We studied “Camille,” “The Marble Heart” and “Romeo and Juliet.” All of my spare time at home, I spent memorizing and rehearsing. I would get a younger sister, Nora, who was absorbedly interested, to act as a dummy. I would make her be Armand or Armand’s father.
“Now, Nora,” I would say, “when I come to the word ‘Her,’ you must say: ‘Camille! Camille’!”
Then I would begin, addressing Nora as Armand:
“You are not speaking to a cherished daughter of society, but a woman of the world, friendless and fearless. Loved by those whose vanity she gratifies, despised by those who ought to pity her—her—Her—”
I would look at Nora and repeat: “Her—!” and Nora would wake up from her trance of admiration of me and say:
“Camel! Camel!”
“No, no!” I would yell, “That is—” (pointing to the right—Mr. Davis called that “Dramatic action”) “your way! This way—” (pointing to the left) “is mine!”
Then throwing myself on the dining-room sofa, I would sob and moan and cough (Camille had consumption, you may recall), and what with Nora crying with sympathy and excitement, and the baby generally waking up, there would be an awful noise in our house.
I remember papa coming half-way down the stairs one day and calling out:
“What in the devil is the matter with that Marion? Has she taken leave of her senses?”