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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