Modern Screen (Dec 1949 - Nov 1950)

nwen a girl marries ^Continued from page 56) telling her, "Oh, no you're not! You're very different, Elizabeth— and things are different for you." When a girl marries, a subtle alchemy occurs. Even at the fateful, precious moment when her honeymoon began, Elizabeth Taylor was already a different person. Even as she snuggled down in the seat of Nicky's green Cadillac and reached for his arm, she reached for the new wonders that lay before her— the new wonders and the new worries, and the new responsibilities, too. Even as Liz headed for Pebble Beach and her honeymoon lodge — a destination oh, so secret then— I saw her eyes shining eagerly ahead, not wistfully back. Even when "she returned a week later to pack for her European tour and fly away again there was a new wisdom in those eyes and new confidence in her voice. She was on her own. That little girl I knew was gone as she should be gone, when a girl marries. She'd crossed the Atlantic a dozen times or more before the Queen Elizabeth glided her out of New York harbor for her Continental honeymoon. But on all those trips she'd never had her own cabin, never sat proudly at the captain's table with her husband by her side, never could enter into the fun and the social life of the voyage. Always Elizabeth had been the guarded girl who must wander about under watchful eyes, out of things. On this trip, there were the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Richard Rodgers (who wrote the score of South Pacific) and his wife, other glamorous, interesting people to dine, chat and dance with. There was being a woman of the world herself, belonging. Elizabeth had been to Paris before— lots of times. But she'd never spent a honeymoon week free as the air to stroll the Rue de la Paix and windowshop, sit at a sidewalk cafe and sip an aperitif with her man. She'd never peered into the pungent bistros and the gaudy cafes of Montmartre to watch the saucy sin with adult eyes which understood She never had a Paris couturier create an evening gown just for her, to her own taste, for a grand charity ball. She'd never been invited to the Windsors for a formal evening which began at ten with dinner at midnight. Heavens — if Elizabeth ever dined after 8:30 in her life anywhere before she'd have felt wicked and guilty. And England— certainly thats no unfamiliar place to Elizabeth Taylor. She was born there, in Hempstead, and raised nearby on the Kent estate of her godfather, Victor Cazalet. But at the Savoy this time, Mama didn't register, her husband, Nick, did; and Elizabeth didn't sit fretting around the hotel watching other grown-ups have fun. She had it herself. She'd made Conspirator in London only a year before. But she hadn't rolled out to Ascot for the races in her Ceil Chapman organdie with the big Rex picture hat dripping sweet peas around the brim and Nick dressed to kill in gray topper and stock, hobnobbing with royalty. She hadn't been invited by the Rodgers as their honor guests for the opening of their show, Carousel'. Nor had she faced with her new found assurance the sea of London fans crying, "Bless you, Elizabeth,'' just as they did their own Lillibet, at the do you want a star to visit your home? see page 8! London premiere of her own picture, Fath I er of The Bride. There was such a big difference this time. Freedom and independence and a new status which had locked the sheltering door of girlhood behind her and opened new doors to new worlds every day. Elizabeth felt it as she flew back to Paris, bustling through the crowds at the airport, fencing with customs officials, ordering dinner with Nick from airy waiters, prodding porters. She felt it rolling south to Cannes, alone together, just she and Nick, in the big Cadillac they'd shipped across, through the lovely hills and vineyards, stopping at ancient inns and seeing the friendly peasants not as curiosities but for the first time as people, people with lives and loves and secrets — like herself. She felt it in Venice when they met their friends, the John Bigelows of New York, and spent lazy hours with them on the beach at Lido. And it was a delicious feeling to call her own shots as the days stretched into weeks, and the Hiltons themselves stretched out on the sands, to " say luxuriously, with her first independence of" option, "Nick, these are the best days of our honeymoon. Let's don't travel all the time. Let's stay here and enjoy ourselves. Sweden and Norway and Spain and Holland— we'll see them some day later." Elizabeth has grown up — more in those four wonderful months than in all the 18 years of her young life. Time is a fiction anyway and how can any calendar measure the changes of heart and spirit, outlook and interests that pack maturing years into days, when a girl marries? True, to watch Elizabeth burst into the big Spanish home on Elm Drive, that homecoming day, see her kiss her mama, hug her dad and ruffle her brother Howard's curly head, chattering a mile a minute, you might think she was still just their darling little girl, back from a holiday and sick to get home. It was just like Elizabeth to fret anxiously about Howard's 1-A classification with war blazing in Korea, to flood with tears when she learned the carefully withheld news that "Butch," her beloved poodle, had died, to hurry sentimentally over to the V-Bar-R in Griffith Park, where her aging King Charles nibbled hay with the Hilton horses, and feed him carrots. It was like her to race at once across the street to see Anne Westmore, about to leave any minute for Stephens College, and tell her everything, everything, because Anne was her best friend since childhood and had caught her bridal bouquet. It was like Liz to keep the telephone wire smoking "catching up" with her bridesmaids, to hug all four of the Culverhouse family, English servants who have worked for the Taylors since before Elizabeth was born. It was like her to rave over the new blue Cadillac convertible her mother had bought for her only a week before Elizabeth came home, to call the family living room, done over completely in modern gray green, "just dreamy," and to bound upstairs for a look at her own room, with its new periwinkle blue walls and dubonnet carpet, which her mother had labored over night and day to have ready for her return. It was the old Elizabeth who called it "the best party ever" when her mother gave a homecoming dinner next day, with her new in-laws, "Connie" Hilton, Nick's brother, Barron, and Marilyn, his wife, Mara Reagan, Howard's girl friend, the Wally Westmores across the street and, of course, Anne, with a menu designed especially to Nick's taste — fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, peas, Caesar salad WW A IMP? M£ INTIMATE FEMININE HYGIENE This Medicated Greaseless Suppository Assures Hours of Continuous Action Young wives are to be pitied who don't keep up with the times on what's effective, yet safe to use, for intimate feminine cleanliness — they are to be pitied if they haven't learned about the extra advantages of Zonitors. Zonitors are continuous action, greaseless, stainless vaginal suppositories which give powerfully germicidal and effective action for Pours. Yet Zonitors are safe to the most delicate tissues. Strictly nonpoisonous, non-irritating, nonburning. Easy To Carry If Av/ay From Home Zonitors come twelve in a package and each separately sealed in a dainty glass vial. No mixing — no extra equipment is required. All you need is just this dainty snowwhite suppository! Easy To Use . . . Zonitors are so easily inserted and they keep on releasing powerful germ-killing and deodorizing properties for hours. They help guard against infection and kill every germ they touch. While it's not always possible to contact all the germs in the tract, you can depend on Zonitors to immediately kill every reachable germ and stop them from multiplying. Be sure to use Zonitors — the new, modernized method. FREE: Mail this coupon today for free booklet sent in plain wrapper. Reveals frank, intimate facts. Zonitors, Dept. ZMR-110, 100 Park Avenue, New York 17. N. Y.* Name Address, City *Ofier good only in U. S. State.