Photo-Play World (June 1919)

26 THE PHOTO-PLAY WORLD WANDA HAWLEY AND THE FABLED FIELDS OF ARCADY By ROGER STARBUCK 'M afraid,” remarked Wanda Hawley, curling up comfortably upon a chaise longue, “that people will begin to think I’m queer or some- thing if I confess to any more hobbies.” I had come out to the studio to chat with the dainty actress who is to appear shortly in an important role in the big, new pro- duction, “For Better, For Worse,” and found her, after a series of rather exacting scenes, wherein she had wept copiously, seated, as I had observed, on the comforta- ble chaise, with a cloak thrown over her becoming and modish gown. “Just what do you mean?” I asked. Her remark had been in response to a request that she tell me something unusual about herself or her private views on things in general. “Why,” she returned, “you see, I confessed recently that I was a lover of Omar and that his ideas were almost a religion to me— certain parts of them, at least. I daringly essayed some verses on the order of the ‘Rubaiyat’ re- lating to the pictures. Now if I tell you about another fad of mine, well, I don’t know what my friends will think.” “Don’t be afraid of that,” I laughed, “I'll vouch for their opinions.” “How can you?” “Well, anyway, what harm is there in having a few idiosyn- crasies?” “None that I know of, well, I’m crazy about mythology ” “Indeed? That’s a laudable enough hobby, I should say I'm afraid I don’t know very much about it—you see, my student days are quite aways behind.” Miss Hawley laughed. “I didn’t learn much about it at school, either, but like most young people I went through the ‘Classic Myths’ and one thing or another But I learned to love the fabled characters and places through later reading. Bulfinch has been my constant companion, along with old Omar, Murray’s ‘Manual of Mythology’ has an honored place on my bookshelves. “But what I like to do is to invest these people with real human traits. Which is rather silly, I suppose, for they were not human beings at all.” “But they were the conceptions of human beings,” I remarked, “so their attributes were pretty likely to be the same. All the gods of mythology were anthropomorphic.” “That sounds terrible,” she commented, “but I suppose it is true. Funny how poor little mortals like to make gods to suit their own ideas and then pretend to worship them. Even if they don’t pretend, they are really only worshipping magnified views of themselves. But what I liked most were the woodland deities and the creatures who were a little greater than men but less than the gods, such as nymphs, dryads, oreads, auloniads, oceanids, and so on.” I gasped “My gracious, you have all those names at your fingertips, haven’t you?” “Well, I used to dream over them a lot. Did you ever hear, for example, the legend of the dryads?” “I don’t know—exactly—” “Why, it seems that the dryads were the souls of the oak trees and were shut up inside their trunks. Every thousand years they had a brief hour of freedom from their prisons and came out to dance in the moon- light. If in that time they should chance to meet and—be kissed—by a mortal man, they became mortal in turn and could never go back to the oak trees. Isn’t that pretty?” “Very,” I murmured. I could not help Wanda Hawley. thinking that Miss Hawley, with her fresh, fair beauty might well have been one of those transposed nymphs, come to share mortal life as the result of a chance meeting beneath the moon on some May night under the greenwood tree. “Pan, too,” she went on almost dreamily, “Pan, the god who watched over the pasture-fields, the herds and the herdsmen. Possibly it is because I love the great out- doors, the woodlands, the hills and the dales so much that I can find a strong chord of sympathy with that spirit of woods and fields. Sometimes, when I’m wandering about in our own hills and mountains here, just back of Hollywood, I fancy I hear Pan piping in the distance— but of course it is only a mocking bird. That reminds me of another pretty little legend You know the pipes that Pan plays upon are called ‘Syrinx’ It seems that a coy little nymph of that name, whom Pan loved and courted—and they tell me Pan was rather an adept at this sort of thing— was turned into a reed. Pan cut it and made it into an instrument whose notes, when played by him, were so sweet that he had the nerve to challenge Apollo to a competition. There’s a lot more—are you interested?” “Of course,” I said. “Well, then, Midas was chosen judge. You remember him—the chap whose touch turned everything into gold? Well, as I say, Midas was appointed to the bench. He rather favored Pan—maybe he was a grafter, who can say? Anyhow, he awarded the prize to the woodland deity Imagine! Apollo could play like a—a dream. He got so angry when he heard the decision that he caused Midas’s ears to grow long just like a donkey’s. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful punishment for the many persons who act like—donkeys, nowadays? Make the punishment fit the crime. Remember the Mikado— “My object all sublime, I will achieve in time, To make the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime. To make each prisoner pent, unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, of inno- cent merriment 1 “And then they’d boil the poor thing in oil or something. Don’t you love the old operas? I have only heard a few They began to go out about the time I came into existence. But I love them just the same. Where was I? Oh, about the people of Arcady Well, you see how it is with me. I just love to ramble on—as I love to ramble through the hills—getting no place in particular, but having heaps of fun. And as for Arcady—well, it lies just over yonder, do you see? Really, it’s wherever you choose to locate it in your own heart, and beware, satyrs peep from behind every hedge, and nymphs watch you curiously from every tree-trunk, beware, I say, lest you trample upon the asphodel.” It is somewhat unique to find a motion- picture star who can talk in this wise. The lights of Broadway and the flatteries of audiences, the glitter of the artificial exist- ence that depends for its color and sparkle on the electrical currents that keep alive restaurants, cafes and theatres, are scarcely calculated to inspire the mind or fire the imagination with visions of green woods and fairies and imps who reside in lovely flowers. The music and lights of the latest musical comedy, the newest freak of rag- time—these are the things of the senses that are so universally adored and enjoyed by the average theatrical maiden. But if one looks a little more closely here and there, one has a revelation—glitter and gilt and lights and frivolous music cannot eternally fascinate, and that deep-down, innermost longing for the freedom of sweet-smelling open spaces is bound now and again to stir the latent poet that lies in every heart to an active desire to know the thrill of Nature’s most winning moods.