Photoplay Magazine, January 1921 (anuary 1921)

Bill Hart's True Love Story A Broadway Romance of Twenty Years Ago. By ADA PATTERSON The Broadway of twenty years ago knew Corona RiccarJo as one of its most beautiful actresses. She was the heroine of Bill Harts love story. I AM a bachelor and proud of it." The words are William S. Hart's, recently spoken. He adds: "And I am of no mind to change my state." How glad will be the legion of girls who write him "mash" notes! Such mash notes as this, for example, that burden the cowboy king's mail. Mr. Hart has displayed this as a specimen of what arrive by bagloads. Gallantly he with- holds the writer's name. Enough that she is of California, great-granddaughter of the Golden West. "Dear Mr. Hart: "I love you! "I simply must write this letter and tell you of what I know is a hopeless love. I cannot help it. You are so splendid, so wonderful. "Your picture is before me as I write. I seem to read sympathy and kindness in your eyes. Your face is so strong, so tender when you want. "Believe me, Mr. Hart, the love I bear you is a spiritual love. There is nothing vulgar or mundane (is that the right word?) in it—the love I bear you. "I do not hope for an answer. But won't you please publish an article in a magazine saying you are not married? Oh, I do so hope you are not. I would be sick if I thought you were. "Alicia." My dear Alicia, you need not send for the doctor. He is not married. He says it is no part of his life plan to marry while he is in pictures. And if the pictures have their way he will never leave them. The motion drama loves William S. Hart as devotedly, albeit more mundanely than you do, my hopeless, devoted Alicias who write him letters. Loyal legion of Hartsick girls! . 36 But gather about me, pink-cheeked little ones—the pink of sun-stain, not the rouge pot, thank heaven!—and I will tell you Bill Hart's love story. The Rialto of New York knows the story well, the Rialto of Hollywood not at all. It is a tender story on which the dew of youth has dried. Mr. Hart himself has laid the sprig of rosemary for remem- brance on its grave. He will not protest against this other little sprig of rosemary for remembrance that we lay on the grave beside it. When you have read it you may understand why we see him usually alone. The years have multiplied exceedingly since I saw his tall figure, save alone. He threads the crowd of Broadway companioned by his thoughts. There has been but one exception. That was at the last Actors' Fund Fair. There was a gala evening near the close of the ten-day festival. There were loud cries of delight when it was announced that W. S. Hart would lead the grand march. It was gallantly repeated when suave Daniel Frohman, the "Uncle Dan" of all the children of the stage and screen, an- nounced "And Miss Lillian Russell will be his partner." So the tall king of the plains and the golden-tinted American beauty, started with stately measure their promenade of the length and width of the Grand Central Palace, five hundred other celebrities of the stage and screen following. That, however, was a professional meeting and parting. The heart story of Bill Hart began a score of years ago. The heroine was the enchantress Iras of "Ben-Hur." "Bill" Hart was the Roman Messala. His heart, throbbing with youth's boundless impetuosity, leaped at the glances Iras cast upon another man. That man was Edward Morgan, who was to die tragically in his youth