***************************************************************************** * T A Y L O R O L O G Y * * A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor * * * * Issue 58 -- October 1997 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu * * TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed * ***************************************************************************** CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE: Minter and Shelby in Paris In Defense of Charlotte Shelby "The Tragic Life Story of Mabel Normand" Interviews with Taylor's Sister-In-Law Mary Miles Minter and "Broken Blossoms" Two Interviews with Mary Pickford ***************************************************************************** What is TAYLOROLOGY? TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life; (b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it for accuracy. ***************************************************************************** A photo of William Desmond Taylor's grave can be seen at http://www.accesscom.com/~epitaph/taylorwd.gif ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Minter and Shelby in Paris The murder of William Desmond Taylor increased the breach between Mary Miles Minter and her mother, Charlotte Shelby. Their dispute became public in August 1923 (see TAYLOROLOGY 11), and a lawsuit was filed by Minter in 1925, seeking recovery of the money she had earned as an actress. In 1926, after another public flare-up of the Taylor case (see TAYLOROLOGY 14), Charlotte Shelby moved to Europe. She was followed in a few months by Minter. In Paris, December 1926, a reconciliation occurred between Shelby and Minter (see TAYLOROLOGY 35), and Minter's lawsuit was settled out of court. The following interview took place in late 1927, while Minter and Shelby were living together in Paris; this was the first public interview given after the reconciliation. They later returned to Los Angeles, and Minter verbally defended Shelby throughout the remainder of her life. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * February 1928 Jane Dixon PHOTOPLAY What Happened to Mary? Once there was a little girl with golden hair, blue eyes and a face that was fashioned for the camera. For the most part she was a good child; a little selfish perhaps, slightly willful and not particularly clever. She didn't have to be clever, because she was beautiful and she had a shrewd mother. But she wasn't bad or vicious or mean. For a few brief years, she had a most amazing run of luck. She received one of the highest salaries ever paid to a star. By careful publicity, she became the living symbol of innocent, happy girlhood. Her future was so bright that she was hailed as the successor of Mary Pickford herself. Then, at the height of the fairy tale, the clock struck twelve. And as strange a series of misfortunes descended upon Mary Miles Minter as ever befell a human being. And after these calamities, Mary Miles Minter faded away as completely as a discredited myth. First there was the William Desmond Taylor case--Hollywood's one classic murder. Taylor was found dead in his bungalow with a bullet through his back. In the investigation that followed, love letters, silly and pathetically girlish, were discovered written by Mary on butterfly-crested notepaper. Mary's name became inseparably linked with a particularly sordid and sinister murder. The mystery never has been solved and stalks about even now, like a restless ghost, to haunt those who were even remotely connected with it. Then Mary left her mother and brought suit against her for an accounting of the money that the mother, as Mary's guardian, controlled for her. Not a pretty spectacle--a girl suing her mother over money. Even when the case was adjusted by a reconciliation between Mary and her mother, the memory of it hung in the public mind. Other suits followed. Mary was named as the corespondent in a divorce suit. The United States government found that Mary and her mother owed money for income taxes. The movies turned a cold shoulder on Mary. The public heard that the slender child had turned into a plump young woman. Pursued by all the malevolent demons, Mary fled. How and where is Mary Miles Minter living? What becomes of a star when the gleam of it is cut off by clouds that scurry along between the eyes of earth and its stellar orbit? Perhaps the star goes on gleaming. At any rate, Mary Miles Minter goes on living. First, the place: In an unostentatious hotel in a quiet street just off the fashionable Champs Elysees in Paris. On the top floor. When I asked a hotel official to be shown to the apartment of Miss Shelby, he denied all knowledge of any such person. I assured him that no longer than an hour before I had telephoned Miss Shelby and had been invited to visit her. The official shook his head. His suspicion was by no means appeased. He retired through a door, which he closed securely behind him. After fifteen minutes he returned, summoned an attendant, whispered a long string of instructions and motioned us toward the elevator. We proceeded upward under escort. In the beginning I rather resented this escort, who insisted on keeping uncomfortably close to my elbow. Later I was grateful for his familiarity with the terrain. Never, otherwise, could I have found my way through the labyrinth of service halls, storerooms, unexpected turns and blind passages leading to a heavy gray door which gave no indication of what might go on behind it. The attendant knocked on the door. A staccato knock of dots and dashes that sounded like a signal. The whole thing struck me as being ludicrously like a scene in a mystery play. The door was opened by a slender, bird-like woman with searching eyes, straight set lips and a crown of reddish hair. The woman was Mrs. Charlotte Shelby, Mary Miles Minter's mother. Yes, Mary is living with the mother she once accused of appropriating her salary and whom she sued for approximately one million dollars of those earnings. Mary and mother are playing a sister act. Love me, love my mother. Love me, love my Mary. "God only made one Mary," says Mrs. Shelby. "A girl's best bet is her mother," says Mary. Just like the good old days, when Mary was at her crest. There are those who contend that Mary and Mother Shelby are living in a state of armed neutrality. I cannot say. There was no evidence of any hard feelings during my visit. Mary was suffering from the temper of a balky tooth. Mary's mother was full of solicitation for her daughter. Mary must partake of tea and toast even if she had to dip the toast in the tea. Mary must have an orange shawl thrown across her couch so she would not get the draught from an open window. Mary, Mary, and again, Mary! Some there are who claim remembrance of Mrs. Shelby when, as Mrs. Homer Reilly, she was the elocution teacher in the then small but vigorous town of Dallas, Texas. She taught the young folk to speak their pieces for the church festivals and the Christmas charades, it is said, and the pride of her motherhood was baby Juliet Reilly, now Mary Miles Minter. When there came a parting of the ways between little Juliet's mother and father, the elocution teacher resumed her maiden name of Shelby and Juliet Reilly became Juliet Shelby. Then Mrs. Shelby took her two little daughters to New York where, it was believed, she cherished hope of realizing stage ambitions for herself. Her interest, however, centered around little Juliet who, being a precocious youngster with an unusual doll-like face and winsome manner, soon came into demand for child parts. Juliet's success was so marked that Mrs. Shelby submerged her own ambitions in those of her daughter. Little Juliet became Mary Miles Minter, the two latter names belonging to her grandmother. What a tortuous road the elocution teacher and her daughter have traveled from Dallas, Texas, to the secluded, guarded apartment in Paris! And what does Mary look like now? No use denying that the little girl has grown up into quite a husky woman. Not even her most ardent admirers dare claim that she touches on or appertains to the fashionable silhouette. Added weight gives her a mature look, but it is not altogether unbecoming. She gives the impression of being healthy, fond of the fleshpots, but none too happy over their effect on her. The golden curls that once were to rival Mary Pickford's are now bobbed into a chic Parisian head-dress. "Please, must you say anything about me?' Mary pleaded. "People are not interested in me any more. They don't remember me. My name is forgotten." "Nonsense, Mary," expostulated her mother. "Well, then," said the shorn lamb, " I am studying. Music, mostly. No, I don't play. Not even a jewsharp. But I can hear music, and I can love it. I want to make music my friend instead of a mere passing acquaintance. "Have you taken up philosophy?" I inquired. Philosophy is so modish. And psychology. And psychoanalysis. The refuge of the misunderstood. "You're getting deep," laughed Mary. "I have philosophy only so far as I have lived it. And," she went on, "I haven't read a newspaper or a magazine story about myself since 1923. What's the use? One blunder, one mistake, one misfortune, and fame becomes infamy. The climb to public favor is sweet. The fall is swift. The return journey is interminable. "Not long ago, I was named as corespondent in a divorce case. A man I had met only in a casual way. When the news reached me, I was in Italy with my mother. Investigation brought out the fact that the wife of the casual acquaintance had selected my name as being the most sensational one on which to base a divorce suit. "I wanted to sue the wife who had taken recourse to such unfair methods in order to win her freedom, or whatever it was she hoped to win. My attorney advised me against such procedure. "'Drop it,' he said. 'Your friends know better. Folks who like to believe such things will believe what they want, anyway, no matter how much you exonerate yourself.' "I took my attorney's advice. One blunder. One mistake. One misfortune. The fireworks forever after." "And if you had it to do over again? If you were just beginning your career, how would you plan it?" Mary smiled. She has taken too many wallops from life to be disturbed by a powder puff. "I would NOT go into the movies." Take that, you youngsters and you oldsters with young ideas. Not that Mary turns thumbs down on the movies. How can she? But, according to her own confession, she has seen ten movies, aside from those in which she appeared, in her lifetime. Two of the ten were Chaplin comedies. "Moving pictures," confesses Mary, "are a wonderful art and a wonderful industry. But--not for me. "I should have remained true to the speaking stage," sighs Mary. "I made my first appearance at the age of four. The play was 'Cameo Kirby' and Nat Goodwin was the star. Perhaps I will return someday, somehow. Who knows?" ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** In Defense of Charlotte Shelby Charlotte Shelby has always been considered one of the main suspects in the Taylor murder--and rightly so, due to the circumstantial evidence against her. But the case against her is far from proven, and the following are 12 points to consider in her defense: 1. It was reported that a man inquired at a local gas station a few hours before Taylor was killed, asking the whereabouts of the Taylor residence. The man was described as about 27 years old and could not possibly have been Shelby in disguise--she was in her mid 40's. Also, Shelby had visited Taylor's home at least once before, so she knew where he lived and would not have had to ask directions. 2. The person observed and described (around 5 feet 9 inches tall) by Faith MacLean as leaving Taylor's home after the shot was fired also could not possible have been Shelby in disguise. Minter was 5'2" tall, and Shelby was about the same height. Also, the MacLean's maid stated she heard the footsteps of a man pacing in the alley behind the MacLean home (see TAYLOROLOGY 56); presumably the maid could tell the difference between the sound of a man pacing and a woman pacing. 3. In 1937 Charlotte Shelby requested a Grand Jury investigation into the Taylor murder (see TAYLOROLOGY 22), and she cooperated fully with that new investigation. It seems highly unlikely that the killer would have requested such an investigation, re-activating the murder investigation which had lain dormant for so long. 4. According to Detective Sanderson's 1941 letter (reprinted in WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER), a short time after the Taylor murder, Shelby instructed her chauffeur, Chauncey Eaton, to remove the unfired shells from her .38 caliber revolver and dispose of them. Several months later, in August 1922, Julia Miles, Charlotte Shelby's mother, threw the gun into a bayou in Louisiana. But this sequence makes no sense. The murder weapon itself would be far more incriminating than the unfired shells--why not dispose of the revolver and the shells immediately? And why give the shells to the (potentially untrustworthy) chauffeur? The sequence and manner in which Shelby disposed of her gun and shells does not sound like she killed Taylor with it. 5. By all accounts, Mary Miles Minter's love for Taylor continued throughout her life ("I worshipped him in life...I worship him today."--MABEL, p. 177). Yet Minter reconciled with Shelby in 1926 and Minter publicly defended Shelby from then on. If Shelby had indeed killed Taylor (particularly if Minter had witnessed the murder as is asserted by Kirkpatrick) then why would Minter have reconciled with Shelby and defended her? Minter evidently did NOT think Shelby killed Taylor. If Minter, who was very close to the situation and loved Taylor, did not think that her mother killed Taylor, then why should we think so? What information do we have that Minter did not have? 6. Charlotte Shelby certainly feared prosecution for the Taylor murder. But Leslie Henry stated in a deposition that Charlotte Shelby in early 1926 expressed concern that Mary Miles Minter may have killed Taylor (see TAYLOROLOGY 5). Under those circumstances it is understandable why Shelby would have wanted to dispose of the gun--if that gun were found to have been the murder weapon, then Shelby would be the person likely to be convicted of the murder (having publicly threatened Taylor), even if Minter were the actual killer. Better to take no chances and just get rid of the gun. 7. The evidence against Shelby is all circumstantial, and there are no solid witnesses against her. Marjorie Berger defended Shelby until it was implied that charges might be brought against Berger, at which point Berger reversed her testimony. Margaret Shelby Fillmore was an alcoholic, and involved in a bitter court battle over property and money at the time she made her statements against Shelby. 8. As Shelby herself later pointed out, the Taylor murder ruined Minter's film career. If the money generated by Minter's career meant everything to Shelby, why would she kill Taylor and destroy Minter's career? 9. The statements by Eaton and Berger, made years after the murder, claimed that Shelby knew of the murder too early on the morning of February 2. But Minter's arrival at the murder scene around noon that day, as indicated by her own statement (see TAYLOROLOGY 11) and the LOS ANGELES RECORD (see TAYLOROLOGY 56), indicates the timetable of Berger/Eaton is wrong (see WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER, pp. 338-9). 10. The path of the bullet was very unusual, entering Taylor's left side and angling steeply upward. Several possibilities were mentioned by the police: (a) the killer crouched low behind the door and shot Taylor as he entered, firing upward; (b) the killer embraced Taylor in a "kiss of death," stuck the gun in Taylor's side and fired upward. It is difficult to imagine Charlotte Shelby participating in either of these scenarios--she does not appear to be the kind of person to crouch down, and it's hard to imagine Taylor embracing this woman who had threatened him. 11. Minter said that when Shelby notified her on the morning of February 2 that Taylor was dead, Shelby stated: "William Desmond Taylor has just been found murdered in his bed." (See TAYLOROLOGY 11.) The inaccuracy of that statement seems to fit with the circumstances under which Shelby reportedly learned the information second hand--Edna Purviance called Mabel Normand, Mabel Normand called her director Dick Jones on the Sennett lot, word spread throughout the Sennett lot and reached Carl Stockdale (who was acting in Mabel Normand's film), Stockdale called Shelby and told her. Having passed through so many people verbally, the inaccuracy ("in his bed") is understandable and plausible. 12. Minter also reportedly quoted Shelby as stating at that time (when notifying Minter that Taylor had been killed): "Your lover is dead and I am glad of it. I am glad the son-of-a-bitch is out of the way." That is a natural reaction on Shelby's part if Shelby were innocent of the murder; she opposed Mary's infatuation with Taylor, did all she could to keep them apart, and was glad that Taylor would no longer be a problem. But if Shelby had killed Taylor, then it would have been much more logical for a clever woman like Shelby to feign concern and sympathy for the victim; not verbally rejoice over his death and call him a "son-of-a-bitch"--drawing suspicious attention to her dislike of him. These 12 items, put together, cast "reasonable doubt" upon the assertion that Charlotte Shelby killed Taylor. She may have killed him, or not. Like Edward Sands, she remains a suspect, but only a suspect. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** The following biography of Mabel Normand, written before her death, has a number of errors and myths, but it also contains some incidents and anecdotes not found elsewhere. Harry Carr had worked as publicist for Mack Sennett for several years, and knew Mabel Normand personally. (For the facts of Mabel Normand's life, see the books by Betty Harper Fussell and William T. Sherman.) The following is a Hollywood-type biography--partly true, partly false, and partly material which may or may not be true. Thanks to William T. Sherman for bringing this article to our attention. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * October-November, 1929 Harry Carr SCREEN SECRETS The Tragic Life Story of Mabel Normand Mabel Normand will always be remembered as the little girl who littered up the floor of her limousine with peanut shells. As the girl who walked down the street with THE POLICE GAZETTE under one arm and the highbrow ATLANTIC MONTHLY under the other. As the girl with the brain of a philosopher and the ribald tongue of a gutter-snipe. As the girl whose intimate friends included a woman of international notoriety, a gentle old priest, the queen of a night club, a learned judge of the Federal bench and an old Indian squaw. As the girl whose friends and associates absolutely adored her; whose servants would willingly have committed murder in her behalf; yet who suffered as no other girl in Hollywood ever suffered from scandal and unjust gossip. As the girl who all but ruined herself through self sacrifice; and met only with ingratitude. As the girl to whom hardship and poverty brought happiness; to whom wealth and fame brought unhappiness. The life of Mabel Normand is as full of contradiction as a chapter from ALICE IN WONDERLAND. Mabel has always been a little tomboy. She was born on Staten Island in New York Harbor, in 1894. Her people were miserably poor. She "jes' growed," like Topsy. The little girls of the neighborhood were too tame. She played most of the time with the boys. She could "skin the cat" on the limbs of all the trees, play "one ol' cat," wield a shinny club, and put up a pretty good fist fight on occasion. [1] Situated as Staten Island is, quite naturally the great playmate of all the children was the sea. Mabel played tag with the Atlantic Ocean from the time she could walk. It was important to her after life that she learned to swim and dive when she was a little girl. It wasn't tame-cat swimming that Mabel did. She could do any daring stunt in the water that the boys did. Her first distinction was to win the diving championship of Staten Island. Another fact that was to be an important factor in her life was that in Mabel's gang was a little French-Canadian boy. His name at that time was Louis Coti. In later years he altered the spelling to Lew Cody. He and Mabel played "prisoners' base" and swam together, as little children. Now she is Mrs. Lew Cody. She wasn't all boy, however. She had the usual yearnings of little girls for dolls and clothes. But her family had such a direful struggle for existence that she never had money for either. I have heard Mabel tell how she used to stand in front of the story windows at Christmas time and look, until her little heart ached, at the dolls that some little rich girl would find in her Christmas stocking. She told me how one day she found her favorite window so frosted by the storm of the night before that she couldn't see into the window. So she leaned against the glass and licked a peek hole through the frost with her little hot tongue. At the time Mabel was growing up, it was the period of girls and artists. "The Gibson Girl" upstaged the world from the covers of LIFE. "The Penrhyn Stanlaws Girl" smiled out through a swirl of decoration. "The Howard Chandler Christy Girl" beamed from bachelors' walls. A girl with a lovely face found her footsteps drawn to the studios. Mabel was a beautiful child--with big lustrous eyes, a face that glowed with animation and intelligence. Her figure was superb. Several girls of her acquaintance, among them Alice Joyce and Olive Thomas, were posing for artists: they brought Mabel along. She posed for many of the magazine covers and story illustrations. She posed for Penrhyn Stanlaws, C. D. Williams, Cole Phillips and other famous artists. She got 50 cents and hour and $5.00 for posing for photographs for front covers. Between times, she was a cloak model. Once every season, she and Alice Joyce and several other girls went to Wanamaker's in Philadelphia, as part of a New York fashion show. Mabel got to be quite famous as a model. It was in the days of full skirts with ruffles and she won a prize offered for the most beautiful "Fluffy Ruffles" girl. One day she and some of the other girls were reading a newspaper in one of the studios. They saw an advertisement stating that twenty beautiful girls were wanted at the motion picture studio of the Vitagraph Company. At that time, Vitagraph came pretty near being the motion picture business. Under the leadership of Commodore J. Stuart Blackton, the company was beginning to reach out from little news flashes of flags waving from flag poles, cows standing in running streams, engines steaming down the tracks, and started little dramas. Candidates appeared in swarms. Commodore Blackton says it was no job to pick out Mabel form the swarm. She shone out in the line of waiting candidates like a diamond on a sidewalk, she was so beautiful and so adorably young. Her first picture narrowly escaped being her last. In order to make the tank deeper for diving, a pit filled with water and surrounded by planking was constructed inside the other tank. They didn't know much about studio engineering in those days. Just as Mabel was getting ready to make a dive into the tank, the whole thing burst with a roar and a rush of water. Everybody on the set was half drowned and heavy planks were flung about like chaff from a threshing machine. After the swimming picture was finished, the rest of the twenty swimming young ladies were sent on their way. Mabel was offered a regular job. Her salary sounded like staggering wealth. She got $25--every week! At that time, there were several stars in the Vitagraph Company who were headed for fame. Jim Corbett, ex-heavyweight champion of the world, was making some physical culture pictures with the help of Florence Turner. Anita Stewart was a lovely little girl just trying to break in. Maurice Costello--father of Helene and Dolores--was the bright star. Mabel's first picture was with Maurice Costello. It was called "Over The Garden Wall." She played the part of a girl who disguised herself as a maid to test the affections of her rich lover. [2] Mabel didn't last long at Vitagraph. That corporation decided to stagger along without her services--owing to a typically Mabelesque incident. The old elevated railroad ran past the studio--right past Mabel's dressing room. This was far too great a temptation for her tomboy heart. She used to stand in the window and kid the passengers as they went by. Some of them got sore and complained to the picture company officials, who looked very grave at Mabel. That young lady was defiant. "What do the dirty dogs want to look in my dressing room windows for?" she demanded. The discussion led to this and that. It finally led to Mabel's looking for a job. At that time the old Biograph was getting started on Fourteenth street in New York. A long, lean actor named David Wark Griffith was begging for a chance to direct a picture. A very much embarrassed Irishman, who had been working his way from a pick and shovel on the streets to a job singing in a chorus, was asking them if they needed a strong man. His name was Michael Sinnott; but he preferred being called Mack Sennett. A little girl from the stage was there with her mother. Her name was Mary Pickford. Blanche Sweet, a young dancer, had come to do a dance scene in a picture and had lingered on to become an actress. Billy Bitzer, the veteran camera-ace who photographed "Broken Blossoms," "Intolerance," "The Birth of a Nation" and other Griffith masterpieces, remembers when Mabel joined the Biograph company. He says she was at that time the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. The trouble was that she didn't get the breaks. Her flare was for comedy and most of the Griffith pictures in those days were solemn and heavy affairs. The other girls, Mary Pickford and the Gishes, tried very hard to get on. They were always experimenting with new makeups, making tests, etc. But her job weighed very lightly on Mabel. So it can't be said that she made a great artistic commotion in the picture world. In those days, Griffith was turning out a picture a week. Mabel, Mary Pickford, Blanche Sweet--and later the Gish girls and Florence Turner, were in most of them. Whenever there was a comedy bit, Mabel played it. When there wasn't, she frequently played heavy ladies with a dark past. The first great adventure of her life came when Griffith brought the Biograph company out West. They found an old house in Los Angeles and played one-reel dramas. Mabel lived under the chaperonage of Mrs. Pickford. Mabel was still the studio tomboy. She was recognized as a holy terror. She lived with Alice Joyce and another girl in one of the early day apartment houses in Hollywood. From the first, Mabel showed brilliant promise as an actress. She had a vivid sense of drama, a striking originality and an artistic sympathy. The only trouble she had was in learning the technique of the screen. She wanted to go through every scene like a whirlwind. The camera was out of breath trying to keep up. But so great is Mabel's power of concentration and will power that she finally became noted throughout the film world for her perfect sense of time. Her screen scenes became models to be studied in that regard. When I first knew Mabel Normand, she was a queen. That was in 1916. The old Keystone comedies were then at the height of their fame. The Keystone Kops were known all over the world. The pay checks of the kops held many names afterward to be famous--Harold Lloyd, Mal St. Clair, Slim Summerville, Ramon Novarro. It was like a big fun factory. There were twenty-two producing companies. When the studio automobiles drew up in front of the old Sennett lot every morning to take the comedians out on location, it looked like an army mobilization. Comedies fairly poured out of the studio to the market. It was a veritable kindergarten of genius and fame. Nearly every girl and many of the men afterward became famous screen stars--Phyllis Haver, Mary Thurman, Gloria Swanson, Louise Fazenda, Marie Prevost, Polly Moran, Wallace Beery, Raymond Hatton, Raymond Griffith, Charlie Chaplin, Chester Conklin, Ben Turpin, Mack Swain... Mabel was the undisputed queen. Everything in the Sennett lot was as Irish as Paddy's cart. Sennett had a grand studio office built for himself with paneling made of teakwood and mahogany; and always held all his business consultations in the Turkish bath rubbing room. The big concrete studios were surrounded with old wooden shacks so that the whole effect was of Hooligan's Flats. There were even the goats and the stray cats and dogs wandering around having free fights in the scenery. It was the breath of life to Mabel. She was never happy in any other studio. She was the most exasperating and the most adorable of stars. She was never there when they wanted her. Every picture was an alley fight with the director. And through it all, Mabel had about as much "side" and was about as "upstage" as an old hat. If she had any fighting to do (which she had about once an hour) she fought with Mack Sennett; she didn't take it out on the hired help. I recall one day when there was an important scene to do. They were on location. One of Mabel's girl friends drove up. Mabel ran out to see her, climbed into the car and did not come back for two weeks. In the beginning, Mabel's comedies were all made with Sennett and Fred Mace and Ford Sterling. As the company prospered and grew to proportions, Sennett stopped acting and became an executive. About this time, a new comedian hove in sight. He had been a hick variety actor in Bisbee, Arizona. He got ambitious and came to Los Angeles, where he acted in little burlesque shows on Main street. His name was Roscoe Arbuckle. Sennett found him and put him into comedies with Mabel. To my mind, these pictures were the high tide of two-reel comedies. In many of them Mabel swam and dove. The success of these swimming-in-tights pictures was such that it became impossible to supply the demands of the market. They eventually led to the launching of the Sennett Bathing girls. In these pictures, Mabel had pretty much her own way. The ideas were often her own and the direction reflected her sure touch and daring originality. I don't know why Mabel always wanted to appear as a roughneck. Even in those days she had a brilliant, thoughtful mind. She read books of heavy German philosophy that I couldn't even pretend to understand. She wrote good poetry--and hid it. Never was there a girl of such perversity. She always took a delight in putting her worst foot forward. I remember when Charlie Chaplin joined the company. Sennett found him --as every one knows--acting in a vaudeville sketch called "A Night in a London Music Hall." Mabel took a dislike to him. Sennett always treated every comedy recruit--no matter how famous--the same way. For two or three weeks, he let him roam around the lot--neglected, ignored--lower than the dust. It was during this lonely period that Charlie found those old shoes, the little cane and the funny derby hat in a corner of an old prop room. When he finally got a part, it was in one of Mabel's comedies. She could not see him at all and did not like him. Mabel was as Irish as the map of Dublin. I imagine it would have been a singular Englishman who could have walked into her heart. She and Charlie used to fight like a dog and a monkey. She did most of the fighting. She never called him by his right name. She invented the most extraordinary and diabolical nick-names for him. He didn't like the way she did comedy and she didn't like his brand. His technique was entirely different from the one then in vogue. Money to Mabel was just something to be thrown around. She put it in a pocket that had no bottom, nothing but a hole. Compared with Charlie, Calvin Coolidge was a prodigal wastrel. Charlie should have been suspicious when Mabel asked him to go with Fatty Arbuckle and three or four others for an evening at a night club at Vernon. But--for once--he wasn't. Every one ordered everything on the menu card. When the waiter came with the check every one but Charlie was dismayed to find that he had left his pocket-book at home. Charlie had to pay--and the bill was $40. He would not speak to Mabel for weeks. Mabel had a heart of gold. I do not believe any such generous or self- sacrificing soul ever lived in this world. She flung both her money and her quick sympathies around as though dollars were leaves and she owned an unlimitable forest. Every workman on the lot adored Mabel. She used to borrow the "makings" from them and smoke Bull Durham cigarettes on the sets. She knew all about their children and how they were getting on in the world. There was an old blacksmith who did all the iron work for the sets. Mabel had helped him when he stepped on a chunk of hot iron and had to go to the hospital. When his wife was operated on, she paid all the bills. I happened to be wandering around the studio on the day before Christmas. The old fellow came up and, with shy embarrassment, handed her a funny little package--all rumpled up. Mabel unwrapped what was probably the most outrageously ugly soft pillow cover ever seen in the world. She threw her arms around the old fellow's neck and kissed him twice--once for himself and once for his wife. After he had gone, she showed me the funny little uneven stitches, made by trembling, old fingers. Then she sat down and cried. One thing I always liked about Mabel--the wives of her men friends were also her friends. Mabel had no more inhibitions than a savage of the South Seas. But there was nothing dirty about her private life. In fact, somewhere under Mabel's reckless swear words was a Puritan morality. On one memorable occasion Mabel was dining in the Alexandria--at that time the fashionable gathering place of the movie stars. A famous woman star who had just been the co-respondent in a divorce suit, came over to Mabel's table. Mabel leaped up, flaming with anger. "Don't you talk to me--you--" she cried. "I may not be a Sunday school character, but I never have broken up homes and broken women's hearts. I let married men alone." Dear harum-scarum Mabel! I remember once when she was coming to our house for a seven o'clock dinner. She arrived at 10:30 and innocently asked if she was late. Texas Guinan told me how she looked out on her front steps one morning in her house on Tenth street, New York, and there sat Mabel eating peanuts-- like a little street gamin. At that time one of the most famous motion picture stars in the world, she had gotten lonesome and had decided to come to have breakfast with Texas. She got there pretty early so she sat on the front steps a couple of hours. One of the most thundering hits in the history of motion pictures was "Tillie's Punctured Romance." This was the first long comedy ever made. And it was made with misgivings. The trade did not believe a funny picture could hold the laughs for six or seven reels. Sennett cast it with a great triumvirate--Mabel, Fatty Arbuckle and Charlie Chaplin. It was a record breaker! The exhibitors began yelling for more and Mabel was launched in "Mickey." The making of it was one long chapter of grief. The story was written in the first instance by Anita Loos--later to become the author of GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES. And then the story was re- written by about everybody in Hollywood. There are many ways of winning the heart of a lady; but if Lew Cody won Mabel in "Mickey," then it opens a new chapter in the art of love. I remember that he chased her around and around the room, kicking over chairs while the fair one yelled for help. She ended up hanging on the edge of the eaves of a roof that overlooked a precipice. And in this case it was a real roof and a real precipice. Mabel was always a star athlete and absolutely without fear. I don't imagine that one thought of marriage ever entered their heads during the making of "Mickey." All I can remember about them was the way they kidded on the sets. Mabel is the wittiest girl I have ever known and Lew is famous all over the country as a wise-cracker and story teller. And as in the case of Mabel, so is the case of Lew. Behind their fooling is a wealth of sound "big" reading and genuine brain power. Anyone thinking of their courtship, will imagine it as good vaudeville, but I am willing to wager that they talk of books more than anything else. You could write a book about the making of "Mickey." The adventures and mishaps were plenty. It dragged along for a year or more until everybody was disgusted and discouraged with the darn thing. One little scene comes to my mind that is so characteristically Mabel that I shall have to tell it. She had a scene with a bull dog. He took his art too seriously and-- without meaning to--bit her very badly. There was a terrible commotion. Doctors were arriving with first aid and Mabel was laid out for treatment. Everybody had forgotten the dog. The poor, abashed fellow was covered with mortification. With the most woebegone expression I ever saw in a dog's eyes, he had crawled off into a corner of a set and lay there waiting for heaven to strike him dead for his iniquities. It was Mabel who saw him. She flung off all the doctors and the nurses and the bandages and ran over to take the dog in her arms. "Look," she cried indignantly, "you have broken his heart." And she proceeded to explain to him that artists frequently fall under the spell of their art and hurt people. "Mickey" was finally finished and, after a long period, released. It proved to be one of the greatest triumphs of the history of motion pictures. It is still known to the trade as "the mortgage lifter." I imagine it is still running somewhere. It brought Mabel an offer from Samuel Goldwyn of a starring job at a salary then unheard of--$3,500 a week. She took the job. [3] She was riding on the crest of the wave when she left the old Mack Sennett Studio to become a $3,500 a week star with Sam Goldwyn. She went out with the tide. She was never very successful or happy off that funny old Sennett lot. While she was starring for Goldwyn, it happened that Geraldine Farrar was working in the same studio. Mabel made it her mission in life to see that the illustrious Geraldine did not lose her sense of democracy. A male opera star was playing in Farrar's picture and they playfully carried their atmosphere with them. They used to sing little impromptu dialogue at each other. As for instance: "Good Morn-ING! how are you this mo-o-o-orn-i-i-ing?" And the tenor would reply from the balcony in front of his dressing room, "V-e-e-ry well, I THANK YOU." Naturally this was too much for Mabel. One day the opera stars were horrified to hear another voice chiming into their duet with an outburst of song not calculated to add to the dignity of either, or the peace and harmony of the situation. Farrar was naturally nervous about being watched when she acted. She complained to the management that Mabel stood around the scenery and rubbered at her. The management tactfully suggested that Mabel find some other kind of entertainment. Mabel insisted that she had to look at something and she didn't know where else to look. Whereupon all the Farrar sets were boxed in like a national bank vault. The world went very well, then--until it was discovered that Mabel was peeking through a knot hole. The knot hole was plugged up. One day Miss Farr heard a noise that seemed to come from above. She glanced up to see that that terrible infant had shinned up a balcony and was looking down at her from the roof. If Mabel had thrown her money around before, she poured it out in floods now. Every rag tag in Hollywood who could think of a sob story touched Mabel. In the middle of her engagement she made a little trip to Paris which is still historic. One of the Paris dress makers sold her a gold gown for $10,000; she bought enough jewelry to stock a store. Mabel still has one of the most marvelous collections of gems in the world. When she came from Paris--having paid all the expenses of her girl playmates, she told what a grand time she had had. This made some of her other girl friends feel so sad and neglected that Mabel took the next boat back to show them a good time, too. Returning from this trip, she encountered another sad and neglected coterie on the dock and took the next boat for the third time. Altogether, those trips set Mabel back $250,000. [4] Her Goldwyn pictures were not very successful. They were just pictures. Mabel was always essentially a comedienne and the art of comedy making is a very special talent. The Goldwyn studio just wasn't equipped for the job. [5] In the end, she drifted back to Sennett's--I believe on an arrangement with Goldwyn. In rapid succession she made three of the greatest comedies of her career--"Molly-O," "Suzanna" and "The Extra Girl." "Suzanna" was such a knock-out that Mary Pickford offered Sennett $50,000 for the story and tried to persuade him to take a vacation from his own studio and direct her in a picture. Mary told me she would rather have had Mabel Normand's work in that picture to her credit than anything else she had ever seen on the screen. Providence at this time evidently decided that Mabel had been licking the buttered side of the bread about long enough. Down on her head came a series of the most singular misfortunes that ever befell a star. She had a personal quarrel with Mack Sennett that, I think, broke her heart. I think that Mabel had always loved this big handsome Irishman. For two years, then, she lived almost the life of a recluse. She had a woman companion who was half maid and half pal. Mabel read and wrote. I have seen some of her poetry. It has a remarkable quality. None of it has ever been printed. She keeps it in a locked book. The day that William Desmond Taylor was murdered, Mabel woke up to find herself the heroine of an international love episode. I have among my papers a memorandum of Mabel's own account of her affair with Taylor. It gives a breezy idea of the way Mabel talks: "Well," she said, "it seems like Mr. Taylor was the odd man when we went to parties and I was the odd girl going around with a married crowd--Ruth Roland, Henry King and a lot of married couples. "A lot of people thought Taylor was very fond of me and that I didn't return it. Then they decided that we were engaged; then they made up their minds that I wasn't very nice to him and that we had quarreled. "I never had any quarrel with him--except for instance when we were at a party or something and I would run away and pay attention to a lot of other people. Bill would say, when we were going home, that I didn't treat him nicely. And I would say: 'For God's sake, why do you stand around with that trick dignity of yours? You make me sick.' "Bill would say: 'Good God, don't you know I love you?' "And I would say: 'Well, then for God's sake, don't be melodramatic about it.'" Mabel was the last person to see Taylor alive. She had come to his apartment to get a book. He gave her the book: they talked for a few moments; then he took her to her limousine. He was next seen dead on his dining room floor. Mabel was examined and cross-examined by the detectives. She insisted that she knew nothing about the murder. She was such a delicious morsel for gossip that the papers couldn't let her alone. In spite of some letters that Mabel was very anxious to get back and which were afterward found in the murdered man's riding boots, I think that it was never a serious love affair. Every other person connected with the affair was allowed to forget it, but some one was continually dragging the ghost of Taylor out and parading it before her. Years afterward, a district attorney, anxious for publicity, whooped it up again and dragged Mabel back in--when she had finally struggled back to another start in motion pictures. "Say," she said, "if I have to repeat this again, I am going to set it to music to relieve the monotony. I've already committed it to memory." Mabel passed off the situation with gay courage, but it hurt. I have never seen a girl so crushed and humiliated. Mabel was ill for a long time after the Taylor murder case. Her health had been failing for a long time. All this worry--these sleepless nights-- didn't help. Her picture career seemed to have faded away. Her finances were in a terrible condition. It looked like seventeen kinds of ruin were staring her in the face. One thing about Mabel though; some one always seems to arrive with a net when she is falling. In this case it was an attorney--Claude I. Parker and his brother, Ivan Parker. Some of Mabel's most devoted friends are professional men of highest standing. I imagine that no attorney ever tackled a more terrible mess than Mabel's finances. In her safety deposit box he found pay checks that had lain for years without being cashed. Her check book looked like the daily record of a charity institution. Checks for $1,000--checks for $3,500-- $2,000--$2,500...to people she scarcely knew. By main strength and violence, her attorney would drag Mabel into his office and she would sit like a guilty, naughty little girl while he went over her check stubs. "Now," he would say, "why in the name of the seven hinges of hell did you give that woman $4,000?" "Oh, Mrs. Thingamobob--whatever her name is..." Mabel would say. "Sure I gave her the money." "But why?" thundered the exasperated lawyer. "Why, she needed it," answered Mabel--as though that were final and satisfactory. Mr. Parker told me that--in spite of her scatter-brain method of making ducks and drakes out of good money--Mabel's memory is so extraordinary that she could remember every check she had written. Her mind is like a dictograph record. She was finally straightened out financially. She now keeps her returned checks pinned to the stubs. A trust fund of $50,000 has been set apart for the care and protection of her mother and Mabel herself is safely enjoying a good, sound income that is safe from all the sob sisters with itching palms. When they found they had to tell their driveling stories to a lawyer with thin tight lips, they faded away. Most of their undying friendship for Mabel also faded. One of her tragedies has been the ingratitude of the people for whom she has sacrificed herself. About two years after the Taylor murder, another tragedy came slamming down out of a clear sky and all but destroyed Mabel. She was as much to blame for it as she was for the whale that swallowed Jonah. It was a curious story. A love sick boy who had adored her from afar had finally gotten into her life as a chauffeur, to be near her. In the innocence of her heart, Mabel never dreamed that this quiet, subdued, polite young boy in chauffeur's uniform was wildly, passionately in love with her. His name was Horace A. Greer. Probably that was not his real name. It is known that he was also called Joe Kelly. A rather mysterious young fellow. It was said after the tragedy that he was the son of a rich family in the east. He had, however, worked as a chauffeur for Charles Ray and one of the Spauldings. It was the last day of 1923. Mabel was very ill. She was going to the hospital the next day to be operated on for appendicitis. But after all, New Year's night was New Year's night with Mabel. [6] Edna Purviance telephoned her to come over to her house on Vermont avenue. "Court" was there. "Court" was Courtland Dines, a young millionaire form Denver who was a Hollywood beau at the moment. Greer drove her over and left her at the door. "Come on, you dirty dogs," said Mabel, bursting into Edna's house. "Step into your dance and let's go somewhere." Mr. Dines, however, didn't want to go somewhere. Greer, the chauffeur, went back to Mabel's house. He worked around the house taking down Mabel's Christmas tree. Mabel's secretary and companion telephoned her at Edna's house. She told Mr. Dines, who came to the phone, that Mabel ought to come home; that she was ill and had to go to the hospital the next day. "Oh, it's early yet," said Dines airily; "send over my Christmas package." Mabel had forgotten to bring his present. The secretary put her hand over the telephone and said to Greer, "He won't let her come home. He won't let her leave the house." Quietly, grimly, Greer said that he would take over Mr. Dines' Christmas present; and went out to the car. Let Mabel tell the rest of the story: "Joe," she said (she always called him Joe, although his name was Horace) "came in and he had the Christmas package. I noticed nothing unusual about him. I left the room. I went into Edna's room. She had her evening gown on, but it wasn't hooked up yet. I didn't want the chauffeur to see Edna with her gown unhooked so I went in and said to Edna: 'Say, you dirty dog, where's your powder puff?' "Then all of a sudden I heard those terrible things. I thought they were fire crackers. I used to throw fire crackers at Ben Turpin--poor old Ben--all the time at the Sennett Company, until he threatened to quit his job. That's what I thought they were--fire crackers. They were popping all over the house." But they weren't fire crackers. The young chauffeur had asked Mabel to come home and Dines had sneered at his anxious devotion. Greer had drawn a revolver and fired bullets into Dines until the revolver jammed. Then he drove to the police station and gave himself up. Dines did not die--but Mabel did. She died a thousand deaths. No one will ever know what she went through. Edna Purviance is a slow, quiet, self- contained girl. She had nothing to say to the reporters, so she escaped. Mabel could not help being good copy. Every reporter who worked on the case adored Mabel and would have strangled himself with his own hands to have helped her, but they just wrecked her. It just happened to be one of those times when Hollywood was looking for a chance to be shocked. The women's clubs felt like passing resolutions against somebody, so they passed them about Mabel. Why they picked on Mabel is a mystery. It was a furious scandal. Mabel was the only one who was not to blame in any remote way, so naturally she was made the goat. It just about finished her screen career. About three years ago, Mabel tried another timid venture in pictures. Hal Roach of the Roach Comedies collided with an inspiration. He would bring back some of the old-time stars in his comedies. He signed Theda Bara and Mabel Normand and several others. It was an unfortunate adventure. None of them got to first base. When they got them in the pictures, nobody knew what to do with them. So Mabel surrendered her screen career with a sigh. Not long after that, Hollywood spilled over the coffee cups in the morning in their astonishment at what they read in the morning paper. Mabel had gone up the coast with a gay automobile party and had come back a married lady. Her husband was her old school mate, Lew Cody--who in "Mickey" had been the villain who pursued her. Sudden? Yes, it was sudden. But that does not mean it was not a decision well thought out. When Mabel and Lew started on a trip to Ventura with a gay party they apparently had about as much intention of trying to swim to China as they had of being married. But Mabel's decisions are lightning flashes. Her honeymoon was a characteristically "Mabel" as her bag of peanuts and her ATLANTIC MONTHLY. She didn't like Lew's mansion in Beverly Hills, anyhow, it was too much trouble to move her clothes; so she lived in her house and he lived in his house and occasionally they went to call on each other. Lately, however, they moved in Lew's house. Much of the time since their marriage, they have been separated by circumstances. Lew went into vaudeville and has been on the road almost continuously. Both he and Mabel have been ill a great deal. One time last winter when she was ill in a hospital in Altadena with her life despaired of, Lew was almost as ill in Chicago. All they could do was send each other telegrams. They go out very little socially, on account of Mabel's health; but they are most in demand of any married couple in Hollywood. Lew, in fact, is almost a professional dinner guest. I dare say that he is invited to two- thirds of the public banquets given in Hollywood. He is the most brilliant after-dinner speaker I have ever heard. And that goes even for Will Rogers. Mabel would be a riot socially if she had the slightest interest in it --with her beauty, her charm and her scintillant brains. I would give a good deal to hear Lew and Mabel both going at once as I used to hear them in the old days. Since her marriage, little has been heard of Mabel. She lives in Beverly Hills, the motion picture suburb of Los Angeles. Sometimes she goes out to parties. She reads a lot, writes a lot, and hides her writings in a locked book. Twice during the last few years her life has been despaired of. She says it is "just a cold." Her beautiful body is sadly wasted, but her spirit is aflame as ever. She is just as inquisitive, as eager and as keen as ever. But sometimes the Mabel that nobody knows has her hours of sorrow and despair. I have a letter from Mabel that I treasure dearly because it is a side of Mabel that very few know--the sincere, sorrowful, sweet child underneath the reckless little tomboy who throws fire-crackers at the actors. It reads: "Dear Harry: "Somehow or other tonight I am in a very lonely mood, so I am going to write you of something that I have always intended telling you when we should meet, but I have decided that it is very selfish of me to keep it any longer. "A very dear friend of mine who knows you personally and who has always been one of my most loyal and staunchest friends--something, Harry, that one cannot buy--to who I have gone with my many troubles, because you know unhappiness makes sensitive people cowardly--and whom I have never left without some encouragement and solace..." (She goes on to tell me of a hidden kindness done me by a very eminent lawyer--a kindly deed of which I had never been conscious. She wanted me to know it--that I should ever more deeply appreciate his friendship.) "You know, Harry," she continues, "there is a mystic power in the ties which friendship throws around the human heart and I am sure he is one of your truest and most loyal friends. "Shall we call him the judge?--and I will leave you to guess the rest. "Give my regards to Mrs. Carr and the family and this will be a secret just between you and me and I am happier now than when I began to write this letter. "Ever your friend, "Mabel Normand." I know Mabel--all her faults and her failings and her golden virtues...and her great heart and her great soul--and I am proud of her friendship as I have been proud of the friendship of few men or women. She is a great actress and a great woman. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Interviews with Taylor's Sister-In-Law February 4, 1922 LOS ANGELES EXAMINER Woman Tells of Dual Life Additional details of the dual life led by William Desmond Taylor, motion picture director, murdered Wednesday night, were revealed last night when The Examiner located his sister-in-law, Mrs. Ada P. Deane-Tanner, in Monrovia. It was an extraordinary recitation which Mrs. Tanner related regarding the dead man. His real name, she said, was William Desmond [sic] Deane-Tanner and it was his brother, Dennis, that she married. Only twice in her life had she ever seen this mysterious figure, known to Hollywood and to the picture world as William D. Taylor. Once was on the birth of her daughter, 13 years ago, in New York city, when he came to see his brother's child and wife on her hospital bed. The other time was in Los Angeles, six years ago, when she went to the studio to find him. According to this woman's story, as she told it in her little Monrovia home last night, William D. Taylor, the director, during the past six years and up to his death absolutely refused to admit he was her brother-in-law, and yet, when her health broke down a [sic] years ago he began sending her a monthly allowance, which she was receiving regularly up to the time of his death. He wouldn't admit that he was her relative but he supported her, though never seeing her. A more astounding part of the story is Mrs. Deane-Tanner's recital of the manner in which her own husband in 1912 disappeared from sight never to be seen again. "I don't know whether he is alive today or not," she said. "William D. Taylor's brother left me for the office one day and never was heard from or seen since. "I asked Mr. Taylor, as he called himself here, about my husband's disappearance in letters to him, but he said that he had not (in 1921) seen or heard from my husband for fourteen years. This I know wasn't so, as my husband was by my side when my brother-in-law called on me at the birth of my daughter, twelve years before, in 1921, now thirteen years ago." Mrs. Deane-Tanner refused to say what her husband's business was, but intimated that he had a considerable income. When he disappeared, she said, she spent a small fortune trying to find him, in detective bills and in other ways, but though she had the earth scoured to the best of her ability in an effort to trace the man, she was never able to get an inkling of what happened to him in those minutes between his leaving their home and the time when he should have--but never did-- arrive at his office... When Mrs. Deane-Tanner six years ago heard from a friend here that her brother-in-law was in Hollywood under an assumed name, she went to the studio to find him. She finally, she said, secured an interview with him, but he persistently refused to admit he was Deane-Tanner, though she was positive he was the same man who stood above her bedside an smiled at her new-born baby. So she left and had nothing more to do with Taylor-Tanner until her health began to fail a year ago. She had a 12-year-old daughter with her and was in need of funds, having spent all she had searching for her husband and educating her daughter. So she again went to Taylor or Tanner, this time writing him and telling him of her predicament. He replied to her, again denying that he had ever been Tanner, but at the same time he sent her a check and ever since has been giving an allowance. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * February 4, 1922 LOS ANGELES TIMES ...Mrs. Deane-Tanner in Monrovia said the last check from Mr. Taylor came about January 20, last. She said she came to Monrovia nine years ago and got in touch with him six years ago, appealing to him for help. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * February 5, 1922 LOS ANGELES EXAMINER Divorced Wife Reveals Brothers' Tangled Lives Mystery Story Related by Mrs. Deane-Tanner Sister-in-Law of Murdered Director Says Two Husbands Who Disappeared Were Not the Same Man; Dennis Never Found Out of the tangled lives of two brothers, deputy sheriffs last night were endeavoring to find the secret of the death of William D. Taylor. Both had been married; both were fathers; both had everything to hold them at home. But both mysteriously disappeared from their homes and their old haunts. One is dead, after a reappearance in a new land--the West--and died in the glory of a success in his chosen field. The other has never reappeared--unless in some way the other brother is connected with the murder of William D. Taylor. The amazing story of a double life, as told exclusively in the city additions of The Examiner yesterday from the lips of Mrs. Ada Deane-Tanner, sister-in-law of the dead man, was elaborated upon yesterday by her. Reports had reached officials here yesterday from the East and from San Francisco that Mrs. Deane-Tanner had not married Dennis, the brother, but had married William, the director, who was murdered here last Wednesday night. This Mrs. Deane-Tanner yesterday emphatically denied, in her modest Monrovia home, in East Lemon street, just around the corner from the home of Coroner Willis O. Nance. "I can prove," she said, "that I am not the director's widow. I am his sister-in-law. I have a marriage license here somewhere which shows I married Dennis, not William. The records in New York City will show separate licenses on separate years for the marriages of Dennis and William. Dr. Pomeroy, the county health officer, by brother-in-law, knew Dennis, my husband, and can tell you he is not the man shown in photographs as the famous director." This was her convincing story, told in a whisper from the couch, where she lay ill from the shock of the tragedy and the sudden forcing of her and her history into the glaring limelight. Mrs. Deane-Tanner admitted to The Examiner yesterday for the first time that she had divorced her husband in Los Angeles six years ago. The divorce, she said, was granted by Superior Judge Charles Monroe on the grounds of desertion and nonsupport. At the time of the divorce case, Mrs. Deane-Tanner said, she recited, in brief, the story of the mysteriously disappeared husband and as there was no contest the divorce was granted. At the time, however, no mention of the relationship between this unknown woman and the famous director was made and even her relationship to Mrs. Pomeroy was not known. In a large way, backing up and corroborating the story told by the old woman, was the story given to The Examiner by Dr. Pomeroy himself. "I cannot say for sure," stated the county official, "that William Desmond Taylor was not Dennis Gage Deane-Tanner. "But I can hardly believe that they were one and the same man. "I've seen pictures of the murdered man, though to my knowledge I never saw him in the flesh, and this man is not the man I knew in New York as my relative by marriage." Dr. Pomeroy admitted that he had naturally not seen Dennis Deane-Tanner since his disappearance in New York years ago, but he stated that he has a good recollection on his appearance and that he was unquestionably not William. "I never saw the two brothers together," he continued, "and in fact, I never saw the elder brother, William. But there must have been two brothers, as Dennis frequently mentioned William. I met him several times in the East." Dr. Pomeroy also corroborated his sister-in-law's story that she had employed detective agencies to search for her husband when he disappeared, but that no trace of the man had ever been found. The theory of certain officers that for the solution of the crime the investigators should go back to New York, 1912, instead of Los Angeles, 1922, met with little enthusiasm from Mrs. Deane-Tanner yesterday, although she admitted that in the mysterious past of the two brothers some common motive might be linked. "I am more inclined to believe," she said, "that the solution of the crime lies in some quarrel or misunderstanding of recent origin--something growing out of the associations he has formed since coming to this Coast. Somehow I can't believe that the disappearance of my husband and William's disappearance had any connection, and though I wouldn't at all be surprised to learn that my former husband is still alive, I can't believe that he could possibly be connected with his brother's death in any way--even as a possible fellow victim." The sister-in-law of the murdered man made light of a theory that some old English feud might have been behind the mystery in the lives of both brothers--some overwhelming tragedy which, if disclosed, would make trivial the astounding revelations so far before the public. Mrs. Deane-Tanner's elaborated story of her relationship in this maze of tangled lives is as follows: "My maiden name was Ada C. Brennan. I was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. C. K. Brennan of New York. Both my parents are dead. "I was married to Denis Gage Deane-Taylor [sic], a man considerably smaller than his brother, though of similar general appearance, in 1907 in New York. "By that marriage I had two daughters, Muriel, now 14, and Alice, now 12 years old. "In 1912 I had lung trouble and my husband sent me to the Adirondack Mountains for a rest cure. When I had been there a week I suddenly received a telegram from my mother in the metropolis to come home at once. I immediately took a train for the city and when I arrived I learned that my husband had disappeared. "We hunted high and low for him. We employed detectives and did every manner of things possible to make likely his discovery, but in vain. To this day I have never heard from or heard of my husband. "After futile waiting and wondering and heart-broken nights trying to live until the next hard day of raising two children, fatherless, I sued for divorce and was awarded a decree. "During the time I was married I became very friendly with Mrs. Frederick Young of New York. She was the former wife of Edward Thaw, a half brother of Harry K. Thaw. "I was also a good friend of Ethel Putnam, daughter of George H. Putnam, and her sister, Dorothy; one year on a tour of Europe stopped at Kent, England, to visit Mr. Deane-Tanner's family. Thus I learned something of William Deane-Tanner, though I met him personally but several times in my life. "Both these sisters finally were married and I have lost track of them-- don't even know their names now. "Finally, after futile searches for my husband, I and my children moved to Monrovia, to stay at the home of my sister, Mrs. Pomeroy, at 240 East Palm street, and after they moved, I came to this address. "My husband, while with me in New York, worked for A. S. Vernay, 12 East Forty-Fifth street, as an interior decorator, and when he disappeared Mr. Vernay could find no business reason for his having done so. His books, as were his brothers books four years before on his disappearance, were perfect and his work had been most satisfactory, Mr. Vernay said. "On November 28, 1915, here at Monrovia, I was notified that Mrs. Young, my friend, had died and had left to me a bequest which amounted to roughly $1000 a year for life. With other moneys I had, this annuity would have made it possible for me to have taken care of my children amply for life, but through litigation, on some technicality, I never was able to get my bequest. "Mrs. Young died on November 6, 1915, and her estate was compared to be of some $1,000,000. We had always been good friends and she was most kind to me at all times. "In the letter advising me of the bequest it was stated that as soon as the estate was settled I would receive the money quarterly." Turning back to her brother-in-law, now dead, she went on: "My first child, Muriel, was born in New York city in 1908, in November, and after her birth I met my brother-in-law for the first time. Denis' brother came up to see me and his little niece, but we talked only a short time. He was considerably larger than Denis, but similar to him in general appearance, as I have said. "From then on I saw him only occasionally. "His disappearance, the talk of the town at that time, however, I shall not easily forget. "It was the day of the notable Vanderbilt Cup race on Long Island, in November, 1908. William had witnessed the race, and had been seen there by scores of his friends, as he was popular. "The next day the earth had swallowed him. He was gone, had disappeared and it was several years before he was heard from again, and then only indirectly. "His wife, the former Ethel Hamilton, Floradora girl, was devoted to him and they had but few quarrels, but her grief was no greater than my husband's at his brother's loss. "He was inconsolable and for months though of nothing else. If he had any suspicion of how and why his brother had gone he never whispered a word of it to me and I never for a moment thought, or think now, that he knew. "That there was anything in their mutual past that could have caused this tragedy I cannot believe. "Of course, William's relations with his wife, which I have referred to, I knew only by gossip, but naturally took it at the time at its face value." Before her death, Mrs. Young made a trip to California and while here learned that William Deane-Tanner, known as William D. Taylor, was at work in motion pictures and "was doing well," according to Mrs. Deane-Tanner's story. "Petey" he was known then, and apparently when Mrs. Young communicated this information to the former show girl in New York, Taylor's wife, she was surprised to learn that the girl already knew of her husband's whereabouts and was not surprised to learn that Taylor was here in pictures under a new name. Nevertheless, it was a shock to the Deane-Tanner's friends there, because the young wife was not supposed to know anything of her husband's whereabouts. Mrs. Ada Deane-Tanner's attempts to interview Taylor, the director, on her arrival here, his denial of identity, and his finally sending her an allowance, though still denying that he was related to her, was told exclusively in yesterday's Examiner and this story was not changed in the least by the sister-in-law yesterday. His letter to her, telling her that he would send her the money, Mrs. Deane-Tanner said, she still had and would produce, with the marriage license only if forced to by the authorities, saying that she saw no reason for doing so. Mrs. Deane-Tanner in Monrovia yesterday was being advised by several men, one connected with a bank there and the other an attorney, but neither of these men would make a statement. Being ill, she was attended by a neighbor and her children were being taken care of elsewhere. Miss Kate Collins, principal of the Wild Rose school in Monrovia, where the two children attended, was high in her praise of the two kiddies. She said she remembered when the Deane-Tanners arrived there, because of their relationship to Mrs. Pomeroy, but had no knowledge until reading The Examiner yesterday of her relationship to the film director. Both Muriel and Alice, she said, were among the brightest in their classes, Muriel being in the eighth grade and Alice in the sixth. Both she described as always cheerful and anxious to help others, and Alice, she said, is of the "smiley" type, always with a cheerful grin greeting her friends and teachers. One of the girls, Muriel, is said to have a marked resemblance to her murdered uncle, both Mrs. Deane-Tanner and one of her advisers said yesterday. Chief of Police E. A. Bovee of Monrovia, is taking an active interest in the case, giving the sheriff's office all help possible in his end. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * February 7, 1922 Lannie Haynes Martin LOS ANGELES EXAMINER Mrs. Tanner Denies Rumor of Dual Role In order to refute the statement by wire from her aunt, Mrs. John Ketcham of Buffalo, N. Y., Mrs. Ada Deane-Tanner of Monrovia, divorced wife of Dennis Deane-Tanner, stated in detail yesterday numerous points and occurrences which preclude the possibility of William Deane-Tanner and Dennis Deane-Tanner being one and the same man. "It was just a few days after the birth of my first little daughter, Muriel, in 1908, that I first saw William Deane-Tanner, my husband's brother. He came out to see his new niece and while there was a resemblance in the two men it was not so striking that they could have been taken for each other under any circumstances. My husband was about five feet nine inches in height while his brother was over six feet tall and the brother wore a mustache at that time and my husband was smooth shaven. My husband had had his nose broken while at college when engaging in strenuous athletic sports and this gave his face an identity that could not be mistaken. "William Deane-Tanner disappeared about a year after I saw him and my husband grieved terribly over the strange occurrence and missed his brother very much. I went to see his wife at the time. She was a very beautiful blonde with light golden hair and the most perfect skin and very slender. She seemed perfectly dazed with wonder as to why he had left her. "I was married in 1907 and for five years my husband was everything that the most exacting or the most idealistic wife could demand or desire. He was tender, thoughtful, generous, patient, clean-minded and the soul of honor. Suddenly I was taken ill and the doctor said I must be sent to California. This distressed my husband so that we decided to try the Adirondacks first to see if the mountain air there would not bring me back to health and strength. So my husband helped me pack, looked after every arrangement for the trip and took me and our two little children up to a comfortable, picturesque house in the mountains and then went back to his business. in a few days I got a big express package with some heavier flannels for me and an immense box of candy, all tied up with fancy ribbons. "William Deane-Tanner was called 'Petie' by his intimate associates in New York. I do not know who gave him the name and I do not think the brothers saw each other often. My husband did not come out with his brother when he came to see me as he was at his place of business and could not leave. But there was no possibility of their being the same man. "That was the last communication I ever received from my husband. He never wrote a line to me after leaving me there and I never saw him again. This was nearly four years after the disappearance of his brother. After his brother left, his mother and sister, in London, with whom I corresponded, often wrote of how they were grieving over William's strange dropping from sight. His mother said she was sure he must be dead or that she would hear from him. When my husband disappeared and I wrote them they never answered my letters and though I wrote a number of times I have never heard from them again and lost track of them. "It is true that my husband had the same fits of despondency that William is said to have had. He would have depressed, gloomy spells that I could neither account for nor make him shake off. He rarely spoke of his people in England, but I merely attributed that to the characteristic reticence of the English to discuss their affairs and I never had any reason to suspect that there was any tragedy or skeleton in the family that he was hiding. "The only other time I ever saw William Deane-Tanner was when I went to ask him if he had ever seen or heard from my husband. He was so very stern and repelling and acted so like a man of stone that I was chilled and hurt, but I wrote to him and told him the reasons and proof by which I knew he was the man I claimed him to be. It was after that that he began sending me the allowance. The way I came to hear of him being out here friends of mine in New York saw him on the screen and recognized his face and learned that he was now a director at Lasky's. "His sister's name was Mrs. Eaudel-Phillips and I gathered that they were people of independent means though not extremely wealthy. Both my husband and his brother were educated at Clifton and were then sent to Germany and France to finish their education and my husband spoke both French and German fluently." Mrs. Deane-Tanner spoke of little mannerisms that the brothers had in common, such as holding a cigarette in a peculiar way, and of tossing the head back. She said that in disposition and temperament, in education, tastes and habits they were much the same, and she stated that although her husband saw but little of his brother, he was very deeply attached to him, and that after the brother's disappearance her husband grew more and more moody. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * February 7, 1922 NEW YORK HERALD Monrovia, Cal., Feb. 6--Mrs. Ada Deane-Tanner...declared here today... "I would like to correct published statements about my husband, Dennis. He never associated with other women. "I feel confident that if Dennis is alive his existence could not possibly have any connection with the murder. The brothers were very much devoted to each other." ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Mary Miles Minter and "Broken Blossoms" In an interview published after the release of "Broken Blossoms," Lillian Gish discussed the film and stated "I wanted Mr. Griffith to get a little golden-haired child, but after a session with hundreds of kiddies he finally decided it was useless to attempt to get a child who could act and look the part. The story calls for a 12-year-old girl. Mr. Griffith took a producer's license and made the picture Lucy 15. I had misgivings that I might not be able to look 15, but I followed his instructions, hoping for the best." [NEW YORK TELEGRAPH, May 18, 1919] Some months earlier it had been reported that D. W. Griffith had requested the services of Mary Miles Minter for one film, but she was then under contract to the American Film Company, and Samuel Hutchinson, the head of American Film, refused to loan her to Griffith. [NEW YORK TELEGRAPH, January 12, 1919] Combining the information in those two items, it appears very probable that Griffith wanted Minter for the lead role in "Broken Blossoms." It is interesting to speculate what would have happened if Griffith had been successful in securing Minter for the role. Either film history might have a much higher opinion of Mary Miles Minter, or else "Broken Blossoms" might have been only a minor Griffith film like "Dream Street." ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Two Interviews with Mary Pickford TAYLOROLOGY 55 reprinted 11 interviews with Mary Pickford, originally published between 1913 and 1922. Below are two more interviews with her, from 1913 and 1917, sent to us by William M. Drew (thanks!). If anyone has more Pickford interviews from 1913-1922 which they would like to see reprinted in TAYLOROLOGY, please forward them to us. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * March 19, 1913 Frederick James Smith NEW YORK DRAMATIC MIRROR Unspoiled by Fame is Mary Pickford "We all love Mary," said the kindly old German doorkeeper of the Republic Theater. "She's so sweet. I remember six years ago when she played one of the children in 'The Warrens of Virginia.' Many audiences have passed in and out my door in those six years, but I remember her as if it were yesterday. 'Little Buttercup' was what I used to call her. She was so sweet and pretty then, but not half so sweet and pretty as she is now." After all, that is the secret of Mary Pickford's success. It is her personality--a personality of tenderness and sweetness. There was an appeal, a sympathy about her playing in photoplays which made her pre-eminent among film actresses. Her varying moods were reflected in the pathos of the lurking gleams of mischief which flashed from her eyes. The way her golden hair caught the sunlight and the piquant pout of her lips were unforgettable. But, after all, there was a personality that gripped the heart. Strangely, as the blind Juliet in the wonderful fairy spectacle, "A Poor Little Devil," it is her voice, silvery and vibrant, which moves us. The pathos of her perfect creation of the little sightless girl, waiting in her magic garden for "the little friend of all the world" to return to her, is marvelously touching. Her great eyes seem to see nothing; her playing is simple and moving, and her voice plays upon our heartstrings. Again, her personality weaves a spell of its own--just as in the old days it reached out from the screens of motion picture theaters in every land on the globe. As the interviewer saw it, Miss Pickford's dressing room wasn't a bit like that of the typical footlight favorite. It was more like a quiet little room at home, for Mrs. Charlotte Pickford, her mother, and Lottie Pickford, her sister, also until recently well known in pictures, in turn introduced, sat with the little star. The sister admitted she might possibly return to photoplays. A moment later a young man appeared at the dressing-room door. "Here's brother Jack," said Miss Pickford. "He's in pictures, too." Like Miss Pickford, he is a splendid rider. It is truly a theatrical family, for Mrs. Pickford herself was twelve years on the stage, including three seasons with Chauncey Olcott. "Mary won't let me act any more," admitted her mother. Like her daughter, Mrs. Pickford has a charming personality. It is plain that Mary decides everything for the family. "What I came up to find out," demanded Jack, "is what kind of evening clothes I'm going to get." And Mary decided everything to the color of the vest within a few moments. "I think----" said Mary, and that settled it. "While I am under a three-year contract with Mr. Belasco," began Miss Pickford, "I may return to the pictures for eight or ten weeks next Summer. I have a number of offers. Then, again, I have always longed to go abroad. There is a vaudeville possibility, too. I don't really know just what I shall do. "I love the pictures and I love the stage. There is a monotony about playing the same role night after night; but it is hard, too, to play out under the hot Western sun in the desert. Many times, after a day's playing for the pictures, I returned at sunset, too exhausted to touch a bit of food. But I honestly love pictures, and they will never lose their place in my heart. Why, nights I dream of starting for California. The excitement and the ever-changing scenes hold a lure over you. I just can't keep away from the picture theaters. On Sunday nights I go in spite of mother, and other days I catch myself studying the film posters as I pass by." Miss Pickford admitted an admiration for Edith Storey, that she is a Mary Fuller fan, and that she thinks Alice Joyce "so very beautiful--she never makes a false move." "I love it all," sighed Miss Pickford; "but I don't want to be a star. I like, best of all, when I am in pictures, to work under some one like Mr. Griffith, the Biograph director. It lifts the feeling of responsibility off your shoulders to know that you have an able director back of you, and so you can throw yourself into your work. "I believe I loved Willful Peggy best of all my film characters. I have written quite a few scenarios. "Lena and the Geese," "Getting Even," "The Awakening," "May and December" and "Madame Rex" for the Biograph Company were mine; and so were "Caught in the Act" and "The Medallion" for the Selig; while I wrote "The Dream" and "The First Misunderstanding" for the Imp Company. Sometimes now I work on scenarios when I have nothing to do." "Won't you tell me some of your exciting adventures?" asked the interviewer. "Once, responded the actress, "I had three narrow escapes in a single picture, "Two Brothers." The first time my horse bolted out of a California mission yard, clattered down the town streets and into its barn. I almost left the horse on the way in." Miss Pickford's golden ringlets shook with laughter. "The second time," she continued, "the horse suddenly laid down in a race scene and rolled over. The last time several of us were galloping on horseback behind a rickety carriage as we were pursued by bandits. My horse got away again, and two of the cowboys finally stopped me from continuing indefinitely out of the picture. "In an Imp photoplay, "The Sultan's Garden," I had to jump into the Hudson. It was cold, and besides, I didn't know how to swim then. To cap it all, the helmsman of the vessel caught me between the dock and his oncoming boat. He was so confused that he steered right at me. Mother was standing on the dock half frightened to death. But they dived in and pulled me down under the water, the boat passing right over us. Then the vessel hit the dock, and mother got a terrible tumble backward. But mother has braved a lot of things for me. "Once, out in California, she prayed alongside of the race track while I ran a high-powered car around a curve in "A Beast at Bay" for the Biograph Company. The first time around Mr. Griffith shouted 'not fast enough.' That made me mad, so I let it out and took my foot off the clutch. The owner was crouching in the back of the car on the floor while I took the curve at fifty- four miles an hour. He said afterward that he had shuddered, not at what would become of the car, but what he thought was going to happen to me. Mother just closed her eyes and prayed." Mrs. Pickford admitted that she had paused long enough in her prayers to hear Mr. Griffith mutter "Good girl!" as the machine swept by. "Mary's arms were trembling when the car came to a stop," the mother declared; "not because she was afraid, but because of the strain of handling the great machine as it pounded around the track." But Miss Pickford confessed that for once she was proud of herself. "I have been on the stage for fourteen years," she continued. "I made my debut at five years of age as Bootles's Baby with the Valentine Stock of Toronto, Can., where I was born. A manager offered us all positions in Hal Reid's "The Little Red School House," and I became a real actress. We were in stock. Lottie and I played two boys in "The Soudan" with Jessie Bonstelle, we were seen as twins in "The Wilderness;" appeared in "The Fatal Wedding," and acted with Chauncey Olcott. Then Mr. Belasco selected me to play the little sister, Betty, in "The Warrens of Virginia," with Charlotte Walker. Next I went into pictures. "Mr. Belasco, to whom I owe a great deal, when he came to produce 'A Good Little Devil,' remembered me. He may have seen me in the pictures. Anyway, he was good enough to give me the role of Juliet." It is quite plain that Mr. Belasco and Mr. Griffith are Miss Pickford's two idols. Then the little actress, being also an uptown dweller, offered a lift in her automobile. At the stage door a crowd of little girls, with a few grown- ups, waited to greet her. To one little joyous girl went a promised picture, and to the others a kindly word and a smile. Reaching Broadway, Brother Jack dropped out to investigate bargains in evening suits, and a little later Miss Pickford stopped at a store for a moment's shopping while the machine waited. Then her mother confided: "There are not many girls like my Mary. Years ago she used to say, 'Mother, you're going to ride up Fifth Avenue in your own car some of these days.' And she hasn't forgotten in her success. Mary is sweet and good, isn't she?" And the interviewer confessed that the little actress's first word had convinced him that the secret of her charm of personality lay in her true kindliness and purity of heart. Here, indeed is an actress, not quite twenty, unspoiled by the hand of fame. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * June 17, 1917 Maude C. Pilkington SAN JOSE MERCURY HERALD A Chat with Mary Pickford Behind the Camera Everyone knows Mary Pickford BEFORE the camera, but few people are acquainted with the human Mary Pickford BEHIND the camera; not because she grants this rare privilege in a patronizing manner, but because her moments are so carefully divided up that she has little time she can call her own. Miss Pickford's appearance on the stage of the T. & P. theatre on the evening of Tuesday last for the benefit of the orphan children of the Home of Benevolence was an act expressive of her simple, generous nature. After a busy day, a day that would severely tax the strength of a more robust person, she drove to San Jose from Pleasanton and back again the same evening. The same spirit prompted her to go to San Francisco to assist at the Liberty loan meeting, against the importunings of her manager and friends. "But," said Miss Pickford, "if I could be of any assistance in a cause like that I just had to go. The least we who stay at home can do is to make the boys who do go comfortable, and that can only be done if the government has plenty of money. "You see, I want to do all I can and it is very wonderful of people to want me; I would like to do more, but my first consideration must be my company and my work. I feel that I must never indulge in grouches or moods, I must work a little harder and a little longer than even the extra girl; I must be an inspiration and an incentive to those around me. I made up my mind to these things when I decided to be a star and to earn $500 a week before I was 20 years old; in short, to be nice to everybody all the time. And so when I go out and tire myself as I have done the past week, so that even my heart is tired, I cannot give my very best to my work and my company." Miss Pickford is a natural aristocrat, if her ideal simplicity and utter lack of studied effort make for aristocracy. She is vivacious and versatile, and along with the ambition of earning $500 a week, she has acquired an asset of greater value--a sunny disposition. This has brought her the endearing admiration of her company. "She is always doing something sweet and thoughtful and surprising," one of them said to me, "and so how could we help but love her?" To write about Mary Pickford one must first write about her mother, who idolizes her distinguished daughter. "She has been such a comfort to me all my life," she says, the while patting a hair into place or smoothing a ruffle on Mary's gown. The tender relation between the two is not unlike that between Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her father, of whom she once wrote: "It is my fancy to conjure your beloved image between myself and the public, so as to be sure of one smile, and to satisfy my heart while I satisfy my ambition, by associating with the great pursuit of my life its tenderest and holiest affection." The impression, then, I want to give of America's favorite motion picture actress is not so much of the actress as of the woman, tender and lovable, of high ideals, democratic in principle and philanthropic of impulse. A womanly woman, philosophic and profound, yet retaining the simple faith of a child. Yesterday at Pleasanton we chatted through the few spare moments while a big production is being filmed. We sat upon the verandah of the old- fashioned hotel; up and down the broad street lined with picturesque elm trees moved a company of people out of the life of "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm." Above the droway hum of June insects, grateful for the warm days of summer, the distant chur-r- of mowing machines and other sounds of summer that are far and clear, rose the murmur of may voices all in happy, jocund mood. Little girls and boys, even babies, had their part in the animated scene. Men dressed for the part of stage drivers and of haymakers, school girls in the old-fashioned dress, and maiden aunts all selected with precise judgment for the parts they play. And patiently listening to complains, cheerfully giving advice and directing this, that and the other about the next scene, the location, and those he wanted in it, accomplishing it all with the ease of a master, was Mr. Marshall Neilan. It was all so natural and simple; there was nothing stagey or affected about it. To complete the scene gentle old horses attached to a quaint stage coach dozed sleepily in the mid-day heat, and two restless ponies, which might have been the very ones "Rebecca" used when she went to sell soap, restlessly pulled at their tether. Only one feature of modern life linked the scene to the present and crushed the illusion that it was the very New England village which "Rebecca" knew so well, and that was the constant coming and going of automobiles. "I suppose I ought to begin by asking your favorite color, your favorite perfume, your favorite fruit and so on," I said to Miss Pickford. She laughed. "No, the first question people always ask me is 'How do you like working in the movies?' or 'How do you like seeing yourself on the screen?' and 'Do you like the stage better than the pictures, and how many children have you?' And one thing I always tell everybody," she continued, with a smile, "is that my hair has always been blonde." But there are far more important things to discuss with Mary Pickford than these trivialities, so we began on the various institutions in which she is interested. "There is the Boyle Heights Orphanage in Los Angeles," she said. "I don't do very much for it, but they seem to think it a lot and one of the children asked the Sister if Mary Pickford was not their patron saint; so you see it is very hard to have to live up to a reputation like that. "Then, one day in New York I was feeling a little melancholy and I went over to St. Joseph's Home for the Blind to a bazaar. First, I saw the old ladies sitting about, quite happy and chatting gaily; then I went downstairs and there were the babies. Next I went out to the courtyard, it was just the dusk of evening and there were strong men, young and old, and everyone of these people were blind! And I said to myself, 'Am I ever ungrateful enough to be unhappy? Here I have health and youth and devoted friends!' And I felt cleansed and reproved, and whenever I feel unhappy I just think of that room in the dusk. And it would do the majority of people good who complain and rail against God to go into one of these homes." "Would you rather help children or old people?" I asked her. "Old people," said she. "Old age and suffering and no loved ones about seem the terrible tragedy to me. Children can dream their dreams; life stretches out before them a beautiful country bounded with fairy walls. Perhaps someone will adopt them or help them; perhaps they will marry some good person and live happily, but with old folks all that is past." From this we went on to talk of the opportunities for girls in the film world today. "It all depends upon the girl," said Miss Pickford. "They talk about temptation in our business. I don't know anything of it; I have always had my mother with me, but I would not advise anyone to leave a good home unless they had someone to go everywhere with them." We drifted into a comparison of the speaking stage and the movies. "It is a real pleasure to appear before a cultured, intelligent audience and to feel the magnetism, and there is more art to the stage. On the other hand, everything is artificial, while in the pictures one works with natural scenery and surroundings and people can really come into greater prominence in a shorter time. I think the picture a wonderful business and I will always love it, but I don't know whether it will always love me. The stage as I see it," she continued, "is to the grown-up what fairy tales are to children. The more illusion there is about it, or the picture, the more pleasure it gives. I do not approve, therefore, of showing how things are done, for when once the make-up is revealed the charm is lost. My ambition is to become bigger and better than ever and to retire gracefully at the flood-tide of power and live comfortably the rest of my life. I want to learn cooking and be a thorough and proficient housekeeper. I am going to master French and study music and literature. All this when I don't have to live on schedule; when I can say, 'I am gong to the mountains' and take a trainload of books. Another thing I intend to do when I have the time is to indulge in a hobby," said Miss Pickford. "I think everyone from the factory girl to the financier should have a hobby, preferably an outdoor hobby. But I must snatch my meals at all hours, sometimes I must spend half the night out on a raft in evening clothes, drenched to the skin; then relaxation becomes a hobby." I asked Miss Pickford her favorite of all the roles she has played. She hesitated for a moment and then replied, "'Tess of the Storm Country' and 'Poor Little Rich Girl.' It is hard to tell which I liked the best. Then 'Rags,' I think, comes next. The first big part I ever played was in 'The Violin Maker of Cremona.'" This led me to ask how she happened to go into the movies and where. "It was in New York," she said, simply. "Fourteenth street. I had been two seasons with David Belasco, but I needed more money. I was only 15 then. However, I was just as happy when I earned $25 a week as I am now, for with every ounce of success comes a pound of responsibility. And another thing I want to say is that I cannot bear airs and graces. Nobody in the world is important; the world may miss people for a while, but the world goes on just the same. We are here today and gone tomorrow--the main thing is to make people happy. Once I went up in an aeroplane and as I looked down on the earth at the people moving about I though how very small we must all look to the angels in Heaven; no larger than atoms." Miss Pickford's formula for happiness is a very simple one. "First people must work to be happy; when they do not work and then pay for all they got they are very unhappy people. I think that people who live in a small town, who marry young and have to work and plan, even to buy the rug for the front room, are so much happier, and healthier, too." "Of what is your life made up?" I asked, and with a rare smile and a toss of her head, she replied, "Four-fifths work and one-fifth rest!" It seems an extraordinary thing that one who has been accustomed to vast audiences practically all her life, as before taking up the picture work she appeared frequently in metropolitan cities, who has achieved the position and fame that is Miss Pickford's should not have by this time become accustomed to the ordeal. But it has been so with many of the world's greatest artists. Jenny Lind, for example, idol of the artist world 50 years ago, had often to be carried fainting from the stage; could not, indeed, sing at all until she had overcome the paralytic nervousness which invariably overwhelmed her when she first looked into the face of an audience. With Miss Pickford it probably is due to an extraordinary conscientiousness to live up to the high standards she has set for herself. "The first feeling I have is that I must apologize for my height, or lack of it, or my hair, or my eyes," she humorously told me. "But the other night in San Jose when the audience said 'three cheers for Mary Pickford,' I felt so at home that I really had an awfully good time." From philosophic subjects she quite nimbly jumps back to her childhood days. "I have never had anything so good to eat in my life as 'hokey-pokey' ice cream," said Miss Pickford. "In Canada we used to run with our penny when we heard the 'hokey-pokey' man coming." It was now time for her to change costumes, so she bade me good-bye, giving me a cordial invitation to go out to the 'location' that afternoon and added, "Oh, yes! Please say that I love to be loved!" Mr. Charles Ogle, who played opposite Miss Pickford in "The Romance of the Redwoods," is taking a prominent part in this production and this exceptional actor is quite as delightful off the screen as on. He gave up the practice of law to go on the stage from which it was only a step into the movies, where he has been for the past nine years. Our conversation naturally turned to Miss Pickford. "She is the most wonderful actress on the stage today; you can find no one like her. She is so winsome and quaint and yet doesn't lose individuality. She has personality and magnetism, but first of all she is a capable actress." Her director, Mr. Marshall Neilan, has many men older than himself in the company, but they all recognize his ability as a director and he readily seems like the "father" of the company, as he expressed it. Mr. Neilan played with Miss Pickford in "Madame Butterfly." "Circumstances threw us together and I became her director," he said, "and she is a very unusual woman. She has brains and creative ability and is always a big help in directing. I call her the Bernhardt of the screen and predict that people will never want her to quit." We talked of the natural setting and attractiveness of the country about the Niles Canyon for their work. "We have nothing in Southern California like it. The big black walnut and elm trees are typical of New England and the only place in the west where such scenery can be found." It was now time to go out to the "location" and we all departed. The scene where Rebecca sells soap was to be played that afternoon and with Miss Frances Marion, her scenario writer, I stood watching Miss Pickford and Miss Daw as they drove up to the farmhouse where Rebecca sells $200 worth of soap and then comes out victoriously waving the greenbacks and bowing the farewell of a grandiloquent lady. "Well," said she, "we are the beginnings of ladies." Over and over this scene they went, until it thoroughly satisfied the director. Miss Marion is well started on what promises to be a remarkable career; she is a Californian, her home being in San Francisco. Like others associated with Miss Pickford, she is devoted to her, and speaks enthusiastically of her ability. "There is nothing she cannot do. She has written 32 stories; tonight we have to get some costumes ready and she will have some hand in it. Look at her there now, she is writing letters between scenes. I have seen her watching bees or ants for hours, studying them with as keen an interest as if rehearsing a scene. And she can put herself on a plane with a child easier than anyone I ever knew. 'Children and animals are the most natural actors in the world,' she always says. She receives on an average of 1000 letters a day and every letter is read by her secretary, and those expressing any sweet appreciation are put aside and read and enjoyed by Miss Pickford." Anyone who imagines a star in the moving picture world does not have hard work to do is mistaken. Douglas Fairbanks in his popular book "Laugh and Live," says, "The correct definition of self-indulgence is failure-- because self-indulgence is comprised of an aggregation of vices, large and small, and failure is the logical sequence thereof." So there perhaps, we have one of the secrets of the movie stars success. And I want to leave the impression that these genial, delightful people work early and late and hard, that they love Mary Pickford just intensely as does the public, and are not jealous, even though the public claims her as "their Mary." ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** NOTES: [1] Mabel Normand was born in 1892, not 1894. [2] According to Mabel Normand's own accounts she had worked at Kalem and Biograph prior to working for Vitagraph. She made also made other Vitagraph films prior to "Over the Garden Wall." [3] Mabel signed her contract with Sam Goldwyn long before "Mickey" was released. [4] Mabel Normand's first trip to Europe was not made until 1922, after her Goldwyn contract had ended. She did made two trips to Europe in 1922, but she was between pictures for Sennett at the time. When she came back from the second trip she returned to Hollywood; she did not make a third trip to Europe at that time. [5] Mabel Normand's pictures for Goldwyn were successful, more successful than its pictures with other stars. [6] The Dines shooting took place on January 1, 1924, not December 31, 1923. ***************************************************************************** Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following: http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/ http://www.uno.edu/~drif/arbuckle/Taylorology/ http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/ Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/ For more information about Taylor, see WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991) *****************************************************************************