The Savannah morning news., 1901-05-03
CLARA MORRIS WRITES.
An Interesting Interview With the
Famous Actress at Her Home.

ner performance oil NCdHhlile MON
Deu! This woman is not acting; she is
suffering!"
You remember the actress who won
her way to the deepest emotions of hearts
that are not so young to-day as they
were when she was in the zenith of her
glory.
met her few days ago, a gray win
try afternoon, in her home on the Hud-
son. had been told that she was suffer-
ing, that she was in frequent paroxysms
| of pain, that it was with difficulty she
| could get up and down stairs; in fact.
1t was a question whether she would be
able to me at all.
Thank godnessi l find no cause to dwell
upon the dark side of things, for it was
not visible in her presence, in her voice,
! in her quick, sympathetic play of fea-
| lures, in her humor, in her direct sim
plicity or fancy that made her art so
swift messenger of her nature-on
| the stage.
moments accurate calculation will
! show you that there is no reason to mag
Inc that Clara Morris is too old to act,
| too old to laugh, too old to feel the glow
of inspiration that fired her audiences to
the chatter of enthusiasm.
1t Is custom in these days of prolific
| jealouses in art to muffie the fame of a
man or woman on the stage with ficti-
| tious age; But Clara Morris has a clarion
voice that will not be stifed while her
heart beats true and her imagination is
warm with the touch of life.
sim in the World and OF it.f
l rather expected to see that pathetic
picture in the art world-a retired act
ress, which, if it does not mean fash
| iOD9hIR IA q . n,
stageworn, brain weary and heartsick
of Illusion.
These general impressions had been
modified to my mind by what l had
| read of her work with the pen. They
were entirely dispelled after I had seen
her and talked with her while.
Three years ago Clara Morris became
| an euthoress. 1t was to ascertain if her
literary intentions were truly professional
that l went to see her. Was she going
to make a profession of literature, as
| she had established her professional rank
| on the stage or was it merely a pilgrim
age, a voyage d'esprt, with memory for
guide and pen and ink as travelling
| companions.
Was she merely taking literary ram
| BILE, or had she set out on long journey
| into the world of books?
| Her face was radiant, her grasp of
| the hand cordial and warm, her poise
| erect as ever and her voice as musical
| as ever No hopeless invalid could be so
| convincing. 1t was quite clear that her
| soul was very much alive, only her
hands quivered a little, as her nerves
grew tired in the ordeal of journalistic
research, for she was always a sensi-
tive woman
Her husband, F. c. Harriott, informed
me before she came into the room that
she had passed almost a sleepless night
| a confidence she skillfully denied in her
manner and raillery.
I'm picking up ideas, unraveling the
skein of memory and looking for ma
terial." she said when asked what she
was doing in literary work
You have begun novel?''
"Ughp She shivered slightly, and her
hands held fast to the cushions around
| her
+" You are in pain?"
Appalled, she said. fear in her face
"Why?" 1 asked =
"Oh, at the mere thought of writing
novel. 1t seems such a tremendous
task. How should one begin?" she add
| ed. an earnest appeal in her manner.
inspiration and a long breath"
"Only that?" she asked smiling.
And few words-about a hundred
thousand, more Or less"
Don't, don't-look," she said, holding
out her shapely hands at arms length.
See I'm trembling now at the very
thought Of it. l always believed. until
recently perhaps, that the best thing a
man or woman could do was play-an
original play of course"
yet your first impulse in literture was
a short story?''
ut was my first plunge!'
How did you take it?"
II was pushed off. suddenly, accident
ally, for charity, so to speak"
"In what way?"
do you suppose that il anyone had
told me in cold blood to sit down and
write a story that l could have done it.,
even: that ! would have done it?'
but you did"'
Because / was coaxed into believing
that ! knew how by kind neighbors and
encouraged by my husband. What woman
could refuse an encouraging husband
anything?"
"TeIl him how you wrote your first
story" urged Mr.. Harriott.
"Well, as I said before. it was purely
| by accident" She folded her hands in
her lap and leaned comfortably in the
recesses of the sofa.
Plunged Into Literature.
you know. everything that l have
done of any account l seem to have done
Camille was by accident, and the first
story | wrote was equally by accident.
They are, incidentally, analogous. | al
ways hated Camille because, when l
was a ballet girl, not stage struck girl.
l, always associated the play with that
ridiculous not to say humiliating, mo-
ment in my stage career when, as Ar
mand summons the entire gorgeous as
semblage to hear his declamatory arrisn-
ment of Camille with the words Enter
all II was my duty to rush on with one
other lady and express the terror of an
awe-inspired crowd To be one of a crowd
of two always made me hate that play,
II was during one of those bitter winters
when New York seemed to be overwhelm-
ed with distress among the poor and the
theaters gave benefits consecutively for
them that | first played Camille Owing
to the fact that / had selected a part
which another actress claimed her
own particular province. although she
did not own the rights to it, l was in
duced at the last moment to change my
programme to Camille l despised the
piece. l didn't want to play it, but the
unwritten law of benefits compelling one
to do anything that is asked commanded.
| had two rehearsels l wore odd dresses
from odd wardrobes OF my other plays,
and / had the most brutal Armand
ever played with-Frank Mayo. His
/ hat la, H.,