Picture Show (Nov 1919-Apr 1920)

18 The Picture S/tow, March 21th, 1920. THE CYNIC AND THE BEAUTY COMPETITION. POWDER-PUFFS IN THE BALANCE. THE recent " Daily Mirror " Beauty Competition seems, like a stone dropped in a pond, to have awakened a series of ripples which penetrate to all parts of society. Hardly can one go to a ""Victory Ball " or " American Night " for a few hours' undiluted merriment, not entirely unconnected with jazz, without finding that the dancing is to be interrupted by a " beauty competition.2' Certainly the winners of these affairs do not leap into fame and fortune at a bound like the " Daily Mirror's " lovely find, but they probably enjoy a certain amount of private satisfaction. One can imagine a cynic inviting his lady guest to a beauty-competition dance. They appear painted, powdered, and marcelled. They dance, until the small hours, in the tempered glare of electric lights. Comes the dawn. The lights are turned out : the curtains pulled back to let in the cruel morning light. " Ladies," says the host, " will you take your places for the Beauty Competition ? " Need any more be said ? Few of us claim the perfection of beauty as set forth in someone's criterion. " If you can face the sun when all the others are sitting with their backs towards the light," but under more kindly illumination it is possible to look one's very prettiest at a dance. One must admit that the heat of ballrooms and the ardour of dancing are foes to the complexion ; and what maiden in these days of sertous dancing dares retire too frequently to powder her shining little nose ? Yet even this has its remedy, as the wise girl knows. Before coming to the dance Phyllis bathes her face and neck with a solution of pure cleminite, which she rubs well into the skin with her finger-tips until it is quite dry. This done, her complexion assumes a peach-like finish which will remain unchanged during a whole evening's dancing. I suppose every girl would like a new frock for each dance she goes to ? But even the unemployed would find that rather a strain on the exchequer. It is a consolation, even if a poor one, to reflect that no amount of frocks will give a girl real prettiness — which is what counts' in the end. A pretty complexion, which is the beginning of all beauty, is quite cheap, you know. For about one half-penny you can have a clean, fresh, new skin (not the old one cleaned up for the occasion) for every dance you go to. I expect any girl could explain this apparent mystery. For the benefit of those who cannot, here is the solution. Get some mercolised wax from the chemist. It is rather expensive but it lasts a long time with care. Smear it over your face before going to bed, not using too much, and wash it off in the morning. The oxygen contained in the wax absorbs the outer skin which has become rough and coarse, and gives the new skin below a chance to show itself. Quite simple, isn't it ? If the skin is inclined to be dry, it is a good plan to treat it with some ordinary cold cream before using mercolised wax. Certainly, the sort of complexion you get from using simple preparations like the above should be an asset in any beauty competition — even the cynic's ! WANTED A HUSBAND. By PETE CURRAN. WHO wants to be Constance Talmadge's husband ? Constance has outlined for the first time the exact type of man she wants to marry. This girl, whose popularity with International audiences has literally engulfed her in an ocean of wealth and admirers, from whom she receives an average of two written proposals a day — at the end of six weeks' experience as a " Temperamental Wife," her initial First National release which is to be shown at all the leading houses verv soon — has broken her silence regarding the other half of her real marriage ambitions. " He must be a brunette," she dictated. Then she deliberated. " He must be a man with the fighting spirit of the late Theodore Roosevelt. He must be afraid of nothing, ever ready to stand up and fight for what he thinks is right." " How about his wealth ?" " I den't care a snap for wealth," she rejoined promptly, '' if he can answer the other requisites of my ideal." '* Well, what are some of those essentials, Miss Talmadgc?" "He must have the artistic soul of Hanison Fisher. Thus his cultural self will be reflected in beautiful surroundings which will make our home not an abode of profligate luxury, but a rendezvous for the Jiigher and better tilings of life. " He must have the musical soul of Paderewski, and be ever able to spend an evening at the piano with me, discussing the music of some famous opera ; perhaps enjoying one of Beethoven's soul-stirring sonatas. And I'd like him to write love stories like Robert W. Chambers. I expect to be busy a great part of the time, and on many occasions I will be hundreds of miles away from him. I want a daily letter imbued with the fervent love, the heart interest, the passion, the vivid description that Robert W. Chambers is such a master of." " Well, outside those little things, what else do you want from a husband. Miss Talmadge?" " I want a husband who will love no other woman but myself." " How old do you want him to be?" ,: I want him to be old enough to be reliable, and young enough to be enjoyable. Of course, his age and the way he combs his hair aren't so important; if his hair is dark." Have any of your sweethearts been of the type you have described ?" she was asked. "No; that's why I never married any of urcr.MONTs ci.vs'or. FOR OBESITY. BEUIUES [Advt.1 THE SAVAGE. (.Continued from page 76). mightiest hunters, cut off their hair and stood 5 stunned, speaking to no man. Wanda was the ■ first of their tribe to do that which they could I not realise nor understand — so heinous the I crime. But Wanda, sitting at the feet of her master, her chief that came out of the night, loved on, and worshipped on. Private Flynn fairly groaned in agony. " Sure, Captain Ed, she's an angel, sor," said he. " She don't belong to no ladies' school, nor no album, but she's an angel av goodness an' mercy. A quane av her own people an' a quane av the worreld. Sure, if it was me, bad cess to me fer bein' so bold, she cast thim swate, innocent eyes at, I'd love her from the ind av her pigtails to the bottoms av her little moccasined fate. Marry her, sor ! Marry her ! Sure, I'll just die if you don't." But Captain Ed objected to being advised, and laughed the laugh that was the ecstasy of Wanda's soul. " All very nice," said he ; " and romantic, Flynn, but how about the little blonde girl back East that you used to carry the notes to ? Young, fresh as a dewdrop. and — and white. No sun, sand and sage brush, Flynn, but a princess's bower of honeysuckle, surrounded by a shady green garden." Still he walked and talked with Wanda, ■Still he said sweet things to Wanda. Still he put Iiis arms around her Waist, and called her pet, MISS CONSTANCE TALMADGE. • them. But to be very exact, I've been so ' busy all my life doing all sorts of things in front of the camera that I really have somewhat neglected the important matter of fretting myself about a husband." She thought for a moment, and then continued : ' " You know, it really looks like I should know a great deal about marriage. In every picture I recall I've had to be married either at the beginning or the end — usually at the end. And yet I fancy I'd make about as poor a wife as anybody in the world." The interviewer dissented.' "You'd make a fine wife for somebody,"1' he said seriously. ' "But for whom?" she asked. "For'' whom ?" " For anybedy," he pronounced firmly, as ■ Miss Talmadgc started for the set to rehearse, a kitchen scene for o:ie of her forlhcomi releases. Endearing names. And still Wanda filled his pipe With " shongsasha " (tobacco), And gazed with trusting eyes Upon her master. It did not Hurt him, and she was very, very ai-Hling | Happy. Indians hide all traces of pain, and Wanda was an Indian. Wanda did not cry out when Private Flynn, in halting, broken tones, told her. Her face turned to a mask of stone. Even the discerning eye of Flynn was fooled. " Sure, an' I thought she'd go mad," said Flynn to his bunkie. " Divil a bit av ut. When I told her the cajitain had bin transferred— ' omittin', av course, that he had asked to be— she jist quiet like spoke sum gibberish, ' A ko e yi«| ya ' ('go 'way from here') says she. . ' Yis.' H says I, ' he gone,' not knowin' what the divil the poor darlin' was savin'." As the sun sank in the west Wanda stood upon the rock of sorrow of her people, alone, V save with the air of God. " She didn't stop a second," Private Flynn £ sobbed. "She just looked up at the sky like', she was a good Cath'lic, an' stepped ofi intoa that hole what they call a canyon, with it* sharp, jagged rocks an' boilin' river, five hundred fate below, an' whither ut was the sun settin' or me eyes gittin' full o' wather, boys, I dunno, but the mountains blushed." (C,i/ permission of the Tlritton Publishing Company. AH rights reserved.)