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would say if 1 hadn’t seen them It wouldn’t.hurt me any to miss
them. He took me to Just two places, the Cafe de Paris and the
Rat Mort. and those who know say that they are Sunday schools
compared with what may be seen In Paris. 1 don’t say this In
a complaining spirit at all. 1 want to be fair to Harry. 1 hon
estly believe it was because he wanted to keep me from all such
things. Still it was repression.
And this reminds me of what Harry did about the letter of
credit for $1,200 that White gave me before I met Thaw It's
untrue that Harry allowed me to use a penny of it I still had
it with me when Harry and 1 were first together. It was one
of the unjust things Jerome did in the first trial, trying to make
out that Harry let me spend any of that money. Harry tore the
money order up.
And he took every little piece of jewelry that any man had
ever given me and threw it into the ocean on the way over.
I’m telling all this because I want you to understand this re
pression I had suffered and know why I tell at length the story
of my discovery of the freeing talent within 4ne. In itself tha
story would have only a passing interest. But seen in propel
relation to my past life it becomes extremely illuminative and
significant—and if the story of my life is at all of interest tc
you—important.
If there is anything more repressive of the natural in a gin
like myself than trying to live up to the Thaw Pittsburgh Presby
terian idea I don’t know what it is.
And then came Uie killing, the preparation for the first trial
the ordeal of that trial, the second trial—months and month*
when 1 lived on the qui vive.
A Cell Where Nothing Might Bloom.
And then—the actual beggary of my dependence upon Harry’s
family—Oh, why pile instance upon instance. Put yourselves in
my place for a moment, and see what a frightful prison it all was
—a cell in which nothing spontaneous, nothing natural could
sprout, much less blossom. A perfect, dull, aching hades of re
pression.
And so
| 1 was up with the birds. I felt no ill effects from my sleep
less night. 1 caught myseir singing as I dressed lo go out and
empty my light purse for plastiline. I thought of nothing but
plastlline—having my two capable hands, 1 never thought of
modelling implements, or any of the other accessories usually
found in art studios.
"Give me plastiline," I said to the man in the art supply store
"How much?’’ he asked, looking at me as though wondering
how recently I had escaped.
1 hadn't an idea; but I said at random, "two pounds." He
' put it up. and I carried it home at my top gait.
That was the beginning. I wasn't troubled with any doubts
at ail. I knew T could do it. Practise, study, application—that
was all. Book what I had in my favor. First, the natural im
pulse; I wouldn’t have to bo driven to my work, like an un
musical pupil to the piano. Second, 1 had the encouragement
of high authority, given spontaneously.
I covered my little Indian figure with plastiline. developed
her in detail, finished her—as well as I could with my one
modelling instrument, my capable thumb. Alfred Stieglitz was
later to assure me that my "hands were my fortune”—a real
modeller’s hands, strong, flexible, with intelligence Jill their own.
This art enthusiast, with sympathies so broad that even the
“cubists" and “post impressionists” were as welcome with their
bizarre exhibits to his little Fifth avenue gallery, ”291,’’ as the
acknowledged great ones of the earth, became one of the half
dozen or so artists and connoisseurs to whom I was later in
debted for many valuable hints, and for added encouragement.
On second thought, it is not literally true that my hands were
equal to all the detail of my work, even at the start. I got
some help from a flexible nail file which I pressed Into that
service.
I developed other of my whittled figures In the same way. My
artist friend kept his promise. He called to see with what
results I had carried out his suggestion, and his verdict was
so favorable that I immediately went out and bought more
plastiline.
Funds had become low again, as usual, but I became quite
reckless in my expenditures for the tools of my new trade. I
acquired the customary modelling instruments and two model
ling stands, and went to work with the plastiline from the
initiative—disdaining to while out my figures first. I .believed
I had outgrown the whittling stage.
Life-size heads and busts, even a full-length figure or two—
hardly any attempted achievement outran my enthusiasm.
Several artists got in the habit of dropping in to see how I was
“coming on.” They were very weilcome. for they were frank
and honest, giving wholesome criticism as well as much infor
mation about fundamental principles, technique and so on.
Weinmann, the sculptor, in this way earned my deep gratitude.
A number of other painters and sculptors visited my little
studio occasionally, to go away leaving me still more benefited
and encouraged. Harrington .Mann, the celebrated English por
trait painter—whose children, especially, are so exquisite—gave
me real practical advice. He had painted ray portrait on a
former visit to America.
These associations were valuable to me in many ways. Such
men are never idle gossips, scandal mongers. They understand
humanity, and most of them, having endured privations In their
struggle for recognition, have a helpful sympathy for talent
that Is passing through the early, difficult stages of Its develop
ment. I no longer, except at times, had to listen to echoes of
the "Thaw case," or to have my thoughts dragged back to any
of the miserable ramifications of that affair. I was in a fresh
and wholesome atmosphere, all the more wholesome because all
the hours were filled with a worthy purpose, with cheerful,
happy labor toward a worthy and honorable goal.
In spite of the distinguished helps and encouragements I
have mentioned, I was still making some absurd mistakes. I
had practically completed an ambitious, -full-sized bust before I
knew what an "armature" was—the skeleton framework which
supports the plastic material. Thus far 1 had used nothing of
the kind, simply putting a lump of plastiline on my modelling
stand and getting to work on It. So sure was I of my sense of
proportion that I rarely made any measurements except to test
my Instinctive accuracy in that way when the work was finished.
But about the armature—this is how I came to realize its neces
sity in the case of large figures.
I had completed the full-sized bust Just mentioned. Having
devoted a good part of the evening to admiring it. I went up to
my room add retired. It was rather early, and my brother had
not yet come in. My long hours of labor, physical and mental,
had given me a fine “appetite" for sleep, and I slept soundly.
It seemed but a moment when I found myself -sitting up In bed,
frightened, with the echoes of a tremendous crash In my ears.
I realized that the crash must have been In my studio. With
sudden fear for the fate of some one of my “masterpieces,” T
threw on some clothes and ascended, determined to know the
worst, c There lay my head, face downward, smashed, on the
floor. The slender neck could not withstand the of the
head.
“My enthusiasm for my sculpture never waned. Day after day, week after week I worked and tead and
reflected with the single aim of being found worthy in the field that had been so unexpectedly opened ufl)
to me. I had never been ‘stage struck,’ nor was I now art struck. I was grasping at a great opportunity t*
save myself, to justify my continued existence.”
After that I started right, with a substantial skeleton.
You are not to suppose that I Imagined that daubing about
with plastiline was all there was to the noble art of sculpture.
Indeed, I was not so foolish as that. I read constantly on that
and on other matters calculated to broaden the creative brain.
Even in school I had had a leaning toward philosophy. Now
was a time when I could delve Into the philosophies, ancient and
modern, and find in them a new meaning and influence.
Schopenhauer, the deepest of thinkers, with no illusions about
women—though not a deep thinker because of this—engrossed me.
I read also much from Plato, Aristotle apd Kant. I wanted the
largest possible outlook upon life, was searching life’s Innermost
secrets, the mainsprings which manifest their force in outer
semblance even to the psychology of the individual. I studied
the classic and the modern sculptors in their works, of course,
whenever I could gain access to them; otherwise in copies
and photographs. And—for me—head and shoulders above all
the moderns and even the ancients stood the giant Rodin.
Rodin! Rodin! If I were settled in Paris—a Paris garret
would have satisfied me—would it be possible for me to gain the
interest of this great master, this genius, as my talent has al
ready attracted the helpful recognition of my artist friends? I
hardly dared dream of It yet, though the germ of a plan was
sprouting in my mind.
Rodin was my chosen master, even though I should never
be accepted by him personally as a pupil. He had earned his
freedom from academic trammels, and was free to express him
self as he chose, by his own methods. The iron rqle of the
schools was shattered. It was no longer an impossible task to
have one’s work judged upon its Individual merits and fairly
judged. Within certain limits, no longer narrow and exacting, it
was now safe to give free rein to one’s creative impulse.
My enthusiasm never waned. Day after day, week after week
1 worked and read and reflected with the single aim of being
found worthy In the field that had been so unexpectedly opened
up to me. Though I have not read these lines for more than
three years, 1 can still repeat from memory Rodin’s words in
reply to his opponents of the classic school:
"They will not understand my realism. For them sculpture
should not endeavor to represent flesh and blood and bone since
marble and bronze do not possess the colors which in painting
create the illusion of life. I, on the contrary, claim that ihe
sculptor can reach the same result if he will reproduce with
fidelity and Intensity the model he has before him. It is with
his eyes fixed on life that he must work, and his art will be
able to represent it entire, when he has observed sufficiently
and has sufficiently trained his fingers.’
. “The Tempest,” "Adam,” “Eve," ’’The Thinker” “The Kiss,"
the “Citizens of Calais," “The Old Courtezan,” aren’t all of those
creations, and many others, just so many separate proofs of the
truth of Rodin’s argument?
You should not accuse me of egotistically dropping into a dis
sertation upon art just because I had been pronounced talented
in that direction—and had daubed about a bit with plastlline and
clay. These reflections represent me at the beginning of the
reconstruction of my life lust as truly as did my acts and testi
mony during the destructive period covered by the'TEaJTtfliis.
My story could not be at all complete without them. ^ __
I had never been “stage struck,” nor was I now art dtfuck.
I was grasping at a great opportunity to save myself, to justify
my continued existence. And, while joyfully going on with my
new dally labors and studios, i calmly considered my chances of
success.
Since the days of Rosa Bonheur, a great master of her' at t,
and Marie Bashklrtseff—whose unique egotism always preju
diced me against her, genius though she probably was—women
had no longer borne in the art schools and ateliers of the worlt
art centres any real handicap on account of their sex. Womea,
their talent granted, were accepted as pupils on a level with men.
Neither bad I that other handicap eo painfully borne by poor
Marie ’'Bask-ln-berself * You remember how plaintively aha
wrote about it in her famous "Journal," which was the sens a.
tion of the literary world back In the eighties. A volume* is
bandy and I will quote this bit, apropos:
“I am very sad to-day.
“No; there is no help for me. For four years I have'been
treated by the most celebrated doctors for laryngitis, and my
health has been going from bad to worse during all that time*
"Well, 1 will make a prediction:
~1 am going to die. but not just yet—that would be too much
good fortune—that would be to end my sufferings at once. I
shall go on dragging out a miserable existence for a few years
longer with my cough, my colds, fevers and other ailments.”
Poor Marie! How I thanked whatever gods there -be for
my strength, my health, which, apparently, nothing could break
down. And. apropos of this. I have often been asked how I corn'd
withstand those six gruelling days of cross-examination In tl s
first Thaw trial, which left Jerome a wreck—as a matter of fact,
he collapsed when It was all over, went to pieces—and even shed
tears.
To such questions I have sometimes answered from Shake-
speare:
“Thrice armed Is he who hath his quarrel Just.”
Mr. Jerome had the benefit of no such sustaining thought.
He took undue advantage of hie official powers, not so much
to get the truth as to win—and he pressed that advantage
against a woman, a woman who had voluntarily given herself
up for sacrifice.
But to say that the strain did not entirely affect me would be
wide of the truth. Sometimes I could neither eat nor sleep. 1
sustained my strength with mily and vichy. I was frlghtenei.’
miserable, tortured at night by insomnia. But 1 had health, and
a constitution which could not be broken down by even thore
drastic means In any such length of time.
Such was the price of independence—the birth pangs of the
new Evelyn Thaw. And, recognizing them for what they were,
I paid them gladly.
Next Sunday Evelyn Thaw Will Tell of the
Last Interview She Ever Had with Harry Thaw
—and the Threat to Poison Her.
Evelyn Thaw Modelling a Clay Figure.
'my returning to the stage
Ore I met Harry Thaw. But
• n ‘Florodora’ and the piti
ed not make me eager to
break the chains that had always held captive -the real me and
could hereafter walk as I pleased, dependent upon no man and
mistress of circumstances.
Wilful, perhaps, I have been and am—most of us with any
will at all like to have our own way now and then—but in my
wilfulness 1 never consciously hurt man or woman or child or
animal. Spendthrift, 1 never was because 1 hever had enough
money to start at the post even. Like almost everyone else, ex
cept the ministerial circles I met in Pittsburgh, I liked life,
laughter, gayety, comfort. Does any one really think my life was
filled with gayety and laughter from the time of the killing of
Stanford White on? And undisciplined as 1 may have been it
seems to me that few have had such discipline as Fate ulti
mately administered to me.
But repressed I never have been since that day I found that
I had within me the power to stand on my own feet.
Believe me, my sisters who are dependent upon this or that
man. legally or under the rose, for your clothes, your amuse
ments, your foods—there is all the difference of a free and
sparkling Paradise and a dull and fettered Inferno between your
condition and what you feel when suddenly you discover within
you the strength and power to win these things yourself. If
there is great love it makes a great difference. But even with
great love it is better for the woman to have this strength and
power so she may staud
alone if it becomes neces
sary. And yet 1 say to you
that even this slavery is
better than poverty.
Poverty is cruel, grind
ing, sordid—the star re
pressor. It is the hook of
Fate that keeps busy on
the stage of life, dragging
off into .the scrap heaps of
the wings the luckless be
ings it grips. And there,
after a while, Death, the
stage sweeper, finds them
and brushes them off into
the grave. I do not be
lieve that either genius or
just plain ability thrives
under poverty and, to par
aphrase. it is poverty that
makes more Miltons "mute
and Inglorious" that any
thing else.
My Repressed Life
It isn’t necessary for me
to go into detail again
about my early life. Suffice
it to repeat that I was very
poor, and that poverty re
pressed me.
When I went upon the
stage in “Florodora" I was
In a constant state of be
wilderment. The lights
and the music, the cabs
and the suppers — all left
me wondering whether I
were standing on my head
or my feet. I was con
stantly in fear that all of
It would vanish. Remem
ber, I had always been In
more or less want for
aotual necessities—and I
was still only a child be
sides. J never dared be
myself fof fear it would all
disappear—like a rub of
the enchanted lamp.
1 could not encompass
Independence on the stage
before Stanford White sin
gled me out, and with the
gift of a single pearl drop
that cost him a thousand
dollars, let every one know
be approved of me. And
after—he taught me. He
was a great man. a won
derful man, Stanford
White, for all his mean
nesses, his vampirism, his
one great vice. But one
pays penalties for sitting
at the feet of the great
Stanford White impressed
upon me that I was to do
this, to do that. I always
obeyed. It was a very great
repression.
And then—Harry. 1 have
spoken of bis stinginess.
There was another side to
him I have spoken of too—
his tyranny. I became the
favorite subject of that
tyranny—fresh from that
different tyranny of White.
There have been many sto
ries told of our “esca
pades,” our extravagances
together in Paris. None of
them is true.
In Paris •Harry refused
to let me see any of those
“forbidden” things all
Americans take in. He
■ r ‘ v“!K
>1, of cc 's* 1 .
ently n vrd
feit
/If
le joy
ealei
it reprftlon
my ma iag.e
ong as can
igs am
mdlsctj Dfi*.
asurei eker
ssion o
enl am
aws in
d the
:count- iter
aother.
them,
pov-
fear
meilcei but
gotlstit 1 ro
uts-
rdid
Now
:<mld
imply
I could e* 1
lot ^
Pointed
& lltt
any bi
t
in
ica
ared 1
• Oveflnnd
nt!"
Evelyn Thaw's Own Frank Revelations of Her Kaleidoscopic Career Which Touched
Life at All Points--The Innocent Little Beauty Who Almost Starved to Death
in Forlorn Poverty and Suddenly Burst
Into the Most Brilliant Star That Ever
Illuminated New York's Gay World