The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1897-01-03

ms Will this girl whom he loved. but whom
ne wished to make his tool. This Svengali
Is not an ignorant man. He is a musician
70 me ps of his fingers-especially in the
Ups Oh ais fingers-and yet he is a coward
WIN Dragging he announces his lack OF
peIel, has an attack of the heart, and
Idints; and while he is semi-conscious,
cans upon the God of Isarel to help him,
ana says the Hebrew prayer learned in
ms. childhood. All this is done in such
" ay that you are certain that this was the
sWengali that Du Maurier drew, and not
the one that has been shown to us. See it,
my friend, and you will see the difference
between what is known as mere charac-
ter study which is too often entirely de-
pendent on makeup, and a thorough study
Oh uhe character and of its possibilities 4
Now, l am thinking of that other inter-
estns personage-an artist, too. But art
lst with an sc" added to it, You are too
lazy to get up and bow? You make a
mistake, my friend Yvette Guilbert is
Wen worth bow as a woman and as an
artistic. The woman is delightfully."-
heaIthy to look upon; eyes as clear skin
as fair as possible, and hair of that bur
nlShed copper shade that harmonizes with
the skin. What color are the eyes?
once, when she was talking about some
body she didn't like 1 thought they were
gray; but when she came to me to-day,
l was sure that they were amber; and
then, when she said good-by to me. and
we laughed at this and at that, they be-
came brown, that warm-brown shade that
suggests hospitality, and its kindred vir-
tues. Yes, l have very vague idea that
some one told me they were blue.
You ask me, in an interesting way,
What is the charm in this woman?"
Frankly, do not know; it is more than
the charm of the Frenchwoman. If
Yvette Guilbert had lived in Egypt when
Cleopatra reigned. there would have been
revolution, and Yvette would have con-
quered. She is the nineteenth century ST.
rem. You never think whether her voice
is sweet or not, but you listen. and as you
hear the tragedies of life told you, you
realize that it is more than the voice of
a woman-it is the voice of the human
heart 1 do not know by what art this
woman manages to convey this impress
sion-but she does. You forget the COM
monpiace world-you are living in that
world where a lover is suffering; where
mother is dying for her child's sake; or
where some wicked brute is having melted
out to him the punishment which he de-
serves. You see it all--you are Mortified,
and you are sure that no preacher ever
made vice seem so dreadful. Then the
song changes and the voice carries you
away to the gay festival times, and every
body is merry and everybody is glad, and
the nedft or the world is beating with
quickness, and is full of joy! What a
power, to be able to control not only the
lights and shadows of life, but the golden
sunshine and the bitter darkness! This
is what YVette's voice does.
The greatest artists of France deem it
an honor to write to her. Don't you wish,
as do, that you had the talent of Beran-
ger for poetry, and the music of-who? at
your command? Then you would lay the
result, a poem set to music, at the feet
of the woman who can give full meaning
to every word of the poem, and convey
the value of every note of the song to her
listeners. I think you have raised up
from your chair once or twice since have
been talking; you confess that my day
was well spent; that 1 met two really in
teresting people. Only people are worth
anything. Books are only of worth when
they describe people; and the people who
write books are of no use, unless they
know like the actor and the singer, how
to touch the human heart. 1t is very SEN
sitive to the touch. 1t responds unerring.
ly. It is curious, often, how hard it is to
break it-especially when it's a womans
heart--but, there. you and l were talking
of people. But what would people be
without hearts? I grant you that a brain
is a good thing to have; confess that
while a conscience is annoying some
times, still it is well to possess one. But
the heart-well, he who is master of the
human heart, can control the world. All
that 1 can ever hope to do is to reach the
heart of my willing listener, as well as
the heart OF whoever is kind enough to
read that which is written over the sig
nature of Sab