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Though she is poor and lonely in Vermont, Diane will probably never go back to Hollywood
Last Photos of Diane Varsi continued
felt, in our hearts, that Diane — one of the saddest and most confused girls in all movie history — was not happy in Vermont. The message we took with us was this : //, Diane, it is true and you are not happy, don't be too proud to admit it. Come back to Hollywood, to tvork. There are producers who still want you, fans who still want you. You left our toivn a year ago. You said some pretty nasty things about our town in leaving. Well, all that is forgotten now. So forget your own pride, Diane — and come on home.
Our fears for the girl. Our message.
With these two bits of baggage — and one light suitcase and a camera — we took off by plane one day for Bennington.
We arrived there late in the afternoon.
We had no idea about the kind of reception we would get.
In fact, the first indication we had that the reception might not be too pleasant came from a cabdriver, a small and old and bony Vermonter, whom we approached outside the airport. . . .
"Yup," he said, removing a toothpick from his mouth, looking jis over, "sure I know where she lives. But before you get in that cab, maybe I can save you your fare . . . You happen to be from the newspapers or the magazines?"
We worked for a magazine, we told him.
"Well," he said. "I know for a fact that that actress don't talk to nobody from the press. Some big magazine came up here little while
ago. Offered her $20,000, just to talk to them and pose for some pictures. But she said no and she said git-and-skedaddle to both of them, that's what she said."
We told the old man we were friends of Diane's, as well as being from the press.
"Well," he said, eyeing us suspiciously, "that's what some of the others said. But I seen what happened to them when they got to her door. It was git-and-skedaddle and — "
He interrupted himself, when he saw us begin to shiver from the unaccustomed cold.
"All right, all right," he said, "get in the cab 'fore you freeze to death. But just mark my words — "
He was silent throughout the rest of the trip, as he drove from the station through the town — a pretty town, larger than we'd thought it would be, and warm-looking, many of its store windows festooned with Christmas lights — and then as he drove out into the countryside, the countryside that must have been pretty in the summer, we knew, but that was cold now, gray, all frosted earth and chillswept sky and sleeping trees and, here and there, silent houses.
And it was only when he pulled up a long roadway leading to one of the houses that the cabdriver spoke again.
"See that big place ahead?" he asked. "Well, that ain't her place — not all of it. Big house to the left belongs to a professor at our college here. And she, the actress, she lives (Continued on page 70)