Irene Worth, born in 1916 in Nebraska, is one of the last of the generation of legendary actors of the English-speaking world. The list of greats she has worked with is awe-inspiring: Laurence Olivier, Ralph Richardson, John Gielgud, Alec Guinness, Paul Scofield, Noel Coward, Tyrone Guthrie, Peter Brook. She was one of the founders of the Stratford Shakespeare Festival in Canada and is a member of the Old Vic Company and the Royal Shakespeare Company (her Goneril in the Scofield King Lear was renowned).

Worth's reputation rests on not only the classics, but contemporary drama from Samuel Beckett to Tennessee Williams to David Hare: She won Tony awards both for the Broadway production of Edward Albee's Tiny Alice and Neil Simon's Lost in Yonkers (she is in the movie as well). Her Hedda Gabler caused Walter Kerr to write, in the New York Times, "Miss Worth is just possibly the best actress in the world."

Worth will be appearing at Bryn Mawr College on Friday, Sept. 15 in her Portrait of Edith Wharton, a show she originally created as a benefit for The Mount, Wharton's home, and subsequently presented at the Public Theatre in NY. The subject of her "recital," as Worth calls her dramatized portraits, is the American writer (1862-1937) best known for The Age of Innocence — recently made into a film —Ethan Frome — recently made into a film — and The House of Mirth. Wharton was a close friend of Henry James and led an international life.

Wharton's life was so full, so rich — she is one of the most remarkable women I have ever met — and I say that because I feel I did meet her. I knew B.B. Berenson [Bernard Berenson, the great art connoisseur] very well; I stayed with him at I Tatti [Berenson's villa outside Florence, a mecca for European and American intellectuals] and they talked about Edith quite a bit, but I was completely indifferent to her novels in those early days so I never asked him about their relationship — he could have babbled on for hours. I was too busy; I was absolutely obsessed with Piero della Francesca in those days — and I was in Florence at a time when there was nobody much at all. You could go to the Uffizi and there was nobody at all — it was freezing. And I stood there shivering looking at The Birth of Venus all by myself. It was extraordinary. Now you can't get into the Uffizi, at any season. Those were great days. So in that way, I had just a glimpse of those days when Edith was at her finest.

And it doesn't matter whether the audience has heard of Edith Wharton or not — it goes out on its own weight, everybody enjoys it. And I'm glad I can present the woman. We have so many men as heroes, but there are so few women heroes...

She had the courage to fight against her background — she came up from the riches instead of dire poverty, but she had to fight just as hard. Of course it was much easier for her to fight because she had money, but she was as great an outsider as anyone you could imagine. And being ostracized by your own people is not an easy thing. However, she bore it, and I think when you have that vast amount of talent, a certain amount of courage comes with it, otherwise none of us would be anywhere.

I think she's heroic in that she made her own way at a time when it was absolutely not admitted that women were to have talent or do what she did. And she had imagination. And her war work — the things she did when she went to the front were very heroic. She organized a relief organization immediately for war orphans covered in "mud and blood" as she said, and found shelter and clothing for them, and it was so successful that the Red Cross absorbed it. She was very angry about that — I don't actually say that in the recital — but that's why she went on to Morocco.

Yes, very interesting word, perhaps that's it, the texture. I wanted to present my feeling about a woman who was a very great writer, a great American, a great European, a great international figure of enormous quality. Although she was a desperate snob, and had unpleasant qualities, so her friends tell me.

Edith Wharton, in the midst of her troubles with her husband and the affair she was having, asked Henry James for advice, and it is reported that he said, "Have it all, have every inch of it, but have it ever so quietly." Do you think she did?

I suppose that deep, deep within their marriage there was this competition of a man who was used to living a very easy, light life and here was a woman who was not supposed to have any talent — with a colossal intellect, an enormous talent and great curiosity, so she couldn't bear all those small-talk tea-party tennis-lawn things. Couldn't bear it! Who could!

No, that's the one thing that I try absolutely not to do. I only try to convey what was in her soul, her mind, her spirit. I don't know what her voice was like — I believe it was high and rather squeaky — I could never attempt to impersonate her; I think that lessens the quality. I think of [the audience] as my friends, because we all share in this. I'm reading it aloud, and we're all sharing it round the fire — I want people to understand what she felt.

I do have this one beautiful gift — the marvelous apricot velvet dress by Fortuny [famous fashion designer favored by the rich early in the century] that belonged to Dorothy Gish. [The Gishes] bought it in Florence in the 1920s. After Dorothy died, Lillian let me have it, so for the show I wear this incredible dress which is very much of the period. I've never been able to find out whether Edith Wharton wore Fortuny dresses. She might have, and yet I don't quite see her in them.

I've had such a rich and wonderful life. I have the glory of having known Karsavina [Tamara Karsavina, the great ballerina who partnered Nijinsky in Diaghilev's Ballets Russes] — I have quite a few Fortuny dresses which have been given to me — and I was wearing one and Karsavina said to me, [here she uses a high, reedy voice with Russian accent]: "Oh, you're wearing a Fortuny... Oh, Paris." This was after she left Diaghilev.

I'd better not say. I was horrified by it. It was boring and appalling. I would have walked about after the first three minutes, but I thought perhaps it would get better.

Yes. No. I don't know. I certainly love Hedda. I very much loved doing Celia in The Cocktail Party. The role of Helena in All's Well that Ends Well. Sweet Bird of Youth — that was a tremendous challenge — very exhausting, it nearly killed me, but very powerful. And I loved the play of David Hare's called The Bay at Nice. If I weren't so idle I'd do it here. I did it in London at the National Theatre.

I never played Cleopatra on the stage. That was a disappointment. Larry [Sir Laurence Olivier] wanted me to do it with him, but I said no. He'd done it with Vivian [Leigh, Olivier's wife] and I thought no. I don't want to do that with him. I think he was rather surprised that I turned him down.

I'd quite like to do the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet — she's so bawdy, I would love to do that. And I'd love to do The Way of the World with Meryl Streep as Millamant — I think she'd be fabulous and I'd like to play that terrible old Lady Wishfort. I did it on television, so I have done it. It's hard to find things — I'm so fulfilled.

Irene Worth in Portrait of Edith Wharton, Goodhart Hall, Bryn Mawr College, Fri. Sept. 15, 8 p.m. For tickets and information, call (610)526-5210.)

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