Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1951)

reporters waiting, vulture-like, for the expected announcement: “Madame est morte!” At last, weak but alive, I left the hospital on Henry’s arm. The following morning we sailed, bag and baggage, for home. Immediately our ship docked in New York, the reporters swarmed, the cameramen and, on the pier, friends and fans, hundreds, thousands, of fans — and in the center of it all was la Swanson and, a little to the side, “Hank,” as the reporters called rhim on very first sight. And this, although I did not dream it then, was the beginning of the end. We had ten days in New York during which we had no time of our own. We might as well not have lived under the same roof. Telephones rang. There were interviews, photographic sittings, reporters ^everywhere. At a dinner of 730 people in my honor, [the room was papered with banners spell Iing my name. There were speeches made about me. There were toasts drunk to me. To me . . . and to my bridegroom. But it was, do you see, “and my bridegroom.” For aHenry, it was the first approach to being j known as “Gloria Swanson’s husband.” When we left for Hollywood, we took off on a private train. Not a private car, mind you, a private train. I was the only woman aboard. The others were Paramount executives and the talk was of the next Paramount picture with — Gloria Swanson. !i At the station in Los Angeles, we were met by a band, eight motorcycle escorts land the late Sid Grauman’s usherettes jjmounted on white ponies. The red velvet carpet was a mile long and twice as wide. Henry was stunned. I should have sensed ais bewilderment. I should have made a ittle fun . . . but I was still too ill. I was fired, too, and slightly bewildered. Ac;ustomed as I was to the glamour treat ment, this was something extraordinary even for that fantastic era. . . . From the station we went to my home on Sunset Boulevard which had been vacant for four years and must have looked to Henry, huge as it was and with that slightly run-down look big houses always have when they are not lived in, something like the home of Norma Desmond on — Sunset Boulevard. It was good to get back to the big house. But, I wonder, did it seem good to Henry? My house. My children. My possessions. My friends. My studio calling . . mine, so mine, how could it ever become “ours”? It never did. We had time only to change our clothes and be on our way to the big “Madame Sans Gene” premiere. We got stuck in traffic and fans came out of the ground, so it seemed, and from the walls of buildings. As we inched along, I became afraid I would be late, got out of the car and ran ahead. And as I stood there in the theater alone, at the head of the aisle, all the lights went on and the audience rose and, turning toward me, sang “Home, Sweet Home.” I couldn’t speak. And Henry, now standing by my side, couldn't help me. On the drive home, noticing my pallor and my quiet, he said: “Darling, this should be the happiest moment of your life and you act so unhappy. . .” “I am unhappy,” I said, “because I’ve done nothing, as an actress, to deserve this acclaim. They’ve given it to me as a publicized personality, to Cinderella who has married the Prince. I am unhappy because at twenty-six I am at the top and, as everything that goes up must come down, the only thing for me to do is go down. . .” Well, I didn’t go down. Not for a little time. I didn’t go up either. I stayed on a little plateau for about six years. During this time, however, I was one of the few to make the transition between silent and talking pictures. But it was a fierce dogeat-dog fight for the survival of the fittest. While I was in the midst of the terrific strain of trying to stay on top, trying to produce my own pictures, making mistakes, frantically endeavoring to rectify them, I saw Henry losing something inside him . . . something that was vitally important to him . . . and to me! When he came into my whirligig world, he wanted to be helpful, wanted me to lean on him as I had in France. But here, instead of going to him with my problems and troubles, I went to other people, to people who spoke the Hollywood language. It was not that Henry couldn’t hold his own as a husband and as a man. It was that he couldn’t hold his own as the “Husband of Gloria Swanson.” In due course of time, he got a job with Pathe Pictures. It took him to France. We hoped we could keep our love and our marriage intact over a span of 7,000 miles. But before he left, I think we knew . . . knew that my career and nothing but my career had hurt our marriage. But not even to save my own heart and happiness could I break away. I had taken on the responsibility of supporting people. And the work, the drive, the acclaim had become part of me. So the story ends — but not unhappily, after all. For Henry now is married to a beautiful and clever girl with whom he is deeply in love. And I, again, at a peak in my career, am happy, too. Still, I hope to be happily married again, protected and secure — just a woman at last! For in history, in literature, the greatest lovers are not youngsters. From twentyfive to fifty-five is the peak of a woman’s life. That’s the aged wine. That’s the full bloom. Romance does not belong alone to the very young! The End YOU Can Have A Lovelier Complexion in 14 Days with Palmolive Soap, Doctors Prove ! 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