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License gave his age as 38; hers as 30. He became a citizen
in June.
Marriage to Grant will not restore her citizenship,
but makes
possible her application
without filing first papers,
cutting time wait from 5 to 3 years.
Modern Screen gives you a
parson's eye-view of that incredible Grant-Hutton marriage!
Barbara Hutton has come home to
happiness. After years of searching, after hundreds of
heartaches, dozens of mistakes and a quest that has taken her all
over the world, she has found the right man at last. A man
who will never, never be known as "Mr. Barbara
Hutton." A man who will be the head of his house.
A man to depend upon, honor and love.
Immediately after their wedding
ceremony at the mountain lodge of Mr. Frank Vincent, one of the
guests said to Barbara, "I wish you all the happiness in the
world, Mrs. Grant."
"Thank you so much,"
she answered. Then she thought over that salutation.
"Mrs. Grant," she repeated to herself. "Mrs.
Cary Grant. Isn't it a nice name? I'm going to love
getting used to it."
When the news that Cary Grant and
Barbara Hutton had been married at high noon on July 8 hit the
news wires, there were a flock of astonished people in Hollywood
as well as throughout the world - but they had absolutely nothing
on the Reverend H. Paul Romeis, pastor of a small Lutheran church
in San Bernardino.
Mr. Romeis had been sitting in
his study, working over church matters, when two of Cary Grant's
friends appeared. They told the clergyman nothing except
that they would appreciate it if he would prepare to perform a
marriage ceremony at Lake Arrowhead. "The contracting
parties have their license, I presume?" he asked.
They showed Mr. Romeis a license
issued to Archibald Leach and Barbara Reventlow. He nodded
without lifting an eyebrow. As far as he was concerned,
those monikers indicated nothing more than a couple of people
hooked with fairly unusual names. He
and his escort talked about the weather, but - as a side line -
Mr. Romeis was still pondering the problem he had left on his desk
when interrupted: How to get an organ for his church.
He had wanted a small organ to replace the exhausted piano that
they had been using for what seemed centuries, but when he looked
into the future he could see nothing but zero. Small
churches in small San Bernardino just don't have pipe organ
incomes. Halfway across Lake
Arrowhead in a speed boat, it occurred to Mr. Romeis' escorts that
he should be told about the young couple he was to marry.
One of the men shouted, above the slap-slap of the speed boat,
"Archibald Leach is Cary Grant and Barbara Reventlow was
formerly Barbara Hutton." Mr.
Romeis blinked. "Cary Grant! Why, he's my
favorite actor," he said. "As for wife wife
..." The instant the ceremony
was over, he said quietly to Frank Vincent, "May I use your
telephone? I'd like to tell my wife the exciting
news." 
Marriage plans were deep, dark secret; date wasn't set till
night before,
altho they'd had license since previous week.
Mgr. Frank W. Vincent was best man & Mrs. Madeline Hazeltine,
matron of honor.
A few
moments later Cary Grant handed Mr. Romeis a check big enough to
buy real organ music for Mr. Romeis' church. Mr. Romeis
stood perfectly still for several moments. His face was a
study in delight, surprise and gratitude. "There isn't
anything I can say," he managed at last, "except that I
know you will always be two of the happiest people in the
world. May God richly bless you." And
he strode down the terrace toward the boat landing, flicking a
sudden moisture from his eyes. swooning
junior ...
In addition to Mr. Romeis there was another unexpected
participant in the nuptials - a sun-tanned sixteen-year-old girl
wearing a faded sweater, sneakers and a pair of blue jeans.
She was lounging around the south shore in her motor boat when the
photographers, press representatives from the studio, caterers and
innumerable others began to arrive. The situation was
acute. It looked as if it would take all day to transport
wedding party, etc., to its destination. (Frank Vincent's
home is on the north shore of Lake Arrowhead, and can be reached
by one of the world's worst mountain roads or by crossing in a
boat.) The girl on the dock looked
things over for a few minutes then boy-scouted to the
rescue. "I'll help you transport some of your
equipment, if you like," she said. One
of the more vocal photographers said, "Lady, you're saving me
from a life of sunburn. When you grow up, remind me to kiss
you." "Are you on
location here?" the girl asked. As
their mission was the darkest secret since the disappearance of
Charlie Ross, the boys said, "Well, sort of," and
skipped it. "I'll bet you
know my dad," said the extemporaneous ferry boat
captain. "His name is Gene Lockhart. I'm
June." "Like father,
like daughter," said the photographer. "I should
have known that a swell scout like Gene would have a girl like
you. In that case, I'll tell you a secret - all this to-do
is caused by the Cary Grant-Barbara Hutton marriage, scheduled for
high noon today." "I'm
swooning," quoth Miss Lockhart. "I mean I really
am." After all the people and
provisions were transported, June hung around the Vincent boat
landing, awaiting developments. One of the publicity men in
her group of passengers had promised her a bite of wedding
cake. He outdid himself by bringing her the groom
instead. He had said to Cary, after the ceremony, "June
Lockhart has been a little brick. If it hadn't been for her,
it would have taken twice as long to get set up here. She's
patrolling the boat landing right now." Cary
began to sep briskly in that direction. "I want to
thank her," he said. So June,
in her jeans and peeling sunburn, met her idol on his wedding
day. The occasion was almost too crucial. She
couldn't think of anything to say. She stood on one foot and
then the other. Finally she burst out, "I sure hope
you'll be awfully happy, Mr. Grant. I certainly
do." Cary patted her
shoulder. "You've helped to give us a good start in
that direction," he said. She
told one of the men whom she ferried back across the lake in the
afternoon, "I'm going to remember this as long as I
live. What a sen-sa-shun! Tell me all about the
wedding." It was a simple,
unpretentious ceremony. The Frank
Vincent house (Mr. Vincent has long been Cary's business agent,
adviser and intimate friend) is one of the most beautiful of
mountain lodges. Its ceilings are high, its fireplaces huge,
its rugs deep and brilliant. The entire south side opens
upon a flagstone terrace. Spreading away from the terrace is
a grassy slope that rolls gently down to a series of wide
flagstone stairs. These descend to the boat landing. On
the grassy knoll there is a massive oak tree, and it was under
this that the marriage rites were performed. There was no
wedding march, no "Promise Me," no music of any
kind. Barbara and Cary came out of the house together and
joined Perry Lieber, head of RKO's publicity department and one of
Cary's best friends. Mr. Vincent and Mrs. Hazeltine (wife of
the sculptor) joined the group to talk about the weather and
Cary's picture "Once Upon A Honeymoon" - the conversation
was one of those helter-skelter things that suddenly died on the
vine while someone took a quick look at his watch. Both
Cary and Barbara were so thrilled and excited that they couldn't
see straight. Something was said about the tree under which
they were going to stand. "It's a begonia," Cary
said absently. No one bothered to kid him. Barbara
was wearing a navy blue silk moiré suit, a shell pink blouse and
a tiny hat that looked like a bowl spilling over with pink
roses. Cary wore a dark grey suit with a tiny pin
stripe. Someone said to him, "Cary, that's a terrific
suit to wear to a wedding - it's really zoot." Barbara
tipped her head up to smile at him. "I'm so glad he
wore this suit," she said. "It's my
favorite." And so they were
married. The ceremony marked the end of some bitter
experiences for both of them. They met, originally, in
Europe - two people who would seem, at a glance, to have
everything on earth that heart could wish, et two people who
were rather desperately unhappy. Barbara
had separated from her Danish husband, when she met Cary, and it
was plain that there was going to be serious trouble over her
divorce. Cary had never quite recovered from the shock of
his divorce from Virginia Cherrill. no
bed of roses ...
Life had never been particularly simple for either of them.
Barbara's mother died when Barbara was five, and a tragedy of that
kind alters the entire life of a child. Luckily, Barbara had
a devoted governess, Mlle. Touquet (who was a wedding guest), who
gave the little girl a foster mother's love. Barbara
was born to the limelight, and if you don't think that isn't the
worst thing that can happen to a person, just imagine buying a
paper some evening, only to find the worst picture ever taken of
you plastered all over the front page, above a story that made you
out a moron, if not a beast. When
Barbara was 15 her attorneys put ten million dollars worth of
Woolworth stock on the market. It sent shares down seven
points and cost the sirt of many a small investor, but - the
attorneys announced - it saved the estate about two million.
Naturally, Barbara didn't know, or understand, any more about the
transaction than your kid cousin, Imogene, who is hep to the jive
but a hooligan with jellybeans - the silver ones that make banks
go jingle, jangle, jingle. Whether
she knew anything about it or not, she got the blame in
newsprint. She was a chubby little girl in those days, and
no camera flattered her. Her plump picture, accompanying the
million dollar story, some who gave the impression that she was
waxing fat at the expense of others. When
she was 21, Barbara was swept off her feet by Alexis M'Divani, one
of the Marry Mentors. That made her a Princess, but it
didn't bring her happiness. She had "everything" -
time, and money for travel, an excellent cultural education, an
altitudinous place in the world and a title. There were
plenty of girls in dime stores all over the land who would have
changed places with Barbara in an instant. It
was during the depths of the depression in this country, and
pallid girls picked the Woolworth stores with signs reading,
"Could Babs live on $8 per week?" One
of the girls said to the other, "My feet are frozen and my
back is like ice. Boy, wouldn't I love a fur coat and a pair
of fleece-lined boots! I'll bet Babs has never been this
cold." husband de luxe
And the other answered, "Gosh, I'd sure like to be a
Princess - some fun, huh?" Neither of the girls
realized that Barbara Hutton had absolutely nothing to do with the
running of the dime stores. Or that being a Princess wasn't
so much fun after all. No one has ever doubted that the
M'Divanis were superb suitors. They paid the prettiest
compliments heard in four languages. But they were frightfully
expensive husbands. Alexis
had just one aim in life: to be a ten-goal polo player.
Getting this rating is almost as hard and dangerous as making ten
touchdowns in every football game. Barbara sat in the stands
one day and saw Alexis, who rode like a demon and was afraid of
nothing on earth, thrown from his horse. He landed in a
cramped, twisted position, and for a moment the spectators rose as
one spine and gasped "Oh!" in horror. That
time he was only knocked out. Fate was reserving death on
the polo field for his brother. Alexis
drove a car the same way he played polo - as if it were the last
trip of his life. He would scare Barbara to death as he
charged over the narrow French roads or leaped from promontory to
peak as he scorched Italian highways on which might appear, at any
instant, a leisurely peasant wagon occupying the entire middle of
the road. "Alexis ... please ..." she would say
against the gale. Alexis told her
not to be a drip - he knew what he was doing. So she
huddled, small and terrified, in one corner of the big seat and
prayed to be killed outright, not just maimed. Years later,
it was another woman whose tongue was severed when the car Alexis
was driving hurtled into a canyon wall in the Pyrenees. He
was killed instantly. Long before
that happened, Barbara had divorced him. Cost: $350,000 per
year. That was the settlement she mad him, and - although
she is entirely too gallant a woman to say such a thing - the
price must have seemed cheap when she was free . . . and
unharmed. Still seeking
love, protection, comradeship, Barbara married Count Haugwitz-Reventlow,
a wealthy Danish nobleman. Money was of no interest to him,
but prestige, power and Family were. When
little Lance was born February 24, 1936, he was jubilant. He
said to the nurse, "A son, a son! The line is
assured!" The nurse asked what he planned to name the
baby. A shadow passed over his face. "That, we
will not be able to decide until the mother's life is out of
danger," he said. The birth
of her boy almost cost Barbara Hutton her life. Money and
fame mean very little to Mother Nature - she makes her own
arrangements, and for a time she seemed to have lost all interest
in the slim, fragile, blue-eyed girl who was fighting for every
breath. But the firm line of Barbara's chin is the key to
her courage, and she had no intention of quitting. She
wanted to live for that baby. Each time she drifted out of
the haze of sedatives, she turned her head weakly to say,
"Please let me look at my baby." Two
years later her marriage with the Danish Count was a thing of the
past, but she wasn't free until late 1941. She
must have made great sacrifices in an attempt to make this second
marital venture a success, according to those who should
know. For one thing, she renounced her American
citizenship. No woman as deeply devoted to her native land
as Barbara is, would do such a thing unless subjected to extreme
pressure. A friend said to her,
"Every paper in the States has carried a story about your
running out on your country. There's talk of dropping your
name from the Blue Book. Fine thing." Barbara,
as usual, said nothing to defend herself. She's a quiet
little body, according to her friends. And it didn't seem to
occur to anyone that the fragile Hutton girl "who inherited
the dime store millions" was also a flesh-and-blood woman who
wanted to please her husband, to take care of her son's future,
and to live the life of any happy wife. But
nothing she did seemed to work out just right - until she met
Cary. If a script writer had been
writing a picture about a girl like Barbara, he would have had to
invent a guy like Cary. 
Couple will live in Brentwood till he leaves for the Army this
fall.
Day after ceremony, Cary was back at studio for work.
Above, with Jean Arthur and Ronnie Coleman in "Talk of the
Town."
A blade of
grass spending its life under a rock wants sun. And Hutton
who'd spent a fortune in her day buying grief in titled packages,
wanted Grant. They met in Biarritz. When you say it,
put the accent on the last syllable. Cary's hep to the Ritz
himself. He sports a topper as nimbly as you slip into a
nightie. The average guy in his place, meeting the richest
girl in the world, would have handed her a line. Not
Cary! Those dark glasses he wears filter out the glamour.
Maybe she was an heiress to the rest of the world. To him
she was just a pretty girl by the name of Barbara.
"I've met your son Lance," he said. "You've
got a great kid!" That's the way human beings talk to
each other. It must have been a shock to Barbara. No
polo. No Dali. Just "you've got a great
kid." She came to Hollywood
to live then - to hug the sun, to thaw out. And Cary took
charge of the job. He taught her how to be a kid. He,
the British expatriate, showed Barbara what it's like to be an
American. He had her cramming up on Yank specialties like
July 4th, jitterbugging, hot foots. He and little Lance
rough-housed plenty, and home wasn't just a place for the period
furniture. at long last ...
Barbara and Cary thought they had found the real thing, but
they wanted to be sure. So they let their romance age -
mellowed it under many moons - tempered it with quarrels.
Each day together became more precious, each moment more magical. Above
all, between them they rediscovered a theory that's as old as this
country. Marriage isn't just a contract on a piece of paper.
Marriage isn't for money and it isn't for titles or position. It's
for love. It's for raiding the ice-box together. It's
for laughs and kids an sharing heartaches. It's
finding something bigger and finer than yourself and your
possessions. It's like the Cary Grants!
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