Photoplay Magazine, January 1921 (anuary 1921)

The Tale of a Tear Who would ever suspect May Allison of tragic intentions? By MARY WINSHIP I KNEW there was something wrong the moment I entered her rose-and-white boudoir. I couldn't imagine what it was. She hasn't any husband. I'd seen her only the day before in a marvelous new ermine cape, and I could see a gold mesh bag flung half-open on her dressing table. Now what could disturb a pretty woman who has no husband, an ermine cape and a gold mesh bag? Nevertheless, there she sat—her eyes nar- rowed to glittering slits, her chin resting on a curled fist and sitting on her left foot. A fighting pose, that's all. Anybody knows what it means when a perfect lady sits on her left foot. In spite of these signs of approaching storm, I waded right in where even a prohibition-en- forcement officer might fear to tread. "So—" she said slowly, in a hard-hearted- landlord voice. "So, I'm not going to die after all." That rocked me a bit. "My goodness," says I to myself, "I know it isn't exactly fair to expect anybody as pretty as that to be all there, but I've always heard May Allison was one of the intellectual lights of the famed film circle. What can this mean?" Just then I noticed a Tear—a really, truly Tear, slipping down her cheek. I stopped trying to be or feel funny. A pretty little blonde, preferably under thirty, with big blue eyes and an underlip that quivers, is the only female in captivity that can cry without spoiling the party. "'What's the matter, Miss Allison?" I asked diplomatically. May Allison shook her head, while another tear slipped down and fell on her Chinese house-coat. "N—nothing," she murmured. "Oh—" I said, "Must be something. I'm awfully sorry whatever it is." She sat up straight at that and managed a crooked little smile. "It isn't anything, really. I'm a baby to act like this, only—" And then it came out, the story of May Allison's Tear, told in the fashion of a woman who has kept silent quite a long time and must talk. "It's just what I said. I'm not going to die. That's an exaggerated way of putting it. of course, but I've wanted to die ever since I came into pictures. If I could play Camille— Anyway, this was my great chance. Lady Kitty really did die—in 'The Marriage of William Ashe,' you know. But I suppose they're right. I'm a comedienne and I've got no business to aspire to dying and things like that. "I've been in pictures a long timp. Everybody remembers the days when Harold Lockwood and I were together for the old American. In the years since I have tried sincerely, honest- ly, painstakingly to better my work. " I m just me. 1 don t get married or divorced, or stand on my head. I work hard and have lots of tun, but there isn't anything mystic, or unique about me. "I hope I am a good screen actress. And there are times when I just long to have a chance, only a chance, to play a big part, a serious, strong part. But I'm a comedienne—and such I will have to remain to the end of the chapter, I reckon. I think I would feel better if I were sure the public understood that I give them my very best, even if the medium seems light. I should hate them to think because I continue these light roles that I am content to stand still. I'm not. It's only that—I can't change my spots, you see." "My dear," I said, as earnestly as I knew how, because she was so very sincere and earnest herself, "There's only one supreme thing to attain in this world. That's happiness. You give a lot of happiness and sunshine and laughter to the world. There's plenty of tragedy—in every newspaper, in every courtroom, in every home, to last the world a very long time. It's a whole lot more important to cheer us up a bit than to be a great artist, perhaps. Can't you be content to make us happy?" But the little shower was over anyway. May Allison was smiling her pretty, ripply, good-fellow smile. Only a faint sparkle on her dark lashes told of The Tear. "Oh. I am content." she said simply. "Really, I am. I'm naturally a very happy creature. I only want to be sure I have been climbing in these years of work—climbing in ability, in work, not merely in the size of the letters they put my name in. "I'm just me. I don't get married, or divorced, or stand on my head. Nothing very much happens in my life that the public can enjoy. I work hard and have a lot of fun when it comes my way, but there isn't anything oriental, or mystic, or unique about me. I'm absolutely sure to be judged on my merits." But if you trace May Allison's (Continued on page 104)