Movie Classic (Sep 1935-Feb 1936)

My Friend, Marion Davies [Continued from page 31] sec her through rose-colored glasses." If that's the case, then everyone who knows her, whether closely or slightly, wears glasses oi the same color. Nor does the charge bother me. I am not telling this story to convince anyone. I am telling it to relieve my own heart of a little of the love and gratitude and admiration that fill it to the bursting point. A/f ARION was born with a passion for IVi giving — and I do not mean by that material giving only, though I have seen too much of the world to minimize the importance of that brand of assistance. She gives lavishly of herself — her time, her thought, her sympathy, her energy. Any of her friends who get into a jam go straight to Marion — it is a kind of blind instinct with them, just as it is an instinct with her to respond to any honest appeal for help. She seems to have strength enough for them and herself, too, for nobody hears her talk of her own troubles. Recently she lost her father and a beloved niece — Reine's only daughter — within a brief period. During that time of strain and grief, it was Marion to whom the family turned like chicks to their mother, Marion who found courage to support and comfort them. Many share their plenty with others. Few share it with the same delicacy as Marion, the same gift for putting themselves in the other fellow's shoes, the same fierce rejection of thanks. Nor will she thank me for telling these tales now. What she has done for me, she has done for dozens of others. That is between her and them. I hope she will forgive me for revealing a little of my own experience with her. A few years ago, I was desperately ill, my illness aggravated by worry over hospital bills. The bills that should have been presented at the end of the first week were not forthcoming, and I fretted still more, knowing that they were piling up. "Doctor," I begged, "can't we cut down on expenses, somehow ? I don't need these private nurses. I can't afford them." "Don't worry," he soothed me, "there's nothing to worry about." But I kept on worrying till at last, to make me stop, he got Marion's consent to tell me that she had made herself responsible for all my hospital bills from the moment I entered the place to the moment I left — four months in all. "Only you must promise," he said, "not to mention it to her. She doesn't want to be thanked." "\X7"E SPEND every Christmas with * ^ Marion — my son and I. Last Christmas the holiday party included children of other friends as well. The children's gifts were brought from home and piled together under the huge tree, to be added to substantially by Marion. As we were trimming the tree, she drew me aside. "Jim has no bicycle," she informed me. "But don't be silly, Marion," I protested. "He has loads of things. He has everything he asked for." "He hasn't a bicycle," she insisted, "and the others have." "But he doesn't want a bicycle," I cried wildly. "He wouldn't know what to do with a bicycle." "Every youngster wants a bicycle," stated Marion and went to the 'phone. How she did it, I haven't the faintest idea. It was Christmas Eve and all the shops were closed. But next morning there was a bicycle under the Christmas tree for Jim, because Marion knew what a youngster wanted even though he had not asked for it. Her friends protect her as best they can against her own generosity. They have learned that they dare not admire anything she owns. For if you say to her, "What a pretty dress !" or "That's a lovely pin you're wearing," you will find that you might just as well have said : "Please give it to me." Her eyes light up with what we have come to recognize as the "take-it" gleam. "I really don't care much about it," she will tell you. "I hardly ever wear it. I just happened to put the thing on, and I don't suppose I'll ever use it again. Won't you please take it ?" She sounds so plausible that maybe the first time you do take it. If you refuse, you're likely to find it waiting for you at home when you get there. When it has happened once too often, and you protest — truly and sincerely protest — because, after all, you have to draw the line somewhere, she comes as near impatience as I have ever seen her. "What difference does it make ?" I have heard her exclaim. "I have more than I'll ever be able to use. Nobody knows what's going to happen tomorrow. I can't take these things away with me when I go. Why grudge me the fun of giving them away while I'm here ?" So there's nothing you can do but keep your eyes carefully averted from Marion's belongings, and your mouth carefully shut. ' I VHERE are times, though, when even -*■ her generous spirit balks ; or rather, when her sound common sense tells her that generosity is no longer a kindness. "Do you know So-and-So ?" she asked me not long ago, naming a man who had been at the top of the heap and was now near the bottom. "The last time I heard of him," I told her, "he was in jail." "He was in jail the last three times I heard of him," she informed me calmly. "I've never met the man, but one of his friends asked me to get him out, so I did. Now he's in again, and it's Acme Eileen Percy (above) gives, in this story, the most complete, convincing wordpicture of Marion Davies yet published going to cost five hundred this time. Not that I mind giving him the five hundred, but — I don't know — " she said thoughtfully. "Maybe it would be best for him to stay in this once." In small things as in big, she has what I once heard called an educated heart. But trying to describe Marion through a series of isolated instances is like trying to build a shining tower with a brick or two. It can't be done — at any rate, not by me. Yet there is one story I must add, because it is perhaps the most characteristic of all. On a visit to New York I was doing some shopping and bought myself a pair of sandals. Suddenly I thought: "Marion likes sandals and these are cute. I'll send her a couple of pairs." She wore those sandals ragged. She couldn't be persuaded to part with them till they parted with her — literally dropped from her feet. "I know they're shabby," she would say, "but they're like old friends. I hate to see them go." She liked them, I'm sure — but she didn't like them that much. She wore them threadbare because I had given them to her, and because she knew how much pleasure it gave me to see her wear them. Long ago I learned to know her for what she is — the most thoughtful, the most selfless, the most understanding and tolerant person in the world. If there is another like her anywhere, then I can only congratulate that other's friends on being as fortunate as I am. She has so much to give, and she gives it so bountifully. What can you do in return but love her ? — love her and give her a pair of sandals, and she will cherish both gifts as though they were precious jewels, because they come from a friend. 62