the “famous” and “prominent scenario writer,” while the lone mention of Fred labeled him the “noted Los Angeles athlete and chaplain.”2
To add to Clara’s indignity, a friend sent her an article from the San Francisco Examiner a month later announcing Frances’s heroic return to her hometown and recounting her war adventures. After listing all of the demands on Frances’s schedule, the very last line of the front-page story read: “And as soon as she finds a moment to spare, she will marry Fred Thompson [sic], America’s champion athlete, who was commander of athletics with A.E.F.” His family and friends were so used to Fred’s being the focus, the handwritten note on the article asked Clara, “I wonder if this is our Fred or if there is another athletic Fred Thomson in America?”
While the picture was of an attractive, sedate Frances in her army uniform, Clara knew that this “government war correspondent, authoress, playwright, and native Californian” was not the demure virgin fit to be the wife of her son. Clara Thomson was not at all pleased. No mere female would ever be worthy of any of her boys. When Fred’s older brother Henry brought home Janet Smart, an attractive college graduate from a well-off and socially established Santa Ana family, Clara let them know of her displeasure then and throughout their marriage, which was to last until Janet’s death fifty years later.3
If a wealthy, educated, and unmarried woman was not good enough for one of her sons, Frances’s sins were beyond pardon. In addition to her marriages and her work for the movies, she was “bought and paid for by William Randolph Hearst.” No one of any principles or stature read a Hearst paper. “He was a Democrat.”4
When Clara and Frances finally met in Los Angeles, she and Fred were already married and he made it clear there was nothing to be discussed. He assured his mother he would find another line of work to share his love of God and would continue to support her financially. Fred would always revere his mother and be deferential in their communications, but she was no longer the number one woman in his life.
Frances spent as little time with her mother-in-law as politely possible. The newlyweds checked into the Hollywood Hotel for a month’s stay and Frances’s mother came from San Francisco for a brief visit. While Fred spent time with his family and friends, Frances finished the titles for Pollyanna and when it premiered at Clune’s Theater on January 19, 1920, Frances’s name was not only listed on the credits, but before and in bigger letters than the director, Paul Powell. While she and Mary thought the film verged on insipid, the public and the critics loved it, praising Pollyanna as “the crowning achievement of her screen career.”5
Frances had successfully seen Mary through her first United Artists production and now made preparations to return to New York to finish her commitments to Hearst and Cosmopolitan, clearing her slate for a long honeymoon. She recommended her old San Francisco reporter friend Waldemar Young to write Mary’s next scenario, returning the favor he had done for her when he told Oliver Morosco about her paintings eight years earlier. Yet there was one more personal crisis to see Mary through as well: Douglas was insisting that she divorce Owen and marry him.
There was no question in Doug’s mind of how much he loved Mary, but, “Oh that family.” What would it be like when they married? Charlotte’s life was so entangled with Mary’s, and then there were Jack and Lottie. Doug saw them as an embarrassment and feared he might be taking on four dependents instead of just one.6
He liked to consider himself of the class with which he associated and it irritated him when Mary joked about being “shanty Irish.” The family’s drinking habits concerned him as well, although Mary would forsake the regular Pickford bourbon for the more refined “Pink Lady” when she was with him.7
Fairbanks himself was a teetotaler as a result of a dramatic family imbroglio. His father had returned to Denver and looked up the twelve-year-old Doug at school. His son urged him to come home and Charles Ulman agreed, but first fortified himself for the meeting with his ex-wife at a local bar to the point that when they finally arrived at the house, Ella took one look at Ulman and ordered him never to return. She immediately took young Doug to the local Temperance Union, where she stood over him as he signed a pledge never to drink. From all accounts, he stayed true to the vow until much later in life.
Doug convinced himself that once Mary was Mrs. Fairbanks, he would be all-important to her. Even his own son would later say, “Dad wanted all of Mary—herself and her talent and her fame and her exclusive devotion. And he longed to be able to display their union to the world like a double trophy.”8
So Doug gave Mary an ultimatum: marry him now or he was leaving her. His divorce from Beth and her remarriage had not caused any discernible effects on his career and he was sure it would be the same for her. They had been in love for three years and he was not waiting any longer.
While Mary was sure she loved him and was miserable living a lie in a marriage with Owen, she was petrified of making a mistake of such magnitude that it would wipe out everything she had worked for. Frances knew that Mary had never reached a major decision without her mother’s approval, except for the disastrous one to marry Owen, and while others painted Charlotte as a puppeteer pulling her daughter’s strings, Frances believed she genuinely wanted what was best for her daughter.
“Even when Mary’s mother found out Doug was half Jewish, she preferred him to Owen,” Frances told an interviewer late in life. “Owen was drunk all the time. The main thing was that ‘Mama’ loved Mary to be happy and Mary was never lovelier than when she was with Doug. That was enough for Mama—if only they both weren’t married to somebody else.”9
Yet when Mary practically begged her mother for her blessing, Charlotte’s only response was to ask, “Will you ever be happy outside the church?” Even if Mary could manage to get an annulment, Douglas was divorced and that made the Catholic church’s approval impossible. Still, Charlotte was not about to repeat the mistake of forbidding her daughter to marry; this time the decision was Mary’s to make.
Mary turned to Frances and as they tried to gauge how “her public” would react, Frances decided they were too close to the situation. Aware that “even as a child, Mary had never experienced such fear and frustration,” Frances sought outside help. She needed someone who could be trusted as a friend and who, as a reporter, understood both the public’s perceptions and the business of motion pictures. Once again, Frances turned to Adela Rogers St. Johns.10
As difficult as it was for Mary to let anyone into her private circle, she agreed to invite Adela for tea. Like everyone else who went to the movies, Adela felt she already knew Mary, but the first thing that struck her as Mary introduced herself was that she had never before heard the star’s voice. Adela was enchanted and, for once in her life, more than a bit in awe.
“If I get a divorce and marry Douglas, will anyone ever go see my pictures again?” Mary asked her directly. “Do you think they will forgive me?”
Adela was taken aback, yet not totally surprised, for she had heard the rumors. Her mind raced as she realized Mary was facing a three-ring crisis—familial, religious, and professional—but before she could comment, Mary added something that would always echo in Adela’s mind as exemplifying how seriously she took her position: “Above all, there are my people to consider.”
“My people” meant more than a sense of noblesse oblige for those who depended on her. Along with the business acumen that served her so well, Mary had almost an innate understanding of this new phenomenon called stardom: the public’s sense of ownership of the personalities they took into their hearts.
Adela empathized and, assuming Mary must be very much in love to have called for her, hedged her advice.
“I
