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TheS
angs
of
Fame
Success Has Brought
Fay Wray Everything
From Fake Bills
To Death -Threats
By DOROTHY CALHOUN
FIVE minutes after Fay Wray and John Monk Saunders were married in the village church in a tiny Maryland town, the still-camera man for the company in which Fay was playing snapped them kissing each other on the church steps.
"You hardly know what you're doing" says Fay tremulously, "at a time like that."
Romance blossoms now and then under purple Kleig lights as well as under spring moonlight. Fay and John had kept their romance secret. They thought, innocently, that it was their affair and no one else's. But the next morning there they were, kissing before the eyes of the whole world on the pages of newspapers from New York to California.
If they had been just a good looking, clever young man and a pretty girl, their marriage would have received a two-line notice in the Births, Deaths and Weddings column. But because in addition they happened to be a well-known writer and a movie actress, their first married kiss, the most wonderful moment of their lives, was made public property to be stared at between the details of the latest murder and the stock Richee market reports over half a million breakfast tables.
The public feels that it has made its favorites and therefore has a right to their lives, their thoughts, their rules for keeping thin, and their most sacred emotions. And so Fay Wray's honeymoon was a succession of telephone calls, news photographers, staring eyes and writers from the newspapers anxious to get for a waiting world the full details of their meeting, wooing, wedding.
"The reporters were quite all right — really very decent
fellows," says Fay's husband, "still — it wasn't quite what you plan for a honeymoon."
John Monk Saunders is a surprised young man, these days. He has been in the public eye longer than Fay. His magazine stories had brought him a modest degree of celebrity even before he came to Hollywood to write "Wings." He has written five hundred personality stories about famous people and he has been interviewed a number of times. But it is only since he became a movie husband that he has realized exactly what fame means to those who win it by way of the screen. No one, he says ruefully, ever asks writers or senators, or aviators or visiting nobility the intimate personal questions that interviewers unabashedly put to movie players — and expect them to answer. No one, for instance, thinks of asking a novelist whether he loves his wife, dyes his hair, or believes in hell. No one would venture to inquire of a prominent wild game hunter whether he is overweight, why his first wife divorced him, and what he eats for breakfast.
Publicity for a picture star, he and Fay have discovered, {Continued on page 88)
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