OCR Interpretation


The day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, May 13, 1915, NOON EDITION, Image 14

Image and text provided by University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1915-05-13/ed-1/seq-14/

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success, but It was some time before
I sat in the audience .and took a look
oh such a tense look!
It was an odd sensation. Could
,that little figure flit-flit-flittering
across the white "sheej; in that in
tense white and black be myself?
That Mary Fuller up there had my
face and form, she walked as I do.
She gesticulated. She moved her lips.
But 1 heard no words.
The Mary Puller I knew loved to
chatter and she was round and this
Mary Fuller was flat, merely a pic
ture on the screen. The Mary Ful
ler I knew! and then I had to pinch
myself and tell myself that the Mary
Fuller I knew was myself, the young
woman sitting there is the audience.
The first feeling of strangeness
passed and then I began critically to
watch the pictures. I saw THAT
-o
Mary Fuller doing some things so ef
fectively and other things so badly
and made mental notes of how to
cure the defects.
I was in a turmoil of admiration
and of fearful indulgence for THAT
Mary Fuller.. After that my dreams
were graduaily realized. I was "fea
tured" and finally "starred" in the
movies. I did not fully realize the
last happy state until one day I pass
ed a theater where one of my films
was being shown. The front of the
place was plastered with my name,
with my photos and with lithographs
of me.
Then I realized, that, in a measure,
1 had really "arrived." It's a de
lightful feeling and sends a lovely lit
tle shiver all over you.
And the pleasure never palls.
(To Be Continued.)
o-
CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE
MOLLIE REAPS MR. HATTON'S LETTER
(Copyright, 1915, by the Newspaper Enterprise Association.)
I did not want to go to Mollie un
less she wanted me, and yet, as I lis
tened to her sobs, I wanted to try to
comfort, her.
After all there is so little one can
do. Grief is a- solitary torture we
must always bear alone.
At last ! opened the door and
found Mollie stitched prone across
the bed, her face buried in a pillow
that I might not hear her giving way
to her sorrow.
"Mollie dear, don't cry," I said.
Why is it, little book, we always
say: "Don't cry." I think it is from a
rather selfish motive. We don't like
to know that any one about us is suf
fering. If they can keep it from us
our feelings are not harrowed. It is
'almost always better to let the sor
rowing one sob out her grief until she
is physically exhausted.
Mollie turned her tear-stained face
up to me.
"Margie," she said, "I don't believe
he loved me," and she held out this
letter.
I am running away from you, little
girl, and branding myself a coward.
I, who have faced the terrible on
slaught of savages in Africa, the more
civilized warfare of the Boers, the
judgment of the surgeon's knife and
the more terrible verdict which made
me an Ishmael always to wander
"away from love.
I have been so sure of my courage
in the face of anything in life or
death and now I am running away
from the pathetically inviting love in
your dear eyes.
Dear, you do not know what you
are promising, what a terrible price
you would have to pay. I do and I
would be craven, indeed, to let you
unwittingly take upon yourself this
awful debt a debt you would be
paying until your eyes closed in
death. I am afraid, dear afraid that
even the great love I bear you coujd
not make up for it, and so I am run
ning away. There js no compromise
possible. I could not stay near you
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