Tullio Carminati — The Woman in His Life (1935) 🇺🇸

When you saw Tullio Carminati making such suave and deft screen love to Grace Moore in "One Night of Love," I wonder if it seemed strange to you that such an obvious Don Juan had never married and had never, in spite of the fact that he has many women friends, been seriously rumored engaged.

by Martha Kerr

Certainly he has a way with women. Certainly women are interested in him, but Tullio always remains polite, reserved, aloof.

I know why. I discovered the secret not so long ago and the story is so beautiful, so tender, so gallant that I think it will make you admire Tullio even more than you do now.

He is the victim of a great and abiding love, but the name of the woman he loves must forever be shrouded in secrecy. She is married. And neither she nor Tullio believe in divorce.

In fact, it was one, day when Tullio and I were talking about divorce that I discovered the secret of his hitherto unrevealed love.

We were sitting quietly together in Tullio's apartment, a restful place with its walls decorated with pictures of the greatest European actors and actresses. An autographed photo of Sarah Bernhardt. Another of Lina Cavalleri.

"I do not believe in divorce," this smart, sophisticated man-of-the-world said to me. "I can recognize its importance when two people, thrown together by marriage, find it absolutely necessary to break apart. But my religion forbids divorce. Marriage, I have been taught, is a holy thing. That is why, in Europe, we frown upon divorce and yet you will find that love is given full opportunity despite the restrictions of marriage and convention."

I saw a strange cloud pass across his face. Written upon his features was a curious emotion which I was then unable to read. There was a long silence.

At last he said, "I know what it is to love and to find that love handicapped because convention looks askance upon romance when the loved one is married."

And then the story — or as much of the story as Tullio could tell — poured out. And I realized the greatness of that love, or Tullio could not be so content with the few crumbs tossed him.

He met her many years ago. She was beautiful, gracious, charming. At that time Tullio was in the throes of discouragements and disappointments. He thought his career was going badly. He was afraid that he would never be the actor his ambition told him he might be. It was during that troubled time that he met her, and she with her great woman's wisdom helped him over his doubts and fears, advised him and helped him with his career. And he fell in love with her.

Knowing she was married, Tullio was determined that he would not mention his love to her. And then he began to know — not through words, but through those slight gestures, the turn of her head, the interest in her eyes, all those mystic encounters apparent only to the lover — that she loved him, too.

For months they did not speak, but when they met their eyes told each other what they dared not say. And then at last they could refrain from a declaration of love no longer.

When this tremendous fact was at last shared by them they talked it over as calmly as two people desperately in love can talk to each other. Her religion and Tullio's forbade divorce. They were destined, they knew, to be victimized by unrequited love. There was no other way, but their affection is so great that it lasts on and on.

She is of high birth. Her name and reputation must remain beyond reproach. So when, for a few brief moments, they meet there is always a chaperon present.

"Occasionally I write to her. And sometimes, she will reply," Tullio said. "I see her when I am abroad or when she is here. But at all times I know and realize that she loves me and that some day, some time, I will be able to go to her, to acknowledge to the world that she is the one woman I love.

"And this explains why I am content to live here, alone, happy in those few days when she comes to America or when I can go to Europe to see her."

Although I cannot tell you her name I can reveal this much. She has a title. Her husband is an important dignitary and she is widely known abroad for her kindness and her many charities.

This calm acceptance of the marriage code on Tullio's part, this bowing to a convention when he is so obviously and deeply in love amazed me. He is a fiery, vivid Dalmatian. How is it possible, then, for him to sit back quietly knowing that the woman he loves is married to another?

Convention forbids a divorce. In certain European circles, you see, society will condone an occasional indiscretion, but it will not forgive divorce. Yet here society will forgive divorce and chastise the indiscreet.

"That is why I cannot understand Hollywood. I feel that divorce is too free, much too easy. Somehow, despite an occasional slip from the path of convention, I feel that marriage is too beautiful a thing to be broken easily.

"And my personal case has nothing to do with my views. A marriage, perhaps, may be easily broken when there are no children or close ties, other than the enforced intimacy of living together. But when there are children, the family becomes important.

"Unless the parents are so temperamentally unbalanced as to make their lives together most difficult they should forget occasional differences and adjust themselves to furthering the happiness of their children. That, to me, is most important. If they then wish to find love elsewhere, they can do so. They can still be happy in their home life and find the need for romance satisfied elsewhere. That is not indiscretion — that is common sense."

"And this woman you love? When will you see her again?" I asked

He shrugged his shoulders. His is a great patience. "I do not know," he said, "but when I do we will know what we have always known. She will still love me and I will feel toward her exactly as I did when I first met her."

So, even though they meet so seldom, even though there are only occasional letters, she is a part of his life. She is the keeper of his heart. He can go on year after year alone because he knows that they have a love which "passeth understanding."

And I wonder if, when Tullio enfolds some glamorous screen star in his arms as the cameras click before them, the star ceases to exist and in her stead he imagines that he is holding the beautiful, titled, glamorous woman he loves.

Does Tullio imagine The One and Only in his arms when he embraces these glamorous sirens — Tala Birell, above, and Lilian Harvey, below, in "Let's Live Tonight"?

Collection: Modern Screen Magazine, May 1935