Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

59 Oh, for the Life of an Actor's Wife! Every girl who is a real movie fan has probably fancied herself, at one time or another, as the wife of a player. Here is an impression of what such a life is like, as experienced by one of our contributors. By Constance Palmer Littlefield w HEN Lucien and I were married, almost four years ago, every one thought it an ideal combination— an actor marrying a writer for fan Think of the publicity I could give him ! But somehow, it didn't work out that way. Lucien, in the first place, didn't like the idea of my giving him publicity, and I, in the second place, didn't like it, either. So — except for our friends and well-wishers — it was unanimous. I'm afraid I can't tell a heart-throbbing tale of the way we have weathered, shoulder to shoulder, days of poverty and anxiety. There has been no barnstorming period, no looking for work, and no wondering where the next meal was coming from. Far less spectacular is the story of our saving and saving against the lean years that every actor must sanely expect. We both had had our share of poverty long before we ever met, and that taste was enough. The gods willing, and we remaining in our right minds, that specter will never dance on our doorstep again. At the time that we were married, Lucien was in stock at Lasky's. He had been there, except for his twenty-six months in the army, for nine years. Incidentally, he had been the first man from the studio to enlist, and had been given by the studio a wrist watch engraved to that effect. To return, I had no particular ambitions for him then. In fact, neither of us realized that he might work at any other studio. Then, about six months later, the Goldwyn people made him a stock offer at twice the salary he was getting. A light gradually dawned upon me — there might be quite a career before my quiet, hard-working husband. But a different light dawned upon him — ah-ha ! what a wonderful chance to save ! Many times did I complain bitterly at that idea, during his subsequent year at Goldwyn's. It was not much fun to live isolated in an ugly cottage in Culver City, when, a few months before, I had been galloping around studios, meeting lots of new people, writing, enjoying everything. Dishwashing, pot roasts, and trying to make that dreadful house look like something, was a pretty drab contrast. Poor Lucien put up with a lot, I'll tell you, during that awful year. But anyway, the next year made up for everything. We moved back to Hollywood, and built a dear little house, where, for the first month, we used to go stamping around, inside and out, crowing, ''It's ours ! It's ours !" Lucien now freelanced, for the first time in his career, and enjoyed every minute of it. His salary went up some, and as he went from one picture to another without losing any time, his situation was satisfactory from every standpoint. He is still free-lancing, and is as snug as a bug in a rug. That's the background for the life of this particular actor's wife. Our daily doings are not very thrilling from the standpoint of copy, but they are very happy. There is always the thought that we are working side by side for a common purpose. Our life has had a steady upward trend, with a deep appreciation of the blessings that are poured upon us — health and strength, improving in both, and Before her marriage, Constance Palmer contributed regu= larly to "Picture=Play Magazine," and since she became Mrs. Lucien Littlefield, she has been an occasional contributor. In this brief story about her home life, which she wrote at our special request, she gives you a picture which is simple and sincere — though it may upset many persons' ideas about home life in Hollywood. Lucien Littlefield has been seen on the screen by every one who has attended the movies regularly. One of his recent roles was his splendid characterization of the barber=music teacher in Ibanez' "Torrent." a greater sanity m our grasp of the real and true things of life. We don't go out so very much, even when Lucien has some days off. When we were first married, I thought it quite the thing to pour him into his dinner coat and drag him to the various doings at the Writers' Club, and to parties at private houses. Every one said we should mix with people more — that it was good business. But as the months go on, we seem to go out less and less. Perhaps we are making a mistake, but home is so