Screenland (Nov 1941-Apr 1942)

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The chimney of Bob Taylor's ranch sticks its black snout over the next hill. Otherwise, only two other houses are visible. Martha is married to Radio Director Carl Alsop. You must suspect already that he is the MOST amusing man anyone ever met. And with a Gary Cooper build. When I arrived Carl, in a pair of jeans, was breaking ground for a vegetable garden. Also his back, he said, and had been since sun-up. Martha was sitting hard by on a hummock of hay, crocheting a string rug for the bathroom. Later, as we were having tea in the living room, Carl came in and Martha asked him if he would have a cup. "What I need," said Carl, "is a blood transfusion, not a cup of tea!" I find I am catching it from Martha, the habit of interrupting myself to quote Carl. Still, that's all right, that fits in with the story because quoting Carl is, emphatically, a part of Martha's private life. Her conversation is profusely punctuated with "Carl sayses" and "Carl thinkses." She is completely, admiringly, and quite understandably in love with him. As he with her. There's no sort of use, indeed, in talking about the Private Life of Martha Scott unless you tell, first, ,about the romance of Martha and Carl upon which their private life is founded. They met first in New York when he was directing "The Career of Alice Blair" radio programs. Martha, you may remember, played Alice. Joseph Cotton played Carl. In writing the script the radio character of Carl was patterned after Carl Alsop. Martha says, "When you get to playing opposite a character named Carl and on the other side of the glass a man named Carl is directing you, direction to which you are completely responsive, something happens!" Carl said, "I'd sit with the author and tell her exactly what Carl would say. Words I wanted to hear Martha say to me." Martha was the first to know it was love. She says, "I knew, but he was always fighting off the thing" — probably because, she realizes now, there is a difference in their ages, Carl had been married before, to a very wealthy woman, had traveled extensively, had run with a quite different crowd from any she knew, felt that she was "just beginning," and all that. "All that" blew away like the light chaff it was when Martha came to Hollywood to make "The Howards of Virginia." Soon, Carl followed her. They decided to be married. And when they went back to New York for the premiere of the picture, they were married, in the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church across the street from the broadcasting station where they first met. That was September the 16th, 1940. Martha is pretty superstitious about the number "16." She has never had a script that wasn't dated the 16th of the month. There is the number 16 in their phone number and in their address. They were married on the 16th, and "we'll probably have 16 children!" laughs Martha. (The first one of the 16 is expected very soon now.) Without Carl (Martha says these two words as one would say "without food or lodging") she would never have played the part of Ella Bishop. "I didn't want to do the picture. I felt I was in no way ready for it. I thought Irene Dunne should do it. Or Katharine Cornell." It was Carl who told her "of course' you can do it." It was Carl who told her she was "bom ready for it" — and Producer Richard Rowland who sensed the age-old wisdom in that twenty-odd years of youth and said, "It is for you and no one else." But even when she was in production, she would wake up crying in Carl's arms in the middle of the night. "I'm not good enough for the part" and Carl would soothe and reassure her. "I went off into a wing-ding," he said, "demonstrating to her why she was good enough ; how, and in what particulars — to see me being Ella Bishop at the age of seventy was enough to scare her into doing the part!" Now she is glad and grateful that she j did it. Because she has had some of the loveliest letters from teachers who feel as Miss Bishop did. One in particular she cherishes, from Miss Lillian Bishop of Ardmore, Oklahoma — "One of the nicest things that has ever happened to me in my career," Martha said. "I'm going to keep it, always. It is, to me, a sign that we did a piece of work that really means something." Martha is a funny mixture of assurance that she is an actress, was born to be an actress, and of a fan-like attitude toward other players. It was in the Westport High School in Kansas City (Martha was freshman in high at the age of eleven!) that it "sort of dawned" on her she wanted to be an actress, dawned on her that she had "some sort of talent" — because, for one thing, when she gave interpretative readings, the kids would sit so quietly, not move ; would be so appreciative — and because the dramatic coach, Albert Humphries told her so, told her she would go very far and very high. "But I think," Martha said, "that most actors are developed out of inferiority complexes. They always say they have inferiorities and people are inclined to laugh a little. But it's true. You see, you get to thinking you are someone else, someone quite splendid, and it gives you a sense of power you don't have at all as yon — like me, I was so little and thin, with longcurls my mother wouldn't let me cut and long lisle stockings — such an inconsequential little person — then, suddenly, to be flaming Portia or lovely Juliet or the medium for the poignant words of Rupert Brooke — don't you see? "Or sometimes," Martha smiled, at herself, "there is a personal reason. When I was in my freshman year at high school, not quite eleven when I started, I had a violent crush on a boy. He was to be in the class play and I wanted to be in the playtoo, so I could be near him. The very da} of the first rehearsal I got scarlet fever and couldn't do it. I might as well have been a Wall Street banker who had los-< everything I had lost everything — children suffer so — the fever," she added, "left me with bad eyes, ears, and flat feet ! Not that I mind (except about the feet) because being so near-sighted makes the work' more beautiful to me than to others, really I can't see anything, clearly, more thar three feet away from me. So, you see, ] don't see dust under the beds or crack; in the wall, all the ugly things are blankec out. Things look prettier to me becausi I can't define them — the moon looks twiq as big to me, and the stars — people's face; have a kind of luminosity." Later, in college, Martha studied dra matics under Valentine Windt, a pupil o Boleslavsky. She took every course in dra matics the University of Michigan offeree 68 SCRE EN LAND