W.R., in his sixties now, and the gorgeous young girl, whose stutter only added to her charm, had dreamed that someday, somehow they would be man and wife. Mrs. Hearst—who was Millicent Willson, a chorine in a group called “The Merry Maidens” when she first met W.R.—thought otherwise. Her husband’s hopes of marriage to Marion seemed about ready to bloom when Millicent was being escorted by Alexander Moore, once married to Lillian Russell and once United States Ambassador to Spain. As an inducement to divorce, W.R. was offering Millicent $10,000,000 together with the huge apartment house in which they used to live.
Millicent sought advice from one of the biggest men in the country, who was a good friend of Marion’s, too. His reasoning prevailed with her: “Mrs. William Randolph Hearst is a very important name in America and the world. What would you gain if you gave it up?”
Marion made friends with Moore in later years when he was in California very ill. She sat by his bedside during his last days. “Before the end comes,” he murmured, “will you put your arms around me and kiss me?” She didn’t hesitate a moment.
She performed that same, final act of compassion for another man, her father, long after it was clear that, in spite of all Hearst did for her, he could never give her his name. Bernard Douras, like the rest of Marion’s family, had shared in W.R.’s generosity. As a result of ties with “Red Mike” Hylan, mayor of New York, Douras had been appointed a city magistrate and was invariably referred to in Hearst papers as “Judge” Douras. He had been a stanch Catholic all his life. He, too, died in Marion’s arms.
She had a heart big as the Ritz Tower, which was one of the hunks of New York real estate W.R. owned in those days, after taking it over from Arthur Brisbane when he couldn’t meet the payments. Socially, in Hollywood she was the queen bee for more than thirty years. Friends fallen on hard times could rely on a check from Marion to see them through. A girl who wanted to impress a producer or land a job could borrow Marion’s best dresses, furs, and fabulous jewels—whatever the occasion called for.
When talking pictures arrived, Marion had problems like everybody else; she got going with Marianne and went on to The Floradora Girl. “Somebody told me I should put a pebble in my mouth to cure the stuttering. That goes back to the days of the Greeks, the pebble treatment. During a scene the first day, I swallowed the pebble, and that was the end of the cure.”
She had no cause to worry that speech trouble would put an end to her career. The birth of the talkies ruined many another reputation. Two of the cruelest, most primitive punishments our town deals out to those who fall from favor are the empty mailbox and the silent telephone. But Marion was a hostess who took no notice of who was in and who out of the social swim. Her friends, rich or poor, were invited up to San Simeon. Her parties and picnics mixed the important guests with people you saw no other place. Mighty executives rubbed shoulders with has-beens still living under her protective wing. Quite a few careers were started all over again as a result.
In her bungalow she had a complete household staff, including a fine cook, Mrs. Grace, with a young daughter, Mary. When Mrs. Grace fell fatally ill, as a last favor she asked Marion to look after her Mary. The little orphan was raised like a daughter. When she reached school age, she went away to be educated, then returned to live with her foster mother.
Mary begged for a photograph of Marion autographed “To my darling daughter.” And on that deceptive bit of pseudo-evidence was built the juicy rumor that W.R. had children by Marion. Only after some years did she retrieve the picture from Mary Grace, but the damage had been done, prompting Hearst in his will to testify: “I hereby declare that the only children I have ever had are my sons....”
Marion did some matchmaking on Mary’s behalf by introducing her to one of Hearst’s band of trouble shooters, William Curley, publisher of the New York Journal American, who had five children of his own by a former marriage, plus grandchildren, and was old enough to be Mary’s grandfather. Mary was married to William Curley at San Simeon.