Screenland (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

66 SCREENLAND she was given plenty of time for selfexpression. Tom wasn't selfish — he was too sure of himself to own or admit smallnesses. He shared many of his big moments on the screen with the untutored leading lady who had asked only to be an extra. On the screen? Tom shared also quite a bit of his time off the screen with Karen. She was a refreshing experience, a constant source of amusement to him. He had long been more than a trifle fed up with the type of girl who crossed his path. "I didn't know that anybody could be so naive and live," he told Monte Feinberg, who grunted, "She'll get over it — •" in answer. Yes, Tom certainly took Karen Kent under his wing ! He helped her in her choice of frocks and a dwelling, he taught her to whistle for a taxi and to drive a car. During the evenings he took her places and introduced her to people she should know (and a few she shouldn't), and instructed her in the neater phrases of the American language. But he was casual in his teaching — so casual that he didn't realize how much he was teaching the girl. One evening at a popular dancing rendezvous Karen spoke abruptly, from the depths of her heart. She and Tom had been talking of the scene that they had shot during the day — they talked a lot of shop, by and large — and of the sequence that was due for shooting tomorrow. And during a brief pause, Karen said — "Thees is more unreal to me than the picture we aire making. Much more unreal." Tom said, "How come ?" He nodded grimly to a columnist at the next table — a columnist who had been hinting that he and Karen were that way about each other. "Try and explain her sky-rocket rise!" the columnist had written, in italics. Karen crumbled a bit of bread with fingers that were as tense as little twigs. "You," she said, "have geeven me the world. Music and clothes and food and an apartment." "As a matter of record," Tom chuckled, "I'm keeping you, in a synthetic manner ! Well, Karen, take it while the taking's good. You've got it coming to you — a taste of luxury." Karen said, slowly, "France, since the war. You cannot understand the meagerness of eet. I was young when the armistice had arriv' — and yet, already, I had seen most of my people swept away — and our productive small farm made barren. I thought the job of nurse-maid was heaven. It meant a surety of the creature comforts. I can scarcely believe that it was but a stone of stepping — " Tom said, "I've known poverty, myself. Months, years of one-night stands in cheap vaudeville houses — I'd rather die than live it over. It taught me to walk alone and expect a ripe tomato in the puss instead of a pat on the back, but it took a heap out of me. Everything tender and soft — " Karen murmured, "You are the most tender, most patient person in the world. To me you are like God." Tom chuckled, "The cherubim are tuning up their banjoes. How about giving God a dance?" When Karen's initial picture, as leading lady to Tom Kildare, was released, she attracted an unusual amount of attention. She was different from the average run of movie material, and she got more notice than the average run. In your picture Forever Yours Continued from page 15 colony beauty is a drug on the market — the professional reviewers were unanimous in saying that Karen stood out because she wasn't attractive rather than because she was. "The Kent girl is a comer," was the verdict, "or is she ? Who knows whether she has been invested with the Kildare magic or whether she has talent? Watch her — that's our advice — and time will tell." Watch her and time will tell! We who did the watching from nearby were conscious of amazing marks of progress in Karen Kent. Perhaps it was because, as an actress, she hadn't anything to unlearn. However, it wasn't only her acting that showed daily signs of improvement. It was her appearance, her manner, her poise. Her feet and hands, of course, couldn't get any smaller — feet and hands seldom do ! But her shoes, after the release of the second Kildare picture, were being made by a genius in optical illusion, and her nails were shaped and tinted thrice weekly by a special manicurist. Her tall body still seemed to unfold when she was called into action, but the unfolding was no longer awkward — it had become rare and beautiful. "There's a springlike quality about her," said Monte Feinberg, once. "I missed it — oh, I'll admit a mistake — on that day Tom hired her. No, not wire springs, you dopes — I'm talking of the season. I might've known you wouldn't get me !" Oddly enough, despite the kidding, his listeners did get him. There was something in the way Karen moved that was suggestive of the budding and blooming of an early flower. The angles of the girl There's many a fox gave his pelt to make the cloak Ethel Merman wears nere. But what a beautiful destiny awaited each and every one! were growing into gracious curves. No, not curves, for she'd never be plump. Rather call them gracious planes. And she had learned to brush the unruly hair until its tumultuous curls might have been made of pale, undulating metal. By the end of her third picture the fans as well as the reviewers had begun to express themselves about Karen, and in no small fashion — through letters, through (much more vital!) the box-office. When she was forced to hire a part-time secretary to answer her mail, Tom Kildare suggested a celebration. "Am I a picker, or am I ?" he exulted. "And are the drinks on me?" Karen said, "They're oh me. If you call by for me at my house at seven, they weel be ready." Tom said, "A regular hostess. And I knew her when she didn't possess a cocktail shaker !" "Wear your best clothes, Tom. And I'll wear the flowered cheefon you helped me choose. Thees dinner is going to be an — how do you call eet? — an occasion. I have a question to ask of you." "Thank fortune," said Tom, "it's not leap year !" He quite failed to notice the flush that slanted in a warm, sultry tide, from Karen's chin to the line where her hair touched her forehead. They had cocktails, poured from a frosted silver shaker, in the living room of Karen's modest bungalow. The fashion in which that room was furnished, the very air of it, reflected Karen. The furniture was of dark oak, carved, dimly polished, reminiscent of the peasant cottage in which she had been born. There was very little color — white, taupe, a trifle of beige, a flash of blue. Tom, sipping his cocktail appreciatively, said : "Somehow when I'm in your house I see what they're getting at. The critics, that is. You are different, sort of. There isn't another joint like this in town." Karen said, "It's very simple." Tom's tone was gay as he poured clear amber fluid from the shaker. "Well, I've put you over," he said, "and that's that, simple or no. What are you going to do for me in return, kid? Or don't you believe in returns." Karen answered in her throaty voice. It was lower than its wont. "It's as I said before," she told him, "you have geeven me ever'thin'. Clothes and food and a home. You've geeven me a glimpse of the high places. But, Tom — what can I do for you ? How can I make a return ? You have no wants, no desires." Tom said, very casually, "This is a swell drinkie, Karen. You can tend bar if you ever stop being an actress. At that," he grinned, "you could marry me, you know. Fancy the headlines — Cinderella goes parson shopping with the pumpkin that took her to the party ! Karen Kildare isn't a bad name, either. The alliteration is as smooth as smooth"— he laughed in a boisterous manner, as if he had uttered the supreme joke. Perhaps it was the laughter that made Karen stiffen into such an icy silence. Perhaps it was more than the laughter. It might have been a bruised spot, inside herself, that made her so deathly still. She hesitated for the space of half a hundred pulse-beats before she said — "Why do you talk so loose, Tom? You don't want to marry me. You aire not in love with me."