Motion Picture Story Magazine (Aug 1912-Jan 1913)

128 CHATS WITH THE PLAYERS FLORENCE TURNER, OF THE VITAGRAPH COMPANY Probably nobody in the world is as competent to judge of the popularity of the players as we who sit at the desk where this is being written, and open and read several thousand letters a month which come from all parts of the world. The true test of popularity, as of love, is long absence. Absence intensifies deep affections and destroys superficial ones, just as a strong breeze will put out a small flame and fan a large one into a roaring blaze. When Florence Turner was taken ill, and went West for nearly a year, had she not been the admirable artist that she is, she would soon have been forgotten, for she was not seen in the plays during all that time. In the meantime, other stars had arisen in the firmament to bid for the place left vacant by the absent one, and the public were invited to transfer their affections. Did they? Not a bit of it! While popularity came to many while Florence Turner was in California, trying to recover her lost health, the old love not only endured — it was intensified by her absence. WTe never know how much we love till the object of our affections is taken from us. We know for a certainty that Miss Turner was not only not forgotten, but that she was the subject of thousands of anxious inquiries and heartaches. Heart-aches? Yes, for she was, and is, loved by thousands who never have, and who never will, see her in the flesh. And she is back — bless her heart! — bright and smiling as ever, back to the Vitagraph studio, her health regained. For over a year, we have been trying to get an interview with her. W^e wrote her many times, we telephoned, we telegraphed, we even brought influence to bear thru her employers. Did she refuse? No; she always expressed a desire to grant our wishes, but she never did. We now think that she really wanted to be interviewed, and that she really did not. She wanted to help us, and her employers, but not herself. She shrank, yet was willing. Well, at last we won. Persistency conquers all things. Did we have to follow her about, to lie in wait for her, or to conceal ourselves in some unsuspected corner to catch our prey? No, my children. A woman's "no" is fairly well understood nowadays, but a woman's "yes" is still an uncertain quantity. Miss Turner's "yes" was a pleasant and surprising revelation. After about 101 regrets, Miss Turner promised not only to submit to an interview, but to beard the lion in his den, and have the painful operation performed in all its cruel heartlessness. You know some people think that to be interviewed is a dreadful thing. Visions of the horrors of the "third degree" come to them. So when Miss Turner said she would arrive here at a certain hour, knowing that she was that kind, we had our doubts. But she came. A small bundle of lace, trimmed in blue silk and ribbons, and enclosing a neat, vivacious, little figure, entered the editorial sanctum unannounced — it was after hours. "Here I am," she laughed merrily. "I am here, prepared for the worst. How long will it take?" "It is now six," I said, after the usual greetings ; "we shall be thru by eleven." "What?" she said, opening wide her big, dark eyes — you all know how she can make those eyes say so much. "Will it take five hours?" "No, my child," I said reassuringly, "that is, not to be interviewed. The interview will take just five minutes — from 10.55 to 31.00 P. M. The rest of the time we are to spend in getting acquainted." Then we talked, talked about everything, from the philosophy of Pythagoras down to the best method of cooking Welsh rarebits in a chafing-dish. In the meantime, we had wandered out to a nearby ham and eggery, where the genial chef was induced to do his best to satisfy the excellent appetites of my distinguished guest and our chaperon, my secretary. He did very well, indeed ; the steak was red, thick, tender and juicy, and the side dishes were very savory. Could you have seen us during that hour and a half, you would never have thought one of us had recently been an invalid, nor that she was being interviewed. After supper, a box of chocolates and a stroll to the nearest theater, the Royal — and an excellent one, too — and there, for a couple of hours, we watched the pictures. The first was an Edison with Mary Fuller. "There is a great artist," Miss Turner exclaimed. "I like her work immensely." In fact, she had kind words for everybody. Not once did she criticise, during the whole evening, and not once did she say an unfavorable word concerning anybody. After the Photoshow, we stopped and had some soda at a candy-store, then we strolled a way, then got on a car, and at eleven we were standing in front of a modest little frame dwelling in Madison Street, about to say good-night. "How about the interview?" Miss Turner asked. "Oh, that's over long ago," I laughed. "Well, well, if that isn't the most painless kind I ever heard of," she exclaimed. "Really, I enjoyed myself every minute, and — think of it — I have dreaded it a year." (This little irrelevant dialog is here inserted as a bait to lure other artists who fear the trying ordeal.) And now for the interview, biography, impressions, and all that sort of thing : Florence Turner is of Spanish-Italian extraction, and comes from artistic, theatrical