orleans of 
a Spanish-Indian mother and a French 
father, is said to be the first white jazz 
clarinet player. He drifted to New York in 
the fall of 1918 and joined the "Original 
New Orleans Jazz Band," playing at vari- 
ous cabarets and restaurants. Edwin Ed- 
wards, J. Durante, Frank F. Shotak, Ray- 
mond Lopez, who appeared with Blossom 
Seeley;. Tom Brown, Gus -Mueller and Law- 
rence Shields are other prominent jazzers 
who paved the way to the present dance 
delirium.' Nor must Ted Lewis be for- 
gotten. Lewis, who incidentally is a great 
showman, was the first, it is said, to bring 
subdued tones to the playing of jazz. Just 
as Frisco has demonstrated what can be 
done with jazz physically, Lewis has shown 
what can be done with it instrumentally. 
He softened its notes tho taking care to 
maintain its weirdness. 

Sophie Tucker advances a claim as the 
originator of jazz on the stage. She de- 
clares that she was the first to introduce 
shoulder shrugs and undulations during the 
singing of rag songs. When Miss Tucker 
became a hostess at Reisenweber's she 
brought jazz into a conspicuous place on 
the entertainment program, not only thru 
her own efforts but thru those of several 
young girls, one of whom, Gilda Gray, has 
been called her protege. 

The Shuberts engaged Miss Gray for the 
"Gaieties of 1919" and the opening night 
of that revue was featured by the remark- 
able jazz and shimmy performance which 
she gave. It was a new departure in this 
style of dancing that she offered. Standing 
in one position and singing with an utterly- 
blank expression she brought the audience 
to its feet. For she knew how to be re- 
pressed and yet suggestive. The wildness, 
the indolence, the frankness of the under- 
world were superlatively symbolized in her 

Jazz has invaded the army and navy, and 
there are now a number of vaudeville acts 
composed of soldiers and sailors who saw 
service in the war, which are devoted to 

its expression. The mortality list is in- 
creasing daily. Musical revues and 'comic- 
operas are not complete unless there is some 
member of their casts who has fallen victim 
to the jazz. London is in the throes of tne 
epidemic. Paris has accepted it as its own 
and all over .the United States, jazz has a 
conspicuous place in amusement circles. 
Phonograph record cases contain' one or 
more jazz numbers." The orchestras at the 
dance casinos at various summer resorts 
include jazz numbers in their nightly reper- 
toire. And the little gathering on the cracker 
boxes at the four corners feel that they are 
not keeping up with the times unless they 
jazz a little -on the old mouth organ. In- 
deed, wherever one may gaze or wander it 
is a case of all for jazz and jazz for all. 


{Continued from page 67) 

told me what she had done" his mouth 
was grim. He held her hands close, look- 
ing down into her eyes eagerly, "Barnabetta 


like that ? 

— how could you run 
Didn't you know that I — ' 

Then for the first time he saw the others, 
Foii glowering from his pillows, Jacob, 
with hanging mouth waiting to receive the 
piece of pie balanced on his knife as he 
stared, Juliet, simpering genteely, with 
crooked little finger as she drank her tea. 
Barnabetta's small, bright head went up 
proudly as she introduced them to him, the 
boys merely grunting in acknowledgement 
while Mrs. Dreary burst into a flowery 
panegyric of welcoming. 

It was David Jordan and Juliet, Erst- 
while Susan who did the talking during 
the rest of the meal, broken occasionally by 
Pop's whine that he felt for meat vittles 
somepin wonderful, and the boy's sibilant 
draughts of tea. Afterwards Barnabetta 
. ;md the visitor walked up and down the 
path between the ragged robins and the 
phlox, and he told her, quite casually that 
lie had been elected senator. 

"Oh," cried Barnabetta, joyously, "Oh, 
I'm so glad I" and then she broke off and 
tried to release her hands, witli a little 
frightened smile, "No! ' You mustn't! 
Please, Mr. Jordan — please — " 

"I love you, Barnabetta," David Jordan 
told her quietly. 

He had to bend to hear her painful 
whisper, "But — you saw us! They're my 
people — I'm just an ordinary girl." 

"Never ordinary!" His big voice boomed 
with an undertone of vibrant joy; "Sweet- 
heart, tell me you'll marry me and help me 
be a good senator. T cant do without you. 
Barnabetta — possibly." 

Soft color flooded her lifted lace. Her 
eyes were full of tender mirth. "Who am 
I, a female," said barnabetta,' "to have the 
dare to say 'No'?" 

Page Seventy-Two 



^^^^^^^^~3S£ ^c y&rJRr^SZr^L^ jgl ^>-25> 





—and they both 

show the same pictures f 

WHETHER you attend a million-dollar palace 
of the screen in the big city, or a tiny hall 
in a backwoods hamlet, you will find that it 
is always the best and most prosperous theatre in 
the community that is exhibiting Paramount-Art- 
craft Pictures. 

It does not matter whether you arrive in a limousine, 
a jitney, on trolley or afoot, you are immediately 
taken out of yourself by these great pictures which 
delight so many thousands of audiences every day 
in the week. 

- Human nature has deep-down similarities wherever 
you find it, and Famous Players-Lasky Corporation 
has made the bigger and better theatres possible by 
supplying a great variety of photo-plays which touch 
the roots of human nature with absolute certainty. 

A theatre cannot be better than the pictures it shows. 
Good music, wide aisles, luxurious seating and fine 
presentation have all naturally followed as the ap- 
propriate setting for Paramount-Artcraft Pictures. 

Find the theatre or theatres in any town that show 
Paramount-Artcraft Pictures, and you have found 
the spots where time flies. 

(paramount (2rlcra£t 

Motion pictures " 

These two trade-marks are the sure wav of identifying 
Paramount-Artcraft Pictures— and the theatres that show them. 





The New Paramount- 
Artcraft Pictures 

Listed alphabetically released up 

to November 
Save the list! And see the pictures. 

Billie Burke in 

"The Misleading Widow" 
Irene Castle in "The Invisible Bond" 
Marguerite Clark in "Luck IN Pawn" 
Elsie Ferguson in "Counterfeit" 

Dorothy Gish in 

"Turning the Tables" 

Houdini in . "The Grim Game" 

Vivian Martin in "The Third Kiss" 

"His Officlal Fiancee" 

Wallace Reid in 

"The Valley of the Glants" 

"The Lottery Man" 

"The Teeth of the Tiger" 

With Star Cast 

Maurice Tourneur's Production 

"The Life Line" 
George Loane Tucker's Production, 
"The Miracle Man'' 
Robert Warwick in 

"Told in the Hills" 
"In Mizzoura" 
Bryant Washburn in 

"It Pays to Advertise" 

A Super Special (All Star Cast) 
"The Miracle of Love" 

A Cosmopolitan Production 


Enid Bennett in 

"What a Woman Learns" 
Dorothy Dalton in "L'Apache" 

MacLean & May in 

"231/2 Hour's Leave" 
Charles Ray in "Crooked Straight" 

Paramount-Arbuckle Comedy 

one each month 

Paramount-Truex Comedies 

one each month 

Paramount-Mack Sennett Comedies 

two each month 

Paramount Al St. John Comedies 

one each month 

Paramount-Briggs Comedy 

one each week 

Paramount Magazine 

issued weekly 

Paramount Burton Holmes Travel 


one each week 

Paramount-Post Nature Pictures 

issued every other week 

Paramount-Burlingham Scenics 

every other week 

And remember that any Paramount 
or Artcraft picture that you haven't 
seen is as new as a book you have 
never read. 


Page Seventy-Three 

»JI-l/-*l-*V«f W U/-*|-»lp^ 

" There's Only One Way i 

to secure a satin skin " 

!!/ff>pl/ Satin, £teriG'eam,then$atin5%n,fioWdef'' 

J ^BBM^SESjSil^BB^i^l^^^^l^lMSB^^^^^Bl^^^^Bai^^^ES^MS 



is the name of the picture play produced 
be released. It was made with the twenty- 
five Honor Roll girls who were entered 
in the great 



Here you will see Beauties from every 
section of the United States and a beauti- 
ful little play in which they all appear. 
Watch for it ! Wait for it ! Ask for it at 
your Theater! 


I 75 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, New York 

Tog*. Anility Few 

Constant Constance 

(Continued from- page. 25) 

what she wanted, Someone to cry that part. 
She was very kind to me and gave me the 
play to take home and told me to return in 
a few days after I had read the entire part. 

".Miss Crothers had not yet begun plan- 
ning or rehearsing and every bit of the play 
was written in long hand. 1 took it to Mr. 
Ames. I wanted to go to him, anyway, with 
the happy news. He had my part typewrit- 
ten for me, in his office, right then and there, 
and he told.'.me to go away and study it. 
That's all I did, for two days . . . study! 
I returned to her then, with the long, last 
speech of the third act memorized . . . and 
here I am!" 

"Here" — happened to be no other place 
but Maxine Elliot's very own dressing room 
in the Maxine, Elliot Theater, where she — 
and Mr. Hull— were playing to standing 
room ever\' night. Flowers were everywhere. 
All sorts. Roses, pink and white and red, 
. . . and daisies . . . and sweet-peas! From 
everywhere, too. From her mother's place 
in Lyme, Connecticut; from her managers 
of the Realart Pictures, who had just sent 
greetings to their new star; from her ad- 
mirers and friends both acquainted and un- 
aquainted. One of the things that makes 
her happy is to receive these loving tributes 
from people whom she has never seen, and 
perhaps, will never see, but who are grate- 
ful to her for the pleasure she gives them. 

And with all her wanting hard enough to 
be of the theater, you would hardly connect 
her with the stage. She's so simple and 
natural and vivacious. 

"Faire?" she'll answer to your question 
about her sister. "Faire and I cannot get 
along without each other. And yet, we're 
so different. No, I'm not racing Faire. 
We're not sisters to see who'll get there first 
and who'll capture most. She helps me a 
lot. She has a great deal that I haven't. 
And I suppose I help her, too. In fact/ 
we've just grabbled each other's hands and 
we're running along, side by side." 

A Dream of Dreams 

(Continued from page 13) 

dream of an Institution. Around the Uni- 
versity, villages will grow. The inhabitants 
can come from anywhere. The citizens will 
come from everywhere. 

"It is going to be The Center. Welcome 
to those Who want to learn more and more 
about philosophy, literature, painting, sculp- 
ture, architecture, music, poesy and dancing! 
Debussy, Rodin and I talked this 'castle-in- 
the-air' over, years ago, when I was a child 
and thev helped me to spin my. web. We 
knew it to be a Universal dream but never 
then did I think I should be so fortunate 
as to take the step. It is the place, Shaw 
and Mackaye agree with me, that is needed 
to make the East West and the West East; 
the place where the twain DO meet." 

This is Michio Itow's dream of dreams. 




Page Seventy-Five 



Fibre lustre silk 

The Washable Silk Yarn 

that made Filet Sweaters popular 
Garments made of VER VER are 
worn by women who appreciate 
quality, beauty and originality. 

Circular free on request. 
For sale ai the best shops. 


366 Broadway 

New York City 

American Art 

We have on exhibition at all times a large j 

collection of paintings by the most famous j 

of American artists, including fine examples S 

of George Inness. R. A. Blakelock. Elliott j 

pajiigerfleld, H. W. Ranger. J. G. Brown, j 

G. H. Smilie. Arthur Parton. Carleton and f 

Guy Wiggins, Edward Moran, Eugene V. j| 

Brewster, etc., etc. if 

I i 

Illustrated Catalogue in Colors 

mailed to .my address fur live cents in stamps. 

175 Dufficld St., Brooklyn, N. Y. 




THE Long Island School of Art offers 
excellent training to amateurs and 
art students. Our system of individual 
instruction eliminates the lime-worn 
academic training so unnecessary in 
landscape painting. Pupils are instructed 
in a technique most suited to their tem- 
perament and ability, a system which 
will assure success, an all year season 
allows the students to begin their course 
at any time. Our city studios are al- 
ways open to our pupils for criticism, 
and students wishing to stay at our L. I. 
studios for the summer, will find excel- 
lent boarding near-by. Frequent social 
affairs will bring them in personal con- 
,, tact with many of our most famous 
artists. Address 


173-175-177 Duffield St. 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 


{Continued from page 39) 

plays of manners and historical periods, the 
stage cannot, of course, supply the school. 

From tlie long-continued neglect of striv- 
ing to "get under the skin of a character", 
our foremost actors are called on to do lit- 
tle liut act themselves. That is. they re- 
verse the method of their predecessors. In- 
stead of adjusting their art to the role, they 
adjust the rah to their personality, bringing 
such art to bear upon it as they can com- 
mand or deem necessary. Xo matter what 
the part may be, the)' are al wax's themselves. 
Primarily, this indictment rests against the 
majority of our stellar actors. Their sub- 
ordinates are selected according to ' type". 

The late John Mason was an actor of 
great experience. I have seen how excellent 
he could be in some of the English drawing 
room comedies of twenty years ago. I have 
seen him play an English butler and act in 
standard plays, as a member of a stock 
company. He was then, truly, an actor of 
many parts. As soon as he became an 
established favorite in New York with Mrs. 
Kiske, as the gentleman gambler in "The 
Witching Hour", etc., he figuratively cast 
off the liver}' of his art and acted himself 
only. His personality was interesting, his 
method had dignity, his manners were 
finished; but his characters were all John 
Masons to the bone. 

All the time I wanted to have him cease 
to be himself, to see him mask his identity 
in grease paint and costume; I wanted him 
to make an effort to keep me on edge by 
defying me to form a mental photograph of 
just how he would look when he crossed 
the threshold of the scene — but he never did. 
He had established himself as a "type", and 
the type was John Mason. 

We have a glowing example in the flesh 
in the person of Mr. John Drew. With 
Augustin. Daly he played many parts, but 
in an unguarded moment lie displayed his 
personality in the smashing allure of a dress 
suit, and immediately became known as a 
dress-suit-actor, with an irresistible appeal 
to the votaries of Dame Fashion. Just once 
he startler! us out of the philosophical be- 
nevolence with which we have long re- 
garded him. In "Jack Straw", I think it 
was, he appeared for a fleeting moment in 
whiskers. It seemed incredibly audacious 
and it did not last long. He may play a 
dozen different characters but he remains 
true to "type" and the type is John Drew. 

It is this neglect of diversification, form- 
ing the very essence of the actors' art, which 
has been the doom of many of our once 
highly popular comedians. At a time when 
they should be in the heyday of their suc- 
cess, the}' lag forgotten on the scene. Why 
mention names? The history of musical 
comedy i* teeming with examples. They 
had comical mannerisms; the}' squeaked in 
a way to make you laugh; they tripped over 
their feet in a manner that was irresistible — 
it was all very amusing; but they neglected 
the essential part of their broad and diversi- 
fied art: they were always themselves and 
never the character. People at last tired 
of figures always drawn according to the 
same pattern. The_\' were stereotypes. If 
the}' had played Falstaff they would have 

stripped him of all his individuality and 
replaced it with their own— and for one, I 
prefer the eccentricity of Falstaff to that of 
any comedian I know. 

There is increasing complaint that the 
theater of our da}' is becoming stale and 
spiritually unprofitable. We see a good 
deal of acting that is interesting, but a vast 
deal that is flat, stereotyped and conven- 
tional. A performance like Mr. Barry- 
more \s Col. Ibbclson at once strikes us by , 
its novelty of graphic vigor and clean-cut 
outlines. It is a portrait limned by an artist 
who subordinates his personality to the 
character, an artist who stands in the pres- 
ence of Art in a devotional attitude. The 
public unconsciously senses the truth. He is 
still a young man to play so aged a per- 
sonage. Only a fortuitous combination of 
family circumstances is accountable for his 
essaying the part. He is not the "type". 

Nine-tenths of our established actors play 
their parts without the least facial disguise. 
They are plainly and inevitably themselves 
— all true to type. So far as it applies to 
the younger men, acting the roles of heroes, 
gallants and lovers, no fault-finding is justi-' 
tied; but the practice extends down into the 
ranks, filled with players specially selected 
for their weight, age, color and complexion, 
all of whom in a minor degree are acting 
themselves, projecting their own personality 
into the picture and thus rounding out a 
possibly compact, cohesive performance, but 
doing little or nothing to raise it out of the 
rut of technically excellent mediocrity. 

It is said that we are developing no great 
actors, and one of the reasons is here indi- 
cated. Most of our ambitious young play- 
ers never arrive at their artistic maturity. 
.They are not given range or opportunity. 
It is as if a young singer with an undefined 
voice were assigned perpetually to sing con- 
tralto roles in opera, while her true, devel- 
oped tone-quality would be that of a so-' 
prano; or as if an artist were condemned 
forever to sketch dainty young society buds, 
when genius summons him to paint in liv- 
ing colors great episodes of history. 

Managers look for types because they 
cannot afford to take chances. But they 
are to blame; for in exploiting the stage 
from its commercial side they have neglected 
to foster a school in which versatility may 
be cultivated and developed. With pro- 
ductions in New York verging close upon 
two hundred a season, there can be no time 
to form a fair appraisal of individual ca- 
pacity. The man or woman who most near- 
ly approximates in looks and complexion 
the role to be cast is selected. Yet that 
which thrills us in acting is not essentially 
personality so much as spiritual power, 
Irving had disagreeable mannerisms of 
speech; Mrs. Fiske has well-known defects; 
[anauschek in her later years lacked certain 
physical charms — yet I should like to see 
Irving's equal in the role of the old veteran 
of Waterloo; Mrs. Fiske's equal as Becky 
Sharp, a greater Lady Macbeth than Janau- 
schek. Bernhardt spoke a tongue that few 
of us understood but with -what rich art she 
made us forget the fact and understand her 
even' syllable! 

Page Seventy-Six 


an Artist 

Get into this fascinating business NOW! Enjoy the freedom of an artist's life. Let 
the whole world be your workshop. The woods, fields, lakes, mountains, seashore, the 
whirl of current events — all furnish material for your pictures. With your kit of artist's 
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drawings will be just like certified checks! 

Never before has there been such an urgent need 
of artists as there is right now! Magazines — news- 
papers — advertising agencies — business concerns — 
department stores — all are on the lookout for prop- 
erly trained artists. Take any magazine — look at 
the hundreds of pictures in it! And there are 48,868 
periodicals in the United States alone/ Think of the 
millions of pictures they require. Do you wonder 
that there is such a great demand for artists? Right 
this minute there are over 50,000 high-salaried posi- 
tions going begging just because of the lack of com- 
petent commercial artists. 

No Talent Needed, Anyone Can 
Learn in Spare Time 

Our wonderful NEW METHOD of teaching 
art by mail has exploded the theory that "talent" was 
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We start you with straight lines — then curves — then 
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making pictures. Shading, action, perspective and 
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drudgery — you enjoy this method. It's just like play- 
ing a fascinating game! 

Beginners Earn $50 a Week 

Every drawing you make while taking the course 
receives the personal criticism of our director, Will 
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experience in commercial art, and is considered one 

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He knows the game inside and out. He teaches you 
to make the kind of pictures that sell. Many of our 
students have received as high as $100 for their first 
drawing! $50 a week is often paid to a good 

Our course covers every possible angle of Commercial 
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1458 H Street, N. W., Washington, D. C. 

Please send me, without cost or obligation on my part, your 
■ free book "How to Become an Artist." 



Page Seventy-Seven 


plllillllllllll!llllll!llllll!lllll!ll!llll li!!i!!ll»!!ll!llll!lli!!ll!!!U!illlllli!ll!!N!!»l!III!llllll!!!lll!||!l!!llll i-li :!l i ! ! - 1 1 : ■ i I . M I i [ i i ! i ! I : . I ! . i i , : i : - 1 i : M;!!'-::; ||- j;. ! .;: ! ..I: .mM ■ilMii I : ' - 1 i M i ! M I ■: li::!' '!-.l: :l^ ! : ' i ! i I : i : ^ : 1 1 ! i . i 1 1 i M ■ 1 1 !J^i 

Fame and Fortune Contest 

for 1920 

THE first Fame and Fortune Contest having come to a happy and successful end, and several 
prospective stars of the first magnitude having heen selected and started on their careers, 
it is with pleasure that we announce a similar contest for the year 1920, beginning with 
the January number of 

Motion Picture Magazine, Classic 
and Shadowland 

Once more we shall go through America with a fine tooth comb, as it were, in search for 
budding beauties with Motion Picture ambitions. No longer can any young lady or girl say 
that she has not had a chance. We shall give them all a chance — that is, every one that 
appears to have sufficient personality, charm, beauty and winsomeness. The first test is the 
photograph. If that gives promise, we publish it and ask for more. If the others are equally 
promising, we secure a personal interview, and finally we make a "test" Moving Picture and 
send it broadcast thru the theatres. Many of the girls whose pictures appeared in the Honor 
Rolls of our magazines, received many flatterin g offers from producing companies, and this 
proves that we are doing a good thing for ambitious American beauties, even tho we might err in 
our final judgment in selecting the winners. The Honor Rolls will continue each month in all 
of our publications, thus giving comething like two hundred girls honorable mention, includ- 
ing a published photo. One or more of these we promise, will be made 

Stars of International Fame 

Just think of what a prize this is! The contest just closed attracted nation-wide atten- 
tion. The newspapers everywhere published illustrated accounts of our final test, and several 
of the News Weeklies of Current Events showed scenes of the happy party at Roslyn, which 
were flashed on nearly every screen thruout the United States. 

What an opportunity! If it does not interest you, tell your neighbor about it or your dis- 
tant friend— they may have a daughter just looking for a chance of this kind. 

One thing we want to impress upon all aspirants — be careful in the choice of the photo- 
graph you submit. Post card photos will not do. Poorly printed photos, and small ones, can- 
not he considered. We feel that many beautiful girls lost out in the last contest just because 
they did not go to the trouble of consulting a good photographer. Furthermore, dont submit 
photos that tie! They may get you on the Honor Roll, but they will never see you thru. We 
recall in the last contest several young ladies who submitted wonderful pictures, and succeeded 
in getting on the Honor Roll, but when they appeared on the scene, alas, we found that the 
camera had lied. We want pictures that do you full justice, even flattering ones, but not dishonest 
ones. If you are a giant or a midget, if you have an impossible profile, or an ugly nose, or 
some other defect, dont let the photographer conceal these things — it will be to your loss and 
disadvantage in the end. Your features may not be perfect, but you may win in spite of that — 
only, we want to know all. Hence, please do not try to deceive us. Make yourself appear to 
the best advantage, but do not overdo it. 

Rules and date of Contest opening to be announced in next issue. 

Select Your Photographs Now! 

Till!ll!l!l!!llllilll!!ll!!!ll!lll!!ll!lll!!!llilli;ii;inli[i ■■'^ : l^ i ! .: : !M ,11 !!M 'fll.'il l.Mi ':i! ■!!:'[! iMl-'Mllj !M! :m: ,h ^i;.,' '! i : . , i '. , ' '■ . ! : " M: :l!' i! .,1 M^ ili:!:';'- ;i' -, .i,i rJ[i,l ,:l: .: 'Ml !i,il i.ii.:-!|:', !i ih :ii ■ ^i:! :, i!'.:n;, .;■ .! | :,: . !: ; ,i::,: -.i .■ : .: ;;. ;■ , [I;',:;! ;: ,:;. ■;.: . ,;.' Ml^r-ij ■ |: Ml ,:,i: , li: ' M:.'j::. !;:■ ^,; . : 

Page Seventy-Eight 





I J is pleasant to be looked upon a> a great 
writer, but it is usually more profitable 
to be almost anything else. The way of 

the transcriber is hard. That wicked old 
Dame Fortune seems to frown on the writers 
until after they are dead, and then she 
usually smiles sweetly and strews their 
graves with flowers. Just recall, and see if 
this is not true. Beginning with Chaucer, 
did he not exchange a palace for a prison? 
And was not Spens-es banished to Ireland to 
die in poverty? Then there was Bacon, who 
>old his ermine to find favor with the 
eminent and then was called to the bar of 
:he House of Lords to be degraded and dis- 
graced. Then there was that slovenly, 
intemperate, ungracious but delightful para- 
site, good old Ben Jonson, who failed as an 
actor, and who called one day at a noble- 
man's door and was asked for his card. 
Stating that he had no card, he bounced in, 
and upon being asked who he was, blurted, 
' I urn Ben Jonson." "Ben Jonson? — You 
don't look as if you could say Boo to a 
goose." "Boo!" said Jonson. "Sit down," 
was the response, "you are Ben Jonson.' 1 
The poor bard died as he had lived, in pov- 
erty. Hooker's fate was even worse, for he 
married a clownish Xantippe. Bishop 
Taylor was imprisoned. The author of 
Hudibras, Butler, who has delighted mil- 
lions besides me, died in squalid lodgings 
without money enough to bury him. Dryden 
ended his industrious life in almost equal 
poverty. Clarendon, pure, moderate and 
economical among extremists, died in exile. 
Milton had two misfortunes, both great, — 
he married unfortunately and was stricken 
blind. Bunyan spent only about twelve 

; in prison, but then he was a bad boy, 
profligate and wicked. Swift, selfish, heart- 
less and unloving, yet of splendid talent, 
died as he had predicted, like a tree struck 
by lightning at the top. or like a poisoned 
rat in a hole. Poor gentle Addison had a 
double misfortune, he married unhappily 
and died in Champagne. Surely Dr. John- 
son, awkward and ungainly, suffered with 
scrofula, was "mad half his life," and died 
one of the lowest grubs in Grub Street. 
Sterne, a bad husband and a bad priest, 
neglected his mother and died in dissipa- 
tion. Goldsmith, chased by bailiffs and 
fears, died in poverty, deserted by all but 
the poor charwoman to whom he had been 
kind. DeFoe was a cripple, wrote 210 
works, and then was imprisoned for writing 
in favor of freedom. Fielding, though of 
noble ancestry, led a dissipated, irregular 
life, and wrote starving in a garret. Smol- 
lett, poor and friendless, raw. bitter, un- 
couth and ill-tempered, was several times 
fined and imprisoned, and died at 33. 
Chatterton. son of a gravedigger, but of 
marvellous talent, was poverty-stricken, and 
poisoned himself at 18. Timid Cowper, 
very poor and tinged with madness, gave 
the immortal "Tasks" to his publishers free. 
From literary England we could go to 
other countries and see similar exampfes of 
literary misfortune, as for example, to Italy. 
.vhere Dante was exiled, or to Spam, where 
Cervantes was jailed; but let this suffice. 
Shakespeare was right, the world is but a 


(Continued from page 53) 
suit, duvetyn is combined with chiffon or 
Georgette crepe with pleasing effect. Match- 
ing suit shades come as heretofore in Geor- 
gette, but made up with color contrasts in 
underlays of flame, coral pink, pearl grey 
and French blue. Both low and high neck 
styles are designed, but the low cuts receive 
greatest favor. 

Surprising versatility is shown, too, in 
mi-lady's footwear. It was only recently 
that the leading modistes saw the wonderful 
results obtained by selecting well-fitting 
footwear in shades to blend with the cos- 
tume. There is nothing revolutionary in 
the idea: it is a lesson we should have 
learned from nature long ago. Master 
minds in the great World War grasped and 
profited by this lesson of nature and called 
it "camouflage," which is simply the art of 
blending objects into a background to make 
them inconspicuous. Hats. wTaps and 
gowns are important, of course, but shoes 
determine every woman's confidence in her 
costume. Hence the awakening to the im- 
portance of color harmony, smart lines and 
efficient comfort in modish footwear. 

Kidskin is the chosen leather because it 
melds smoothly to the foot and ankle and 
lends itself perfectly to the fashionable 
colorings that women seek. A good looking 
walking boot that pleases all classes of 
women because it combines a sense of the 
smartness so much desired with comfort- 
able ease is of soft dressed kid with trim. 
h ; gh-cut laced top, Cuban heel and flexible 
turned sole. And, while we hear rumors of 
a nation-wide campaign against the high 
heel, the eternal feminine still loves and 
wears the slim, graceful walking boot, the 
trim pump, the gay, carefree dancing slip- 
pers with smart Louis heels. 

And so. strolling down the Avenue and 
thru the big stores with their bewildering 
display of beauty and fashion , mi-lady 
learns a '"numi>er of things": She looks 
about and sees costumes inspired by all 
countries and ages — a fascinating jumble of 
all the feminine fashions since the modern 
world began. A veritable upheavel of tra- 
ditions in costuming has characterized "the 
interval since the war was over, but let us 
not imagine that it reflects an attitude of 
unrest and uncertainty— but that it ex- 
presses a constructive effort toward well- 
regulated progress in the fine art of dress. 

quickly acoutred 

"Skin \ 


'Is Shadowlaxd" 

WE promised to present the 
"In Shadowland" waltz by 
Stanley Brothers. Jr., to our readers 
in this issue but owing to a delay, 
owing to a number of unexpected 
typographical difficulties, we have 
been unable to carry out our inten- 
tion. The December number will 
contain the words and music of the 
waltz and. meanwhile, we offer a 
sincere apology to each and every 
Shadowlaxtj reader who is disap- 
pointed by the delav. 

You. too. can make your skin beau'i- 
ful. Use Marie Antoinette Ski. 
B .: —a new, absolutely harmless Skin Food Does 
wonders. Gives magnificent glow of healthful beauty. 
Weaches sk'n unniHliately. without flaking or rub- 
bing off. Softens anil whitens. leaving »kin vrlvecy 
a-'ij radiant. Removes Blackheads. Tan and freckles 
dUapjiear Far superior to vanishing and o her 
creams, noes not irritate. Xo grease Renwes 
bl -noshes and redness oq either hands, face or neck, 
ladies embused One trial Send $100 
for liberal sized bottle. 

Use Marie Antoinette Flesh Buil.ier: builds up 
hollow chteks and neck bones, and develops firm 
bu>*s. A r.inht cream with real rand value for tissue 

Sa c» nrlce. Satisfaction guaran-. 
money refunded 



Established 1894 




Dolmans and Wraps 

Mink, Dolmans mid Wraps fS.Oflo. 

Mink, Duimaus and Wraps 2,4ho. 

Broadtail, Dolmans and Wraps 2,500. 

Mole, Dolmans aud Wraps I. lion. 

Mole, Dolmans and Wraps iSq. 

Hudson Seal with Dyed H. B. Sable 

Collar l.oli'i. 

Hudson Seal plain 750. 

Hudson Skal plain 535. 

— back to the 


What with the war over, the little old bonds 
tucked safely away in the tin box, the boys 
home, and the Bolshevik! on the run. isn't 
it time we got back to normal and proceeded 
to enjoy life in a useful, healthy, g^od old- 
fashioned way? Before the war — remem- 
ber those peaceful, homey evenings — the 
good-natured jibes, the jolly little round at 

Xow's the time to get back to those good 
old days, and you'll need some new cards to 
start the game rolling again — your only 
pack is probably past recognition. There- 
fore — as long as you have to buy a new- 
pack, let us furnish it. We have on hand 
cards we call the STAGE PLAYING 
CARDS, each card bearing the photograph 
of some popular player on its back. There 
are 32 cards and joker, tinted in pastel 
shades of pink, cream, green and gold, gold- 
edged ; flexible, highly finished, lively and 
durable, at 63c. a pack. 

These cards are not only useful but they 
are an ornament to any living room table, 
and in offering them to you at 65c, we feel 
sure that you will take advantage of the 
unusual opportunity. 


175 Duffisld Street Brooklyn, N. Y. 

Page Seventy-Sine 



One-quarter of the 
world's tonnage 
is carried under the 

TRADE follows 
the FLAG, and 

are a part 

The Motion Picture 
CLASSIC, is the 
inseparable companion 
and is read wherever 
those FILMS 
are shown. 


have no difficulty 

in reading 


Its portraits 

of players 

speak for themselves. 

The text 

is easily understood 

being written 

in simple, everyday 


Moreover, it is 

clearly printed and 



No magazine, we venture 
to say, has a 
more cosmopolitan 
than ours 

Hundreds of thousands 

of readers 

in different 

parts of the world 

subscribe to 

the CLASSIC as a 


The Motion Picture Classic 

175 Duffield Street 

Page Eighty 


There's Plenty of Time for You to Do 

Things Unless You are Over 

a Hundred. 

SOME people seem to think that the big 
things of this world are always accom- 
plished by the young people. This is not 
so. However, some people grow old at 40 
while others are still young at 60. 

Men are different. Some blossom and 
bloom in youth and wither and decay in 
middle age, Some are imbeciles in boyhood 
and youth, and intellectual giants in old 
age. Some are bright in the spring, sum- 
mer, autumn and winter of their lives, and 
some are not bright ever. On the whole it 
is safe to say that the world's best thoughts, 
works and deeds have come from men who 
were middle-aged or over. 

Mozart, Beethoven, John Fiske, Cole- 
ridge, Bryant, Elizabeth Browning, Mrs. 
Hemans, Raphael, Chatterton, John Stuart 
Mill, Macauley, Pascal, Tasso, Bulwer- • 
Lytton, Shelley, Eupolis, Cicero, Octavius, 
Pliny the younger, Alexander, Wm. Wotton 
and Newton were all extremely precocious. 
Some of the best works of Byron, Pope, 
Collins, Congreve and Sheridan were pro- 
duced before the authors were 26 or 27. 
Joan of Arc accomplished all of her won- 
derful feats at 18, and Alexander died at 
32. Bryant wrote Thanatopsis at 18, but 
his greatest work was done at 77, and even 
at 84 he was still writing. Newton had 
accomplished most of his best work at 45, 
and conceived much of it at 24, though he 
lived to be 85. Swift wrote the Tale of a 
Tub at 30, but lived to the age of 72. Cow- 
per was 50 when his first work was pub- 
lished. Lord Bacon's Essays were written 
at 35, but his greatest work came at 60. 
Dryden's best Odes came at 70 and Chaucer 
was about the same age when the Can- 
terbury Tales came out. Shakespeare's 
younger works were of course fine, but his 
best came with his riper years. Milton 
turned out some great works before he was 
30, but the immortal Paradise Lost came at 
57. Burke's best, his Reflections, were pro- 
duced at 60. 

"At 10 a child, at 20 wild; 
At 30, tame if ever; 
At 40 wise, at 50 rich, 
At 60 great or never." 

Colon, Sophocles, Pindar, Anacreon and 
Xenophon were octogenarians. Kant, Buf- 
fon, Goethe, Fontenelle and Newton were 
over 80 when they died. Michael Angelo 
died at 89, Titan 99, Harvey 80 and still 
busy. Landor wrote "Imaginary Conversa- 
tions" at 85. Izaak Walton was writing at 
90, and so was Hahnemann at 91, and mar- 
ried at 80. Cornaro was in better health at 
95 than at 30, and De Bolsy was still prac- 
ticing medicine at 103. Demosthenes was 
at his best at 54, Aristotle at 50, and Plato 
after he was 55, and did not die until 82. 
Spinoza, Sterne, Mommsen, Pasteur, Ma- 
hommed, Wren, Leonardo da Vinci, Crom- 
well and Cervantes did their best work after 
40. And Scott never wrote a word until he 
was over 40. 

Adam lived 930 years, Seth 913, Enos 
905, Noah 950, Canaan 910, Mahalaleal 
895, Jared 962 and Methuselah 969. Haller 

has noted 1,000 cases of centenarians, 62 
from 100 to 120 years, 29 from 120 to 130, 
and 15 from 130 to 140 years. St. Patrick 
died at 122, Attila at 124. In Russia 'alone, 
in 1828, there were 828 centenarians in the 
empire, of whom forty had exceeded 120. 

In 1830, according to the census reports, 
there were 2,556 persons in our own country 
100 or over, and in 1850, nearly the same 

"Old wood to burn, old books to read, old 
wine to drink, and old friends to converse 
with," said Alphonso of Castile. 

Young blood for energy, enthusiasm and 
vigor; old blood for good sense, judgment, 
wisdom, prudence, balance and sagacity; 
and somewhere between the two a happy 
union of all. 

The Octogenarian. 


The man who fears to take his stand alone, 
Who follows where the greatest number 
Should hasten to his rest beneath the 
stone- — 
The great majority of men are dead ! 

We lately unearthed a poem which, for 
reasons unknown, has until now escaped 
classic honors. It was written by Lord 
Nozoo, in 156 — . It first appeared in the 

, about the time of the reign 

of , in Ireland. 

Stand a little back, Reader, here it 
comes ; 

For years, upon a mountain's brow, 
A hermit lived — the Lord knows how. 
Plain was his dress, and coarse his fare; 
He got his food — the Lord knows where. 
His prayers were short, his wants were few^ 
He had a friend — the Lord Nozoo. 
No care nor trouble vexed his lot; 
He had a wish — the Lord knows what. 
At length this holy man did die; 
He left the world — the Lord knows why. 
He's buried in a gloomy den, 
And he shall rise — the Lord knows when! 
The Bookworm. 

Patience is a virtue! — try and read this 
Magazine thru. Rather dull here and there, 
we admit; mut it sparkles now and then. 
Dont skip anything. Many a gem is past 
by in the mines, because it doesn't glitter. 
We cannot shine all the time. Even the 
Moon cant do that. But we shall trim our 
lamp and set it in the window. 

"Read one page, dont skip a word; 
Now read another — then a third; 
Digest it — 'twill do you good; 
They laugh, where laughing's understood. 
Should you by laughing thus "grow fat," 
I will make no extra charge for that. 

"He cannot be complete in aught who is not 

humorously prone; 
A man without a merry thought, can hardly 

have a funny bone." 




i!';,i!ii:!ii-:!ii i!:iiiliii<:iilii;;<i!;! 

-u-:.:i: i-ii i.- "i 



|.i||l!''i!!l!li- lilllllllll 

!:ii!!l!!l]!il!!!;!l!!!!liillil!!li!il!lll!llllli ■ | 

In her mountain home she warns her childhood 

sweetheart that revenue officers are seeking him 

for moonshining. 





. "' 

|^|l ■ 

4 * **. 

' '/' 




t " / 

1 A Ml 

Fan \ \i • i«i 

Anita Stewart 

She loves the old race horse that has the fire 
of the stars in his eyes and a heart of gold. 

She jokes the "old Kentucky gentleman" on his 

favorite racer, pretending it will lose in the 

great race. 

The man who tried to "fix" the great race is 
caught by the mountain girl. 

Louis B. Mayer 



in a 


of the Great 
American Classic 

"In Old 

In Seven Thrilling Acts 

Directed by 
Marshall Neilan 


Angered by detection, he tries to throttle the 
girl he has already wronged. 

The young society man prevents the girl of the 
mountain from being cheated out of her estate. 

At the evening of the great ball in celebration 
of the race she again meets her ideal. 

After the ball, love comes, at last to 
the mountain *vho saved the day at 

the girl of = 

the Derby. = 

■^' !l ' ii :i.M .::-■:!. m: : : i- -: .,i, i :. ■ .. !; iii'M; ,!, ;i m; ,;..:,: ^.; ;,::■ ^;, :i: ,;, ..;,.:■. ; ':- :, ,;,, ; :, : ■ .;. ,, ,..■:;! !l,: ■!:';. .:,::■;- ... , ■. 'Sliiiiiliillllllilililiiillilirilii^ili^^iLv 1 ;!^!:: 

Page Eighty-One 




"The Vengeance 



Directed by TOM TBRRISS 

Here is one of a great author's greatest stories 
made into a photoplay. It is vibrant with emotion 
and drama. 

The insane jealousy of Henri Durand tortures 
his beautiful and faithful wife. At a costume 
fete she meets an old friend, Tom Franklin. 
Blind with jealous rage, Durand wrongly accuses 
her. In despair she kills herself. Durand uses 
his young daughter to wreak his vowed revenge 
on Franklin. 

She makes Franklin love her and then repudia- 
tes him on their wedding day. When he seeks 
death the real love for him asserts itself and she 
becomes his wife. 


ALBERT E. SMITH, President 

fM H 

-a 1 


I ?! 



»,■*'** is 


m' 1 

Page Eight y-'f wo 




k ' 


Mellin's Food adds to cow's milk 
important food materials that are 
necessary to make a complete and 
satisfying diet for the baby. 

Write today for a Free Trial Bottle of Mellins Food 
and start your baby right. 























I W 

""l i iiM^ 







HE authentic Milgrim interpretation of 
the autumn silhouette may be seen at one 
exclusive shop in almost every community. 
We shall be pleased to refer you to the Milgrim 
Agency in your city. — All genuine models bear 
the authentic Milgrim label. 

Portrait courtesy of Marion Davies. 

Broadway at J^-th Street, New York 




Greatest of All Popularity Contests 

Unique Competition in Which the Voters Share in the Prizes 




Concerning this matter there is great difference of opinion. Every fan, in fact, has his own idol. The Wall 
street broker swears by MARY PICKFORD ; his wife thinks TOM MIX is the best actor the cinema has 
produced; the office boy has a "crush" on THEDA BARA and the stenographer collects photographs of 

What do you think? If you had a vote would you give it to NAZIMOVA or to LILLIAN GISH? Would 
you vote for a man or a woman or for little BEN ALEXANDER? 

Shadowland, Motion Picture Magazine, and Motion Picture Classic — the three great magazines of the 
Motion Picture world — have decided to refer this question to their readers by taking a popular, world- 
wide vote. In regard to matters concerning the stage and theater their audience is the most intelligent and 
discerning; the most wide-awake and well-informed in the world today. If any picture patrons can pick 
out the leading star, it will be those who read Shadowland, the Magazine and Classic. 

The coupons will show you how to enter your own name and the name of your favorite player. But you 
may vote on an ordinary sheet of paper in Class Number 2 provided you make the ballot the same size 
and follow the wording of this coupon. We prefer the printed coupons for uniformity and convenience in 

There will be prizes for voters and prizes for stars. 

Votes registered in Class Number 1 will probably be cast by favor. Votes registered in Class Number 2 
will call for a wide knowledge of the Motion Picture business, keen powers of perception and skill at de- 
tecting the trend of popular favor. You cannot guess the winner offhand. 


The contest began on December 1, 1919, and will close on June 
30, 1920. 

There will be seven ballots as follows : 










. March 












The result of each month's ballot will be published in each one of 
our magazines the second month following such ballot. 

No votes will be received prior to the opening date or after the 
date of closing. 

Each person entering the contest and observing the rules thereof 
shall have the privilege of voting once in each class, each month, 
for each one of our magazines. You may send us one vote in 
each class for Shadowland every month, and the same for 
Motion Picture Magazine and yet again the same for Classic. 
Thus, you will have three votes in Class No. 1 each month, and 
three votes in Class No. 2 each month. 

Class Number 1 

Shadowland, Magazine and Classic: 

175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

I consider 

the most popular player in the entire field of Motion 







Class Number 2 

Shadowland, Magazine and Classic: 

175 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 

I believe that 

will win the Big Three Popularity Contest with 


Remember! This is the greatest player contest in history. 

Paae Three 

Who Will Be Awarded the Laurel Wreath of Success in This 


For the second time we are opening the door to the American Beauties thru which they may 
start a screen career. And which one of us has not long looked for just such an opportunity? 
An opportunity minus any expense, except a photograph. This contest is open to every young 
woman in the world, except those who have already played prominent screen or stage roles. 



will give two years' publicity to the winner. This will include cover portraits in colors, inter- 
views, pictures, special articles, etc. — the sort of publicity that money cannot buy. A position 
on the screen will be secured for the winner, and other opportunities, if necessary. At the end 
of two years these magazines guarantee that the winner will be known thruout the universe. 


Contest is open— NOW. Portraits to be mailed to the CONTEST MANAGER, 1 

175 Duffield St., Brooklyn, N. Y. | 

Contest closes Aug. 1, 1920. 1 

Portraits will not be returned to the contestant. 1 

No charges or fees of any kind. | 

Postal-card pictures and snap-shots not accepted. | 

Contestants can submit any number of portraits, but upon the back of each | 

must be pasted an entrance coupon. | 

Contestants must submit a portrait, upon the back of which must be pasted a J 

coupon from either The Motion Picture Magazine, Classic or Shadowland, or a 1 

similar coupon of your own making. | 

Every ten days our judges will go thru the photos and sort out the leading ones. These honor 
pictures will be published every month in numbers of The Motion Picture Magazine, Classic 
and Shadowland. In our 1919 contest many flattering offers were given to the honor roll girls. 


Contestant No Date received (Not to be filled in by the Contestant) 

Name 1 

Address (street) 

• (city) (state) 

Previous stage or screen experience in detail, if any 

When born Birthplace Eyes (color) 

Hair (color) Height Weight 

Complexion \ 


Page Four 

JAR -9 !92 


B 4 5 8 6 4 

Expressing the Arts 

The Magazine or Magazines 

Volume I 

Important Features in This Issue : 



A picturesque interview by a picturesque star with 
one of stageland's foremost producers. 

FIFTY-FIFTY ....Hadi Barron and Saxon Co?ie 

A piquant one-act play replete with humor. 


The premiere danseuse of the Metropolitan talks 
of the terpsichorean art — and herself. 

A REVIEW OF' THE REVUE Louis Raymond Reid 

The development of this form of entertainment 
told interestingly. 


The latest footlight attractions in review 


A Striking Miniature Waltz With Words. 

Number 4 



Published monthly by the M. P. Publishing Company, a Xew York Corporation with its principal offices 
at 177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. Eugene V. Brewster, President and Editor; Eleanor V. V. 
Brewster, Treasurer ; E. M. Heinemann, Secretary ; Frederick James Smith, Managing Editor. Editorial 
offices at 177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y., to which address all mail should be sent. 

Subscription $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in 

Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50. Single copies, 35 cents. Postage prepaid. One and 

two-cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify us at once of any change of address, giving both 

old and new address. 

Entered at the Brooklyn, N. Y., Post Office as Second-class matter. 

Copyright, 1919, by the M. P. Publishing Company Wn the United States and Great Britain. 



177 Duffield Street. Brooklyn. N 


~~ $MW 



Alia Nazimova 

The vivid star of the stage and the cinema 

Marjorie Daw 

An appealing leading woman of the silversheet 

Qeorge Beban 

The able character actor who is now devoting all 
his time to the films 

Qeraldine Farrar 

The Metropolitan star who devotes her spare 
time to the photoplay 

Mary Pickford 

Everybody's favorite 

Rosa Rolanda 

A classic danseuse now devoting her time to 
musical comedy 


Reproductions of two original paintings by 
Gustave Wiegand and Carleton "Wiggins, N. A. 


Page Six 

Painted from Photograph by Hoover Art Studios 


Painted from Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 




Painted from © Photograph by Hixon-Connelly Studios 


The Holy Land at Christmas Time 

Entrance to Church of 
Nativity at Bethle- 
hem. Note the walled- 
up entrance with low 
portal, designed to 
keep the Moslem 
Turks from using the 
church as a stable. 
The entrance is now 
guarded by English 

Beneath the Altar in 
the Church of Nativity 
at Bethlehem. This 
picture shows the 
"Grotto of Nativity," 
the place where Christ 
was born, and was 
photographed by time 





light coming from the 
candles, which are 
kept constantly burn- 

Page Eleven 


Excavations down to the pool of Bethesda, 

showing how, thru the centuries, one city has 

been built upon the ruins and debris of other 

cities long buried and forgotten 

Corner of the Garden of 
Getlisemane, looking 
toward the Russian 
church of the Magdalene, 
which crowns the Mount 
of Olives 

Page Twelve 


Bethany. The traditional home 
of Mary, Martha and Lazarus 
lies within the walled enclo- 
sure, entrance being thru the 

Left, Town of Tiberius on the 
shores of Lake of Gallilee 

Rachael's tomb 
between Jeru- 
salem and Beth- 

Page Thirteen 


Paqe Fourteen 




Appearing in Zoe Aldus' "Declassee" at the Empire 

Page Fifteen 


A Review of 

l HE year of 1907, to most people, signifies, 
after a moment's hesitation and reflection, the 
period of a great financial panic. But to that 
portion of the public that is exclusively of, by and 
for Broadway, it ushered in the era of the musical 
revue. It marked the beginning of the Ziegfeldian 
age — the age when feminine curve and cur- 
rent topic were theatrically interwoven. It repre- 
sented the complete restoration of the bridge of 
thighs after a Puritanical reaction that had set in 
closely following the great-grandfather days of 
"The Black Crook.'' America, without, so to 
speak, a leg to stand on theatrically, suddenly Look 
on an appeal and a conspicuousness that brought 
it to the very front row of stageland. In fact, 
America became Stageland with a capital "S." 

So it is that the year 1907 should be held in deep 
reverence by all sincere lovers of the theater. If 

Dr. Ziegfeld is 

Photograph (left) by Alfred Cheney Johnston the pioneer, the 



left, Mar- 
guerite Irv- 
ing and, left, 
White, both 
p r o m i n e nt 
revue p 1 a y- 

Page Sixteen 





the Columbus of 
this form of enter- 
tainment, so far as 
this country is con- 
cerned, all the more 
glory to him. With 
his ears to the 
ground, or rather to 
the groundlings of 
the pit, did he not 
sense the desire for 
novelty in the thea- 
tergoing public ? 

V e r y well, he 
would undertake to 
satisfy that desire. 
He would present 
to the public, sur- 
feited with Ibsen 
and Lebar and Shaw 
and English draw- 
ing- room comedies, 
something utterly 
different. Possess- 
ing, like all good 
showmen, a deep 
knowledge of psy- 
chology, he believed 
that his product 
would attract the 
buyers of theatrical 
wares because it 
would emphasize 
sex appeal in an en- 
vironment of taste- 
ful and harmonious 
color and tone 
against a back- 
ground of tunes 
easy to whistle and 
jokes easy to laugh 
at and recall. He 
had appreciated the 
popularity of the 
musical revue in 
Paris, where it 
chiefly consisted of 
a string of music- 
hall acts inter- 
spersed with chorus 
ensembles. He 
would improve upon 
the Paris idea by 
making as great an 
appeal to the eye as 
to the ear. 

By all familiar 

with the Ziegfeld 

tradition down thru 

(Continued on page 


Right. Allwyn King, of 

the Ziegfeld Midnight 


Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 

Page Seventeen 



Last seen on Broadway in "See Saw' 

Page Eighteen 


From a painting 
By Gustave W'iegand 

Painted from (c) Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 

<Cj*^fa /trt ^ 

Painted from Photograph by Charles Rosher 

Painted from © Photograph by Hixon-Connelly, K. C. 


M>\<UaZ^> q 


Deserter Doris 

Doris Kenyon has deserted motion pictures, at 
least temporarily. Miss Kenyon is now the 
featured farceur in the piquant footlight hit, 
"The Girl in the Limousine," now current at 
the El tinge Theatre 

Page Twenty-Three 


Dorothy of 

Uoroth y Green., out: of 
screenland's best known 
"vamp" depictors, comes 
from the land of the late 
Czar— Russia. Miss Green 
was born in Petrograd, nee 
St, Petersburg. Her parents 
grated to America and 
Dorothy received her edu- 
cation in the New York 
Schools. Her screen career 
has been a varied one 

Page Twenty-Four 



Right, Ethel Stannard, 
well known to musical 
comedy, and below. 
Dorothy Klewer, one 
of the beauties of 
the Ziegfeld Midnight 

Page Tzventy- F : ~ i 



"Sixty-four cents." 

Kay gulped and dove into 
her tiny gold bag. We took 
our places at our table in si- 
lence. Then Kay laughed, as 
deliciously as this chocolate 
deserved to taste. "I know a 
woman who's terribly extrava- 
gant. She bought three sodas 
so far this season." I caressed 
my straw hat, and Kay con- 
tinued, "Cheer up, honey. You 
ought to be glad you aren't a 
father of a lot of kids!" 

The regal drinks were served. 
"Excuse me, miss," said the 
waitress, "there's ten cents too 
much here." Kay and I looked 
at each other. The waitress 
came back from the desk with 
an honest-to-Gawd credit check. 
Kay and I stared . . . 

Photographs by White 

SHE will al- Kay Laurel was irr 

ways be the Ziegf eld Follies 

J for five years. Ihen 

seventeen. the screen attracted 

It isn't SO much her. Now the films 

what she eats, ke ep her busy all 

or how she eats, of the time 

or that she eats 
a t Delmonico's 

that prompts mc to say it, as the way 
she hails her three-day-old Cadillac 
brougham and bounces into it, and 
then plays gleefully with its three- 
day-old accoutrements. She had sent 
a friend of hers shopping in it the 
while the afternoon passed. She is 
that way. And now it had sailed 
Laurelward, and, altho the dictaphone 
it boasted was but three days old also, 
Kay was not the sort to lift it to her 
Rubaiyat lips and languidly direct, but 
to cry thru the open glass, "James, off 
to the manicurist !" 

Miss Laurel was two hours late for 
her appointment. There were about 
a dozen women, who, as she puts it, 
"dont know what business is," who 
were waiting for their turns, so up to 
the telephone ran Kay. "I'll see if my 
special girl can attend to me right 
away," she said. But 

"Bizz-ie!" buzzed Central before 
she gave her number. The returned 
nickel offered Kay an idea. "Let's 
go downstairs for a soda," she whis- 
pered, snuggling around my arm. We 
went into the elevator. "There's a 
'phone in Huyler's, I suppose." 

"Two checks, please." 

"What kind?" 

"Chocolate sodas with chocolate 

Page Twenty-Six 

• ' ■ ■ 



"Lucky? That's 
me all over. And 
not only with 
little things — with 
big things, too. 
I've had wonder- 
fully good for- 
tune in my in- 
vestments. But 
that, I believe, 
was because I 
didn't fret how I 
thought they 
wouldn't turn out, 
but how I wanted 
them to." 

"Did you al- 
ways get what 
you wanted?" 

"Yes. mostly 
always. I spent 
five years of my 
life in the Zieg- 
feld Follies and 
roof shows." 

Kay loves to 
read funny books, 
she confided. Be- 
cause, (Kay's 
logic !), she reads 
when she's alone, 
and she likes to 
laugh out loud — 
to keep herself 
company. Ade, 
and "Dere Ma- 
bel.'" and "The 
Tattler," and Lea- 
cock — T could 
visualize them 
stacked up in her 
Manhattan Hotel 

Which reminds 
me. Kay said 
she hadn't a mo- 
ment to spare, 
these days, no less 
to read, she was 

so busy at the studio every day from nine until seven, and 
that this was her first twenty-four hour furlo in town for 
fortnights past. "I want you to see my apartment. It's 
perfectly adorable. I can hardly wait to have mother 
come to stay with me. And yet, altho my lease has been 
signed a month, I am forced to keep my furniture in 
storage and stay at the hotel until this picture is complete 
and I shall have time to move." 

We were in the brougham now, creeping thru the files 
of traffic along Fifth Avenue. Kay had made our own a 
tin of those famous hard candies, and while she was 
munching with a thrill the picnic, she told me of her 
mother, and the house and garden in Pennsylvania she 
had presented her with last summer, and the two-year-old 
niece she worshiped, whom she was bringing up to say, 
"Wee-wee," "O-rev-wah," "Bonh-jur," "Bun-nweet." 
She had a home in Mamaroneck that she'd worked 
towards all her life, and a few dear friends in Mrs. Rex 
Beach, Ollie Thomas, Delight Evans. Ann Pennington 
and Florence Walton, whom she revered with all her 

Photograph by White 

Kay Laurel love* lo ivail ( i i io 
books. Because, she reasons, 
she reads when she is alone 
and she likes to laugh out loud 
— to keep herself company 

staunch, little big heart. 

Kay Laurel has no use 
for the girl who is a do- 
nothing. "Her day is 
past," smiles Kay. "I 
cant understand, any- 
way, how she could manage to be happy unless her time 
were filled with work and the struggle for achievement. 
To be a part of something — there lies pride. To be 
rushed and interested — there is life! And vivacity . . . 
and personality . . . beauty . . . for Miss Laurel. 

The chauffeur had turned into East Fifty-sixth Street. 
Kay was all a-bustle. She queried. "Now, of all the 
houses on this block, which would you like to live in?" 
A pretty white brick four-story house with a canopied 
entrance and a shrubbery-decorated vestibule, I chose. 
"Go to the head of the class !" was the retort, and, sure 
enough, we stopped and entered. Fresh paint and 
poignant shellac greeted the young visiters. The super - 
(Continued on page 78) 

Page Twenty-Seven 


A Corner o' 

; .':- ■' ' - 

Lucy Cotton, only recently a 
stage discovery in "Up in 
Mabel's Room," has attained 
film stardom almost with a sin- 
gle leap. Miss Cotton is now 
being starred in International 
productions Herewith are two 
boneymoon glimpses of Miss 

C n in a forthcoming r rf >- 

du* tion 


Si- X~-w„ - ^.^ 

Photo by Campbell Studios, N. V. 


BrOddvva> ha ? iivcil a li\cl> \> c 

come lu Marjorie Hast, the prelt) 
little ingenue of the -Ij^c hit. 
"Scandal."' Miss Hast i- a (laughter 
of Walter Ha-t. the producer of 
"Scandal," but she ha- proven her 
right to footli^ht prominence 



of the 

Betty Blythe, just now attached 
to the Goldwyn screen forces, is 
one of the distinct beauties of 
the silversheet. Her unique 
charm will next be viewed in 
a Rex Beach drama, "The Silver 

Page Thirty 


Photograph by Abbe 


The widow of the late Richard Harding Davis is the chief 
entertainer of the colorful Greenwich Village Follies 

Page Thirty-One 


Plays and Person- 
alities of the 

Delectable little Ann Pen- 
nington hue been the chief 
feature this year of George 
White's "Scandals of 1919" 

'"lli« * hallenge" is one of 
the footlight's contributions 
again, t social unrest. \l 
the right i„ a scene from 
"The Challenge" with Hoi- 
brook BJinn. the star, Allan 
Dinehart and Louise Dyer 

/'..':/<• Thirty-T 


The piquant titled comedy. 
"Adam and Eva,"' has been 
enjoying a remarkably suc- 
cessful run at the Longacre 
Theater. At the right are 
Otto Kruger and Ruth Shep- 
ley in a more or less tense 

"The Four Million" has been 
having a record run at the 
Comedy Theater. Among 
the chief entertainers in this 
pleasant entertainment are 
Harry Harwood and Bea- 
trice Noves. to be viewed at 
the left 

Page Thirtv-Tht 



Page Thirty-Four 


By Jane Ward 


l O be a successful manicurist one's got to be 
deaf, dumb and blind,'' said the handsome 
young woman drawing the buffer over the 
gleaming pink nails of the Duchess of Strood, then, ris- 
ing she added meaningly as she collected her instruments, 
"I am said to be a particularly successful manicurist, Your 

The Duchess tapped the edge of the polished table with 
nervous fingers. She was a pretty, fussy creature with 
a hundred restless movements, rlutterings, tremors. She 
had large china blue eyes, a small, foolish mouth and a 
feeble chin that could quiver appealing!}' on occasion. 
"Do you know Lord Quex?" She looked just beyond 
the crisp white cap atop the crisp bronze waves. 

Sophy Fullgarney, The Fullgarney as she was inti- 
mately known on the tongues of her clientelle, lifted her 
fine shoulders the fraction of an inch. "Only — by repu- 
tation," dryly. A "fine figger of a woman"' (to quote 
the connoisseurs), was Sophy, a trifle full blown, per- 
haps, but why be carping when there are firm, red cheeks, 
black, snapping eyes and a wealth of strong, burnished 
hair whose waves owed nothing to the art of the iron? 

"But — by sight? Yes? 1 ' persisted the Duchess, worry- 
ing her lip with her srnall pointed rabbit teeth. She 
seemed to hesitate, then cast discretion aside, leaning 
across the table feverishly, "there is a report that he is 
very attentive to some schoolgirl, a Miss Muriel Eden. 
Do you know anything about it? It's too absurd — a man 

of his age — and experience with women — still they're the 
very ones who make fools of themselves over a baby 

"Muriel Eden!" Sophie stared blankly, "my little 

Muriel ? Good 'eavens !"' She caught herself up, "I 

my lady, but you see I was raised in 

and I and Miss Muriel were almost 

might say, tho I've never presumed 

break my heart to see her marry a 

beg your pardon, 
the Eden family 
like sisters you 
on it — it would 
rounder like 'im — 
Only in moments 

of great stress did Sophy's h's 

desert her. The Duchess of Strood gave what in one 
less aristocratic would have been termed a sniff. Her 
round blue eyes grew chilly, like marbles. "You may 
go," she said coldly, "and if anyone should ask for me 
send them in here." 

Dismissed, The Fullgarney proceeded into the main 
room of her establishment where some half a dozen 
extremely fresh and pretty girls were ministering to the 
hands of patrons, mostly well-dressed men of the about- 
town class, each couple semi-secluded by discreet screens 
of bamboo fastened to the arms of the chairs. The sight 
of the bright, sunny room, its windows looking on Fleet 
Street, with the tasteful rugs, the pleasantly prosperous 
rows of bottles and lotions in the cabinets usually roused 
in Sophy's heart a throb of pride but now she scarcely 
saw them. The words of the Duchess vexed her mem- 
ory — Muriel Eden and Lord Quex, the Gay Lord Quex 

Page Thirty-Fitc 


whose adventures in love were common gossip — 'eaven 
forbid ! 

"So far — and no farther I suppose, eh, Harry?" snig- 
gered Sir Chickester Frame with a waggish tug of his 
moustache, "Deuced awkward thing for you — the Duke's 
bobbin' off like that! Puts you in a hole — raw-ther." 

Lord Quex yawned. There was no sign of perturba- 
tion in his saturnine, close-shaven face as he glanced about 
the manicure parlor. "I fancy it's a matter of sentiment 
with her, she always was romantic. You'll excuse me, 
Frame? We dine at the Edens remember." 

He moved across the room, the glances of the women 
following the tall, irreproachably dre'ssed figure. Mid- 
way, Sophie met him. "Shall I serve you, my lord? 
Manicure or massage?'' 

Some men cannot look at a handsome woman without 
betraying the fact that they think her handsome. Lord 
Quex let his glance slip down over the Fullgarney's pleas- 
ant curves to the trim ankle visible below the hem of her 
stylish satin gown before replying. The movement was 
purely reflex but Sophie caught it and her eyes grew cold. 
Marry her Miss Muriel, would he, the old rake ! Not if 
she knew it he shouldn't. A few words, and Quex 
passed on into the private room, leaving, without know- 
ing it a dangerous foe in the comely person of the most 
successful manicurist in London. 

"Well, Harry — at last!" cooed the Duchess of Strood, 
"and Barchester dead a month ! Is that your devotion, 
faithless man !" 

Harry, Lord Quex, thirty-five and accomplished lover, 
stood, looking down at the bedizened little figure before 
him, with his tired eyes under their heavy lids filled with 
mockery, his lips twisted in a small, evil sneer. What a 
pose she was in her ridiculous weeds, her silly crepe ruf- 
fles and ribbons of coquettish grief, her sillier reproaches 
for a faith that had never been ! / 

"Dont be histrionic, Cora," he said curtly, "it isn't be- 
coming to your type. You knew our little — episode would 
end sooner or later ; why raise a clamor over the 
dead ?" 

The Duchess forgot to be appealing and pathetic. She 
made a gesture with her crooked fingers suggestive of 
claws. Her lips drew back from her small white teeth. 
"So!" she jangled, "so we have reformed our ways! So 
we have grown respectable. Well, that ought to be an 
entirely new sensation, my dear Quex!" 

He met her rage with a hard unconcern. "Come, Cora, 
be a good sport. I've protected your name, give me 
credit for that. What have you got to reproach me for? 
Those stolen, glamorous hours at Nice? That foggy 
night in the apartment at Leicester Square? That day 
in Paris when the world was in spring? Dont let's spoil 
our memories, my dear." 

Of a sudden she was close beside him, clinging, 
palpitant. "Quex. You do remember? Our love was 
my child, Quex, the only child I have ever had — would 
you kill our child, Harry? Look at me! Love me!" 

He did not move. He even laughed a little cool, cruel 
laugh. "It's no go, Cora! You're right, I have reformed. 
I intend to— to marry. There ! Now you know the 
worst ! So you must see anything more is impossible 
between you and me. All that's left is to exchange our 
letters and then — good-bye." 

"To marry ! Quex who used to jeer at marriage as 
the refuge of the unimaginative, the dull, the bour- 
geoisie," the Duchess said in a strangled tone, "I heard 
the rumor, but I thought it 
was an insult. And so you 
are to marry?" she held out 
her hand with a swift change 
of manner as tho she drew 
a silken curtain across 

Lord Quex glanced at her 
curiously. "Ah, my Lord," 
whispered Sophy, "handsome 
men cant help being — dan- 

gerous ! 

Page Thirty-Six 


ner rage and humiliation, "well, I hope you will be happy 
—and the future Mrs. Quex also. You have studied the 
curricula of love so long you should matriculate into an 
excellent husband." 

"And the letters?" reminded Quex. Her smile grew 
cherubic with the impossible innocence of a woman plot- 
ting mischief. 

"You are to be at the Countess of Owbrulge's house 
party? So am I. I will bring the letters there, and per- 
haps — " she smiled softly, sweetly, "perhaps I shall have 
the pleasure of meeting your fiancee. I am sure we should 
have much in common to talk of — " 

Sophy Fullgarney deftly interposed her handsome per- 
son between Lord Quex and the door, as at a discreet 
distance he was following the sobbing draperies of the 
widow of the late Duke of Strood. "This way, my lord," 
she murmured, and her voice was humble but her chin 
was inflexible. It was Sophy's chin that had led her up 
from the servant strata, and finally landed her at the 
head of her own business, "this way, if you please." And 
she indicated a dainty little private room hung in old 
eighteen-century wall paper showing quaint garden scen- 

Without clearly understanding how he got there, Quex 
found himself seated across one of the tiny tables with 
"a most determined looking — yes, and attractive young 
woman in full possession of one of his hands. He started 
to protest, and thought better of it. It was just as well 
not to run the risk of having to share a handsom with 
the Duchess. She had taken her dismissal with almost 
uncomplimentary meekness- — perhaps, he felt a pang at 

the thought — he was no long- "Aa I was saying," Lor.l 
er so attractive to women, Q ,,ex continued, 

it , , ly, as he looked down at the 

or was It that he was no abashed eavesdropper. 

longer attracted to them-' "someone else is interested 
He thought of Muriel's face in our little affairs" 

with its purity of expression, 

its soft child curves and coloring, the flower of her iip^ 

that he had not yet dared to pluck, and smiled, and 


It is the nature of women to take to themselves an) 
sign of emotion on the part of an adjacent male. Soph) 
laid down her scissors, took up a buffer and gave the 
fingers she was holding the faintest pressure. Lord Quex 
glanced at her curiously. She returned the look as Ian 
guishingly as she knew how. '"Ah, my lord," whispered 
Sophy, '"handsome men cant help being — dangerous!" 

From behind lowered lashes she peeped across at him 
with anything but admiration in her black eyes. "Wait 
till I tell Muriel that her fine Lordship tried to kiss me 
and got slapped for his impudence!'' gloated Sophy. 
"She'll know I'm not lying, and if he's tried to bribe her 
by promising to reform it'll show her what to expect." 

Lord Quex continued to stare at her, and one cornet 
of his mouth drew up in an odd grimace but he did not 
reply. Sophy changed her tactics. She dropped his fin 
gers and put her hands to her eyes with a cry of pain 
"Oh! I've got a splinter of nail in my eye. Take it out. 
please — " 

She leaned across the table, face close to his. There 
was no mistaking the frank invitation of her lips, and the\ 
were pretty lips, too. firm and crimson. But Lord Quex 

Page Thirty-} 


the Dacre-Worthing's 
dance two weeks ago. 
Jack and Jessica are 
in the seventh heaven 
at the prospect of 
having a title in the 
family. Cant you 
just hear Jess rolling 
it out 'my sister-in- 
law, Lady Quex'?" 

"But, my dearest!" 
Sophy begged her, 
"are you happy ? You 
know what they say 
about Lord Quex — 
how do you dare 
marry "him ? And — 
then there's that hand- 
s o m e captain you 
used to meet here — " 

"Don't, Sophy!" 
Muriel turned away 
abruptly, "Quex has 
promised to change — 
oh, he was so earnest 
about it! I thought 
he was going to cry. 
(Cont'd on page 72.) 

"And so," the Duchess 

was saying, "our chapter 

is over? That is . . . 

almost over!" 

did not kiss them. Instead he 
rose to his feet, drew out his 
wallet and threw a bill down 
on the table contemptuously. 
His smile was derisive. 

"Keep your kisses for your 
sweetheart, my good woman," 
he advised, "if you have one." 

Tall, irreproachably dressed, 
a trifle jaded Quex moved from 
the room and the door closed 
behind him. Sophy Fullgar- 
ney, scarlet with chagrin, stared 
after him unbelievingly. Then 
her foot came down violently 
upon the charming Bokhara- 
rug. "I hate you," flamed- 
Sophy, "1 hate you — " then, re- 
luctantly she smiled. On th£ 
whole the joke seemed to be. 
rather on her. "Hut he hasn't 
reformed — you can't tell me!" 
she cried with a vicious snap of: 
strong white teeth, "and I'll find 
some way to prove it and save 
my Muriel." 

Two days later, Muriel, love-' 
ly in' her new fall suit and a 
little blue hat that matched the 
velvety blue of her eyes drew 
her foster sister into the priv-. 
ate room. "I suppose you've 
heard," she said without ela- 
tion, "it's true. I'm engaged to 
Lord Quex. It — it happened at 

Already the two on the halcony had 
forgotten her. 

Page Thirty-Eight 


Mme. Petrova 

Arthur Hopkins 

MY car drew up to the curb just 
as Arthur Hopkins, who had 
been out "for a few minutes' 
airing" arrived at the entrance of the 
Plymouth Theater. 

With one of his most cheerful smiles, 
he opened the car door, shook hands and 
ushered me into the dim dark foyer. 

A line of maids and matrons, nary a 
man did I see, were passing one by 
one, the cashier's window. They were 
buying seats for the reopening of "The 
Jest" that dramatic tidbit of the past 

Inside the theater all was hurry and 
bustle. Cleaners, decorators, electri- 
cians, all were intent upon accomplish- 
ing a maximum of work in a minimum 
of time. They all looked cheerful and 
returned Mr. Hopkins' salutations with 

Upstairs we passed a bevy of. beau- 
tiful lasses and a goodly sprinkling of 
likeable swains. 

Mr. Hopkins nodded cheerfully and 
said he'd "be with them in a minute." 
1 thought he rather underestimated my 
prowess as an interviewer but I held my 

"Here we are," he said and out of 
the gloom of the 
dim theater we 
came into the 
glaring sunlight 
of Mr. Hopkins' 
office. There 
was no obsequi- 
o u s and 

humble retinue of secretaries 
to pass. There was 
not even a snub- 
nosed, freckle-faced 
atrociously mannered 
office boy to look one 
up and down and 

There was no room 
in which 1 might have 
been asked to wait, 
had I not literally 
fallen upon this little 
big man of the thea- 
ter outside. No, there 
Avas just the one room 
with not even a re- 
tiring roo m 
with its inevit- 
able private 

''Do y o u 
mind waiting just a 
minute or two?" Mr. 
Hopkins asked. 
"There are some peo- 

Wynn Holconib's 
conception of 
Mr. Hopkins. 


pie there whom it is no use to keep waiting, so I'll just 
tell them so and not take up their time." I said I didn't 
mind in the least and sat down on one of the two very 
hard mahogany chairs which go to form the furniture, 
or rather lack of it, of the managerial sanctum sanctorum. 

I looked about me, not very far, let it be said, for the 
room was certainly not large enough to swing, well, say 
two cats in. Except for the two chairs just mentioned a 
desk was the only other impedimenta in the way of furni- 
ture and that a plain, ordinary office desk. 

The sun glared through the wide flung window on to 
this desk and I noticed immediately that it had really 
been dusted. 

A stack of plays, some two feet high, lay to the right 

A telephone, a calendar, a couple of pens, two letters, 
held from the wooings of the wind by a piece of India 
rubber, and two stubby pencils, one nicely Fletcherized, 
were the only other articles to mar its sleek surface. 

A radiator and a box from a cleaning and dyeing house 
supported one another mutely in the right hand corner 
of the room. 

On the wall facing my chair was a small black and 
white drawing. (Mr. Hopkins told me with a perplexed 
look when I enquired about it later, that he didn't know 
what it was or how it got there.) 

Page Thirty-Nine 


Behind the door there was an electric fixture to which 
Was dangling one of the maestro's coats, stretched supinely 
on a coat hanger. Underneath his chair there was a 
small brass sign which bore the inscription in modest 
lettering : 



The carpet was grey and quite clean, which is some- 
what of a miracle in these days of contempt for such 
declasse duties as sweeping and dusting. 

I have been in many managerial offices in my time, 
some magnificent, others plainly luxurious ; some deco- 
rated and planned with the idea of expressing the owner's 
artistic temperament, but one and all bearing the unmis- 
takable stamp of belonging to those human Juggernauts 
of the theater, the managers. 

Mr. Hopkins' office is entirely without pretense. It is 
plain to bareness. It is almost the cell of an anchorite. 
No photographs bearing endearing and personal inscrip- 
tions plaster the walls ; they are innocent of anything 
but sanitas and the black and white drawing. 

Arthur Hopkins' office is a workshop. 

This man who has made the only two dramatic pro- 
ductions of the past season that can be taken without 
an acrobatic elevation of the left eyebrow, is entirely free 
from any of the highfalutin usually associated with fore- 
heads of more than two and a half inches in circumfer- 

Perhaps sixty seconds had passed in these observations 
when Mr. Hopkins returned to the room. 

He sat back in the other hard mahogany, but swivel 
chair and genially enquired what was on my mind. I 
said that Mr. Brewster, of Shadowland, had particularly 
requested me to find out, if I could, what Mr. Hopkins 
thought of moving pictures, star systems, actors' strikes, 
artistic temperaments, breakfast foods, the high cost of 
living, the still higher cost of dying, prohibition, I. W. 
W.'s, Great Neck, L. I., the servant problem, interior 
decorating, education of the classes, not to speak of the 
masses — I stopped for breath. 

Mr. Hopkins cast an anxious eye toward the door, but 
stuck manfully to the hard mahogany chair. 

"Suppose we start with moving pictures," I suggested. 

"Righto,'' he agreed. 

"What is your general impression of the cinema, Mr. 
Hopkins?" I queried. 

"Well, I'll tell you," he said musingly. "I am surprised 
to see what a number of conventions have become defi- 
nitely established in a business so young as the moving 
picture business." 

"I notice you refer to the cinema as a business," I re- 

"Isn't it?" said Arthur Hopkins. "Of course, the 
potential possibilities of the xinema as an art are there 
undoubtedly, but apart even from certain commercial 
restrictions there must be a less blind obedience to estab- 
lished customs if the art of the moving picture is to 
progress with its commerce." 

'And do you think that possible ?" I asked. 

"Oh, yes," replied Mr. Hopkins, cheerfully. 

"And where do you think that that Utopia lies?" I 
queried again. 

"In the hands of the financial powers and the producers 
of moving pictures," he said. 

"Which do you consider the most hampering of these 
conventions ?" 

"At the present time," returned Mr. Hopkins, "there are 
two which stand out above others of lesser importance. 
One is, that because a thing hasn't been done it must not 
be done, and the other, that every story logically or illogi- 
cally must have a happy ending." 

"Leaving the first statement as irrefutable, do you 

Page forty 

really think that the American public will ever be satisfied 
with the 'unhappy' ending, paradoxical as that ending 
may be?" I asked. 

"Certainly I do," he answered. "We are at present 
in the rut of 'happy endings' ; they are for the time being 
the fashion, but that fashion like other fashions will 
change. In thinking over the big artists of the past and 
the plays which they interpreted one finds that they were 
nearly all tragedians and nearly all tragedies. And yet the 
galleries were filled and it was the galleryite who was 
the real critic of the piece." 

"Which do you think will be responsible for the tragedy 
cf the future? - ' I enquired, "the taste of the mob or the 
taste of the producer?" 

"If the producer will not produce tragedy, it is certain 
that the public will have no opportunity to express its 
approval or disapproval," he replied. "In the case of the 
two plays which have filled the Plymouth Theater for 
the past season, both are what are usually denounced by 
producers as morbid and unhappy." 

"In 'Redemption' the principal character, played by 
John Barrymore, shoots himself in the stomach and in 
the 'Jest' the two principal characters go tearing mad." 

"And yet the theater was filled?" I put in. 

Mr. Hopkins nodded his head. . "And," I went on as 
the maestro regarded space, "the 'Jests' is a costume play, 
another offence against the conventions of the modern 

Mr. Hopkins raised his shoulders and his palms spread 
gently, "Even so," he said. 

"And again," I continued, "both plays are what are 
called highbrow and yet even the gallery was filled." 

"Yes, even the gallery," he repeated. 

"By the way, what is 'highbrow' really?" I asked. 

He regarded me with a puzzled and contemplative air. 
"I dont know," he said simply. "I dont think there is 
such a thing." 

"How do you account for the success of some of the 
thoroly stupid theatrical and screen productions one 
sees?" I asked. 

"The people have to go somewhere for amusement," 
he said, "and if producers will not give the public credit 
for being able to enjoy caviare with steak and 
onions they must be satisfied with steak and onions or go 
hungry. However, I am quite sure that it never occurs 
to the people who leave the Plymouth Theater, that they 
have been witnessing what may be referred to as a high- 
brow play. They have either been interested and enter- 
tained or they haven't. One cannot please everybody. 
The preponderance of public opinion, however, would 
prove that they will accept the tragedy or the so-called 
highbrow play, even the costume play, if they are so inter- 
ested and so entertained. In the case for instance of 'The 
Jest' certain patrons have witnessed the performance nine 
and ten times." 

I confessed to three visits to "The Jest" myself. 

"Of course," said Mr. Plopkins, "there will always be 
patrons for other types of theatrical entertainment just 
as there will always be patrons for The Atlantic Monthly, 
and patrons for the penny dreadful. The world is large 
and there is room for all." 

"Evidently, then," I said, "you are of the opinion that 
it is really difficult for the producer or the actor to 'go 
over the heads' of the public." 

Mr. Hopkins smiled. "That reminds me of a good 
story," he said. 

"It was back in the days when I used to book acts for 
Martin Beck. A legitimate actor was making his first 
vaudeville appearance in a one-act play. On the Monday 
afternoon, at the matinee, to use the vernacular, he 'died.' 
A typical 'hick' vaudevillian had been watching him from 
the side and when the actor came off the stage, he slapped 
(Continued on page 76.) 



A Comedy in One Act 

By Hadi Barron 
and Saxon Cone 

Illustrations by 
Oscar Frederick Howard 

Time: B. P. 

(.Before Prohibition) 

SCENE : Sonia 
K a r o v i a ' s 
boudoir, the 
kind of a room a 
respectable person 
from East Machias. 
Maine, would prob- 
able describe as 
outlandish. Black 
velvet curtains out- 
line the French 
windows (dramatic 
windows are al- 
ways French) in 
the back ; the walls 
are hung with 
strange crayon 
sketches, Russian, 
fatalistic; an ivory 
chaise longue piled 
with the pelts of 
furred animals and 
burdened with ex- 
otic cushions is 
drawn up before 
the fire at the 
right ; beside it is a 
table set out with 
a samovar, decant- 
ers and slender, 
fiery glasses. There 
is a tall lacquered 

lamp with a purple silk shade. Black velvet cushions 
with gold tassels lie about the bare, polished floors : an 
ivory dressing-table with triplicate mirrors stands before 
the windows with a cane-panelled bench before it. It 
bears, besides the conventional aides de beaute, a large 
ivory skull and a pleasant little incense burner in the 
shape of a modern mausoleum. Several brocaded loung- 
ing chairs stand about the room. A door beyond the fire- 
place at the right leads into the bedroom, intriguingly 
glimpsed ; one in the opposite wall leads to the corridor. 
The room is lighted by candles smothered in mauve silk. 
A bowl of Peruvian orchids gives a sullen note over the 
mantle, and clouds and then more clouds of incense 
make the atmosphere. 

Sonia sits before her mirror, doing the final retouch- 
ing. Ultra is the word that belongs to Sonia. She is 
more modern than the latest "Follies,'' more sophisti- 
cated than "Peppy Fiction,'' more to be pitied than 
censored, as 'twere. 

She is mysterious, challenging. She has wicked, Theda- 
Barish hair, drawn low, and coiled. She has rouged ear- 
lobes and shaven brows. She wears a gown which, 
besides many other adjectives, is inconsiderable. She is, 
in the words of the Super-Cosmic Films Press agent — 

. g 

'"One who has brought from How do I look to-night, 

Russia to the screen a strange, Ellen?" said Soma. "He 

, ,« i ■ is so exacting ... so epi- 

erotic soul, a restless, seeking C urean ... so fastidious?" 

melancholy. This greatest of 

all vampires may be seen in her 

latest picture 'More Scarlet Than Sin,' at the Lyric, etc., 

etc., etc., ad press-agentum." 

The maid, Ellen, is remarkable for nothing at all, other 
than that she is a maid, which is rare enough. As the 
curtain rises she is hooking her mistress' viperish gown 
with the green and golden scales. Since there is practi- 
cally no back to it the process is comparatively simple. 

Sonia fin an accent which she slips up on at times) - : 

How do I look tonight, Ellen?.. . . He is so exact- 
ing ... so epicurean ... so fastidious? 
Ellen (stolidly) : 

You look very good, ma'am. 

Sonia (wildly) : 

Very good ! O, cruel ! Cruel to use that word on this, 
my night of nights . . . cruel to make me . . . remember 
(she shrinks back, thrusting nothing whatever at all so far 
as one can see away from her). Come ! The past is done 
with . . . onlv . . . that word . . . that word "good" 

Page Forty-One 


(she shudders). You use such ridiculously plebian 
words, Ellen. 

Ellen (dejectedly) : 
It's Mills Groves coming out in me, ma'am. Once, I 
tried being a French maid, but lor ! it wasn't any use. I 
could manage the Monseers and Maddermerzelles and I 
could even say Mong Doo without blushing — but they 
found me out — (shakes her bead, sadly). 

Sonia : 
How ? 

Ellen : 

I just couldn't play up to the husbands, ma'am. You 
see, I was brought up a Freshwater Baptist and_ (apolo- 
getically) the husbands in Mills Grove only kist their 
own wives. I couldn't seem to catch on however I tried. 
(Sonia (with a Russian shrug) : 

La, la ! Kist their own wives ! What a quaint custom ! 
A touch more powder under the eyes . . . no, no . . . 
stupid ! Not the pink ! Am I a simpering school-girl ? 
The greenish powder. (She regards herself complacently 
in the mirror, tries the effect of lowering her lashes until 
her eyes are mere slits, leans her chin on the back of her 
hands, showing the henna-dyed nails.) Do I look — 
devilish — do you think, my Ellen? 

Ellen (agreeably) : "Are you aimin' to get 

You look like the devil, wied,mriuai • • : e / VV 

, T , , r Madam : demanded fc.1- 

ma am, Lord forgive me tor j en ^ bluntly 

usin' such words ! 

Sonia (musingly) : 

Ah, Ellen, what do you know of the grande monde 
. . . you, with your artless, amusing ideas. You, who 
have never looked upon my Gerald. He is a cosmopolite, 
a man of the world, Ellen, with finesse in the very caress 
of his most distant finger tips. To him, a woman is an 
episode, beautiful . . . but transient. He is ze grand 
artiste of love. To him, each affair is a poem, exquisitely 
cadenced, rising to its predestined climax, rounded out, 
mellow, completed. I am a poem to him. 
Ellen (sniffing) : 

I know . . . blank verse. It dont sound respectable 
to me, ma'am. 

Sonia (smiling) : 

Respectability has its place, my girl, but its place is in 
the dictionary. A country girl with no waist line may 
think the word a compliment but for one woman of the 
world to emplov it to another would be rank insult. 
Ellen (bluntly) : 

Are you aimin' to get married, ma'am . . . er . . . 
madam ? 

Page Forty-Two 


Soma (laughing, nervously): 
Marriage . . . odd, peasant custom. And yet . . . 
(she leans forward, hissing out the words). Since you 
ask . . . yes ! Yes, I love him so much that I am willing 
to sacrifice my last, most delicate scruple. I am willing 
to marry him. It is absurd for a woman who has felt 
the hot breath of the love of the Sahara beating upon 
her to sink to such depths of banality, to such comedies 
of the commonplace but I ... I, in my love, am . . . 
shameless . . . (Sudden pealing of the bell outside. 
Sonia hastily lights a gold-tipped Russian cigarette and 
flings herself in a sinuous careless pose on the chaise- 
longe, turning off all but the single tall lamp which 
gives her face the pleasantly ghoulish aspect of one of 
Aubrey Beardsley's chalk ladies. Ellen goes out and 
returns with a letter which she hands to Sonia.) 
Sonia (with a cry) : 
O. God . . . from them! (She opens it with dis- 
traught fingers and reads, then flings it from her, despair- 
ingly.) A woman can no more escape from her past than 
she can from her love, from her shadow. I shall have 
to tell him and he will despise me. She wrings her 
hands and paces up and down the room, then with a 
tragic gesture she bows her small, sleek head.) Kismet! 
So be it! I will tell him — all. (She turns to Ellen.) 
You may go, Ellen. I shall admit him myself. Do not 
come unless I ring for you. ( Ellen goes out at the right. 
The door bell peals again. Sonia gestures again, with 
despair, then slinks across the room and slinks back 
again, ushering in Gerald Haslett. 

Gerald is a Sonia Karovia all over again, save in the 
mere matters of sex and the henna-tinted nails. He is 
aw'fly tailored, aw 'fly manicured, aw'fly barbered, aw'fly 
svelte and sleek and slim. O, he is aw'fly, aw'fly alto- 

gether . . . He speaks with a slight accent, also, but is 
somewhat elusive as to its origin. He has a "way" with 

Sonia sinks again among the cushions of the chaise- 
longe and languidly invites Gerald to grace a low otto- 
man beside her. She gives him absinthe in a little fiery 
glass and regards him thru long lids and spirals of grey 
smoke. The fire licks the hearth with lean, lascivious 
lips and the mausoleum manufactures the incense with 
a certain substantiality. 

Sonia ( beguilingly ) : 

This room is thick with dreams of you, my love, thick 
with my fragrant, foreign dreams of you . . . 

Gerald (what with the absinthe, the incense and the 
woman ) : 

The dreams are my own, too, my Soul. I love you, 
Sonia. O, forgive me, dear, forgive me if I hurt you, 
if I wound you or offend you, but I want you to . . . 
to marry me, dont wince, love, I want you to marry me 
so that you may be mine, forever, forever and as many 
days thereafter. (Warming up rapidly.) I want to put 
a chain and ball of gold and chrysoprase about your ankle, 
sweet. I want to bind you, to enslave you, to imprison 
you, I want to fortress you in love, you Wicked One, you 
Wild One, you Poppy from the Far, Far East, you . . . 
Sonia (tragically) : 
Wait ! Wait while I still have 
the courage — there is something 
I must tell you . . . 

Gerald (surprisedly) : 

Something you must tell . . . 

Sonia (covering her face with 
her hands) : 

"Well, since it seems to 
distress you so unneces- 
sarily, suppose you per- 
mit me to guess your scar- 
let secret!" said Gerald, 
amusedly. "A little af- 
faire de coeur with a 
Grand Duke, perhaps? 
No one could blame you ,: 

Page Fortv-Three 

. ■■„. _■ 


Yes . . . you would find out, sooner or later . . . and 
I could not bear the suspense. Better to tell you now . . . 
better to lose you now than . . . 

Gerald (pleasantly reassuring) : 

If you mean that you already have a husband . . .dont 
distress yourself so, my Love . . . 

Sonia (scornfully): 

A husband ! Do I look like the sort of a woman who 
would distress herself over — a husband? No, no! It is 
something else. Something terrible. I am not what you 
think ... 1 have been ... I have lived . . . O, God, 
how can I say it ? I have had a ... a Past. 

Gerald (unmoved, save with an increase of admira- 
tion) : 

You could not have such a glorious Present without a 
Past. It is this Past, my Own, that has given you your 
m y s t e r i- 
ous, flavored 
eyes, flavored 
with the Ori- 
ent, with the 
jade-g r e e n 
waters of the 
Nile : your 
ripe lips ; your 
strange, pale 
hands. I 
could not 
have loved 
you had not 
Life loved 
you first. 

Sonia (star- 
ing bleakly 
before her) : 

You do not 
underst and. 
Every word 
you utter is a 
stab in my 
hear t. O, 
how can I 
tell you, how 
can I, how 

(lighting a 
cigaret) : 

Let us not 
speak of it 
again. I am 
a man of the 

himself on your threshold and a nine days wonder ensued 
. . . bah, my dear, a mere bagatelle . . . 
Sonia (choking) : 
No, it was not that either, much worse, much . . . 
much . . . 

Gerald (enjoying his own magnanimity) : 
Well, then, a stolen lune de miel on the Riviera with a 
king incog. Ah, now, surely I have guessed it. (He 
shakes a merry finger at her.) Tut! tut! You naughty 
enchantress . . . there is a subtle charm, tho, in playing 
understudy to a king. 

Sonia (desperately catching up the letter and holding 
it out to him) : 

You could never guess it ! There are depths you could 
not know ! Read this ... it will tell you what I . . . 
what I dare not say ! 

( A long sil- 
ence while he 
reads the let- 
ter and she 
waits, taut 
and desper- 
ate. At last 

• ••) 
Gerald (in 




ou may go 

world. It is not what you have been in 

your delirious past. It is what you are. 

You are a miracle, cherie, and I adore you. 

I see the soul of the steppes in your eyes, the mystery 

and the melancholy of all the inscutable Slavs. You are 

the Thing Beyond for which we commoner dust must 

seek . . . 

Sonia ( faintly) : 

Dont ! I m ust tell you . . . 

Gerald (amusedly) : 

Well, since it seems to distress you so unnecessarily, 
suppose you permit me to guess your scarlet secret ! A 
little affaire de cccur with a Grand Duke, perhaps? They 
have their facinations, those Grand Dukes. No one could 
blame you . . . 

Sonio ( wriggling her ringed hands) : 

Oh, if it only were that, if it were only that . . . 

Gerald (continuing between fastidious smoke rings) : 

Or possibly some younger son of the blue nobility killed 


Sonia in bewilderment. 

letter in 

And so . . . 
so you have 
deceived me ! 
(throwing out 
her arms to 
him) : 

If you but 
knew how 
many hours I 
have passed 
. . . how many 
hours of mis- 
ery — a lone 
with memory. 
If you knew 
how I have 
tried to live 
those old days 
down. How 
I have striven 
to make my- 
self a woman 
a man like 
you could respect and admire . . . and I 
had hoped . . . love ... I was so young 
... I did not realize ... I did not know. 
Gerald (gloomily, coldly) : 
these stories about your birth in darkest Russia 

are — lies ? 

Sonia (pleadingly) : 

They were meant to allure the picture fans, If they 
had guessed the truth about the screen's most famous 
vampire I would have been ruined. Oh, surely, you 
must see . . . 

Gerald (bitterly) : 

I see that I have been loving a woman who has never 
existed. To think that for sixteen years you lived . . . 
(he breaks off with a groan. Rises, takes a short, sharp 
stride about the room, returns and drops thuddingly back 
onto the ottoman). 

Sonia (flinging herself on the floor and crawling to 
{Continued on page 80.) 

Page Forty-Four 





One of the most beautiful of the es- 
tates in the Beverly Hills, between 
Los Angeles and Santa Monica. Cali- 
fornia, is the home of Douglas Fair- 
banks. It is situated on the top of the 
highest foothills. The view from 
every window is incomparable — the 
mountains on one side and the wide 
open country stretching away to the 
beach on the other. Decidedly Eng- 
lish is the broad sweep of the lawn 

Page Forty-Fi 


At the left is Mr. 
Fairbanks' dining 
room. The predomi- 
nating colors are buff 
and blue 

Below, the entrance 
hall with tile floor of 
light blue and white 
and staircase of white 
and mahogany. At 
the left is the en- 
trance to the living 
room. A motion pic- 
ture projection ma- 
chine "shoots" thru 
an opening between 
the tall candlesticks 
into the living room 

Page Forty-Six 

At the right, Doug's 
heilroom of mauve 
anil black. The rug 
is Tasmanian opos- 

Below, another view 
of the Fairbanks 
estate from the 
swimming pool. 
The path leads to 
dressing rooms and 
shower. In front 
of the pool is 
Doug's private 

... _ .J 
Page Forty-Seven 


The Nash Twins are popular 

features of the Hippodrome 


No Hippodrome entertainment 
would seem to be complete 
without Belle Storey, who has 
been there a number of sea- 
sons as prima donna 

At the 

Page Forty-Eight 


"Abraham Lincoln, "Aphrodite, et al. 


in "East is "^"est" 

By The Critic 

Illustrated by Wynn Holcomb 

CRITICS of the Am- 
erican stage may 
well give pause be- 
fore they contribute their 
facetiousness anent its 
lack of progress and imagi- 
nation. In reality, Ameri- 
can producers were never 
more adventurous or striv- 
ing harder than at the pres- 
ent time, What of a thea- 
ter which offers such 
varied things at a single 
moment as the Barrymores 
in "The Jest," Ethel Barry- 
more in "Declasse," the na- 
tive farce adroitness of 
"Wedding Bells," the high 
color of "Aphrodite" or the 
uncanny force of "Abra- 
ham Lincoln"? 

We saw "Abraham Lin- 
coln" at its out-of-New 
York premiere. This play 
by the British poet. John 
Drinkwater, has for several 

in "The Lost Leader" 

seasons been the sensation of 
the London theater. That an 
Englishman could write a vivid 
play of an American so redolent 
of our pioneer soil aroused end- 
less discussion. Xow the Brit- 
ish-made drama of the greatest 
of Americans has come to our 

It is an oddly gripping play — 
of course, without love interest 
and following history fairly 
closely — but in breadth of vision, 
dramatic poetry and absorbing 
force, it is a big piece of work. 
Seldom have we been so ab- 
sorbed by the footlights. 

A veritable unknown, Frank 
McGlynn, plays Lincoln and 
plays him admirably. And we 
can conceive of no more diffi- 
cult task than recreating a na- 
tional character of Lincoln's 
gigantic proportions. "Abraham 
Lincoln" will singularly stir New 
York — or we miss our guess. 

Probably no dramatic offering 
in years has aroused the talk of 
"Aphrodite," the drama built 
upon Pierre Louys' peppy novel 
and imported from the French 
stage. Briefly. "Aphrodite"' pre- 
sents the story of the awaken- 
ing of love in the heart of De- 
metrious, a Greek sculptor, for 
the Galilean courtesan, Chrysis. 

in the comedy, "Clarence" 

in the degenerate days of old 
Alexandria, when every one car- 
ried a name like a Pullman car. 

Preceded by whispered tales 
of its daring, its pagan appeal, 
and so on, "Aphrodite" opened to 
a jammed Century Theater at 
which the admission price was 
ten dollars per seat. And the 
critics came away, murmuring of 
its "sensuous attraction" and its 
"exotic carnality" in varying de- 
grees. We found it rather un- 
inspired and wholly unshocking. 
We admit its high coloring, its 
moments of effectiveness and its 
rare and brief flashes of pagan 
gayety, as in Michel Fokine's 
Bacchanalian ballet, but "Aphro- 
dite" never once achieves the 
sensuous appeal and lure of 
"Sumurun." Principally, 
"Aphrodite" is defective in its 
musical score. And music can 
be infinitely more seductive and 
stirring to the imagination than 
all the briefly clad extras in the 

"Aphrodite" marks the stage 
return of Dorothy Dalton, the 
screen star, as the unconven- 
tional charmer, Chrysis. Miss 
Dalton really surprised us with 
her ability to read lines, her 
grace and her general charm. 
We hear that Alme. Petrova was 

Page Forty-Nine 


offered this role, and it will 
always be our regret that we 
failed to see her as Chrysis. 
McKay Morris, who has been 
doing brilliant work with the 
Stuart Walker company for 
several years, plays the sculp- 
tor superbly. Morris is with- 
out question one of our best 
oung actors. 
One of our most enjoyable 
evenings of the season was 
spent at "Wedding Bells," 
Salisbury Fields' cleverly 
written farce which, minus 
beds and boudoirs, some- 
how manages to be highly 
amusing. That adroit little 
comedienne, Margaret 
Lawrence, is exceedingly 
diverting, and Wallace Ed- 
dinger is at his best as the 
hero who lingers close to 
the lips of his first wife 

ily built comedy, "Too 
Many Husbands." The 
Maugham of "The Moon 
and Sixpence" and other 
novels is one person, 
while the Maugham who 
delicately points such de- 
licious comedies as "Too 
Many Husbands" 
is quite another. 
But the remarkable 
character drawing 
is in both. This 
comedy is admir- 
ably written and finely 
played by Lawrence 
Grossmith, Kenneth 
Douglas and Estelle 

"The Unknown 
Woman," in which Mar- 
jorie Rambeau emotes 
and emotes, is still with 
New Yorkers at this 

in "Nightie Night" 

with a new wedding arranged for the 

"My Lady Friends" is of a slightly deeper 
Continental flavor but of more time work mate- 
rials. In fact, if it were not for Clifton Craw- 
ford's work, we suspect it might well become 
tedious. "My Lady Friends" revolves around 
the efforts of the blundering but wealthy 
Jimmy Smith to spend money innocently upon 
some young ladies because his wife will never 
indulge in a single extravagance. "My Lady 
Friends" brings to town another discovery, the 
little dimple-kneed June Walker, who is as 
fresh and unsophisticated an ingenue as we 
ever hope to see. 

"Nightie Night" is another amusing farce, 
and, like "My Lady Friends" and "Wedding 
Bells," it gets 
along very well 
without the cus- 
tomary bedroom 
comforts. "Nightie 
Night" is more of 
the slam-doors- 
room type of farce 
than the other two, 
but it is hilariously 
funny at times. 

Of all the foot- 
light things in New 
York, do not miss 
W. Somerset 
Maugham's froth- 

in "The Little Whopper' 

in "Too Many Husbands" 

'The Gold Diggers'' 

writing. Which baffles us. This hectic 

drama, wherein the hero is again saved 

from the electric chair at the eleventh hour, 

has all the old clap-trap, hectic stuff of a 

generation of melodramas. 

Rather belated is George V. Hobart's 
"Buddies," a sort of Americanization of 
"The Better 'Ole," with scenes behind the 
Yankee lines in France after the armistice. 
Beneath the war atmosphere lies the most 
hackneyed of plots, revolving around the 
deep-dyed villain who holds a dark secret 
over an old woman's head in order to force 
a marriage with her daughter. Peggy Wood 
is an attractive French maid, altho her sing- 
ing does not particularly please us, Donald 
Brian plays a mere private, (shades of 
"Merry Widow" 
days !) , and Roland 
Young walks away 
with the honors as 
a diffident, bashful 
young lover. 

Now to turn to 
the musical efforts. 
Like every one 
else, we feel that 
we ought to like 
"Apple Blossoms," 
Fritz Kreisler's op- 
eretta plus Joseph 
Urban settings, but 
{Continued on papr 

Page Fifty 








WE are 
a great 
deal about vari- 
eus kinds of un- 
rest. There is la- 
bor unrest result- 
ing in a new 
strike almost 
every minute. 
There is social 
unrest manifested 
by a class who, 
during the war 
for the first time 
justified their ex- 
istence by actual- 
ly doing some real 
work, becoming 
useful members 
of society and 
now are uncer- 
tain as to whether 
they have the 
moral courage to 
carry the demo- 
cratic spirit of 
war time into 
times of peace. 
There is religious 
unrest, mani- 
fested in strange 
and devious ways 
and, certainly 
there is fashion- 
able unrest. It 
would almost 
seem that the 
modistes of to- 
day, reflecting the 
spiritualistic ten- 
dencies of the 
times, had been 
holding superna- 
tural consulta- 
tions with the 

modistes of mid Victorian days, of Louis XVI days, 
with that famous dictator of fashion, Empress Eugenie, 
with the designers of the gayest, most frivolous and 
most extravagant in dress of all periods. 

The present unrest and extravagance are mirrored in 
a kaleidoscope of fashions of all periods ; gowns full of 
skirt, broadly draped at the hips, gowns long in line, 
scantily draped or without drapery of any kind, and 

especially it seems that the Tea gown of silver bro- 

coteries of dressmakers have c ? 1 de thi 1 ffo 1 n ov Q ! r sl l i P f of 

. , , ,, silver cloth. Skunk fur 

tried to outdo one another in bandings. Bonwit Teller 

using quantities of costly & Co. 


Many women for reasons of personal taste or becom- 
ingness will wear the statelier fabrics. Wonderful loom 

Page Fifty-One 


products in velvets, brocades, heavy satins, 
duvetyns and velours do their part in affording 
gorgeous gowns and wraps. This is a far cry 
from the simple dress of the days when we 
did war work and devoted little thought to 
clothes and seems like a wanton waste unless 
we stop to consider how the vogue for certain 
things which creates great demand for them 
develops industries and keeps the wheels of 
business whirring. 

The woman who prefers sheer stuffs may 
revel in crepe, dainty printed silks, gauzy, filmy 
silk in which lines of metal threads have woven 
themselves thru its texture in designs of every 
kind and in a seeminglv limitless array of 
colors. There are voiles that cheerfully lend 
themselves to every kind of design, knit fab- 
rics woven of soft fiber silk in plain and fancy 
weaves, a soft twilled silk which looks like silk 
jersey but is of more solid construction and is 
much liked for daytime frocks. 
Novel Trimmings 

There is a blaze of color on the winter hori- 
zon, with vivid blues, emerald green, henna, 
reds, and yellows mingled or used separately 
in' knitted bands, wool and silk embroideries, 
and chenille traceries in gay bright colors. 

Suede is much used as a trimming. 
Tailored suits in dark tones show either a sub- 
dued-in-color suede vest embroidered in the 
brightest of silks, or the vest itself is of some 
conspicuous color. 

With dark tailored suits and also in chemise 
dresses, narrow patent leather and kid belts of 
brick red, bright green, deep orange, yellow, 
and brilliant blue are worn. Brocades of 
brilliant tones are used for deep girdles on 
black satin dresses. Metal ribbons, glazed in 
color, are used for girdles and vests, and gros- 
grain ribbons as a hip trimming arranged in 
long and short loops. 

Crystal and jet are wrought in intricate 
traceries and solid patterns on sheer grounds 
for elaborate afternoon and evening gowns. 
Beading in different ways and designs carry 
out the scheme of oriental designs in some dis- 
tinctive evening dresses. 

Paradise aigrettes uncurled and glycerined 
ostrich trim chic medium size hats of velvet or 
silk. Hats that roll from the face are new 
except in the instance of very small turbans. 
The vogue for styles that turn off the face has 
brought a tendency for elaborate facings and 
means that , all trims are decidedly near the 
face. The new fad for dropping the trimming 
on the hair at the side or back is another fea- 
ture of the season and this, too, means the 
under brim trim. 

A Defined Bust and Waist Line 
It is said that the straight or chemise robes 
were an outcome of war days when there were 
few women to sew and women had little time 
to devote to the putting on of complicated 
frocks. These frocks did away with the 
necessity of corsets and we, it is accused, 

became careless in 
our dress and dress- 
makers became 
equally careless, so 
the new and elabo- 
rate frocks have a 
two- fold mission — 

"Lanvin" frock of black 
net trimmed with motifs 
and bandings of opales- 
cent shell and crystal 
beads. Bouffant net effect 
at hip. Bonwit Teller 
& Co. 

Page Fifty-Two 


that of improving the art of making clothes 
as well as that of wearing them. 

Certain authorities announce with decision 
that many gowns are to be made over boned 
foundations which will define both bust and 
waist line. The influence of the old- 
fashioned basque is strongly marked in some 
of the blouses which fit the body snugly 
and fiare in a full peplum before the long 
waist line. It is- quite probable, however, 
that an athletic generation will demand that 
the waist line, tho defined, will not be con- 
strained, and the easily donned frock is too 
comfortable and too altogether practical to 
be entirely discarded. In short, when fashion 

Both Photographs by Underwood & Underwood 

Left, one-piece gown of black 
velvet with squirrel collar and 
pockets. Black silk tassels from 
shoulder to hem, giving a long 
line to costume. Brilliant 
orange velvet hat with uncurled 
ostrich of the same color con- 
trasts with the gown. 

Above, this Lady Duff Gordon 
evening gown is of black satin 
and tulle. The waist is made 
entirely of sequins. The heav- 
ily beaded girdle is looped at 
one side 

longer determined by the Pal- 
ing them about knee length. 
take kindly to the extremely 
cept the style. Skirts are q 

says, at Paris, wider hips, 
smaller waists, fuller 
skirts, the American 
woman says, "Yes, to an 
extent," but she has no 
intention of making herself 
ridiculous or uncomfort- 

Lexgth and Width of 
There is versatility in 
the length and width of 
skirts. The length is no 
isienne who has been wear- 
American women do not 
short skirt and will not ac- 
rowinsr fuller and varv in 

Page Fifty-Three 


Gowns for Afternoon and 


With the fitted line, the ful- 
ler skirt, hips are returning. 
On an afternoon dress of satin 
worn by one model the hips 
were gracefully broadened by 
a straight length of material 
looped three times at the sides 
and reaching from the long 
waist line to the hem. In a 
plainer chemise frock of trico- 
tine the wider hip look is ac- 
complished by ruffles simulat- 
ing pocket flaps, or by big 
pockets trimmed with fur 
bands or fur fringe. Another 
frock of black satin was 
draped slightly across the 
front at the hips, the folds 
very flatly drawn. This bit ef 
drapery is interesting and ex- 
tremely popular. In other 
smart afternoon dresses of silk 
or satin a pert-looking plait 
at one side gives hip prom- 

The pannier is an established 
fact, especially in evening 
gowns, and is achieved by 
pretty, odd devices. Evening 
frocks of great beauty of line 
and color have close-fitting 
bodices and skirts widely dis- 
tended at the hips. Some- 
times these panniers are wired, 
particularly if the skirt is 
made of tulle. Often too, the 
(Continued on page 73) 

Both Photographs by Underwood & Underwood 

width according to the material 
and character of the model. 
Many models show a fullness 
from the hips to the knees with 
a slight narrowing tendency to- 
ward the hem. In length they 
are about seven inches from the 
ground and average in width 
from one vard and a half to 

Parisian traveling coat of 
Scotch mixture which has 
become very popular be- 
cause of simple lines and 

Placed way at the back of 
this black panne velvet 
chapeau, this gorgeous 
burnt orange paradise is 
a most striking trimming. 

two yards. 

Separate skirts of dark plaid 
materials, Jersey fabrics, silk and wool novelties accor- 
deon and box plaited measure two yards and a fourth 
in width, while finely plaited crepe de chine skirts are 
fuller, some measuring as much as three yards. 

Page Fifty-Four 



By Jameson Sewell 

Drawing by Wynn Holcomb 

LORD DUNSANY may create word pictures, paint- 
ing dream cities of burnished gold, green jade and 
precious stones, but my vividest recollection of him 
will always center about a huge pair of yellow leather 
boots. For, when I first met Lord Dunsany, just after 
he had landed in New York, those aforementioned shoes 
seemed the absorbing part of his attire. They riveted 

Then, of course, there was his English tweed clothes, 
draped as only a London tailor can drape, (thank 
heaven!), his soft shirt with necktie a little askew, and 
his monocle, with which he transfixed me upon occasion. 

I admitted to Lord Dunsany that he did not impress 
me as a poet or a dreamer. At which he laughed. "Back 
home, even my neighbors little suspect me as a writer. 
Only just before I sailed I was at a dinner and, after I 
had spoken, I overheard some one say, 'Does that chap 
write?' And one of my neighbors came to my defense 
with a hasty and hearty denial ! 

"In reality, writing absorbs but a fraction of my time," 
he continued. "I write perhaps a whole day once a 

Directing the rehearsals of "Aphrodite," in which he staged the Bacchanalian Ballet 


month. Then I write rapidly, transferring my thoughts 
swiftly to paper. Luckily, I am able financially to do 
this. Not that I believe this to be the right way to write. 
Need is the big spur to endeavor, I verily believe." 

Lord Dunsany 
came to America 
fresh from his serv- 
ice in the world war. 
Thru these trying 
years he has written 
little or nothing. 
Lord Dunsany, Ed- 
ward John Moreton 
Drax Plunkett, lives 
on his inherited es- 
tate at Meath, Ire- 
land. There he en- 
joys a strenuous 
outdoor life, spend- 
ing a great deal of 
time in the saddle. 
This necromancer of 
words but recently 
left his post in the 
Coldstream Guards, 
in which he served 
not only thru the 
recent war, but in 
Britain's South Af- 
rican campaign. 

"Let us not think 
about it," he said, 
in response to my 
question about the 
war. "We are too 
near to see it with 
understanding eyes. 
"I shall never 
forget walking thru 
those deserted cities 
(Continued on page 

Page Fifty-Five- 




The screen "vamps" might suc- 
cessfully picket the studios 
and — 

' U 


The ingenues would or- 
ganize en masse while — 

i h % w {-Mm, - 




Pagrc Fifty-Six 


n cm, 

H CL <& 

The leading men 
would demand fifty 
per cent more close- 
ups and a two-hour 
working day, but — 

If the Strike Fever 
Hits the Movies 





O -*.<£-> 

The real crisis would come 

when the bathing girls walked 




Page Fifty-Seven 



Peggy Wood has just scored a de- 
cided hit in that comedy of armistice 
days in France, "Buddies." In it 
Miss Wood steps from the drama to 
musical comedy — and makes the step 
very successfully 

"Nightie Night," now running 
at the Princess Theater, is one 
of the liveliest farces in years. 
In it Dorothy Mortimer has 
made a decided success all her 

Page Fifty-Eight 


By Ann Paul 

"\ /"OU have," said Martin Senior, consulting a care- 
Y fully compiled memorandum book bound in em- 
A bossed morocco leather, "cost me, since birth, 
precisely two hundred and ninety-three thousand dollars 
down to the cent. I never have permitted my invest- 
ments to go bad on me. I am ready to collect.'' 

Martin Junior flung up 
his hands. "You can 
have all I've got, guv'- 
nor," he asserted, cheer- 
fully, "but I'm afraid 
what I've got will be a 
bum return on your as- 
tonishing but probably 
merited investment. 
Let's see . . two bull 
pups . . . blooded, of 
course . . . six cars 
... a 'plane ... a 
sweetheart, here and 
there . . . pippins, you 
can rely on it . . . ac- 
counts, 'joolry,' much 
good will. ..." 

The elder Martin 
raised a heavy, admon- 
ishing hand. The same 
hand, stirring the soap 
vats back in the '90's had 
made this young upstart's 
impudence possible. 

n o better 
return o n 
my invest- 
ment,'' he 
told his 
son and 
heir, "than 

the one I've in mind for 
vou. You've srot the one 

"I, on my few 
never saw you but what 
you were far from where 
you should have been, 
generally with a hussy, 
dressed or partially un- 
dressed, on either side 
of vou ..." 

thing I haven't got and cant buy ... as I want to. 
That's youth." 

"Youth?" Martin considered the point. 
m "Which spells," grimly said the elder 

Martin, "in this instance . . . work." 
"Er . . . you said . . . ?" 
"I said . . . work. W-o-r-k, you prob- 
ably have heard of it in some of your 
more obsolete text-books. It's an old- 
fashioned custom practiced quite 
generally, at one time, among the 
younger generation of the male 
species. It may be out of date, 
but so am I, and I guess, if 
you like the glittering bul- 
wark that has thus far 
sustained y o u, you'll 
have to like it, too." 

"There's work and 
work," sparred Martin 

"This is factory 
work," said the old man, 
adding, succinctly 

Martin, Junior, in 
some historic part of his 
childhood had been pilot- 
ed by some valuable 
foreman thru the 
yards and sheds in 
which myriad persons 
concocted his father's 
fabulous soaps. He re- 
membered the pilotage 
as distinctly nauseous. 
His nurse had timidly 
reminded his father that 
the boy had a delicate 
stomach ... it wasn't 
just the thing to have 

Page Fifty-Nine 


done, if she might be so bold . . . Martin Senior had 
told her, with disgust that she might not and why the hell 
didnt she put ruffles on the whippersnapper and have 
done with it all. Ruefully he revolved the fact in his 
mind. His stomach, he felt, was still, still delicate and 
there was no kindly intervening person with a huge lap 
to remind his tyrannical parent of the fact. 

Martin Senior was still raving on, biting now and then, 
rather viciously for a gentleman, at the end of his Havana. 

"You've been namby-pambied and toasted and coddled 
from the very first day you were deposited in that fol- 
derol of a cradle,'' he fumed, "might have thought you 
were the scion of some played out aristocracy instead of 
the brat of a working man who, because he worked, 
worked mightily, mind you, had the wherewithal and the 
little sense to allow a couple of senseless women to pam- 
per you. Then, College . . . nothing must do but you 
must go to college. It was 'the thing.' You went . . . 
or rather, you spent. Dont talk to me about Halls of 
Learning . . . there ought to be Halls of Earning along- 
side to balance up the ledger. Great Cats, you spent . . . 
makes me sicker than my soaps make you to think about 
it. When you studied, I dont know. Leg shows and 
narrow escapes from open eviction were among the major 
courses with you, I take it. /, on my few visits, never 
saw you but what you were far from where you should 
have been, generally with a hussy, dressed or partially un- 
dressed, on either side of you . . . outrageous, I call it, 
outlandish ..." 

Martin Junior endeavored to interpolate but the elder 
Martin would have none of him. He had been saving up 
for this very outburst for a score of outraged years and 
he was not to be gainsaid. Growing more and more 
choleric as his wrongs mounted with his speech he con- 
tinued. . . . 

"And the day after you left college . . . the day after 

you announced to a group of He found the one-time man- 
solid citizens that vou are a S er . > n be , d wi J h . a familiar 

<„ J.. i i i /~i _ j £ ) swathing about his brow and 

educated, by Godfrey, the but f er bearing a tumbler 

thereby almost causing me of water in evidently habit- 
an apoplexy of embarrass- ual attendance 

ment, how are you found 

. . . how . . . ? What do you do ? Where do you go ? 
In what manner, in what unseemly manner, do you spend 
your one remaining night? Why, you give a dinner, a 
shameless dinner, a veritable bacchanalia with wine, 
women and song. You spend $10,000 of my money, my 
soap money, to do it. How anyone could spend $10,000 
on one dinner, I dont know. But, of course, from all I 
hear, the most expensive luxuries there were not, well 
not precisely edible. And then what do you do? Is that 
enough for you? Do you stop there? No, no, indeed. 
You go to a leg show ... I am informed correctly, so 
dont stop me . . . you go to a leg show and are, your- 
self, the show. You teeter at the actors at least earning 
their livings. You make a loud scene over one young 
man, worthier than you, I dont doubt, who happens to 
wear a wrist watch. And you escape arrest not because 
you deserve escape but because you are Rodney Martin 
and the advance agent for the show, one Peale, with, I 
admit, a sense of commercial values, gets you off. Thus 
closes your glorious, your great and glorious career. And 
here you are." 

Martin Senior leaned back, pulled from his capacious 
pocket a huge and monogrammed handkerchief and wiped 
his overheated brow. Not at any directors' meeting had 
he so eloquently and at such great cost expounded himself. 
Martin Junior said, simply, but with feeling, "Amen." 
"And now," said the elder Martin, when he had some- 
what regained his shattered equipoise, "and now . . . 
soap. Soap, which has made all this possible. I'm ready 
to collect." 

Page Sixty 



Rod Martin had one or two well-established facts in 
his conception of the cosmos. One of these being that 
when his father set out to collect payments he generally 
collected . . . or . . . the "or" was the other fact 
unpleasantly firm in the mental pabulum of Rod. 

His father made him Manager of the Hides and Tal- 
lows and he accepted. 

There is nothing reminiscent of college rooms, dim in 
the twilight or brilliant in the midnight, with the frag- 
rance of old tobacco lovingly enwreathed about com- 
radely heads, in the vats of a tallow shed. Tallow and 
hides make most distinguished assailants to the sensory 
organs and the stomach, delicate, be it remembered, via 
said sensory organs. 

Rod had been there a week and had demolished the 
grave morale of the place by managing with a heavily 
scented handkerchief pressed to his quivering nostrils. 
It was too good. The handkerchief lasted for a fortnight. 
Upon the morning completing the fortnight the Mr.nager 
of the Hides and Tallows neglected to appear. Word of 
the defection reached old Cyrus Martin. He linked two 
and two together. The Manager had also neglected to 
appear at dinner the night before and there had been 
ominous sounds from his wing of the house in the early 
morning. Cyrus had thought it only the operative effects 
of the hides and tallow but now he saw a light. . . . 

At home, whither he motored with what haste he could 
command, he found the one-time manager in bed with a 
familiar swathing about his brow and the butler bearing 
a tumbler of water in evidently habitual attendance. 

Rod surveyed his parent, dismally. "I couldn't forget 
it any other way," he confided, with an effort to be jolly 
and companionable. 

"What is 'it'?" spat the elder Martin. 

"I thrust my head in on him 
while he was taking his 
plunge and offered him a 
soapian best seller. His in- 
dignation was all I could see 
of him" 

"The hides and tallows," 
said young Martin, "most 
especiallv the tallows . . . 
phew!" ' 

There was an appalling 
silence. To Rod's distorted 

brain . . . what a night ! what a night ' . . . there 
appeared to be a never ending army of soapcaijarchin" 
round and about him . . . soap in its incej[." 
hides . . . and tallows. ... He told his fa and coula 
better go ... he knew he was going to be ihad to be 
sides, he added, with a touch of desperationly expired 
the use of it all ? They had more money than 'tiTey^otrk 
ever spend, either one of them, for the unnatural rest o. 
their natural days. Why should they work for more? 
This was a reasonable premise, surely. Why should 
they? Why should he ruin his stomach in the domain 
of soap for money he could only leave to a Home fo 
Destitue Cats. . . . He begged an answer. ... 

Cyrus Martin didn't give it to him, right then. E 
had a gleam of perception. It came to him that h 
couldn't tell this undeveloped youngster anything tha. 
would reach him. The need for work in the world . . . 
irrespective of money ... a man's work in the world 
must come, not from a choleric, out-of-svmpathy ol 
man, but from a woman, some woman, any woman s 
that she had the dinning touch. . . . She could mak 
this addle-pated youngster recognize his place in th 
scheme of things. . . . 

He knew, off hand, of one such woman. His secretary 
She would be, he felt, just the one. She had a fine, sen 
sitive independence and self-reliance of her own, whicl 
would be just the necessary, delicate spur. She had, too, 
the requisite amount of soft, very feminine, verv potent 

^age Sixty- r * 





ppeal. She had a level voice, with a charm to it, and a 

Jand like velvet with little silken muscles underneath the 

tm skin. Old as he was, with all dark flowers of 

lance withered, old Cyrus took a pleasure in the warm 

5£iire of that capable small hand. She had soft hair, 

[7 and straight eyes and a good mouth. She had sense. 

|e could awaken Rod to the fact that he was a man 

not a . . . not a soap-bubble. 
[The secretary, Alary Grayson, didn't take with any 
feat enthusiasm to the job. She had heard tales of Rod 
[artin, not calculated to make a business enterprise with 
|m either safe or sane. She had seen him, too, and 
jmehow, with a faint blurred impression of some sort 
a hurt, the memory of him had loitered about in the 
icesses of her mind. But then, old Cyrus offered her a 
[onus of $2,500 if she could wake the boy up. That was 
to be lightly eschewed. There were a great, great 
Jhy things in the Grayson scheme of things that $2,500 
luld facilitate and relieve. Her job, too, she would 
Iver sit quite so snugly in the good graces of the elder 
rartin if she turned his eager proposition down flat. If 
|e could achieve the result . . . that was another mat- 
. . She hadn't had much experience with men, 
jith young men. Hers had been a busy, necessitous sort 
a life. There hadn't been time, not much inclination, 
ther. She preferred good books, quiet walks where 
^r thoughts could take their own soft steady trend, a 
)d theater now and then . . . things like that. . . . 
tie '"^nt to the task quite untouched by experience in 
suvering the other sterner sex. 
Tt was, just at first, she found, something in the nature 
r of a nurserv maid's job with a fractious and a lovable 
child. She did not, even from the beginning, gainsay the 
lovable. Mary Grayson had trained herself always to 
face issues, those immediately concerning herself not 
excepted. Rod was perilously lovable, and quite as un- 
touched by "this sort of thing" as Mary herself. 

He had never known a woman like Mary. Read of 'em 
in an occasional book and had, when he had the time, a 

fleeting wistful dream of them . . . but actual contact 
. . . there had been none. Just those girls up in the 
college town, jolly, awfully light, not caring really, ever, 
save for the wholly important and sufficing moment. 
They got into the habit of talking together after din- 
ner, at first, to which formal repast old Cyrus would 
regularly bring her, pleading the necessity of talking over 
office routine with her at that time. Then they took to 
going to theaters. Mary selected the theaters and they 
were plays the like of which Rod had never seen before, 
plays with a purpose, with a thought, or, at least, with a 
dream animating them ... no leg shows . . . after these 
plays, he thought. ... It grew increasingly potent and 
sweet to see these things with the faint pressure of Mary 
next to him, with the pine-like scent of her hair fresh- 
ening the immediate air about him, to walk out in the 
crowd afterward, guiding her, to walk home, she scorned 
to ride, except in very bad weather . . . and talk it all 
over. . . . Rod grew to know that he had never had 
anyone to talk to before, never, really. ... No one, 
that iSj to whom he could confide the things he had made 
himself believe didn't count, save as so much piffle, but 
never had quite succeeded. . . . Now, this was blessedly 
different now, he could say all these things . . . and she 
wanted him to, and answered him in his own tongue. 

One day he knew that he loved her. For quite a while 
he didnt dare to tell her. He still stood in awe of 
some aloof wonder in her. There was still a pedestal to 
whose dizzy height he dared not quite aspire. Love, here- 
tofore, had been a matter of hot kisses and light words, 
late hours and a great deal of wining and dining. No one 
had ever led him to suspect that love was like this, this 
dark sweet feeling springing up from the roots of his 
being, this urge, this hunger, this perilous need. . . . 

And one other day, suddenly, he didn't have to tell her. 
He surprised it in her eyes, her dark sweet eyes, and in 
the tremor of her mouth, and he had her, all at once, 
within his arms, and both of their eyes grew wet with 
tears that came from the deep source of this deep desire. 

"This . . . 
this just came 
to me . . . ' 
she said, after 
awhile ; "your 
father . . 
what will he 
say ?" 

"I k n o w," 
whispered Rod 
against her 
hair, "I know 
. father 
. . . what does 
he matter . . . 
what does any- 
t h i n g matter 
. . . now?" 

It mattered 
quite a great 
deal to Martin 
Senior, w h e n 
hard upon this 
talk, he came 
abruptly upon 
them, still 
i n g chee k 
against cheek. 

'Mary and I toted 

the cases about 

ourselves and did 

the wrapping" 

lose Sixty-Two 


"P* , A 

H e inferred, 
not too deli- 
cately, that the 
thing was go- 
ing rather . . . 
rather far for 
a . . . well, he 
might as well 
out with it, 
for a business 

Rod an- 
swered, with a 
new and dif- 
ferent dignity, 
that he didn't 
know about the 
business propo- 
sition end of it, 
and didn't very 
much care, but 
that it was a 
marriage pro- 
position and 
that was all he 
did care about. 
Martin Senior 
retaliated b y 
remarking that 
if it was a mar- 
riage proposi- 
tion to go to it, 
but to go to it 
far, substan- 
tially far, from him and from his bank account. He, 
foresooth, was DOXE. 
Rod went. 

He didn't at all know what he was going to do. He did 
know one thing he was not going to do, and that was, to 
give up Mary. 

He told her that he had a 'plane, a couple of bull pups 
and $900 in cash, and she told him that he need not have 
even so much as long as he was there himself. 

Upon the shimmering granite of illusion Rod furnished 
himself plutocratic offices, engaged Mary at a queenly 
salary and sat down to decide upon his mode of liveli- 
hood. In the distance, it had seemed quite simple. There 
were so many ways of making money. It had all seemed 
quite in the day's work. All at once, he sensed rigid 
limitations. Sensed, too, with a distinct sniff, that all he 
knew anything about, anything at all was SOAP. He 
did know about soap. He had had. soap dinned into him 
from the days of his infancy, here and there. He had 
thought it had all passed over his head. He discovered 
now that quite a few bits had found lodgment, here and 
there, variously. . . . 
He told Mary that he believed, after all. it would be soap. 
"Dad will pass out,'' he said, rather ruefully, "I've 
always twitted the old boy about his tallow. Last day 
I was home I thrust my head in on him while he was 
taking his plunge and offered him a soapian 'best seller." 
His indignation was all I could see of him. - ' 

Mary and Rod were deep in mental processes of 
thought when Peale. who once had saved the young 
graduate from a jail experience, was announced. Off and 
on, Rod had been in touch with Peale. A certain cama- 
raderie had been felt. Now, again in a plight. Rod told 
Peale of his prospective venture. 

"Rot," said Peale, succinctly, "not necessary. Adver- 
tise, mv bov, ADVERTISE. That's the game. There's 
the money ADVERTISE ... it PAYS." 

Rod looked dubious. "Advertise," he repeated, "ad- 
vertise . . . what?" 


In his turn, Peale waved Rod turned to Mary and 
a declamatory hand. "Oh. s ? ue f e j th ° ^pable hand 

,. , "• , a that had guided him out of 

. . . ne said soap ... fog int0 suns hi ne , brilliant 

advertise soap. Then, dont and clear 

you see, Martin Senior will 

grab for the product. You can hold him up good. The 

coin is yours. He controls the business by buying up the 

small competitors, doesn't he? That's his game, isn't it? 

Good! Then, by the same token, advertising is yours. - ' 

When the elder Martin made his semi-annual western 
tour he saw little or no scenery, not that he ever did 
owing to the fact that the waysides and hillsides we- 
plastered and all but hidden bv huge posters bearing '' 

The elder Martin fumed until he returned and coula 
dicker for the presumptious "13." First it had to be 
traced to its origin, and the elder Martin nearly expired 
of the apoplexy he was forever alluding to, darkly, when 
he found that origin to be the displaced Rodney. 

He was more than ever apoplectic when he disco\-ere 
Rod's installation in the velvet-floored, mahoganied officv . 
suite, and Mary, happy and clear-eyed at one of the desks. 
A pleasant girl enough . . . and not like the average 
run . . . "H'mmm !" said Martin Senior, portentouslv. 

The last and most overwhelming surprise was when 
the elder Martin found the younger not so simple to deal 
with. It took him a great while to dicker with him even 
to the point of accepting $50,000 for the trademark when 
the Marshall Field people from Chicago sent in and asked 
for 50,000 cakes of the famous "13.'' 

Rod promptly told his parent that the fifty thou' was 
not enough for so glittering and lucrative a proposition. 
Martin retaliated that he, himself, had prompted Marshall 
Field to this very offer because he knew that Rod was 
getting into deep, and coinless waters. 

Rod waved his hand, pleasantly, and finally. He had 
acquired quite a knack. "Mary and I," he observed, "will 
see it thru." 

(Continued on page 80.) 





of the 


[Rosina Galli was born in 
Milan, of a family of con- 
siderable means. Over 
Iier father's and mother's 
protestations she became 
a dancer. Her first ap- 
pearance was at a chil- 
dren's dance festival in 

THE language of the 
dance has been my life, 
so this is really a true 
story of how I became a 
premiere danseuse at the 
Metropolitan Opera House. 
I shall tell this story from 
the viewpoint of my own ex- 
perience. It will be • a con- 
fession of what goes on in the heart and mind of a girl 
whose legs, and body, and face must interpret beauty, 
nd whose mind and spirit must retain that virginal sim- 
licity of thought in which the exquisite impressions of 
fdancing are born. Imaginative dancing should inspire 
igher thoughts than it often does. It tempts the eye 
with unblemished grace of movement that is not mere- 
ly energy, but poetry. I insist that sanctity of oneself, 
purity of impulse, a supreme devotion to innocence of 

spirit, are the neces- 
sary elements of an 
ambitious ballet dan- 

The average 
reader uninitiated in 
the sensitive charac- 
ter of the great art 
of dancing, may be 
skeptical of what I 
have just said. That 
is because the ballet 
girl has neglected to 
defend herself from 
certain misconcep- 
tions of her work, 
from the vulgarities 
that have been im- 
posed upon her by 
those who do not 
know what the art is. 
It is a great art, it 
is so rare that it can- 
not be taught. Dan- 
cers are born, they 
describe the most 
delicate poetic im- 
pressions of life. The 
demands made upon 
the dancer in this re- 
lation are difficult to 
convey in words. She 
has to describe the 
innocence of gaiety, 
the soul of sorrow, 
the passion of love 
untarnished, of jeal- 
ousy in tragic panto- 
mime. She grows into 
womanhood on her 
toes, and drops back 
into childhood on her 
heels, and yet, never 
in all the pantomime 
dramas of her dance does she interpret anything but 
the poetry of all things. Perhaps one of the best demon- 
strations of how one can become a dancer, is my own 

I was born in Milan, my father and mother were well 
off. I was destined to become a young lady who should 
be well educated, achieve some accomplishments, and 
finally marry into some family as nice as my own. This 
was a life program prepared for me. There was no 
reason why my parents should have expected anything 
else, because there were no pre-natal difficulties which 
threatened such a pleasant outlook. Ours was a highly 
respectable family. No one in my family had ever 
been famous, no ancestor had revealed any disgraceful 
tendencies toward the theater. I was a potential dis- 
grace to my family from the first, because at heart I 
was a ballet dancer ! Twenty years ago it was con- 
sidered very improper for a young girl of a certain 


By Rosina Galli 

Premiere Danseuse of the 
Metropolitan Opera House 

class to join the ballet. Stupid, 
perhaps, but true. As to my own 
thoughts about the matter, they 
were obstinate. I wanted to 
dance, dance, dance. No one in 
my family dreamed that I should 
grow up to appear in the family 
album, in ballet skirts. 

In our home, among beautiful 
pictures on the walls, there were 
two that were my perpetual in- 
spiration, the first impulses of my 
career. One was a dashing pic- 
ture of "Carmen,"' and the other 
was a picture of "Manon."' I 
could scarcely have been four 
years old when I used to try to 
imitate the artistic poses of these 
women in pictures. I imagined 
myself grown up like them, look- 

Rosina Galli attended the 
big ballet school of La 
Scala in Milan. Her 
American debut was made 
in Chicago with the Dip- 
pel Opera Company 

ing as dangerously beautiful. 
These pictures gave me my 
first idea of gesture and 
pose. The restraints of my 
schooldays could not crush 
the dancing delirium in my 
heart. As soon as I could 
get away from the classroom, I was dancing in the school 
garden, surrounded by my playmates, who applauded 
me. It was obvious that I was going to be an indif- 
ferent scholar. The secret came out. When my mother 
and father discovered that I really wanted to become a 
ballet dancer, they were, by turns, passionate and stern 
with me. All the traditional horrors of life in the thea- 
ter for a sensitive girl were pointed out to me by ray 
mother. It was a gloomy picture. She insisted that 
my friends would desert me, that I should be socially 
alienated. Those were the days when parents were melo- 
dramatic. Some of the things they said to me frightened 
me a little, but strengthened my purpose. 

I was sincerely and deeply religious, therefore I rea- 
soned that whatever happened to other girls in the thea- 
ter, nothing should ever happen to me. I was going 
to be a great success in my art, and then, having con- 
secrated myself that way, retire from the world. 
Strange as this confession may seem, it is not an un- 
usual mood in the lives of famous dancers, for dancing 
(Continued on page 74) 

Page Sixty-Five 


Leave all care behind, ye who enter here. Come, we will 
have a talk together. Check your coat of delusion at the 
door, also your troubles, and come with me for a pleasant 
hour; tho it be grave or gay, serious or frivolous- — a pleasant 

$' : K H ; 

They say that the reason animals dont talk, is because 
they have nothing to say. If the same rule applied to men 
what a quiet -world it would; be! 

Once upon a time a ferocious and gigantic prize-fighter, 
trained to the minute, was engaged in a struggle with a dozen 
or more untrained men. The battle waged for a long time 
and it looked as if the prize-fighter had a chance to win, 
when just then another man, fresh and strong, joined the 
others, and soon turned the tide which resulted in the prize- 
fighter's defeat. Would you say that this last man won the 
battle? Reasoning from analogy, would you say that the 
Americans won the war? 

:|: :;: ;jc 

If we are not as happy as we desire, perhaps we are 

not as wretched as we deserve. 

* * * 

We are all inclined, I fear, to look too lightly upon the 
great men of wit and humor. The Autocrat of the Break- 
fast Table advises us to get a reputation on some more solid 
foundation before attempting to get one as a wit. We all 
require to unwind ourselves now and then, and a little wit 
and humor is the finest kind of unwinder, for it sets the cur- 
rents a- running thru other channels. Wit is sensible, moral, 
recreative, refreshing, restful, and at the same time stimu- 
lating, in its effects, and we should all take a little once in a 
while for health's sake. An hour or two each week with 
our funny friends would save doctor's bills and keep off the 
undertaker And what a host of such friends we have: 
There's Dickens, with his rollicking fun and odd characters; 
there's Cervantes, with his fantastic hero and his simple but 
wise and entertaining Sancho; then there's our gingery, satiri- 
cal friend Swift, our gentle, delicious, Addison, our graceful 
but hypocritical old goody-good, Sterne, and our spicy but 
delicately-flavored Elia. If perchance we prefer some of 
their American cousins, why there's none better to start with, 
than dear old Diedrich Knickerbocker and Geofrey Crayon. 
Are you not good friends with Irving? Then you deserve 
a sound shaking, for that, in your case, is a better unwinding 
process than wit. Just spend another half hour with old 
Rip, or take another short trip to Sleepy Hollow, or a ride 
with the Headless Horseman, and then say if you have not 
been robbing yourself all these years. Then don't forget that 
most delightful of wits, the Autocrat, the Professor and the 
Poet (Holmes), and if he doesn't stir your sluggish blood 
and make it fairly bubble, you should take yourself to some 
human repair shop. Or, if you prefer something on the 
grotesque order, take a pinch of Josh Billings, a dash of 
Artemus Ward, and a few quartos of Mark Twain or even 
Bill Nye. But these are only a very few of very many. Per- 
haps there are others you would like more. These are only 

suggestions. Call on all your friends. Greet them cordially 
and give them the glad hand. Then, this done, ring up the 
doctor and tell him he needn't come — that you have been 

* * * 

The nonsense verse you refer to, Mr. B. Q., is as follows: 

Johnny climbed up on the bed, 

And hammered nails in mama's head ; 

Tho the child was much elated 
Mama felt quite irritated. 

^K ^ % 

Mr. J. J. P. is informed that I do not pose as a Physiog- 
nomist and therefore cannot state with authority what effect 
the color of the eyes has upon the disposition. It is, perhaps, 
true that, extremely impulsive persons usually have black eyes. 
If they haven't they usually get them. 
^ ^ ^ 

The first admission fee charged by the Greeks for their 
theaters was two oble, about five cents of our money, which 
was furnished to all who applied for it from the public treas- 
ury funds. (They charge two or three dollars in New York!) 

Besides being a place of amusement and worship, the thea- 
ter was to the Greeks almost as a home, and upon its endow- 
ment were lavished the surplus funds of the wealthy just as a 
modern millionaire now endows a college, a museum or a 

^c ^c ^c 

The man who is too good to be bad is often the 
one who would like to be bad, but dassen't. 

^C 5^ ^t 

Why do we all crowd to the door of a car long before it 
has arrived at our destination? When visiting a friend, why 
do we say "I really must be going," and then go to the door,, 
open it, and remain there for half an hour saying things 
which should have been said while comfortably seated m 
the drawing-room? Why are we so anxious to be the first 
to get in a car when there is plenty of room for everybody? 
Why do we begin to leave our seats in the theater when we 
detect the coming close of the play? Why do we prefer to 
discuss the faults of our friends rather than their virtues? 
Why are we bored when listening to parents telling of the 
cleverness of their children, and imagine that they are not 
bored when we tell of the cleverness of our own? , Why do 
we imagine that it is so important to keep informed of the 
news of the day when we know that most of it will be worth- 
less and forgotten tomorrow? Why do we think it so impor- 
tant that our children should know all about ancient history 
and foreign geography, when we know that we have forgotten 
it ourselves and that they will do likewise before it has done 
them any good? Why do we think it necessary to exercise 
with dumb-bells when we can do much better with a broom 
or an axe and at the same time accomplish something useful? 
Why do we suffer the inconvenience of the trolley when we 
can do much better by walking? Why do we waste time 
playing cards when we can soon learn to have just as much 
fun and twice as much profit doing something else? Why 

Page Sixty-Six 


do we travel an extra mile and waste an extra hour to' save 

five cents at a bargain sale? Why are we so zealous of our 

city's or country's welfare during the two weeks immediately 

preceding an election, and so thoughtless of it during the 

other fifty weeks? Why do we waste time reading books 

that do not make us think? Why are we always in a hurry, 

and, with all our labor-saving inventions, why have we "no 

time" to do lots of things we should do? 
* # * 

Be natural! A diamond with a flaw is better than 
an imitation. 

^ ^ ^ 

A reader wants to know if I consider Chaplain a great artist. Yes, 
'deed I do. Some say that he is not, merely because he is always 
the same, but that doesn't make him the less great. We dont know his 
limitations. He may yet play Hamlet and Romeo. True, there is a 
sameness to all of his performances, but that is because he is playing 
the same character all the time. He plays this character for two 
reasons: first, because he is paid for it, and, second, because the public 
want it. Edwin Booth and Richard Mansfield were great artists and 
they played dozens of different characters equally well. Joe Jefferson 
was equally good in "The Rivals" and in "Rip Van Winkle," and one 
could hardly imagine him in anything but comedy. Would anybody 
say that Sidney Drew was not a great artist? Yet, he played prac- 
tically the same type of character in every one of his one hundred or 
more plays. Any keen observer can see that Chaplain has a large 
variety of talents and that he is capable of expressing almost any 
emotion. Could anybody see him in "Shoulder Arms" and say that 
he was not a great artist? 

Ah! A Smile Club. Join it, my brother, for it will do you 
no harm. Not the Smile Club whose motto is, "What will 
you have?" (there are very few of these clubs now), but the 
one who strives to drive dull care away. How stupid of us 
to make an enemy with a frown when we can just as well 
make a friend with a smile. Man is the only animal that 
can smile, so let us all keep in practice and prove our su- 
periority over the brutes in at least one thing. The smile 
is the whisper of the laugh. Laugh if you can, but if you 
cant why just smile. 

% 5fc * 

(A prize of one large red apple for the best solution to these problems) 

I. All rules have their exceptions. This is a rule. There- 
fore, this rule must have its exceptions. Hence, all rules 
have not their exceptions. 

II. A man owes to another $1, and agrees to pay it back 
by installments at the rate of one-half the balance due every 
day. He could never complete the payments, because he 
would pay fifty cents the first day, twenty-five the second, 
twelve and a half the third, and assuming that he had frac- 
tional cents in all denominations, he would reach the millionth 
part of a cent and so on, until there would not be enough paper 
in the world upon which to make the computations. 

III. There is no such thing as motion. A thing must 
move either in the place where it is or in the place where it 
is not. Now, a thing cannot be in motion in the place where 
it is stationary, and cannot be in motion in the place where 
it is not. Therefore it cannot move at all. 

IV. There is no such thing as sound when there are no 
ears to hear. Sound is produced by the setting in motion 
of certain air waves, which, striking the ear, give us the 
impression of sound. Once, there were no ears, and even 
now there are no ears to catch -many of these waves. 

V. Achilles ran ten times as fast as Zeno's tortoise, who 
had a hundred yards start. While Achilles was running the 
first hundred yards, the tortoise ran ten. While A ran 
ten, the t ran one ; while A ran one, the t ran one-tenth 
of a yard, and so on; and they are still running. 

VI. A cat has three tails. No cat has two tails ; one cat 
has one tail more than no cat ; hence, one cat has three tails. 

VII. If an irresistible force strikes an immovable 
body, what will be the result ? 

VIII. Can God, who is omnipotent, create a stone so 
heavy that He cannot lift it? 

IX. If there are more people in the world than any one 

person has hairs upon his head, then there must exist two 
persons with identically the same number of hairs. 

X. The top of a wheel moves faster than the bottom, yet 
they both arrive at their destination at the same time. 

XI. A sailing vessel can sail faster than the wind. 

XII. What you have not got rid of, you still have. You 
have not got rid of horns, hence you have horns. 

XIII. Only express trains stop at this station. The last 
train did not stop at this station. Was it an express train? 
(It was.) 

XIV. If Moses was the son of Pharoah's daughter, then 
Moses was the daughter of Pharoah's son. (Which is gram- 
matically correct.) 

^ ^ ^ 

An inquisitive, but perhaps not impertinent inquirer, 
wants to know if I have a family. My answer is, I have no 
children and one wife. But if I decide to add to the family, 
I shall add children, not wives. 

* * * 

Over a century ago a French chemist, by the name D'Arcet, gave 
a recipe to paint pictures with cheese. This is truly historical, and 
just now a school of painters in Paris is trying to revive the process. 
D'Arcet had the idea of painting with cheese as he read that the 
Indians of America mixed their colors with milk. 
D'Arcet's recipe is as follows: 

Soft cheese well dried 144 grs. 

Lime 7 " 

Coloring matter 100 " 

Water 80 " 

It is said that cheese paintings are quite durable. 
In French, a bad picture is called a "croute" (a crust). A certain 
wit remarked that the advantage of the cheese painting process would 
be that the poor painter would be enabled to eat his crusts with 
some nutritive results. 

^ % % 

It is all right to strike while the iron is hot ; the thing 
is to get it hot. 

sfc % >K 

Astrologers, palmists, fortune-tellers and prophets of all 
kinds are usually wise enough, when making predictions, to 
make many. This is a safe plan. To predict an earthquake, 
a flood, a great fire, death of a prominent millionaire, a wreck, 
etc., etc., is always discreet, because one or more of these 
calamities is bound to happen. The one that happens is the 
one to be remembered and published broadcast, and the others 
are forgotten because they have no interest. 

^ % ^K 

I was asked about my creed and religion, so here it is : 
I believe in God, maker of Heaven and earth. 
I believe the Bible is the greatest and best of books; 
I believe in truth because it makes me free. 
I believe in Heaven and Hell in this world if not in the next. 
I believe in patience and courtesy, because they are the 

best ways to secure results. 
I believe in kindness and consideration for men, women, 

children, servants and animals. 
I believe that superstitions have been a greater curse to the 

world than famine and pestilence, and that it is my 

duty to explain and destroy them wherever found. 
I believe in tolerance for every man's religion, politics, and 
opinions, when they differ from my own. 

sfc H= % 

Rather not know the good you can do than not to 
do the good you know. 

?J: $z i£ 


All is not cheap that is low-priced. 
All is dear that you don't need. 

A penny saved is a pound earned, but not if you are penny-wise 
and pound-foolish. 

All is not gold that glitters, and all is not silk that's mercerized. 

To save five cents and spend two hours in saving it, is not economy. 

Buy only what you need, or you will soon need what you cant buy. 

The merchants make money out of the bargain hunters. 


The craze for the latest novelties soon brings the wolf to the door. 

Things are seldom marked down, that were not first marked up. 

Page Sixty-Seven 



Local merchants should always be patronized. 

Things that are cheapest are usually the poorest. 

The best is none too good to wear. 

One pair of $9 shoes will outwear two pairs of $5 shoes. 

Department stores are a convenience, but an expensive luxury. 

Charge accounts were invented by the devil. 

If merchants could have their way, fashions would change daily, 
instead of seasonly. 

Fashion is an extravagant mistress. 

Simplicity always shows the best taste. 

The corset is a straight-jacket punishment which fashion inflicts 
upon vanity. 

Heels protect the arch, but very high heels destroy the equilibrium. 

Powder and paint are advantageous only when they are invisible. 

If diamonds were as plentiful as cobblestones, the streets would 
be paved with them. 

* * * 

Prize Contest 
A prize of one large red apple will be paid to the person 
who correctly solves the following problems, on or before the 
judgment day: 

Life! Death! Space! Eternity! 

* * * 

There is some hope if you dont grow worse but no 
hope if you dont grow better. 

Sfc ffc sfc 

A correspondent sends me a pleasant criticism of a para- 
graph on Sour and Melancholy Men, in which I held that 
most good men are sweet-tempered and not sour. I have 
given my own opinion, and our esteemed critic shall be 
answered by a few opinions of others. Francis Jeffrey says: 
"Men of truly great power of mind have generally been 
cheerful, social and indulgent ; while a tendency to sentimental 
whining or fierce intolerance may be ranked among the surest 
symptoms of little souls and inferior intellects. Shakespeare 
was evidently of a free and joyous temperament, and so was 
Chaucer. The same disposition appears to have predominated 
in Ben Jonson and Fletcher, and in their great contempo- 
raries. ... As for Milton, in his private life as well as in 
his poetry, the majesty of a high character is tempered with 
great sweetness, genial indulgence and practical wisdom. In 
the succeeding age our poets were but too gay." Charles 
Lamb, taking the same position, once said that "A laugh is 
worth a hundred groans in any state of the market." Sydney 
Smith was notoriously good-natured, and Doctor Johnson's 
laugh is historic — Tom Davies describes it thus: "He laughs 
like a rhinoceros." "I never knew a villain," says Johnson, 
"who was not an unhappy dog." Carlyle remarks: "No 
man who has once heartily and decidedly laughed can be 
altogether irreclaimably bad. . . . The man who cannot 
laugh is not only fit for treason, stratagems and spoils, but 
his whole life is already a treason and a stratagem." Lavater 
says: "Shun that man who never laughs, who dislikes music 
or the glad face of a child," and Blackwood adds: "We are 
disposed to suspect the man who never laughs. At all events, 
there is a repulsion about him which we cannot get over." 
Byron, when in company, appeared cheerful and gay, and 
was melancholy only when alone and while writing his 
melancholy poetry. Charlotte Bronte, in her loneliness, illness 
and grief, was cheerful; and so was Cowper, who for years 
hovered on the verge of madness, and likewise was Milton, 
even in his blindness, poverty, obloquy and solitude of old 
age. William Dunbar, whom Scott admired so much, was 
almost a marvel of sweetness and harmony, as were his verses, 
particularly the ones beginning with the familiar "Be merry, 
man, and be not sour in mind." In conclusion, Sterne says: 
"I live in a constant endeavor to fence against the infirmities 
of ill-health, and other evils of life, by mirth: being firmly 
persuaded that every time a man smiles, but much more 
when he laughs, it adds something to his fragment of life." 

* * * 

The harder you knock a good steady nail the better 

it goes. 

* * * 

You refer to Honore de Balzac, Miss T. L., who was extremely 
conceited and who had in his library a reduced statue of Napoleon I. 

On the scabbard of the sword of the great Emperor, Balzac had 
written, "What he could not achieve thru the sword, I shall ac- 
complish with the pen.'' 

* * * 

How is one to make up one's mind as to what is the correct 
philosophy, in the face of such contradictions as these? — 
"The minority is always in the right" — Ibsen; "Submission 
is the base of perfection" — Comte; "Liberty means responsi- 
bility; that is why men dread it" — Bernard Shaw; "Nature 
does not seem to have made men for independence" — Vauve- 
nargues; "What can give a man liberty? Will, his own will, 
and it gives power, which is better than liberty" — Turgenev; 
"One must have the will to be responsible for one's self" — 
Nietzsche; "I am what I am" — Brand; "To thyself be suffi- 
cient" — Peer Gynt; "To thine own self be true: God is within 
you" — Ibsen; "My truth is the truth" — Stirner; "Mortal has 
made the immortal" — the Rig Veda; "Nothing is greater 
than I" — Bhagavat Gita; "I am that I am" — the Avesta, also 
Exodus; "Politics is the madness of the many for the gain 
of the few" — Pope; "Charity covers a multitude of sins" — 
Oscar Wilde; "Society has now got the better of the indi- 
vidual" — John Stuart Mill. If, then, it is to be egoism, how 
about the truth of this — from the pen of the last mentioned 
philosopher? — "How can great minds be produced in a coun- 
try where the test of a great mind is agreeing in the opinions 
of small minds?" 

Poor William Tell is dead. He has been partially disposed 
of several times by various disillusionists, but John Fiske 
killed him completely in "Myths and Myth Makers." In 
spite of the beautiful story and the vast reputation of Wil- 
liam Tell, it is very Ukely that no such person ever existed, 
and it is certain that the story of his shooting the apple from 
his son's head has no historical value whatever. How hath 
the mighty fallen! It is bad enough to destroy the apple and 
the arrow, but to put an end to William himself, that is really 
almost a crime, for now we must class him with Jack the 
Giant Killer and Puss in Boots. 

The word miniature was derived from the name of the celebrated 
portrait painter, Mignard. 

* * * 

My opinion is desired on the "funny sheets" or color sup- 
plements of the Sunday newspapers. I am free to confess that 
they are far from artistic, anything but witty, sadly immoral, 
and woefully harmful. They create wrong impressions in the 
minds of children and they are too crude and inane to amuse 
the grown-ups. If parents want their children to do the 
pranks and capers that the pictured children do, then the 
parents should be looked after by the society for prevention 
of injustice to children. If they like to have their children 
laugh at the mishaps of their elders and to become nuisances 
then they should certainly let the children read these funny 
sheets. And this applies also to the funny pages of our morn- 
ing and evening newspapers. Wit and humor are highly de- 
sirable, and ought to be encouraged and multiplied ; but these 
funny sheets are a sorry example of American wit, humor, 
morals and art. 

* * * 

Plato once reproved a man for playing at dice. "You 
reprove me for a little thing," said the culprit. "Habit," 
replied Plato, "is no little thing." 

How true ! Our habits may make or ruin us. Every per- 
son ought to sit down once a week and devote an hour to 
introspection in order to ascertain how strong a hold his 
habits have on him. If he finds that he is running in a 
groove, he should steer clear. Variety is the very spice of 
life, and habits tend to increase the monotony of life; and, 
if they are bad habits, they will lessen his horse-power of 
energy, impair his earning capacity, and in time undermine 
his health. 

Page Sixty-Eight 





Page Sixty-Nine 


Tempo diValse 

In Shadowland 

(Screendom's Miniature Waltz With Words) 

Lyric and Music by 






Shad - ow - land 


lent - ly grand . 

Mag-i-cal place of our 


Vi X B I J-T^g 






a tempo — 





P — -F 



I I J =Ff 


dreams The whole world loves you it seems Stars shine bright 


^m . 


















rail. . 



a fewypo 













day and night Tell- ing the glor-y of loves old sweet sto-ry In shad - ow 

















^J J 


F: f J 






^ j i j J j i j*j 




«" HH 



Wild - wood, back to child - hood, To the fair-y land of ro - mance You take us trippinga-Iong with you 





























Page Seventy 






c d 

how e - 

&! j 3 3? 

When the long day is thru Great - end 


end Are the hearts that un - der- 












^oco rail. 




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Page Seventy-One 


He told me that a woman — the first 
woman he ever loved showed him that 
there is a hell, and that he'd been in it 
until I — I taught him there was a 
heaven. It's wonderful to think of a 
man's reforming for my sake, and I ad- 
mire him. But when I think of John — " 
She struggled vainly with the silver clasp 
of her bag to find a handkerchief, and 
Sophy proffered hers. 

"Dont you do it, Lovey!'' she ex- 
claimed indignantly, "what's all the titles 
in the world compared to love ? I couldn't 
care more for my Valma, now if he was 
a Duke — not that Professor of Palmistry 
isn't a sort of a title, too ! And a per- 
fect gentleman with the most refined 
ideas. He objects to my doing men's 
hands but I tell him he's no more cause 
to be jealous than I have of him reading 
ladies' palms." 

"Oh, that reminds me," Muriel ceased 
her luxurious weeping, "I came in to 
speak about Valma. Sophy — " her tones 
grew dramatic. Muriel was only eigh- 
teen. "Sophy, I must keep my word to 
Lord Quex — if he keeps his word to me. 
But I cant let John go without seeing 
him just once more — to — to tell him 
good-bye. And I thought that perhaps 
— Mr. Valma would let us borrow his 
studio for only five minutes — there's no 
other place where we could meet alone. 
I'll let you know when — do you think he 
would if you asked him to?" 

"He'd better!" The Fullgarney said 
with a snap of her black eyes, "when it 
comes to telling the future or the past 
I'm willing to leave it to him, but I'm 
going to be the one that settles the pres- 
ent, I promise you !" 

She kissed Muriel warmly and re- 
turned to her buffer, her fertile brain al- 
ready considering schemes for Quex's 
downfall and Muriel's romantic elope- 
ment with the handsome (and penniless) 
young Captain in His Majesty's Own, 
John Bastling. It would read so well in 
the papers, and perhaps she would get 
her picture printed as "the popular mani- 
curist, Miss Fullgarney, in whose parlors 
the wedding took place" — yes, oh yes ! 
Muriel must be disillusioned about Quex, 
and the rest would be easy. Now, let's 
see — 

Fate played directly into Sophy's hands 
when, the next afternoon a telephone 
message from the Countess of Owbridge 
summoned her to Green Gables to dress 
the Countess' none too plentiful hair for 
her house party. No one would have 
guessed that the charmingly attired 
young woman who stepped from the 
second class carriage, neat black case in 
hand, had anything weightier than com- 
plexion lotions and hair tonics on her 
mind, but behind a bright, and disarming 
innocence Sophy was a very Machiavelli 

The Gay Lord Quex 

{Continued from page 38) 

of cunning. From the butler she ascer- 
tained that not only Lord Quex and Miss 
Eden were guests, but the Duchess of 
Strood as well. Another bit of news was 
more disquieting. The wedding of Lord 
Quex and Muriel, so belowstairs gossip 
whispered, would occur very soon. 

"Not if I know it!" decided Sophy, 
and girded her loins for battle by tying 
the crispest and triggest of aprons about 
her neat waist with a jerk that seriously 
threatened the strings. She had finished 
her duties and was wandering about the 
paths of the rose garden when the sound 
of voices nearby brought her to a pause. 
Unfortunately the speakers did not talk 
loudly enough to be decently and self- 
respectingly overheard. There was no 
choice but to deliberately listen, and 
Sophy listened. 

"And so," the Duchess was saying, 
pensively, "so our chapter is over? That 
is — almost over !" 

"Almost !" — the voice was that of Lord 
Quex, a trifle sharp, "just what do you 
mean by that, Cora — a threat?" 

"Harry! How can you?" reproached 
the Duchess, "I simply meant that you 
hadn't come to me for your letters. Dont 
you think you should get them ? It 
would be so awkward if some of them 
should happen to fall into poor dear 
Muriel's hands. You were frightfully 
careless about dating them, Harry, and 
she might get the idea that they were 
written — well, say a week ago instead 
of a year ! Fancy how she would feel !" 

A pause, then, very grim, thru tight 
lips. "I — see. Well, what do you want 
for the letters, Cora? I suppose you 
have a price." 

"Simply this, that you come and get 
them yourself, Harry," the Duchess' 
voice was honey and wine, "at midnight 
to-night — in my room. Our romance be- 
gan so wonderfully — it must end won- 
derfully, too." . . . 

Pleading and argument were in vain. 
Before (Sophy disengaged some dozen 
rose prongs from her person where they 
had lodged unnoted in her absorption, 
and crept away Lord Quex had reluc- 
tantly consented, and her triumph seemed 
in plain view. The maidless condition 
of the Duchess of Strood furnished her 
the last needed link in the chain she was 
forging for Lord Quex's discomfiture. 

"Indeed, Your Grace, I should be de- 
lighted to serve you," she offered, with 
the proper humbleness, "I have been a 
ladies' maid, and a good one, if I do say 
so. If Your Grace will tell me the num- 
ber of your room I will lay out your 
things for dinner immediately." 

And so it came about that at half-past 
eleven that night, Sophy Fullgarney was 
helping the Duchess of Strood into the 
fifth negligee, the others being discarded 

on the advice of her mirror and lying in 
many-colored piles about the floor. The 
Duchess chose a soft blue Japanese robe 
from the pile and held it out carelessly, 
"Here, take this ! You have done very 
well," she said, patronizingly, "and now 
you may go. I think I shall — shall read 
a little before I sleep. Good-night!" 

In her room Sophy paused. She was 
going to do a cheap and common thing. 
But — for Muriel's happiness ! "It doesn't 
matter whether I'm ashamed of myself 
or not," reasoned Sophy, stoutly, "so 
long as Muriel is saved from that hor- 
rible man !" 

She crept like a shadow along the si- 
lent midnight corridor until she came to 
the door she sought. A faint murmur of 
voices from within justified her next act 
in her mind. Kneeling, she applied first 
her ear, and then her eye to the keyhole, 
and in doing so a loose board in the floor 
gave forth a protesting creak. A mo- 
ment's silence succeeded within, then 
when Sophy's heart had nearly stopped 
beating in terror the murmur began 
again. Lord Quex seemed to be pacing 
the floor, coming nearer and nearer the 
door, so that presently his words became 

" — and so, my dear Cora, you see that 
I am in earnest at last. And as I told 
you just now — " the keyhole seemed to 
give under her close-pressed ear and 
Sophy felt herself hurled forward as the 
door was flung open. "As I was just 
saying," Lord Quex continued sardoni- 
cally, as he looked down at the abashed 
eavesdropper, "someone else is interested 
in our affairs !" 

Sophy picked herself up. She tried to 
meet the glance of the man in the door- 
way defiantly, but was amazed to see 
that he was very white, and that his 
sneering smile was more like a grimace 
of pain than of mirth. As she hurried 
back to her room she felt an odd choke 
in her throat and swallowed it down an- 
grily. "He deserves it — I've no call to 
be sorry for him," she told herself, "I'll 
warn Muriel to-morrow — " the words 
were interrupted by the ringing of the 
bell that summoned the maid to the 
Duchess' room. Going to plead with her, 
were they — bribe her, perhaps ! They 
should see ! 

The bedroom seemed empty. Sophy 
looked about her uncertainly, went across 
to the equally empty boudoir — and turned 
at the click of a key in the lock. Suave. 
faintly smiling, a trifle bored Lord Quex 
faced her, back against the door. "The 
Duchess had an attack of nerves and will 
spend the night in Mrs. Eden's rooms," 
he explained casually, "and you, my dear, 
are going to keep me company — unless 
{Continued on page 79) 

Page Seventy-Two 



(Continued from page 55) 

back of the lines. Absolutely devoid of 
life, save for hungry cats and birds 
circling overhead. Yet there was a 
strange note of romance in those ghostly, 
empty towns." 

Lord Dunsany Delieves that the war 
will be followed by a singular period of 
literary endeavor. "We have been held 
up by the war," he says. "The tremen- 
dous strife prevented everything but one 
big idea. There was no room for any- 
thing else. Now minds are turning into 
a thousand new channels." 

Lord Dunsany does not term his plays 
fanciful. "If I create a city of jade or 
alabaster over there" — and his hand 
swept a section of teeming New York 
seen from his hotel window — "it is just 
as real as this table here. Both have 
been created by man. As well call my 
table fanciful." 

Lord Dunsany defined art as "any 
work supremely well done that is capable 
of being supremely well done." 

"That eliminates the making of, let us 
say, suspenders, as a fine art," he added, 
with a laugh. 

Lord Dunsany sketched his impres- 
sions of New York briefly. "My first 
sunset left an indelible memory," he 
said. "At first the uniformity of the 
lights twinkling in the windows thru the 
dusk gave the impression of man-made 
regularity. But, with the gathering 
shadows, your huge buildings seemed as 
mountains, quite as magical and as stu- 
pendous a part of the whole fabric as 
the moon itself." 

The author is tremendously interested 
in the American stage. "The little the- 
ater movement over here impresses me 
deeply," he told me. "While as yet I 
have not studied conditions at firsthand, 
I have a great deal of faith in your 
theater and its possibilities. 

"The British stage?" Lord Dunsany 
repeated. "Let us not talk of it." 

The playwright-poet summed up what 
he considered his foremost work as, first, 
"Alexander," a full-length drama to be 
soon seen in this country, "my twentieth 
play," a new work as yet unnamed, "The 
Laughter of the Gods," and, fourth, 
"The Gods of the Mountain." 

Lord Dunsany's singular and colorful 
style has frequently been attributed to his 
study of the Bible during his developing 

"The Bible had something to do with 
it," he told me, "and so did my early 
reading of the Grimm and Anderson 
fairy tales. But most of all, I attribute 
it to the fact that I have read so little. 
Reading less than other people has been 
my advantage. The richness of the liter- 
ature has worked its way into my mind 
— and remained. 

"My father owned many Oriental 
knickknacks. I can vividly recall the in- 

terest and curiosity they continually 
aroused in me as a boy." 

Rapidity is part of Lord Dunsany's 
method. "He frequently does a playlet 
at a sitting," Lady Dunsany told me, 
"while a full-length play may require a 

I asked Lady Dunsany how it felt to 
be the wife of a genius. Whereat she 
seemed puzzled. "Principally I am con- 
cerned with keeping Lord Dunsany from 
being interrupted when he is writing," 
she responded, rather doubtfully. 

"I want to make it clear just why I 
came to America," went on Lord Dun- 
sany. "I wanted to study your stage, of 
course, to meet the men who have been 
fighting my battle over here, particularly 
Stuart Walker, and to lecture. But 
really it is all part of my effort to start 
the world dreaming. 

"I want to blaze the way for the 
dreamer. / want to teach you Americans 
how to dream. God knows we all need 
to — after our terrible lost years in the 


"Abraham Lincoln," 
"Aphrodite," et al 

(Continued from page 50) 

the thing left us cold, we must confess. 
Wilda Bennett we admire, but John 
Charles Thomas, with all his excellent 
vocalism, is too stolid and leaning- 
against-the-grand-piano a hero to ever 
stir us. 

Now gaze upon "The Rose of China." 
Here is a Chinese adaptation of "Mad- 
ame Butterfly," with P. G. Wodehouse's 
well turned lyrics and unusual settings — 
one particularly beautiful — by the busy 
Mr. Urban. But "The Rose of China" 
is slow and actually amateurish, while 
Jane Richardson's labored cuteness as 
the Oriental heroine surfeited us com- 
pletely. Stanley Ridges, as a Chinaman 
just back from Yale, is the best of the 
whole cast. 

"The Little Whopper" is typical musi- 
cal comedy stuff, with rather tuneful 
Rudolph Friml numbers, the piquant 
Vivienne Segal and the oddly personable 
Wilton sisters. If you ask us, Miss Segal 
•has two of the best reasons for dancing 
on the metropolitan musical stage. 

"The Magic Melody" is a ponderous 
effort to turn out a dramatic operetta, 
weighted down by Julia Dean's emo- 

Let us add a word anent Elsie Janis 
"and her gang." Miss Janis, lately the 
idol of the A. E. F., has gathered about 
her a soldier show, put it together rather 
handily and developed a lively and spon- 
taneous evening's entertainment. And let 
its not overlook little Eva le Gallienne, 
who does a lady of the Paris boulevards. 

What Every Woman 
Should Know 

(Continued from page 54) 

over dress is further stiffened at the 
hips by ruffles and ruches, fulled on. 
One quaint, tight little bodice with dull- 
toned roses tucked into the folds about 
the waist topped a very wide pannier 
skirt of blue striped with silver. An- 
other pannier frock of blue taffeta was 
tucked up on the hips with pink roses 
and the skirt was edged with fur. These 
pannier frocks possess the charm and 
haunting beauty of the long gone days 
when the pannier was first in fashion. 

In direct contrast to these bewitching 
frocks are the evening gowns of black 
velvet, slender in silhouette, with arrow 
trains, low sleeveless corsages, the vel- 
vet of the corsage draped slightly but 
closely about the figure in the new 
fashion. One of these slender frocks 
was broadened at the hips into the 
semblance of panniers by a great bow of 
black velvet on one side and by rippling 
folds of drapery lined with blue which 
flare out fanwise on the other. An- 
other one was a slender black velvet 
creation with sweeping lengths of vivid 
green velvet falling from each hip. An- 
other model was of black velvet and thin 
black lace, the lace forming a sort of 
overdress — a new and delightful com- 

Laces of the better grades and those 
termed "real lace" are coming into their 
own this winter of elegant costuming, 
and whenever pieces of the hand-made 
meshes are used one knows that its pro- 
duction has helped the peasants who 
work at this craft. Among the machine- 
made laces are skirt and flouncing 
widths of white, black and other colors 
which are draped over silk or crepe de 
chine and elaborated with a sash of 
subtle contrast. Wide laces are used in 
combination with silk brocades. Skirts 
are short when made of lace, with- the 
silk puffed on the sides. 

With the wide pannier skirt comes the 
coat of similar silhouette. Coats of wool 
velour and duvetyn are big, long and 
loose with flaring lines, large arm holes 
and much fur-trimmed. 

Furs present marvels of workman- 
ship and the result is fur worked with 
almost as much elaboration as is shown 
in woven fabrics. That greater ample- 
ness will be required by the coming 
mode is proved again by the fur models. 
Last year one saw coats of supple furs 
which were almost as scanty as dresses. 
This year, the favored model for the 
full length coat is a capelike form very 
wide around the shoulders with slits for 
the arms into which wide short sleeves 
have been set. With -this model one 
finds the real cape which is of course 
the ideal garment to wear over the 
bouffant skirts. 

Page Seventy-Three 


The Language of the Dance 

is an art of physical and spiritual con- 
secration. It is just that, or it is noth- 
ing distinguished. So, to all objections 
at home, I answered only one thing, "I 
want to be a dancer." 

I made my first appearance at a great 
dancing carnival for children given in 
Milan. I was not competing for the 
prizes. I was merely taken there with 
my parents to watch the others from an 
upper box. During the intermission, 
when the orchestra was playing an inter- 
mezzo and the floor was deserted, I 
slipped away from my family, reached 
the ball-room floor, and began posturing 
and dancing by myself. Before my par- 
ents could reach me, I was surrounded 
by people, loudly encouraged, and I con- 
tinued dancing till the Mayor of Milan 
came down to me himself, congratulated 
me formally and told me I had won the 
first prize, a gold medal on which my 
name was subsequently inscribed. 

I was apprenticed to the ballet school 
at La Scala, Milan. Admitted when I 
was six years old, I worked daily for six 
years. Even at that ridiculous age, I 
had certain definite intentions. I deter- 
mined to become a premiere danseuse, 
and I decided to live in strict seclusion 
from the associations of the theater. To 
be frank, the latter was not a decision of 
moral force. 

The art of dancing is perhaps one of 
the most difficult of all the arts. From 
the big ballet school of La Scala of 
Milan, many famous dancers have 
graduated. After many years of mar- 
vellous creative work, it was closed 
from the beginning of the war. It has 
been a temple of one of the great Na- 
tional arts of Italy. One of the most 
serious schools of dancing in the world, 
it was supported entirely by the Italian 
Government. Tuition was free, but the 
pupils were bound over to appear for a 
certain number of years in the National 
Theater. Therefore, there was nothing 
wrong with the artistic atmosphere in 
which I began my work. Scientifically 
and artistically, the ballet-school of La 
Scala was very thoro. I went thru 
all the preliminary exercises. I began 
by standing at a horizontal bar, hold- 
ing on as tightly as I could while 
learning the proper positions of the feet 
for the ballet. There are five primary 
positions upon which all forms of danc- 
ing are based. Few people have any 
idea of the tremendous difficulty in- 
volved in these first five exercises. Lest 
the imagination of the pupil be delayed, 
there are constant appeals to it, made 
by the grace of older dances, by the 
more advanced pupils. The most diffi- 
cult thing to learn, is how to keep the 
body entirely separated from the arms 
and legs. The extraordinary suppleness 

(Continued from page 65) 

of muscles in the feet and the limbs, 
are developed by these preliminary exer- 
cises. The movements of limbs and arms 
must be entirely separate movements, in 
which the body itself takes no part. The 
moment the body begins to move, to 
break up the straight lines, the dancing 
becomes ordinary. Of course there was 
a large corps of teachers assigned to 
the various departments. There was a 
classic teacher, the acrobatic dancers, the 
pantomime dancers, the character dan- 
cers, all teaching steps based upon the 
five principal steps which had been 
learned with infinite patience. 

My first debut as a pupil at La Scala 
happened after only three months' tui- 
tion. It was in a children's ballet. Mr. 
Gatti-Casazza was then the director of 
the theater. Everyone was afraid of 
him because he was very severe. When- 
ever we saw him, with his long solemn 
face and his threatening beard, coming 
down the aisles of the theater to watch 
us, we were very frightened. I was 
surprised when he walked up to me one 
day, and gave me two tickets to see the 
children's ballet, for my father and 
mother. I had not told them about my 
public appearance. They thought I was 
attending night classes. I gave them the 
tickets and they went. My part in the 
ballet was that of a mechanical doll. 
My mother, watching the performance, 
said to my father, that she thought it 
was a doll on the stage. My father, 
wiser, perhaps, said "that looks very 
much like our own little girl." 

I made my American debut in Chi- 
cago, under the management of Mr. 
Dippel, and subsequently found myself 
again under the management of Mr. 
Gatti-Casazza at the Metropolitan Opera 

The real language of dancing has been 
very much abused. To keep the purity 
of that language, the ballet dancer must 
concentrate her body to the plastic vir- 
tues of beauty in movement. The mind 
and the heart of the dancer must be in 
accord with this temperament. She 
makes many sacrifices for beauty. She 
must be content to accept a certain re- 
moteness of life for the achievement of 
her art. In short, ballet dancing, as I 
know it, is an art of renunciation. There 
are things in the language of dancing 
that are forbidden. For instance : 

A dancer must not skate because it 
enlarges the joints "of her knee; she 
must not drive a motor because the pres- 
sure of her foot on the accelerator en- 
larges her ankles. She must not ride 
horseback because her hips grow too big. 
She cannot be so ungraceful as to dance 
the fox-trot, or the shimmie, so she has 
to abandon all the modern dancing. All 
the pleasures of ordinary mortals are 

denied her. This is no hardship, how- 
ever, because her greatest creed is to re- 
tain control of her bodily beauty. 

I should like to dispose of the false 
impressions concerning the art of danc- 
ing. Obviously to succeed as a dancer 
the pupil must be born with exceptional 
beauty, at least she must be pretty. But, 
this is not enough to secure her success. 
She must have, as nearly as possible, a 
perfect, healthy body, a strong body, not 
merely muscular but resilient. Her na- 
tural beauty of form must be improved, 
emphasized. She must be taught to 
move always with due proportion of 
beauty to the eye. There are angles in 
the human body which must be rounded, 
there are lumps and muscles that must 
be smoothed out. A pair of well-shaped 
legs is the least necessity in the art of 
dancing. These conditions are not 
brought about by mere acrobatic exer- 
cises. The wonderful lightness of the 
feet, the perfect poise of the body, the 
lines of the neck and the arms, and 
the shoulders, are developed by very 
gentle exercises. All appeal to the danc- 
ing pupil is made chiefly thru imagina- 
tion, rather than thru muscular exer- 
cises. The dancer soon learns to be 
always on her guard to defend her body 
from awakward movement, from 
stooped shoulders, from angular poses. 

Above all things the dancer must be 
devoted to a religion of beauty which 
is entirely her own. Other women re- 
tain their beauty with the aid of arti- 
ficial resources, the dancer relies upon 
her health and her intelligence. I am 
convinced that there is a real sanctity 
in the religion of beauty which the dan- 
cer must obey, or lose her soul. At the 
age of fourteen, I was far more serious 
than I am now, far more religiously ab- 
sorbed in the consecration of my art. I 
never went on the stage without saying 
a prayer, and I never forgot to breathe 
a little vow of thanks to God when I 
came off the stage at the end of a 
dance. I can see now, that these habits 
of reverence were the inherited will, that 
should be in the hearts of all artists — 
the will to preserve one's soul. No, 
the ballet dancer is not at all what she 
is usually described. 

Such is the language of the dance to 
me. I have sometimes fancied how it 
would have been with me otherwise, and 
I have come to the conclusion that it 
would have been the same, for I began 
by being as strict with myself as if I 
lived within convent walls. I may have 
seen a man who pleased me, but when 
I did, I analyzed the consequence that 
love would bring into my art, and I 
found the language of the dancer, the 
religion of bodily beauty, far more 

Page Seventy-Four 


these twelve years it is easy to see that 
he has achieved his purpose. It was 
Ziegfeld who introduced Urban to the 
musical comedy stage. He utilized the 
services of the Viennese scenic artist 
who was attempting to give solidity 
and perspective to stage settings. As 
a result, the Ziegfeld productions be- 
came with each passing year things of 
great aesthetic appeal. Beauty had 
been brought to the inanimate as 
represented by columns, houses, ba- 
zaars, rostrums, gateways, and the 
tones of realistic blue employed in the 
sky effects gave a restfulness that 
made them creations of surpassing 

But the animate had not been for- 
gotten in the search for beauty. The 
name Ziegfeld became synonymous 
with alluring femininity. He called for 
Girl and she came youthful and fresh 
and altogether charming. He sent 
scouts into secluded places far from 
the theatrical mart. He went into the 
highways and byways himself. The 
beckoning finger of opportunity was 
heeded. Girls from the farm and the 
factory and the small town and the 
college campus and the East Side of 
New York and the department store 
counter and the big city boulevard 
flocked to the New Amsterdam The- 
ater to join the "Follies" legions. 
There were only three requisites to an 
engagement — youth, charm and beau- 
ty. Singing and dancing could be 
learnt from capable instructors. If 
the applicants did not fulfill the main 
requirements there was no encourage- 
ment given. 

Thus Ziegfeld became a connoisseur 
of Girl. And he capitalized this repu- 
tation. He was heralded far and wide 
as a keen and analytical expert in the 
charms of women. He placed_ no re- 
strictions upon the figure, tho it must 
be said that the Grecian form, definite 
and uninspiring, has never dominated 
the productions of the "Follies." Girls 
of all heights and, as our vaudeville 
friends would say, tonnage were en- 
gaged, provided, of course, they were 
young and pretty. The press agent, 
obviously, did his bit. Contrary to cus- 
tom he made statements concerning 
the girls of the "Follies" rather than 
of the principals in the cast dominant 
in the announcements issued to the 
newspapers. And the newspapers and 
magazines, appreciating the appeal of 
attractive photographs and interesting 
comment upon those people of a music- 
al production who had hitherto been 
obscured, were glad to help him. The 
Ziegfeld girl thus grew into an insti- 
tution. Occasionally one would leave 
the organization to embark upon a 
screen career or to marry a Pittsburgh 

A Review of the Revue 

(Continued from page 17) 

steel magnate. But the reserves were 
always well filled. The army of occu- 
pation was maintained at its full 
strength. No amount -of movies or 
marriages could block the progress of 
the American leg upon the interna- 
tional ladder. 

Other producing managers quickly 
realized the enormous drawing power 
of the musical revue as represented by 
the "Follies." Revues began to spring 
up over night. The day of Danubian 
dominance in musical shows was at an 
end. No more Lehar, Fall or Straus — 
at least for a while. But in their places 
a Berlin, a Hobart, a Buck, a Pollock, 
a Wolf and a Hirsch — men who were 
capable of travestying some current 
foible of social, political and theatrical 
life and providing a tinkly tune to sup- 
plement the action. But the back- 
ground of all their efforts was girl — 
girls of all shapes and sizes, blondes 
and brunettes : girls whose voices were 
tolerated but whose ankles aroused 
superlatives of admiration ; girls of un- 
usual grace and personality and girls 
who invariably were young and pretty. 
Is it not recalled that Raymond Hitch- 
cock caught the popular fancy by ad- 
vertising his feminine cohorts in the 
first "Hitchy-Koo" production as "all 
under twenty?" Age must be served. 
The tired business man, fairly fat and 
forty, must be refreshed by youthful 
charm. If there was also a note of 
naivete and modesty present — and 
most stage directors worked zealously 
to obtain it — the refreshment was all 
the more delightful. 

Success, glowing and consistent, 
flowed into the box office wherever a 
musical revue held the boards. Lew 
Fields, profiting by his long associa- 
tion with Joe Weber at the music hall 
which bore their names, staged elab- 
orate shows. His experience taught 
him that the high class burlesque, 
which he had sponsored a decade be- 
fore, was closely akin to the type of 
revue now prevalent. He called in ex- 
pert farceurs, quick-witted lyricists and 
song writers, who, while deficient in 
technique, were skilled in devising 
catchy shows. And they turned out 
such products as "The Midnight Sons" 
and "The Jolly Bachelors" which drew 
capacity audiences thruout a sum- 
mer. Unlike Ziegfeld, he did not spe- 
cialize in girls. But his shows had a 
good feminine representation, never- 

It w r as not long before the more con- 
servative and well-established pro- 
ducers began to appreciate the financial 
possibilities of the musical revue. The 
Shuberts converted a dilapidated horse 
exchange into an attractive and com- 
fortable music hall which they called 

the Winter Garden and there they 
presented pretentious revues built ac- 
cording to a definite formula and re- 
quiring a cast of more than one hun- 
dred people. They imported artists 
who had acquired a sensational success 
on the Continent and these artists 
helped materially in building up a repu- 
tation for the Winter Garden which 
eventually reached even to deaconesque 
circles back home. Inasmuch as con- 
siderable of the success of the revues 
at the Broadway and Fiftieth Street 
playhouse has been due to the princi- 
pals there is justification for the sub- 
ordination of the girls in the press an- 
nouncements of those shows. But 
there are girls at the Winter Garden — - 
great hordes of them — and it does not 
require a discerning eye to see that 
they are for the most part quite up 
to the standard maintained by Mr. 

The Shubert policy in regard to 
revues has been thoroly consistent. 
Current topics do not come in for any 
general attention on the part of the 
carpenter or poet-laureate or whatever 
the industrious Mr. Atteridge may be 
called. Instead, concentration is placed 
upon the successful plays of the year 
and these are travestied, according to 
the needs of the production, with some 
amusing digression that is based upon 
a popular piece of adolescent fiction. 

In their latest revue, "The Gaieties 
of 1919," there is some attempt at satir- 
izing some current phases of life and 
there is obvious a desire to reverse the 
Shubertian publicity plan and play up, 
in the announcements, the chorus girls 
rather than the principals. 

Klaw and Erlanger have tried their 
hand at the revue, notably in the case 
of "Fads and Fancies." This effort 
was not the success expected and it 
would seem that they have abandoned, 
altogether, the revue idea in favor of 
the elaborate musical comedy. 

In late years the musical revue has 
taken on a greater popularity than ever. 
Mr. Hitchcock's productions have been 
conspicuously profitable examples of 
this type of entertainment. His shows, 
naturally, are built chiefly around his 
personality, but he has too keen a sense 
of showmanship to permit himself to 
bask continuously in the limelight. He 
surrounds himself with clever per- 
formers and a select chorus — select in 
appearance, in ability and sartorial 

"The Greenwich Village Follies" is 
a revue of the current season. It fol- 
lows scrupulously the traditions estab- 
lished further uptown which, perhaps, 
accounts for its great success. Other 
revues are in preparation for large the- 
(Continued on page 78) 

Page Seventy-Five 


Mme. Petrova Interviews Arthur Hopkins 

him on the back and told him they were 
always 'tough' out front on Monday af- 
ternoons. 'Over their heads. Over their 
heads, my boy,' said the 'legit.' The 
vaudevillian looked at him sidewise. 
'Perhaps they ducked it,' he remarked, 
tersely, as he walked toward his dress- 
ing room." 

"Which would prove," said Arthur 
Hopkins, "that the sketch and the actor 
had failed to please the audience, not 
necessarily because either was highbrow, 
or 'over their heads,' but because neither 
was entertaining. The audience, as I 
said before, is not going to consider 'ar- 
tistic' values. So long as it is amused, it 
will accept the 'hick' vaudevillian or the 
impersonator of Shakespeare's heroes 
with equal relish. Each has his place, 
each has his' commercial and artistic 

"Shakespeare commercial to-day?" I 
gasped increduously. 

"I'm going to do a big revival," said 
Mr. Hopkins, "and I'm not foolish 
enough to do that, however, much I 
might like to, unless I thought it would 
be successful commercially as well as ar- 

I could have thrown myself upon Mr. 
Hopkins' nice tweed suit in an ecstasy 
of delight, but I restrained myself with 
difficulty. All I did, was to say quietly 
that I was very much interested, indeed, 
to hear it. 

"Yes," he went on, "I believe that 
there are thousands of people who will 
come to see sound drama, beautifully 
written, beautifully played, beautifully 
produced, even though the author hap- 
pens to be Shakespeare, and out of favor 
just now. I believe that such a produc- 
tion, as I have in mind will again refute 
the statement that anything is 'over their 
heads' even if some of the heads are up 
in the gallery." Mr. Hopkins ceased 
speaking and his eyes traveled again to 
the door. I looked at my watch. 

"What about the star system, actor's 
strikes, artistic temperaments, breakfast 
foods, the high cost of living, the still 
higher cost of dying, prohibition, I. W. 
W.'s, Great Neck, L. I., the servant 
problem, interior decorating, education 
of the classes, not to speak of the 
masses — " I put in hurriedly. "I must 
have your views, Mr. Hopkins." 

"I dont know a thing about them," 
he said, piteously. "If you'll come back 
next week, I'll read up on one or two." 

"Which means that you want me to 
go," I remarked caustically. 

"Oh, no, not at all," said Mr. Hop- 
kins. "Nothing would please me more 
than to talk to you and with you for the 
rest of the day, but we're reopening 
to-morrow — and well — you know." 

(Continued from page 40) 

I rose reluctantly. "Of course, when 
you put it up to my honor as it were, 
moral suasion is much more powerful 
than mere force." I held out my hand 
with a distinct sense that I was being 
badly treated by fate in the person of 
"The Jest." 

"Just one more question, before I go, 
Mr. Hopkins," I said. "What is your 
definition of a stage or screen director?" 

"Do you mean actually or idealistical- 
ly?" he asked. 

I thought for a moment, "Oh, idealis- 
tically, of course," I said. 

"A director is a man able to bring out 
the best points of an artist, a play or a 
situation," he said slowly. 

"Supposing that neither the artist, nor 
the play, nor the situation has any points, 
do you think the director can supply 
them?" I queried. 

"He may be able to supply them in the 
two latter cases," returned Mr. Hopkins, 
"but in the case of the actor, the direc- 
tor can merely suggest the idea and leave 
that actor to work it out for himself. If 
the actor has nothing inside his skull no 
director on earth can make him act." 

"But dont you think," I said, "that a 
director can take an actor who resembles, 
let us say a piece of malleable clay and 
impress upon that clay his own person- 
ality, make it a great artist, a genius?" 

"I do not," replied Mr. Hopkins, de- 
cidedly. "In my own case when I en- 
gage an actor I pay him a salary for 
knowing something about his business. 
I suppose that he can read, that he can 
speak the tongue and that he has the 
ordinary intelligence to understand what 
he reads and speaks. If I have to teach 
him I might as well start a school and 
let the actor pay me for the tuition." 

I released Mr. Hopkins' hand which I 
had been literally holding on to for the 
past few minutes and walked to the door. 
Again I turned. 

"When are you going to direct another 
screen play, Mr. Hopkins?" I asked. 

"Never," he snapped. 

I retired precipitately. 

Outside the office door the gloom was 
Stygian and I am very blind. I collided 
with a soft woolly object, which after a 
second or two I recognized as being a 
very tall and remarkably handsome 
youth. In the midst of my profuse 
apologies, Mr. Hopkins came to the res- 
cue and personally conducted me down 
the stairs and into the light of day. 

As I drove over to the Ritz Carlton 
for lunch I summed up a few of the 
points of Mr. Hopkins' character as they 
had been revealed to me during the few 
minutes spent at the Plymouth Theater. 

He is one of those men, who tho of 
small stature, are big in every sense of 

the word. His bigness is emphasized by 
the following deductions: 

i. He was entering the theater just 
one minute before twelve in order to 
keep an appointment made for twelve 
o'clock. He does not either by accident 
or intent keep a visitor waiting. Mr. 
Hopkins, altho perhaps the foremost 
dramatic producer to-day, does not con- 
sider himself too important to be punc- 

2. The employes of the theater smile 
when he passes. He must be human. 

3. There is no large«and elaborate sign 
upon his office door to impress the pass- 
er-by with his elevated position. He is 
modest and unassuming. 

4. He is very direct. He looks you 
straight in the eyes when he speaks and 
sits or stands squarely without shuffling, 
posing or lounging as he does so. He 
scoffs not at commerce, but would not 
produce a play without what he consid- 
ers artistic merit, even if he were assured 
of enormous recompense. He is honest 
therefore in thought and purpose. 

5. He took the trouble to go personally 
to several artists waiting (without ap- 
pointments), to see him, so that their 
time need not "be taken up for nothing." 
He is therefore thoughtful and consider- 
ate. When I think of the weary hours 
spent in manager's offices during my own 
early struggles I can not help wishing 
that I had known Mr. Hopkins then. 

6. The stack of plays on his desk 
points to the fact that he is a thoro be- 
liever in work. 

7. He says that the art of the theater 
and the art of the screen need a little 
attention, now and then, in conjunction, 
mind you, with an eye to business — for 
he says, "A play, however artistic it may 
be, is of no use to anybody if there is 
nobody in the theater to see it." In- 
stead of blaming the poor public, he 
blames the producer. Therefore, he is 
clear of vision and a good and proper 
person to look to as a leader. 

8. He believes that there is a public 
for Shakespeare. Therefore, he has a 
sublime faith. 

Summing up these eight points one 
might say that with punctuality, "hu- 
manness," modesty, honesty of purpose, 
consideration for the less fortunate, an 
infinite capacity for work, clearness of 
vision and faith, Mr. Hopkins stands out 
as a beacon of hope against the somber 
sky of the American theater. 

By La Touche Hancock 
Act I Act III 

Patrimony Acrimony 

Act II Act IV 

Matrimony Alimony 

Page Seventy-Six 

Times have changed 
since Shakespeare 


SHAKESPEARE thought of all the 
world as a stage. 

Motion pictures have made that 
thought a fact. 

When the olden plays were first put 
on at that queer little cockpit in Lon- 
don called the Globe Theatre, the audi- 
ence had to imagine suitable settings to 
the action of the drama. 

How the old playwrights would 
have been amazed and delighted by 
Paramount Artcraft Pictures, in which 
are supplied all the living realities of 
romance — scenery, climatic conditions, 

tall forests, salty oceans and the very 
flesh and blood of men and women ! 

"The play's the thing" still, but think 
what has happened to the motion pic- 
ture theatre also, the comfort of the 
audience, the luxury of the presenta- 

Hardly a community anywhere that 
lacks a theatre worthy to show 
Paramount Artcraft Pictures. 

Hardly. a community anywhere that 
does not know enough to demand 

Watch the theatres' announcements 
and know before you pay. 

(paramount- Gjriera£t 

jiiotlan (pictures " 





Released to December 1st 

Billie Burke m -Sadie Love' 

Irene Castle in 

"The Invisible Bond"" 
Marguerite Clark in 

"Luck in Pawn ' 
Ethel Clayton in 

"A Sporting Chance 
Cecil B. DeMille's Production in 

"Male and Female' 
Elsie Ferguson in "Counterfeit" 
Dorothy Gish in 

"Turning the Tables 
D. W. Griffith's Production 

"Scarlet Days 
*Wm. S. Hart in "Wagon Tracks" 
Houdini in "The Grim Game" 

Vivian Martin in 

"His Official Fiancee 
Wallace Reid in 

"The Lottery Man-' 
Maurice Tourneur's Production 

"The Life Line" 
George Loane Tucker's Production 

••The Miracle Man" 
Robert Warwick in "In Mizzoura" 
Bryant Washburn in 

"It Pays to Advertise" 
"The Miracle of Love" 

A Cosmopolitan Production 

*Supervision Thomas H. Ince 

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Enid Bennett in 

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Dorothy Dalton in "L'Apache" 

Douglas MacLean & Doris May in 

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Charles Ray in "Crooked Straight" 

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Paramount DeHaven Comedies 

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Paramount Short Subjects 
Paramount Magazine issued weekly 
Paramount-Post Nature Pictures 

issued every other week 
Paramount-Burton Holmes Travel Pic- 
tures one each iceek 
Paramount-Burlingham Adventure 

Pictures every other week 

Paramount-Briggs Comedies 

one each iceek 



v v 

mii iiwiiiii'ixiiiiRiiii iiRiiiiiiPwiiiiiiiwiinii'A i ,! ■^■' ii i \ i i ■ a. 

Page Seventy-Seven 

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Page Seventy -Eight 

A Review of the Revue 

(Continued from page 75) 

aters, intimate playhouse roof gardens, 
any place where the elusive dollar mav 
be caught. Last season a large num- 
ber of revues based upon the activities 
of the A. E. F. in France invaded the 

Indeed, any reliable statistician of 
the Rialto will take pains to inform you 
that any revue which is not hopelessly 
dull and unattractive will make money 
these days. One would think that 
talent would soon be exhausted, that 
there would be a dearth of chorus girls 
and principals. This does not seem to 
be the case, however. And it probably 
will not be so long as the vaudeville 
pastures teem with singing and danc- 
ing personalities, to say nothing of 
those with amusing specialties to offer 
—for it is from vaudeville that the 
personnel of most of the revues is re- 
cruited. Will there be, however a 
continuous supply of chorus girls* 
Undoubtedly. Is there not a mini- 
mum wage scale of $35 weekly for the 
same chorus girls? Is there not a 
Mane Dressier with an ability for ag- 
gressive and maternal leadership that 
is respected by the managers t Is there 
not the screen with its ever-present 
lure and promise of country homes and 
automobiles? Is there not "still a super- 
abundance of feminine youth and beauty 
m the land ? J 

Most assuredly. Any theatrical 
manager will tell you so. 


(Continued from page 27) 

intendent conveyed us in the miniature 
lift past the duplex artist's apartment 
on the first floor, to Kay's suite. 

Such a living room, with its ivoried 
walls lined with bookcases and a real 
tapestry over the real fireplace, a king- 
dom m these days would be ransomed 
tor! There were a huge bedroom, and 
a dinmg room, a cunning kitchenette 
and two shining baths, over whose 
marbled tiles and glass shelves on 
which she could display her Christmas- 
present bottles, Kay enthused. She is 
as practical as she is not. Kay insisted 
upon haying lights in the linen closets 
and made the superintendent promise 
to arrange the icebox in a more con- 
venient spot. 

A telephone in the hall sent her 
again m pursuit of the grail "What 
do you mean by giving the wrong 
number, Central?" was her song ten 
minutes later "Will you please tell 

?e e t^j 2 67? ttoasksothat1 ^ 

She turned to me : "I know how stars 
who haven t time to be interviewed 
can pour out their life's histories to 
reporters who pursue them. Just let 
them make an appointment in some 
cozy booth at the hour they have ar- 
ranged to call a friend " 

Cast Before 

Some seer with a far vision has said 
that coming events cast their shadows 
before. A Modern, especially an edi- 
torial Modern, might well say that such 

is the case with coming Magazines 

they cast their shadows before. Shad- 
owland is just this— a COMING Maga- 
zine. Shadowland does just this It 
hves in the Today and it promises rich- 
ly, artistically, colorfully, literarily for 
Tomorrow. This is the Age of Prog- 
ress and Shadowland is the many- 
toned note striking, striving to strike, 
the harmony of the Age, the ultra-oer- 
fect Chord. 

_ Shadowland wishes to be in many 
Jives just that— a perfect chord A per- 
fect chord means a perfect blending of 
many things and that, again, is what 
Shadowland aspires to. To something 
may we say, just a little bit finer a 
little bit higher, a little bit more fraught 
with dreams and dreaming than we the 
great Most of Us, get in our Little- 
Everyday. Like a Shadow it wills to 
move in the trend of our daily lives yet 
leaving a Substance behind. 

There is no one of us who, conscious- 
ly, subconsciously or unconsciously, does 
not love and reach out for the color 
ol things, the pulse of things, the 
rhythm of things. There is no one of 
us who would not, if we could, 'broider 
the drab cloth of the mundane with a 
shimmering Thread of Gold. Perhaps, 
being blest, with more than one shim- 
mering thread. Shadowland would 
like to be at least one of those shim- 
mering threads. 

It would like to be a simile to the 
rainbow seen at the end of a grey day. 

It would like to be as a song heard 
faintly, clearly, by a weary heart. 

It would like to induce a smile where 
a tear had been before. 

It would like to give an hour of for- 
getfulness with the turning of its pages 
where such forgetfulness might 'be 
grateful balm. 

It would like to be a friend 
friendly hand. 

It would like to be a light, 
under no obscuring bushel' 

It would like to be and it „ 
be a bit of real beauty, intrinsic, like a 
small glimpse of dcpthless blue seen 
thru rifted clouds. 

To this end it has striven and 
more mightily will strive. 
_It will strive for Color and 

It will strive for Wisdom and 

And it has been writ in many a book 
of the Ancients that to those among us 
who mightily strive will be awarded the 
green sprays of the young Laurel. 

We of Shadowland ask for the 
laurels of many friendships and the be- 
liefs thereof ! 

felt as a 

a guide, 
of ad- 
aims to 






The Gallery is filled with 
new and beautiful pictures. 

Elsie Ferguson — the real 
Elsie Ferguson — talks to 
you from the pages of the 
profusely illustrated inter- 
view by Gladys Hall. 

Dustin Farnum went on a 
yachting trip — Maude S. 
Cheatham went, too, and in 
her story she will tell you 
how "Dusty" hasn't really 
grown up at all. 

There are other interviews 
with some of screenland's 
most popular players, at- 
tractive picture pages and 
novelettes of the most in- 
teresting and latest feature 

Then there's the story of 
the News Reel, explaining 
every phase of its progress 
until it becomes an ani- 
mated newspaper on the 
screen of your theater. 

The February Maga- 
zine is like every other 
number of YE OLE 

Reliable — replete with 

good things. 

The Gay Lord Quex 

(Continued from page 72) 
you agree not to say anything of the 
scene you spied on so cleverly." 

"Oh!" gasped Sophy, "oh, you 
wouldn't dare! Even you couldn't be so 
wicked !'' 

Lord Quex smiled wearily. "I could 
do anything — to keep Muriel," he said, 
"but you couldn't be expected to under- 
stand how I feel about her. There's 
nothing — less than nothing for me in life 
if I lose her." 

"You'll lose her, all right!" flaunted 
Sophy, "when she knows how you kept 
your promise to reform. And there's no 
use your telling me you didn't mean any 
harm — appearances dont lie, my Lord!" 

"No?" a little laugh of mockery un- 
dertoned the words, "then I suppose the 
conclusion people will draw about you 
when you are found here in the morning 
with the notorious Lord Quex will be the 
true one? For you are too clever a 
woman to suppose that you can get away 
with a story of the plain facts !" 

The girl before him seemed to shrivel. 
For once in her capable, competent life 
the Fullgarney was afraid, bitterly, pan- 
ically afraid. "Valma ! He'd never be- 
lieve me !" moaned Sophy, "oh, let me 
go, Lord Quex! Don't ruin my life — 
let me go — " 

"What about my life?" there was no 
yielding in the hard look he turned on 
her. "You may believe it or not, but I 
have been faithful to Muriel in word and 
thought and deed ever since I first saw 
her. To-night was a mistake — nothing 
more. If you want to go you will write 
me your promise to say nothing whatever 
to anyone of what you saw." 

Shuddering, sniffling, iSophy moved to- 
ward the desk, then violently she turned. 
"No !" she cried, "I wont sell Muriel 
to buy my own safety. Let them think 
what they want to about me ! Fll prom- 
ise nothing, I tell you — nothing!" 

And with a bound she reached the bell 
and jerked it violently again and again, 
filling the silent house with its alarm. 
The two in the room faced each other, 
and something akin to respect and ad- 
miration woke in Quex's gaze. "By 
Jove ! I like your spirit !" he said slow- 
ly, "You're a sport — and I'll be one too. 
Here's the key — when they come tell 'em 
the Duchess wants her breakfast at ten 
instead of eight, and after the coast is 
clear I'll go." He held out his hand, 
"You make a fine enemy, Miss Fullgar- 
ney!" said Lord Quex, "I'd like you for 
a friend." 

The next morning, eyes heavy from a 
wakeful night, Sophy Fullgarney moved 
about her charming manicure parlor with 
unwonted nervousness. Truth to tell she 
was for the first time in her life doubt- 
ful of the wisdom of her own course. 
Across the hall Muriel and her dashing 
Captain were holding their stolen meet- 
ing. Only yesterday she had planned 
that that should end in an elopement, but 
now she was miserably unsure. When 
Lord Quex entered and came toward her 
she met his mute inquiry bravely. 
(Continued on page 81) 

BILL HART the actor: but do you 

know William S. Hart — the author? 

His PINTO BEN and other stories 
is a natural born gift book celebrat- 
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the Indian — a dog story by his sis- 
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by BILL HART himself. Pictures 
by Lamdin — $1.00 net. 

Get "Hart's Golden West Series" 
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Each $1. 75 net — All stores 
Postage on all books ten cents extra 


Page Seveniy-Nine 



for February 

Specification in the face 
of clever generalizations, 
such as the February 
CLASSIC offers in the way 
of interviews, stories, et al., 
is ever difficult. One says 
what one can, and all that 1 
can tell you is — 

That Faith Service meets 
and talks with Hobart Hen- 
ley, finds him human and 
charming and humanly tells 
about it. After the chat 
you will know Hobart 

Frederick James Smith 
talks with Gloria Swanson 

across a luncheon table and 
gives a glorious accounting, 
even as the subject thereof. 

There is something con- 
cerning Wesley Barry, the 
freckled boy, which will 
delight the heart and rejoice 
the mind. 

You will learn how "An 
Orchid Blooms" and the 
"orchid" is Naomi Childers, 
newly and piquantly pre- 
sented to us. 

And, of course, there 
will be the stories afore- 
mentioned and other chats, 
and departments and sur- 
prises. There will be all 
that there has ever been 
before and less than there 
will be in the future. You'll 
keep on turning the pages 
until the last page is 
reached. There'll be no 
regret of the February 



(Continued from page 44) 


him to clutch his feet) : Dont ! Dont ! 
Gerald (remorselessly) 

For sixteen years you lived in East 
Middleville, Ohio. You were, yes, you 
were, the daughter of a Methodist min- 
ister, the president of the Epworth 
League and the treasurer of the Anti- 
Tobacco Society. You had six other 
sisters and a twin who died. You 
were . . . 

Sonia (wildly) : 

Have mercy on me ! Have mercy ! 
Gerald (inexorably) : 

You belonged to the church choir . . . 
you sewed for the Ladies' Aid . . . 
Sonia (brokenly, rising and supporting 
her willowy length against the chaise- 
longue) : 

Yes, it is all true. I confess it. And 
there is more to tell. Now, I will keep 
nothing from you — nothing! I sang at 
high school concerts. I served chicken 
dinners for the Helping Hand. I went 
to Sunday-school picnics and I wore 
white-ruffled lawn with blue ribbons. I 
had a beau — a beau! My real name is 
Matilda P. Tewksberry. I am a good 
woman — God help me ! — a good woman ! 

Gerald (staring darkly before him) : 

A — good — woman ! Sonia, Sonia, and 
I have let myself care for you ! 
Sonia (dully) : 

You have cared? Then — that is my 
verdict ? You care for me no longer . . . 
It is all over — for me. All — all over. 
How dared I hope . . . you, an exquisite 
of the jewelled cities . . . you, who have 
sipped the honey from the queen roses of 
the world . . . you, with your youth and 
your strange glamor of old civilizations 
. . . you . . . 

Gerald (looking down on her and grad- 
ually softening) : 

Sonia, Sonia, my love is great enough 
to forgive you even — even this. (He 
raises her.) We will never refer to it 
again. It shall be as tho it had never 
been. (He kisses her brow, nobly for- 
giving.) We all have things in our pasts 
we must regret. And you . . . you can 
live this down . . . 

Sonia (brokenly) : 

Gerald . . . my king . . . 

(The door at the right opens unex- 
pectedly and Ellen hurries in.) 

Ellen (apologetically) : 

I beg pardon, ma'am, I want to know 
whether — (They turn and the light 
from the piano lamp falls over Gerald 
Haslett's cynical, worldly wise features.) 

Ellen (with a cry of delight) 
Well, I want to know ! Old Deacon 
Peters' boy, Jud ! (She holds out a hand 
to Gerald.) Land, if you aint the spittin' 
image of your pa without the overalls. 
I'd know you in Timbuctoo in spite of 
the fancified rig you've got on you. 
Have you been back to the Mills lately ? 
You've got along real good, you have. 
Did you know . . . 

Gerald (faintly) 
Yes . . . yes ... I am ill . . . Mil- 
dred . . . ah, Sonia ... I am . . . 
Sonia (in bewilderment) : 
You may go, Ellen. 

Ellen (obediently) : 
Yes, ma'am. Good-by, Jud; see you 
s'more ! 

Gerald (watching her exit with some- 
thing of the look of a man who has seen 
a ghost) : 
What were we saying, Sonia, the Past 
... the Past . . . 

Sonia (looking at him with a little, 
whimsical, suddenly comprehesive smile) : 
We were speaking about living the 
past down, old dear ! Let's do it fifty- 

(Gerald holds out his arms and there 
is nothing but the Present!) 

It Pays to Advertise 

(Continued from page 63) 

It went thru with zest, when, the next 
month, there came a report from Mar- 
shall Field that, on the strength of Rod's 
advertising campaign, the famous "13" 
had sold out big . . . and they wanted 
more. "It was only your rotten castile, 
dad," Rod told his parent, "wrapped up 
in million-dollar wrappers. Mary and I 
toted the cases about ourselves and did 
the wrapping. "Also," added Rod, as an 
afterthought, "Marshall Field wants to 
buy the trademark. They're rather 
fancy in their offer, I'll say !" 

It occurred to Martin, senior, survey- 
ing the general prospectus, in the center 
of his son's really amazing business sanc- 
tum, made more amazing by the glint of 
the sun on demure brow hair, over by 
the window, that sometimes slow invest- 
ments are the surest and best. He had 
had a long wait for this one . . . but 
now . . . and against his will he heard 
himself adding, mentally, "and with a 
woman like that." 

He asked his son to free himself from 
interruption, leaned over the glossy ma- 
hogany top, and when, three hours later, 
father and son strolled out to luncheon, 
arm-in-arm, Mary hanging to Rod on the 
other side, they had sold out to Marshall 
Field at a swoop and Rod was a member 
of the senior firm . . . post-graduated 
past and beyond the hides and tallows. 

Taking a spin the next day in his little 
roadster, Rod turned to Mary and 
squeezed the capable hand that had 
guided him out of fog.into sunshine, bril- 
liant and clear. 

"It's all you, Mary," he said, his young 
voice curiously broken up ; "before . . . 
I didn't know ..." 

"I didn't either, really," said Mary ; 
"it's not you, Rod, nor me . . . it's you 
and me, together . . . and love ..." 

"Yes," said Rod. 

Page Eighty 

The Gay Lord Quex 

(Continued from page 79) 

"No, I haven't told her — yet." Her 
heart almost failed her at the piteous re- 
lief in his haggard eyes, but she went on 
doggedly. "I expect her here in a few 
minutes. Whether I tell her anything or 
not depends on what I find out about — ■ 
someone else. Go into the private room 
there and wait, but don't come out till 
I say!" 

She glanced about the room. It was 
too early for patrons, and the girls were 
chatting in the sunny windows. On one 
pretext and another she cleared the room 
and turned expectantly toward the door 
into the hall. Minutes dragged agoniz- 
ingly by, then the door across the way 
opened and brisk footsteps crossed the 
hall. Captain John Bastling stood in the 
doorway. For the first time she saw the 
faint lines webbing his eyes, the full, 
sagging lips, then he had seized her 
hands. "Muriel has said she'll go with 
me. And we owe it all to you, Sophy ! 
You've been our good angel !" 

Sophy Fullgarney looked up enticingly 
under discreet lashes. Her face was 
lifted provokingly close to his. "I don't 
want to be thanked — in words," she whis- 
pered, "don't you know a better way?" 

Two moments later Muriel was sob- 
bing in her foster sister's arms. "For- 
give me, dearie," Sophy begged her, "I 
had to know whether he was the right 
kind. It's better for you to find it out 
now than afterwards, and oh, I want you 
to be happy, Muriel, honey ! A man that 
would kiss a manicurist right after he'd 
kissed you — faugh!" and she scrubbed 
her lips roughly at the memory. 

"It isn't — that I'm crying about!" 
Muriel quivered, "but — oh, Sophy ! I 
know now — I was only infatuated with 
- — that man. It's Quex I really love — 
and I'm afraid — he'll hate me when he 
knows — " 

"I wouldn't worry about that, dearie," 
Sophy said dryly, and putting her gently 
aside she went to the door leading to the 
balcony and opened it, "I've a sort of a 
notion that he'll understand — " she 
looked up into the face of the man who 
stood in the doorway, with a straight, 
level gaze, "He's a good man, Muriel. 
I know because I tried the same thing 
on hF.i and he turned me down cold. . . " 

Already the two on the balcony had 
forgotten her. :She turned her back on 
what was not meant for her to see and 
ran across the hall. "Let them as wants 
them have their lords !" scorned the Full- 
garney loyally, "a professor is genteeler 
to my mind !" 


When Eve brought woe to mankind, 

Old Adam called her wo-man. 
But when she wooed with love so kind, 

He then pronounced her woo-man. 
But now with valor and with pride, 

Their husbands' pockets trimming, 
The ladies are so fond of whims 

The people call them whim-men. 

— The Cynic. 

■ : *Pt*f m 

Make Your Little Girl 
Happy With „ 



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Will Keep It Growing 

Ask Your Jeweler >* 





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studios are always open to our pupils for criticism, and stu- 
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artists. Address 

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Page Eighty-One 




Ethel Clayton's Wonderful Eyelashes — ^^ 

long and curling — form a charming fringe for her eyes and give them that 
wistful appeal which adds so greatly to her facial beauty and attractiveness. 
Beautiful Eyelashes and well-formed Eyebrows — how wonderfully they bring 
out the natural beauty of the eyes ! They are now within the reach of all 
women who will just apply a little 


for a short time. Hundreds of thousands of women, prominent in social 
circles, as well as stage and screen stars, use and enthusiastically recommend 
this harmless, delicately scented cream, which nourishes and promotes the 
growth of Eyelashes and Eyebrows making them long, thick and luxuriant. Why not you ? 
TWO SIZES 50c and $1.00. AT YOUR DEALER'S or sent Direct 
in plain cover, on receipt of price. SATISFACTION ASSURED. 

// was to be expected that so conspicuous a success as " LASH-kTROlV-INE " would be imitated, as it has 

been. So, to be sure of getting the genuine, look for the picture of" THE LASH-BROW -INE 

GIRL" — same as at left — on every package, and thus avoid disappointments. 


4303-95 Grand Blvd. 


Page Eighty-Two 


61-67 NAVY STR 


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Mellin s Food adds to cow's milk 
important food materials that are 
necessary to make a complete and 
satisfying diet for the babv. 

Write today for a Free Trial Bottle of Mellin' 's Food 
and start your baby right. 


~: r ~ : i 









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#^ \ 3.50 


r Building, New York, for tampla of Mavis p 

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Favored by stage and screen beauties, styl 

n „A ~U I 






Send 15c to Vivaudou, Times 
Building, New York, for a 
generous sample of Mavis per- 
fume — or better still, ask for 
any one of the delightful Mavis 
preparations at any toilet goods 

Page Three 



Second Prize 

Fourth Prize 

Popularity Contest 

Sixth Prize 

'HE new Popu- 
larity Contest, 
... _unit stiaLand-en---- 
tertaining, is already 
the object of great 
interest ■ — unfailing 
and rife. If you 
have entered it or 
have read the announcements 
which have appeared, and will ap- 
pear, from time to time, containing 
the rules and regulations, you 
know it is actually a double con- 
test — a contest in which both the 
public and players are equally in- 

The prizes depicted above and 
below were selected after much 
careful thought and attention and 
each one is destined to make some 
one happier, from the beautiful 
Crescent phonograph which sug- 
gests a twilight hour with the 
gems musical genii have given to 
the world, to the Marble nickel- 
plated axe which brings to mind 
a jolly time in some invitingly 
green woodland. 

Perhaps you have not yet de- 
cided to enter the contest — if not 
do so now. Dont lose an oppor- 
tunity of enjoying the unique en- 
tertainment it affords or of captur- 
ing one of the lovely and useful 



Crescent Phonograph, piano mahogany finish 
(value $160). Plays all makes of disc records: 
Victor, Columbia, Pathe, Edison, Emerson, etc., 
without the use of extra attachments or intricate 
adjustments ; a simple turn of the sound-box is 
all that is necessary in changing from a lateral 
cut record to playing a hill and dale cut record. 

A Crescent owner can enjoy a repertoire of 
the greatest opera singers, popular songs, dance 
music or anything that is turned out of the 
disc record. The tone of the Crescent is full, 
round, deep and mellow. It has a large com- 
partment for records. 



Movette Camera and 
three packages of films 

(value $65). Compact. 
light, efficient, easily op- 
erated. Think of the 
possibilities during your 
vacation trip — your 
canoe trip — in pictures 

— pictures of your family or friends— living pic- 
tures that you can project at any time in your 
home. A priceless record of your life. 


Corona Typewriter with case (value $50) ; an 
all-round portable typewriter, light enough and 
small enough to be carried anywhere, and strong 
enough to stand any possible condition of travel. 
It is trim and symmetrical and does not give 
one's study the atmosphere of a business office. 
Fold it up and take it with you anywhere. 


Sheaffer "Giftie" Combination Set, consisting 
of a Sheaffer Fountain Pen and a Sheaffer 
Sharp-Point Pencil, in a handsome plush-lined 
box. Gold filled, warranted twenty years. Can- 
not blot or leak. A beautiful and perfect writ- 
ing instrument. 


Bristol steel Casting Rod agate guide, cork 
grip, strong and durable. Packed in linen case. 
Can be easily put in traveling bag. 


Loughlin Safety Self-Filling Fountain Pen. 
Prize ^ T ° extensions to remember, no locks to forget. 


Star Vibrator, handsomely finished in nickel 
plate with three attachments. Alternating cur- 
rent. Excellent for massage. Use it in your 
own home. 


Same as Seventh Prize. 


Marble nickel-plated pocket axe of tool steel, 
carefully tempered and sharpened. Indispens- 
able in camp or woods. 






Page Four 

Expressing the Arts 

The Magazine of Magazines 
JANUARY, 1920 

Volume 1 

Important Features in* This Issue : 


Kenneth Macgowan 

The young theatrical designer talks upon modern 
stage craft. 


Henry Gaines Hawn 

The first of a series of remarkable articles upon 
recitation and its possibilities. 


Hadi Barron and Saxon Cone 

A serio-comedy of the motion picture studios in 
one act. 


A bit of satire upon the Los Angeles film colony. 


The latest things in smart feminine attire 



Number 5 


Published monthly by the M. P. Publishing Company, a New York Corporation with its principal offices 

at 177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. Eugene V. Brewster, President and Editor; Eleanor V. V. 

Brewster, Treasurer; E. M. Heinemann, Secretary; Frederick James Smith, Managing Editor. Editorial 

offices at 177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, X. Y., to which address all mail should be sent. 

Subscription $3.50 a year, in advance, including postage in the U. S., Cuba, Mexico and Philippines; in 

Canada, $4.00 a year; in foreign countries, $4.50. Single copies, 35 cents. Postage prepaid. One and 

two-cent stamps accepted. Subscribers must notify vis at once of any change of address, giving both 

old and new address. 

Entered at the Brooklyn, N. Y., Post Office as Second-class matter. 

Copyright, 1920, by the M. P. Publishing Company in the United States and Great Britain. 

177 Duffield Street, Brooklyn, N. Y. 




Ernestine Myers 

The picturesque vaudeville headliner who is well 
known for her daring terpsichorean innovations 

Lucille Cavanagh 

Another Keith two-a-day favorite and also a 
divinity of the dance 

Renee Adoree 

A favorite of the musical comedy and 
dramatic stage now in the films 

Ina Claire 

The Belasco star who is this year scoring iv 
"The Gold Diggers" 

Louise Qroody 

The piquant little comedienne of musical comedy 

Katherine MacDonald 

The beauty of the cinema and one of screenland's 
newest stars 


Reproductions of two original paintings by 
A. Bierstadt and A. F. Bunner 

Page Six 


Painted from Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 



^u^CoT'^e. ff/UftsM 

Painted from © Photograph by Hixon-Connelly Studii 

Aj*.eJUU v<2 


Page Thirteen 


Photograph by Abb* 


A feature of the Capitol Theater's "Demi-Tasse Revue"' 

Page Fourteen 


Lee Simonsorfs stage design for the production of John Masefield's "The Faithful" 

Lee Simonson and His Method 

By Kenneth Macgowan 

'"T'HE scores of 'little theaters' that have grown up 
across America in the past four years have bred 
*■ modern scenic designers faster than our chaotic 
commercial theaters can absorb them." 

So says Lee Simonson. Further he has gone to the 
trouble of demonstrating it in his own person. 

Ten years ago Simonson left Harvard — a year or two 
before Robert E. Jones — to go to Paris and study art. 
Three or four years later he was back in New York 
painting industriously and just beginning to practice the 
trade of interior decoration. A couple of seasons later 
found him in the theater. It was a very tiny little 
theater — the Bandbox, once the home of the Washington 
Square Players, on 57th street near Third avenue, and 
now a bank. There Simonson created half a dozen very 
striking settings. They were so striking, in fact, so far 
superior to any of the other scenic work of the Washing- 
ton Square Players, that all the critics who were follow- 
ing the budding growth of the stage picture expected to 
see Simonson soon doing opera for the Metropolitan, 
drama for Broadway or at least musical comedy 
for K. & E. 

Between those days and these, Simonson has done just 
one Broadway production — and regretted it. For in 
"Moliere" last season, Simonson had to watch his own 

brilliant color painted over and bowdlerized to suit the 
tastes of an old-school actor-manager. 

Broadway crowds are seeing his work once more in 
"The Rise of Silas Lapham," as well as in "The Faith- 
ful" ; but this work is on view in no production of a 
Broadway manager. It is part of the offering of that 
more perfect offspring of the Washington Square 
Players, the Theater Guild. 

All in all, Simonson is not in the least unhappy at the 
neglect of Broadway. Broadway isn't gay enough for 
the creator of the crimson bizarries of "The Red Cloak," 
the designer of Bandbox's deliciously humorous "Pierre 
Patelin," the brilliant costumer of "The Rise of Silas 
Lapham." Bright as Broadway may run, it still deifies 
grey as the American conception of art. At the most, 
it accepts a little Whistler violet. Simonson is a man 
who believes that drawing-rooms and lounge suits — let 
alone the playhouse — should be full of the lyricism of 
color. Perhaps this is only saying that he belongs by 
faith and works to the most modern school of French art. 

Very likely it is the background of his associations 
with the pictorial rebels that makes him take the modern 
theater so calmly. Gordon Craig, Adolph Appia, Robert 
Jones, Joseph Urban, the artists of Max Reinhardt — all 
these ex-painters and architects whom the theater regards 

Page Fifteen 


Lee Simonson's stage ar- a s red revolutionaries — are to 

rangement of the garden Simonson decent, respectable 

scene tor Hie bisters ot , ., 

Susanne" tradesmen in the common- 

places of pictorial art. And 
the whole scenic "revolution" 
is a revolution only because the theater is still ruled by 
a despot of 1880. 

The stage has simply stood still, thru the lack of pro- 
gressiveness of its so-called "leaders." Art has passed on. 

Now, when the world of the footlights turns its face 
forward, the cry of revolution is raised. And Simonson 
comments vigorously upon this phase : 

"The scene painting rebels of today are conquering the 
stage with the artistic discoveries of twenty years ago," 
says Simonson. "When we put inside the proscenium 
frame the sort of things that art museums and their 
patrons take for granted, you call it a revolution. The 
truth is that the theater stood still of a century, while 
Beardsley, Whistler, Degas, and Renoir — to get no 
nearer the real revolutionists of the easel today — were 
making over the art of painting. Until a few seasons 
ago the standards of the Metropolitan Opera House, so 
far as scenery went, were the standards of Bowery melo- 
drama. Everybody painted exteriors in the style of Mid- 
Victorian landscapes and interiors like backgrounds for 
still lifes. The result is that all a scene painter need do 
today is to transfer to the stage Beardsley's massing of 
black and white, the tints of a Whistler monochrome, the 
elements of a Japanese print, or the qualities of a poster 
or a good architectural water-color, and the poor starved 
people of the theater hale him as a daring innovator." 

Simonson has expressed over his own signature a very 
definite and refreshing belief in the easy task of himself 
and all his fellow revolutionaries: "It is impossible for 
any man capable of designing a poster, a piece of 
furniture or any picture that would be rejected by the 
Academy, to design a stage setting that will not seem 
revolutionary. Given an instinct for decoration, the 
rudiments of good taste, an understanding of architec- 
tural form, and the sense of color which today any 
painter of twenty-five has inherited, a painter cannot 
avoid designing settings which in one way or another are 

Naturally Simonson doesn't believe very much in that 
special "sense of the theater," that form of dramatic 
intuition which all other workers in the playhouse must 
have and which most scenic artists hold as the base of 
their own endeavors. Simonson doesn't see a production 
as a dynamic, pulsing organism in which actors, costumes 
and scenery are fused by lighting and movement into a 
very special type of beauty. He holds that the setting- 
is merely the background for the players to appeal 
against ; its business is merely to heighten in an appro- 
priate manner the dramatic effect of the players' speech 
and action. 

But, to Simonson, this does not diminish the importance 
of the artist's work or lessen his range of color and 
design. ' He disregards — unwisely, I feel — the drama- 
tizing and fusing qualities of varied lighting. He says 
the tricks of the electrician are too easy ; they can be 
made to hide so readily the shortcomings of the designer. 
He sets himself the task of making his painted back- 

Page Sixteen 


und tell everything — precisely, masterfully. Like all 

.tions, this produces virtues of its own. But un- 

• ionably it neglects the finest, the most exhilarating, 

mt, and mysterious drama of the stage, the play 


.^questionably, Simonson goes far towards counter- 
■ this by his use of color. If he insists merely on 
ng backgrounds, he most certainly insists on paint- 
em brilliantly. To him grey is anathema. Amer- 
favorite "color" is not in his paintbox. To the 
■;r . itionally-minded, quiet, dark shades are restful, 
eel and handsome. To the conventionally-minded 
9 theater, they are the only possible colors for a 
ound. The excuse you hear is that they alone 
the actor to be seen. Bright colors or energetic 
jti hide the player and swamp his art. Lee Simonson 
the simple answer of complete denial. Anything 
moves will dominate anything that is still. Black 
is isible against orange as orange against black — in 
more so. The war has furnished an excellent 
stration of Mr. Simonson's thesis. In the old days, 
md cannon and ammunition trains were painted 
r brown to hide them from the enemy. Today, 
>rld appreciates how visible such moving objects 
i gainst the lively background of life. So we dress 
ips and cannon like clowns to try to hide them in 
id background that nature paints for the theater 
. In the end it is a matter of contrasts — contrasts 
rs and contrasts in movement and lack of it. On 
monson builds his art. 
critics who remembered Simonson's antic humor in 

"The Red Cloak," his vivid purples and yellows in "The 
Magical City," his tropic orange walls in "The Sisters of 
Susanne" — and forgot, of course, his simple and beauti- 
fully restrained Russian interior in "The Sea Gull" — 
were much surprised to note in his backgrounds for 
"The Faithful" no ebulliance of color. They chronicled 
it duly. But they did not observe that, tho violence 
of color had left his backgrounds, Simonson still kept his 
faith. For he made his most tragic and most effective 
setting out of light buff walls, set off by cedar and gold 
"trim," and he lit this scene of knavery, suicide and 
revenge in a lambent beneficence of flooding white light. 
But can anybody say that there was not within those 
three walls all the calm craft of Lord Kira, the high 
purity of Lord Asano and the indulgence of high 
heaven ? 

If there is indeed no special "sense of the theater" in 
work like Simonson's, then there is something that most 
successfully takes its place. Simonson may imagine he 
explains it when he says : "The stage today supplies the 
only opportunities capable of awakening a decorator's 
imagination and stimulating his creative faculties." But if 
this were all, the baffled profession of interior decoration 
should have added a hundred fold to the oversupply of 
stage artists already bred by the little theaters. Broadway 
has already tried a few of the decorators. They have be- 
trayed no such rich dramatic 
quality as is to be seen in the 

best work of Lee Simonson. to- , ■, ■ 

i -ii i -i Lee simonson s design 

roadway will yet had for the third scene B of 

Simonson. "Pierre Patelin" 

Page Seventeen 


Photograph by Abbe 


The youngest of the famous Hammerstein family who is now devoting her entire time to the screen 

Page Eighteen 


From an original painting 
by A. F. Biumer 

Painted from Photograph by Moffet, Chica 

C^^ LJU 




Painted from Photograph by Alfred Cheney Johnston 


J /j/uA^-. nt^^Pl^^JiJ 


lil I 


Photograph by White 


Dorothy Dalton and McKay Morris in the sensational drama of old Alexandria 

Page Twenty-Three 


An Entire' 

Photograph by Abbe 

Estelle Winwood's keen- 
est pleasure comes from 
flivving — hiring a Ford of 
a Sunday and break-neck- 
ing about the country for 
stretches of eight or ten 
hours at a time 

I TALKED with Estelle 
Win wood for precisely 
seven and three-quarter 
minutes by my wrist-watch 
in her dressing-room in the 
Booth Theater in between (see 
title) the spiced second and 
third acts of "Too Many 
Husbands." If 1 had had the opportunity and she had 
had the time to give me another seven and three-quarters 
I would have had enough data for a best seller. There 
is something consummate in such manipulation of time, 
or the lack of it. 

I knew that she would be clever, having watched her 
maneuver two husbands and a Future upon the stage for 
two skilled acts. She has clever lines — personally and 

professionally. She had 
a clever way of handling 
herself. Very slender, 
svelte, I believe is the 
word, with gold hair 
coiled massively over 
her ears, slate blue eyes, 
animated hands . . . 
clever is the essential 
word for her. 

To return to the pro- 
ductive gleanings of the 
aforesaid seven and 
three-quarter minutes I 
learned that . . . 

Her keenest pleasure 
comes from fliwhig, i.e. 
hiring a Ford, a Henry 
Ford, of a Sunday and 
break-necking it about 
the country for stretches 
of eight to twelve hours 
at a time. 

''Out why a Ford ?" 1 

"Oh," she said, hastily 
and finally, "it must be 
a Ford. 1 wouldn't get 
the same sensation at all 
from anything else. I 
just adore to rlivv." 

Next to flivving, I de- 
duced, in the pleasure- 
scheme of things entire, 
comes dancing. "I dance 
every night that I can," 
she said. 

Almost at first — the 
first of the seven and 
three-quarters — she 
asked if 1 didn't want 
to hear about the Amer- 
ican actresses she loves, 
loves best. I said that 
I did, with rather a 
dizziness, this being, I 
thought, altruism carried 
to an Nth altitude. An 
actress who desires to 
talk, not of herself, but of her sisters in the profession. 
"I've a particular admiration for Laurette Taylor," she 
told me; "I think she contributes something new. And 
I love everything about the American stage, the actresses 
coming first. Far better, you know, than the English 
stage. In England, once you make a name for yourself, 
you can rest upon your laurels until they 'wither and fall 
away. Here in America it is different. You have to 
keep on giving. You have to be perpetually creative. 
That's what I like about it ... a spur ... a stimulus 
. . . It's more vital." 

We got onto the question of things moving, motion 
and all that. I asked her if she ever considered doing 
pictures. She said yes, but that she was afraid of the 
camera . . . had had several offers but thus far had 
refused. Confidentially (afterwards, she told me f might 

Page Tivcnty-Four 


Efy Jane Amoret 

print this, which is why, and only why, I am 
doing it) she informed me that she was going 
to one of the studios the following week and 
go in a scene with a lot of extras . . . nobody 
but the director and herself to know her 
identity. "I wont be self-conscious then/' she 
said, "and it will be much better than a formal 
try-out with all eyes trained to the attack. 
And, too, it will be fun !" 

"You're experimental," I analyzed, with 
rare perspicuity. 

"I am, absolutely. 
I love experiment and 
I love adventuring. I 
adore new things, 
daring things . . . 
the great thing is not 
to go stale." 

I asked her if she 

Miss Winwood is now 
appearing in "Too 
Many Husbands." In- 
cidentally, it may be 
said that she adores 
clothes and amber- 
colored tea, along with 
dancing and acting 

Photograph (right) by Campbell 
Photograph (below) by Abbe 

had pro- 
along any 
given line. 
"Two lines," she 
said, with her quick decisive- 
ness, in her crisp, slightly 
English voice ; "to play Gals- 
worthy and Shaw." 

There were other items . . . 
one fundamental fact being 
that she lives in New York 
City. I dont know why that 
should appear to be funda- 
mental. Perhaps it is only my 
point of view, which admits 
to a possible distortion, but 
she seems, tho English, in- 
tegrally to belong to Xew 
York ... to Fifth Avenue 
in the dusk of a winter's day 
... to the smart shops . . . 
to the tea table, say at Sher- 
ry's . . . with rose-silk shades 
and a discreet orchestra . . . 
to dinners, epigrammatically 
clever and memorable, to 
dances, to the Opera . . . 

She adores clothes and am- 
ber-colored tea, which last she 
brews by hand in her dressing- 

"Not to go stale," she said. 
"is the great thing" . . . and 
she hasn't . . . and she isn't 
. . . and she never will, while 
there is experimenting . . . 
and adventuring . . . and . . . 




Poor Twaifv-Five 


Play Time 

in the 


Lenore Ulrich and Edmond 
Lowe in the picturesque Be- 
lasco Chinese production, "The 
Son-Daughter," now current at 
the Belasco Theater 

John Cumberland's delightful 
comedy is the principal reason 
for the big success of the farce, 
"The Girl in the Limousine," 
at the Eltinge Theater 

Page Twenty-Six 


Above. Lna Claire and Bruce McRay 
in an interesting moment of the color- 
ful comedy. "The Gold Diggers." at 
the Lveeum Theater 

Right. Edith Day. who has just scored 
in "Irene™ at the Vanderhilt Theater 

Man.- Boland. who 
is playing in the 
capital comedy. 
"Clarence." at the 
Hudion Theater 

Phctc by Tear. Strelet 

■ - ' . _^ 

Page . we . -Seven 





Above, Elsie Ferguson may be 
viewed in one of her forthcoming 
Famous Players-Artcraft film re- 
leases, while, at the left, Mae Mur- 
ray is to be seen in another pro- 
duction of the same organization, 
"On With the Dance" 

Page Twenty-Eight 


The Beauty 

and the 


IT is a far cry from the chaos and 
turmoil of the Russian revolution 
to an innocent American motion 
picture contest, but Fate has a peculiar 
habit of doing the unexpected. 

At the present time, in the City of New 
York, there is a young Russian sculp- 
tor, by name, Gleb Derujinsky, who is 
very much absorbed in duplicating in 
bronze the beauty of Miss Virginia 
Brown, one of the winners of the Fame 
and Fortune Contest, recently held by 
Shadow-land, The Motion Picture 
Magazine and The Motion Picture 
Classic. Accidentally the paths of 
Miss Brown and Derujinsky crossed, 
and the sculptor was much impressed 
by the unusual beauty and delicacy of 
her features. She consented to pose 
for him, and at this writing the statue 
is beginning to 

reveal indica- 
tions of rare 
simplicity and 
loveliness, for 
Mr. Derujinsky 
is a genius. 

Virginia Brown, who 
is now a Universal 
star with the new 
screen name of Vir- 
ginia Faire, and the 
sculptor, Derujinsky 

Photographs by 
Albin, N. Y. 

He is one 
of the 
group of 
and has re- 
cently ar- 
rived in 
New York, 
after a great 
many hard- 
ships and 
He landed 
at Ellis 
Island dis- 
guised as a 
sailor, and 
had it not 
been for the 
quick work 
on the part 
of the State 
on page 75) 

Page Twentx-Nine 


Eugene O'Brien, idol of the 
cinema, is a Colorado native 
son and a graduate of the Uni- 
versity of Colorado. Musical 
comedy and the spoken drama 
led to the films 

Page Thirty 





for Shadowland by Abbe 

O'Brien first achieved his popu- 
larity as leading man for Norma 
Talmadge. His success led to 
stardom in the photoplays. He 
is now a Selznick star 

Page Thirty-On: 



This Unusual Dancer is now in the Varieties 

Page Thirty-Two 


Photograph by Daguerre 


Miss Haig is one of vaudeville's most popular dancers 

Page Thirty-Three 



Photograph by Karl Strauss, L. A. 


Sam Searle is a picturesque barbaric figure in Cecil De Mille's screen adaptation of 
James B. Barrie's "The Admirable Crichton;" yclept "Male and Female." 

Page Thirty-Four 


The Willow Tree 

Fictionized From the Mett,o- Viola Dana Photoplay 

Efy Ann Paul 

IN ancient times it befell that a certain warrior called 
Itomudo retired to the greenest depths of a secret 
whispering forest and took up a solitary abode in a 
hut above which only the throats of birds were riven : 
only interlacing boughs sighed and smiled, and around 
which willow trees bewailed their own soft melancholy 
in brooks and mirroring pools. 

Here, in this forest, there came to dwell with Itomudo 
a maiden more fair than any maid of Nippon ever was 
fair before. She was whiter than almond blossoms and 
softer than the fall of cherry blossoms and more slender 
than the fingers of the willow. And Itomudo, loving her 
beyond the love of mortal man, knew her for immortal — 
for a goddess — for the spirit of the gentle Willow Tree. 
And their love grew and their lives were blent, like a 
song, like a dream, like Nirvana. 

And then it came about that war descended, redly, 
upon the land and echoes of it penetrated even into the 
green sweet heart of the Nipponese forest and it be- 
hooved the honor of Itomudo that he draw sword and 
go. But his love for his Willow Princess had grown, to 
Itomudo, greater than his honor, greater, even, than him- 
self. He was blinded to the seas and the skies, to the 
sun. the moon, the stars. He was steeped in a glory and 
the glory was the immortal glory of an immortal love. 

P>ut the Willow Princess, because she loved him beyond 
even his greater-than-mortal conception, loved his honor 
still more dearly and his honor was his country's, and his 
country was calling. 

And so it befell that, one day, when the sun was very 
warm above them and the almond blossoms were falling 
about their heads that she ordered the willow tree before 

Page Thirty-Five 



The Princess of the Willow 
Tree bent above the shallow 
running brook and looked 
within and laughed to see 
her image 

their dwelling to be hewn 

And her mandate was 
obeyed. And lo, with the 
falling of the tree the 
Willow Princess returned 

to the heart of i 
who, it was said, 
sword and did er 

t and was seen no more of Itomudo, 
took his broken heart and his valiant 
eat glory to his country. 

Edward Freemantle Hamilton, always something of a 
mystic, despite the fact that he played cricket and loved 
an English lass with rosy cheeks and resonant voice, 
concluded, when the girl he had hoped to marry jilted 
him and broke his heart, to go to Japan. He concluded 
to go to Japan — there to build dreams anew and live in 
them, there to find balm of Gilead for the, he admitted 
it reluctantly, perfunctory bleeding of his heart. 

He had always wanted to dream, until Mary Fuller 
had somehow or other contrived to inspire him with a 
will to live, to live as his forefathers before him had 
lived, with a country place and jolly children clad in 

brown holland and 
wearing sandals and 
all the rest of it. Just 
for that glowinii 
period he had forgot- 
ten his love of dreams. 
Then, suddenly, 
crudely as he would 
know later, Mary 
Fuller had "jilted" 
him. Really jilted 
him. She had not 
been delicate about it, 
either. She had said 
there was someone 
else. And had added 
that she couldn't help 
it, and what was 
Edward Freemantle 
Hamilton going to do 
about it. 

Edward had said, 
very gently, because 
he had loved her, that 
he was simply going 
away, and he was 
sorry, bitterly sorry, 
because he had 
built so many 
dreams of them to- 
gether, but that he 
hoped she would find 
happiness — and good- 
bye — goodbye . . . 

It had been very 
sad at the time. And 
then Edward HamiF 
ton was on his way to 
eat lotus in a land 
where only dreams 
are real. 

He found a little 
cabin sort of place 
in the heart of a pale 
green marvelous 
woodland and, soon, 
he had dropt his 
English tweeds and 
shoes and collars and 
things and was wear- 
ing the flowing garments, the'sandals, the silks and other 
habiliments of the true son of Nippon. He took these 
people to his heart of hearts. He understood them. They 
understood him. There was a peace here, mystical, fan- 
tastical, none the less compelling. How he dreamed ! 
What visions rose around and about him ! Opalescent, 
tinted, auroral . . . 

And the legends he heard . . . the lore . . . There 
was one told him by old Tomatado, the wood carver, of 
the Willow tree and a warrior named Itomudo and a love 
that had grown greater than mortals know . . . This, 
particularly, fascinated Hamilton. . . . He asked for it 
again and again, listening, prone upon his back, under 
the feathery willow tree that wept, with a delicate fra- 
gility, with a faint evanescent mournfulness over the 
murmuring brook that ran, singing unearthly songs, all 
about his cabin . . . 

And, as he told the legend, Tomatado fashioned with 
his genius-swift fingers an image of the Willow Princess. 
When it was done he showed it to Hamilton and the 
young mystic fell upon his knees before it and kist its 
slender miniature feet. 

Page Thirty-Six 


"It is most beautiful, Tomatado,'' he said, over and 
over again ; "it is a bit of perfect beauty for which, these 
ages past, we have delved and searched. Each lovely line, 
see . . . " he caressed it with slim reverent finger-tip ; 
"each gracious thought ... oh, Tomatado, I say it is 
most beautiful . . . most beautiful of any single thing." 

"It is said, further," Tomatado told him, "that if a 
mirror be placed within the hand of the true image of 
the Willow Tree Princess she will come to mortal life 
again . . . and mortal love ..." 

No one save the gently mournful willow saw the wink 
the old wood carver gave ; nor, by the same token, a bit 
of cherry blossom, a girl, his daughter, drifted, it almost 
seemed, against the pale green of the Willow Tree's body. 

Hamilton did not answer. He was praying for belief 
great enough to make this thing come to pass. There 
stirred within his mortal soul as he looked upon the 
image of the Willow Princess a more than mortal love, 
sentient, calling, urgent as shadows are urgent when they 
play against the sun. 

And while these contents and discontents stirred about 
within his mystic soul, the Princess of the Willow Tree 
bent above the shallow running brook and looked within 
and laughed to see her image ... a fragment of the 
heavens drifted, for a second, upon the stilly waters of 
his soul . . . 

The next day Hamilton came to Tomatado and begged 
that he might buy the image of the Willow Princess. "I 
have a mirror here," he said; "if I may place it within 
her hands and buy her, breathing, living, I shall have 
done then, Tomatado, what no mortal man has ever done 
before — I shall have purchased all the stars and attained 
Nirvana. Then shall I live as a man and love as a god, 
and there shall be neither looking backward nor going 
forward. Then shall all my dreams come to pass and my 
visions be attained." 

Tomatado was very wise. Not for nothing had he 
carved life from this pale green forest; nor philosophized 
always within ils heart; nor brought his daughter to be 
a cherry 
drifting in 
the winds ; 
an almond 
w h i t e 1 y 
a shrine of 
u n t r a m- 
m e 1 1 e d 
dreams . . . 

And h e 
knew that 
the you ng 
was earnest. 
He knew 
that his was 
the soul of 
the mystic 
to whom the 
things of 
dreams are 
more real 
than the 
facts of 
he loved 
him and 
wished him 

paradise and after life a silken couch and the eternal 
mercy of Buddha. 

And so he placed the mirror within the arms of the 
linage of the Willow Princess and bade Hamilton go 
forth into the forest to pray beneath the willow tree for 
an awakening and not to return for the space of many 

And Hamilton, having faith, went forth and when he 
returned he found the Willow Princess standing there, 
whiter than the white fingers of the moon when it 
caresses the whiteness of the almond blossoms, more 
delicate than the soft running of the slender silver brook, 
more still and starry than the pools within the untouched 
virgin forest, more pink, more fragrant than the cherry 
blossoms drifting down from a sapphire sky. And- he 
pleaded for her, and Tomatado bade them go forth to 
rind immortal love ■ . . and he blest them . . . 

There came, then, to Edward Hamilton, such an ecstas\ 
as he had never dreamed of, or rather such as he had 
dreamed of, only weakly, and then with outstretched 
hands and heart and soul athirst, half -unbelieving , . . 

Love, now, was a libation, poured over his spirit and 
quickening it, poured over his heart and raising it. He 
had been a man and was made, now, a god, He talked 
as the gods might talk and prayed as the gods pray and 
lived and loved as the gods must live and love. 

For awhile he thought of England with a shudder of 
repugnance that that gross person must have once been 
himself. After a while, so steeped was he in the flowery 
happiness his Willow Princess gave him, he ceased to 
think at all, save of the day, save of the hour, save of 
the moment. 

Her scented hair, her flowery fugitive hands, her 
almond eyes of a myriad 
dreams, her cherry-blossom 
youth, her ancient immortal 
soul, her mystical inex- 
plicable love for him, her 
tenderness, always new 

Hamilton pleaded for her 
and Tomatado bade them 

f:o forth to And immortal 
ove , . and he bleat them . 

Page Thirty-Seven 


"Lord of my Life," she was alwavs a miracle, fliese 

whispering, "I made a play lhjn ' t()ok hold of hi , n 

of the legend for your most ,° , £ , . ., 

honorable, your most he- and made oi him another 

loved sake ..." person, another man, a re- 

created god. Old shackles 
fell away. No one thing 
mattered. O-Rin, his Willow Princess, she was all. His 
life on earth, his hope of heaven, lier ways grew to be 
his ways, her dreams, his dreams, more beautiful they 
were, these dreams, than any he had ever dreamed before. 
She was his goddess so that he needed, felt no need, of 
any god. 

They walked in the pale green of the laced woodlands ; 
they lay and read old poets, one to the other, beside the 
lily fringing of the depthless immemorial pools. They 
supped together, on rice and robin's eggs, when dusk was 
falling, amber, athwart the quivering purple shades. 
They "bathed, on the goldenest mornings, within the bluest 
waters. They wore, the one for the pleasurance of the 
other, ancient embroidered silks, kimonas priceless with 
patient finger-toil and tears woven and then interwoven. 
Their love grew out, like sun lace beyond the boundaries 
of the world they dwelt in, up to the farthermost star. 
The most remote of the gods bent down to them and 
their fingers touched. 

And so, when the echoes of England at war, played 
like the ghost of an echoed drum even about the bordered 

edge of the 
forest within 
which they 
dwelt, Hamil- 
ton did not 
hear, and, if 
he had, would 
not have given 
heed. He had 
eaten of the 
lotus of im- 
me a s u r a b 1 e 
love and all 
other thing? 
were dead to 

But O-Rin 
heard and 
tho she was 
immortal she 
was a woman 
and in a man a 
woman loved 
honor first, 
then valor, 
then tender- 
ness which is 
the tender off- 
spring of the 

The d e e.p 
pools of her 
spirit w ere 
troubled. Her 
heart flut- 
tered, day and 
night, night 
and day, like 
a bird who 
senses the 
approach of 
footsteps and 
is afraid . . . 
She was a 
goddess, but 
she had been made a woman. Still more, she had been 
made a woman who loved and she knew, now, this love 
of hers about her that, as always, it might keep her warm, 
but she found that, still, she shuddered and felt chilled. 
Now, of twilights, she would slip away from Hamilton 
and go to the deepest of the forest pools, where the lilies 
bordered most heavily, most swooningly, where, on hours 

(Continued on page 79) 


Told in story form from the Metro Screen Classics 
production of the scenario of June Mathis, based 
upon 1. H. Benrimo and Harrison Rhodes' play. 
Starring Viola Dana. Directed fry Henry Otto under 
Maxwell Kargcr's supervision. The cast: 

O-Rin Viola Dana 

Tomatado, the Image Maker Edward Connelly 

Ned Hamilton Pell Trenton 

Jeoffrey Fuller Harry Dunkinson 

Mary Fuller Alice Wilson 

John Charles Goto Frank Togunago 

Itomudo Togo Yamamato 

Kimura George Kuwa 

The Priest Tom Ricketts 

Nogo Jack Yutaka Abbe 

Page Thirty-Eight 



Abraham Lincoln Lives Again 

John Drinkwater's notable drama, "Abraham Lincoln." has 

just reached the New York stage with Frank McGlynn in the 

role of the great American. Herewith are stirring scenes from 

the Drinkwater play 

Page Thirty-Nine 



Alice Eis has 
long been a va- 
riety headliner 
in the Keith 

Vaudeville Favorites 

Ernestine Myers lends an odd 
exotic note to Keith vaude- 
ville bills with her pictur- 
esque personality 

Page Forty 



in the Limelight 

Dorothy Dickson, dancer de 

luxe, is now demonstrating 

the terpsichorean art in the 


Page Forty-One 




Page Forty-Two 


'Well, after all, I should care what that ham director says! He couldn't keep order in a correspondence 

school, that feller couldn't." said Clarence 

Star-Dust and Sob-Stuff 

By Hadi Barron and Saxon Cone 

Illustrated by Oscar Frederick Howard 

THE scene is one corner of a motion picture studio, 
littered with scenery and sets, in toto and in part. 
A painted wall of Babylon, (what would we do 
without Babylon?), juts diagonally across the stage. Be- 
yond it, on the left, is seen a glass door, goldenly and 
hugely lettered with the significance, Elmer Rubenstein, 
Director. To the right the scenery has cut off a shel- 
tered corner from the rest of the studio. A tall pillar 
stands in the background, as does a half-dismantled 
throne, a discarded crown, a scepter, broken in half. 
And there is the usual paraphernalia of lights and 
cameras. From the distance, as the curtain rises, comes 
the stentorian voice of the director, off-stage : 
Director : 
Hug her ! Hug her, I tell you ! You're not mas- 
saging her back . . . you're making love to her . . . 
now you're telling her you cant live without her . . . 
my Gawd, man, whatter you sawing your arms about as 
tho you were chopping trees . . .do you think you're 
the Kaiser . . . why . . . 

(Voice becomes inarticulate . . . dies away . . . ) 
(Clarence St. Clair, handsome leading man, saunters 
on, lighting a cigaret and conversing with Teddy Shaw, 
low comedy type, made up now as an Irishman. Clar- 
ence is the Typist's Dream, the Maiden's Prayer, the 
answer to that burning question, Why Girls Leave Home. 
His hair may be properly described as hyacinthine, his 

features are of collar-ad perfection, his limbs . . . ah, 
me ! . . . his li-mbs ! He wears an evening dress with 
aplomb a Biltmore . . . his face and impeccable shirt- 
front are a bright chrome yellow. He is being tempera- 
mental over the directorial remarks which have just 
been made.) 


Well, after all, I should care what that ham director 
says ! He couldn't keep order in a correspondence 
school, that fellow couldn't. What does he know about 
Art? What does he know about love? Telling me . . . 
me . . . ha, ha ! . . . that I dont know how to make 
love. There are many testimonials to the contrary, I'll 
tell the world ! 

Teddy (chuckling) : 

Take care of your hair, m'boy ! As soon as your roof 
needs reshingling, it's back to the farm for yours. You 
and that guy Samson are alike . . 
your hair ! 

Clarence (still dwelling on his grievance) : 

Criticizing me for the way I make love — me! 
look at these. (He draws a packet of obviously feminine 
letters from his pocket, pink of hue, scented, probably 
palpitant, if one zvere near enough to see them palp). 
Look at the letters I get every day. (Reads, "Clarence, 
Hero of Meh Heart," etc., etc., ad nauseam.) Why, I've made 
love so often I've sometimes thought of going into some 

Page Forty-Three 

strength's all in 



other line of work, where I'd escape women altogether. 
Teddy (sadly) : 
There's no such job, my boy. If there were, it would 
be over-applied for immediately. 

Clarence {sighing) : 
You've said it ! But it's horrible. Every woman I 
meet expects me to make love to her, from the extras to 
the lady interviewers. The strain of supplying all 

demands is killing me. I cant put the right amount of pep 
into my work any more. There's no escape. 
Teddy : 

Yes, there is — one. 

Clarence (eagerly) : 

What is it — suicide? 

Teddy : 

No ; marriage. The only woman in the world who dont 

expect a man to make 
love to her is the 
woman he marries. 
Ever think of that? 
Talk of the freedom 
of bachelorhood ! A 
bachelor is the poten- 
tial husband of every 
woman he meets. As 
soon as he's married 
he's emancipated. He 
can pick the woman 
he really wants to 
flirt with and the rest 
wont expect anything 
of him. Think it over, 
old chap. (Slaps him 
on the back and they 
go behind the scenery, 
off stage. ) 

(Lloyd Ingram en- 
ters from the right. 
He is a tall, young 
sort of chap with a 
tender mouth, a de- 
cisive nose and a 
great many dreams in 
his eyes. He has the 
brow of the scholar 
and sensitive hands. 
He is rather shabby 
and correspondingly 
nervous. After a mo- 
ment of indecision, as 
tho dreading to test 
some fate hanging in 
a perilous balance, he 
goes about the scenery 
and raps on the gold- 
lettered glass door. 
It opens and Elmer 
Rubenstein comes 
out. He is medium 
height, a trifle gross, 
impeccably dressed, 
with a diamond, just 
a karat too large, in 
his lavender silk tie 
and another on his 
pudgy hand. He has 
sleek hair ebbing 
away from a narrow, 
shiny forehead, small 
eyes and moist, red 
lips. An air of the 
world's success 
breathes in his oiled 

"A sensible girl would 
never love a poor man 
in the first place,"' said 
Rubenstein. "Your stuff 
is rotten, Ingram. You 
dont know your human 

Page Forty-Four 


voice and easy ges- 

RUBENSTEIN (without 

cordiality) : 
Oh, you, Ingram ! I 
suppose you want 
some word on your 
scenario ? 

Ingram (nervously) : 

Have you — have you 

had a chance to read 

it yet ? I rather 

thought — this time 

Rubenstein (rubbing 
Jiis chin) : 
I've read it — but it 
wont do. Too impos- 
sible. Oh, I admit it's 
no more so than half 
the pictures you see, 
but I'm trying to get 
away from the stagey 
stuff, back to real life, 
in True Art Films. 
Now, your story — 
father making the 
daughter marry the 
villain to save family 
from bankruptcy — girl 
turning penniless hero 
down — broken hearts 
— all that sob-stuff — it 
dont happen anywhere 
except in the movies, 

Ingram (breathlessly) : 
You mean — she'd marry the poor man 
really loved ? 

Rubenstein (with a- short laugh) : 
Of course not ! A sensible girl would never love a 
poor man in the first place. Your stuff is rotten, Ingram. 
You dont know your human nature. As a scenario writer, 
you'd better stick to writing receipts for silver polish. 
(He goes into the office, voice coming back.) Here's 
your script. (Lloyd turns away from the door with his 
manuscript in his hands. As he does so Glory Gay 
almost runs against him from the left. She is a charming 
creature, all floating golden hair, lake-blue eyes and petal 
pinkness. In her costume of a debutante and heavy make- 
up, her wild-flozvcr prettiness seems almost stifled. As 
Lloyd clutches her to save her from falling she looks tip, 
their eyes meet and the clutch becomes perilously like an 

Glory (struggling away, with a terrified glance toward 
the stage door) : 
Not here, Lloyd! Come around this way. (She drags 
him around the jutting scenery.) Oh, you shouldn't 
have done what you did just then ! 

Lloyd (gazing down on her, passionately) : 
Then dont be so wonderful, Ellie ! Dont disarm me. 
It — it isn't quite fair . . . 

Glory (nervously) : 
Not Ellie — here. How would "Ellen Grady" look in 
electric lights? Not that I've arrived at the electricity 
stage yet, but — well, just you wait and see ! 
Lloyd (gloomily) : 
I hate that silly name — Gloria Gay. And I hate to 
think of you being stared at by hundreds and thousands 
of people — hundreds and thousands of men. You're so — 
you're so awfully sweet, Ellie. (His voice shakes, boyishly.) 
You're so sort of dear and good . . . this sort of thing 
. . . you're a wildflower, dear ; it's going to wilt you . . . 

No sensible trirl would act that 

-the man she 


l : 


Glory nodded her head 
like a drooping flower 
on a slender stem. "I 
mean the same thing, 
Lloyd. The thing I've 
always meant 
since . . . since school- 
days . . ." 

Glory (trying to change the 
subject) : 

You haven't said a thing 
about how nice I look! Isn't 
this a love of a frock ? O-o-h, 
I adore pretty things, soft 
things, silken things ... I 
suppose you think I'm frivol- 
ous, Lloyd, and not half so 

nice as the little pig-tailed girl who used to do your 
algebra examples . . . 

Lloyd (with a sort of a groan) : 

I guess you know what I think, Ellie. You're — you're 
beautiful in those clothes, of course, but I dont like to 
see you that way. It seems to separate us so. It's like a 
hand— pushing us apart. I know I'm losing you, Ellie, 
for things that never count . . . bruising things ... It 
stifles me. I feel all the time as tho I were breathing- 
smoke — smoke of pain . . . 

Page Forty-Fit 


"Are you going to send 
me back to that — to dish 
washing again ... to 
scrubbing . . . when 
you could give me all 

jive me 


Ellie ! You mean ? You do mean 

Glory (staring at him 

quivering lips) : 

Dont — please, Lloyd. 

dont understand. I — it 

me — / dont want the- 

hand to push us — apart 

Lloyd (staring toward her) : 



Glory (nodding her head like a drooping flotver 
on a tender stem) : 
I mean the same thing, Lloyd. The thing I've always 
meant . . . since . . . since school-days . . . 

(Like the two wondering children they were so brief 
a while ago, they stand with clasped hands, with awed 
faces, taking odd little jerky sort of breaths; then, 
(Continued on page 74) 

Page Forty-Six 



Photographs Courtesy the Pond Bureau 

Left, Maurice 
Maeterlinck, au- 
thor of "The 
Blue Bird" and 
other plays and 

Right, William 

Butler Yeats, the 

Irish poet 


Siegfried Sasson. 

from a painting 

by the English 

artist. Philpot 

Yone Noguchi. 

the Japanese 


St. John Ervine, 
the English play- 

Page Forty-Seven 




of the 


Vaudeville has a new dancer in 
Beth Beri, a California girl and a 
graduate student of Ruth St. Denis 
at Denishawn. Miss Beri has 
appeared briefly on the screen 

Page Forty-Eight 






Los Angeles, 


The picture 
on the op- 
posite page 
won a place 
in the Lon- 
don Salon 
this year 
under the 
"Play of the 

Page Forty-Nine 


Two new portraits of Doris 
Kenyon appear on these 
pages, along with views of 
her in the farce success, "The 
Girl in the Limousine." 
Note the famous Kenyon 

m y 
has not yet 
come, I as- 
sume that it 
is easier, 
much easier 

to enter the kingdom of heaven than break 
into a dress rehearsal, especially if one 
does not arrive before the principals, 
managers and other potentates have en- 
tered upon the final rites and ceremonies 
of a new play before it goes out to be 
tried "on the dog." And if St. Peter at 
the gate is any harder to pass, less amen- 
able to reason, more coldly suspicious or 
more obsessed with the dignity of his 
calling than the average stage door man, 
then my chances are very, very slim of 
ever entering the sacred portal. 

Doris Kenyon, the object of my quest, 
was on the stage, he said, and, firmly, 
would be there all thru the first act. The 
stage manager? He was out there and 
couldn't be disturbed by nobody. Mr. 
Woods? He, witheringly, was out front, 
of course, and he would like to see any- 
body get near him. It's important, this is, 
obviously implying that nothing could be 
less important or desired than inter- 

Finally, I slipped into a seat "out front." 
A. H. Woods was there, unperturbed, con- 
fident, shouting an occasional and appar- 

The Radiant Doris 

ently irrelevant command to whom it might con- 
cern. The stage director and his assistant were 
dexterously active and almost polite to the as- 
sembled cast. There was a photographer biding 
his time, a few newspaper people, a sprinkling of 
anxious and admiring relatives of the principals. 
On the stage was the daintiest and most attrac- 
tively furnished (also occupied) bedroom set we 
have seen in any of the many bedroom farces 
that have furnished amusement to theatergoers. 
Among those present were Zelda Sears, serene, 
lovely, evidently in the position of official chap- 
eron, some pretty girls, modishly dressed, one or 
two male ingenues and there was the male star John 

Page Fifty 

By Lillian Montanye 

Cumberland. I mention him first to get it over, because he 
once told me he was not interested in interviewers. But 
it's necessary to bring him in because he was very much 
present, wearing a most unbecoming dressing gown and in 
a chronic state of forgetting his lines. 

But the big attraction was Doris Kenyon and, even tho 
"The Girl in the Limousine" did not have an excellent cast, 
clever lines, beautiful stage settings, everything that goes to 
make a successful Broadway production, just Doris Ken- 
yon, pajama-clad, radiantly lovely and unself-conscious, as 
tho she were the sole occupant of the green-and-pink bed- 
room, is quite worth going to see. 

And those pajamas — well, you know when you look in 
the shop windows and stop to consider, in detail, some 
unusually exquisite lingerie and resolve that when. you be- 
come very, very rich you will have some just like it — they 
are that kind. Pink- and blue-striped trousers, the pink 
coat, or whatever it is, with tunic effect and short sleeves 
laced with blue ribbons. The kind of thing you have seen 
but didn't know anybody really wore. You know. Not 
meaning that she wears nothing but pajamas thruout the 
play — she does. There is a rose silk negligee that defies 
description, and in the last act she is completely and won- 
derfully dressed. But my conscience was nagging me with 
reminders of a desk piled high 
with work and I left, reluctantly, 
without seeing the finish. 

It happens that I have known 
Doris Kenyon since she was a wee, 
curly headed youngster in Syra- 
cuse, N. Y., going staidly to Sun 
day-school and Junior League, 
roller-skating, playing hide-and-go- 
s e e k 

Doris Kenyon's father, 
James Kenyon, was 
one of the compilers 
of the Standard Dic- 
tionary. He was well 
known as a writer of 
verse. Her brother is 
a member of the New 
York State Legislature 

father' s 
s h o rt, 
ed in her 
and vio- 
lin les- 
sons, for 
she had 
day she 
play in 
( C o n - 
tinue d 
on page 

Page Fifty-One 


Whom does Jimmy Flynn, the 
camera man, "strike" when he 
needs a five spot? No other 
than Steve Steelheart, the flinty 
villain of a thousand or more 

The heroic leading man, Fran- 
cis X. Barthelroy, is a domi- 
nant gent until he reaches 
home — and wifey 

Mary Moon, the be-curled in- 
genue, is a regular vampire off 
the screen 

Page Fifty-Two 


Nobody recognizes Phyllis 
Pretty, the famous bathing girl, 
when she strolls through the 
theater district, plus furs and 





Beda Hara, the siren of a mul- 
titude of fil-lems, hurries home 
from the studio to her baby. 
You never can tell, can you? 

Page Fifty-Three 


The New Spirit in Art 

An Analytical Article in Which the New Art is Compared to the Old 

By The Painter 

A GREAT struggle has been going on in art during 
the decade, and it has made far-reaching changes 
in almost every branch of all the arts. We see its 
effects in our homes, in the shops, on the stage, in the 
book, newspaper and periodical illustrations, and in our 
wardrobes, as well as in all our art exhibitions. The new 
spirit swept over the world like a pleasant pestilence, 
with no known cause and with no known cure or end. 
Out of it grew such inexplicable anomalies as the 
Cubists, Futurists, Ultra-Modernists and so on, and its 
influence has been felt by every kind of artist whether he 
would or no. It has been a wave, a tidal wave. Perhaps 
it has spent its force and is on the recede, but I fear not. 
Even if so, it has left an impress that may last a century. 

Were I asked to name the germ of the new spirit in 
art, I believe I would call it Decoration. While I cannot 
trace the germ back to its origin, I imagin that it is the 
same one that hit the American Indians early in their 
career, particularly when they decorated themselves in 
brilliant paints and feathers to go to battle ; and it is 
possible that the ancient Egyptians could tell us some- 
thing about it. The history of the poster might also 
throw some light on the subject, and it might even be 
suggested that those worthy patriots who designed the 
national flags, particularly the French and American 
flags, had a large bump of Decoration. Perhaps some- 
body some time will write a history of the birth, devel- 
opment and spread of the microbe. Meanwhile, let us 
see how it affects painting. According to the man on the 
street, the greatest modern artist is he who can lay on 
the thickest paint, in the most brilliant colors, and have it 
look like something from a long distance. This is not a 
correct definition, of course, because to do that well 
requires only a skilled artisan, not an artist. 

There are those who will say that the difference be- 
tween modern art and real art is this : the former is 
addressed to the eye, the latter to the heart. Still others 
maintain that modern painting is merely objective art, 
in contradistinction to subjective art, the one representing 
the Real, the other the Ideal. 

Let us see how near these views are to the facts. 

Modern painting seems principally to demand : 

1. Paint, paint, paint. 

2. Color, color, color. 

3. Strength and decorative qualities. 

4. Broad teatment, with free, easy handling. 

5. More paint. 

6. More color, purer and more brilliant. 

We all know how important imagination is, and how 
necessary it is for poet, orator, novelist, sculptor, painter, 
and so on, to awaken the imagination of the hearer or 
observer. If nothing is left to the imagination, the work 
is commonplace. The modern painter has learnt his les- 
son well — perhaps too well, because he often leaves so 
much to the imagination that it becomes a matter of guess- 
work to tell what it is. Ask him what a certain section 
of the canvas represents, and he replies, "What matter? 
It is pretty, is it not? It is brilliant and beautiful, so 
what matter whether it is a horse, a cow, or a cabbage? 
The general effect of the scene is there, as a whole, and 
that is all I aimed for." 

Another fact that the modern painter makes work 

overtime is this : art that conceals art. When a speaker 
or a singer makes us feel that he or she has reached the 
limit of his or her powers, the charm is gone. That 
which is done with apparent ease, and free from labo- 
rious pains, instantly wins our admiration. Thus, a pen- 
cil portrait done with only a few decisive strokes is 
charming, much more so than one that is made with hun- 
dreds of fine lines. We instinctively admire that which 
is "sketchy." We may pity the artist who apparently 
had to groan and sweat over his labored product, but we 
do not applaud it. We may cry "Wonderful !" at sight 
of a small card on which some patient man has written 
the entire Declaration of Independence, but we do not 
call it art. And so we intuitively admire the man who 
can represent a tree-trunk by squirting on the canvas a 
single ribbon of pure paint direct from the tube, or a 
figure, or an animal, with two or three chunks of paint, 
because it shows that the painter was at his ease and was 
an adept in expressing his ideas with freedom and sim- 
plicity. A picture that is apparently labored and studied 
is called "tight," and it has no charm unless other quali- 
ties are present to bring it up to a fair average. "Tech- 
nique" alone leaves us cold, comfortless and unsatisfied, 
yet the absence of it, if too pronounced, often affects us 
similarly. Technique is merely the organ of expression ; 
the better it is, the better the artist is able to express 

Still another thing that the modern painter prides him- 
self on, and aims for, is the quality of Decoration. Now, 
all paintings, of course, should be decorative, but decora- 
tion is only one of many qualities — not the main or only 
one, as many seem to think. All pictures should be beau- 
tiful in color, line and form, and this is what we call 
decorative. But to stop there, or to make that the chief 
aim, certainly will not produce art of the highest order. 
There now seems to be a rivalry among artists to see who 
can get the most paint on the canvas, and the greatest 
number of colors, and colors of the most brilliant hue ; 
but this by itself is of course not art — it is only tech- 
nique and decoration, which are merely the tools and 
hand-maidens of art. To stir us to the hidden depths of 
our souls, to play on our heartstrings, to make us think 
and feel — that is art. 

Again, the modern painter strives to paint things as 
they are, or, rather, as they appear to him. As a matter 
of fact, he wears a pair of multi-chrome glasses and 
everything he sees is magnified tenfold in tone and 
brilliancy. If a thing is maroon, he sees it vermillion ; 
if it is brown, he sees it golden; if it is light, he sees it 
lighter ; if it is dark, he sees it darker. In one sense, he 
is not a realist who paints things as they are. He strives 
to improve on the scene or object before him, which is 
wise and proper. If it is a pineapple, he may place it on 
a light-blue table, against a brilliant red curtain for a 
background, with a bright purple chair beside the table. 
If it is a landscape, the moon may be purple and the grass 
blue, and the trees yellow, if that suits his fancy. He 
thinks he can improve on the way Nature painted the 
scene, and he proceeds, pretending that that is the way 
it appeared to him ; but standing over his shoulder is the 
fairy, Decoration, urging him on. This method and 
{Continued on page 76) 

Page Fifty-Four 


The New Aristocracy 

Efy M. B. Havey 

IT is five o'clock, the tea hour at 
the one really good hotel which 
Los Angeles can boast. I want 
you to come along with me for a 
few moments, to sit under a shaded 
lamp in an obscure corner of the 
tea-room. For I am going to intro- 
duce you to our newest aristocracy ! 
While the waiter hurries off for 
our tea and muffins, you may light 
a cigaret, and I will light one, too. 
Here they come. Notice particu- 
larly that tall blonde princess of a 
girl just coming in. She is swathed 
in furs, altho the day has been very 
warm. She walks well, with head 

erect ; the 


"Oh- — my Packard 

does me well enough 

— that is, when I am 


1 d 
i t 

w o r 
her ; 
may even 
be that she 
slim youth 
leather coat 

thinks it does. The 
with her is attired in a 
and he wears what used to be called a Homberg hat. His 
attitude is that of youth, gloriously insolent, carelessly 

They find a table and sit down to survey the room 
with eyes that look as tho their owners were a trifle an- 
noyed with the universe at large. Across from them sit 
four girls, sumptuously gowned ; huge diamonds flash 
defiantly from their fingers and throats. All four are 
smoking cigarets, which, from time to time, they draw 
out of slender gold or platinum cases. Several men and 
women sit at two tables drawn close together to facilitate 

Every one in the room is well — nay, gorgeously — 
dressed. That is the first thing you noticed, is it not? 
That appearance of perfect grooming that only a great 
deal of money, well spent, can give. Perhaps you would 
like to listen to a snatch of conversation here and there. 
Let us move a trifle closer to this table — there are four 
men seated there. Listen : 

"Yes, I got rid of my Mercer and had a 
Rolls-Royce sent on from New York. It's 
done in pale blue, with darker blue " 

"Yes, I like a foreign car — you know my 
Lancia " 

"Oh, my Packard does me well enough — 
that is, when I am driving. But when I go out 
in state behind the Jap, that old Pierce 
Arrow limousine " 

"I've had a special body made for 
the Peerless " 

And so on. 

Leave the men 
now. The four girls 
are talking very 
busily. Let us listen : 

"I paid two thou- 
sand dollars for this 
neckpiece — I got it 

Illustrated by Ethel Plummer 

really cheap, dont you think ? It's silver fox " 

"No; her coat was more than five thousand — I was 
with her when she ordered it " 

"Furs have gone up terribly — but one must have them. 
I know moleskin is terribly perishable — but I love it — 
and this cape only cost fifteen hundred, so if it doesn't 
last out the season, I should worry !" 

"Oh, girls, my gowns came in from New York last 
night. Wonderful ! Eight of them — four imports and 
the rest from Lucile." 

And so on. 

Here at a small table we can hear one woman telling 
another that she has just bought a home in the expensive 
Beverly Hills section and has sent to New York for an 
interior decorator. A mere youth announces nonchalantly 
that he has recently purchased an aeroplane for his private 
use and pleasure. No one is surprised — in fact, no one is 
surprised at anything. You simply cannot surprise the new 
aristocracy. And who are they, you ask, a gathering of 
youthful millionaires? Not so. Listen — gaze around at 
them, take a good glance at their clothes, their born-to- 
the-manner hauteur, their nonchalance — and let me then 
tell you something about them who sit in the tea-room. 

To begin with the men, so short a time as seven years ago 
one of them was a taxi chauffeur, one a mechanic in a garage, 
one a poor extra man who played policeman in a traveling 
melodrama, one was a bookkeeper, another a chorus-man, 
still another collected fares on a New York trolley line, 
while another was a deck steward on an ocean liner. 

Now for the ladies. The most gorgeous of them all 
was a poor, hard-working model in an art class (twenty- 
five cents an hour) only a few years ago, her companion 
was a chorus-girl, one of those maidens with the platinum 
cigaret cases worked behind the glove counter 
of a depart- 
ment store. 
That little girl 
whom we now 
see wear- 
ing a two 


They find a table and 
sit down to survey the 
room with eyes that 
look as tho their own- 
ers were a trifle an- 
noyed with the uni- 
verse at large 

Page Fifty-Five 




THE Fame 
and For- 
tune Con- 
test of Shad- 
owland, The 
Motion Pic- 
ture Classic 
and The Mo- 
tion Picture 
has no w 
passed into 
history and 
the winners 
are making 
their invasion 
of the cellu- 
loid world. 

No contest 
ever held in 
filmdom ever 
attracted the 
aroused by 
the Fame and 
Fortune Con- 
test. Practi- 
cally every 
producing organization of 
importance expressed un- 
bounded interest in the 

The past weeks, follow- 
ing the conclusion of the 
contest, have been devoted 
to securing the proper 
openings for the four win- 
ners : Virginia Brown, of 
New York City ; Blanche 

McGarity, of San Antonio, Texas ; Anetha Getwell, of 
Chicago ; and Anita Booth, of New York City. 

Miss McGarity decided to withdraw. It is to be hoped 
that she will reconsider, since she seemed ideally suited to 
the screen. There is little doubt but that she would win 
success in the films. 

Miss Brown was signed by Universal under a most 
unusual contract. Miss Brown will start with two pic- 
tures at $75 per week, her contract running five years 
and providing regular and stated increases each week 

Page Fifty-Six 

The Fame and Fortune 
Contest Concludes 

B;y John Hopkins 

until it reaches $750. The Universal Company sent Miss 
Brown and her mother to California, paying all expenses. 
In addition, Miss Brown's wardrobe for her first pictures 
is being provided. It has been decided that Miss Brown's 
celluloid name will be Virginia Faire. Remember this 
in watching for her Universal pictures. 

Negotiations are now in progress for Miss Getwell and 


byAlbin, N. Y. Booth's 


The M. 
P. Pub- 
lish i n g 
has taken 
great care 
i n g for 
the fu- 
ture of 
its win- 
n e r s . 
Many of- 
fers were 
c o nsid- 
ered and 
for va- 
rious rea- 
( C o 11 - 
tinned on 
page 75) 

In the center is a new 
portrait study of Virginia 
Brown, at the top is a 
glimpse of Miss Brown 
signing her Universal 
contract and, below, a 
flashlight taken just be- 
fore she departed with 
her mother on the Twen- 
tieth Century for Cali- 



The Lost Art of Recitation 

By Henry Gaines Hawn 

(President of the Hawn School of the Speech Arts, Carnegie Hall, New York City; Ex-President ot the National Speech 
Arts Association; Special Lecturer Upon Oral English for Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences, etc..) 

Editorial Note: Readers of Shadowland will be pleased to note that we have secured the foremost American authority to write 
tliis series of articles on a subject of universal interest and importance. Years ago Recitation was an art practiced by the greatest 
artists and enjoyed by all. Sir Henry Irving was noted as much for his recitations as he was for his plays, and it is said that 
John Maculloitgh used to recite "The Lord's Prayer" so effectively as to bring tears to the eyes of his hearers.. Nowadays we 
have a few "elocutionists" in every_ community and "Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight" is still inflicted on us, but real Recitation is 
almost a lost art. It should be revived. Perhaps Mr. Hawn's enlightening zvords will help to restore Recitation to its proper place 
among the arts. 

There is no point where art so nearly touches 
nature as where it appears in the form of 
words. — /. G. Holland 

IF literature is a record of humanity, its experiences, 
hopes, fears, desires, failures, dreams ; in short, all of 
life; the oral and physical interpretation of literature 
by the living person should be appraised as the highest 
form of art. That it is not, is universally apparent. In 
social gatherings we listen, at least with complacency, to 
indifferent music, vocal or instrumental ; to platitudin- 
ous "after dinner" speaking, but the moment it is an- 
nounced "Miss Smith will now recite for us," a pall 
descends upon the company, the men escape for a smoke 
and the audience remaining unconsciously assumes an 
attitude of waiting for a cyclone; most of them watch- 
ing the tips of their shoes as if ashamed to be foun 
"among those present." 

If other evidence of the low estimate placed upon 
Recitation and Reading is needed, glance at the pro- 
grams of the entertainment courses announced each 
season by the Lyceums, the Chautauqua Assemblies, 
Teachers Institutes, etc., etc. 

But — not well — when, before any kind of audience 
a recitation is well rendered, with normal voice and 
gestures, with genuine feeling, the response and appre- 
ciation are instantaneous and thoro. 

How can it be otherwise? The art of painting makes 
its appeal thru the eye only; it has no real projection, 
lacks mobility, and is untrue in size. 

Sculpture lacks movement and color (it may or may 
not give actual size). Music gives a mood, emotion, if 
you will, but its message is most indefinite. 

But the speaker is a living, sentient personality, em- 
ploying the element of all arts, tone, movement, color, 
size; and with these can manifest all phases of life, as 
acted upon by nationality, sex, age, temperament, mood, 
and situation. 

In short, all other arts can simulate, suggest life, 
whereas speech and action can be life. 

Since Recitation as an art-form has this signal advan- 
tage of other art-forms, how is it that the low estimate 
of it alluded to above, so generally obtains? 

From this point on I shall use the personal pronoun : 
that none of my fellow professionals may be called upon 
to share the comment of opposing minds, and so, in my 
own person, I explain that the art of reciting and read- 
ing has been cheapened in the public mind by inadequate, 
nay incorrect, teaching by instructors, and by faulty and 
inapt execution by those who recite (both amateur and 

These familiar, class-room talks, will prove something 
of a challenge, and I enter the arena with full knowledge 
that in the "method-bound" teacher and pupil alike I 
shall find earnest and honest opponents, but the great 

public to whom we appeal and for whom we perform 
must be the arbiter. 

I confidently expect to be the victor ; for I shall make 
no attempt to reduce an art to a scientific formula (a 
mistake quite general with the teachers of expression) ; 
and shall leave a wide margin for personal taste and 
judgment, on the part of the interpreter. 

Some years ago, I said to a student, "I suffer with 
such positive art-anger from this wretched reciting, that 
I think I shall try to write a little volume of 'Elocu- 
tionary Donts.' ' The reply was, "Such a b^ok is sorely 
needed, but please put in a few 'Elocutionary Dos.' " 

I refrained from writing my book of "Elocutionary 

Famous for their Histrionic and Recitative Skill 

Page Fifty-Seven 


Donts" largely, I now believe, because I knew that some 
wag would say "Dont any of it." 

This should not have deterred me, for a moment's 


If we are to "begin at the beginning," as the children 
say, we must begin before you, the would-be reciter, 
were born. By this is meant that you, as a personality, 
must be fitted to your selection quite as emphatically as 
the selection must be suited to you. 

In the theatrical world, the "type" or personality of 
the actor is necessarily considered when plays are cast 
and the parts assigned. For instance, no matter how 
much dramatic talent an actress may have, if she tipped 
the scales at something approximating two hundred 
pounds, she would never be selected to portray the lis- 
some, fourteen-year old Juliet. 

Age, too, would be considered in selecting a Juliet. It 
is true, that with theatrical make-up and the general illu- 
sion of a footlight performance, many a mature, not to 
say elderly, woman has successfully played Juliet ; but 
most naturally theatrical managers and the public in 
general have a preference for a Juliet who is young 
in actuality. 

When we come to platform performances without the 
external assistance of make-up, lighting, scenery, cos- 
tume and theatrical accessories in general, it is still more 
essential to consider the "type" or personality of the 
interpreter. This is so obvious, that you would expect 
the merest amateur to recognize the necessity of learning 
what not to attempt in the way of full impersonation ; 
and yet this simple ruling, dictated by common sense, is 
constantly disobeyed, not only by reciters who claim, 
alack the day! that they "never took a lesson," but many 
schools of expression graduate students who show by 
their performances that they have been trained to employ 
a technique which calls for these ridiculous attempts to 
actually look and act "like unto" characters they cannot 
possibly seem. To illustrate : I have in mind a woman 
who only recently, at a first lesson, recited Mark Twain's 
"The Death Disk." This calls for much narrative and 
some dramatic description, but its principal character is 
that of a young child, a girl. The interpreter, tho 
slight physically, is tall, angular and a woman in ma- 
turity. Could anything be more ridiculous than to see 
this mature woman clap her hands in an infantile man- 
ner, jump up and down and gurglingly exclaim : "That's 
my papa, that's my papa, that's my papa!" The result 
is so grotesque, that were it not presented to us in the 
form of art, it would be laughable ; as it is, it is pathetic. 
When the young lady in question was told that she could 
not possibly look like this child of tender years, she was 
rather indignant and informed us that her "child work" 
was the one thing for which her instructors in a school 
of expression and the critics especially commended her. 

This may seem like an extreme case, but in reality it 
is not so, for the reciter in general is apt to set no limita- 
tions to his or her powers, and seldom hesitates to at- 
tempt full impersonation of any and all characters. 
Hence, to "begin before you were born," means just 
this: that it is against all laws of art to attempt to really 
be to the eye and ear of your auditors, characters 
which nature has made it impossible for you to assume. 

The material you select to interpret, must be within 
your powers. In passing, it may be well to say that with- 
out make-up (and this is never legitimate for the re- 
citer), it is easier for youth to assume old age and for 
old age to simulate youth ; the slight to suggest the stout 
than for the stout to impersonate the slim. 

Of course what is here has reference to sincere, digni- 
fied impersonation only. Where burlesque is intended, 
it is often the part of wisdom to assume a character the 

furthest removed from your own personality; for in just 
this discrepancy between the part assumed and yours, lies 
the absurdity. So far, what has been said applies to the 
physical personality only, but even where this physical 
personality is in keeping with the part you would inter- 
pret; that is, where you could look like the character 
to be manifested, vocal limitations must also be duly 
weighed. The character calling for heavy voice cannot 
be adequately interpreted by a person who has command 
of the lighter tones only; the reverse is also true. 

This short chapter is purposely left to stand by itself, 
that it may be well pondered ; for no amount of art can 
make, say, a fat, middle-aged man look like Juliet or 
Mary, Queen of Scots ; nor could it make a young girl in 
her school days even remotely resemble Falstaff. 

To sum up, consider your personal limitations in mak- 
ing your selections. 

All of this applies where impersonation is intended. 
The reciter is frequently called upon, especially in giving 
scenes from plays or dialogs, to interpret characters 
which he could not possibly resemble physically, but he 
may interpret them by giving a suggestive rendering of 
the lines where it is impossible for him to assume the 
character in reality. Some characters to be interpreted 
are so remote from the primary personality of the reciter, 
that even where the words have been committed to mem- 
ory, it is better art to seem to be reading them from the 
printed page as the impression here is that you are read- 
ing from the book and not attempting to look like the 
character speaking. 


Let us take it for granted, that you have a piece of 
literature in front of you, which makes a special appeal to 
your taste. You wish to prepare it for presentation to an 
audience. Clearly, the first step is to form a correct con- 
ception of its content, its meaning. It is quite generally 
apparent that the needed care in conception is not always 
taken. Quite frequently, things are said to an audience 
which are evidently soliloquies, and vice versa. We 
cannot possibly interpret that which we have not properly 
conceived. Of course there is only one meaning to a 
text ; and that is the author's ; but we may honestly differ 
as to what the author intended. To gain as just a con- 
ception of what the author is trying to convey as possible, 
let us ask ourselves in approaching any new selection the 
following questions : 

1. Who is speaking? 

2. Sex? 

3. Age ? 

4. Nationality? 

5. Temperament? 

6. Mood? 

7. Degree of that mood? 

8. In what language speaking? 

9. Education ? 

10. Environment? 

11. To whom speaking? 

12. Where speaking? 

13. For what purpose speaking? 

14. In what relationship to story ? 

15. In what relationship to other characters? 

16. Of what religion? 

17. In what literary form? 

18. In what dramatic form? 

Some of these questions may seem far-fetched. For 
instance, Religion ; but a moment's reflection will show 
that if in certain impersonations a Catholic is supposedly 
talking, it may be perfectly artistic to "cross" oneself, 
which no Protestant would do. 

(Continued next month) 

Par/c Fifty-Eight 




By The Rambler 

LONDON is allur- 
ing in June, we 
are told, and 
Paris is irresistible in 
Maytime, but the call 
of New York is loud- 
est in fall and winter. 
A new glimpse of the 
majestic, sky-scraping 
buildings outlined 
against blue and gold, 
)f the greatest of Ave- 
nues with its habitues, 
is physically exhilarat- 
ing", and, whether 
breathing deeply the 
intoxicating wintry air 
from bus top or busi- 
ness bent, reclining 
azilv in luxurious lim- 
ousines, or rambling 
down the avenue to 
see what we can see, 
one realizes that the 
season is vibrantly on 
— and at its height. 

That it is a winter 
of furs is apparent to 
the most casual ob- 
server, and pelts were 
never more beautifully 
handled. Youthful be- 
comingness is the key- 
note in the designing 
of all models, mani- 
fested in smart lines 
that give a new and 
different interpreta- 
tion to authentic style 
in simplicity of trim- 
ming and air of 
Fashionable Furs 

Time was when 
nothing short of sable 
satisfied the woman 
who aspired to smart- 

House Coat of georgette 
crepe; silver brocaded 
floral designs. Meteor 
slip. Boudoir cap of 
silver cloth and lace. 
Original creations of 
Bonwit Teller and Com- 

tograph by Apeda. 

Page Fifty-Nini 



ness, but now she is content with squirrel, 
kolinsky, silver fox, seal and chinchilla which 
is very costly. 

Fur coats are of simpler lines than last 
year's modes. The belts, the frock-like lines 
are no more. There is not a vestige of them 
in the dolmans, cape-manteaus, or the youth- 
ful silhouette of the Russian blouse so popular 
this season. 

Kolinsky is as much liked as ever and is 
especially adapted to the smartly circular cape 
and, we might add, that when one finds silver 
threads among the old brown of kolinsky it 
doesn't mean that kolinsky is growing old, on 
the contrary, it is being extremely new. The 
kolinsky scarf is one of the popular furs for 
neck wear. If trimmed with four tails it 
may be worn in many interesting ways. The 
straight scarf of brown fox is very much liked 
in the double fur style — and especially hand- 
some are the scarfs of Scotch mole with a 
muff — enormous and perfectly flat to go 
with it. 

Mole is exceedingly popular for capes 
and coats and never have seal and mole- 
skin met and mingled with such charming 
effect as in the long all-enveloping wraps and 
coats designed to keep out so many wintry 

Coats, Fur Trimmed and Otherwise 

Hardly less luxurious and cosy are the trim, 
graceful coats of Bolivia cloth, silk duvetyn 
and camels hair with collar and cuffs of 
squirrel, beaver, French seal or taupe nutria. 

The tailored coat is original in line, in sim- 
plicity of trimming; and lends itself to the 
scarfs and neck pieces so popular this sea- 
son — Scotch plaids in the boldest designs are 
a big feature of many of the smartest new 
clothes. They are used for sport coats or 
as top coats to be worn with the straight 
model, black velveteen frocks now so popu- 
lar ; sometimes they are combined with plain 
materials which make them ever more effec- 

The Newest Sweaters 

The newest sweaters are so interesting that 
they make us wonder how we could have held 
to the plain Tuxedo coat-sweaters for such a 
long time and why some one did not think, 
long ago, of making them like smocks and 
blouses as they are now. Utility was the great 
feature of the Tuxedo sweater, but utility and 
beauty characterize these newer ones. Some 
of them are short, loose and straight of line, 
knitted of fiber silk in plain color and embroid- 
ered in colored silk threads. Silk fringes and 
tassels adorn sweaters knitted in open mesh. 
Pleated ribbon, too, is a favorite trimming. 

A wool sweater, hand knitted, of bright 
green wool is trimmed with fluted frills of 
black taffeta ribbon. These encircle the bot- 
tom, trimmed with three-quarter length sleeves 
and edge of rolling collar. 

Other sweaters are made longer and drawn 
in at the waist by means of a pleated belt or 
a sash. Sweater sashes are now tied at the 

back instead of at 
the side, as they 

Handmade georgette day were last Season, 

frock done with black ^ e pj OW beinf 

velvet loops. From oma T1 anr ! fU P eric U 

Bonwit Teller and Com- f™ 11 and the ends 

pany being long. 

Photograph by Apeda 
Page Sixty 


There was a 
time when we 
would have 
looked with 
little favor up- 
on a three- 
quarter length 
or very short 
sleeve in a 
sweater. Per- 
haps we were 
more practical 
in those days, 
altho these 
new sweaters 
are a striking 
example of 
ing and the 
practical may 
be combined 
in dress. 


The cloak 
or cape seems 
to be pre- 
ferred for 
evening wraps 
this year. Per- 
haps it is the 
universal ten-, 
d e n c y to 
frocks with 
broad effects 
at the hips and 
a graceful 
cloak seems 
the naturely. 
chosen accom- 
panying wrap. 
Very beauti- 
ful are the fur 
cloaks of mole- 
skin, chinchil- 
la or squirrel, 
and also very 
costly. Many 
of the new 
cloaks are 
made of 
velvet, black, 
wine r e d, 
brown or 
grey. The 
cloak falls 
from the 
shoulder yoke 

in the back of the cape, sleeves of some sort being 
inconspicuously attached, a great fur collar topping the 

Evfning Gowns 

The price of living is still going brazenly up, but the 
temperature, the coal supply, the corsage is going down. 
From smart hat brims, plumes droop and exquisite veils 
of lace and tulle fall limply. Tasseled girdles fall from 
the waist line. Ruffles of crepe de chine ripple gracefully 
from the hips to the skirt-edge. 

One can no longer say that a corsage is "low" — it is al- 
most non-existent. Bare shoulders, bare arms, a scrap of 
velvet or tulle with shoulder straps of rose sprays — one 

raph by Apeda. 

A re-creation of an 
original East Indian 
documentory garment, 
garnered from the ar- 
chives of a museum; ex- 
ecuted in the private 
workrooms of Bonwit 
Teller and Company 

must admit that the new cors- 
age — or the lack of it — is 
oddly smart. 

Black is fancied for the 
evening gown this season and 
velvet is coming into its own. 
Not necessarily sombre in our 
frocks is this clinging fabric 
which drapes itself artistically 

to the slender silhouette, or, fashions itself along modish 
lines with gracefully swaying or draped panels at the hips. 
Bright hues are combined with the velvet, tunics of silver, 
girdles of gold sequins, a white tulle bodice aglitter with 

Page Sixty-One 


Bouffant evening gown of j e t and silver, vivid red frills, 

faille taffeta done with outstanding draperies faced 

lace bodice; black velvet . , . r ° , f,,. 

sash, lace underskirt. Wlth blu e or brilliant green. 

From Bonwit Teller and Remarkably pretty are the 

Company simple evening frocks of vel- 

vet which are being made for 
young girls. Low-necked and 
sleeveless, the corsage usually straight across the top or 
rounded with rather a broad strap over the shoulders, 
they are made of ruby or geranium, yellow or black vel- 
vet. Usually they are quite untrimmed and the skirts are 
distended more or less at the hips below the rather close 
corsages. They are severe, and exceedingly youthful in 
their untrimmed perfection. 

In other evening gowns there are models of tulle, 

purple, black, 
blue, or red, 
with a cors- 
age that is 
11 o t m u c h 
more than a 
strap — a 
mere fold of 
the material 
— and a skirt 
which is a 
series of tiny 
tulle ruffles 
placed close 
In Silhou- 
ette It's 
Altho the 
return of 
bouffant pa- 
nier styles, 
frills and fur- 
belows indi- 
cated some 
months ago 
that the win- 
ter style pro- 
gram would 
be one of 
great elabor- 
ateness and 
costly ma- 
terial, it has 
d e v e 1 oped 
that there is 
still so much 
diversity in 
types inclothes 
that no one 
style prevails 
to the exclu- 
sion of all 

As far as 
present day 
fashions are 
concerned, it 
i s m u c h a 
matter of 
t a k e-y o u r- 
choice in sil- 
houette. At 
all the dress- 
making estab- 
lishments one 
sees manikins wearing sack-like dresses, many of which 
are beautifully embroidered, while passing in the same 
review of fashions are resplendent afternoon and evening 
gowns with puffy paniers, so there is plenty of oppor- 
tunity for you to wear both full and scanty skirts. 

After all there is a good deal of reason in this apparent 
contradiction for while bdlowing skirts are charming in 
flimsy evening things they are decidedly out of keeping 
for day-time wear, and women of the present dav, while 
realizing the charm of the panier, are much too sensible to 
discard anything so practical as the straight line frock. 
Frills and Ruffles of Grandmother's Day 
The new note after all is often only an old note cleverly 

(Continued on page 73) 

Page Sixty-Two 


Told in Story Form from the Goldwyn-Tom Moore Photoplay 

By Ann Paul 

JAMES BOINTON BLAKE, looking about him, didn't 
know precisely how to take it all. The chintz cur- 
tains, darned, immaculate. The scent of lavender. 
The carved four-poster bed with the snowy spread. The rag 
carpets. The bowl with wild arbutus trailing slim fingers 
over its bevelled edges. He didn't know just whether to 
laugh or to cry, to scoff or to pray. It was all so different. 
Five years ago James Bointon Blake had written a 
great novel. Xot with the fringes of his mind, but with 
the stuff of which he was made, with his hopes and his 
faiths and his most shining beliefs. Tears had gone into 
it, the tears of little boyhood, sobby and terribly real; 
the tears of manhood, stern and grim. Laughter, too. 
It had been a great book. And because it was truly 
great it lived and the world that knew placed laurel about 
his brow and proclaimed 
him and lionized him. 

It had an odd effect on 
James Bointon Blake. It 
didn't give him conceit. 
It gave him slothf ulness. 

He difted to Greenwich 
A ulage. There he found 
an adulation that 
swamped him in green, 
in sickly-sweet waters. 
Xot many persons in the 
Village, he discovered, 
had done anything. 
They were always just 
going to. There were 
dreams afloat and mir- 
ages and vague halluci- 


Told in story form from the scenario based upon 
lohn Taintor Foote's play. Produced by Goldwyn, 
starring Tom Moore. Directed by Harry Beaumont. 
The cast: 

lirnmie Blake Tom Moore 

Eugenia Doris Pawn 

DuBois Macey Harlam 

Bagby Arthur Housman 

Bainbridge Colin Kenny 

Paige Augustus Phillips 

Valerie Catherine Wallace 

Mona Violet Schram 

Grandmother Ruby La Favette 

.Tap valet George K. Kinva 

Toby Xick Cogley 

nations of perpetually receding Tomorrows. There was 
an endless chain of that sort of thing. Jimmie found 
himself to be something of a departure. 

At first it amused him, bemused him. He was tired and 
the laxity of it all soothed him and lulled him. He had 
poured fourth the very best in him and, likeashell, hewanted 
to lie fallow and to be filled by other tides, other murmurings. 
Five years slipped by him, over him. Five soft-shod 
years. They immersed him, as it were, muffled him, 
obliterated him. At the end of them he lived in an odd 
sort of an apartment with Yama, his Jap, and drank 
vast quantities of high balls and played long nights thru, 
stripped poker with four of his mere intimate confeder- 
ates. Fie didn't very much care what he did do, so long 
as he was permitted to do nothing, was undisturbed by 

echoes of a world beyond 
the Milage and the Vil- 
lage standards, and could 
dream ... of all things 
... of everything . . . 
and nothing . . . 

As he didn't work so, 
neither, did he love. He 
was much too lazv for 
either one. He didn't 
consider himself ''ruined'' 
because he didn't con- 
sider himself at all. The 
Milage, something like a 
huge semi-clean com- 
fortable, had settled 
down about him and he 
drifted about in a 

Page Sixtx-Three 


vaguely lined sea of inertia, physical, mental and moral. 

Now and then something penetrated, bnt it was generally 
with the pricklingly uncomfortable sensation of the pene- 
tration of a pin. The cardinal sin, one of his most ex- 
pounded doctrines was, consisted in interference. To live 
and let live . . . ah, Swinburne had been infinitely wise. 
He read Swinburne, with pleasure. Why work when one 
might drift, with no exertion and immeasurably more of 
pleasure? Why do when one might dream . . . purple and 
mauve . . . old gold and jade . . . ? 

Rot, said Jimmie Blake, of the world of activity. 

Then came two pin pricks. Generally, mostly, Jimmie 
endured these with a sort of philosophy he had evolved 
out of necessity. These, he found, were more persistent, 
even recurrent. One was from Valerie Vincent, a sculptress 
and his good friend. She, among all of them, attempted to 
prod Jimmie now and again. 

"You fool," she would apostrophize him, "you're grubbing 
in the mire when you might be touching the stars. You're 
a sloth and a drone. If you were a bee you would be ex- 

"I wish I were a bee," had replied the immovable Jimmie. 

On this occasion Valerie had a manuscript she wished 
him to criticize. "It's from a very dear friend of mine, 
Jimmie," she told him, "a South- 
ern girl, and charming. They 
are in beastly circumstances. 
Straitened, terribly, you know, 
and all that. I want a real 
opinion on it. If she believes she 

cant make good ... it may keep her 
from many futile years. Please, Jim- 
mie. Come out of it just long enough 
for a solid answer. Dont be an utter 

Jimmie read it and pronounced it 
drivel. He added that it was maun- 
dering. He thought that it was pitiful 
and very young and as such, appeal- 
ing in its evident sincerity. He had 
got out of the habit of saying what 
•he thought. He almost always said 
something quite different. It was 
considered "smart" in the Village. 

The second pin prick was a visit 
from Mr. Paige, his publisher. 

John Paige believed in Jimmie. He 
had published his great novel, "The 
Thorn," and he felt that he would 
have known it to be great even tho 
the world had turned it down. That 
the world had not turned it down in- 
flated his coffers but not his original 
judgment. He had known a rather 

bitter dis- 


B - a K^n ifted t0 ™ een ' mentatthe 

wich Village . . . lhere , 

was an endless chain of subsequent 

that sort of thing disappear- 

Eugenie Vardeman met 
him in the entrance hall, 
a gracious survival of a 
quaint, old-time Southern 

Page Sixty-Four 


ance of Jimmie Blake. He 
knew a still bitterer one on 
this day of ferreting him forth 
from his murky obscurity. 
It was, thought John Paige, 
very murky, very murky in- 
deed. It was so murky that 
there came to the fatherly 
publisher the rueful thought 
that a great many strong 
winds and hot suns would 
have to blow and shine to re- 
move the miasma from the 
young writer. Whiskey . . 
and women with fawning lips 
and arms . . . and sleepless 
nights . . . asd dreams not 
fit the name . . . Cheap, 
tawdry, ruination garnished 
in faded ribbons and rank" 
with bad perfume. 

Paige told all this to the. 
young writer, crouched into 
his chair, meditating de- 
tached^ upon interruptions 
and interferences in general 
and publishers in particular. 
Hang it all, he liked John 
Paige, but didn't the man see 

that he was sick, know that Toby's bow was a rite. It 

he was sick, bodv and mind was a , eere 7 n >y. ^ wa * 

j 1 n ta- j j a i invested with a dignity all 

and soul r Lhdn t he sense its own 

the foct that his vitality was 
all gone, that he was as 

bleached out as a bone, that dissipations and light loves 
and light joys had tarnished him . . . permanently? 
"What made him mouth so. then, about bright futures, 
and hopes and brilliant promises and rights to the 
world, to Letters, to himself? What made him gibber 
the inanities to a moral corpse? 

Anyway, it all resulted in his standing in this breezy, 
blossomy room, at twilight, birds twittering sleepily 
outside his window, fragrances drifting in, the pleasant 
smell of wood fires about, space, dusk . . . 

It resulted because he had, at the end of John 
Paige's diatribe, asked the publisher for some money. 
The publisher had, at first, refused, then had written 
him a check for five thousand on the stipulation that 
he leave the Village, leave New York, go back, as it 
were, to the soil and there, if he could, find himself 
again. Find the vital young person who had written 
"The Thorn." 

He had left Jimmie to ponder the matter. In the 
midst of his pondering Valerie Vincent had come in. 
She was doing a little statuette of a girl, with a splen- 
did face, a splendid body, but broken wings trailing 
behind her ... in the dust . . . The statuette, she 
had told Jimmie, reminded her, somehow, of Eugenie 
Vardeman, the Southern girl who had written the 
novel Jimmie had condemned. She had gone on at 
quite a rate about Eugenie. She supposed that Jimmie 
was not listening. He almost never was. And yet 
she knew that it gave him some sort of a vicarious 
sense of companionship to have her talk to him. He 

Page Sixty-Five 


In the midst of the ball deduced, had she but known 

Jimmie appeared k the fact that Eugenie 

Vardeman was essentially 
different. Also, that poverty 
was pressing so desperately upon southern pride that the 
Vardemans were compelled to take a boarder at Fair- 
lawns, their wholly charming old Southern place. "My," 
Eugenia had concluded, "how murky this beastly place 
would seem after a while a Fairlawns!" 

Jimmie's mind, working oddly, worked in this instance 
to the extent of depositing him at Fairlawns as the Yarde- 
man's boarder. 

The dusk deepened and he dismissed Yama and sat 
back in a deep chair that creaked because it was very 
old, tho mended and covered with chintz, and tried to 
let it all envelope him, all sink in. The peace of it . . . 
the quiet . . . almost like the quiet of the nave of a 
church in summer when the smells of clover and of apple 
blossoms mingle with the intoning of the collects and 
bees hum by and narrowly miss one's ears ... so 
sweet . . . 

And then Eugenie Vardeman, who had met him in the 
entrance hall, a gracious survival of a quaint, old-time 
Southern hostess, with her grandmother by her side, and 
Toby, still a slave to the "fambly" in the depths of his 
black heart. The Civil War had passed lightly over him 
and left him as it had found him — the Yardeman's slave. 
His sons and his brothers might have fought and died. 
His fortunes were tied up with the fortunes of ol' Miss and 
Marse Yardeman and there was no other world save 
theirs. Jimmie would have said nothing of this sort 
could be true. He would surely have said that . . . back 
there in the Yillage. He found, sniffing late lilacs, that 
he didn't like to think of the Village. Nor the Purple 
Pup where they had given their last "party," nor the 

games of stripped 
poker, nor yet 
the girls who 
had flung red 
roses at him, 
red roses of 
pretty shames. 
He didn't want 
to think of it all, 
at least, under 
the roof with 
Eugenie Varde- 

What a shin- 
ing sort of per- 
son she was! 
Like a tall white 
candle with yel- 
low flame for a 
head ! A snow 
And yet vital, 
',too, with friendly 
little pressures 
of the hand and 
sudden enthusi- 
asms, charming 
and young . . . 
Yes, different, 
oh, very! 

She had whis- 
pered to him 
that her grand- 
mother was to 
regard him as a 
''guest." "It 
would break her 
proud old heart" she had said. ' to think of the Yarde- 
man's taking a . . . having a . . . oh, but you under- 
stand ! Of course, I . . . we . . . more modern, you 
know, see the sentiment in that as it is . . . just senti- 
ment. Sweet, but . . . not sensible, is it?" 

Then and there Jimmie had felt like taking her in his 
arms and smoothing her cares away. Not as a man taking 
the woman he loves and wants, just as a man taking a 
child trying, precociously, to reason and philosophize. 
She was unutterably sweet, he thought. That brief meet- 
ing in the polished hall would be all his life to him like 
a sprig of lavender, charming . . . He felt, suddenly 
as tho balm had been poured over him, who had been 
fevered. He felt glad that he had come, unaccountably 
glad. He knew that he would remain, not to scoff, but 
to pray . . . 

His last argument with Valerie had concerned his de- 
cision to go to Fairlawns as plain James Bointon, rather 
than James B. Blake, famous author of the famous 
"Thorn." He knew values and how readily and how inno- 
cently they may be distorted or inverted. He knew what 
fame sent before one can do to a personality, to peace, to 
possible friendships. He knew, too, that Eugenie Varde- 
man of Fairlawns thought that she could write. He 
would, he thought prior to his departure, be inviting upon 
himself torrential enthusiasms, terrible to endure. Gush- 
ings . . . probablv flatteries ... he would be expected 
to give "criticisms," sugar-coated and probably, to him- 
self at least, painful. He decided to eschew all of this and 
to stand or fall upon the obscure merits or demerits of 
James Bointon. 

Things, as things have a habit of doing, didn't fall out 
precisely, if at all, as he had expected. Of course, he 
hadn't expected Eugenie — that is, the Eugenie she was. 
Tall, and fine and with that indescriable shinging quality. 

Page Sixty-Six 


.Aloof, yet very human, immensely wise and resourceful 
in their poverty which Timmie found to be extreme, yet 
appealingly, immaturely young, too . . . 

He hadn't in the least expected to fall in love with her — 
but he did — he did . . . 

Neither had it occurred to him that his book "The 
Thorn" might have been the spur and the goad to the 
making of another writer, and yet, one day, a horrible 
moment to Timmie, Eugenie had told him, more shining 
than ever, that it was after she had read 'The Thorn" 
that she had decided to become a writer. She quoted 

special passages to him 

she said that she might be 

silly but she "madly adored" the writer of the "Thorn" 
... a man, she said, with thoughts like those . . . with 
feelings so rare, so high ... a god, she thought, a god, 
by whose wings she would give her all to be for one in- 
stant, touched. 

Jimmie Blake felt that he had done, even tho un- 
wittingly, an irreparable wrong. He knew that Eugenie 
could never write. He knew that old Colonel Botts, a 
family friend and sort of general counsellor, was right 
when he told Eugenie that she should be bringing up 
babies, not mussing about with words. He knew, too, 
however, with his understanding of the sadly amusing 
vanity of the amateur writer imbued with a sense of his 
own power however misguided, that Eugenie would never 
stop until three things had been accomplished — the thing 
got, by achievement, out of her system — money made to 
pay the pressing note due on Fairlawns — love which must 
come to her with an insistence stronger than all other 
interests or desires. He evolved a plan which should con- 
summate the three in triplicate. 

He would take her little story, condemned by himself 
in the Village, and tell her the idea was good and capable 
of novelization. He would offer to collaborate with her. 
Out of the slender thread he would make a book second 
not even to "The Thorn." She would believe that she 
had written it, sign 
her name to it, the 
money she needed 
would be hers, and 
after that — perhaps he 
could put the creation 
of books out of her 
head with an older, 
stronger, sweeter need 
and law . . .that of 

After all, it would 
be her just due and 
vm&-. That he felt the 
old creative fire upon 
him after five years 
was solely due to her. 
She had healed him 
and rekindled him. She 
had made him whole. 
She had caused him to 
cast off the sloth and 
be the man he had 
been, the artist with 
an inspired pen . . . 
It was her due. What 
matter whose name 
went on so that he 
labored as he had not 
thought ever to labor 
again . . . and with 
her by his side . . . 
The joy of such cre- 
ating should be its 
own reward . 

And if there should be any other — it should be Toby's 
bow. The gaining of that bow had come to mean to 
Jimmie the symbol of his entire happiness. Toby, be 
it said, gave that bow only to the 'A'ardemans and con- 
nexions, suh." It was a rite. It was a ceremony. It 
was invested with a dignity all its own. It was, on no 
account, to be given or received, lightly. Toby had been 
giving that bow for nearly fifty years to the "Varde- 
mans and connexions." Time had touched it with re- 
serve and import. None knew this better than Toby him- 
self. None craved it more than Jimmie Blake. 

The writing of "Swords and Roses" was a joyous 
time. Summer time, too. Unforgettable time. Heavy 
golden days, with blundering bees ravishing the flowers, 
and thick sweet scents and the far-off occasional scrap- 
ing of Toby playing his ancient fiddle. Heavy silver 
nights, sweeter than the days, when they sat together 
on the veranda and discussed tomorrow's chapters. 
Hours of enchantment spinning themselves out. 

At the end of the summer the book was finished. 
Jimmie said he could recommend a publisher named 
Paige. He had "heard" of him, he said, frequently and 
always well, in the city. Eugenie sent "her" book to 

It was quite an anxious time for all of them. Colonel 
Botts kept warning them that the note was about to fall 
due. Failure to meet it would mean the compulsory giv- 
ing up of Fairlawns and such a procedure would abso- 
lutely break Grandmother Yardeman's heart, the strings 
of which were inextricably intertwined with Fairlawns. 

Colonel Botts alone knew the identity of Jimmie 
Bcinton. Jimmie had to re- 
veal himself in face of the 

Colonel's belligerent dis- " T ^, is is . the way il sllould 

approval of his encouragement " e ' whlsp ®£™ Eugenie, 

c t- ■ • -i- i content. World with- 

of Eugenie s writing a novel, out end? amen * * * » 

(Continued on page 73) whispered Jimmie * * * 


I 1 


m I 

HP •?; *« *■ J 

5- -■■■■'■ ™ •*• 



■ : 

W * m¥ 



Page Sixty-Seven 


The Heart of 

WHEN one has left Mary Roberts Rinehart., 
their first thought is how soon they will 
see her again — how soon they can see 
her again ! 

And when one is called upon to write of her they 
realize acutely the inefficiency of words — their in- 
ability to do justice to her. She is possessed of a 
charm, a rareness which defies description — and one 
wishes her ability of painting word pictures had been 
given them. 

Consequential and inconsequential people were 
asking for some part of her time — her success in 
the world of letters is phenomenal — the plaudits of 
thousands belong to her — the great public anxiously 
awaits each new story from her pen- — yet one finds, 
her primarily and supremely the interested wife and 
mother — a mother who has journeyed all the way 
across the continent, where she was casting her 
"Dangerous Days" for the Goldwyn-Eminent 
Authors' production, in order to be home in time 
for the Harvard football game, because one of her 
boys expected her. 

"Naturally there is an empty feeling, a void„ 
when one's family grows up and sets forth to live 
their own life," she admitted, as she sat in the re- 
ception-room o f 

Mary Roberts Rinehart in her 
garden and in her work shop 



her New York 
hotel, tucking a 
American Beauty 
further into the 
tall vase by her 
side, "but I felt at 
the inception of 
my home circle 
that it must be a 
temporary thing, 
and I have always 
prepared myself 
for the day when 
the boys would 
go forth. I want 
ail three q£ <"hcm 
to knovv the joy- 
ful responsibility 
of being a parent 
just as their 
father and I have 
known it. The 
oldest is now mar- 
ried, but the other 
two are still in 
college. How- 
ever, we're still 
the family, and I 
leave for Penn- 
sylvania tonight, 
for we're having 
one of the re- 
unions at our 
home. I hope 
none of us will 
ever be so busy 
that we wont 

Page Sixty-Eight 

By Joan Temple 

have time to get together once every so often, when 
we can talk over our plans, then set forth again, 
fired with courage and ambition anew." 

If one had rejoiced that she was bringing her 
tales to the silversheet before talking with her, they 
rejoiced to a greater degree. 

Mary Roberts Rinehart knows, as perhaps few 
■others do, the drama of every day. There is never 
the exotic, the bizarre in her tales, yet they are 
among the most popular — they should prove an 
effective antidote for the salacious viewpoint which 
.some employ so insistently. 

"It was thru a desire to give the public some of 
the human interest, some of the drama which I had 
gleaned in my hospital training that prompted me 
to write," she said, ''but I was unskilled at first and 
the tales didn't satisfy me. I had never written 
before, except as a very young girl when a local 
newspaper accepted two one-column stories, for 
which they paid me a dollar apiece. None of the 
family were literarily inclined. Perhaps, however, 
literary creativeness and mechanical creativeness are 
akin, for father invented mechanical things. My 
creative ability may be just of a different trend. 
Then there were members of the clergy 
in the family, and certainly to them must 
he attributed some literary tendency." 

She fingered the string of pearls 
which lay on the black velvet of her 
suit as she talked, and I noticed her 
hands. They are capable hands — the 
hands of a doer, eloquently expressive, 
beautifully delicate and intensely sym- 
pathetic. Looking at them, one had no 
doubt that she had been able to be wife, 
mother and authoress, simultaneously 
and with little effort, actually begin- 
ning to write, as she did, after the three 
boys had come into her life. 

"I have always felt," she said, "that 
while I may have ten per cent, more 
imagination than some, say sixty per 
cent, ability, if you will, that the other 
forty per cent, was sheer dogged per- 
severance. Often I felt little like writ- 
ing — 'The Amazing Interlude' was writ- 
ten here in this hotel, with my husband 
ill and my boys in service I knew not 
where. But as my characters developed 
under my pen, I found myself more 
and more able to go on. Of course, 
the atmosphere was very real to me, 
for I lived in Paris as correspondent 
for the Saturday Evening Post in those 
first, grim days of 1914, when each 
sunrise brought new tragedies and sus- 
pense. Later the fighting became a 
highly developed, well organized ma- 
chine sort of thing — but ah, those first 

you d o n t 
on page 75) 

Above, a recent study of 

Mrs. Rinehart and, right, 

on a fishing trip, with 

her two sons 



above © by 
Dudley Hoyt 
Photograph below by 

Page Sixty-Nine 

iii i miima 


There is just one place in this world where there are 

no taxes to pay, no creditors, no cares, no worries, no fear 

for the morrow, no dread of disloyalty or ingratitude, and 

no pain nor sickness. That may sound attractive but we 

all keep as far away from that place as we can — it is the 

grave. That reminds me, zvhy place a fence around a 

grave-yard as they usually do? Those who are within 

cant get out and those who are without dont want to get 


=k * * 

Most of us are more unhappy for what we have 
not, than more happy for what we have. 

♦ % % 

Are the moving pictures immoral ? Is it harmful to teach 
the young the sins, follies, vices and weaknesses of human 
kind? No. A danger known is half averted. There are 
very few things which should be concealed from young 
people. Let them see crime and folly in all its hideousness. 
Should the mountaineer tell his children of the venomous 
snake, of the dangerous pass, the hungry wolf and the poison- 
ous flowers, fearing to frighten and alarm? or should he 
fortify the nerves of the young, and make them acquainted 
with the dangers which surround them? With very few 
exceptions, the moving pictures have a decidedly moral ten- 
dency; for, while they picture vice and crime, they seldom fail 
to point the moral, and to show the inevitable consequences 

of wrongdoing. 

# * * 

L. T. B. — I am honored, my dear sir, by hearing from you, 
a man of letters. I always admire a man with a lot of letters 
tacked on to the end of his name because it shows that he got 
there by degrees. Sorry I cannot answer your questions with 
interest to my readers. 

Various myself, I like all varieties, and there- 
fore I like YOU. 

* * * 

I dont envy a person because he is rich and I dont 
blame him for being rich and I would be rich myself if I 
could. However, I think that the Lord has unwisely 
scattered his rithes. Many of the present rich are not 
deserving of their wealth. Not that they have not earned 
it fairly — altho there may be doubts about this — but 
because they make unwise use of it. At the present time 
the world is in a state of appalling unrest and discontent. 
Llardly a square mile on the civilized part of the globe 
is not affected by one or more strikes. I have the audac- 
ity to state that one of the great causes of this unrest is 
the way the rich have displayed and wasted their gold. 
Only a short time ago the leading governments of the 
world were roaring in their megaphones to their peoples, 
beseeching them to economize. We were induced to 
save every crumb of bread, every drop of grease, to col- 
lect nutshells, to eat less, to conserve our supply of all 
commodities and generally to cut in halves our usual cost 
of living. Some of us did this religiously and patriotic- 
ally. The poor were probably the most patriotic in this 

Page Seventy 

respect. The rich bought liberty bonds, but they did very 
little to cut down the high cost of living and a great deal 
to add to the cost of high living. Very few of them 
made any outward display of economizing: and most of 
them continued with their extravagances, and flaunted 
them in the faces of those who were acting to the con- 
trary. Furthermore, many of these were profiteering all 
the while and adding to their fortunes by leaps and 
bounds. There are certainly more millionaires today than 
there were a few years ago. If you were a working 
man and you found that your rent and food and clothes 
and everything else had advanced from fifty to one hun- 
dred per cent., and if you had been economizing accord- 
ing to the rules and regulations laid down by Mr. 
Hoover and other government officials, and if you had 
been using half the quantity of sugar that you usually 
used and had always maintained an empty garbage pail 
and if you had planted potatoes in your front yard — if 
you had done all this and you saw that the millionaire 
around the corner was not only living the way he had 
always lived but was adding to his luxuries and had just 
bought a new $10,000 car and had hired another valet, 
chauffeur and other attendants, and was buving $5,000 
books, $20,000 oil paintings and $30,000 rugs, what 
would you do? No wonder there is unrest and discon- 
tent. If there must be multi-millionaires who insist on 
spending their money, it is too bad that we cannot have 
an island for them, where they can live and luxuriate all 
alone by themselves. These are times when the rich 
should really bide their riches. A display of wealth 
these days is like a red flag to a bull. 

Late last night, I slew my wife, 

Stretched her on the parquet floor; 

I was loath to take her life, 
But I had to stop her snore. 

Your flatterer may love you, some, but he prob- 
ably loves himself more. 

* * * 

Dont be in such a hurry to get rich, Mr. L. T. B., be- 
cause we want you with us a while longer. As the 
stranger, arriving at the end of his long journey, takes a 
peaceful rest, so do we, when we have prospered beyond 

the immediate fear of poverty. Prosperity induces sleep. 

* * * 

In the past, oratory had her Pericles, Demosthenes 
and Cicero. Statesmanship had her Vespasian, Titus 
and Trajan. Arms had her Alexander, Cassar and Han- 
nibal. Philosophy had her Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. 
Law had her Lycurgus, Solon and Justinian ; moralism 
had her Seneca, Marcus Aurelius and Epaminondas ; 
poetry had her Homer, Virgil and Horace; science had 
her Hippocrates, Galen and Archimedes. The drama 
had her Thespis, ^Eschylus and Aristophanes. 

In the present — I give it up. Who can match all of 
these ancient celebrities with modern ones ! 



Some five or six years ago when King Baggot was in 
his prime, lie widely advertised his face, and under it 
the slogan, "A face as well known as the man in the 
moon." Now, after a lapse of many years, during which 
time lie has been little seen or heard of, he again adopts 
the same slogan. And lie is right — his face is just as 
well knozi'ii as the man in the moon. And it is no better 
known. Very few of us z^'ould recognize either one of 
them on the street. 

Live so that you will not excite the envy of your 
friends nor the malice of your enemies. 

How small some great men really are! The law of com- 
pensation seems to hold that a man great in one thing shall 
be equally small in other things. Take Lord Byron, — was 
he not vain, overbearing, conceited, suspicious and jealous? 
He even used to do his hair up in curl papers. He thought 
"that the whole world ought to be constantly employed in 
admiring his poetry and himself." He even would ask peo- 
ple to admire his foot. His professed dislike to seeing women 
eat, was found out to arise solely, "from the fact of their 
being helped first, and, consequently, getting all the wings 
of the chickens, while other people had to be content with 
the legs." And yet this man must be classed with the world's 
greatest ! 

^ >|; sfc 

Perhaps it is just, as well that we have never yet learnt 
what Death is. If we knew we might not desire Life. 

All the world is a stage, but life wont be a 
tragedy nor a comedy if you play your part well. 

The question J. K. McM. asks is hard to answer satis- 
factorily, and there is no way of making sure that the answer 
is accurate. To compare the work of the ancients with that 
of our own, in such manner as he seems to require, would 
fill this magazine, but we shall make a few suggestions which 
may prove helpful. Probably, the ancients were inferior to 
us in some things, and superior in others. Very few of our 
great discoveries and inventions were entirely unknown to 
the ancients. Disraeli tried to prove that the Roman knew 
the secret of movable types, but, fearing the spread of knowl- 
edge, dared not make it public. De Quincey maintained 
that the ancients knew printing thoroly, but made no progress 
for want of paper. We date the discovery of gunpowder 
only back to Roger Bacon, but it has been shown that it was 
known ages before that, tho not used in warfare. It is 
quite certain that the ancients possessed some form of tele- 
scope, else their astronomy, and even their astrology could 
not have existed. That they also had some kind of micro- 
scope, is reasonable to assume, for we know that Alexander 
possessed a copy of the Iliad inclosed in a nutshell, which 
could hardly have been written, and much less read, without 
a magnifying glass of some pretensions. We are told that 
Xero looked at the distant gladiators thru a gem, which 
could well now be called a field-glass or opera-glass. They 
also knew something of the malleability of glass, the in- 
delibility of colors, and, according to M. Fournier, a great 
deal about the magnetic telegraph, which we attribute to 
Morse of the last century. The nineteenth century also 
claims photography, but a French writer in 1760 described 
it in every detail, and even color photography. Certainly 
the ancients knew the art of embalming better than we, and 
from all accounts, they were fully familiar with what we 
now call modern plumbing, as shown by the excavations of 
Pompeii. As to sculpture and architecture, we have never 
surpassed the works of the ancients, and the same might per- 
haps be said of some of their philosophy, poetry and general 
literature. Of course, we have improved upon many of their 
methods, vet many of their secrets we have not vet dis- 

covered. On the whole, we would venture to say that we 
are far in advance of the ancients in most things, and 
that they are still ahead of us in a few. 

It is a good thing to be able to seize an oppor- 
tunity after it comes and it is another thing to 
make an opportunity before it comes. 

I am asked if I believe in socialism. Yes, in a great part 
of it, but not all. Tis true that the waste of competition is 
terrific and that universal cooperation would greatly lessen 
the hours of toil for the human family. But competition with 
all its flaws is the law of the universe and cannot and must 
not be conquered. The priceless, enduring struggle for Life 
is obvious everywhere. An inherent rivalry exists and always 
has existed in all animal and vegetable life and this struggle 
for existence determines which shall survive. We observe the 
weeds crowding out the flowers, the big fish eating the little 
ones and the intelligent superior men excelling their inferiors. 
This strenuous competition is the one condition of all 
progress, and to refuse to recognize this principle is to be 
blindfolded to the program of evolution which is apparent in 
all nature. 

As turning the logs will make a dull fire burn, so will 
the turning from one subject to another, as the varied 
types hit the eye, make the mind sparkle. Opinions are 
largely formed from observation, but all observers stand 
upon different peaks. Your pe,ak may be higher than 
mine, but I may see down into the valleys which your 
eyes have never scanned. 


Scene L A minister's parlor. 

Scene II. A pretty flat. 

Scene III. The Great White Il'ay. 

Scene IV. A midnight supper. 

Scene V. A court at law. 

Scene VI. Same as Scene I. 

Scene T 'II. Same as Scene II. 

Scene VIII. Same as Scene III. 

Scene IX. Same as Scene IV. 

Scene X. Same as Scene V. 

Scene XI. Same as Scene VI. 

Scene XII. Space forbids; besides, it's too 


Say what you like, but then you may expect to 
hear what you dont like. 

"Agamemnon" is informed that kissing is shaking 
hands with the lips, the ingredients being four velvet 
lips, two pure souls, and an undying affection. That 
were indeed a pretty picture of a sweet kiss, and that 
was probably the kind Ben Jonson had in mind w r hen he 
said, "Leave but a kiss within the cup and I'll not ask 
for wine." There is much in a kiss, and there are many 
varieties. Byron speaks of "A long, long kiss — the kiss 
of youth and love," and Haliburton says there is the 
'"kiss of welcome and of parting ; the long lingering, 
loving, present one ; the stolen and the mutual one ; the 
kiss of love, of joy, and of sorrow; the seal of promise, 
and receipt of fulfilment. It is strange, therefore, that a 
woman is invincible whose armory consists of kisses, 
smiles, sighs, and tears?" Shakespeare has quite an in- 
ventorv of kisses, and among others, the zealous kiss, — 
"U"pon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the 
indenture of my love," and the hard kiss, — "Then he 
kist me hard, as if he plucked up kisses by the roots, 
that grew upon my lips ;" and the modest kiss, — "And 
steal immortal kisses from her lips, which, even in pure 
and vestal modesty, still blush as thinking their own 
kisses sin ;" and the holv kiss, — "His kissing is as full 

Page Seventy-One 


of sanctity as the touch of holy bread." Dryden tells of 
a kiss rather luscious : "I felt the while a kind of pleas- 
ing smart ; the kiss went tingling to my panting heart. 
When it was gone, the sense of it did stay; the sweet- 
ness dinged upon my lips all day, like drops of honey, 
loth to fall away." Burns defends kissing in witty vein. 
Says he, "Some say kissing is a sin ; but if it was na 
lawful, lawyers would ua allow it ; if it was na holy, 
ministers would na do it ; if it was na modest, maidens 
would na take it ; if it was na plenty, puir folk would na 
get it." The scientists have proclaimed that kissing must 
be suppressed, because it causes the interchanging of 
microbes. Was ever anything so foolish? Stop kissing? 
Say stop the sun from shining and it would be no more 
ridiculous. Germs or no germs, kissing will go on for- 
ever — at least, let us hope so. As Jonson says, "A soft 
lip would tempt you to eternity of kissing," whatever 
the penalty, particularly if it were of the Alexander 
Smith kind, — "I clasp thy waist; I feel thy bosom's beat: 
O, kiss me into faintness, sweet and dim," or if we were 
reminded of Tennyson's favorite kind, — "Once he drew, 
with long kiss, my whole soul thru my lips as sunlight 
drinketh dew." No, they cannot stop kissing. Even if 
our lips were made of horn, and stuck out a foot or two 
from our faces, we would not stop ; for, as Buxton re- 
marks, no creatures kiss each other so much as birds do. 
The dangers of kissing are by no means confined to the 
germ theory, for we remember the delicious disaster re- 
lated by Douglas Jerrold: "He kist her and promised. 
Such beautiful lips! Man's usual fate — he was lost upon 
the coral reefs !" As Byron says, "Eden revives in the 
first kiss of love," and we are reminded of George Vil- 
liers' eloquent words, — "Kisses are the grains of gold or 
silver found upon the ground, of no value themselves, 
but precious as showing that a mine is near." Benjamin 
West once said that a kiss from his mother made him a 
painter, and no doubt that kisses have been the greatest 
source of inspiration to men of every calling. Wars 
have been waged for a kiss ; men have done the greatest 
deeds of daring for a kiss ; thrones and empires have 
tottered because of a kiss, or the refusal of one ; for does 
not Cleopatra truthfully say to Antony, "We have kist 
away kingdoms and provinces ?" Who invented the kiss, 
we do not know. Hold! It was Eve, for was not Eve 
the first woman? Surely the kiss is as old as creation, 
and yet as fresh and young as ever. According to Hali- 
burton, it pre-existed, and always will exist. Depend up- 
on it, Eve learnt it in Paradise, and was taught its beau- 
ties, virtues and varieties by an angel, — there is some- 
thing transcendent in it. Stolen kisses are always sweet- 
est, if Leigh Hunt is any authority, but there is room 
for doubt on this point, for a stolen or unwilling kiss is 
but half a kiss and therefore but half as sweet. It takes 
two to make a bargain, and tho to make a happy maiden 
blush be pleasant, 'tis far sweeter to find her responsive 
to love's tender invitation. Prudes, priests and preachers 
may be opposed to kissing, but men, maids and maidens — 
even old maids — are not. Germs may come, and germs 
may grow, but kissing will go on forever. 
* * * 

A lie has no legs and cannot stand alone with- 
out many others to help it, but it can run terribly 
fast and cover a lot of ground. 

It has been affirmed that man partakes of the animal 
of which he eats, but the facts do not bear out that theory, 
because there is very little pork eaten in New York. 

A young lady writes me, complaining of a perpetual 
toothache, and wonders why we were not born without 
teeth. If she will look up the authorities she will find 

that we were. 

* * * 

Poetry is musical thought expressed in musical lan- 
guage. Prose may say the same thing, but its voice is 
not so loud, and it takes longer to say it. Prose is a 
painting in black find white, poetry a painting in all the 
glowing colors of nature. Any one who understands 
language can understand prose : only the artist can ap- 
preciate poetry. Poetry is thought in blossom. It some- 
times appears in the homely garments of prose, but it 
usually resides in the prettier setting. The Indian pre- 
fers the monotonous tum-tum of his crude drum to a 
symphony orchestra : the uncultured prefer the sense of 
words rather than the sound. Poetry is the language of 
heaven and of the angels: prose is the language of the 


* * * 

One-third of those born to work cannot find it, 
and another third lives on the toil of the others. 

^ ^ ^ 

Wid's Magazine asked a number of educators of na- 
tional renown what they thought of motion pictures and 
here is a typical answer from the Carnegie Institute of 
Technology : 

While most educators realize there are great possibilities for 
the moving pictures in the field of education, a great deal re- 
mains to be done in improving the films that are before the 
public before they can be of any service in advancing public 
taste and stimulating serious thought. 

In other words, after twenty years of operation, the 
film industry has failed to convince ! After twenty years 
of effort they have failed to advance public taste, failed 
to stimulate serious thought ! Why ? Simply because 
the industry lacks organization. Where there is one 
great and good photodrama produced, there are five bad 
ones. Producers, players and exhibitors seem to have 
only one object in view — to make money. To make 
money while the sun shines. They think not of the mor- 
row nor of morals. They make a play for today only, 
and as far as they can see is today. They never have a 
thought of killing the goose that lays the golden egg, but 
that is just what they are doing. The National Board of 
Censorship and Review was a failure, but it should have 
a successor. The entire industry must organize ! 

* * * 

The genius of sanity and the insanity of genius! If a 
genius is not insane, he is at least unsane. Genius is 
mental unequilibration. 

* * # 

Let us not teach the poor how to be economical 
— they dont need it. Let us rather teach it to the 
rich. It is easy to be frugal with nothing, and it is 
hard to be economical with much. It is more diffi- 
cult to save what you have than to preserve 
what you have not. 

I am neither a conservative nor a radical. A conservative 
is a man who will not look at the new moon out of respect 
for that ancient institution, the old one. He is the same in- 
dividual who tries to stop the horse named Progress by hold- 
ing on its tail and hollering "Whoa." The radical is the man 
whose opinion is different from our own. They are both 
wrong, and so are we. The world moves along in a happy 
middle ground. Progress has two friends, the conservative 
and the radical. 

Keep your weather-eye on your "convictions." Dont 
be sure of anything until you are sure. Make up your 
convictions like you make up your bed, only to be mussed 
up again. Dont be too easily convicted, and when you 
are convicted, be prepared to meet a short sentence so 
that you may be unconvicted as easily as you were con- 
victed. To convict your judgment of a conviction that is 
ill-founded, is to make a convict of your reason. 

Page Seventy-Two 


"when 'Genie couldn't write a novel in 
a thousand years and you know it, suh, 
dammit, you know it!" 

Jimmie had had to disclose himself 
as the author of "The Thorn" and as- 
sure the irate Colonel that everything 
was all right and that the book would 
sell. He added that it really was 
Eugenie's however, altho in a different 
sense than she thought, because while 
he had written it himself, undoubtedly, 
still she had recreated him and given 
him again his lost creative power, and 
so deducing . . . 

Colonel Botts, who kept a copy of 
"The Thorn" at hand in his library was 
awed into a future silence. 

Of course, the book "went," and John 
Paige sent for Eugenie Yardeman. 
There were some slight revisions neces- 
sary. Jimmie urged her to go. Told 
her she must go. He wanted her to have 
the fame her dear heart ached for. He 
wanted her to feel the thrill, the im- 
portance she was so ingenuously accept- 
ing as her own. Her childish pleasure, 
her fatuousness only endeared her to 
Jimmie who had the rare faculty of a 
fine sensibility . . . 

Eugenie said that she would stay with 
Valerie Vincent in Greenwich Milage. 
Jimmie didn't like this, but he had an 
idea that even the Milage would step 
aside when Eugenie brushed her white 
skirts along the pavements. 

Eugenie didn't feel just the same about 
her white skirts. She felt unhappy and 
that was a bad way to go, beautiful as 
she was, untried and susceptible into 
Greenwich Village. She was unhappy 
because of Jimmie. She had come to 
love him during that summer and she 
had thought, she had felt, that he had 
loved her too. Of course he hadn't said 
so, but there are things one does not need 
to say . . . She had felt, she thought, 
the growth of it, steady, passionate, 
sweet during those wonderful mutual 
moments. She had begun to dream of 
other things than pens and typewriters 
and books and fame . . . closer, dearer 
things . . . And then, on that last 
evening he had advised her to marry her 
neighbor and old friend, Tommy Bagby, 
who proposed to her with regularity 
once a month. She did not know that 
he had seen her kiss Tom Bagby when 
the same Tom announced that he had 
taken her advice and proposed to another 
girl, that he thought she loved Bagby 
and wanted her to feel free lest any trace 
of his own feeling for her might be de- 
terring her. She just thought he didn't 
love her himself, didn't want her. and 
misery closed in about her, like a vice. 

So that she almost welcomed the 
harum-scarum Greenwich Village and 
such forgetfulness as it offered. Adula- 
tion was sweet, too. Just such adulation 

Toby's Bow 

(Continued from page 67) 

as, five years ago, the author of "The 
Thorn" had received. The same crowd, 
too, and particularly Edward DuBois to 
whom a woman was merely an exponent 
of her sex and Eugenie no possible ex- 
ception to that rule. 

She had been there two weeks and 
things were beginning to pall. After all, 
unhappiness wears the gaudiest disguise. 
She began to fear that she couldn't help 
her aching heart from showing. She 
couldn't renounce so fully sweet a dream 
without wincing right in the face of the 
world. Xo use, no use at all. 

She was having trouble with Paige, 
too. Her revisions didn't suit. They 
hadn't, Paige said, the same "rushing 
spirit" as the rest of the book. He 
seemed puzzled. Eugenie longed to tell 
him of her collaborator, but on that score 
she had promised Jimmie to maintain a 
rigid silence. 

In the midst of this Jimmie, himself, 
appeared. Xone too late for, at a 
masque ball, DuBois dropt his last rather 
slithery pretense and revealed himself. 
Jimmie, in the next box, heard him and 
the masque ball ended in a rather horrid 
row. The following day Eugenie left 
for Fairlawns to do the work of revision 
down there and the day following Jimmie 
followed her. 

On the very same day John Paige came 
upon the clue he had been seeking. One 
of the pages of the manuscript of 
"Swords and Roses" had notations in 
handwriting. The handwriting was that 
of Jimmie Blake. So it had been Jimmie 
Blake, all along. He had "come back." 
He was fulfilling the gorgeous promise 
he had given in "The Thorn." The 
creative fire had descended upon him 
again, hot and fine. Paige exulted. He 
had a mounting, soaring faith in Jimmie 
Blake. He didn't know what the Eugenie 
Vardeman business was all about, but he 
determined to find out. He would "take 
a run" down South. He would unearth 
Jimmie and the truth. This book would 
be a sensation but it must go out bearing 
the name of James Bointon Blake. Any 
other idea was preposterous. 

Vtr. Paige had never created quite such 
a surprise as he achieved at Fairlawns. 
He disclosed an identity when he ad- 
dressed Jimmie as "Blake" which ap- 
peared more than staggering to Eugenie. 
He pleaded with Jimmie to allow his 
name to go on to his work. He said, 
not knowing how badly, that it was 
wholly his style, he must not be a fool. 
He talked until Eugenie left the room, 
in tears and Jimmie, apparently un- 
necessarily agitated begged him to go to 
his room and rest a while — Yama would 
assist him — while he, Jimmie, straight- 
ened things out. Mr. Paige, thinking 
Jimmie had sloughed off one insanity 
for another, departed, shaking his head. 

Jimmie found an hysterical Eugenie, 
who accused him of tricking her, mak- 
ing fun of her, laughing at her and her 
silly amateurish intentions. She said the 
Vardemans would not take "charity" no 
matter how deftly presented. She hated 
the old book. She loathed great writers. 
She wanted to die, etc, etc. Jimmie said 
that he did, too, even tho it zvas hers — 
it was — how could he have written, a sick 
man, unless she had healed him and 
given him back his faith. Oh, it was far 
more hers than if she had written, twice 
over, every word in it, far, far more hers 
than his. But if she hated it— here — 
and he tossed the manuscript into the 
fire, which would have caused every hair 
on Mr. Paige's head to rise up like unto 
a porcupine's had he been there, which 
he was, almost instantly after the sacri- 
lege had been committed and Eugenie, 
with a cry, had rescued it from the flames. 

Mr. Paige was a diplomat as well as a 
publisher. He talked with them a while 
and gave Eugenie a check for five thou- 
sand as cash deposit and knew that, 
briefly, he would receive a wire from the 
young couple to put their name of Blake 
upon the coming book of the year. 

Eugenie and Jimmie were left alone. 
But they were not alone. Whispering 
choruses, choirs invisible were all about 
them, charging the laden air with music, 
telling them, as they clung together, that 
this was but the beginning — that the\ 
were but a beginning — of years that 
should ripen as wheat, golden and plenti- 
ful — of sheaves that should be garnered, 
gathered in — ■ 

"This is the way it should be ; " 
whispered Eugenie, content. 

"World without end, amen . . ." 
whispered Jimmie . . . 

Toby, announcing dinner, hemmed 
rather loudly at first, then, catching Jim- 
mie's eye. gave him the 'famblv" bow. 

What Every Woman 
Should Know 

(Continued from page 62) 

In the old days of our grandmothers 
to appear without a touch of white at 
neck and sleeves was a thing unworthv 
of a well-dressed woman. This winter 
we have returned to the old ideal — for 
all our frocks are relieved by white — the 
little collar, pleated or flat, or the little 
white piping to protect our necks from 
contact of serge or satin is both lovely 
and easy to keep fresh. This winter 
sees many a feminine face framed in a 
voluminous collarette with a cravat of 
black velvet or taffeta. 

The touch of white is not confined to 
the neck, however, we find it also at the 
wrists in a long plaiting of linen. 

Page Seventy-Three 

\ • • 


awkwardly, he draws her toward him as 
tho to kiss her, turning away just before 
their lips meet, with a groan.) 
Lloyd : 

Oh, but I mustn't — I mustn't let you 
sacrifice your future. What kind of a 
love would that be, dear? You see, I'm 
no good, Ellie. I meant to tell you, at 
once. Rubenstein refused the scenario. 
He said it was impossible. I guess I'm 
pretty poor stuff, common clay . . . 
Glory (protestingly) : 

You shant call yourself such things. I 
know you're going to write . . . big 
things . . . real things . . . things that 
will live . . . some day, Lloyd ! 
Lloyd : 

But some day is so far off, dear, to 
some one who is starving today — I want 
you now, Ellie ! 

Glory {in a Jialf whisper) : 

Then why — why dont you take me — 

Lloyd (timidly) : 

Would you give all this up — just for 
me? Would you give up the pretty 
gowns and the star-dust in your eyes? 
And the electric lights ? Would you live 
in a little flat ? It would be a very little 
one, Ellie, but oh, I'd work so hard for 
you — and try to make good, Ellie. 
Glory (suddenly, her very young face 
breaking up to its first really 
essential beauty) : 

Yes, I'd give it all up, Lloyd. Oh, 
gladly ! Let's go and find — the little flat — 
Lloyd (laughing shakily and pointing to 
her fantastic attire) : 

Take off the silks and satins, Ellie, and 
put on the little old gingham thingumbob 
I used to love you best in, and meet me at 
John's Cafeteria, where we used to eat, 
at twelve — the same table, Ellie — we'll 
plan things out — you'll be there, Ellie, 
sure, at twelve? 

Glory : 

I'll be there ! Oh, Lloyd, that little flat 
will be such fun to live in ! 
Lloyd (with a final clasp of the little 
hand in his, then turning azuay) : 

Then I'll be waiting. And be on time, 
dear, or I'll think you've changed your 

mind — and if I thought that 

Glory (gaily) : 

I'll be there! 

(He goes out and she remains staring 
after him, beatified. The door of the 
private office opens and Rubenstein and 
Mrs. Grady emerge. Mrs. Grady is a 
middle-aged, middle-class woman, with 
the signs of reluctant toil not quite 
erased from her hands by elaborate 
manicuring, nor her face and bearing by 
expensive clothes, worn with ill ease. 
She is effusive, anxious, almost servile 
in her attitude toward the famous 

Mrs. Grady : 

I dont know how to thank you, Mr. 

Star-Dust and Sob-Stuff 

(Continued from page 46) 

Rubenstein, indeed, I dont. Such a 
wonderful opportunity for a girl just 
starting on her career. Not that Ell — 
Glory isn't good at it, but we all realize 
who we have to thank. And she'll feel 
the same about it when she hears. (Sees 
Glory and kisses her effusively, with a 
secret glance of warning and command.) 
Oh, here you are, sweetie. I was just 
telling Mr. Rubenstein that you are a 
lucky girl to have such a friend as him. 
Wait until you hear what he's going 
to do ! 

Rubenstein (glancing greedily at the 

lovely little face and waving liis 

white, plump hand) : 

Not a word ! It's my pleasure to give 
a girl a chance when she's as pretty as 
Miss Gloria here. (Aside.) We'll try 
out the ingenue plan first, and afterwards 
— we'll see ! Tell you what, tho, if you 
really want to reward me, you'll take 
luncheon with me — both of you, of 
course. I'll have the car here at twelve 
and we'll motor out to Green Corners 
Road House . . . 

Glory (Hutteringly) : 

Oh, thank you so much, but I cant go 
. . . I . . . (Her mother pinches her 
arm, wamingly. She glances from the 
maternal frown to Rubenstein's smug 
smile and falters into silence.) 

Mrs. Grady (smoothly) : 

I'll answer for her — she'll be ready at 
twelve. She's just shy at the honor, Mr. 
Rubenstein, that's all. 

Rubenstein (bowing and turning) : 

Then that's settled. Noon, remember. 
We'll go into the — ah — details of Miss 
Glory's career then. (He goes out.) 
Glory (passionately) : 

Mother, what did you say I'd go for? 
I shant ! I cant ! I hate him and his soft 
white hands and his whispering eyes and 
the way he smiles. I tell you I wont go ! 
Mrs. Grady (in a low, level voice of 
anger) : 

You're going to be a fool, are you? 
A fool instead of a star. Because you've 
got a lot of moonshine into your silly 
head for an hour or so, you're going to 
do what / did? Your're going to get 
coarse and ugly and old and tired be- 
cause you're stupid enough to be poor? 
I tell you, I've worked all my life to 
bring you up and you're not going to 
back-water now. It isn't as tho I was 
asking anything wrong of you. He'll 
marry you, and so it will be all nice and 
proper. (Mrs. Grady draws forth a 
heavily scented handkerchief and waxes 
dramatic.) You know your pop . . . 
what a worthless sot he is . . . are you 
going to send me back to that — to dish- 
washing again ... to scrubbing . . . 
when you could give me all this . . . 
and your little sister her chance, too . . . 
just as easy . . . just by being decent? 
All you have to do is just be nice to 

Rubenstein, that's all! Oh, my Gawd, 
why did I ever have such an ingrate for 
a child? 

Gloria (distraught at her mother's vol- 
uble distress, perplexed, giving the im- 
pression of a bird caught in a net, un- 
aware, struggling, futile . . . ) : 

Mother, dont, please dont ! We'll have 
things . . . you see . . . just wait . . . 
Mother dear! A better way! And I'll 
be happy, too, mother. Just as liappy! 
A shining happiness, mother. It aint . . . 
isn't silly ... I know that. I do. It's 
real. If I give it up (her voice takes on 
a perceptibly Hatter note, almost as tho 
beaten), if I do . . . mother, those 
things wont count ... to me . . . 
Mrs. Grady (with rising hysteria as the 
insistent dreams of youth reach out, like 
fragile tendons, to take hold of her hard 
greeds) : 

You're talking trash, book-stuff. You 
can behave yourself and be decent and 
you can ride in limousines ; you can have 
diamonds and jewels and country houses 
and town houses. You can have all the 
things us Gradys never dreamed of — 
only read of when we had time. All you 
have to do is obey me and be decent. If 
you dont I'll die . . . Dr. Ludlow says 
my heart is bad now . . . bad from 
overzvork . . . from raising children 
. . . from working day and night, night 
and day, over tubs and sewing and wash- 
ing and such like. And now, with a mil- 
lion dollars in her hand, my child throws 
it away and murders me . . . murders 
her mommer . . . here . . . right here 
in the scene of what might be her pros- 
perities . . . Merciful heavens! . . . 
more cruel than an adder's tongue is an 
ungrateful child . . . (The zvronged 
parent breaks completely and sobs with 
noisy abandon into her muff.) 
Gloria (putting a cold little hand on her, 
patting her fat cheek, speaking as the 
very old might speak to the very young) : 

Dont cry, mommer. It's all right. 
You've worked for me, just like you say. 
I. . . . I'll work for you. Dont cry. 

It'll be all right 

vhy, mommer, it'll 

be fine. We'll have such . . . such 
fun . . . The flat liltle voice trails off.) 
Mrs. Grady (making a miraculous re- 
covery) : 

Now, now, that's right, dearie ! i 
knew you hadn't much of your pop in 
you. Trust mommer and you'll wear 
diamonds ! (She dries her eyes, and 
goes off, leaving the girl alone.) 

(Glory Gay stands quite still, staring 
before her. There is nothing at all in her 
face, nothing whatever. A hand has 
wiped it dry of tears and joys, of laughter 
and delights, of memories and hopes. 
Glory : 

I'm going to be a star . . . I'm going; 
to be . . .a star! 


Page Seventy-Four 

^- X30-. \si 

The Heart ot Rineheart 

; by i 

cred:: artistic :emperament?" I asked 


"No, I really do not," she smiled — and 
her smile is the sort that plays upon your 
heartstrings. "There are sure to be d \; - 
when we feel weary, but I find the more 
often I humor my whims the more indo- 
lent I become. At first I wrote in my 
studv at home, but I soon found that the 
dogs barking at the door when they 
wanted to be taken for a walk, the gar- 
dener going past the window, all these 
things made me wish to be up and about 
the house. Now I work for a cer: - 
number of hours in an office in the city. 
Even- day I drive down, whether I feel 
like it or not. and sometimes as I dictate 
I might just as well be writing my gro- 
cer-- Est, but I have found that it pays to 
:e- ; e' ere if there s the tiniest idea of 
bright spot to be discovered." 

She l