The St. Louis Republic. [volume] (St. Louis, Mo.) 1888-1919, 1902-12-28

WRITTEN FOR THE SUNDAY REPUBLIC.
BleonOra Duse, who comes to st. Loui
for the first time this week, has written
her memoirs. They exhibit in a wonderful
way the strange temperament Of this art
iste.
a great deal was written about the fact
that she always refused to be interviewed.
The state of mind revealed by her memoirs
explains this attitude towards the public.
Sisnora Matilda Serrao. Italy's greatest
woman writer. will publish Buses memoirs,
which came to her in the shape OF letters
written by the great artistic.
The signora says that she has preserved
the identity Of the letters throughout. Her
duties as the editor consisted principally in
a metnodical arrangement of the material
placed at her disposal.
Nine. Buses memoirs begin as follows:
"reminiscences?
No. / don't a TO remember.
l nm what l am.
What I have been is past. All, II I could
only forget my disappointments, my strug-
giles, my abasements-
No. I must not forget the battles I have
fousht-not these, but everything else. ev-
erything.
Still. can it be done?
Time and again our thoughts travel back
to things and events that happened.
One cannot help remembering what has,
at one period Of our life, torn our heart.
made 1t bleed and tremble. made it cover
and suffer.
We cannot escape the thoughts of what
has been and does exist in spite of US.
They are like mildew on the .-Ives OF our
mental diary.
QUERIES FROM STRANGE
MEN AND WOMEN.
And then come men and women-persons
N-nu hava aNa aap-SrrpnuarS for uphnn,
you care not and who do not care for you
10 inquire who you are and what you are;
what you feel, what You think
They want to know all about your past.
When you refuse to receive them, when
you do not answer their questions. they call
you proud. full Of pretentiOns, arrogant.
Arrogant. and why?
Because you will not tell them what you
are afraid to tell yourself-what frightens
you, what you mean to keep a secret from
your own heart
Events of my life?
There are many OF them. but what looks
to me like an event. an occurrence that
perhaps forced upon me the part l am now
playing in the world, the mark-tones Of
my life-in short, TO another they may ap-
pear stale and empty and Improbable acct
dents.
Yes. I have had many experiences; too
many, but they were not experiences in the
sense which the sensation-hungry mob alone
recognizes.
They were more like ~trials-trials that
have cost me many tears. and the remem-
brauce of which makes me cry, cry, cry
every time when I play Lydia di Morane IN
the drama Visitors at the Wedding"
L feel then as If my soul were ready to
go out with one great sob.
1t was twelve years ago, IN Rio.
The yellow fever went from house to
house, from palace to hut, gathering in
victims.
We play-actors played.
one day at rehearsal Diotti appeared with
the pallor OF death on his brow. tired, hard
ly able TO stand on his feet.
What ais thee? For Gods sake. tellr'
Nothing; a strange feeling. My head is
not right-but, come, let US make a start"
And he did begin.
l saw HI was not himself.
l saw him tremble as II shaken by in
tense cold.
BROKE DOWN IN MIDST
OF EXCITING SITUATION.
"Do not attempt the impossible" l said.
Il am going to close the theater."
And thy fortune?" he made answer
AL thy money is at stake.
81 will be better tonight.
Let us proceed with rehearsal"
Suddenly. In the midst of an exciting sit
uation, he broke down
1t was the fever.
The fever thai never lets up on a being
marked for destruction
What were we to DO?
We had to play, because We were under
We had to play, because a good many
tickets had been sold.