Motion Picture Magazine (Feb-Jul 1919)

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(Exclusive controllers Genuine Mexican Diamonds) A mencan Art We have on exhibition at all times fl a large collection of paintings by the || most famous of American artists, in |l eluding fine examples of George |I Inness, R. A. Blakelock, Elliott Dain || gerfield, H. W. Ranger, J. G. Brown, || G. H. Smilie, Arthur Parton, Carle || ton and Guy Wiggins, Edward || Moran, Eugene V. Brewster, etc., etc. l| Illustrated Catalogue in Colors If mailed to any address for five cents in stamps. |l LA BOHEME Ii 175 Duffield St., Brooklyn, N. Y. Jj Bring Out the Hidden Beauty Beneath the soiled, discolored, faded or aged complexion is one fair to look upon. Mercolized Wax gradually, gently absorbs the devitalized surface skin, revealing the young, fresh, beautiful skin underneath. Used by refined women who prefer complexions of true naturalness. Have you tried it? M~.*..«.1i.»«..l \X7-»v I" one ounce package, with direcerCOllZea Wax tions for use. sold by all druggists. Pastel: A Descriptive Vagary of Ruth Stonehouse {Continued from page 55) never, never coming home. It was quite plaintive and little-boyish. If I were not so terribly and enjoyably involved with Houdini I would feel that I should go. "Ambition? Specific ambition? That's such a very definite question. We-11, of course I do want to be a star ... for a while . . . but, eventually, I want to be a directress, a producer; I want to be in the business end of it, that is, at the same time, the. artistic end of it. A star shoots from his or her place sooner or later, but always inevitably ... but a directress . . . may be like Tennyson's immortal brook and go on forever, so long as her artistry is -keen, her conception broad, her . . ." "Her resources ample?" I suggested, with Broadwayish cynicism. Ruth turned the calmness of her gray eyes upon me. They held a very serene, a very sufficient expression. "I am a devout Christian Scientist, you know," she said, gently, "and I believe in the Divine Beneficence. It — hasn't failed me yet. Just a while ago, right here in New York, I dont mind telling you, I was without a penny. In a really dreadful plight . . . there had been so many Liberty Bonds — various misadventures. I — I couldn't seem to — to come to pawning my very clothes and they were just about all that I had left. And I put my trust in the AllGod of things and like a direct answer came a letter from a lad fighting in Italy with a draft for three hundred dollars enclosed. He was a young camera-man I had once befriended when he was ill — hospital bills and all that ... it was truly bread upon the waters ... a hundredfold . . . other loves fail ... the Divine love . . . never . . ." "Do you," I ventured, the hour, the dusk, the fragrant warmth of old Ceylon all seeming conducive to the topic, "you believe in the one, the solitary, only human love?" The romantic answer, I felt, would be yes. Yet, when she answered me I felt that the "yes" would have been somehow stolid, somehow not so fine as the allembracing love which Ruth believes in. "Life is too complex for me to believe in that," she said, "it has too many shadings, too many shiftings. One can love a great many times, in a great many different ways, for a great many different qualities of person and of mind. Each love may be fine in its separate way. One need not infringe upon the other. All are parts of the Divine Love from which they must, of necessity, come, and that love is Omnipotent as it is Omnipresent." Ruth Stonehouse has a sense of humor, too. It is a whimsical one, more or less subdued, playing upon her gravities like light fingers over an instrument. For instance, she says that in her new pictures with Houdini she is invariably to be seen clinging to a curtain, listening, listening . . . "I call myself a curtain cootie" she laughed. She told me lots about the magical Houdini — his wonderful hands which are not boneless as has been repeatedly asserted— his remarkable culture — his powers as a conversationalist — his weird apparel upon the street which she is making her special mission to convert, if possible. "He's some better already," she said hopefully. She said, too, that Louise Huff is her best friend — a great bond being that their lives have run quite remarkably paralled. After tea we walked up Broadway in quest of a taxi. Roles are not the only incongruous things — settings are, quite frequently. Ruth Stonehouse is the American girl utterly. She was born in the North, educated in the South, brought up in the West, married in the East, or something of the kind. Her screenic ambition goes no higher than to portray the real American girl. She doesn't want to vamp, nor to ingenue, but to be the American girl who is neither and deliriously both. Her viewpoint is wholesome. Her outlook sane and unspoiled. And yet . . . and yet . . . well, walking down Broadway I pictured her beside a delicate, old gold harp, in a dim, candle-lit drawing room ... I thought of the swaying cosmos flowers, dreams that blow about in the dusk, fancies free as air, tender as tears, the phrase "to cherish and protect" . . . That Farnum Boy {Continued from page 53) of-doors, of course," Bill said, his eyes drinking in the eye-wines of October; "my motor-boat at my Sag Harbor home, fishing — gee ! did I tell you about the sharks I got off Catalina Island last summer? A school of them, it seems to me. And one of them a record-breaker. I had my picture taken with him, and I'm prouder of that than I am of any shot ever made of me." (Same here, Bill, about mine with you!) No doubt most, perhaps all of us, who keep their love of the great outdoors, keep, too, the little-boyness that learnt to love it first and recognize it as the kingdom most highly to be prized. Bill Farnum is peculiarly young in his attitude, in his enthusiasms, in his amusements. Gentle with all his strength, tender and kind with all his masculinity, which is obvious as it is undeniable. He is the Artist, he is one of the Farnums, he has been Sydney' Carton and Jean Valjean and Hur — and he will be others, God willing. But first, last, all the time he is Bill, plain Bill, the Bill we love! ROSEMARY THEBY MAKES BEAD PURSES Rosemary Theby, who plays an adventuress in Bert Lytell's picture, "Unexpected Places," by Lieut. Frank R. Adams, is devoting an hour a day to the making of a bear purse. That is, when Miss Theby's nimble fingers aren't engaged in knitting. The film actress, however, declares that a bead purse is one form of economy. It is a receptacle for savings to be converted into Liberty Bonds. Furthermore, $5 worth of beads, she asserts, can be fashioned into a purse valued at $100 without a suspicion of profiteering. Becoming interested, Lytell begged her for further details. "First I string the beads," Miss Theby explained. "Then I crochet them, one by one, until they shape into a bag. And the beauty of it is that the finished article is worth a century note. In case of real necessity one can deposit it with an uncle whose trademark is three gilt globes in exchange for $25 cash." Now who says Rosemary isn't canny? ^104 I.A££