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FIFTEEN 
 YEARS 
 OF A 
 DANCER'S 
 LIFE 
 
LOIE FULLER 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF 
 A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HER 
 DISTINGUISHED FRIENDS 
 
 BY 
 
 LOIE 
 
 FULLER 
 
 f * 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 * SHE buOKT TO W<RITE ^OT llCR-MSMbRIES 
 AND HER IMPRESSIONS." — Alexandre Dtmas 
 
 HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED 
 ARUNDEL PLACE, HAYMARKET 
 LONDON, S.W. fiS ffi MCMXIII 
 
^%^3<^' 
 
 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN FRENCH. 
 
 
 AOBDON AND NORWICH PRESS, LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 1HAD seen her only as she had been seen by 
 multitudes from every comer of the globe, 
 on the stage, waving her draperies in the 
 first Ught, or transformed into a great re- 
 splendent lily, revealing to us a new and dignified 
 type of beauty. I had the honour of being pre- 
 sented to her at a luncheon of the tour du monde 
 at Botdogne. I saw an American lady with small 
 features, with blue eyes, like water in which a pale 
 sky is reflected, rather plump, quiet, smiUng, 
 refined. I heard her talk. The difficulty with 
 which she speaks French adds to her power of 
 expression without injuring her vivacity. It 
 obHges her to rely on the rare and the exquisite, 
 at each moment to create the requisite expression, 
 the quickest and best turn of speech. Her words 
 gush forth, the unaccustomed Hnguistic form 
 shapes itself. As assistance she employs neither 
 gestures nor motions, but only the expression of 
 her 4eyes, which changes like the landscapes that 
 are disclosed along a beautiful highway. And the 
 
 vii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 basis of her conversation, now smiling and now 
 serious, is one of charm and delightfulness. 
 
 This brilliant artist is revealed as a woman of 
 just and delicate sensibility, endowed with a mar- 
 vellous perception of spiritual values. She is one 
 who is able to grasp the profound significance of 
 things that seem insignificant, and to see the splen- 
 dour hidden in simple Hves. Gleefully she depicts, 
 with keen and brilliant stroke, the humble folk in 
 whom she finds some ennobUng and magnifying 
 beauty. Not that she is especially devoted to the 
 lowly, the poor in spirit. On the contrary she 
 
 1 1 enters easily into the lives of artists and scholars. 
 
 ' * I have heard her say the most dehcate, the subtlest 
 things about Curie, Mme. Curie, Auguste Rodin 
 and other geniuses. She has formulated, without 
 desiring to do so, and perhaps without knowing 
 
 n it, a considerable theory of human knowledge and 
 
 11 philosophy of art. 
 
 But the subject of conversation which comes 
 closest to her is religious research. Should we 
 recognize in this fact a characteristic of the Anglo- 
 Saxon race, of the effect of a Protestant education, 
 or simply a peculiarity of temperament of which 
 there is no explanation ? I do not know. At all 
 events she is profoundly rehgious, with a very acute 
 spirit of inquiry and a perpetual anxiety about 
 
 viii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 human destiny. Under various guises, in various 
 ways, she has asked me about the cause and the 
 final outcome of things. I need not say that none 
 of my repUes were couched in a manner to satisfy 
 her. Nevertheless she has received my doubts 
 serenely, smihng at everything. For she is dis- 
 tinctly an amiable being. 
 
 As regards understanding ? Comprehension ? 
 She is marvellously intelUgent. She is even more 
 marvellously instinctive. Rich in so many natural 
 gifts she might have become a scholar. I have 
 heard her employ a very comprehensive vocabu- 
 lary in discussing the various sub j ects of astronomy, 
 chemistry and physiology. But it is the uncon- 
 scious in her that counts. She is an artist. 
 
 I have been unable to resist the pleasure of 
 recalling my first meeting with this extraordinary H 
 and deUghtful woman. What a rare chance ! 
 You admire afar off, as in a vision, an airy figure 
 comparable in grace to those dancers whom one 
 sees on Pompeiian wall paintings, moving in their 
 light draperies. Some day you discover once again 
 this apparition in real Ufe, softened in colour and 
 hidden under those thicker robes with which 
 mortals cover themselves, and you perceive that 
 she is a person of good mind and good heart, a soul 
 somewhat inchned to mysticism, to philosophy, 
 
 ix 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 to religion, a very deep, a very cheerful and a very 
 noble soul. 
 
 There you have to the life this Loie Fuller, in 
 whom our Roger Marx: has hailed the chastest and 
 most expressive of dancers, beautifully inspired, 
 who reanimates within herself and restores to us 
 the lost wonders of Greek mimicry, the art of those 
 motions, at once voluptuous and mystical, which 
 interpret the phenomena of nature and the life 
 history of living beings. 
 
 ANATOI.E FRANCE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. My Stage Entrance . . . . 15 
 
 II. My Appearance on a Real Stage at 
 
 Two Years and a Half . . 20 
 
 III. How I Created the Serpentine Dance 25 
 
 IV. How I Came to Paris ... 43 
 
 V. My Appearance at the Folies-Ber- 
 
 GERE 51 
 
 VI. Light and the Dance ... 62 
 
 VII. A Journey to Russia — A Broken 
 
 Contract 73 
 
 VIII Sarah Bernhardt — The Dream and 
 
 THE Reality .... 84 
 
 IX. Alexandre Dumas .... loi 
 
 X. M. and Mme. Camille Flammarion . iii 
 
 XI, A Visit at Rodin's .... 122 
 
 XII. M. Groult's Collection . . . 128 
 
 XIII. My Dances and the Children . . 137 
 
 XIV. Princess Marie . . . .151 
 
 XV. Several Sovereigns . . . .165 
 
 xi 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 TACE 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Other Monarchs 
 
 184 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Some Philosophers . 
 
 192 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 How I Discovered Hanako 
 
 207 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Sardou and Kawakami 
 
 217 
 
 XX. 
 
 An Experience 
 
 223 
 
 XXI. 
 
 American Affairs 
 
 232 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Gab 
 
 250 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The Value of a Name 
 
 267 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 How M. Claretie Induced Me to 
 
 
 Write this Book 
 
 273 
 
 Xll 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 LoiE Fuller ...... Frontispiece 
 
 LoiE Fuller in her Original Serpentine Dress 
 
 The Dance of Flame .... 
 
 LoiE Fuller and her Mother 
 
 The Dance of the Lily. 
 
 LoiE Fuller and Alexandre Dumas 
 
 M. AND Mme. Camille Flammarion, at Juvisy 115 
 
 The Dance of Flowers .... 
 
 The Dance of the Butterfly 
 
 Dance to Gounod's " Ave Maria " 
 
 The Dance of the Butterfly 
 
 LoiE Fuller in Her Garden at Passy . 
 
 LoiE Fuller's Room at the Folies-Bergere 
 
 Gab 
 
 The Dance of Fire .... 
 
 The Dance of Fear from " Salome " 
 
 xiii 
 
 29 
 59 
 75 
 93 
 107 
 
 139 
 143 
 
 159 
 181 
 
 193 
 211 
 
 253 
 261 
 
 283 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A 
 DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 MY STAGE ENTRANCE 
 
 " X TT THOSE baby is this ? " 
 W/ " I don't know." 
 
 V V '* Well, anyway, don't leave it 
 
 here. Take it away." 
 
 Thereupon one of the two speakers seized the 
 little thing and brought it into the dancing-hall. 
 
 It was an odd little baggage, with long, black, 
 curly hair, and it weighed barely six pounds. 
 
 The two gentlemen went round the room and 
 asked each lady if the child were hers. None 
 claimed it. 
 
 Meanwhile two women entered the room that 
 served as dressing-room and turned directly toward 
 the bed where, as a last resort, the baby had been 
 put. One of them asked, just as a few minutes 
 before the man in the dancing-hall had asked : 
 
 " Whose child is this ? " 
 
 The other woman replied : 
 
 " For Heaven's sake what is it doing there ? This 
 is lyillie's baby. It is only six weeks old and she 
 
 15 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 brougiit; it lie-re with her. This really is no place 
 for a baby of that age. lyook out ; you will 
 break its neck if you hold it that way. The child 
 is only six weeks old, I tell you." 
 
 At this moment a woman ran from the other end 
 of the haU. She uttered a cry and grasped the 
 child. Blushing deeply she prepared to take it 
 away, when one of the dancers said to her : 
 
 " She has made her entrance into society. Now 
 she will have to stay here.'' 
 
 From that moment until the end of the ball the 
 baby was the chief attraction of the evening. 
 She cooed, laughed, waved her little hands and 
 was passed round the hall until the last of the 
 dancers was gone. 
 
 I was that baby. lyct me ex:plain how such an 
 adventure came about. 
 
 It occurred in January, during a very severe 
 winter. The thermometer registered forty degrees 
 below zero. At that time my father, my mother, 
 and my brothers Uved on a farm about sixteen 
 miles from Chicago. When the occasion of my 
 appearance in the world was approaching, the 
 temperature went so low that it was impossible 
 to heat our house properly. My mother's health 
 naturally made my father anxious. He went ac- 
 cordingly to the village of Fullersburg, the popu- 
 lation of which was composed almost exclusively 
 of cousins and kinsmen, and made an arrangement 
 with the proprietor of the only public-house of the 
 
 i6 
 
A SURPRISE PARTY 
 
 place. In the general room there was a huge 
 cast-iron stove. This was, in the whole country- 
 side, the only stove which seemed to give out an 
 appreciable heat. They transformed the bar 
 into a sleeping-room and there it was that I first 
 saw light. On that day the frost was thick on the 
 window panes and the water froze in dishes two 
 yards from the famous stove. 
 
 I am positive of all these details, for I caught 
 a cold at the very moment of my birth, which I 
 have never got rid of. On my father's side I had a 
 sturdy ancestry. I therefore came into life with 
 a certain power of resistance, and if I have not 
 been able to recover altogether from the effects 
 of this initial cold, I have had the strength at all 
 events to withstand them. 
 
 A month later we had returned to the farm, 
 and the saloon resumed its customary appearance. 
 I have mentioned that it was the only tavern in 
 town, and, as we occupied the main room, we had 
 inflicted considerable hardship upon the villagers, 
 who were deprived of their entertainment for 
 more than four weeks. 
 
 When I was about six weeks old a lot of people 
 stopped one evening in front of our house. They 
 were going to give a surprise party at a house 
 about twenty miles from ours. 
 
 They were picking up everybody en route, and 
 they stopped at our house to include my parents. 
 They gave them five minutes in which to get 
 
 17 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 ready. My father was an intimate friend of the 
 people whom they were going to surprise ; and, 
 furthermore, as he was one of the best musicians 
 of the neighbourhood he could not get out of going, 
 as without him the company would have no chance 
 of dancing. He accordingly consented to join the 
 party. Then they insisted that my mother go, too. 
 
 " What will she do with the baby ? Who will 
 feed her ? '^ 
 
 There was only one thing to do in these cir- 
 cumstances — ^take baby too. 
 
 My mother dechned at first, alleging that she 
 had no time to make the necessary preparations, 
 but the jubilant crowd would accept no refusal. 
 They bundled me up in a coverlet and I was packed 
 into a sleigh, which bore me to the ball. 
 
 When we arrived they supposed that, Hke a well- 
 brought-up baby, I should sleep all night, and they 
 put me on the bed in a room temporarily trans- 
 formed into a dressing-room. They covered me 
 carefully and left me to myself. 
 
 There it was that the two gentlemen quoted at 
 the beginning of this chapter discovered the baby 
 agitating feet and hands in every direction. Her 
 only clothing was a yellow flannel garment and a 
 calico petticoat, which made her look like a poor 
 little waif. You may imagine my mother's feelings 
 when she saw her daughter make an appearance in 
 such a costume. 
 
 That at all events is how I made my debut, at 
 
 i8 
 
THE INEVITABI^E 
 
 the age of six weeks. I made it because I could 
 not do otherwise. In all my Ufe everything that 
 I have done has had that one starting-point ; I 
 have never been able to do anything else. 
 
 I have hkewise continued not to bother much 
 about my personal appearance. 
 
 19 
 
II 
 
 MY APPEARANCE ON A RBAI. STAGE AT TWO 
 YEARS AND A HAI,F 
 
 WHEN I was a very small girl the president 
 of the Chicago Progressive Lyceum, 
 where my parents and I went every 
 Sunday, called on my mother one after- 
 noon, and congratulated her on the appearance I 
 had made the preceding Sunday at the Lyceum. 
 As my mother did not understand what he meant, 
 I raised myself from the carpet, on which I was 
 playing with some toys, and I explained : 
 
 '' I forgot to tell you, mamma, that I recited 
 my piece at the Lyceum last Sunday." 
 
 ''Recited your piece?" repeated my mother. 
 " What does she mean ? " 
 
 *' What ! " said the president, '' haven't you 
 heard that Loie recited some poetry last Sunday ? " 
 
 My mother was quite overcome with surprise. 
 I threw myself upon her and fairly smothered 
 her with kisses, saying, 
 
 *' I forgot to tell you. I recited my piece." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the president, '* and she was a 
 great success, too." 
 
 My mother asked for explanations. 
 
 20 
 
A POPUIvAR ENTERTAINER 
 
 The president then told her : *' During an inter- 
 val between the exercises, I^oie climbed up on the 
 platform, made a pretty bow as she had seen 
 orators do, and then, kneeling down, she recited 
 a little prayer. What this prayer was I don't 
 remember/' 
 
 But my mother interrupted him. 
 
 " Oh, I know. It is the prayer she says every 
 evening when I put her to bed.*' 
 
 And I had recited that in a Sunday School 
 thronged by free-thinkers ! 
 
 '* After that lyoie arose, and saluted the audience 
 once more. Then immense difficulties arose. She 
 did not dare to descend the steps in the usual way. 
 So she sat down and let herself slide from one 
 step to another until she reached the floor of the 
 house. During this exercise the whole hall laughed 
 loudly at the sight of her little yellow flannel petti- 
 coat, and her copper-toed boots beating the air. 
 But lyoie got on her feet again, and, hearing the 
 laughter, raised her right hand and said in a shrill 
 voice : ' Hush ! Keep quiet. I am going to 
 recite my poem.' She would not stir until silence 
 was restored. lyoie then recited her poem as she 
 had promised, and returned to her seat with the 
 air of having done the most natural thing in 
 the world.'' 
 
 The following Sunday I went as usual to the 
 Lyceum with my brothers. My mother came, too, 
 in the course of the afternoon, and took her seat 
 
 21 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 at the end of a settee among the invited guests who 
 took no part in our exercises. She was thinking 
 how much she had missed in not being there the 
 preceding Sunday to witness my *' success/' when 
 she saw a woman rise and approach the platform. 
 The woman began to read a Uttle paper which she 
 held in her hand. After she had finished reading 
 my mother heard her say : 
 
 " And now we are going to have the pleasure of 
 hearing our little friend lyoie Fuller recite a poem 
 entitled : ' Mary had a little Ivamb.' '' 
 
 My mother, absolutely amazed, was unable to 
 stir or to say a word. She merely gasped : 
 
 " How can this Uttle girl be so fooUsh ! She 
 will never be able to recite that. She has only 
 heard it once." 
 
 In a sort of daze she saw me rise from my 
 seat, slowly walk to the steps and climb upon the 
 platform, helping myself up with feet and hands. 
 Once there I turned around and took in my 
 audience. I made a pretty courtesy, and began in 
 a voice which resounded throughout the hall. I 
 repeated the little poem in so serious a manner that, 
 despite the mistakes I must have made, the spirit 
 of it was intelUgible and impressed the audience. 
 I did not stop once. Then I courtesied again and 
 everybody applauded me wildly. I went back to 
 the stairs and let myself slide down to the bottom, 
 as I had done the preceding Sunday. Only this 
 time no one made fun of me. 
 
 22 
 
A REMARKABLE MEMORY 
 
 When my mother rejoined me, some time after, 
 she was still pale and trembling. She asked me 
 why I had not informed her of what I was going to 
 do. I repUed that I could not let her know about 
 a thing that I did not know myself. 
 
 " Where have you learned this ? '' 
 
 ** I don't know, mamma.*' 
 
 She said then that I must have heard it read 
 by my brother ; and I remembered that it was so. 
 From this time on I was always reciting poems, 
 wherever I happened to be. I used to make little 
 speeches, but in prose, for I employed the words 
 that were natural for me, contenting myself with 
 translating the spirit of the things that I recited 
 without bothering much over word-by-word 
 renderings. With my firm and very tenacious 
 memory, I needed then only to hear a poem once 
 to recite it, from beginning to end, without making 
 a single mistake. I have always had a wonderful 
 memory. I have proved it repeatedly by unex- 
 pectedly taking parts of which I did not know a 
 word the day before the first performance. 
 
 It was thus, for instance, when I played the 
 part of Marguerite Gauthier in La Dame aux 
 Camilias with only four hours to learn the 
 lines. 
 
 On the Sunday of which I have been speaking, 
 my mother experienced the first of the nervous 
 shocks that might have warned her, had she been 
 able to understand, that she was destined to 
 
 23 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 become the prey of a dreadful disease, which 
 would never leave her. 
 
 From the spring which followed my first appear- 
 ance at the Folies-Bergere until the time of her 
 death she accompanied me in all my travels. As 
 I was writing this, some days before her end, I 
 could hear her stir or speak, for she was in the 
 next room with two nurses watching over her night 
 and day. While I was working I would go to her 
 from time to time, rearrange her pillows a little, 
 lift her, give her medicine, or some Httle thing 
 to eat, put out her candle, open the window a 
 moment, and then I would return to my task. 
 
 After the day of my debut at the Chicago Pro- 
 gressive Lyceum I continued my dramatic career* 
 The incidents of my performances would suffice 
 to fill several volumes. For without interruption^ 
 adventures succeeded one another to such an 
 extent that I shall never undertake the work of 
 describing them all. 
 
 I should say that when this first theatrical 
 incident took place I was just two and a half 
 years old. 
 
 24 
 
Ill 
 
 HOW I CREATED THE SERPENTINE DANCE 
 
 IN 1890 I was on a tour in I^ondon with my 
 mother. A manager engaged me to go to 
 the United States and take the principal part 
 in a new play entitled, " Quack, M.D." In 
 this piece I was to play with two American 
 actors, Mr, Will Rising and Mr. I^ouis de I^ange, 
 who has since then been mysteriously assassin- 
 ated. 
 
 I bought what costumes I needed and took 
 them with me. On our arrival in New York the 
 rehearsals began. While we were at work, the 
 author got the idea of adding to the play a scene 
 in which Dr. Quack hypnotised a young widow. 
 H>T>notism at that moment was very much to the 
 fore in New York. To give the scene its full effect 
 he needed very sweet music and indeterminate 
 illumination. We asked the electrician of the 
 theatre to put green lamps along the footlights and 
 the orchestra leadef to play a subdued air. The 
 great question next was to decide what costume 
 I was to wear. I was unable to buy a new one. 
 I had spent all the money advanced me for my 
 costumes and, not knowing what else to do, I 
 
 25 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 undertook to run over my wardrobe in the hope 
 of finding something that would be fit to wear. 
 
 In vain. I could not find a thing. 
 
 All at once, however, I noticed at the bottom 
 of one of my trunks a small casket, a very small 
 casket, which I opened. Out of it I drew a light 
 silk material, comparable to a spider's web. 
 It was a skirt, very full and very broad at the 
 bottom. 
 ^}ff^ I let the skirt dangle in my fingers, and before 
 this little heap of fragile texture I Hngered in 
 reverie for some time. The past, a past very 
 near and yet already far away, was summoned up 
 before me. 
 
 It had happened in lyondon some months before. 
 
 A friend had asked me to dine with several 
 officers who were being wined and dined just before 
 leaving for India, where they were under orders 
 to rejoin their regiment. The officers were in 
 handsome uniforms, the women in low dresses, 
 and they were pretty, as only EngUsh women 
 are. 
 
 At table I was seated between two of the young- 
 est officers. They had very long necks and wore 
 extremely high collars. At first I felt myself 
 greatly overawed in the presence of people so 
 imposing as my neighbours. They looked snobbish 
 and uncommunicative. Presently I discovered 
 that they were much more timid than I, and that 
 we should never be better acquainted unless one 
 
 26 
 
A MYSTERIOUS GIFT 
 
 or the other of us resolved to overcome his own 
 nervousness and, at the same time, that of his 
 companions. 
 
 But my young officers were afraid only in 
 the presence of women. When I told them I 
 hoped they might never be engaged in a war, and 
 especially that they might never have to do any 
 killing, one of them answered me very simply : 
 
 '* I fancy I can serve as a target as well as any 
 other man, and certainly the people who draw on 
 me will understand that war is on.'* 
 
 They were essentially and purely English. 
 Nothing could unsettle them, provoke them or 
 change them in the least. At our table they 
 seemed timid. They were nevertheless men of 
 the kind who go into the presence of death just 
 as one encounters a friend in the street. 
 
 At this period I did not understand the English 
 as I have subsequently come to know them. 
 
 I left the table without remembering to ask the 
 names of my neighbours, and when I thought about 
 the matter it was too late. 
 
 I recalled, however, that one of them took the 
 trouble, in the course of our conversation, to learn 
 the name of the hotel at which I was staying. I 
 had quite forgotten the incident when, some time 
 after, I received a little casket, addressed to me 
 from India. 
 
 It contained a skirt of very thin white silk, of a 
 peculiar shape, and some pieces of silk gauze. The 
 
 27 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 box: was not more than sixteen inches long and 
 was hardly taller than a cigar box. It contained 
 nothing else, not a line, not a card. How odd 1 
 From whom could it come ? 
 
 I knew no one in India. All at once, however, 
 I remembered the dinner and the young officers. 
 I was greatly taken with my pretty box:, but I was 
 far from suspecting that it contained the little 
 seed from which an Aladdin's lamp was destined 
 to spring for my benefit. 
 
 This, of course, was the casket which I had just 
 discovered in my trunk. 
 
 Deep in thought I stooped and gathered up the 
 soft, silky stuff. I put on the Hindu skirt, the 
 skirt sent me by my two young officers, those 
 young men who must by this time have " served as 
 targets " somewhere out there in the jungle, for I 
 never heard from them again. 
 
 My robe, which was destined to become a trium- 
 phal robe, was at least a half a yard too long. 
 Thereupon I raised the girdle and so shaped for 
 myself a sort of empire robe, pinning the skirt 
 to a decoUete bodice. The robe looked thoroughly 
 original, perhaps even a little ridiculous. It was 
 entirely suitable for the hypnotism scene, which 
 we did not take very seriously. 
 
 We '' tried the play on the dog *' before offering 
 it to the New York public, and I made my debut 
 as a dancer at a theatre in a small city of which the 
 average New Yorker had hardly heard. No one, 
 
 28 
 
i^. 
 
 LOIE FULLER IN HER ORIGINAL SERPENTINE DRESS 
 
HYPNOTIC SUGGESTION 
 
 I suppose, outside its boundaries took the slightest 
 interest in what went on in that city. At the end 
 of the play, on the evening of the first presentation, 
 we gave our h3^notism scene. The stage scenery, 
 representing a garden, was flooded with pale green 
 light. Dr. Quack made a mysterious entrance 
 and then began his work of suggestion. The 
 orchestra played a melancholy air very softly, and 
 I endeavoured to make myself as light as possible, 
 in order to give the impression of a fluttering figure 
 obedient to the doctor^s orders. 
 
 He raised his arms. I raised mine. Under the 
 influence of suggestion, entranced — ^so, at least, it 
 looked — with my gaze held by his, I followed his 
 every motion. My robe was so long that I was 
 continually stepping upon it, and mechanically I 
 held it up with both hands and raised my arms 
 aloft, all the while that I continued to flit around 
 the stage like a winged spirit. 
 
 There was a sudden exclamation from the house : 
 
 '' It's a butterfly ! A butterfly ! *' 
 
 I turned on my steps, running from one end of 
 the stage to the other, and a second exclamation 
 followed : 
 
 '' It's an orchid ! " 
 
 To my great astonishment sustained applause 
 burst forth. The doctor all the time was gliding 
 around the stage, with quickening steps, and I 
 followed him faster and faster. At last, transfixied 
 in a state of ecstasy, I let myself drop at his 
 
 31 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 feet, completely enveloped in a cloud of the light 
 material. 
 
 The audience encored the scene, and then en- 
 cored it again — so loudly and so often that we 
 had to come back twenty times, or more. 
 
 We were on the road about six weeks. Then 
 came our opening in one of the New York suburbs, 
 where Mr. Oscar Hammerstein, who has since 
 become a famous impresario, owned a theatre. 
 
 The play was unsuccessful, and even our hypno- 
 tism scene was not strong enough to save it from 
 the attacks of the critics. No New York theatre 
 cared to give it house room, and our company 
 broke up. 
 
 The day after this opening at Mr. Hammer- 
 stein's theatre a local newspaper of the Httle 
 community in which we had successfully presented 
 this '* Quack, M.D.,'' which the New York mana- 
 gers refused to touch, wrote a ridiculously enthu- 
 siastic article on what it called my '* acting '* 
 in the hypnotism scene. But as the play had not 
 *' made good,'' no one thought that it would be 
 possible to take a single scene out of it, and I was 
 left without an engagement. 
 
 Nevertheless, even in New York, and in spite 
 of the failure of the play, I personally secured 
 some good press notices. The newspapers were in 
 agreement in announcing that I had a remarkable 
 string to my bow — ^if I only knew how to make 
 the most of it. 
 
 32 
 
A GREAT DISCOVERY 
 
 I had brought my robe home to sew up a Uttle 
 tear. After reading these comforting lines I 
 leaped from the bed and arrayed only in my 
 night-gown, I put the garment on and looked at 
 myself in a large glass, to make sure of what I had 
 done the evening before. 
 
 The mirror was placed just opposite the windows. 
 The long yellow curtains were drawn and through 
 them the sun shed into the room an amber light, 
 which enveloped me completely and illumined 
 my gown, giving a translucent effects Golden 
 reflections played in the folds of the sparkling silk, 
 and in this Ught my body was vaguely revealed in 
 shadowy contour. This was a moment of intense 
 emotion. Unconsciously I realised that I was 
 in the presence of a great discovery, one which 
 was destined to open the path which I have since 
 followed. 
 
 Gently, almost reUgiously, I set the silk in 
 motion, and I saw that I had obtained undulations 
 of a character heretofore unknown. I had created 
 a new dance. Why had I never thought of it 
 before ? 
 
 Two of my friends, Mrs. Hoffmann and her 
 daughter Mrs. Hossack, came from time to time 
 to see how I was getting on with my discoveries. 
 When I found an action or a pose which looked as 
 if it might amount to something they would say : 
 " Hold that. Try it again." Finally I reached a 
 point where each movement of the body was 
 
 33 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 expressed in the folds of silk, in a play of colours 
 in the draperies that could be mathematically and 
 systematically calculated. 
 
 The length and size of my silk skirt wotdd 
 constrain me to repeat the same motion several 
 times as a means of giving this motion its special 
 and distinctive aim. I obtained a spiral effect 
 by holding my arms aloft while I kept whirling, 
 to right and then to left, and I continued this 
 movement until the spiral design was established. 
 Head, hands and feet followed the evolutions of 
 the body and the robe. It is very difficult, how- 
 ever, to describe this part of my dance. You 
 have to see it and feel it. It is too compUcated 
 for realisation in words. 
 
 Another dancer will obtain more dehcate effects, 
 with more graceful motions, but they will not be 
 the same. To be the same they must be created 
 in the same spirit. One thing original, though 
 up to a certain point it is not so good as an imita- 
 tion, is in reality worth much more. 
 
 I studied each of my characteristic motions, 
 and at last had twelve of them. I classed them as 
 Dances No. i. No. 2, and so on. The first was to 
 be given under a blue light, the second under 
 red Hght, the third under a yellow Hght. For 
 illumination of my dances I intended to have a 
 lantern with coloured glass in front of the lens. 
 I wanted to dance the last one in total darkness 
 with a single ray of yellow light crossing the stage. 
 
 34 
 
A SCEPTICAL MANAGER 
 
 When I had finished studying my dances, I 
 went in search of a manager. I was acquainted 
 with them all. During my career as singer and 
 actress I had served all of them more or less 
 frequently. 
 
 I was, however, hardly prepared for the recep- 
 tion which they gave me. The first one laughed 
 me in the face as he said : 
 
 '' You a dancer ! Well, that's too good ! When 
 I want you for a theatrical part I'll look you up 
 with pleasure ; but as for dancing, good heavens ! 
 When I engage a dancer she will have to be a 
 star. The only ones I know are Sylvia Gray and 
 lyCttie lyind in London. You cannot outclass 
 them, take my word for it. Good-evening." 
 
 He had lost all respect for my perspicacity and 
 he made fun of the idea of my being a dancer. 
 
 Mrs. Hoffmann had come with me, and was 
 waiting in the lobby, where I rejoined her. She 
 noted at once how pale and nervous I was. When 
 we left the theatre it was night. We walked in 
 silence through dark streets. Neither spoke. 
 Some months later, however, my friend told me 
 that all that evening I never stopped emitting 
 little groans like those of a wounded animal. She 
 saw that I was cut to the very quick. 
 
 Next day I had to continue my search, for 
 necessity was spurring me on. 
 
 Mrs. Hoffmann offered me the privilege of 
 coming to live with her and her daughter — an 
 
 35 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S LIFE 
 
 offer which I accepted gratefully, not having the 
 faintest idea when and how I could ever repay 
 her. 
 
 Some time later I had to give in ; since I was 
 known as an actress, nothing could hurt me more 
 than to try to become a dancer. 
 
 One manager went so far as to tell me that two 
 years of absence from New York had caused the 
 public completely to forget me, and that, in tr5dng 
 to recall myself to their memory, I should seem 
 to be inflicting ancient history on them. As I had 
 then just passed my twentieth birthday I was 
 extremely irritated by that insinuation, and I 
 thought : *' Wotild it then be necessary for me 
 painfully to build up a reputation and to look old 
 to prove that I was young to-day ? " 
 
 Unable to restrain my feeUngs any longer, I 
 told the manager what I thought. 
 
 " Hell," he repUed, '' it isn't age that counts. 
 It's the time the pubUc has known you, and you 
 have become too well known as an actress to come 
 back here as a dancer." 
 
 Everywhere I encountered the same answer, and 
 finally I became desperate. I was aware that I 
 had discovered something unique, but I was far 
 from imagining, even in a daydream, that I had 
 hold of a principle caj)able of revolutionising a 
 branch of aesthetics. 
 
 I am astounded when I see the relations that 
 form and colour assume. The scientific admixture 
 
 36 
 
A MANAGER CONVINCED 
 
 of chemically composed colours, heretofore un- 
 known, fills me with admiration, and I stand 
 before them like a miner who has discovered a vein 
 of gold, and who completely forgets himself as he 
 contemplates the wealth of the world before him. 
 
 But to return to my troubles. 
 
 A manager who, some time before, had done his 
 best to engage me as a singer, and who had abso- 
 lutely refused to consider me as a dancer, gave 
 a careless consent, thanks to the intervention of 
 a common friend, to an interview at which I was 
 to show him my dances. 
 
 I took my robe, which made a neat little bundle, 
 and I set out for the theatre. 
 
 Mrs. Hoffmann's daughter accompanied me. 
 We went in by the stage entrance. A single gas 
 jet lighted the empty stage. In the house, which 
 was equally dark, the manager, seated in one 
 of the orchestra chairs, looked at us with an air of 
 boredom, almost of contempt. There was no 
 dressing-room for my change of clothing, not even 
 a piano to accompany me. But the opportunity 
 was a precious one, all the same. Without delay 
 I put on my costume, there on the stage and over 
 my dress. Then I hummed an air and started in 
 to dance very gently in the obscurity. The 
 manager came nearer and nearer, and finally 
 ascended the platform. 
 
 His eyes gUstened. ^'^ 
 
 I continued to dance, disappearing in the dark- 
 
 c 37 
 
 } 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 ness at the rear of the stage, then returning toward 
 the gas jet. Finally I Ufted a part of my robe 
 over my shotdders, made a kind of cloud which 
 enveloped me completely and then fell, a wavering 
 mass of fluffy silk, at the manager's feet. After 
 that I arose and waited in keenest anxiety to hear 
 what he would say. 
 
 He said nothing. Visions of success were crowd- 
 ing upon each other in his brain. 
 
 Finally he broke his silence and gave my dance 
 the name of '' The Serpentine Dance." 
 
 *' There is the name that will go with it," he 
 said, '' and I have just the music that you need 
 for that dance. Come to my private office. I 
 am going to play it for you." 
 
 Then for the first time I heard an air which later 
 became very popular, *' Au I^oin du Bal." 
 
 A new company was rehearsing ** Uncle Celestin'' 
 at the theatre. This company was to go on the 
 road for several weeks before playing in New York. 
 My new manager offered me, for this tour, an 
 engagement at fifty dollars a week. I accepted, 
 making it a condition that I should be featured on 
 the placards, in order to regain in a measure the 
 prestige I had lost. 
 
 A few days after I joined the company and made 
 my first appearance at a distance from New York. 
 For six weeks I appeared before country audiences, 
 feverishly counting the hours until I should at 
 last have my chance in the big city. 
 
 38 
 
SUCCESS 
 
 During this tour, contrary to the conditions I 
 had imposed, I was not featured. The posters 
 did not even announce me, and yet my dance, 
 which was given during an interval and without 
 coloured Ughts, was successful from the first. 
 
 A month and a half later in Brooklyn its suc- 
 cess was phenomenal. The week following I made 
 my debut in New York, at what was one of the 
 prettiest theatres in town. 
 
 There I was able for the first time to realise 
 my dances just as I had conceived them ; with 
 darkness in the house and coloured lights on the 
 stage. The house was packed and the audience 
 positively enthusiastic. I danced my first, my 
 second, my third. When I had finished the whole 
 house was standing up. 
 
 Among the spectators was one of my oldest 
 friends, Marshall P. Wilder, the little American 
 humourist. He recognised me and called my name 
 in such a way that everybody could hear it, for they 
 had neglected to put it on the programme ! When 
 the audience discovered that the new dancer was 
 its old favourite comedian, the little soubrette of a 
 former day, it gave her an ovation such as, 
 I suppose, never another human being has 
 received. 
 
 They called out, " Three cheers for the butter- 
 fly ! Three cheers for the orchid, the cloud, the 
 butterfly ! Three cheers ! '' And the enthusiasm 
 passed all bounds. The applause resounded in 
 
 39 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 my ears like the ringing of bells. I was overcome 
 with joy and gratitude. 
 
 Next morning I arose early to read the papers. 
 Every New York newspaper devoted from a 
 column to a page to " lyoie Fuller^s Wonderful 
 Creation." Numerous illustrations of my dances 
 accompanied the articles. 
 
 I buried my face in my pillow and shed every 
 tear that, for a long time, had lurked in my dis- 
 couraged soul. For how many months had I 
 waited for this good luck ! 
 
 In one of these articles a critic wrote *' I^oie 
 Fuller had risen from her ashes." Next day the 
 whole city was plastered with lithographs, repro- 
 duced from one of my photographs, representing 
 me larger than life, with letters a foot high 
 announcing : *' The Serpentine Dance ! The 
 Serpentine Dance ! " But there was one 
 circumstance came near giving me heart failure. 
 My name was nowhere mentioned. 
 
 I went to the theatre and reminded the manager 
 that I had accepted the modest salary he offered 
 on condition that I should be featured. I hardly 
 understood when he remarked drily that he could 
 not do more for me. 
 
 I asked him then whether he supposed that I was 
 going to continue dancing under such conditions. 
 
 " Nothing can compel you to do so," answered 
 the manager. '* In any case, I have taken my 
 precautions in case you do not care to keep on." 
 
 40 
 
*'THEY HAD STOLEN MY DANCE" 
 
 I left the theatre in desperation, not knowing 
 what to do. My head swam. I went home and 
 consulted my friends. 
 
 They advised me to go and see another manager, 
 and, if I secured an engagement, simply to drop 
 the other theatre. 
 
 I went to the Theatre, but on the way I 
 
 began to cry, and I was in tears when I arrived 
 there. I asked to see the manager, and told him 
 my story. 
 
 He offered me one hundred and fifty dollars a 
 week. I was to make my first appearance at once, 
 and sign a contract dating from the next day. 
 
 On reaching home I asked if nothing had come 
 for me from the other theatre. 
 
 Nothing had come. 
 
 That evening my friends went to the theatre, 
 where they saw a poster announcing, for the 
 following evening, the initial appearance in the 
 
 ** Serpentine " of Miss . When they 
 
 told me that piece of news I understood that 
 my six: weeks on the road had been profitably 
 employed by my manager and one of the chorus 
 girls to meet just this situation, and I understood, 
 too, why my name was not mentioned on the first 
 posters. 
 
 They had stolen my dance. 
 
 I felt myself overcome, dead — more dead, as it 
 seemed to me, than I shall be at the moment when 
 my last hour comes. My very life depended on 
 
 41 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 this success, and now others were going to reap the 
 benefit. I cannot describe my despair. I was 
 incapable of words, of gestures. I was dumb 
 and paralysed. 
 
 Next day, when I went to sign my new contract, 
 the manager received me rather coldly. He was 
 wilUng to sign only if I would give him the privi- 
 lege of cancelling at his own discretion. He felt 
 that my imitator at the Casino, announced for the 
 same day, would diminish greatly the interest 
 that would be felt in what he ironically called my 
 *' discovery.*' 
 
 I was obUged to accept the conditions which he 
 imposed, but I experienced all the while an access 
 of rage and grief as I saw in what a barefaced 
 manner they had stolen my invention. 
 
 Heartbroken, with my courage oozing, I made 
 my appearance at the Madison Square Theatre and, 
 to my astonishment, to my immense satisfaction, 
 I saw that the theatre had to turn people away. 
 And it was that way as long as my engagement 
 lasted. 
 
 As for the other theatre, after three weeks of 
 featuring my imitator, it was obUged to close its 
 doors to rehearse a new opera. 
 
 42 
 
IV 
 
 HOW I CAME TO PARIS 
 
 AIvITTIyE while after my appearance at the 
 Madison Square Theatre I was asked to 
 dance for the benefit of a charity at the 
 German theatre in New York. I had 
 forgotten all about my promise until the day of the 
 performance, when a card arrived to call it to my 
 mind. I had neglected to ask my manager's 
 permission to appear on that evening, not thinking 
 that he would refuse to grant the privilege of my 
 participating in a philanthropic affair. 
 
 A short time before there had taken place the 
 first part of a painfxil incident which was destined 
 to rupture the pleasant relations subsisting be- 
 tween the management of the Madison Square 
 and myself. My manager's associate had asked 
 me as a great favour to come to open a ball given 
 by some friends in his honour. DeHghted to be of 
 service to him, I readily agreed to do so. When I 
 asked him the date of this affair he told me not 
 to bother about that. 
 
 It was just then that I asked permission to dance 
 at the German theatre for the benefit of an actress 
 who was ill. The manager consented. At the 
 
 43 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 German theatre they had engaged a Roumanian 
 orchestra for me. The leader of this orchestra, 
 Mr. Sohmers, an enthusiastic man, as the Rouma- 
 nians are apt to be, came to see me after I had 
 danced and foretold for me the wonderful artistic 
 success which I was sure to meet with in Europe. 
 He advised me to go to Paris, where an artistically 
 incUned public would give my dances the recep- 
 tion they deserved. From that moment on this 
 became a fixed idea with me — ^to dance in Paris. 
 Then the manager of the German theatre proposed 
 to me a tour abroad, beginning with Berlin. 
 
 I promised to think the matter over and 
 acquaint him with my decision. 
 
 Some days later the famous ball took place 
 which my manager's associate had asked me to 
 open. I went to it. 
 
 They took us, a friend who accompanied me, 
 and myself, into a little drawing-room where they 
 begged me to wait until some one should come and 
 fetch me for my appearance on the stage. More 
 than an hour passed. Finally a gentleman came 
 to tell me that everything was ready. Through 
 a corridor I reached the platform, which had been 
 erected at the top of the ball-room. It was terri- 
 bly dark, and the only light perceptible was the 
 little ray that filtered through from one of my 
 lanterns that was imperfectly closed. The hall 
 looked totally empty. I saw, when I had taken 
 my bearings, that the whole audience was disposed 
 
 44 
 
A MORTIFYING DISCOVERY 
 
 in the galleries, forming a balcony half-way up the 
 room. The orchestra finished its overture and I 
 began to dance. After having danced three times, 
 as I was accustomed to do at the theatre, I returned 
 to the scene to acknowledge the applause and I 
 saw before me in luminous letters a sign with the 
 words : '* Don't think Club.*' 
 
 That looked queer to me, but I did not attach 
 much importance to it. I bowed again to the 
 magnificently gowned women and the men, who 
 were all in sombre black, and then, walking 
 through the same passage way, I once more reached 
 the dressing-room, where I put on my outdoor 
 clothes and left. At the door I entered the 
 carriage that had brought me there, and while we 
 were on our way home I kept wondering what the 
 Don't Think Club could be. 
 
 That worried me in spite of myself. 
 
 The nex± morning my friend brought me a news- 
 paper, in which I found on the first page a long 
 article headed : 
 
 '^I,OIE FULLER OPENS THE 
 DON'T THINK CLUB." 
 
 There followed a description of the affair and 
 of the orgies which took place there. The article 
 had been written with a deUberate purpose of 
 creating a scandal. I was exasperated beyond 
 measure. I had gone there merely to please my 
 manager, and the humiliation inflicted upon me 
 wounded me deeply. 
 
 45 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S UFE 
 
 Possibly he thought that I would never know 
 where I had been. A single newspaper might print 
 something about the affair ; but most probably 
 my manager thought it would never come to 
 my notice. No newspaper men had been invited 
 to the performance. There was one guest, a very 
 little man but with a great reputation, who found 
 himself among the invited, and he wrote the 
 scandalous article, so I have been told. 
 
 I have since had my revenge, a terrible revenge ; 
 for this man, then at the climax: of his career, so 
 mismanaged his affairs and those of others, that he 
 was imprisoned. 
 
 '' Everybody is blaming him for the article,'* 
 my manager explained to me when I reproached 
 him for having dragged me to this club. 
 
 That was his only excuse. He thought he was 
 lessening the insult by offering me more money. 
 This offer so increased my anger that I tendered 
 my resignation. I felt in no wise under obligation 
 to a man who I thought had morally lost all right 
 to consideration. This was the reason for my 
 leaving, never to return. 
 
 The notion of going to Paris possessed me after 
 that more completely than before. I wanted to 
 go to a city where, as I had been told, educated 
 people w^ould like my dancing and would accord 
 it a place in the realm of art. 
 
 I was making at this time one hundred and fifty 
 dollars a week and I had just been offered five 
 
 46 
 
A DANCE AT SEA 
 
 hundred. I decided, nevertheless, to sign a con- 
 tract with the manager of the German theatre 
 that guaranteed me sixty-five dollars instead of 
 five hundred. But the objective, after a tour in 
 Europe, was Paris ! 
 
 While I was dancing in New York I had to begin 
 to invent special robes for my new dances. These 
 were just being made and, when I was about to 
 leave for Europe, they were ready. 
 
 The manager of the German Theatre had gone 
 ahead and had reserved berths for us on one of the 
 steamers. 
 
 After taking leave of my friends I was still full 
 of hope and ambition. My mother in vain tried 
 to share my feeUngs ; she could not avoid painful 
 misgivings. As for me, I wanted to think only of 
 the good things that awaited, and to forget all 
 the past annoyances. 
 
 During the voyage an evening entertainment 
 was organised for the benefit of the seamen 
 and I agreed to dance. A stage was arranged by 
 the bridge. There with the sea for a background 
 and with the coloured lights used for signaUing as 
 the media of illumination, I tried for the first time 
 a series of new dances, each with a special gown. 
 
 The enthusiasm of passengers and crew knew 
 no bounds and I felt that I had taken my first 
 step in the conquest of a new world. 
 
 We landed in Germany, My manager came 
 to meet us and took us to Berlin. But, to my 
 
 47 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S UFE 
 
 great annoyance, I found that I was not to make 
 my initial appearance for a month, and I could not 
 discover in what city I was to make it. 
 
 That meant a month of inactivity. 
 
 Finally I learned that I was to make my debut, 
 not at the Opera as my manager had promised, 
 but in a music hall. The Opera was closed, and 
 the music hall was the only place where I could 
 dance. 
 
 In that event I would dance only my first dance 
 and would exhibit only a single gown, just as I 
 had done in New York. I then chose three of my 
 numbers and prepared myself for my appearance. 
 But this debut was made without personal interest. 
 In America the best theatres offered me engage- 
 ments on much better terms than those I had to 
 accept in Europe. In Berlin I was obliged to 
 appear where my New York manager wished. If, 
 before signing the contract, he had told me where 
 I should have to dance I should have declined. 
 But when the time for my appearance was at hand 
 I was without resources and quite at his mercy. 
 To cap the climax my mother fell seriously ill. 
 
 At the time of which I am writing cholera had 
 just broken out at Hamburg. My mother's illness 
 came on so suddenly that it was thought she was 
 stricken with cholera. Everybody at the hotel 
 was frightened, and we were obliged to take my 
 poor mother to the cholera hospital. 
 
 All these circumstances, conjoined with fright- 
 
 48 
 
STRANDED IN BERIvIN 
 
 fully trying weather, put me in bad shape for the 
 struggle. I renounced everything, my pride, my 
 highest hopes, and I started in assiduously to gain 
 our livelihood. But I was disabled and without 
 courage. 
 
 After a month my German manager informed 
 me he did not care to continue my contract. He 
 was going back to the United States with a com- 
 pany that he had come for the express purpose of 
 engaging in Germany. It seemed clear to me that 
 his only motive in bringing me to Europe had been 
 to procure the means with which to engage this new 
 company and take it back with him. He travelled 
 with his wife, a pretty American woman, who had 
 become a close friend of mine, and who reproached 
 him most bitterly on my account. 
 
 Our manager left Berlin with his company, 
 leaving me with only just enough money to pay 
 my bills at the hotel when I had completed the 
 contract that held me to the music hall in Berlin. 
 I then had absolutely no engagement in sight. 
 I learned that he was getting ten thousand marks 
 — ^about $2,500 — a month for me. And yet he had 
 given me only about $300 a month. What was I 
 to do ? My appearance in Berlin had been de- 
 plorable and was likely to have an unfortunate 
 influence on my whole career in Europe. My purse 
 was empty, my mother ill. We had not the slight- 
 est hope of an engagement and we had no one to 
 help us. 
 
 49 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 A theatrical agent, an unknown man at that 
 time, who has since become a theatrical manager, 
 Mr. Marten Stein, came to see me, and I tried to 
 continue at the music hall where I was dancing. 
 I was obUged to make concessions to keep going 
 a week or two more, to get money enough to go 
 away and to look for a new engagement. I kept 
 thinking more than ever of Paris. If I could 
 only go there ! 
 
 In these circumstances Mr, Marten Stein secured 
 for me a dozen performances in one of the beer 
 gardens at Altona, the well-known pleasure resort 
 near Hamburg. I earned there several hundred 
 marks, which allowed us to go to Cologne, where I 
 had to dance in a circus between an educated 
 donkey and an elephant that played the organ. 
 My humiliation was complete. Since then, how- 
 ever, occasions have not been lacking when I have 
 realised that the proximity of trained horses and 
 music-mad elephants is less humiliating than inter- 
 course with some human beings. 
 
 Finally I left for Paris. 
 
 To economise as closely as possible we had to 
 travel third class. But what did that matter ? 
 That was only a detail. I was going to Paris to 
 succeed there or to sink into obscurity. 
 
 50 
 
MY APPEARANCE AT THE FOI.IES-BERGERE 
 
 PARIS ! Paris ! At last Paris ! 
 It seemed to me that I was saved and 
 that all my troubles were coming to an 
 end. Paris was the port after storm, the 
 harbour of refuge after the furious rage of life's 
 tempest. And I thought in my simplicity that 
 I was going to conquer this great Paris that I had 
 so long coveted. 
 
 In America I had often danced on important 
 stages during the intervals between operatic acts, 
 and I fancied that it would be the same in Paris. 
 
 Accordingly upon my arrival, which occurred in 
 October, 1892, even before going to my room at 
 the Grand Hotel, I instructed my agent, Mr. Marten 
 Stein, to call upon M. Gailhard, manager of the 
 National Academy of Music and Dancing, to whom 
 I had written from Germany to propose my dancing 
 at his theatre. 
 
 National Academy of Dancing ! 
 
 I still believed, in my simple 3oul, in names. I 
 fancied that an institution of this sort ought to 
 be receptive of innovations in dancing. 
 
 51 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 My illusion, alas ! was to be short-lived. Mr. 
 Stein returned looking very downcast. He had 
 been received by M. Pedro Gailhard, but that 
 gentleman, in the deep voice which he has skilfully 
 developed and which for twenty-one years has 
 awakened the echoes of the directors* oflSce at the 
 Opera, did not conceal from him the fact that he 
 had no great desire to engage me. 
 
 *' Let her show me her dances if she cares to," 
 he said, '* but all I can do, in case these dances 
 please me, would be, on condition of her perform- 
 ing nowhere else, to guarantee her a maximum of 
 four performances a month.'' 
 
 *' Four performances ? That is hardly enough/^ 
 my agent ventured to remark. 
 
 " It is too many for a dancer who before coming 
 to Paris already has imitators here." 
 
 Influenced by the voice and bearing of a man wha 
 had formerly played the part of Mephistopheles 
 on the stage which he now directed, Mr. Stein did 
 not dare to make further inquiries. 
 
 The impression made upon me by the terms 
 that my agent brought back is easily imagined. 
 To accept four appearances a month, even if M. 
 Gailhard actually made a proposition to that 
 effect, was not to be thought of. That, from a. 
 pecuniaiy standpoint, was altogether insufficient. 
 I thought the matter over. My mind was quickly 
 made up. After dinner I bundled my agent and 
 my mother into a carriage and gave the driver the 
 
 52 
 
A RIVAIv 
 
 address of the Folies-Bergere, for I knew that my 
 agent, on his own responsibility, had written to 
 the manager of this big music-hall. On the way 
 I explained to Mr. Stein that I was governing 
 myself by the advice that he had given me some- 
 time before, and that I was going to ask the 
 manager of the Folies-Bergere for an engagement. 
 
 Imagine my astonishment when, in getting out 
 of the carriage in front of the FoUes, I found myself 
 face to face with a " serpentine dancer " repro- 
 duced in violent tones on some huge placards. 
 This dancer was not lyoie Fuller. 
 
 Here was the cataclysm, my utter annihilation. 
 
 Nevertheless I went into the theatre. I stated 
 the object of my visit. I asked to see the manager. 
 They told me that I could be received only at the 
 close of the performance, and they assigned us, my 
 mother, Mr, Stein and myself, seats in one comer 
 of the balcony, whence we were able to follow the 
 performance. 
 
 The performance ! 
 
 I could not help poking a little fun at that per- 
 formance. It would be hard to describe what I 
 saw that evening. I awaited the " serpentine 
 dancer,'' my rival, my robber — ^for she was a 
 robber, was she not, she who was stealing not 
 only my dances but all my beautiful dreams ? 
 
 Finally she came out. I trembled all over. 
 Cold perspiration appeared on my temples. I shut 
 my eyes. When I reopened them I saw there on 
 
 i> 53 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 the stage one of my contemporaries who, some 
 time before, in the United States, having borrowed 
 money from me had neglected to repay it. She 
 had kept right on borrowing, that was all. But 
 this time I had made up my mind to force her to 
 give back what she had taken from me. 
 
 Presently I ceased to want to do anything of 
 the sort. Instead of further upsetting me the 
 sight of her soothed me. The longer she danced 
 the calmer I became. And when she had finished 
 her " turn,'' I began to applaud sincerely and with 
 great joy. 
 
 It was not admiration that elicited my applause 
 but an entirely opposite feehng. My imitator was 
 so ordinary that, sure of my own superiority, I 
 no longer dreaded her. In fact I could gladly have 
 kissed her for the pleasure that her revelation of 
 inefficiency gave me. 
 
 After the performance, when we were in the 
 manager's presence, M. Marchand was then the 
 man, I let him know how I felt, through the inter- 
 mediation of Mr. Stein, who acted as interpreter. 
 
 The hall by this time was empty. There were 
 only six of us on the stage ; M. Marchand, his wife, 
 the second orchestra leader, M. Henri Hambourg, 
 Mr. Stein, my mother and I. 
 
 " Ask M. Marchand," I said to Mr. Stein, '' why 
 he has engaged a woman who gives a feeble copy 
 of my dances when you wrote him from BerUn 
 to propose his talking with me." 
 
 54 
 
IMITATORS EVERYWHERE 
 
 Instead of translating my question my *' inter- 
 preter '' replied : 
 
 " Are you really so sure of yourself ? Have you 
 forgotten that you have been proposing to dance 
 at the Opera ? Perhaps he knows about it/' 
 
 '' That doesn't matter/' I replied. '' Put the 
 question to him just the same. And besides, this 
 man doesn't know anything." 
 
 I learned afterwards that M. Marchand spoke 
 English and understood it as well as Mr. Stein and 
 I. He must have had great difficulty, that evening, 
 in checking a longing to laugh. As a matter of 
 fact he restrained it perfectly, for we were unable 
 to detect it, and we did not discover that he was 
 familiar with Shakespeare's language. 
 
 Mr. Stein forthwith translated my question. 
 
 *' I engaged this dancer," replied M. Marchand 
 in French, '' because the Casino de Paris is an- 
 nouncing a serpentine dance and because I cannot 
 afford to let them get ahead of me." 
 
 '* But," I asked, " are there other dancers of this 
 sort at Parisian theatres ? " 
 
 '* No. The one at the Casino has broken her 
 engagement. But for my part I had already en- 
 gaged your imitator. As you see, she is meeting 
 with no great success, and I fancy that you will 
 hardly achieve it either. Nevertheless, if you 
 care to give me a rehearsal I am at your 
 
 service." 
 
 " Thank you. You would like me to give you 
 
 55 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S IvIFE 
 
 a rehearsal so that a thief may steal some more 
 of my dances ! '' 
 
 But my agent urged me so strongly to show the 
 manager what my dances were like, especially as 
 compared with those of my imitator, that I decided 
 to do so. 
 
 I put on my robes, one after the other, and began 
 to dance. The orchestra was composed of a 
 single violin, and for illumination I had only the 
 footHghts. 
 
 When I had finished the manager made me come 
 into his private office and proposed to engage me 
 then and there. I was to make my appearance 
 as soon as the other dancer had ended her 
 engagement. 
 
 " No,'* I declared. " If I come to you this 
 woman will have to go.'* 
 
 " But,** he said, " I have engaged her. She 
 cannot leave until the end of her agreement.** 
 
 '* You have only to pay her for her performances 
 and she will go.** 
 
 He objected then that lithographs, newspaper 
 advertisements and other things had been pre- 
 pared for her, and that, if she stopped dancing, 
 the pubHc might protest. 
 
 " Very well. In that case I will dance in her 
 place, under her name, with her music, until you 
 have arranged everything for my debut.** 
 
 The next day he paid my imitator and she left 
 the theatre. 
 
 56 
 
THE REAL DEBUT 
 
 That same evening I took her place and I was 
 obliged to repeat her dance four or five times. 
 
 Then we set ourselves at work seriously upon 
 rehearsals for my debut, which was announced to 
 occur a week later. 
 
 After I had danced twice under my imitator's 
 name the manager of the Folies-Bergere took me 
 to the office of the Figaro. 
 
 I knew well that from the point of view of 
 advertising this was an excellent idea, but I 
 did not know until long after that my definite 
 engagement had depended on the impression I 
 created there. I have not forgotten that I owe 
 my entire career to the memorable success I 
 achieved on that occasion. 
 
 Eight days later the general rehearsal occurred, 
 which ended only at four o'clock in the morning, 
 and still I had been unable to complete my 
 programme, comprising five dances : i, the ser- 
 pentine ; 2, the violet ; 3, the butterfly ; 4, a 
 dance the public later called the *' white dance." 
 As a finale I intended to dance with illumination 
 from beneath, the Hght coming through a square 
 of glass over which I hovered, and this was to be 
 the climax of my dances. After the fourth 
 number my electricians, who were exhausted, left 
 me there unceremoniously. 
 
 I was unwiUing to make my appearance without 
 my last dance, but, in the face of my manager's 
 threat to cancel our contract, I finally yielded. 
 
 57 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 Next day I was able, nevertheless, to rehearse 
 this fifth dance, and at the time of the performance 
 everything was ready for my initial appearance. 
 
 The enthusiasm of the audience grew progres- 
 sively while I danced. 
 
 When the curtain fell after the fourth dance, the 
 applause was deafening and the music that served 
 as prelude to dance number five could not be 
 heard. Upon the manager's order the curtain 
 was raised again and again, and the plaudits 
 continued to deafen us. I had to 5deld to the 
 inevitable ; it was impossible, and useless, ta 
 keep on dancing. The four dances, with the 
 encores, had lasted forty-five minutes and, despite 
 the stimulus of great success, I had reached the 
 limit of my strength. 
 
 I looked at the manager and asked : 
 
 " How about the last one ? '' 
 
 " We don't need it. Those you have just 
 danced have been enough to stir the audience up. 
 Don't you hear the cheering ? " 
 
 A moment later we were surrounded by a great 
 crowd and I was almost dragged to my dressing-- 
 room. 
 
 From that day on I had adventure after adven- 
 ture. Not until long afterward was I able to get 
 the benefit of my fifth dance. Some years later 
 I initiated at Pans-J±Le,dance of the fire and the 
 Ifly, and that once again at the FoHes-Bergere. 
 I I remember an ovation verj'* similar to that at 
 
 58 
 
CAIyVE'S TRIBUTE 
 
 my first appearance. This time, however, I was 
 no longer an unknown performer, as in 1892. I 
 had numerous Parisian friends in the house. Many 
 of them came upon the stage to congratulate me, 
 and amongst them, Calve. She took me in her 
 arms, kissed me and said : 
 
 *' It's wonderful ! lyoie, you are a genius." 
 And two big tears coursed down her cheeks. I 
 have never seen Calve prettier than at that 
 moment. 
 
 Well, that is the story of my first appearance in 
 Paris. 
 
 61 
 
VI 
 
 I,IGHT AND THE DANCE 
 
 SINCE it is generally agreed that I have 
 created something new, something com- 
 posed of light, colour, music, and the 
 dance, more especially of light and the 
 dance, it seems to me that it would perhaps 
 be appropriate, after having considered my cre- 
 ation from the anecdotal and picturesque stand- 
 point, to explain, in more serious terms, just what 
 my ideas are relative to my art, and how I con- 
 ceive it both independently and in its relationship 
 to other arts. If I appear to be too serious I 
 apologise in advance. 
 
 I hope that this theoretical " essay '* will be 
 better received than a certain practical essay that 
 I undertook, soon after my arrival in Paris, in 
 the cathedral of Notre Dame. 
 
 Notre Dame ! The great cathedral of which 
 France is justly proud was naturally the objective 
 of one of my earUest artistic pilgrimages, I may 
 say of the very earUest. The tall columns, whose 
 shafts, composed of little assembled columns, rise 
 dear to the vaults ; the admirable proportions of 
 the nave ; the choir, the seats of old carved oak, 
 
 62 
 
EJECTED FROM NOTRE DAME 
 
 and the railings of wrought iron — ^this harmonious 
 and magnificent pile impressed me deeply. But 
 what enchanted me more than anything else was 
 the marvellous glass of the lateral rose windows, 
 and even more, perhaps, the rays of sunlight that 
 vibrated in the church, in various directions, 
 intensely coloured, as a result of having t)assed 
 through these sumptuous windows. 
 
 I quite forgot where I was. I took my handker- 
 chief from my pocket, a white handkerchief, and 
 I waved it in the beams of coloured light, just as 
 in the evening I waved my silken materials in the 
 rays of my reflectors. 
 
 Suddenly a tall imposing man, adorned with a 
 heavy silver chain, which swung from an impres- 
 sive neck, advanced ceremoniously toward me, 
 seized me by the arm and led me toward the 
 entrance, directing a conversation at me which 
 I appreciated as lacking in friendliness although I 
 did not understand a word. To be brief he dropped 
 me on to the pavement. There he looked at me 
 with so severe an expression that I understood 
 his intention was never to let me enter the church 
 again under any pretext. 
 
 My mother was as frightened as I was. 
 
 Just then a gentleman came along, who, seeing 
 us completely taken aback, asked us what had 
 happened. I pointed to the man with the chain, 
 who was still wrathfully surveying us. 
 
 " Ask him about it,'* I said. 
 
 63 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 The gentleman translated the beadle's language 
 to me. 
 
 '* Tell that woman to go away ; she is crazy." 
 
 Such was my first visit to Notre Dame and the 
 vexatious experience that my love of colour and 
 light caused. 
 
 When I came to Europe I had never been inside 
 an art museum. The life that I led in the United 
 States had given me neither motive nor leisure to 
 become interested in masterpieces, and my know- 
 ledge of art was hardly worth mentioning. The 
 first museum whose threshold I crossed was the 
 British Museum. Then I visited the National 
 Gallery. I^ater I became acquainted with the 
 Louvre and, in due course, with most of the 
 great museums of Europe. The circumstance that 
 has struck me most forcibly in regard to these 
 museums is that the architects have not given 
 adequate attention to considerations of light. 
 
 Thanks to this defect I get in most museums 
 an impression of a disagreeable medley. When I 
 look at the objects for some moments the sensa- 
 tion of weariness overcomes me, it becomes im- 
 possible to separate the things one from another. 
 I have always wondered if a day will not come 
 when this problem of lighting will be better solved. 
 The question of illumination, of reflection, of rays 
 of light falling upon objects, is so essential that 
 I cannot understand why so little importance has 
 been attached to it. Nov/here have I seen a 
 
 64 
 
COLOUR AND UGHT 
 
 museum where the lighting was perfect. The 
 panes of glass that let the Hght through ought to 
 be hidden or veiled just as are the. lamps that Hght 
 theatres, then the objects can be observed without 
 the annoyance of the sparkle of the window. 
 
 The efforts of the architect ought to be directed 
 altogether in that direction — ^to the redistribution 
 of Ught. There are a thousand ways of distributing 
 it. In order that it may fulfil the desired condi- 
 tions light ought to be brought directly to pictures 
 and statues instead of getting there by chance. 
 
 Colour is disintegrated light. The rays of 
 light, disintegrated by vibrations, touch one object 
 and another, and this disintegration, photographed 
 in the retina, is always chemically the result of 
 changes in matter and in beams of light. Each 
 one of these effects is designated under the name 
 of colour. 
 
 Our acquaintance with the production and 
 variations of these effects is precisely at the point 
 where music was when there was no music. 
 
 In its earUest stage music was only natural 
 harmony ; the noise of the waterfall, the rumbhng 
 of the storm, the gentle whisper of the west wind, 
 the murmur of the watercourses, the rattHng of 
 rain on dry leaves, all the sounds of still water 
 and of the raging sea, the sleeping of lakes, the 
 tumult of the hurricane, the soughing of the 
 wind, the dreadful roar of the cyclone, the crashing 
 of the thunder, the crackHng of branches. 
 
 65 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 Afterwards the singing birds and then all the 
 animals emitted their various sounds. Harmony 
 was there ; man, classifying and arranging the 
 sounds, created music. 
 
 We all know what man has been able to get from 
 it since then. 
 
 Man, past master of the musical realm, is 
 to-day still in the infancy of art, from the stand- 
 point of control of light. 
 
 If I have been the first to employ coloured light, 
 I deserve no special praise for that. I cannot 
 esqplain the circumstance ; I do not know how 
 I do it. I can only reply, like Hippocrates whe 
 he was asked what time was : *' Ask it of me,'' he 
 said ; " and I cannot tell you ; ask it not and I 
 know it well.*' 
 
 It is a matter of intuition, of instinct, and 
 nothing else. 
 
 Sight is perhaps the first, the most acute, of 
 our senses. But as we are bom with this sense 
 sufficiently well developed to enable us to make 
 good use of it, it is afterward the last that we 
 try to perfect. For we concern ourselves with 
 everything sooner than with beauty. So there is 
 no reason for surprise that the colour sense is the 
 last to be developed. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding, colour so pervades 
 everything that the whole universe is busy pro- 
 ducing it, everywhere and in everything. It is 
 a continued recurrence, caused by processes of 
 
 66 
 
THE HARMONY OF MOTION 
 
 chemical composition and decomposition. The 
 day will come when man will know how to employ 
 them so delightfully that it will be hard to con- 
 ceive how he could have lived so long in the 
 darkness in which he dwells to-day. 
 
 Our knowledge of motion is nearly as primitive 
 as our knowledge of colour. We say *' prostrated 
 by grief," but, in reality, we pay attention only to 
 the grief ; " transported with joy," but we 
 observe only the joy ; " weighed down by chagrin," 
 but we consider only the chagrin. Throughout 
 we place no value on the movement that ex- 
 presses the thought. We are not taught to do so, 
 and we never think of it. 
 
 Who of us has not been pained by a movement 
 of impatience, a lifting of the eyebrows, a shaking 
 of the head, the sudden withdrawal of a hand ? 
 
 We are far from knowing that there is as much 
 harmony in motion as in music and colour. We 
 do not grasp the facts of motion. 
 
 How often we have heard it said : *' I cannot 
 bear this colour." But have we ever reflected that 
 a given motion is produced by such and such 
 music ? A polka or a waltz to which we listen 
 informs us as to the motions of the dance and 
 blends its variations. A clear sparkling day pro- 
 duces upon us quite a different effect from a dull 
 sad day, and by pushing these observations 
 further we should begin to comprehend some more 
 delicate effects which influence our organism. 
 
 67 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 In the quiet atmosphere of a conservatory with 
 green glass, our actions are different from those 
 in a compartment with red or blue glass. But 
 usually we pay no attention to this relationship 
 of actions and their causes. These are, however, 
 things that must be observed when one dances 
 to an accompaniment of light and music properly 
 harmonised. 
 
 lyight, colour, motion and music. 
 
 Observation, intuition, and finally comprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 lyCt us try to forget educational processes in 
 so far as dancing is concerned. I^et us free our- 
 selves from the sense that is ordinarily assigned 
 to the word. Let us endeavour to forget what 
 is understood by it to-day. To rediscover the 
 primitive form of the dance, transformed into a 
 thousand shapes that have only a very distant 
 relationship to it, we shall have to go back to the 
 early history of the race. We then get a notion 
 what the origin of the dance must have been and 
 what has made it what it is to-day. 
 
 At present dancing signifies motions of the arms 
 and legs. It means a conventional motion, at 
 first with one arm and one leg, then a repetition of 
 the same figure with the other arm and the other 
 leg. It is accompanied by music, each note calls 
 for a corresponding motion, and the motion, it is 
 unnecessary to say, is regulated rather by the time 
 than by the spirit of the music. So much the 
 
 68 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE DANCE 
 
 worse for the poor mortal who cannot do with his 
 left leg what he does with his right leg. So much 
 worse for the dancer who cannot keep in time, or, 
 to express it better, who cannot make as many 
 motions as there are notes. It is terrifying to 
 <:onsider the strength and ability that are needed 
 for proficiency. 
 
 Slow music calls for a slow dance, just as fast 
 music requires a fast dance. 
 
 In general, music ought to follow the dance. 
 The best musician is he who can permit the 
 •dancer to direct the music instead of the music 
 inspiring the dance. All this is proved to us by 
 the natural outcome of the motives which first 
 impelled men to dance. Nowadays these motives 
 are forgotten, and it is no longer considered that 
 there should be a reason for dancing. 
 
 In point of fact the dancer on hearing a piece 
 oi new music, says : ** Oh, I cannot dance to that 
 air.'' To dance to new music, the dancer has to 
 learn the conventional steps adapted to that 
 music. 
 
 Music, however, ought to indicate a form of 
 harmony or an idea with instinctive passion, and 
 this instinct ought to incite the dancer to follow 
 the harmony without special preparation. This 
 is the true dance. 
 
 f To lead us to grasp the real and most extensive 
 connotation of the word dance, let us try to forget 
 what is impUed by the choregraphic art of our day. 
 
 69 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 What is the dance ? It is motion. 
 
 What is motion ? The expression of a sensa- 
 tion. 
 
 What is a sensation ? The reaction in the 
 human body produced by an impression or an. 
 idea perceived by the mind. 
 
 A sensation is the reverberation that the body 
 receives when an impression strikes the mind. 
 When the tree bends and resumes its balance it 
 has received an impression from the wind or the 
 storm. When an animal is frightened its body 
 receives an impression of fear, and it flees and 
 trembles or else stands at bay. If it be wounded, 
 it falls. So it is when matter responds to imma- 
 terial causes. Man, civilised and sophisticated,, 
 is alone best able to inhibit his own imptdses. 
 
 In the dance, and there ought to be a word better 
 adapted to the thing, the human body should, 
 despite conventional hmitations, express aU the 
 sensations or emotions that it experiences. The 
 human body is ready to express, and it would 
 express if it were at liberty to do so, all sensations 
 just as the body of an animal. 
 
 Ignoring conventions, following only my own 
 instinct, I am able to translate the sensations we 
 have all felt without suspecting that they cotdd 
 be expressed. We all know that in the powerful 
 emotions of joy, sorrow, horror, or despair, the 
 body expresses the emotion it has received from 
 the mind. The mind serves as a medium and 
 
 70 
 
THE EXPRESSION OF SENSATIONS 
 
 causes these sensations to be caught up by the 
 body. In fact, the body responds to these sensa- 
 tions to such an extent sometimes that, especially 
 when the shock is violent, life is suspended or 
 even leaves the body altogether. 
 
 But natural and violent movements are possible 
 only in the midst of grand or terrible circumstances. 
 They are only occasional motions. 
 
 To impress an idea I endeavour, by my motions, 
 to cause its birth in the spectator's mind, to 
 awaken his imagination, that it may be prepared 
 to receive the image. 
 
 Thus we are able, I do not say to understand, 
 but to feel within ourselves as an impulse an in- 
 definable and wavering force, which urges and 
 dominates us. Well, I can express this force 
 which is indefinable but certain in its impact. I 
 have motion. That means that all the elements 
 of nature may be expressed. 
 
 lyCt us take a '* tranche de vie'' That expresses 
 surprise, deception, contentment, uncertainty, 
 resignation, hope, distress, joy, fatigue, feebleness, 
 and, finally, death. Are not all these sensations, 
 each one in turn, humanity's lot ? And why 
 can not these things be expressed by the dance, 
 guided intelligently, as well as by life itself ? 
 Because each life expresses one by one all these 
 emotions. One can express even the religious 
 sensations. Can we not again express the sensations 
 that music arouses in us, either a nocturne of 
 E 71 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 Chopin's or a sonata of Beethoven's, a slow move- 
 ment by Mendelssohn, one of Schumann's lieder, 
 or even the cadence of lines of poetry ? 
 
 As a matter of fact, motion has been the starting 
 point of all effort at self-expression, and it is faith- 
 ful to nature. In experiencing one sensation we 
 cannot express another by motions, even when 
 we can do so in words. 
 
 Since motion and not language is truthful, we 
 have accordingly perverted our powers of com- 
 prehension. 
 
 That is what I have wanted to say and I apolo- 
 gise for having said it at such length, but I felt 
 that it was necessary. 
 
 72 
 
VII 
 
 A JOURNEY TO RUSSIA — ^A BROKKN 
 CONTRACT 
 
 SOON after I had made my first appearance 
 at the Folies-Bergere a Russian manager, 
 in accordance with an arrangement with 
 my Parisian manager, M. Marchand, asked 
 to engage me, and I signed with him for St. 
 Petersburg. 
 
 My engagement was for the following spring. 
 
 At the end of the winter, in April, on the very 
 day on which we were to leave for Russia, my 
 mother tottered and would certainly have fallen 
 if I had not been there to support her. I asked 
 what was the matter. She didn't know, but for 
 some time she had been suffering. She went to 
 bed, saying : 
 
 '* I cannot go. But you take the train so as not 
 to disappoint your people, and I will follow you 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 I was unwilUng, however, to leave her in such a 
 condition. The manager of the FoUes-Bergere, who 
 had acted as intermediary between the Russian 
 manager and myself, had come to the station to 
 say good-bye. When he saw that I had missed the 
 
 73 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S I.IFE 
 
 train he came to our house and '' showed off/* 
 Meantime, I had called in a local physician, who 
 could not tell me what was the trouble with my 
 mother. As he was French I understood only 
 that she was very ill. My mother's condition 
 grew worse and I made up my mind not to leave 
 her. 
 
 Next day M. Marchand returned, and this time 
 with representatives of the poUce. They com- 
 pelled me to dress myself and then took me down 
 to the station, where, almost by main force, they 
 put me on the train along with my electricians. 
 
 Despite my explicit resolutions of the night 
 before, there I was on my way to Russia ! 
 
 At the first stopping-place I left the train and 
 boarded one which took me back to Paris. I 
 found my mother much worse, and I begged the 
 doctor to mention my name to no one. 
 
 I had engaged a nurse to watch over my mother. 
 For two days I hid whenever anyone came, to such 
 an extent did I feel myself in the hands of the 
 Philistines. 
 
 When the train arrived at St. Petersburg and 
 the electricians discovered that I was not there, 
 more trouble ensued. 
 
 The Russian manager wired Paris, and I was 
 unable to keep my secret any longer. This time, 
 taking advantage of my ignorance both of the 
 law and of the French language, they threatened 
 to arrest me and imprison me if I did not start for 
 
 74 
 
LOIE FULLER AND HER MOTHER 
 
ACCUSED OF THEFT 
 
 Russia at once. All that was under the pretext 
 that I had taken money in advance. I was 
 actually accused of being a thief. 
 
 This whole scene took place in my mother's pres- 
 ence. We were both nearly dead with fright. My 
 mother begged me to go. With my heart full of 
 bitterness, and my eyes sore from crying, I allowed 
 myself to be dragged away a second time and 
 placed in the train. 
 
 After my departure a young Englishwoman, 
 whom I had met only once or twice, came to call 
 at our appartement, and finding my mother ver>^ 
 ill, went, on her own initiative, and summoned 
 an English physician. Dr. John Chapman, who 
 had attended us before, and whom she had met at 
 our house. I had not called him because I sup- 
 posed that the physician whom I had engaged 
 would be just as competent to cure my mother 
 sufficiently for her to be able to go with me to St. 
 Petersburg. 
 
 Dr. Chapman arrived just at the moment when 
 the French physicians (the doctor who was attend- 
 ing my mother had called three of his colleagues 
 into consultation) had decided to give her a 
 soporific on the ground that she was dying of 
 pneumonia and that nothing could save her. The 
 EngHsh doctor offered to attend my mother, and 
 the Frenchmen retired when they learned that he 
 was our regular physician. 
 
 Dr. Chapman inquired after me, and when he 
 
 77 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S LIFE 
 
 was informed about what had happened wired me 
 all along the line, at each station where the train 
 was scheduled to stop. He maintained that they 
 ought never to have let me go. 
 
 Just as I reached the Russian border the tele- 
 gram was brought to me : '' Return at once. 
 Your mother has very Uttle chance of recovering.'' 
 
 This was the first news to reach me since my 
 departure, forty-eight hours before. It was six 
 o'clock in the morning and still dark. I was in 
 bed in the sleeping car and it was cold, as it can be 
 cold only in Russia. 
 
 The conductor knew no English and I spoke no 
 language but my own. I was unable to make him 
 understand that I wished to know when I could 
 leave the train and return to Paris. I dressed 
 myself hastily, packed my things helter skelter 
 and, when the train arrived at the next station, I 
 alighted with all my baggage. What a bare and 
 desolate spot ! It was a Uttle station, with hardly 
 a platform. Away the train went rumbling, 
 leaving me there in that wilderness. What was 
 I to do ? I had no idea. I banged on the door 
 of the wooden hovel that served as a station. It 
 was closed. For a long time, a very long time, 
 shivering with cold, grief and anguish, I walked 
 up and down in the darkness like a caged beast. 
 Finally a man appeared out of the night. He 
 s\Ming a lantern, which made a little round spot of 
 light in the gloom. He opened the door and I 
 
 78 
 
A FAI^E KNIGHT 
 
 followed him into the hut. I presented myself at 
 the ticket office and tried to make him understand 
 that I wanted a ticket for Berlin. I offered him 
 French currency. He handed it back to me. I 
 managed to understand that he would take only 
 Russian money and also that the train that would 
 get me back to BerUn was not due for three or 
 four hours. Then I waited for day to break, hoping 
 that perhaps some one would come who could help 
 me. Towards nine o'clock some people arrived 
 and among them I noticed an old fellow in whom I 
 recognised the traditional Polish Jew, a money- 
 lender I was sure, with his long black coat, his big 
 round hat, his beard and his crafty smile. 
 
 I went to him and asked if he knew any English. 
 
 He did not know a word. 
 
 He tried to speak French and then German, but 
 I failed to understand what he said. I succeeded 
 in making him understand that I wanted to go to 
 Berlin, and that the railway employee would not 
 accept my French banknote. This bill of a 
 thousand francs and a little ready money were all 
 I had with me. 
 
 My interpreter took possession of the thousand 
 francs, secured a ticket for Berlin for me and then 
 disappeared for the purpose of changing my bill. I 
 did not think of following him, although he bore 
 my whole fortune away with him. 
 
 The man was a thief. He never came back. I 
 realised in an ecstasy of fright, when the train 
 
 79 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 arrived, that there I was without money enough 
 to purchase a ticket from Berlin to Paris. At 
 the first station I telegraphed to some acquaint- 
 ances whom I had met in Berlin, but on whom 
 I could hardly count and who very likely were 
 not at the German capital just then. I begged 
 them, at all hazards, to come to the station and 
 bring me a little money so that I could continue 
 my journey. 
 
 At this point begins the strange part of my 
 adventure. I was alone in my compartment when 
 we crossed the Russian border. Weighed down with 
 dejection, I sat on the carpet of the carriage, with 
 my head resting heavily on the woodwork, crying as 
 if my heart would break. At the first stop a priest 
 entered. Although I had quickly raised myself 
 and wiped my face with my handkerchief, he saw 
 at once that I was in trouble. He came and sat 
 down opposite to me, and I noticed by his expres- 
 sion that he was disturbed by my suffering. Tears 
 again flooded my cheeks and I told him that my 
 mother was dying in Paris. He repeated the words 
 *' mother '' and '' ill '* in German. He extended 
 his hand to bid me not to speak for a minute. He 
 closed his eyes and I looked at him. Everything 
 subsided within me. I awaited for a miracle. The 
 miracle took place. 
 
 After ten minutes, which seemed to me an age, 
 he opened his eyes and said to me in German : 
 
 '' No, no, your mother will not die.'* 
 
 80 
 
A STRANGE EXPERIENCE 
 
 I understood what he said, catching the words 
 ''mother'' and ''not.'' The frightful sense of 
 oppression that was torturing me disappeared. I 
 perceived that his words were not in vain, that he 
 spoke the truth and that my mother was not going 
 to die. I stopped crying, feeling sure that now 
 everything would come out all right. 
 
 Presently he left me, and I understood, from his 
 manner of speaking, that he was trying to give me 
 courage and hope. 
 
 When he was no longer there my fears returned, 
 and I found myself again as unhappy as before. 
 I seemed to see my mother stretched before me in 
 death. I saw once more the horrible men who 
 dragged me to the station. I hated them wildly, 
 and I fell into convulsive tremblings, which shook 
 me from head to foot. 
 
 In this condition I reached Berlin. I^uckily 
 my friends were at the station. Before my arrival 
 they had even telegraphed to Paris to learn the 
 news. A reply had come to them that my poor 
 mother was hovering between life and death. I 
 still had twenty-four hours of waiting and anxiety. 
 
 When I arrived in Paris I perceived at once the 
 beautiful white beard, the pale and weary face of 
 Dr. Chapman, whose tall form rose above the 
 crowd. He took me in his arms, and said : 
 
 " She is still ahve. Come." 
 
 In the carriage he gave me this advice : 
 
 " Enter the room and speak to your mother just 
 
 8i 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 as if you had never gone away. Your presence will 
 save her/' 
 
 And that is what happened. From the moment 
 of my return she began to improve. But this 
 illness left her very weak. She had a first attack 
 of paralysis and her trouble gained imperceptibly 
 upon her, leaving each day less hope of her 
 recovery. 
 
 She was destined, without ever being restored 
 to health, to die in Paris in February, 1908. 
 
 In Russia they started a long lawsuit against me 
 for not having kept my agreement, and before it 
 was ended I lost, including other offers, which I 
 could not accept without my electrical apparatus 
 and my costumes that were held as security, fully 
 250,000 francs. During my second season at the 
 Folies-Bergere, when, through the solicitude of M. 
 Marchand, my dressing-room was always filled with 
 flowers by reason of the distinguished visitors who 
 came to see me and to whom the directors would 
 offer champagne, an attachment was put upon 
 my receipts and we often had hardly enough to 
 eat. But for the manager's wife, who at times sent 
 us things to eat in a basket, I should often have 
 danced on an empty stomach, and have sipped 
 champagne in my dressing-room without having 
 had anjrthing to eat at home. 
 
 My work on the stage was so fatiguing that when 
 I had finished dancing the mechanicians would 
 carry me to my appartement, which was connected 
 
 82 
 
INSUFFICIENT FOOD 
 
 with the theatre. I continued this work for a 
 whole season without being sufficiently well fed to 
 keep up my strength, and being all the while in an 
 appartement the sanitation of which was defective. 
 Therein, I am certain, lay one of the reasons 
 for the progress of my mother's illness. My 
 health, too, was affected to such an extent that 
 I am no longer able to endure fatigue as I once 
 endured it. 
 
 However, it all happened as a result of circum- 
 stances, and I have no wish to blame anybody. 
 
 The manager of the theatre had given me this 
 appartement and had had it arranged specially for 
 me in order that I might not be obliged to go out 
 into the street, heated with dancing. 
 
 Since then I have never returned to Russia, for 
 every time that a journey to that country was 
 mentioned my poor mother trembled with fright, 
 and there was never any question of my under- 
 taking it. 
 
 This adventure at least caused me to believe in 
 one thing — ^inspiration. For if the priest in the 
 railway compartment was not inspired, then what 
 was he ? 
 
 83 
 
VIII 
 
 SARAH BERNHARDT — ^THE DREAM AND THE 
 REAI.ITY 
 
 1WAS scarcely sixteen years old. I was then 
 playing ingenue roles on the road, when on 
 the theatrical horizon there appeared the 
 announcement that the greatest tragedienne 
 of modern times, Sarah Bernhardt, the most dis- 
 tinguished of French actresses, was about to come 
 to America ! What an event ! We awaited it 
 with feverish curiosity, for the divine Sarah was 
 not a human being Hke the rest of us. She was a 
 spirit endowed with genius. 
 
 The circumstance which made my heart throb 
 and caused me to shed tears copiously was that I 
 was uncertain of being able to see this wonderful 
 fairy of the stage. I knew beforehand that there 
 would be no seat for one so insignificant as I was. 
 The newspapers were printing column upon col- 
 umn about her, and I read ever3rthing that I could 
 get hold of. The papers said that the seats were 
 all bought up, and that not a hundredth part of 
 those who wanted to see her would achieve their 
 ambition. The box office was besieged by specu- 
 lators. All that, alas ! meant that there was 
 
 84 
 
AMERICA'S GREETING 
 
 scarcely any hope for me. I do not know whether 
 Sarah had visited America before, for I had all 
 along been on the road with little travelling 
 companies in the Western States. So far as 
 I was concerned this was positively her first 
 visit. 
 
 At last the famous day arrived. A steamer, with 
 delegations and an orchestra aboard, went down 
 the bay to meet her. All that impressed me great- 
 ly. I saw in it genuine homage rendered to genius. 
 She had come at last. She was here. If I could 
 only see her, even from a distance — from a great 
 distance ! 
 
 But where and how ? I did not know, and I 
 kept on reading the papers, fairly intoxicating 
 myself with the articles describing her. It seemed 
 magic, unreality, a fairy tale. 
 
 Finally she gave her first performance. The 
 public and critics appeared to rave over her, — 
 absolutely to rave. 
 
 The actors and actresses of New York circulated 
 a petition, begging her to give a matinee in order 
 that they might honour her and observe her 
 glorious art. 
 
 Wonder of wonders, she accepted ! My mind 
 was quickly made up. 
 
 Very recently come to New York, my mother 
 and I were strangers in the big city. But fortu- 
 nately I had plenty of courage without knowing 
 it. When I learned that Sarah was going to play 
 
 85 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 for the benefit of her fellow-artists, I said to my 
 mother : " Well, now, I am going to see her." 
 
 *' There are so many famous artists in New 
 York,'' my mother replied, "how do you suppose 
 that you can get seats ?'* 
 
 I had not thought of that, so I jumped up, 
 saying : 
 
 " Then I had better hurry up." 
 
 ** How will you go about it ? " asked my mother. 
 
 I paused a moment to think the matter over. 
 
 '* I don't know," I repUed, '* but in some way 
 or other I must see her. I am going to her 
 theatrical manager." 
 
 " But he won't receive you." 
 
 Of that I had not thought, either. But I would 
 not hear of any obstacles. Besides, out West I 
 had never been treated that way. I was not j^'et 
 fully aware that people in the West were simpler 
 and more approachable than in New York. 
 
 The objection, therefore, did not appear to me a 
 formidable one, and I started out with my mother, 
 who always went with me and who obeyed me 
 in everything without my having the faintest idea 
 but that I was the obedient one. 
 
 Here we were, then, on our way ; and, after half 
 an hour's walking, we reached the theatre. The 
 manager had not yet arrived. We sat down to 
 wait for him. A lot of people came in. Some 
 of them stayed for a while. Others went away 
 at once. 
 
 86 
 
A DETERMINED CHII,D 
 
 They were all excited, busy and looked worried. 
 What were they after ? Were they going to get 
 all the tickets ? The crowd kept increasing to 
 such an extent that I saw my poor tickets grow 
 smaller and smaller in perspective and then 
 disappear altogether. And I had counted so 
 much on them ! 
 
 Would the manager never come ? 
 
 At last a great commotion was heard. A group 
 of gentlemen rushed by like the wind and, without 
 stopping to see what was going on, disappeared 
 behind a door on which was written *' No 
 admission.'* 
 
 None of us knew what to do after that. Every- 
 body stared at everybody else. Most of those who 
 were cooling their heels in the ante-chamber were 
 men. My exhausted nerves would not let me 
 linger any longer, and I said in a whisper to my 
 mother : 
 
 *'|I am going to knock on the door.'* 
 
 She turned pale, but I had no choice in the 
 matter. This was the only way to come to some- 
 thing, even if I ran the risk of heart failure from 
 an organ that was beating so loudly that I thought 
 it was on the point of bursting. 
 
 My head was in a whirl and I saw nothing for a 
 moment. Nevertheless I approached the door 
 and gave a gentle knock. 
 
 I felt as if I had committed a crime, this little 
 rap resounded so loudly in my ears. A command 
 
 87 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 to enter that sounded lugubrious was the response, 
 and I opened the door. 
 
 Mechanically I came forward and found myself 
 in the middle of a group of gentlemen without 
 knowing which of them to address. Overcome 
 with embarrassment I stood erect in the centre of 
 the room while everybody looked me over. Then 
 I summoned all my courage and I said, to the 
 whole circle : 
 
 *' Gentlemen, I should like to see the manager 
 of this theatre, if you please." 
 
 When I stopped speaking my teeth began to 
 chatter so loudly that I bit my tongue. 
 
 A gentleman who looked more important than 
 the others came forward and said : 
 
 '* What do you want of him, little girl ? ** 
 
 Good heavens, must I speak again before all 
 these people ? To my own astonishment, I heard, 
 as if it were somebody else's, my o\im voice saying 
 in a firm tone : 
 
 '* Well, it is this way, sir. I am an artist, 
 and I should like to come with my mother to 
 the matinee that Sarah Bernhardt is going to 
 give us." 
 
 " Who are you, and where are you playing ? *' 
 
 At this point the tone lost its assurance, while 
 the voice replied : 
 
 '* You probably don't know my name, sir. It 
 isn't well known here. It's Loie Fuller. I have 
 come from the West, to try and find an engage- 
 
 88 
 
tt 
 
 t( 
 
 ENTERPRISE REWARDED 
 
 ment. I'm not playing anywhere just now, but 
 I think that — it is of no importance anyway — 
 and that perhaps you will let me just the same — 
 see her — ^if I beg it of you." 
 
 *' Where is your mother ? " 
 There, outside," and I pointed to the door. 
 The pale lady, with the sweet expression ? " 
 Yes, sir. She is pale because she is afraid." 
 
 " And you, are you afraid, too ? " 
 
 The firm voice reappeared. 
 
 '* No, sir." 
 
 He looked at me, a slightly ironical smile played 
 on his lips, and he said : 
 
 " Then you think that you are an artist ? *' 
 
 His remark cut me to the quick, but I felt that 
 I must endure everything. I experienced, never- 
 theless, a great temptation to cry. 
 
 My assurance reasserted itself. 
 
 '* I have never thought that," I replied. " But 
 I should like to become an artist, some day, if I 
 am able." 
 
 " And that is why you are anxious to see the 
 great French tragedienne play ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. But I was thinking only 
 of my longing to see her, and it was on that 
 account that I came here." 
 
 " Very well, I am going to give you seats for 
 yourself and your mother." 
 
 '' Oh, thank you, sir." 
 
 The manager drew a card from his pocket, wrote 
 
 F 89 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 something on it and handed it to me. It was a 
 permit for us to see Sarah Bernhardt play ! 
 
 I looked at the card and looked at the manager. 
 He smiled and I smiled. He extended his hand. 
 I extended both of mine. While he held my hands 
 he said to me : 
 
 " You have my card. Come and see me. 
 Perhaps I can find you an engagement, Httle girl." 
 
 There was a new pleasure, and not a vain 
 pleasure, for this man's promise was one that was 
 destined to be fulfilled. 
 
 " Thank you, thank you very much, sir.'* 
 
 I went out blinded with tears of happiness, which 
 I could no longer restrain, and, rejoining my 
 mother, I left the theatre. 
 
 *' What's the matter, my dear lyoie ? What 
 did they say to make you cry so ? What is it ? " 
 
 ** Mamma, mamma, I have a ticket to see her — 
 to see her ! " 
 
 *' Oh, I am so pleased, my dear." 
 
 ** And I have a seat for you, too ! " 
 
 The great day came. We were seated, my 
 mother and I, in the orchestra stalls. About us 
 there were American artists. In the boxes were 
 the managers of all the New York theatres and 
 their wives. The house was filled to overflowing. 
 The three bangs announced the rising of the 
 curtain. Silence ensued and the play began, I 
 did not understand a word and no one around 
 me, I fancy, did, either. But everybody awaits 
 
 90 
 
 1 
 
BERNHARDT'S RECEPTION 
 
 the culminating moment. She appeared, and 
 there was an almost painful silence in the great 
 overcrowded hall. Every one held his breath. 
 She came forward lightly, appearing barely to 
 brush the earth. Then she stopped in the middle 
 of the stage, and surveyed this audience of actors. 
 
 Suddenly pandemonium was let loose. Mad- 
 ness fell upon the house, and for a quarter of an 
 hour she stood thus, prevented from playing by 
 the din of the theatre, as if she were the audience. 
 She looked round, interested, inspired and moved. 
 This tumultuous crowd was playing with magni- 
 ficent sincerity a part of indescribable enthusiasm. 
 
 Finally silence was restored. Sarah Bernhardt 
 came forward and began to read her lines. I 
 believe I understood her soul, her life, her greatness. 
 She shared her personality with me ! 
 
 The stage settings were lost on me. I saw and 
 heard only her. 
 
 There was frantic applause, encore after encore 
 following each scene. Then the curtain fell on 
 the final scene, only to be followed by a great 
 uproar. Then the audience went out slowly, as 
 if regretting to leave the surroundings. 
 
 While I went away a golden voice — the golden 
 voice — seemed still to resound in my ears, uttering 
 words which I could not understand : '* Je t'aime ! 
 je t'aime ! *' They were Hke the notes of a crystal 
 bell resounding in my consciousness. 
 
 Who would have thought at that time that 
 
 91 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 the poor little Western girl would one day come 
 to Paris, would appear there on a stage, in her 
 turn before an audience trembling with enthusiasm, 
 and that Sarah Bernhardt would be in the house 
 for the purpose of applauding this little Western 
 girl, just as the little Western girl had applauded 
 her to-day ? 
 
 I was dancing at the Folies-Bergere. At a 
 matinee some one came to say that Sarah Bernhardt 
 was in a box with her Httle daughter. Did I 
 dream ? My idol was there. And to see me ! 
 Could this be possible ? 
 
 I came on to the stage and looked over the 
 audience, which was filhng the hall above and 
 below. Standing quietly, in my great white robe, 
 I waited for the end of the applause. 
 
 I danced and, although she could not know it, 
 I danced for her. I forgot everything else. I 
 lived again through the famous day in New York, 
 and I seemed to see her once more, marvellous as 
 she was at the matinee. And now here was a 
 matinee to which she had come for the purpose 
 of seeing me — my idol, to see me, 
 
 I finished. 
 
 She rose in her box, she leaned forward toward 
 me to applaud — ^and to applaud again. The cur- 
 tain rose several times. My brain was in a whirl. 
 Was this real ? Was it ? Was it she ? 
 
 It was my turn to become the audience and, as 
 
 92 
 
A VISIT TO BERNHARDT 
 
 I saw only her, her audience. And that is how she 
 played to my profound, my perfect gratification, 
 the part of the whole house. 
 
 One day a friend took me to Sarah Bemhardt's 
 house. It was a real visit, but it seemed to 
 me nevertheless like a dream. I was scarcely 
 able to speak or to breathe. I could hardly 
 presume to look at her. I was in the presence of 
 my divinity. 
 
 I^ater she invited me to have lunch with her, as 
 a result of my begging her to be photographed by 
 one of the best photographers of San Francisco, 
 who had crossed the ocean expressly to take Sarah 
 Bernhardt in her wonderful studio. She had 
 consented. I had taken my compatriot to her, and 
 she had posed for him very graciously. He was 
 3o pleased with his good luck, so grateful, the 
 dear fellow ! 
 
 Sarah had asked me to come and lunch with 
 tier on the day when he was to show her the 
 proofs. 
 
 Exactly at noon I made my entrance. Very 
 shortly after she appeared in the great studio, took 
 ne in her arms and imprinted a kiss on each of my 
 dieeks. All that was so simple, so natural and yet 
 >o extraordinary. 
 
 We had luncheon, Sarah at the end of the table, 
 vith her back to the window, seated in a magni- 
 icent chair, as it were in some carved throne, whose 
 
 95 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S LIFE 
 
 back overtopped her head like a halo of gold. 
 Sarah was my divinity once more. I was seated 
 on her right. There were several other invited 
 guests whose names I have forgotten, my mind 
 was so full of her. Her voice rang in my ears. 
 I understood not a word of what she was saying, 
 but every syllable made me thrill. 
 
 All at once the photographer was announced. 
 Sarah bade him enter. He was a nice elderly 
 gentleman of about sixty, with pretty white curly 
 hair. He looked well pleased with himself. He 
 approached Sarah, and placed in her outstretched 
 hands a packet of proofs of the photographs he 
 had taken. She looked at them slowly, one by 
 one. Then, her golden voice broke forth in shrill 
 notes that gave me a sinking feeling. I did not 
 know what she was saying, but I saw her tear the 
 photographs into a thousand and one shreds and 
 hurl them at the feet of my fellow-countryman. 
 He knew no French. Pale and disturbed, he asked 
 me to translate what Sarah said. But she gave 
 me no time to reply. She cried, this time in 
 EngUsh: "Horrible! Horrible!" 
 
 " What does she say ? " he asked, making a 
 trumpet of his hand about one ear. 
 
 Thank Heaven, he was deaf ! I signalled to 
 him to bend down toward me so that I might 
 whisper in his ear. 
 
 " She says these portraits are unworthy of your 
 work. She has seen some of your really wonderful 
 
 96 
 
THE PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOY 
 
 photographs. You will have to come again and 
 make another attempt.'* 
 
 *' Oh, that's it, is it ? " he replied with a joyful 
 smile on his lips. " She is quite right. The 
 photographs are not good. But the weather 
 was to blame. It wasn't bright enough, and these 
 are interiors. We shall have to make efforts 
 several times in order to succeed. Do you want 
 to make another appointment ? " 
 
 I promised, but without hope, and solely because 
 out of kindness I had to promise. 
 
 He grasped my divinity's hand and mine, and 
 went away. 
 
 Sarah was destined on that day to cause me 
 a happy surprise. She consented, when I asked 
 it of her, to sit again, and I was sorry that the old 
 man was not there, she was so grieved on account 
 of the pain for which she was responsible. She 
 really was grieved, and that made me love her all 
 the more. Her temper, too keen, too glowing, 
 had just resulted in a ruinous flare-up. And 
 now here was this same fiery disposition mani- 
 festing itself sweet and kind. 
 
 One day in lyondon I went to a banquet of fifteen 
 hundred covers given in honour of Sarah Bern- 
 hardt. I attended as one of those who were 
 personally acquainted with her, and who were to 
 be seated at her table in the centre of the 
 great hall. She arrived nearly an hour late. 
 She said how sorry she was to have kept 
 
 97 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 us waiting, and blamed her coachman for the 
 delay. 
 
 At the end of the banquet the president made a 
 long speech. Sarah, in reply, spoke some har- 
 monious sentences in English. From a distance I 
 once more surveyed my divinity. I heard her 
 say, in my mother tongue, that she was happy, and 
 I still loved her. 
 
 One day in Paris, very recently, Sarah Bern- 
 hardt's business manager was announced. I 
 received him, all the while wondering why my 
 divinity's manager had come to see me. He ex- 
 plained that Madame Sarah Bernhardt wanted 
 to know if I could give her certain hints on the 
 subject of the lighting of her new play, *' I^a Belle 
 au Bois Dormant.'* I was ill enough to be in bed, 
 but I arose to receive him. I promised him that I 
 would go to see Sarah the next day. The arrange- 
 ment was inaccurately reported and she under- 
 stood that I was coming the same day. When 
 she learned that she could count on me only for 
 the next day, she declared that I had fallen ill 
 very suddenly. 
 
 This thing wounded me to the quick, for I still 
 loved Sarah. Next day I went to her house and 
 she saw that I was suffering, for I could not utter 
 a word. She took me in her arms and called me 
 her treasure. That was enough. Everything 
 that I had was at her service, and I would have 
 
 98 
 
BERNHARDT^S GRATITUDE 
 
 done anything or given anything to help her. I 
 did remain at rehearsal to famiHarise myself with 
 what she needed in the way of illumination. 
 
 In her turn she came to my theatre after the 
 performance to see some lighting arrangements 
 that I had installed especially for her play, and 
 with the sole object of pleasing her. She brought 
 some people with her. For her sake I received 
 them all cordially. Among them was her elec- 
 trician. Each time that I took the trouble to 
 show something to Sarah the electrician would be 
 overheard saying : 
 
 " But I can do that. That is easy to copy. Oh, 
 I can do that, too. That's nothing at all." 
 
 As always during my performances the specta- 
 tors were in darkness, and one of my friends; 
 who had seated herself near Sarah to hear the 
 admiring things she would say, was staggered by 
 what she did hear. And in going away Sarah 
 thanked me as she wotdd thank anybody, over- 
 whelming me with pretty speeches. 
 
 On the morning of the next day the managing 
 director of the theatre at which I was dancing 
 announced in the newspapers — without having 
 consulted me — ^that Sarah Bernhardt had come to 
 see Loie Fuller's Hghting effects with reference to 
 the new play by Mm. Richepin et Cain, " I^a Belle 
 au Bois Dormant." 
 
 I sent some one to Sarah to ask which lighting 
 apparatus she would like. 
 
 99 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 And this was her reply. 
 
 " My electricians woiild go on a strike if they 
 thought I was about to associate any one with 
 them. They say they can do whatever I need to 
 have done. Besides, it is only a matter of a gauze 
 curtain and a revolving lamp. A thousand thanks 
 to Loie." 
 
 Am I alone to blame for my disillusionment ? 
 I had pictured something incomprehensible be- 
 cause Sarah Bernhardt is an inspired artist. 
 
 But she is also a woman, and it took me twenty 
 years to find it out. She is a woman, a fact I shall 
 now never be able to forget, but she remains my 
 divinity just the same. 
 
 100 
 
IX 
 
 AIvEXANDRE DUMAS 
 
 ONE evening at the Folies-Bergere two cards 
 were brought to me. On one of them 
 was engraved the name of the Minister 
 of Finance of the island of Haiti; on 
 the other, that of M. Eugene Poulle, also of Haiti. 
 
 What business could these two gentlemen have 
 with me ? The minister probably wanted me to 
 come and dance at his house. 
 
 The gentlemen entered, and I recognised in 
 one of them my Jamaica exile. 
 
 But that calls for an explanation. 
 
 In 1890 I was engaged by an actor named 
 William Morris for a tour of the West Indies. I 
 was to be star of the company, of which he was the 
 leading man. 
 
 One cold winter morning we sailed out of New 
 York harbour, and hardly were we at sea before 
 we fell victims to a fearful storm. For two days 
 and two nights the captain remained on the bridge, 
 and it looked as if we were destined to sink. My 
 mother and I had never undertaken an ocean 
 voyage before. We were terribly sick and, shut up 
 in our cabin, we supposed that at sea things 
 
 lOI 
 
FIFTEEN -YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 always went tHis way. All that we regretted was 
 that we had ever made the trip. Certainly no 
 one would ever induce us to do so again. 
 
 When we arrived in southern waters and the 
 waves were still, we appreciated what an extra- 
 ordinary gale it was that had so shaken us up. 
 Some days later we landed at Kingston, Jamaica. 
 
 My mother, Mr. Morris and I took rooms at the 
 same hotel, the Clarendon. 
 
 We seemed to be the only guests there. We 
 took our meals in a great hall on the first floor, 
 upon which all the rooms opened. 
 
 Yet we were not the only guests, for suddenly a 
 gentleman appeared on the scene. 
 
 At first we paid no particular attention to him, 
 but gradually we observed that he seemed to be 
 very much depressed. As it was excessively warm 
 he was always dressed only in his pyjamas. This 
 is a detail that I happen to remember, for Mr. 
 Morris also wore nothing else. The heat was 
 insufferable, but I have always liked heat by 
 reason of the chronic tendency to colds that I 
 have had since my birth. 
 
 One day I asked my mother and Mr. Morris to 
 invite the newcomer to our table. I discovered 
 with regret that conversation between us would 
 be impossible because he spoke only French and 
 we only EngHsh. By means, however, of panto- 
 mime and much good will on both sides, we 
 managed to make him understand our intention. 
 
 102 
 
OUR JAMAICA COMPANION 
 
 Our polite intercourse consisted in nods and 
 smiles and bows and in making our hands and 
 arms go this way and that way. As soon, however, 
 as we had become acquainted our relations were at 
 once estabUshed on a very comfortable basis. 
 
 He went with us to the theatre every time we 
 played, that was three times a week, and we took 
 our meals together. During the three months in 
 which we were in Jamaica, I never took the trouble 
 to find out his name. As a general principle I am 
 always less concerned with my friends* names than 
 with my friends themselves. 
 
 After Jamaica we returned to New York and I 
 hardly ever thought of Kingston again. 
 
 Two years later, when I was dancing at the 
 FoHes-Bergere, an elegant gentleman, accompanied 
 by a friend, asked for an interview. He turned out 
 to be our Jamaica companion and his friend the 
 Minister of Finance of Haiti. 
 
 In the meantime he had learned English and was 
 able to tell me that the period at which we had seen 
 him at Kingston was only a few months after the 
 breaking out of a revolution in Haiti. Our friend's 
 father, one of the leading bankers of the island, 
 had been assassinated, and he himself had been 
 obHged to escape in a small boat. He had been 
 rescued at sea and brought to Kingston. All the 
 while he was in Jamaica he had been trying to 
 communicate with his friends, by way of New 
 York, and he had not been able to learn whether 
 
 103 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 his mother, his brothers, and his sisters were dead 
 or ahve. 
 
 A short time after our departure he got into 
 communication with his family and discovered 
 that affairs were beginning to improve. He re- 
 turned home and found everybody safe and sound, 
 except, of course, his unfortunate father. 
 
 After having told me this story, which explained 
 his sadness at the time of our first meeting, he 
 asked me : 
 
 " How can I be of service to you ? You seem 
 to have everything that success can bring, but 
 there is one thing I can do, and one which, I 
 am sure, will give you great pleasure. I can 
 present you to my old friend, Alexandre Dumas/* 
 he added, with a pretty smile. 
 
 *' Really,** I said, overcome with joy. " Are 
 you really wiUing to introduce me to the author 
 of La Dame aux Camelias ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed,*' he replied. 
 
 That was worth a dozen visits to Jamaica, and 
 I thanked him effusively. 
 
 A few days later he came to take me to Marly, 
 where the great writer lived. 
 
 During the journey in the railway carriage M. 
 Poulle taught me a French phrase, which I was to 
 say when Dumas extended his hand: ''Je suis 
 tres contente de serrer votre main*' (''I am de- 
 lighted to grasp your hand**). And of course, 
 when the psychological moment arrived, I phrased 
 
 104 
 
AI.EXANDRE DUMAS AMUSED 
 
 the words all askew. Instead of taking one of his 
 hands I grasped both and emphatically and with 
 stress on each word, I said : '* Je suis tres contente 
 de votre main serree'' (''I am delighted with 
 your close-fisted hand*'). I did not understand 
 his reply, but my friend later on told me that 
 Dumas had replied : " My hand is not close-fisted, 
 but I know what you mean, child. My friend 
 Poulle has related to me his experiences in 
 Jamaica, and I open my heart and my hand in 
 your service." 
 
 The gesture he made is the only thing which I 
 remember, for all the rest was Greek to me. 
 
 From this time on a great friendship, a great 
 sympathy, subsisted between us, although we were 
 unable to understand each other. Among the 
 important men whom I have met few have exer- 
 cised upon me a charm such as that of Dumas. At 
 first a little cold, almost stiff in manner, he became, 
 on further acquaintance, exquisitely affable, and 
 of a gallantry suggestive of the fine manners of 
 the old days. At first his words continued obscure 
 to me, but gradually, as I became famiHar with the 
 French language, I fell under the irresistible charm 
 of his conversation, with its beautifully logical 
 and rounded phrases, enamelled as it was with 
 sparkling flashes of wit. Dumas had practically 
 two voices, two styles of speech ; one which he 
 employed in ordinary circumstances, as in asking 
 certain questions, or in giving orders ; the other 
 
 105 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 the one in which he discussed a subject that 
 greatly interested him. 
 
 Very tall, with a somewhat dreamy look, he 
 would survey you for a long time, whilst deep in 
 his eyes there gleamed a light of profound and 
 intelligent good will. 
 
 His hands, well modelled and large, were very- 
 handsome, and he had an almost feminine love of 
 being well groomed. 
 
 At breakfast one morning some one asked me 
 if I was very fond of M. Dumas, and I replied in 
 French, which I still understood only imperfectly : 
 *' I am very fond of her." 
 
 Dumas, convulsed with laughter, said something 
 that I did not get, but which was translated for me 
 thus : 
 
 '' He says that he has been taken for a whole lot 
 of things, but never before for a woman.'* 
 
 Dumas smiled again and kissed my hand, a 
 circumstance that I have always remembered. 
 
 Another time we were at Marly-le-Roi and the 
 Count PrimoU took a number of photographs 
 of us and of the garden, in which only a single 
 yellow rose was left. 
 
 Dumas picked this flower and gave it to me. 
 
 *'My dear sir," I said, "it is the last one 
 in the garden. You ought not to give it to 
 me. 
 
 M. Poulle, who served as translator, rendered 
 this reply : 
 
 io6 
 
LOIE FULLER AND ALEXANDRE DUMAS 
 
DUMAS' PHILOSOPHY 
 
 '' Oh, very well. Since it is so valuable, what 
 are you going to give me in exchange ? " 
 
 I replied that a woman could give only one thing 
 for so pretty a thought as that suggested by the 
 rose. 
 
 " And that is ? *' he asked. 
 
 I drew his face toward mine and kissed him. 
 
 Just at this moment Count Primoli took a snap- 
 shot of us, a picture which I have never had the 
 pleasure of owning. I have, however, something 
 better than a picture. I have kept the rose. 
 
 Conversing with Dumas I learned from him 
 some things about which I shall think as long as I 
 live. One day, still with M. Poulle's assistance as 
 interpreter, we were speaking of La Dame aux 
 Camelias and of the Demi-Monde and the character 
 of the women who compose it. He then said 
 something that I shall never forget : 
 
 *' When we find one of God's creatures in whom 
 we perceive nothing good, the fault is perhaps in 
 
 us." 
 
 Another day I was driving two pretty Arab 
 ponies that Dumas had bought for his grand- 
 children. We had reached the bottom of a hillock, 
 and the horses were eager to climb it as quickly 
 as they could. 
 
 He said to me : 
 
 '* Hold them back. They will have to become 
 of age before they will learn that one should not 
 go up hill on the gallop." 
 G 109 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 When I asked, *' What is it that urges them to 
 run this way," he replied : 
 
 " They are Hke men. They want to hurry and 
 get through with whatever annoys them.*' 
 
 Once Alexandre Dumas came to call on me at 
 the Grand Hotel, and from that time on the people 
 about the house looked upon me as a being apart, 
 for it was commonly said that Alexandre Dumas 
 paid as few visits as the Queen of England. 
 
 The last time that I saw him was in Paris, 
 Rue Ampere, where he lived in a magnificent 
 appartement. 
 
 I remember that there was with him a certain 
 M. Singer, an old friend of Dumas*, who asked him 
 if he was " indiscreet *' and who rose to take leave. 
 Dumas took him by the arm and extending his 
 free hand to me, said : 
 
 " Indiscreet ! Certainly not. All my friends 
 ought to know Loie and be fond of her." 
 
 When I took leave of him he kissed me on the 
 forehead and gave me a big photograph, enlarged 
 after a portrait of him when he was a child. On 
 the photograph were these words : 
 
 " From your Uttle friend Alexandre." 
 
 And this is one of my most precious souvenirs. 
 
 no 
 
X 
 
 M. AND MME. CAMII.I,E FI^MMARION 
 
 IN America we have a great actress named 
 Modjeska. She is one of the most inter- 
 esting women I have ever met. She is a 
 Pole, exiled from her own country and 
 married to Count Bozenta. Although she has a 
 title and is very much of an aristocrat by birth, 
 she is possessed of those conceptions of liberty 
 that are generally attributed to the Nihilists. It 
 was, indeed, on that account that her own estates 
 and those of her husband were confiscated, and 
 they themselves driven into exile. That must 
 have occurred about 1880 or a little before. 
 
 Then they found their way to free America, 
 established themselves there, and the countess 
 decided to go on the stage. 
 
 To her great astonishment, and everybody 
 else's, it was soon evident that the sacred fire 
 burned in her. She became a great actress. In 
 America we are as fond of her as if she were a 
 daughter of our own land. 
 
 Shortly after my first appearance at the Folies- 
 Bergere a lady asked to see me. It was the 
 Countess Wolska, likewise a Pole, and a friend of 
 
 III 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 Modjeska's. She, too, was living in exile with her 
 father, who had dared to write a revolutionary- 
 book called The Polish Jew. 
 
 It was through the kindness of Countess Wolska 
 that I made the acquaintance of M. and Mme. 
 Flammarion. I shall never forget the impression 
 that Camille Flammarion made upon me the first 
 time the countess took me to his house, Rue 
 Cassini. He wore a lounge jacket of white flannel, 
 edged with red lace. He had a veritable forest of 
 hair, which formed as it were a bonnet around his 
 head. This was so remarkable that I could not 
 repress an exclamation. Mme. Flammarion then 
 told me that she frequently had to cut some of 
 the locks, for her husband's hair grew with such 
 vigour that he was tormented by it. Then she 
 showed me a cushion on a divan, and remarked, 
 " There is where I put his hair after cutting 
 it." 
 
 To give an accurate idea of Camille Flammarion's 
 style of wearing his hair, you have only to multiply 
 Paderewski's head of hair by twelve. 
 
 At the time of my performance of Salome at 
 the Athenee M. and Mme. Flammarion came one 
 evening to my dressing-room, after the performance, 
 along with Alexandre Dumas. As there were many 
 other people there I did not notice at first that 
 the two men did not speak to each other. Finally 
 I became aware of it and I asked, in great surprise, 
 "Is it possible that the two most distinguished 
 
 112 
 
FIvAMMARION AND DUMAS 
 
 personalities in Paris are not acquainted with 
 each other.*' 
 
 '' It is not so remarkable/* replied Dumas, " for, 
 you see, Flammarion dwells in space, and I am 
 just a cumberer of the earth/' 
 
 '* Yes," said Flammarion, " but a little star come 
 out of the West has brought us together/' 
 
 Dumas began to laugh and said, " That is the 
 absolute truth." 
 
 I joined the conversation and declared that the 
 little American speck of star-dust was very proud 
 of having the honour and pleasure of bringing 
 together two such bright stars of France. 
 
 Few people understand that Flammarion is 
 not content with being an eminent astronomer. 
 He counts among his assets some discoveries 
 of the greatest interest, most of which have no 
 relation to astronomy. 
 
 One of them in particular interested me, as 
 was natural. 
 
 Flammarion wanted to know whether colour has 
 a certain influence on organisms. How greatly 
 such studies interest me is easily appreciated, 
 since I am rabid on the subject of colour. 
 
 He began his investigations by observing plants. 
 He took half-a-dozen geraniums, all of the same 
 size, and put each of them in a little conservatory 
 with glass of different colours. One of the con- 
 servatories had panes of white glass, and one 
 geranium finally he planted in the open air. 
 
 113 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 The result was surprising, as I can testify from 
 having seen them. 
 
 One of the plants, a very fragile one, had 
 expanded itself entirely at great height. Another 
 was very small but thick set. Still another had 
 no leaves. A fourth had only a small stem, some 
 leaves and no branches. Each plant was different 
 according to the colour that had shaded it, and 
 even the one he had planted under the white glass 
 was not quite normal. Not one was green, a 
 fact which proves not only that colour but that 
 glass has an action upon the plant. The only 
 pretty plant was the one that had been planted in 
 the open air. This one was normal. 
 
 Continuing his experiments on the human body, 
 Flammarion had panes of different colours set 
 in the windows of his observatory. Each person 
 who was sufficiently interested in his experiences 
 not to be afraid of the annoyances of sitting still 
 in light of a green colour for an hour or two, was 
 able to feel the varied influences that colour condi- 
 tions induce in the system. It is a fact, for example, 
 that yellow causes enervation and that mauve 
 engenders sleep. 
 
 I asked M. Flammarion if he thought that 
 the colours with which we are surrounded 
 have an effect on our characters, and he 
 replied : 
 
 " There is no doubt, is there, that each of us is 
 better satisfied with his appearance in one colour 
 
 114 
 
Photo 
 
 M. AND MME. CAMILLE FLAMMARION, TAKEN AT JUVISY 
 
THE FIvAMMARIONS AT HOME 
 
 than in another ? That is proved by experience, 
 for everybody will tell you : ' I love this colour/ 
 or 'I don't care for that one/ Isn't it also 
 said that such and such a colour ' suits ' or 
 * doesn't suit ' on such and such a person ? All 
 that appears to prove that colour must exert some 
 sort of influence, moral or physical, or perhaps 
 both simultaneously/' 
 
 It is only when you become intimately ac- 
 quainted with Flammarion that you appreciate 
 what a deep thinker he is. 
 
 In all his work he is ably seconded by his wife. 
 She, too, is a deep thinker and a woman of remark- 
 able initiative. She is one of the charter members 
 of the Association for Disarmament, and she gives 
 a great deal of time to other good works ; yet these 
 activities do not prevent her from being one of 
 the simplest of women and most accomplished of 
 housekeepers. 
 
 It may be interesting to describe briefly Flam- 
 marion's country house. They live in a chateau 
 at Juvisy, in the very place where I^ouis XIII. 
 first conceived the project of building a royal 
 palace. The terracing was finished and the park 
 laid out when there occurred a sHght earthquake, 
 and lyouis XIII. renounced his plan, turning his 
 attention to Versailles. But from that day to 
 this no other earthquake has ever occurred there. 
 The remarkable situation of Juvisy merits a visit 
 from any one who loves natural beauty. The 
 
 117 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 panorama that is unfolded from it is one of the 
 loveUest in France. 
 
 The chdteau, which antedates lyouis' project, is 
 still in existence. There it was that Napoleon 
 stayed for a while when on his way to Fontainebleau . 
 He held a council in the shade of a venerable 
 tree, which, from its superb height, dominates 
 the grassy hill in front of the chateau. Under 
 the tree were installed the table and the stone 
 bench, which are stiU shown, in order that the 
 Emperor might hold a council of those who were 
 faithful to him, and be free from the prying eyes of 
 inquisitive persons. Behind the chateau is the 
 famous lane, a great avenue completely covered 
 by the branches of two rows of trees, where ac- 
 cording to tradition Napoleon passed some hours 
 in congenial company. 
 
 The chateau once became the property of an 
 amateur astronomer. He had an observatory 
 built on it, and on his death he bequeathed this 
 wonderful estate to a man whom he had never 
 met. This man was Camille Flammarion. 
 
 I once attended a varnishing day with Camille 
 Flammarion. I wanted to do him the honour of 
 going dressed in my best, and so I bought for the 
 occasion a costume which, I think, must have been 
 very pretty. To go with the gown I selected a 
 hat with long ribbons hanging behind. 
 
 M. Flammarion appeared in a smoking jacket of 
 brown velvet and a soft hat. 
 
 ii8 
 
THE CHEF^S DILEMMA 
 
 Everybody in this gathering of specialists and 
 artists was acquainted with him. There was 
 whispering to the effect that Loie Fuller was with 
 him, and soon we had around us more people than 
 there were in front of any single picture. I fancied 
 that we looked very swell, but I was told later on 
 that we were followed principally because of 
 our reputations, because never a woman was 
 arrayed as I was that day, and because M. Flam- 
 marion^s garb was not exactly conventional. 
 
 Our success was such that one enthusiast even 
 cut the ribbons from my hat, probably to keep 
 them as a souvenir of a spectacle that he thought 
 memorable. 
 
 In other circumstances I made a display that 
 was not less memorable though confined to a 
 smaller number of spectators. 
 
 One evening I came home at eight o*clock and 
 found my house full of people. I had quite 
 forgotten that I was giving a dinner party of about 
 forty covers. My chef had asked me, that very 
 morning, if I would be good enough to arrange 
 for hiring some chairs and tables. He would 
 take care of the dinner without my being bothered 
 with it further. But, as I did not see a spare 
 minute ahead of me that day, I requested him to 
 see to the accessories as well as to the menu 
 itself, a thing that he was very glad to do. The 
 chairs, the tables and the dishes arrived. He 
 had made no terms regarding the accommodation, 
 
 119 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 and had supposed that I would be there to receive 
 what was necessary and pay the bill. I had not 
 returned. They waited until seven o^clock and 
 the chef decided as my representative to pay the 
 bill himself. He was asked to give three hundred 
 francs. The price seemed to him exorbitant, and 
 he did not dare to pay the bill without my con- 
 sent. He was, however, so perplexed, so afraid of 
 seeing my dinner party a dead failure for want of 
 chairs for the guests to sit on, that he concluded he 
 would advance the money. Then he discovered 
 that he had not enough with him, and the men 
 from the caterer's went back with their chairs, 
 tables, etc. 
 
 The chef was at his wit's end. He did not know 
 what to do until a magnificent inspiration came 
 to him. He went and told his troubles to all my 
 neighbours, who hastened to offer him chairs, 
 tables, dishes, glasses of every style and make. I 
 made my entrance just as my neighbours were 
 sending in their goods, and while the invited 
 guests were beginning to arrive. Everybody 
 turned to and helped lay the tables, and I believe 
 that I have never been present at a pleasanter 
 affair. 
 
 Some of the tables were high, others low. The 
 chairs added to the appearance of a general mix-up. 
 Table cloths were sadly lacking, as were knives 
 and glasses. My chef did wonders in making us 
 forget that the banquet arrangements were not 
 
 120 
 
A CASUAL HOSTESS 
 
 absolutely correct. The oddest thing of aU was 
 that that evening, having met some friends, I 
 had come within an ace of not being present at 
 my own dinner. In short, I had forgotten all 
 about it. 
 
 This dinner, at which there were among the 
 guests Rodin and Fritz Thaulow, was given in 
 honour of M. and Mme. Flammarion. 
 
 121 
 
XI 
 
 A VISIT AT RODIN^S 
 
 MOST people are not acquainted with the 
 temple of art at Meudon, which the 
 great sculptor, Auguste Rodin, has 
 built near his house. The temple is 
 situated at the top of a little hill, and the outlook 
 embraces one of the most beautiful prospects 
 around Paris. 
 
 The view to be obtained from Flammarion's 
 observatory at Juvisy made a great impression 
 on me. The view, however, which one has from 
 Meudon, though it is less sublime, stirs one more 
 perceptibly. Juvisy simply impresses through 
 its atmosphere of grandeur, its calm, its suggestion 
 of the past. 
 
 At Meudon, on the other hand, everything seems 
 to aspire towards a new life, towards new times. 
 One feels oneself leap for joy, like the dog that 
 precedes one in quest of the master of the house. 
 This is the impression that you get when you 
 reach the gate, after having walked along an 
 avenue that is not very wide and is lined with 
 newly-planted trees. You arrive at a fence, a 
 very ordinary fence, that incloses nothing and 
 
 122 
 
THE CHARM OF RODIN 
 
 which is there, I fancy, only to prevent wandering 
 animals from getting in and those of the household 
 from getting out. The moment you draw the 
 latch, which causes a bell to resound in the 
 distance, a dog rushes wildly from the house 
 and gives you a most joyous welcome. Then Rodin 
 appears in his turn. In his rather unwieldy body 
 and his features, which are a trifle heavy, great 
 kindliness and sweetness of disposition are evident. 
 He walks slowly. His gestures are kindly, his 
 voice kindly. Everything about him breathes 
 kindliness. 
 
 He receives you by extending both hands, very 
 simply and with a friendly smile. Sometimes a 
 movement of the eyes and some words to which 
 you pay no great attention may hint that the 
 moment has perhaps not been well chosen for a 
 visit, but his instinctive good nature gets the 
 upper hand. He places himself by your side and 
 shows you the path that leads to the top of the 
 hill. 
 
 The panorama seems so extraordinary that you 
 pause to take it in. 
 
 The temple stands at your right, the landscape 
 spreads itself before your feet, and if you turn 
 your glance to the left you note a forest of ancient 
 trees. 
 
 Then we look at Rodin. He breathes deeply 
 in silence while he admires the landscape. He 
 surveys everything with such an air of tender 
 
 123 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 interest that you realise he is passionately attached 
 to this spot. 
 
 His temple, too, is wonderful, so wonderful that 
 this accessory easily becomes the central feature 
 in the landscape. 
 
 Rodin opens the temple door gently and then 
 in a friendly way bids you enter. There truly 
 silence is golden. Words are powerless. We know 
 that we are unable to express in words some of our 
 sensations, unless as a preUminary we have ex- 
 perienced them profoundly. 
 
 One ought to see Rodin at Meudon to appreciate 
 him at his true value. One should see the man, 
 his surroundings and his work, to understand the 
 breadth and depth of his personaUty. 
 
 The visit of which I am writing occurred in 
 April, 1902. I had taken with me a well-known 
 scholar — ^he has since died under tragic circum- 
 stances, having been run over by a carriage — and 
 his wife, who was not less scholarly than he. They 
 had never been at Meudon before, and they were 
 not acquainted with Rodin. They were just as 
 simple as the master himself. When I introduced 
 them not a word passed. They grasped each 
 others' hands, and looked at each other. Then, 
 when we left, they grasped each others' hands 
 again, and held them for some little time. That 
 was all. 
 
 Yet, no, that was not all. In the looks they 
 exchanged there was a world of intelUgence, 
 
 124 
 
RODIN'S TEMPLE 
 
 appreciation, comprehension. Rodin, with his 
 peculiar figure, his long beard, and his eyes that 
 gaze right through you, was matched, as regards 
 simpUcity, by this husband and wife. The former, 
 brown, tall, and thin, the latter, sHght and blonde, 
 had alike a single aim, that of not making them- 
 selves conspicuous. 
 
 In the temple there was silence — a silence pro- 
 found, admiring, almost religious, the effect of 
 which I should like to be able to reproduce. 
 
 Rodin led us to a work of which he was particu- 
 larly fond. Motionless and mute, the two visitors 
 looked at the masterpiece before them. Rodin 
 in his turn looked at them, fondling the marble 
 and awaiting from them some sign of approbation 
 or of comprehension, a word, a movement of the 
 head or the hand. 
 
 Thus, from work to work, from room to room — 
 for there are three studios in Rodin's temple — ^we 
 made our way, slowly, silently, our artistic pil- 
 grimage taking on something of the significance 
 of a communion. 
 
 In the two hours we passed in the temple hardly 
 ten words were spoken. 
 
 When the inspection of the three studios was 
 finished, a gentleman and a lady walking across the 
 garden came towards us, and Rodin, in a very- 
 simple way, mentioned the names of M. and Mme. 
 Carriere, the great painter and his wife. M. 
 Carriere and his wife are also as free from ostenta- 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 tion as Rodin himself and the pair of scholars 
 who accompanied me. 
 
 We left. In the carriage that took us back 
 I asked my friends if they could describe their 
 impressions, their sensations. They replied in the 
 negative. Yet on their faces there were evidences 
 of great happiness, and I knew they had appre- 
 ciated and understood Rodin. These two people 
 are known throughout the world. They are the 
 greatest chemists of our day, peers of the cele- 
 brated Berthelot. Since then the husband, like 
 Berthelot, has gone to his last rest and the wife 
 carries on their common activities. I would give 
 a good deal to be able adequately to express the 
 admiration I feel for her, but out of deference to 
 her own desire for simplicity and self-effacement 
 I must not even mention her name. 
 
 So far as I myself am concerned, I may say that 
 Rodin is, like the great master, Anatole France, 
 one of the men in France who have impressed me 
 most strongly. 
 
 Anatole France has been so kind as to say 
 some things about me at the beginning of this 
 volume — ^words exquisitely expressed, and of 
 which, although far too laudatory, I am naturally 
 very proud. 
 
 I am not less proud of Rodin's good opinion. 
 This opinion I have noted in a letter the great 
 sculptor wrote to one of my friends. Not for 
 reasons of vanity do I reproduce it here, but because 
 
 126 
 
RODIN'S TRIBUTE 
 
 of the simplicity of its form and in grateful remem- 
 brance of the great pleasure it caused me. 
 
 " Mme. Loie Fuller, whom I have admired for a 
 number of years, is, to my mind, a woman of genius, 
 with all the resources of talent,*' so wrote the 
 master from Meudon on January ig, igo8, 
 
 *' All the cities in which she has appeared, 
 including Paris, are under obligations to her for 
 the purest emotions. She has reawakened the 
 spirit of antiquity, showing the Tanagra figurines 
 in action. Her talent will always be imitated, 
 from now on, and her creation will be reattempted 
 over and over again, for she has re-created effects 
 and Hght and background, all things which wiU 
 be studied continually, and whose initial value 
 I have understood. 
 
 *' She has even been able, by her brilliant re- 
 production, to make us understand the Far East. 
 
 ** I fall far below what I ought to say about this 
 great personality ; my language is inept for that, 
 but my artistic heart is grateful to her.'* 
 
 I/Css grateful, certainly, than I am to the man 
 who wrote these lines. I am, nevertheless, happy 
 to have been able to bring together on the same 
 page the names of two masters of form who have 
 influenced me profoundly and whom I revere 
 affectionately. 
 
 127 
 
XII 
 
 M. GROUXT^S COI.I.ECTION 
 
 ONE beautiful summer afternoon I was 
 driven to a house in the Boulevard Inker- 
 mann at Neuilly. From afar off I heard 
 the sound of hunting-horns, and I 
 wondered in what part of Neuilly it was possible 
 to follow the hounds. That was certainly a 
 novelty. 
 
 The carriage stopped. 
 
 We were at the house of the charming Rachel 
 Boyer, of the Comedie-Fran9aise, who had invited 
 me to a matinee. Before reaching the house I 
 crossed a great garden, still pursued by the sound 
 of hunting-horns that were clearly coming nearer. 
 While I was wondering again where the huntsmen 
 cotdd be riding I reached the house. 
 
 The mistress of the estabUshment received me 
 with the greatest cordiality. Rachel Boyer is a 
 charming soul. She beams Uke a ray of sunlight. 
 
 She saw me pricking up my ears with curiosity, 
 for I continued to wonder where the huntsmen 
 were hidden. 
 
 She smiled over and over again and with an air 
 of mystery. 
 
 128 
 
AN IDEAL HOSTESS 
 
 I could not restrain myself from asking her 
 where the sounds I had heard came from, and 
 whether a hunting party was in progress in her 
 garden. 
 
 She began to laugh openly, and said : 
 
 ** There isn't any hunting. These buglers I 
 engage to bid my guests a harmonious and cordial 
 welcome.'* 
 
 '* But I don't see them anywhere. It is really 
 very pretty." 
 
 *' From the moment that I have given you 
 pleasure I have succeeded." 
 
 On that day I made the acquaintance of two 
 persons who were then prominent in the first rank 
 of Parisian notabilities. One was a man of the 
 world, refined, deHcate, spiritual, gallant, and 
 possessed of the rare and subtle talent of talking 
 on any subject without in any way involving him- 
 self in difficulties. This was M. Cheramy. The 
 other was an older person, with expressive features 
 under thick grey hair. His manner was crabbed 
 and gruff. He expressed himself in phrases that 
 were jerky and brief, but full of natural wit. It 
 was evident that he took a real pleasure in talking 
 to us. 
 
 We three, M. Cheramy, he and I, were discussing 
 artistic questions when, in a pause of our conver- 
 sation, we perceived that we were surrounded by 
 a considerable audience. The effect was magical. 
 Two of us became silent, but M. Cheramy was 
 
 129 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER*S LIFE 
 
 equal to the situation and, with perfect calmness, 
 put everyone at ease . 
 
 We were then in the salon. The grey-haired 
 gentleman caught my attention as well as that of 
 Rachel Boyer, who was talking in the midst of a 
 group some distance away. He made us under- 
 stand with signs that he wished to speak with us, 
 apart from the others. We sHpped away to find 
 out what he wanted. 
 
 I expected — it goes without saying, considering 
 his mysterious manner — ^something extraordinary, 
 and, from the point of view of our companion, I 
 was not far wrong. 
 
 " Perhaps ! '' he said abruptly, " you would like 
 to look at my collection.'* 
 
 While he pronounced these two words, '* my 
 collection," an air of self-respect shone on his face. 
 Since then I have recalled this experience and have 
 understood it. But I was not at all affected by it 
 then, and I kept wondering what kind of queer 
 character this was. He seemed to me a little out 
 of his mind. I answered him, therefore, without 
 disturbing myself : 
 
 " Thank you, sir. I have just seen the I/)uvre ; 
 and I think that is a very pretty col — " 
 
 Rachel Boyer broke into my sentence smiling, 
 but with a look as if she were somewhat scandal- 
 ised. Then she assured the old man that we 
 both were appreciative in the highest degree of 
 the marked favour that he had shown us. 
 
 130 
 
A UNIQUE COIvIyECTION 
 
 Thereupon we made an appointment, and the 
 little old man left us. 
 
 ** Why does he want me to see his collection/' 
 I asked Rachel Boyer. 
 
 *' Why ? '' she replied. '' For no other reason 
 undoubtedly than that he particularly admires 
 you. For, you see, his collection is the most com- 
 plete of its kind, and in his eyes sacred. I cannot 
 tell you how surprised I was to hear him invite 
 you. Only very rarely, as a matter of fact, does 
 he permit anyone to look at his masterpieces." 
 
 *' Really ! But who is this gentleman ? What 
 does he do ? " 
 
 " What ! You don't know him ! Yet I intro- 
 duced him to you." 
 
 " You did. But I failed to catch his name." 
 
 Rachel Boyer's voice bore a tone of deep respect 
 as she said : 
 
 " Why, that is M. Groult ! " 
 
 For my part I was conscious of no new respect, 
 for to tell the truth, I was no further along than 
 before. I did not remember ever having heard 
 his name, and I said so, in all honesty, to Rachel 
 Boyer, who was greatly astonished. 
 
 It looked as if I had committed a sacrilege. 
 
 She then informed me, that M. Groult was a man 
 who had made an immense fortune in business, 
 a fact that did not leave me gasping with admira- 
 tion. She added that he was spending a great 
 part of his fortune upon pictures. 
 
 131 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 '* M. Groult/* said Rachel Boyer ecstatically, 
 *' has brought together the most beautiful treasures 
 of art that a man has ever possessed." 
 
 That was very interesting, unquestionably, 
 but I kept thinking, quietly, that such a hobby 
 could hardly leave leisure to a man, however 
 rich, to do the good he might do with his money. 
 I believe I should have been much more impressed 
 if I had heard her speak of some of his philan- 
 thropies. 
 
 I finally concluded, however, that out of 
 regard to my hostess, I should have to believe 
 the collection to be so colossal that everything 
 else was insignificant in comparison with it. 
 
 Some days later Rachel Boyer took me, with 
 another of her friends, to see M. Groult's 
 famous collection. The collection was far from 
 being as interesting to me as the collector, 
 who, by reason of his personality, appeared to 
 me to be much more curious than his works 
 of art. 
 
 He led us at first in front of a great show case 
 and, with refined and reverential gestures, disclosed 
 to us the most marvellous imaginable collection 
 of butterflies. There were 18,000 of them. He 
 pointed out four in particular, and told us that 
 he had bought the whole lot for the sake of those, 
 and he added, to my great confusion, that that was 
 because they looked like me. 
 
 " These colours are you,*' he said almost crudely. 
 
 132 
 
AN ECCENTRIC ADMIRER 
 
 " Just see what richness. That rose, that blue, 
 that's you. It is really you.'' 
 
 While he was saying that, he kept looking at me 
 just as if he were afraid I might suspect his sincerity 
 and that I should mistake his statements of fact 
 for compHments. 
 
 In simple language he expressed the most in- 
 tense artistic convictions. One felt them to be 
 innate ; they came from the depths of his being, 
 and they transformed him to such a degree that 
 I saw him at the moment a transfigured soul. 
 
 He took us to another part of the hall, and 
 showed us several panels of something that looked 
 to me like coloured marble, highly polished. 
 
 '' lyook," he said softly. " There you are again- 
 I bought these panels, for they again are you." 
 
 And turning them toward the light, he caused 
 all the colours of the rainbow to radiate from 
 their surfaces. 
 
 *' Is it marble ? " I asked, in order to have some- 
 thing to say. I felt worried by all this admiration. 
 
 He looked at me almost scomftdly, and replied : 
 
 *' Marble, marble, no indeed. These are slabs 
 of petrified wood." 
 
 I supposed that we had seen M. Groult's collec- 
 tion, for there were enough rooms in it to fit out 
 a little museum. I discovered, however, that we 
 had seen nothing at all. M. Groult opened a door 
 and bade us enter a large gallery where sixty-two 
 Turners awaited our attention. 
 
 133 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 He raised his forefinger to impose upon us a 
 silence that no one had any intention of breaking. 
 Then he took us from one picture to another, 
 indicating what in his view constituted the charms 
 of each canvas. Finally he came near to me and 
 then, embracing the hall with one big sweep of 
 the hand, said : 
 
 *' These are your colours. Turner certainly 
 foresaw you when he created them.*' 
 
 Next he showed his collection of engravings, 
 etchings, and prints, representing the most glorious 
 dancers. All these, he said, were to reveal to me 
 what I based my art upon when I danced. He 
 pointed to a celebrated frieze from Pompeii and 
 then, looking at me fixedly, said : 
 
 ** Ivook at that. Those are your motions.*' 
 
 He drew back to present the pose, and he 
 reproduced one of the motions very seriously in 
 spite of his rheumatism, which hardly allowed him 
 to stand on his legs. 
 
 *' Now," said he, ** I am going to show you the 
 work of art I am most attached to." 
 
 And, in a large glass-covered recess, he showed 
 me the thing which gave him special pleasure. It 
 was a basin in which a fountain was playing, 
 while around it numerous turtle doves were 
 fluttering. 
 
 " It is these cooing birds that make you 
 happy," I cried. *' It is too bad that every- 
 body cannot observe this beautiful and natural 
 
 134 
 
COLLECTING AS A RELIGIOUS RITE 
 
 picture, side by side with your wonderful collec- 
 tions/* 
 
 ** Allow my collections to be seen ? '* he cried. 
 *' Never. No one would understand them." 
 
 I realised then to what an extent he cherished 
 each one of these objects, which ought, according 
 to his view, to be regarded only with devotion. 
 In each visitor he saw only an inquisitive person 
 and nothing more. From his standpoint the 
 creators of these masterpieces had entrusted them 
 to him in order that he might care for them and 
 protect them from profane inspection. 
 
 '' I should like/* he said in his mystic way, 
 * * to burn them every one the night before my death 
 if I could do it. It is discouraging, is it not, to 
 abandon them to idle curiosity and indifference ? " 
 
 M. Groult gave me a new perception of the nature 
 of art and its value. He was acquainted with all 
 the circumstances that had attended the birth of 
 his masterpieces. He spoke of them both as a 
 man of sensibility and as an art critic. 
 
 As he bade us adieu he asked me to come 
 again. 
 
 One day the curator of the museum at Bucharest 
 came to Paris, and a common friend brought him 
 to my house. Among other things he spoke to 
 me of M. Groult's famous collection, which no 
 one was permitted to see. I promised him to do 
 my best to secure an invitation for him and I 
 accordingly wrote to M. Groult. 
 
 135 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 He replied at once, asking me to bring the 
 museum curator to see him. 
 
 When the curator expressed his gratitude to 
 M. Groult, he repUed : 
 
 '* It is she whom you ought to thank. I do not 
 care to have strangers here, but she is part of my 
 collection. You will find her here everywhere. 
 Just look.*' 
 
 He then told the story of the butterflies, adding : 
 
 ** This is nature as no one can paint it exactly. 
 She has succeeded in it. She is a painter of 
 nature.*' 
 
 Then he showed the petrified wood and spoke 
 of it, with some difference of expression, much as 
 he had spoken the first time in my presence. 
 Finally he begged his visitor to call upon him every 
 time he came to Paris. As we went away I was 
 obliged to promise to visit him again soon. But, 
 when I had leisure to do so, M. Groult was already 
 too ill to receive me and I never saw him again. 
 
 I am glad to have known him, for he was an 
 extraordinary man. 
 
 136 
 
XIII 
 
 MY DANCES AND THE CHII.DREN 
 
 CHIIyDREN brought up on fairy tales and 
 stories of adventure, have an imagination 
 that is easily kindled by suggestions of 
 the supernatural. From the unearthly 
 appearance of my dances, caused by the light and 
 the mingUng of colours, they ought particularly 
 to appeal to the young, making them believe 
 that the being flitting about there before them 
 among the shadows and flashes of Hght belongs to 
 the unreal world which holds sway in their lives. 
 You can hardly conceive of the genuine enthu- 
 siasm I have aroused, or, to express it more exactly, 
 since my personality counts for nothing, of the 
 enthusiasm my dancing has aroused amongst 
 children. I have only to go back in memory to 
 see enraptured groups of children, caught under 
 the spell of my art. I even have literary testimony 
 to this effect, since I find among my papers this 
 note, signed by one of my friends, M. Augusta 
 Masure : 
 
 " Dear Miss lyoie : We have formed a plan of 
 taking the children to see you at a matinee nex± 
 week. Our third, the youngest, is a little boy 
 
 137 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 whom you have never seen. He looks at all your 
 lithographs and always asks to have them ex- 
 plained. He is only three and a half, but his 
 brother and sister have so filled his head with I/)ie 
 Fuller that when he sees you it will be worth while 
 observing what he has to say.*' 
 
 If I cite this circumstance it is, let me repeat, 
 because written testimony is involved — ^testimony 
 that proves clearly the profound impression my 
 dances make on children. Here was a little one, 
 three and a half years old, who was possessed of a 
 desire to see me simply through having heard my 
 praises sung— in what language one may conjec- 
 ture — ^by two other children. 
 
 Here is a story that if not more convincing is 
 more characteristic. 
 
 One afternoon the daughter of an architect, 
 very well known in Paris, had brought her little 
 girl to a matinee in the course of which I came on. 
 The child, I was told, seemed fascinated and dazed. 
 She did not say a word, did not make the sUghtest 
 noise, hardly dared to stir. I seemed to have 
 hypnotised her. 
 
 At the end of the performance the young mother, 
 whom I knew very weU, said to the little girl : 
 
 ** We are going to see lyoie Fuller in her dressing- 
 
 room.*' 
 
 A light was kindled in the child's eyes, and she 
 followed her mother, clutching at her hand ner- 
 vously. If the little girl was so visibly affected it 
 
 138 
 
THE DANCE OF FLOWERS 
 
A CHILD'S FANCY 
 
 was not at the idea of seeing me, but of being in 
 the presence of an extraordinary creature, a kind of 
 fairy. The conclusion of this incident proves that. 
 
 The mother and the child found their way to 
 my dressing-room. 
 
 An attendant opened the door. She asked them 
 to be seated until I should be able to receive them. 
 The keenest emotion was still imprinted on the 
 child's little features. She must have supposed 
 that she was going to be taken into some celestial 
 place. She looked round with restless eyes, 
 surveying the bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and 
 seemed to be waiting to see the ceihng or the 
 flooring open suddenly and permit an entrance 
 into Loie Fuller's kingdom. 
 
 Suddenly a folding screen was drawn and a 
 young woman came forward, who looked tired 
 and in whose appearance there was nothing super- 
 natural. With arms outstretched she advanced 
 smiling. 
 
 The child's eyes opened wider and wider. The 
 nearer I came the further she shrank away. 
 
 Quite astonished her mother said : 
 
 " What is the matter, dear ? This is Miss Fuller, 
 who danced for you so prettily a few minutes ago. 
 You know you begged me so hard to bring you to 
 see her." 
 
 As if touched by a magic wand the child's 
 expression changed. 
 
 '' No, no. That isn't her. I don't want to see 
 
 141 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 her. This one here is a fat lady, and it was a fairy 
 I saw dancing." 
 
 If there is one thing in the world of which I am 
 incapable, it is consciously to cause anyone pain, 
 and, with my love of children, I should never have 
 been happy again if I had caused my httle visitor 
 to be disillusioned. I endeavoured therefore to be 
 equal to the situation, and I said to the child : 
 
 *' Yes, my dear, you are right. I am not lyoie 
 Fuller. The fairy has sent me to tell you how 
 much she loves you and how sorry she is not to be 
 able to take you to her kingdom. She cannot 
 come. She really cannot. She told me just to 
 take you in my arms and give you a kiss, a good 
 kiss for her.*' 
 
 At these words the little one threw herself into 
 my arms. 
 
 '* Oh," she said, *' kiss the pretty fairy for me and 
 ask her if I can come again to see her dance." 
 * There were tears in my eyes as I replied : 
 
 ** Come as often as you Hke, my dear little girl. 
 I hear the fairy whispering in my ear that she 
 would like to dance for you all the time, all the 
 time." 
 
 At Bucharest Princess Marie of Roumania had 
 sent all her children to see me at a matinee. The 
 royal box: was occupied by a chattering and noisy 
 little regiment of princes, princesses and their 
 friends. When my turn came to go on the lights 
 were turned down and, in the silence that ensued, 
 
 142 
 
THE PRINCESS SCEPTICAL 
 
 one could hear distinctly, coming from the royal 
 box, the words : 
 
 '' Hush. Keep quiet." 
 
 Then, when I appeared : 
 
 *' Oh, it is a butterfly ! ' 
 
 All this was said in a very high voice. Then 
 I recognised the voice of the oldest of the princesses, 
 the one who is so remarkably like her grandmother, 
 the late Queen Victoria. In a tone of the utmost 
 contempt she declared : '* You don't know what 
 you are talking about. It's an angel." 
 
 At each change in the dance the oldest of the 
 little princesses made some further remark, ex- 
 plaining everything from her point of view, as if 
 her utterances were authoritative. 
 
 Some days later I went to the palace. Princess 
 Marie sent some one to look up the children. 
 They came in one after the other, as timidly as 
 so many middle-class children might in the 
 presence of a stranger. 
 
 When the princess explained to them that I 
 was the lady whom they had seen dance at the 
 theatre, the oldest of them did not say a word, 
 but, despite her careful training, her face said 
 plainly enough : 
 
 ''You don't fool me. This woman is teUing 
 fibs." 
 
 I should have had to dance for them at the 
 palace to convince them that it was really I whom 
 they had taken for an angel. This part of the 
 
 145 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 affair, though already arranged for, was given up 
 at my request. I wanted to avoid disillusioning 
 these children. 
 
 Accordingly, when I danced at the palace the 
 Httle princes and princesses were not present at 
 the performance. They came back, on the other 
 hand, to the theatre, where they were confirmed 
 in their conviction that the lady whom they had 
 seen with their mother and who tried to pass herself 
 off as lyoie Fuller was an impostor. The eldest of 
 the little princesses called out so loudly as to be 
 heard all over the house : 
 
 '* This time it is really Loie Fuller.'* 
 
 She pronounced her words with a distinctness 
 that proved clearly that the subject had been dis- 
 cussed at length among the children, and that this 
 affirmation was the result of mature deliberation. 
 
 M. Roger Marx has two sons, who, when they 
 saw me for the first time, were respectively four 
 and six years old. The elder took a notion to 
 dance " like Loie Fuller,*' using a table cloth for 
 drapery. I gave him a robe modelled after one of 
 mine and, before we knew it, the child was evolving 
 new dances. 
 
 The way he expressed joy, grief, ecstasy and 
 despair was admirable. His memory of me, or 
 rather his memory of my dances, remained so vivid 
 and epitomised so precisely the conception he had 
 of beauty and of art that he became a '' poet.'* 
 
 Here are some verses which, two years later, I 
 
 146 
 
A BOY POET 
 
 inspired in this little boy, and which his mother, 
 Mme. Roger Marx, turned over to me : 
 
 Pale vision 
 
 A I'horizon 
 
 En ce lieu sombre 
 
 Fugitive ombre. . . 
 
 Devant mes ycux vague 
 Une forme vague, 
 Suis-je fascine? 
 Une blanche vague. 
 
 En volutes d' argent 
 Sur Tocean immense, 
 Elle court follement. 
 Elle s'enfuit et danse 
 
 Protee reste! Ne fuis pas! 
 Sur la fleur qu'on ne voit pas 
 Palpite, hesite, et se pose 
 Un papillon vert et rose: 
 
 n voltige sans aucun bruit 
 
 Etend ses ailes polychromes 
 
 Et maintenant c'est un arum 
 
 Au lieu d'un papillon de nuit .... 
 
 The little fellow ended by making wax: figurines, 
 representing *' I/)ie Fuller,'* works of art that I 
 treasure with great care. 
 
 Another curious incident is that of the daughter 
 of Madame Nevada, the great American singer. 
 The child always called me '* ma lyoie " and, after 
 her first visit to the theatre to which she had gone 
 to see me dance, she tried to imitate me. She 
 was so remarkable that I had a Httle robe made for 
 her. Her father, Dr. Palmer, arranged at his house 
 I 147 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 a magic lantern with variable lights. The little 
 girl danced and invented strange and remarkable 
 forms, which she called '' the birth of spring/' 
 " summer/* ** autumn/' and '' winter/' She was 
 able to make use of various expressions and to 
 combine motions of the arms and the body 
 harmoniously. 
 
 The little dear was so successful among the few 
 intimate friends who saw her, that Mme. Nevada 
 was obliged to give some recitals in her luxurious 
 appartement in the Avenue Wagram, so that her 
 friends might applaud the deUghtful child. At 
 one of these recitals some Catholic priests were 
 present, and when they expressed themselves 
 as delighted by the child's charm of manner, she 
 said to them quickly : 
 
 " Do you Hke these dances ? Then you ought 
 to go and see * My lyoie.' She dances at the 
 Folies-Bergere ! " 
 
 Here is quite a different impression I once made. 
 
 Ivong before my debut as a dancer, I was a little 
 ingenue, and was playing the burlesque role of Jack 
 Sheppard in the play of that name, supporting 
 the distinguished comedian Nat Goodwin. The 
 Editor of one of the principal papers in New 
 York one evening brought his wife and daughter 
 to the theatre to see me in my popular part. 
 
 The Editor's daughter became very anxious 
 to make my acquaintance. Her father looked 
 me up and wrote to ask me if he might bring his 
 
 148 
 
A YOUTHFUIv ADMIRER 
 
 daughter, a young person six years old, to call 
 upon me. 
 
 I had succeeded so perfectly in taking a boy*s 
 part that the little girl could not believe but that 
 I really was one, and when she had been presented 
 to me, she asked : 
 
 ** Well, why does Jack wear girl's clothes ? '* 
 
 That was another time when I did not undeceive 
 a little admirer. To-day she is a fine young 
 woman who has always been a faithful friend of 
 mine. 
 
 When I was sixteen years old I made the ac- 
 quaintance of a young widow who had two sons, 
 seven and nine years old respectively. The elder 
 fell in love with me. In spite of everything they 
 could do to take his mind off it he became worse 
 and worse. He fell behind in his studies and he 
 broke away completely from his mother's control. 
 Things came to such a point that it was necessary 
 to give the child a change of scene. The widow 
 accordingly left for England with her boy. After 
 a Httle time she supposed that he had ceased to 
 think of me. 
 
 Nine years passed. In the meantime I had 
 become a dancer and in lyondon I happened upon 
 the widow and her sons. Forgetting all about my 
 little admirer's former passion — ^he was now a big 
 boy of eighteen — I engaged him as my secretary. 
 
 Some days after he said to me quietly : 
 
 " Do you remember, Miss Fuller, that when I 
 
 149 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 was nine years old I told you that at eighteen 
 I should ask you to be my wife ? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember it." 
 
 " Well, I am eighteen years old now and I have 
 not changed my mind. Will you marry me ? " 
 
 Very lately my admirer has repeated his declar- 
 ation that he will never marry. He is thirty years 
 old to-day, and who knows, perhaps the man's 
 heart has remained the same as the heart of the 
 boy of nine. 
 
 150 
 
XIV 
 
 PRINCESS MARIE 
 
 IT was the evening of my first appearance at 
 Bucharest. 
 Some one came to tell me that the Prince 
 and Princess Royal were in the royal box. 
 After the performance they sent an officer to 
 tell me how greatly my dances had interested 
 them. They promised to come again and, as they 
 wanted their children to see me, they asked if I 
 would not give a matinee. 
 I was in the act of putting on my clothes. 
 It was impossible for me to receive the officer, 
 who accordingly gave the message from their 
 royal highnesses to my maid. 
 
 Next day I wrote to Princess Marie to thank her, 
 and proposed to give a performance at the palace, 
 if that seemed to her desirable. 
 
 The reply came without delay. The princess 
 sent for me. 
 
 That is called a '* court order,*' but it came in 
 the guise of a charming letter, which said that the 
 princess would be very glad to see me if I was not 
 incommoded by the hour which she set. 
 
 When I arrived at the palace I was taken up a 
 
 151 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 great staircase and then introduced to a little salon, 
 which was like every other little salon in every 
 other palace. I thought how disagreeable it must 
 be to Hve in an atmosphere that has been created 
 by a hundred other people before your time, and 
 in which nothing really belongs to you. I was 
 engaged in thinking this when an official opened 
 the door and asked me to follow him. 
 
 What a change ! 
 
 In a most delightfully arranged room I saw a 
 young woman, tall, slender, and extremely pretty. 
 The surroundings, the furniture, the style, all 
 were so personal to the young woman that the 
 palace dropped out. 
 
 I actually forgot where I was, and I fancied 
 myself in the presence of a legendary princess in a 
 fairy-tale-chamber. 
 
 Accordingly the first words I uttered, as I took 
 the hand which the pretty princess extended 
 toward me, were : 
 
 " Oh, how exquisite this is ! It is not at all Hke 
 a royal palace — any more than you seem like a 
 princess receiving a stranger ! *' 
 
 She began to smile and after we were seated she 
 said : 
 
 " Do you think that a princess should always 
 be cold and ceremonious when she receives a 
 stranger ? Well, so far as I am concerned, you 
 are not a stranger at all. After having seen you in 
 your beautiful dances it seems to me that I am 
 
 152 
 
A PRINCESS AT HOME 
 
 well acquainted, and I am very glad indeed that 
 you have come to see me/' 
 
 Then she asked if I could secure all my effects 
 in an ordinary hall. She was thinking of the 
 performance which I was to give at the palace. 
 
 I told her that this would be quite possible. 
 Then, and almost without knowing what I was 
 saying, I murmured : '' Heavens, how pretty it 
 is ! What a wonderful view you get from these 
 windows ! ** 
 
 " Yes. It is chiefly on account of this view 
 that I wanted to live here. The landscape which 
 we overlook reminds me of England ; for, as you 
 see, standing by these windows when I look out 
 I can fancy myself once again in the dear country 
 in which I was born." 
 
 " Then you still love England ? " 
 
 " Have you ever met an Englishman yet who 
 loved another country better than his own ? " 
 
 " Don^t you love Roumania ? *' 
 
 "It is impossible to live here without loving 
 both the people and the country.'* 
 
 She then showed me a big picture. It was her 
 own portrait in the national Roumanian costume. 
 But on account of her blonde hair and her fair 
 complexion the contrast with the other Rouma- 
 nians whom I had seen was very striking. It 
 seemed that the picture was tinged with sadness, 
 and I wondered whether the princess would not 
 some day regret her enforced exile. To me she 
 
 153 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 gave the impression of a lily, planted in a field of 
 wild poppies. 
 
 When we returned to our seats I looked at the 
 princess. I admired her excellent carriage, her 
 friendly smile. 
 
 She showed me a large portfolio in which she 
 had painted some flowers. One of these pictures 
 represented some Chinese plants drooping in a 
 melancholy fashion. I could not help looking at 
 the princess as she turned the page. 
 
 '* I painted them one day when I was feeling 
 very blue," she said. '' We all have such days, 
 do we not ? '* 
 
 '' Yes, your Highness, but you ought not to 
 have them.*' 
 
 '' Well, let me tell you, there is no one alive 
 who has no cause for sadness. I am certainly not 
 exempt.'' 
 
 Then, changing the topic of conversation, she 
 said : 
 
 " See these chairs. Do you Hke them ? " 
 
 The chairs were exquisite. The princess had 
 painted them. The upholstery and the wood- 
 work were both adorned with flowers she had 
 painted. By the fireplace the princess had 
 arranged a Httle comer with divans and low seats 
 covered with lyiberty silk. The room was huge, 
 with windows along one side. This row of windows 
 was parallel to a sort of colonnade, which had 
 been there before the room was transformed by 
 
 154 
 
THE PRINCESS' BOUDOIR 
 
 the princess, and made a kind of corridor. One 
 might have wished it removed to enlarge the room^ 
 but the princess had it now, and, from a decorative 
 standpoint, she had made the best of it. The 
 ceiHng was inlaid with golden panels. I am not 
 sufficiently versed in architecture to state to what 
 style this room would be said to belong ; but 
 nothing that I had ever seen before was just like 
 it. It seemed to me to have originated in the brain 
 of some one who had quite new ideas, for the 
 arrangement was absolutely original. The room 
 was panelled in blue faience and heavy oriental 
 tapestries. 
 
 I write this from memory, five years after my 
 visit, but I am certain that I have not forgotten a 
 single detail. 
 
 Then we spoke of dancing. 
 
 " Have you ever danced before my grand- 
 mother ? " asked the princess. 
 
 *' No, never. At Nice once I was to have the 
 honour of appearing before Her Majesty Queen 
 Victoria, when my manager suddenly obliged me 
 to leave for America. I have always regretted 
 it, for a second opportunity never offered itself.'* 
 
 The princess then asked me if the King and 
 Queen of England had seen me dance. 
 
 *' No, but I suppose they think they have seen 
 me, for in my little theatre at the Exposition of 
 1900, on the days when I was engaged elsewhere, 
 I was sometimes obHged to be represented by an 
 
 155 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S LIFE 
 
 understudy. During one of my absences the 
 King and Queen of England, who were then the 
 Prince and Princess of Wales, took a box: to see 
 the Uttle Japanese tragedienne who was playing 
 at my theatre. That day an understudy was 
 dancing for me, but the King and Queen probably 
 supposed it was I whom they had seen.'* 
 
 " Oh, well, you will have to dance for them some 
 day." 
 
 Then she asked me if I had danced before her 
 cousin, the Emperor of Germany. 
 
 " No/' I answered regretfully. 
 
 '' Very well, let me know when you will be in 
 BerUn and I will try to have him go and see you. 
 He loves artistic things, and he is an accomplished 
 artist himself." 
 
 I^ater I did dance before the Queen of England, 
 but I was far from suspecting under what circum- 
 stances it would come to pass. 
 
 I asked Princess Marie if she had ever been 
 interested in the dances of the Hindus and the 
 Egyptians, their funeral dances, sacred dances, 
 dances of death and the rest. She, in her turn, 
 questioned me as to the methods by which I 
 thought it would be possible to reconstruct these 
 dances. 
 
 '' There are very few documents treating of the 
 subject, but it seems to me that it should be easy, 
 if one put oneself into the state of mind that 
 prompted the dances in times past, to reproduce 
 
 156 
 
AT THE PALACE 
 
 them to-day with similar action and movement. 
 If the custom still existed of dancing at funerals, 
 a little reflection will show that the dances would 
 have to suggest and express sadness, despair, grief, 
 agony, resignation and hope. All this can be ex:- 
 pressed by motions and hence by the dance. The 
 only question is whether the dancer should express 
 the grief she feels at the loss of a loved one, or if she 
 should reveal to the people who are in mourning 
 resignation and the hope of a future life. In 
 other words, pantoiliime should be a sort of silent 
 music, a harmony of motions adapted to the 
 situation, for there is harmony in everything — 
 harmony of sounds (which is music), harmony of 
 colours, harmony of ideas, harmony of motions.*' 
 
 We talked for a long time about these dances, 
 and the princess asked me : 
 
 " Shall we be able to appreciate pictures of this 
 kind when you come to dance at the palace ? '* 
 
 I repUed that I was thinking of dances of this 
 sort when I wrote to her, for these reconstructions 
 would naturally interest her beyond what she 
 had seen at the theatre. 
 
 Then the princess asked me a thousand other 
 questions and we were so absorbed in our conver- 
 sation that her luncheon waited more than an 
 hour for her. 
 
 The evening when I danced at the palace 
 I supposed that the princess would be alone, for 
 we had agreed, as I have already explained, that 
 
 157 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 the children were not to be present at my perform- 
 ance. They were not present, as a matter of fact, 
 but the princess had invited the King and the 
 Queen and all their retinue, Hmiting the invitations 
 strictly to habitues of the court. 
 
 When I saw the crowd of guests, I could not help 
 wondering how they were going to seat everybody. 
 
 We had chosen the dining-hall in which to place 
 an improvised stage, and I had brought two elec- 
 tricians in order to be prepared, if the princess 
 wished me to do so, to present one or two of my 
 radiant dances. 
 
 The court pianist, in the meantime, had in- 
 structed me in some of Carmen Sylva's songs. 
 The evening entertainment began with expressions 
 in pantomime and dance of several of those songs. 
 
 It was nine o'clock. At one o'clock in the 
 morning I was still dancing ; but I felt myself 
 so utterly exhausted that I had to stop. The 
 princess observed my fatigue and came to me. 
 
 " What selfishness on our part not to have 
 thought earUer of how tired you must be ! '* 
 
 *' Oh, I am so pleased that it seems to me I 
 could go on for ever, if I could only get a minute's 
 rest. You are the one who must be tired." 
 
 Supper had been waiting for a long time, and 
 the performance ended then and there. 
 
 The King asked, I remember, if I could dance 
 *' Home, Sweet Home." I had never tried it, but 
 it did not seem to me difiicult — with the accom- 
 
 158 
 
WITHOUT MONEY 
 
 paniment of the exquisite melody — ^to express the 
 words, '* There's no place like home." 
 
 I had danced that evening Gounod's Ave 
 Maria some bacchanal dances, some other dances, 
 based upon slow movements of Mendelssohn's 
 concertos for the dances of death, and on Chopin's 
 Marche, Funthre for the funeral dances. My 
 excellent orchestra leader, Edmond Bosanquet, 
 had, furthermore, composed some perfect music for 
 dances of joy and of grief. In brief, I must have 
 danced at least twenty times, and we had ended 
 with the radiant dances, which the King had never 
 seen. Everyone, it is needless to say, congratu- 
 lated me in a most charming way, but the loveliest 
 of aU was Princess Marie, who brought me a large 
 photograph of herself, on which she had written : 
 '* In memory of an evening during which you 
 filled my heart with joy." 
 
 The day before our departure from Bucharest 
 some money, which was to have been wired me, 
 had not arrived, and I found myself in a genuine 
 predicament. I had twelve people and several 
 thousand pounds of baggage to get to Rome, 
 where I was to make my first appearance on 
 Easter Day. 
 
 To arrive there in time we should have to take 
 the train next morning. I went accordingly to 
 the princess, who was the only person whom I knew 
 in Roumania, to ask her if she would come to my 
 assistance. 
 
 i6i 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 I called on her at nine o'clock in the morning. 
 I was taken to the second storey of the palace, to a 
 room that was even prettier, if possible, than the 
 one in which I had been received the first time. 
 
 The princess received me. She was in her night- 
 robe, and had put on a dressing-gown of white silk 
 over which her beautiful dishevelled hair hung. 
 She was still engaged in her toilet when I arrived, 
 but in order not to make me wait, she bade me 
 come into her little boudoir, where no one wotdd 
 disturb us. The room, filled with well-chosen 
 first editions, was in charming taste. Every- 
 where there were little draped statuettes on 
 pedestals. Beside the fireplace was a very 
 comfortable corner. In the midst of all these 
 beautiful objects one might have thought oneself 
 in a miniature museum. 
 
 I asked her what she liked best among all the 
 things there and she repUed, '' the rosaries, '* of 
 which she had quite a collection. What an artist 
 she must be to bring together all these beautiful 
 things. 
 
 '' This is my room," she said, while we were 
 talking, '* in which whatever happens no one is 
 permitted to bother me. I take refuge here 
 from time to time, and remain until I feel myself 
 ready to face the world once more." 
 
 I then told her my troubles. She rang a bell, 
 and gave an order to let M. X know immedi- 
 ately that Miss FuUer would come to see him with 
 
 162 
 
THE PRINCESS' FAREWELL 
 
 a card from her, and that M. X would kindly 
 
 do everything in his power to assist Miss Fuller. 
 
 I looked at her for some time and then I said 
 to her : 
 
 ** I should have liked greatly to know you with- 
 out being aware that you were a princess." 
 
 " But/' she said, ''it is the woman whom you 
 now know and not the princess/' 
 
 And that was true. I felt that I was in the pre- 
 sence of some one who was really great, even if her 
 birth had not made her so. I am certain that she 
 would have accompHshed great things if she had 
 not found her career already mapped out for her 
 from the day of her birth in her father's palace. 
 
 Everyone knows that a princess' life precludes 
 liberty, and contains no possibility of breaking 
 with the conventions for the sake of doing some- 
 thing extraordinary or notable. These chains 
 are so strong that if one contrives to break them, 
 it generally happens under the imptdse of 
 despair, as a result of irritation and not for the 
 sake of a purely inspired work. 
 
 When I arose to take leave of the princess she 
 kissed me and said : 
 
 ** If ever I come to Paris I shall call on you at 
 your studio." 
 
 She caused an attendant to accompany me to 
 the master of ceremonies, with whom I was to 
 go to the bank. There the master of ceremonies 
 communicated Princess Marie's order to the 
 
 163 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 effect that I was to be accommodated in any 
 way I might desire. 
 
 The money I needed was advanced in return 
 for a cheque, and I left Bucharest. 
 
 The journey was full of troubles. Vexatious 
 delays occurred. Finally I arrived at Rome, 
 where my appearance had to be postponed until my 
 baggage, lost in transit, had been found. Three 
 thousand people, who had come to my first per- 
 formance, went away without seeing me. That 
 certainly was very hard luck. If I had been able 
 to foresee all that, I should never have ventured 
 to intrude upon the Princess. 
 
 In that case I should not have discovered what 
 an admirable woman she is. 
 
 164 
 
XV 
 SKVERAI. SOVEREIGNS 
 
 IN the course of my travels about the world, 
 east, west, north and south, over oceans 
 and across continents, I have had the 
 experience of seeing or of encountering 
 many persons of distinction, including not a few 
 sovereigns and members of royal households. 
 
 It has seemed to me that it might be interesting 
 to bring together at this point some of the most 
 typical of the incidents that occur to me. Just 
 as they come, drawn haphazard from memory, 
 without order or sequence, and with no thought 
 of literary composition, I am going to put them 
 simply on paper, one by one. 
 
 How I Failed to see Queen Victoria. 
 
 One day at Nice some one came and asked me to 
 dance before Queen Victoria. She had just 
 arrived on the Riviera to pass the winter months, 
 as she was accustomed to do every year. 
 
 It may well be believed that I was flattered 
 by such a request. I assented, naturally, and 
 set myself to work making all my preparations for 
 this important event. 
 
 K 165 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 There was a knock at the door. A maid 
 brought a telegram. It was signed by my mana- 
 ger, and was couched in the following words : 
 *' Take train this evening, to sail day after 
 to-morrow; destination. New York." 
 
 I replied with a message pleading for a delay, 
 for the purpose of dancing before Queen Victoria. 
 I received simply the following laconic telegram : 
 * ' Impossible. Leave at once. Time is money. ' * 
 That's why I did not dance before Queen 
 Victoria. 
 
 / stop the Queen of the Belgians in the Street, 
 
 I was engaged for some performances at Spa. 
 The evening of my first appearance the Queen 
 and Princess Clementine were in the royal box. 
 That was a gala evening, one on which the hall 
 was resplendent with magnificent gowns and 
 jewels. 
 
 Ever5rthing went off perfectly. 
 
 Next morning I went for a walk with my mother. 
 We were crossing the causeway when a carriage, 
 drawn by two spirited horses driven by a middle- 
 aged woman, bore down upon us. 
 
 Frightened on account of my mother, I threw 
 up my arms in front of the carriage, which stopped. 
 
 The lady allowed us to pass and, while thanking 
 her, I remarked to myself that a woman ought 
 not to drive such lively horses. 
 
 I had forgotten the incident when, shortly 
 
 i66 
 
HOIyDING UP A QUEEN 
 
 after my return to the hotel, I saw the same 
 carriage go by. 
 
 Two gentlemen were talking on the landing 
 near us. 
 
 '* See. There is the Queen/' said one of them. 
 
 It was the Queen whom I had stopped ! 
 
 Princely Simplicity. 
 
 At the Hague I was asked to give a perform- 
 ance before the Grand Duke and Duchess of 
 Mecklenburg, Princess Victoria of Schaumburg- 
 lyippe and their retinue. 
 
 The hall was well filled. I had the Philharmonic 
 Society's orchestra. 
 
 This was a gala evening, and in every way a 
 very successful one for me. 
 
 Next day on coming down from my room I en- 
 countered on the stairway of the hotel a lady with 
 a very sweet expression, who asked me : 
 
 " You are Miss lyoie Fuller ? Your dances 
 interest me greatly. My husband has gone out on 
 the beach. Wouldn't you like to come and talk 
 to him about your lighting effects. I am sure 
 that would prove very interesting to him." 
 
 I gladly acquiesced and followed her. 
 
 I was deUghted to talk to this woman and her 
 husband, who proved to be a most dehghtful man. 
 I explained to them all my schemes of Hghting and 
 my dances. I then took my leave and joined my 
 mother, who was waiting for me, 
 
 167 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 When I returned to the hotel the proprietor 
 came to me and said : 
 
 " You met with great success yesterday, Miss 
 Fuller, and with even greater this morning.*' 
 
 '' This morning ? '* 
 
 '* Yes. Do you know who the gentleman is 
 with whom you have just been talking ? '* 
 
 "No. Who is he?" 
 
 '' The Grand Duke of Mecklenburg.** 
 
 This same day I boarded a street car. 
 
 On the car several people appeared to know me. 
 One lady came and sat beside me and began to 
 talk. 
 
 When we arrived at our destination I asked her if 
 she would not tell me her name. 
 
 " Victoria de Schaumburg-Iyippe." 
 
 One evening when I was dancing at the Hague 
 the princess was in the hall with Major Winslow 
 and others of her retinue. She sent for me, and 
 asked me to show her one of my robes. 
 
 I brought her the robe which I put on for the 
 butterfly dance. 
 
 She took the stuff in her hand and said : 
 
 " The robe is really wonderful, but it is after all 
 only what you do that counts.'* 
 
 I remember that she asked me to sign a photo- 
 graph for her. And when I returned to the hotel 
 the manager of the Kurhaus handed to me an 
 exceedingly pretty watch, on the cover of which 
 were engraved these words : 
 
 i68 
 
MASSAGED BY ROYAL COMMAND 
 
 " In memory of the performance given for 
 Princess Victoria/' 
 
 The Curiosity of the Archduchesses of Austria. 
 
 I was once at the Swedish gymnasium at Carls- 
 tad, where machines with electrical vibrations 
 shock you from head to foot. I was just about 
 to dress myself when one of the women of the 
 place came to me, and said : 
 
 " Won't you please return to the hall, and 
 pretend to take the electric treatment again in 
 order that the archduchesses, who are there, 
 with a whole crowd of court ladies, may see 
 you ? '' 
 
 I replied : '* Tell the archduchesses that they 
 can see me this evening at the theatre/' 
 
 The poor woman then declared to me that she 
 had been forbidden to mention their Royal High- 
 nesses, and that they had bidden her get me 
 back into the hall on some pretext or other. 
 
 She was so grieved at not having succeeded 
 that I returned to the machines, and had my back 
 massaged, in order that the noble company might 
 look at me at their ease, as they would survey 
 an interesting animal. 
 
 They looked at me, all of them, smiling, and 
 while they viewed me I never turned my eyes 
 away from them. 
 
 The odd thing was that they did not know 
 that I knew them. I was, therefore, as much 
 
 169 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 amused by them, and without their perceiving it, 
 as they were amused by me. 
 
 How I was not decorated with the Order of the 
 Lion and the Sun of Persia. 
 
 During one of the visits that the Shah of Persia 
 pays to Paris, the Marquis and Marquise d'Oyley, 
 who were great friends of the Sovereign and who 
 were very fond of my dancing, brought the Shah 
 to one of my performances at Marigny. 
 
 After my appearance on the stage the Marquis 
 and Marquise, accompanied by some dignitaries 
 of the sovereign's retinue, came to my dressing- 
 room and brought me a Persian flag, which they 
 begged me to use in one of my dances. 
 
 What could I do with that heavy flag ? In 
 vain I racked my brain. I could not discover any 
 way. I could not refuse, and I was unable on the 
 other hand to convince them that it was impossible 
 to try anything so impromptu without running the 
 risk of a failure. 
 
 More and more perplexed I made my entrance for 
 the last dance. I had the great flag in my arms. 
 I tried to wave it gracefully, but I did not succeed. 
 I tried to strike a noble attitude, still holding 
 the flag. Again I failed. It was a woollen banner 
 and would not float. Finally I stood stock still, 
 holding the staff upright, in as imposing an attitude 
 as possible. Then I bowed until the curtain fell. 
 
 My friends were surprised to observe that my 
 
 170 
 
THE SHAH DISPI.EASED 
 
 last dance had displeased his Majesty. The 
 Shah finally told them that he did not see why the 
 Persian flag had been desecrated. No one dared 
 to tell him that the idea had not come from me, 
 but from persons of his retinue, or to inform him 
 how I had received the flag. 
 
 My friends, the d'Oyleys, consoled me by saying 
 that my pose had been very noble and that even 
 the flag, falUng around me in heavy folds, had 
 produced a very striking effect. 
 
 The Shah decorates everybody who has attracted 
 his attention ; that is a habit he has acquired. 
 For my part, thanks to the brilliant idea of the 
 dignitaries from the court of Teheran, I have never 
 seen either the tail of the Lion or a ray of the Sun 
 peculiar to Persian decoration. 
 
 I have been told on other authority that on this 
 evening the Shah's first thought was of a bomb 
 which, so it had been announced, was to be thrown 
 at him in the hall. He was thinking of this rather 
 than of my person, my dances or even of the 
 Persian flag I *' profaned." 
 
 My Adventure with a Negro King, 
 
 At the Colonial exposition in Marseilles in 1907 
 I was with some friends in the paviHon of one of the 
 exhibitors when a magnificent negro, six feet high, 
 who looked Hke some prince from the Thousand 
 and One Nights, came upon the terrace where we 
 sat. He was accompanied by a large retinue. 
 
 171 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 The other negroes were dressed the same as he, 
 but none of them had his magnificent presence. 
 
 Some French officials accompanied the visitors, 
 who, naturally, created a tremendous effect with 
 their costumes, which were simple but exquisitely 
 finished. When they came near I exclaimed : 
 
 " He might be called a king out of a fairy tale ! '* 
 
 They passed before us and took their places in 
 the reception hall. 
 
 The proprietor presently came to our group, and 
 asked us if we would not hke to assist him in 
 receiving the King of Djoloff in Senegal. 
 
 "He is visiting the Exposition as a private 
 citizen,*' he added. " If you would like to make 
 his acquaintance come and I will present you." 
 
 I was charmed. 
 
 When I was in the presence of the king, I said 
 quietly to my friends, in a distinct voice and in 
 French : 
 
 " What a handsome savage ; I wonder if they 
 are all built on this model in Africa." 
 
 I was presented to the king. He extended his 
 hand, and, to my consternation, I heard him say 
 in very good French : 
 
 " I am deUghted to make your acquaintance. 
 Miss Fuller. I have applauded you frequently. 
 My education was gained in Paris." 
 
 I could not repress an exclamation. 
 
 " Good heavens ! Then you heard what I said, 
 and you never raised an eyelash ! " 
 
 172 
 
THE HANDSOME SAVAGE 
 
 '* No, since you did not suppose that I under- 
 stood you/* 
 
 I looked at him for a minute or two to find out 
 whether he had been irritated or not. He smiled 
 diplomatically and I felt that we should be 
 friends. 
 
 I was dancing at Marseilles at that time. 
 He came to the theatre to see me after the 
 performance. 
 
 *' What can we do that will give you pleasure 
 in exchange for the great satisfaction that your 
 dances have just brought us ? '' he asked me. 
 
 I thought the matter over a minute. 
 
 '' I should like it very much if I might be 
 present at one of your reHgious ceremonies." 
 
 The black chief promised to come to my hotel, 
 and to give me an idea of the ritualistic practices 
 of his country. 
 
 The nex± day, accordingly, I made preparations 
 for a tea-party in the hotel garden. Rugs were 
 spread on the grass and everything was in readiness 
 to receive the monarch. 
 
 " When will the ceremony begin ? '' I asked the 
 king as soon as he had arrived. 
 
 " We shall say our prayer at six o'clock, just at 
 sunset.'* 
 
 As night came on I observed that the king and 
 his followers began to survey the sky in every 
 direction, and I wondered why. Noting my 
 wonderment, the king told me that they were 
 
 ^73 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 endeavouring to get their bearings in order to 
 be certain of the point toward which the sun 
 was tending at the end of his journey. 
 
 *' We are required/' he said, *' always to pray 
 with our faces toward the setting sun.'* 
 
 He gave the order to begin the ceremony then 
 and there. I wish I could describe it as perfectly 
 as I saw it. 
 
 The unity of the motions of all these men was 
 simply wonderful. All together they said the 
 same brief prayer, and with mechanical precision 
 made the same movement, which, from the point 
 of view of devotion, seemed to have similar im- 
 portance to the words of their ritual. The large 
 white cloaks, spread over long blue blouses, waved 
 round their bodies. The men prostrated them- 
 selves, touched the ground with their foreheads 
 and then raised themselves together. The 
 rhythm and precision were most impressive. It 
 was really very, very beautiful. 
 
 After the prayers the king told me that his 
 father had been dethroned and then exiled from 
 Senegal by the French Government. As for him- 
 self, in his turn he had been nominated chief of 
 his tribe, for in reality there was no longer a king. 
 He was a French subject, and in his country, which 
 was tributory to France, he was no more than 
 chief of his clan. 
 
 But the majesty remained, nevertheless, mag- 
 nificently expressed in his features. 
 
 174 
 
BLACK ANGEIyS 
 
 While we were conversing I asked permission 
 to put some indiscreet questions. After he had 
 consented, all the while smiUng his pecuHarly 
 winning smile, I asked him if he was married ? 
 
 He repKed in the affirmative. He had four 
 wives. As I appeared to be surprised to note that 
 he travelled without them, especially in a country 
 where there are so many pretty women, he, in his 
 turn, looked at me for some time, and replied : 
 
 '* From the point of view of my wives a white 
 woman has neither charm nor beauty." 
 
 This surprised me greatly, and I asked him 
 whether that was because they had never seen any 
 white women. 
 
 *' Oh,'' he repHed, *' in any case they would not 
 be jealous of a white woman. It seems to them 
 absolutely impossible that a pale-faced woman 
 can play any part in my life." 
 
 '* And you ? Are you so sure of that ? If a 
 white woman with long blonde hair should 
 suddenly appear in your country, among your 
 black women, would she not be taken for an 
 angel ? " 
 
 '' Oh, no. She would be taken for a devil. 
 Angels are black in our Paradise." 
 
 This, I must confess, opened new vistas in the 
 domain of reUgion. It had never before appeared 
 so clear to me that men make their gods in their 
 own image, rather than that the gods make men 
 after theirs. 
 
 175 
 
^ 
 
 FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 How the Empress of China Degraded a Mandarin 
 ^ on my Account. 
 
 I was dancing in New York when several of lyi 
 Hung Chang's followers came to the theatre. 
 Some friends presented me to the American 
 miUtary attache, Mr. Church, who accompanied 
 the Viceroy. 
 
 Thanks to Mr. Church I was able to satisfy 
 my curiosity and become acquainted with these 
 high Chinese dignitaries. When they left for their 
 own country my manager went with them, in 
 the hope that, through their good offices, I might 
 dance at the Chinese court in the presence of the 
 dowager Empress and her son. 
 
 As soon as my representative was in China, he 
 cabled me that ever5rthing had been arranged and 
 that I was to take the first steamer leaving 
 Vancouver. 
 
 After crossing the continent I was on the point 
 of embarking with my mother, when the state of 
 her health caused me the keenest anxiety. Her 
 prostration was so complete that I was obliged 
 to send a message to China, indicating the 
 impossibility of keeping my engagement. 
 
 My manager rejoined us utterly dejected. 
 
 At Pekin a magnificent reception had been pre- 
 pared for me. I was to dance before the Emperor 
 and Empress and then in Japan I was to appear 
 
 176 
 
THE MANDARINES TRAGEDY 
 
 before the Mikado. The theatre of the best 
 Japanese actor, Danjero, was to be put at my 
 disposal. And all that to no purpose whatever. 
 My manager brought back from this oriental 
 country the most marvellous of embroideries, 
 which lyi Hung Chang had sent over for me. 
 
 I experienced genuine regret at the failure of this 
 trip, then I forgot all about it. 
 
 One evening in lyondon one of my friends at 
 dinner found herself seated next to a very high 
 Chinese official. Apropos of the rich colouring of 
 the mandarin's garments, they came to speak about 
 me and my coloured dances, and my friend said to 
 her companion : 
 
 *' You are acquainted with I^oie Fuller, I 
 presume.'* 
 
 " Well, yes, madam,'* he replied. '' I am only 
 too well acquainted with her, if I may say so." 
 
 '' How is that ? " 
 
 '' I went to the United States with U Hung 
 Chang. lyoie Fuller's manager accompanied us 
 on our return to China, and, through the influence 
 of the Viceroy, we gained permission for lyoie 
 Fuller to appear before the Empress. Just as 
 she was about to leave for Pekin she broke her 
 agreement. It fell upon me to inform her Majesty 
 that lyoie Fuller was unable to obey the Imperial 
 mandate. The Empress had me degraded ! That 
 was eight years ago. I lost my yellow jacket, 
 which has only recently been restored to me." 
 
 177 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 My friend pleaded my case, alleging the condi- 
 tion of my mother's health, and the seriousness of 
 her malady at the time of my failure to report in 
 the celestial empire. 
 
 I suppose that it would be too much to expect 
 of His Excellency to ask him to forgive my mistake. 
 If I had known that my failure to appear would 
 be attended with such consequences, I should, 
 instead of cabhng to my manager, have forwarded 
 a long dispatch to the Empress herself, telling her 
 the reasons for my failure to keep an engagement. 
 A woman with a heart, even if she be an Empress, 
 could not blame a daughter for doing her duty 
 towards her mother. 
 
 How Queen Alexandra did not fail to see me. 
 
 One morning the papers said that the King and 
 Queen of England were going to spend several 
 days in Paris. 
 
 I was then dancing at the Hippodrome and, 
 remembering what Princess Marie of Roumania 
 had told me, I decided not to let this occasion slip, 
 and I wrote to the Queen herself, asking if she 
 would be kind enough to set aside an hour in 
 which I might give a performance, at her own 
 convenience and whenever she chose. 
 
 I should never, indeed, have supposed it possible 
 to ask her to come to the Hippodrome. One of 
 her maids of honour answered the note, saying 
 that Her Majesty's stay was of limited duration, 
 
 178 
 
QUEEN AI.EXANDRA KEPT WAITING 
 
 and that she had already accepted too many 
 invitations to undertake any new engagements. 
 
 After that I thought no more of the Queen. 
 
 Arriving at a matinee one Thursday, I noticed 
 in front of the Hippodrome quite an impressive 
 line of carriages, all displaying the royal insignia. 
 
 '* The Queen has sent some one to my matinee,'* 
 I thought. '' She wants to know whether my 
 ■dances are really worth seeing. If I make a 
 pleasant impression the Queen will perhaps some 
 day ask me to dance before her.'* 
 
 I went into my dressing-room. I had nearly 
 finished my preparations when the manager rushed 
 in post haste calling out : 
 
 " It's four o'clock and the Queen has been 
 waiting since half-past two." 
 
 " What ! The Queen is here ! Why didn't 
 you inform me sooner ? " 
 
 He was too unnerved to make a lengthy 
 explanation. I hurried down and two minutes 
 later I was on the stage. 
 
 In the middle of my dance the Queen arose and 
 left the theatre with all her attendants. I saw 
 her rise and go ! 
 
 I thought the floor would open and engulf me. 
 What had I done to offend her ? Was she indig- 
 nant that I had made her wait ? Was this her way 
 of punishing me for my discourtesy, or did my 
 4ances displease her ? What was I to think ? 
 
 I went home in utter despair. 
 
 179 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S IvIFE 
 
 I had just realised one of my dearest wishes, 
 that of dancing before the Queen. Never had 
 I experienced such dejection. I should have 
 preferred a thousand times that she had not 
 come. 
 
 I learned afterward at the theatre that a tele- 
 phone message had come shortly after noon to the 
 effect that the Queen wished to see lyoie Fuller^ 
 but that she would have to leave at four o'clock. 
 
 The manager, who had supposed that the Queen 
 was coming to see the Hippodrome, had not at- 
 tached any importance to the intimation regarding^ 
 me, and did not even take the trouble to find out 
 whether I was there or not. 
 
 Next morning all the papers recorded that the 
 Queen of England had come to the Hippodrome, 
 despite her many appointments and engagements 
 made some time earlier, and so forth and so forth. 
 
 There was not a word about me. 
 
 However, as I had written to the Queen to ask 
 her to come it seemed to me that I ought to excuse 
 myself for my apparent discourtesy. I wrote ta 
 her accordingly, telling her how distressed I was 
 at my failure to appear earUer — a failure that would 
 not have occurred if some one had come to apprise 
 me. I regretted that the message had not been 
 forwarded to me instead of to the manager. 
 
 That same evening one of my friends came to- 
 tell me that she had written the day before to one 
 of the Queen's maids of honour, whom she knew 
 
 i8o 
 
WHY THE QUEEN I,EFT 
 
 personally, asking her to come and see me dance 
 at the Hippodrome. 
 
 " That will make your new dances celebrated 
 all over the world/' said my friend. " The Queen 
 will come, I am certain of it, if it is at all possible.'* 
 
 Overcome with surprise, I looked at my friend, 
 and exclaimed : 
 
 *' Well, then, that is why she came this after- 
 noon ! '' 
 
 " Has she already come to see you ? I should 
 not have expected such promptness.*' 
 
 *' She came to the matinee." 
 
 And I told my friend the whole story in detail. 
 
 She still could not understand why the Queen 
 had left so hastily, and enquired into the reason. 
 
 Presently everything was explained. 
 
 The Queen had agreed to visit a painter's 
 studio at half-past three and then, at four o'clock, 
 to call upon M. and Mme. Loubet. Nevertheless 
 she remained at the Hippodrome until ten minutes 
 past four. The Kling went alone to the studio and 
 the Queen arrived late at the President's house. 
 
 After that I fully appreciated her kindness, her 
 patience. I still feel endless gratitude to her for 
 having waited so long, for not having left the 
 theatre without seeing, if it was only for a moment, 
 Loie Fuller and her dances. 
 
 As for the manager, he is still convinced that the 
 Queen did not come to see Loie Fuller, but the 
 Hippodrome, and only the Hippodrome. 
 I. 183 
 
XVI 
 
 OTHER MONARCHS 
 
 ISHAIyly always remember with great pleasure 
 my six: hundredth appearance in Paris. 
 I was then dancing at the Athenee. The 
 whole house had been bought up by students. 
 When I came on the stage each spectator threw 
 a bunch of violets at me. It took five minutes to 
 gather up the flowers. 
 
 When I had finished dancing, a fresh avalanche 
 of flowers poured upon the stage. During the per- 
 formance I received from my admirers, along with 
 an album of sketches signed with names, several 
 of which are now famous, an exquisite statuette 
 representing me in a characteristic attitude. 
 
 When I was ready to leave the theatre, the 
 students took my horses out of the shafts and 
 drew my carriage themselves. At the Madeleine 
 the crowd was so dense that the police warned us 
 to stop. But as soon as they had learned that it 
 was '* LfB. lyoie '' in whose honour the triumphal 
 procession was decreed, we had permission to 
 go our way without interruption. The young 
 men drew my carriage all the way to Passy, where 
 
 184 
 
THE STUDENTS' TRIBUTE 
 
 I lived. They conscientiously awakened all the 
 inhabitants with their outcries. 
 
 Finally we reached the house. I did not know 
 what I was going to do with these boys, but they 
 themselves solved the problem without delay. 
 
 After they had rung the bell and as soon as 
 my gate had swung on its hinges they emitted a 
 shout all together, and started to run away as if 
 possessed. I could hear them for a long time after- 
 wards, shouting : '' Vive Tart ! Vive La lyoie ! " 
 
 I have often wondered whether the police 
 were as lenient on their return. 
 
 In Marseilles, at the time of the Colonial 
 Exposition, one of the commissioners of j&ne arts 
 asked me if I would not like to perform out-of- 
 doors. 
 
 That was one of my dearest wishes, and I 
 consented readily. 
 
 Preparations were made at once for my per- 
 formance, which was to be given in the same place 
 where we had admired the King of Cambodia's 
 dancers. The stage was built opposite to the 
 Grand Palais. 
 
 The director of the Exposition had placed 
 behind the platform some great plants, in order 
 that I might be relieved against a background of 
 green foliage, which would be particularly favour- 
 able to the brilliancy of the figures in the fore- 
 ground. Below the stage were two little ponds, 
 with sparkling fountains. 
 
 185 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 The evening of my first appearance arrived. I 
 was feverishly impatient. 
 
 Nothing had been done to advertise it to the 
 public of Marseilles, for we regarded this first 
 evening as a kind of rehearsal, which we should 
 repeat a week later, if it met with success. It was 
 only this nex± performance that we expected to 
 announce formally. 
 
 It was a starUght night. There were at least 
 thirty thousand visitors at the Exposition. 
 
 The lights were put out and the crowd rushed 
 towards the platform. In spite of its impromptu 
 character the performance was a remarkable 
 success, and the committee decided from this time 
 on to continue to give outdoor performances. 
 
 During the second evening, just as the lights 
 were about to be extinguished, a man came and 
 said to me as I was on my way to the stage : 
 
 *' Just look, before they put the Ughts out, at 
 the human wave curling at your feet." 
 
 I had never seen anything like it. 
 
 After the electric lights had been shut off 
 I began to dance. The rays of light enveloped 
 me. There was a movement in the crowd, which 
 reverberated in echoes like the mutterings of a 
 storm. 
 
 Exclamations followed, ** Ohs " and " Ahs,*' 
 which fused into a sort of roar, comparable to the 
 wailing of some giant animal. 
 
 You can hardly imagine anything like it. It 
 
 i86 
 
KING CROWD 
 
 seemed to me that on my account alone this 
 spectacle was presented by all this moving 
 crowd before me. 
 
 A calm ensued. The orchestra, not a very large 
 one, seemed to me utterly ineffective in such a 
 space. The audience, which was seated on the 
 other side of the fountains, certainly could not 
 hear it. 
 
 The first dance came to its close. The ex- 
 tinguishing of my lighting apparatus left us, the 
 public and me, in utter darkness. The uproar 
 of the applause became something fantastic in the 
 dead of night. It was like the beating of a single 
 pair of hands, but so powerful that no noise in 
 the world could be compared with it. 
 
 I danced four times, and the different sensations 
 expressed by the audience were most remarkable. 
 They gave me the most vivid impression I have 
 ever experienced. It was something immense, 
 gigantic, prodigious. 
 
 That day I had a feeling that the crowd was 
 really the most powerful of monarchs. 
 
 There are other monarchs as well as kings and 
 crowds. Certain emotions are kings, too. 
 
 At Nice, at the Riviera Palace Hotel, I noticed 
 one day at a table near mine a young man of dis- 
 tinguished appearance whose glance met my own 
 several times successively, almost, one would fancy, 
 in spite of himself. During the following days we 
 surveyed each other again and again at meal 
 
 187 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 times, but without progressing further towards 
 acquaintance. 
 
 I had a number of friends with me. He was 
 alone. Gradually my heart went out to him> 
 although we had never exchanged a word. I did 
 not know who he was, and I had no notion of seek- 
 ing his acquaintance. Yet his brown eyes and his 
 type of personaHty, calm and simple, exerted a 
 sort of fascination over me. A week later I 
 discovered, to my great confusion, that I was 
 perpetually haunted by his eyes and that I 
 could not forget his smile. 
 
 One evening there was a ball at the hotel. I was 
 invited, of course. 
 
 As I have already said, I had a great many 
 friends there. All at once, in a comer, I noticed 
 my neighbour of the dining-hall. He spoke to 
 no one. He was not dancing. I began to feel 
 sorry to see him so entirely alone. My sympathy 
 went out more than ever towards him. 
 
 Some days later I was engaged for a perform- 
 ance that was to take place at the hotel in honour 
 of a Russian grand duke, two kings and an 
 empress. 
 
 I remember that Patti was in the front row. 
 When I appeared before this choice assembly, 
 a single figure persisted in detaching itself from the 
 rest of the crowd. It was the figure of my un- 
 known young man. Who could he be to be noted 
 thus, in the role of an invited guest, among these 
 
 i88 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 
 
 princes and princesses ? He rested his elbow 
 on the back of his chair. His hand was under his 
 chin. His legs were crossed with easy negligence. 
 He looked at me continuously. Everybody 
 applauded over and over again. He alone did 
 not lift a finger. 
 
 Who was this man ? Why did his countenance 
 haunt me ? Why did he watch me so insistently ? 
 Why did he not join in the applause ? 
 
 The next day, on the verandah, I was comfortably 
 seated in a rocking-chair, all the while wondering 
 who my handsome dark man could be. Coming 
 back to earth I saw him there by my side, en- 
 sconced in one of those odd willow seats that 
 enclose you as in a sentry box. 
 
 His eyes again met mine. We did not speak, 
 but both of us experienced a deep desire to 
 ex:change greetings. Just at that moment the hotel 
 manager came up and began to talk to us. Then, 
 observing that we were not acquainted, he intro- 
 duced us. I learned then that he was son of an 
 industrial leader of international standing — one 
 of the best known in Paris as well as St. Peters^ 
 burg and Vienna. Immediately I wanted to 
 know everything about him. He on his side wished 
 me to tell him all sorts of things of which I had 
 never even dreamed. We were at once on terms 
 of dehghtful intimacy. 
 
 A short time after I was obliged to leave Nice. 
 Just as my train was about to go, my good friend 
 
 189 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 jumped into my carriage and accompanied me as 
 far as Marseilles. There he bade me adieu and 
 returned to Nice. 
 
 Letter writing followed, in the course of which 
 he told me how highly he regarded my friendship — 
 more highly in fact than anything else in the world. 
 For my part I thought of him more often than I 
 should care to confess, but I had my wits about me 
 sufficiently to announce to him, at the cost of a 
 great effort of will, that he was too young for our 
 feelings of regard for each other to continue without 
 danger to both, and that he ought to forget me. 
 
 Just at this time there was presented to me a 
 viscount, who laid claim to my heart and hand. 
 Need I confess that, with my eyes still filled with 
 pictures of the other man, I could not endure his 
 assiduous importunity. No one is deafer, says 
 a French proverb, than who he is unwilling 
 to hear. And the viscount would not listen to 
 my discouraging remarks. 
 
 He seemed to have imposed upon himself, in 
 spite of my rebuffs, which were often severe and 
 always discourteous, the task of bringing me to 
 terms. Undoubtedly, in spite of my reserve and 
 coldness, he might eventually have succeeded if 
 one fine evening he had not dropped out altogether 
 under threat of legal proceedings. He had a well- 
 established reputation as a swindler. 
 
 During the time when the viscount was playing 
 his game to win my affections, my good friend's 
 
 190 
 
SHIPS THAT PASS 
 
 communications stopped coming. I wrote him 
 several letters. They were never answered. 
 
 Some years later, in 1900, I had installed my 
 theatre, as is perhaps still remembered, at the 
 Universal Exposition in Paris. 
 
 One day as I was on my way to the theatre I saw 
 at a distance my lover of the days at Nice. My 
 heart began to beat violently. 
 
 My friend approached. We were going to pass 
 each other. He had not yet seen me ; for he was 
 walking with his eyes on the ground. Standing 
 still, with my left hand restraining the beating 
 of my heart, I waited, feasting my eyes upon him. 
 He turned his head and passed me. 
 
 I was destined not to see him again for a long 
 time. 
 
 Meantime, indeed, I learned through a third 
 person that he had told his father of his desire to 
 marry me. A violent scene took place between the 
 two men. The father threatened to disinherit him. 
 The poor boy was sent away, almost by main force, 
 on a voyage round the world. 
 
 I have frequently reflected since then on the 
 part the " viscount ** played in all this affair, and 
 I should not be astonished to learn that he led 
 some artful embassy against His Majesty King 
 lyove. 
 
 191 
 
XVII 
 
 SOME PHII^OSOPHHRS 
 
 I HAVE frequently seen monarchs whose pro- 
 fession consisted in ruling the crowd. I have 
 sometimes seen crowds that appeared to me 
 mightier than the greatest of monarchs. 
 More rarely I have encountered philosophers, out 
 of touch with everything, who yet were able to 
 create kingdoms within themselves. These last 
 have seemed to me more affecting than the 
 proudest of monarchs or the most impressive of 
 crowds. Characteristic traits of some of these are 
 worthy of being described here. I should like to 
 try to do so, because of the emotions they have 
 aroused in me. 
 
 We were living at Passy, my mother and I, in 
 a house situated in the centre of a garden. One 
 day I heard some animated music coming from 
 the street. I ran to the gate to look at the makers 
 of this joyful harmony. A man and a woman were 
 passing. The man played an accordion as he 
 walked with short steps. He was bHnd, and his 
 wife led him. The music was so sprightly, so 
 different from the folk who were making it, that 
 I hailed the pair. I wanted the man to play in the 
 
 192 
 
LOIE FULLER IN HER GARDEN AT I'ASSY 
 
STRANGE GUESTS 
 
 garden, behind the house, so that my mother, who 
 was paralysed, might hear him. They consented 
 very wiUingly. I made them sit down under a 
 tree, near my mother's chair, and the man played 
 on the accordion until a servant came to say that 
 lunch was served. I asked the man and his wife 
 if they had eaten. When I discovered they had 
 had nothing since the day before, I told the maid 
 they were going to share our meal. 
 
 At table we had a long conversation. The man 
 had always been blind. I asked him if he cotdd 
 perceive difference among colours. No. But he 
 was able, at least, to tell without fear of making a 
 mistake, whether the weather was clear or cloudy, 
 dull or pleasant. He was extremely sensitive 
 to differences of texture. 
 
 I placed a rose in his hand and asked him what 
 it was. Without hesitation and without raising 
 the flower to his nostrils he replied : 
 
 '' It is a rose.'* 
 
 Almost immediately, grasping it gently in his 
 fingers, he added : 
 
 ** It is a beautiful one, too, this rose, very 
 beautiful.'' 
 
 A little more and he would have told me whether 
 it was a La France, a Marechal Niel, or some 
 other species of rose. 
 
 As he had used the word " beautiful " I asked 
 him what seemed to him the most beautiful thing 
 in the world. 
 
 195 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 " The most beautiful thing alive is woman." 
 
 I then asked him who the person was in whose 
 company I had found him. His voice took on a 
 tender tone as he said : 
 
 *' It is my wife, my dear wife/' 
 
 After that I looked with more attention at 
 the self-effacing and almost dumb soul who 
 accompanied the blind musician. Confused, 
 embarrassed, she had lowered her eyes, which 
 she kept obstinately fixed upon an apron, of a 
 faded blue, on which the patches appeared 
 to be more extensive than the original 
 material. 
 
 She was unattractive, poor thing, and at least 
 twenty years older than her companion. 
 
 Quietly, without concerning myself with the 
 beseeching looks the poor woman cast at me from 
 under wrinkled and reddened eyebrows, I asked 
 the blind musician : 
 
 '' She satisfies you, does she ? " 
 
 " Certainly.'' 
 
 '' You find her beautiful ? " 
 
 "Very beautiful." 
 
 '' More beautiful than other women ? " 
 
 As he had peopled his darkness with beauty 
 my optimist replied : 
 
 '' I do not say that, for all women are beautiful. 
 But she is better, yes, better than most of them, 
 and it is that which, in my sight, constitutes the 
 purest beauty." 
 
 196 
 
A BUND PHIIvOSOPHER 
 
 *' What makes you think she is better than 
 the others ? '' 
 
 '' Oh, everything. Her whole life, her whole 
 manner of existence as regards me/* 
 
 And in words so convincing that for a moment 
 I felt that he could see, he added : 
 
 '' Just look at her, my good lady. Isn't it a 
 fact that goodness is written on her face ? '' 
 
 The woman, with her eyes lowered, kept looking 
 at her blue apron. I then asked the blind man 
 how he had made his living up to this time, and 
 how they had become acquainted, he and his 
 companion. 
 
 " I used to be, owing to infirmity, a real burden 
 upon my family. I did whatever I could but I 
 could not do much. I washed the dishes, lighted 
 the fire, picked the vegetables, swept the floor, 
 washed the windows, made the beds — ^perhaps 
 badly, but at any rate I did all that, and although 
 we were very poor at home they kept me. The 
 day came, however, when my mother died. Then 
 it was my father's turn. I had to leave the empty 
 house. I went on the road armed with my 
 accordion, asking for alms. My accordion became 
 my best friend. But I blundered along the roads. 
 Then I met my dear companion who is with me, 
 and I married her." 
 
 She was a cook, the woman told me this her- 
 self in an undertone, who had become too old to 
 keep her place, and who consented to join her 
 
 197 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S LIFE 
 
 fate with that of the wandering bHnd man, serving 
 as his guide along the roads. The blind man 
 found this arrangement a blessing from Heaven, 
 a kindness bestowed upon him by Providence. 
 They were married without delay. 
 
 " But how do you manage to live ? '' I asked. 
 
 " Well, it is not always easy to make both ends 
 meet, for alas ! now and then, one of us falls ill. 
 We are getting old, you understand. When it is 
 not fatigue that gets the better of us, then there 
 is always the cold. There are times when we 
 cannot go out. Then it is necessary to take a 
 notch in one's girdle.'* 
 
 Each day they visited one district of Paris. 
 They had divided the city into blocks, and they 
 sometimes walked miles before arriving at their 
 destination, for they lived far from the centre, 
 in one of the poorest suburbs. 
 
 " What day do you go by here ? " 
 
 " Every Sunday, before mass. Many people 
 of this quarter go to church, and we encounter 
 them going and coming." 
 
 ** Do they give you something ? " 
 
 " It is a rich neighbourhood. We have several 
 very good cHents.'* 
 
 '* Good what ? '' 1 asked. '' Good clients ? " 
 
 " Yes, good clients," he repeated simply. 
 
 ** And who are these clients ? " 
 
 '* They are servants of the rich." 
 
 " Servants ? " 
 
 198 
 
A STANDING INVITATION 
 
 " Yes, some of them are veiy good. They give 
 us old clothes ; food and money when they can.'* 
 
 ** And the rich people themselves ? " 
 
 " We do not see them often. This is the first 
 time a client has ever invited us to lunch, and 
 we have been going through this street for seven 
 years. No one ever asked us to come in before." 
 
 '' What do you do when you are tired ? '* 
 
 '' We sit down on a bench or on one of the 
 steps, and we eat whatever we have in our 
 pockets. Here we eat while they are at church." 
 
 '' Very well. You will have no need to bring 
 anything to eat the day you come by here. I 
 invite you for every Sunday." 
 
 I expected impassioned thanks. The man said 
 simply : 
 
 '* We thank you very much, good lady." 
 
 Shortly after, I left for a long tour in America, 
 and during my absence my domestics received 
 them every Sunday. From their point of view 
 I was merely a sure cUent. 
 
 One day I gave them tickets for a great concert. 
 I was in the hall and observed them. 
 
 The woman was overcome at seeing so many 
 fashionable people. As for the man, his features 
 aglow with an unearthly light, his head thrown 
 a Httle back after the way of the bHnd, he was in 
 ecstasy, intoxicated with the music. 
 
 After four years they disappeared. I never 
 saw them again. 
 
 199 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 The man, whom I had seen to be failing, probably- 
 died, and the woman, the poor old thing, so 
 unattractive in her blue apron, undoubtedly did 
 not dare to return alone. 
 
 At Marseilles I saw another blind man, a very^ 
 old man, seated on a folding stool against a wall. 
 
 Beside him stood a basket, guarded by a very 
 young dog, who sniffed at all the passers-by and 
 barked after each one. I stopped to talk to the 
 old man. 
 
 " Do you live all alone ? " I asked him. 
 
 " Oh, no,'* he rephed. *' I have two dogs. But 
 I cannot bring the other one with me. He makes 
 a continual disturbance, leaps and fidgets so much 
 that he never gets fat and any one would think to 
 see him that I don't give him anything to eat. 
 As'a matter of fact, you see, I cannot show him 
 without being ashamed of him. People would 
 suppose that I was allowing him to die of hunger. 
 Anyway I need only one dog here. As for the 
 other I leave him at the house, where he serves as 
 watch dog.*' 
 
 " Oh, you have a house,'' I said. 
 
 " That is to say, I have a room, I call it my 
 house." 
 
 *' Who does your cooking for you ? Who makes 
 the fire at your house." 
 
 " I do," he replied. '' I light a match and then, 
 by the crackling of the wood I know whether it 
 has caught." 
 
 200 
 
BEGGAR AND DOG 
 
 *' How do you clean your vegetables ? '* 
 
 '* Oh, that is easy. I can tell by the feeling 
 when the potatoes are well peeled." 
 
 '' And the fruits and the salad ? " 
 
 *' Oh, that is something we do not have very 
 often." 
 
 " I suppose you eat meat." 
 
 " Not very often, either. We have bread and 
 vegetables, and when we are rich we buy some 
 cheese." 
 
 *' Why does your dog sniff so at every one 
 passing by ? Why does he bark so spitefully ? ** 
 
 '* Ah, madam, you see each time that any one 
 hands me a sou, thanks to his grimaces, I give him 
 a little piece of bread. There, look at him now." 
 
 At this moment somebody had just thrown a 
 coin into the blind man's bowl. The old man 
 drew from his pocket a little piece of dry bread. 
 
 The animal fell upon it with such a cry of joy 
 that one might have supposed he had just received 
 the daintiest titbit in the world. He nearly 
 devoured his master with caresses. 
 
 *' At what time do you eat ? Do you go home 
 to your limch ? " 
 
 ** No. I carry my lunch in a basket." 
 
 I looked. It contained some crusts of bread 
 and nothing else. 
 
 *' Is that all that you have to eat." 
 
 " Why, yes. Like the dog, I don't ruin my 
 digestion." 
 
 M 201 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 ** Where do you drink when you are thirsty ? " 
 
 He pointed to a corner of the alley, where there 
 was a little fountain, alongside of which hung a 
 goblet attached to a chain. 
 
 " And the dog ? " 
 
 " He leads me to the fountain when he is thirsty 
 and I give him his share." 
 
 '' Do you come here every day ? '' 
 
 " Yes. This is the entrance to the baths. We 
 do a good business here.'* 
 
 *' How much do you make a day ? " 
 
 '* Twenty sous, sometimes thirty. That depends 
 on the day. There have been times when we have 
 made more than two francs. But that is rare. I 
 have my rent to pay and three mouths to feed, 
 my two dogs and myself.' ' 
 
 *' Where do you get your clothes ? *' 
 
 " They are given me by one and another. The 
 butcher, the grocer, the cabinetmaker, these are 
 very kind to me.*' 
 
 *' Are you happy all alone so ? *' 
 
 *' I am not all alone. I have my dogs. The 
 only thing I lack is my eyesight. But I thank 
 Providence every day for keeping me in good 
 health." 
 
 It was in consequence of a malignant fever that 
 he had lost his eyesight, for unUke my bUnd man 
 at Passy, this man was not bom bUnd. Formerly 
 he had been able to admire nature, to see pretty 
 girls in a country flooded with sunlight, to enjoy 
 
 202 
 
A GOOD GUIDE 
 
 with his own eyes the smile in other eyes, in eyes 
 tender and well loved. In short he had seen. 
 What sadness his must be, to be unable to see 
 again ! 
 
 With much diplomacy I asked him about this. 
 
 He had far less difficulty in answering me. 
 
 *' I used to admire many pretty things,'* he said. 
 *' I still have them carefully enclosed under my 
 eyelids. I see them again whenever I wish, just 
 as if they were there before me once again. And 
 so, you see, as these are things of my youth it seems 
 to me that, in spite of everything, in spite of being 
 such an old hulk as I am, I have remained young. 
 And I thank the dear lyord for having been kind 
 enough not to have made me bUnd from birth.*' 
 
 '* And how old are you ? ** 
 
 " Eighty years, madam.** 
 
 This old man had a long walk before him to get 
 back to his residence. As I commiserated him 
 regarding this, he repUed : 
 
 ** There is no reason for complaining, madam, 
 I have such a good guide, such a brave little 
 comrade ! ** 
 
 He made an almost theatrical gesture, and said, 
 in a voice filled with emotion : 
 
 " My dog ! *' 
 
 '' Does he guide you through the streets of 
 Marseilles ? ** 
 
 '' He does ! ** 
 
 '' And no accident happens to you ? *' 
 
 203 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S UFE 
 
 *' Never. One day I was crossing a street. My 
 dog pulled at me so hard from behind that I fell 
 backward. I was just in time. A step more and 
 I should have been crushed by a tramcar, which 
 grazed me. I am mighty lucky, come now, to have 
 a dog like that." 
 
 In all circumstances this old man was willing to 
 see only the favourable side of things. That side, 
 at least with the eyes of imagination, the blind 
 man could see. 
 
 One day the charwoman who came to our house 
 at Passy to help the servants arrived very late. 
 
 As she was ordinarily exceedingly punctual, I 
 reproached her in a way I should not have done 
 if she had been habitually unpunctual. Here is 
 what I found out about this brave woman. 
 
 Three years before one of her neighbours, a 
 working woman, had had an attack of paralysis. 
 This neighbour was poor, old, without relatives and 
 no one would bother with her. The poor little char- 
 woman, encumbered with a drunken husband and 
 six children, agreed to take care of the paral5rtic 
 and her home if the other neighbours would be 
 willing to provide the bare necessities of life. She 
 succeeded in overcoming the selfishness of each 
 and every one in the warmth of her kindness. 
 From that time on she never ceased in the rare 
 hours when she was free to look after the paralytic. 
 She attended to the housework, the cooking, the 
 washing. The neighbour's condition grew worse. 
 
 204 
 
THE CHARITABLE POOR 
 
 The case was one of complete paralysis. The 
 assistance which she had to give to this half-dead 
 woman was often of the most repulsive kind. 
 Always smiUng, always tidy, always cheerful, she 
 gave to the human hulk she had taken under her 
 protection the most thorough and intelligent care. 
 
 My little charwoman had always, at all times, 
 been cheerful. I wondered what kind of gaiety 
 she would exhibit when at last the paralytic's 
 death should free her from the load with which she 
 had benevolently burdened her life. This morning, 
 the morning on which she came late, she was 
 crying. She wept warm tears. 
 
 I supposed that my reproach had caused this 
 tearful outpouring. But not at all. She said to 
 me between sobs : 
 
 '* I am crying — crying — ^because — she's dead — 
 the poor woman." 
 
 It was her neighbour the paralytic for whom 
 she wept. 
 
 In the north of Ireland I once saw some children 
 barefooted in the snow, during an intensely cold 
 February. With some friends I visited the poor 
 quarter of a provincial city, where, I was told, 
 people working in the mills lived twelve or even 
 more in cabins containing but two rooms. 
 
 We placed no especial credence in these stories 
 and we decided to look into the matter for our- 
 selves. It was all true, nevertheless. In some 
 cases the conditions were even worse. 
 
 205 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S UFE 
 
 On reaching the district in question we noticed 
 that a little boy had followed our carriage. At 
 a trot sharp enough to run his little legs off he con- 
 tinued for about a mile and a half, all in the hope 
 of getting twopence. 
 
 The small boy came forward to open the door 
 of our carriage. The coachman rebuked him 
 brutally. The child had so odd an expression that 
 I began to talk to him. He had five brothers and 
 sisters. He did the best he could to pick up some- 
 thing in the streets, and he made from sixpence to 
 eightpence a day. Just at present he was trying 
 to get a little money to buy some coal for his 
 mother. 
 
 I, doubting the truth of these statements, made 
 him take me to his hut, which he had pointed out 
 tons. 
 
 '' That is where I live, madam." 
 Certainly there was no coal in the house, but 
 there were three sick people. The father swept 
 snow in the streets to make a few pennies, for in 
 this cold weather the mill where he worked was 
 not running. 
 
 There was complete wretchedness, frightful 
 wretchedness, irreparable wretchedness. And yet 
 our little lad sang while he trotted behind our 
 carriage, just as his father whistled as he swept 
 the snow. 
 
 Is not misery the school, the sadly sovereign 
 school, of philosophy ? 
 
 206 
 
XVIII 
 
 HOW I DISCOVERED HANAKO 
 
 EVERYTHING that comes from Japan has 
 always interested me intensely. Con- 
 sequently it is easy to understand with 
 what pleasure I came into relationship 
 with Sada Yacco, and why I did not hesitate to 
 assume financial responsibility for her perform- 
 ances when she decided to come to Europe with her 
 whole company. ^ 
 
 Sada Yacco had brought with her a troupe of 
 thirty people. These thirty cost me more than 
 ninety of another nationality would have done ; 
 for apart from ever3rthing that I was obUged to do 
 to entertain them, I had constantly to go down on 
 my knees to secure permission to attach to each 
 train that carried them an enormous car laden with 
 Japanese deUcacies, rice, salted fish, mushrooms 
 and preserved turnips — deHcacies were necessary 
 to support the existence of my thirty Japanese, 
 including Sada Yacco herself. During one whole 
 season I paid the railway companies 375,000 francs 
 for transportation, but that cost me much less 
 than to pay all the debts I should have been obhged 
 
 207 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 to assume from Lisbon to St. Petersburg if I had 
 decided to send my Japanese home. 
 
 I tried for a long time to get my money back by 
 transporting my Nipponese and their viands up 
 and down the earth, but, weary of the struggle, I 
 finally assembled another troupe, which was as 
 good as the first one and which was wiUing to 
 travel without a cargo of rice and salted fish. 
 
 '* Business is business ** I am well aware. I 
 decided, therefore, to endure bravely the losses I 
 had incurred, and I was thinking of quite another 
 subject when fortune appeared to smile on me 
 again. 
 
 In lyondon there was a Japanese troupe looking 
 for an engagement. The actors came to see me. 
 They made some ridiculous claims and I sent them 
 away. But as they did not find an engagement, 
 we came to an understanding, and I found an im- 
 presario for them, who took them to Copenhagen. 
 
 I went to Denmark, too, and I expected to look 
 after the affairs of these Japanese and attend to my 
 own business as well. 
 
 When they arrived at Copenhagen I saw the 
 whole troupe for the first time. They all came to 
 greet me at my hotel and played some piece or 
 other of their own invention. 
 
 I noticed at that time, among the comedians, 
 a charming little Japanese woman, whom I should 
 have been glad to make the star of the company. 
 Among these Japanese, however, women did not 
 
 208 
 
THE GENIUS OF HANAKO 
 
 count for much, all the important roles being taken 
 by men. She was, nevertheless, the only one who 
 had attracted my attention. She played a minor 
 part, it is true, but very intelligently, and with the 
 oddest mimicry. She was pretty withal, refined, 
 graceful, queer, and so individual as to stand out, 
 even among those of her own race. 
 
 When the rehearsal was over I gathered the 
 actors together and said to them : 
 
 " If you are going to remain with me you will 
 have to obey me. And if you do not take this 
 little woman as your star you will have no success." 
 
 And as she had a name that could not be 
 translated, and which was longer than the moral 
 law, I christened her on the spot Hanako. 
 
 To make a long story short they assented to my 
 request, and lengthened out my protegee's role. 
 In reality the play had no climax. I therefore 
 made one for it then and there. Hanako had to 
 die on the stage. After everybody had laughed 
 wildly at my notion, and Hanako more than all 
 the others ; she finally consented to die. With 
 little movements like those of a frightened child, 
 with sighs, with cries as of a wounded bird, she 
 rolled herself into a ball, seeming to reduce her 
 thin body to a mere nothing so that it was lost in 
 the folds of her heavy embroidered Japanese robe. 
 Her face became immovable, as if petrified, but 
 her eyes continued to reveal intense animation. 
 Then some little hiccoughs convulsed her, she 
 
 209 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 made a little outcry and then another one, so faint 
 that it was hardly more than a sigh. Finally with 
 great wide-open eyes she surveyed death, which 
 had just overtaken her. 
 
 It was thrilling. 
 
 The evening of the first appearance came. Th' 
 first act was successful. The actors acquire^ 
 confidence and entered into the spirit of their parts, 
 a fact which caused them to play wonderfull 
 well. I was obHged to leave after the first act, fo 
 I was dancing at another theatre, but some one 
 came to tell me at the close of the performance tha 
 Hanako had scored more than a success ; it wa; 
 a veritable triumph. To her it came as a genuin 
 surprise, but one that was not more extraordina 
 than the anger provoked by her success among 
 the actors of the company. The box office receipts, 
 however, somewhat assuaged their sensitiveness, 
 and I was able to give to the feminine member of 
 the troupe a longer part in the new play, rehearsals 
 of which were just beginning. 
 
 From this time on Hanako was in high favour 
 Everywhere she was obliged to double the number 
 of her performances. After Copenhagen she made 
 a nine months' tour of Europe. Her success in 
 Finland bordered upon popular deUrium. Finland, 
 it is interesting to note, has always evinced the 
 greatest sympathy for Japan. This was during the 
 time of the Russian- Japanese War. 
 
 She played in all the royal theatres of Europe. 
 
 210 
 
 ne 
 
 a^B 
 
 s 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
AN APPEAI, FOR HELP 
 
 Then after a tour in Holland she came finally to 
 Paris. 
 
 The Japanese and Hanako stayed with me 
 for nearly a year. At the close of their contract 
 they gave some performances at Marseilles and 
 then dispersed. Some of them went home, others 
 proceeded to Paris or elsewhere. Time passed, and 
 I heard nothing more about my Japanese, when one 
 day I received a letter from Hanako, who told me 
 that she was at a cheap concert hall at Antwerp, 
 where she had to sing and dance for the amuse- 
 ment of sailors, patrons of the place. She was all 
 alone among strangers, and the man who had 
 brought her to this degrading pursuit inspired her 
 with mortal terror. She wrote me that she 
 wanted at all costs to be saved from her fate, but 
 that, without assistance, the thing was utterly 
 impossible. She had gone from Marseilles to* 
 Antwerp with other actors of the troupe to take 
 a steamer for Japan. At Antwerp she and her 
 travelling companion had fallen into the hands 
 of a low-Hved compatriot, and she called me ta 
 her rescue. 
 
 One of the actors of the company happened ta 
 be in Paris, and I sent him to Antwerp with two- 
 of my friends. After numerous difficulties and 
 thanks to the police, they were able to enter into 
 communication with Hanako and tell her that thejr 
 had come to take her away. 
 
 One evening she succeeded in escaping with her 
 
 213 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 companion, and, with no baggage except the 
 little Japanese robes which they wore, they took 
 the train for Paris. 
 
 Hanako had been obliged to leave behind her 
 little pet Japanese dog, lest by taking it away from 
 the house she should arouse the proprietor's 
 suspicion. They reached Paris shrouded in the 
 European cloaks I had sent them, which were 
 far too long, and hid them completely. 
 
 Presently I found myself in Paris, manager of 
 one of the most gifted Japanese artists, but, alas ! 
 with no company to support her. I was puzzled 
 to know what to do with and what to do for a 
 kind, gentle, sweet little Japanese doll. 
 
 I first tried to find out if some one would not 
 engage Hanako, then an entire stranger to Paris, 
 and a small, a very small company for one of the 
 minor theatres. 
 
 I received from one of the managers a remark- 
 able answer. If I could guarantee that the play 
 which Hanako would present was a good one he 
 would engage her. 
 
 The play ? Why there was no play. But I 
 was not bothered by a little detail like that, and I 
 explained that Hanako would offer a wonderful 
 play, one that was easy to understand whether 
 you knew Japanese or not. 
 
 Then I signed a contract for ten performances 
 on trial. A contract ? Yes, it was a contract. 
 And I had not secured my actors yet. And I 
 
 214 
 
IvOIE FULI.ER, PLAYWRIGHT 
 
 had no play yet. I had, altogether, Hanako, her 
 maid and a young Japanese actor. I was not 
 discouraged, however. I undertook to find another 
 actor. I secured one in London, thanks to an 
 agent. Then I went to work to construct a play 
 for four characters. There were two major roles 
 and two supernumeraries. The result of my 
 efforts was *' The Martyr.'* 
 
 A great difficulty now arose. The question 
 came up of procuring wigs, shoes, costumes and 
 various accessories. But here again luck helped 
 me out. They made a very successful first appear- 
 ance at the Theatre Moderne in the Boulevard des 
 Italiens. The play was given thirty presentations 
 instead of ten and twice a day, at a matinee and 
 in the evening. Presently the manager said to me : 
 
 '* If your actors have another play as good as 
 that one I would keep them a month longer." 
 
 Naturally I declared they had another play, 
 a better one than the first, and I signed a new 
 contract. 
 
 New stage settings, new costumes and new 
 accessories were necessitated. The restdt was a 
 new tragedy called '' A Drama at Yoshiwara." 
 
 While the new play was running the manager of 
 the Palais des Beaux- Arts at Monte Carlo made a 
 very important offer for my Japanese, for three 
 performances. I accepted. The troupe left for 
 Monaco, where they gave twelve performances 
 instead of three. In the meantime a small theatre, 
 
 215 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 that of the Musee Grevin, proposed to engage my 
 Nipponese for a month in a new play which was 
 to be a comedy. To suit the purposes of this 
 theatre we wrote *' The Japanese Doll/' Next 
 the lyittle Palace offered a month's engagement 
 for a play that was to be a tragi-comedy. There 
 my Japanese played the *' Little Japanese Girl/' 
 Finally they went to the Treteau Royal, where 
 Mr. Daly engaged them for their six plays, a 
 circumstance that compelled me to increase their 
 repertoire by three new pieces, '' The Political 
 Spy," ** The Japanese Ophelia," and '* A Japanese 
 Tea House." 
 
 Hanako finally began a tour of Switzerland with 
 the company. Mr. Daly suddenly wanted Hanako 
 to appear in New York, and to break off this trip 
 I needed more imagination and took more trouble 
 than in writing a dozen plays. Then I was 
 obHged, still on Mr. Daly's account, to break an 
 agreement for a tour in France. 
 
 Such is the history of my relations with Hanako, 
 the great little actress from Japan. As it is 
 always fitting that a story of this kind shall end 
 with a wedding, I may say that, conforming to 
 the tradition, the actor Sato, whom I sent to 
 release Hanako at Antwerp, is now the husband 
 of the little Japanese doll. 
 
 216 
 
XIX 
 
 SARDOU AND KAWAKAMI 
 
 ^' T T7 7HO is author of the play that Sada 
 \ \ / Yacco is playing ? '* a writer friend 
 V V asked me one day. 
 
 ** Kawakami, her husband/' 
 
 *' Really. Well, then he ought to belong to the 
 Society of Authors.'* 
 
 And we proposed his name. 
 
 On the appointed day I took him to the Society 
 of Authors. I was quite surprised to note that 
 the gentlemen of the committee had turned out 
 to a man to receive him. 
 
 We were ushered into the committee room, 
 where these gentlemen awaited us, seated round a 
 large table. 
 
 Sardou, who presided, received us with a very 
 appropriate address. He greeted Kawakami as 
 the man who first forged a literary bond between 
 France and Japan. He warmly congratulated 
 Kawakami on having been the first manager 
 who had the courage to bring a company 
 from his distant native land to a city where 
 no one understood a word of Japanese. He 
 
 217 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 complimented Kawakami and complimented him 
 again, and ended by calling him his '' dear 
 comrade/' 
 
 After which he sat down. 
 
 There was silence, and I knew that they were 
 expecting some response from Kawakami. But 
 he seemed in no wise to suspect that he had 
 furnished the theme for the discourse just ended. 
 He remained calmly in his seat and surveyed the 
 gentlemen one by one. 
 
 I realised the necessity for immediate action. 
 Some one must sacrifice himself. In the present 
 crisis, cost what it may, it devolved on me ta 
 intervene. Turning toward Kawakami, I asked, 
 in pantomime : ''Do you understand ? " 
 
 He shook his head to say no. 
 
 Thereupon M. Sardou added : 
 
 " Speak to him, Miss Fuller. Translate to him 
 what has just been said.*' 
 
 Finally, since there was nothing else for it, I 
 summoned all my strength, and at some length I 
 explained in good English to Kawakami, who did 
 not understand a syllable of it, that this speech 
 Sardou had prepared expressly for him because 
 he was a Japanese author, and because the 
 French were greatly pleased that he had brought 
 his Japanese company to Paris, and that the 
 Society of Authors received him with pleasure. 
 I then explained to Kawakami, with the indis- 
 pensable assistance of appropriate gestures, that 
 
 218 
 
SARDOU AND KAWAKAMI 
 
 the time had arrived for him to get up and say- 
 something in Japanese. 
 
 Was it not the essential fact that these gentle- 
 men believed that M. Sardou's words had been 
 translated ? 
 
 Kawakami immediately arose and deUvered an 
 address which must have been most carefully 
 thought out. To judge from the seriousness of the 
 orator's aspect, and from the length of his harangue 
 Kawakami is a great political orator. When he 
 had finished he sat down, while everybody looked 
 at him admiringly, with beaming faces. 
 
 No one, however, had understood a single word 
 of what he said. I, naturally, was in the same 
 plight as the others. There ensued a second 
 somewhat painful silence, broken by Sardou 
 asking : 
 
 *' What did he say, Miss I^oie ? '' 
 
 That was a poser. For there was no reason 
 why I should understand Japanese any better 
 than these gentlemen of the Society of Authors. 
 
 As, however, I had a feeHng that I was a little 
 responsible for what took place, in order not to 
 cause them any disappointment I screwed my 
 courage up again, rose and began to make a 
 speech. Those who know me can fancy what this 
 speech was like. It was in French, but I would 
 take my oath that it was as hard to understand as 
 Kawakami's Japanese. However, I managed to 
 ring the changes on the words '' Japanese grati- 
 N 219 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 tude, Japanese pride/' and I did my best to paint 
 in glowing colours Kawakami's joy at having 
 established a bond between the theatrical worlds 
 of the two countries. 
 
 My speech was only a bad imitation of what M. 
 Sardou had said, and what I had vaguely under- 
 stood of Kawakami's views. I tried, in fact, 
 to say what Kawakami would have said in my 
 place and, with as much emphasis and big sincere 
 words, I came to a close. Then before sitting 
 down I asserted once more : *' There, gentlemen, 
 that is what he said." 
 
 My role of being an interpreter without under- 
 standing the language was finished. There was 
 a storm of hurrahs and the ice was broken. The 
 conversation became general, and the meeting 
 ended in being a great success so far as Kawakami 
 was concerned. It was Kawakami's day. As for 
 me, I was not in it. 
 
 The result of this meeting was that Kawakami 
 played Sardou's La Patrie in Japan, obtaining for 
 this work a success as great as for the Shake- 
 spearean plays he likewise represents there, and 
 whose parts he plays with such truth that he is 
 called at home, '' the Japanese Mark Antony/' 
 
 He brought to the theatres of his native land 
 certain modifications, which have radically 
 changed their dramatic methods. It is custom- 
 ary in Japan to begin a play at nine or ten o'clock 
 in the morning and to make it last at least until 
 
 220 
 
THE DRAMA IN JAPAN 
 
 midnight. One lunches and dines at the theatre 
 during the intervals, which, it is needless to say, 
 are interminable. 
 
 Kawakami changed that condition of things by 
 beginning at half-past six or at seven o'clock in the 
 evening and ending before midnight. And how 
 do you suppose he managed to prevent people 
 eating between the acts ? for that was the most 
 difficult innovation. He made the intervals so 
 short that there was no time even to go to the 
 refreshment-room. It was really an easy thing to 
 compel the public to alter its habits. Instead of 
 appealing to people's reason, Kawakami simply 
 made it impossible for them to continue doing 
 what they had previously done. 
 
 European theatres are now building in Japan, 
 in order that actors from Europe may go there 
 and produce their plays. The Nipponese public is 
 learning to give them a more favourable reception. 
 
 All that is due to Kawakami and to his sym- 
 pathic reception at the Society of Authors. I 
 cannot refrain from congratulating myself on this, 
 for, after all, it was I who *' translated " the 
 addresses and thus sealed in words this new 
 entente cordiale. 
 
 That brings to mind a little story. 
 
 It happened at the Athenee in 1893. We were 
 rehearsing the ''Salome" of Armand Silvestre 
 and Gabriel Pieme. Behind the scenes one day 
 I encountered a man with an enormous muffler, 
 
 221 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 which went several times around his neck, and a 
 tall hat of a style that came down over his ears. 
 I chatted with him in the indifferent French I had 
 at command, and this without knowing who he 
 was. While talking to him I noticed a hole in his 
 shoe. He was aware of my discovery, I suppose, 
 for he said to me : 
 
 " I had that hole made expressly. I prefer a 
 hole in my shoe to a pain in my foot.'* 
 This man was Victorien Sardou. 
 A word more about my Japanese friends. 
 Kawakami has a son who was five years old 
 when I first saw him. He passed his time drawing 
 everything around him. 
 
 I observed in his simple childish drawings a very 
 peculiar manner he affected in representing people's 
 eyes. They were always drawn like billiard balls 
 emerging from the face. I asked Kawakami : 
 
 ** Don't you think that it is an odd way to draw 
 eyes ? " 
 
 ** Yes, but it is because the European eye is 
 quite like the eye of a fish,'' the father replied. 
 
 That aroused in me a desire to know more 
 intimately his impressions of our race, and I 
 asked him what Europeans look like from the 
 Japanese point of view. 
 
 ** All Europeans," he said, '* resemble pigs. 
 Some of them look Hke dirty pigs, some like clean 
 pigs ; but they all look like pigs." 
 
 I never said an3rthing about this to M. Sardou. 
 
 222 
 
XX 
 
 AN EXPERIENCE 
 
 IT happened in February, 1902. I arrived 
 at Vienna with my Japanese company, 
 headed by Sada Yacco. We had with us 
 an artist to whom I had been deUghted to 
 be of service. In Paris my close friend, Madame 
 Nevada, the celebrated American singer, had 
 presented her to me, and the dancer had given me 
 a performance as an example of her skill. She 
 danced with remarkable grace, her body barely 
 covered by the flimsiest of Greek costumes, and 
 she bade fair to become somebody Since then 
 she has arrived. In her I saw the ancient tragic 
 dances revived. I saw the Egyptian, Greek and 
 Hindoo rhythms recalled. 
 
 I told the dancer to what height I believed that 
 she could attain, with study and persistent work. 
 A short time after I left for BerHn, where she 
 rejoined me. During our stay there she was ill 
 most of the time and could do hardly any work. 
 
 Finally, on our return to Vienna, we began our 
 studies seriously, and I decided to organise some 
 evening affairs as a means of bringing her before 
 
 223 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 an audience of people capable of appreciating and 
 understanding her. 
 
 To this end I took her to every drawing-room 
 that was open to me in Vienna. Our first call 
 was upon the wife of the English ambassador, 
 whom I had known at Brussels when her husband 
 represented the United Kingdom there. On this 
 day I came near going in alone and leaving my 
 dancer in the carriage, because of her personal 
 appearance. She wore an Empire robe, grey, with 
 a long train and a man's hat, a soft felt hat, with 
 a flying veil. Thus gowned she appeared to so 
 little advantage that I rather expected a rebuff. 
 However, I pleaded my dancer*s cause so warmly, 
 and I obtained a promise that both the ambassador 
 and his wife would be present on the first evening. 
 
 I went nex± to see the Princess of Metternich. 
 
 " My dear Princess," I said to her, " I have a 
 friend, a dancer, who has not yet succeeded in 
 coming to the front because she is poor and has 
 no one to launch her. She is very talented, and 
 I am anxious that Viennese drawing-rooms shall 
 come to know her. Are you wiUing to help 
 me?'' 
 
 *' With pleasure. What must I do ? *' 
 
 *' To begin with, come to my hotel, and see her 
 dance." 
 
 *' Why, certainly. You can count absolutely 
 upon me." 
 
 The princess is impressively simple. Where 
 
 224 
 
''THE BEST DRESSED APE IN PARIS" 
 
 one expects to find a grande dame arrayed in finery 
 and of lofty bearing, one discovers a charming 
 woman, receptive, simple, witty, and possessed 
 of extraordinary youthfulness of manner. When 
 Prince Metternich was ambassador at Paris she 
 was given the nickname one applied to Adelaide 
 of Savoy ; she was called " the pretty, homely 
 one/' The princess went one better by saying, 
 '* I am the best dressed ape in Paris/' I wonder 
 if she could ever have been plain. There is such 
 inteUigence implicit in every feature of her face. 
 
 Under the light grey locks the black eyes have 
 preserved the sprightliness, the sweetness of 
 youth. Her smile gave me confidence. It was 
 thus that I had always pictured the gentlewoman, 
 revealed by everything that she is herself and not 
 solely by the things that surround her or by the 
 high rank she occupies in society. 
 
 I had heard it said that this woman had the 
 greatest influence at the Austrian court, and 
 looking at her I understood it. Her carriage, her 
 countenance and everything else inspired respect 
 and affection. 
 
 When I took leave her last words were : 
 
 *' I shall be delighted to help your friend since 
 I shall be thus able to please you.'* 
 
 I went away, gratified and thankful on my 
 own account as well as on my friend's. 
 
 Then I went to the Embassy of the United 
 States. I saw the ambassador immediately, but 
 
 225 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S lylFE 
 
 I was obliged to wait to see his wife. She entered 
 breezily, bringing with her, as it were, a whiff of 
 her own far west. Kind, energetic, jolly, she was 
 a free born woman, cordial and sincere, and I felt 
 at once that I could rely on her. 
 
 While I spoke of my protegee, the ambassador's 
 wife remembered having seen her dance at her 
 sister's house in Chicago some years before. The 
 dancing, to tell the truth, had not particularly 
 interested her, but if it would be of any help to us 
 she would be very glad to come to our perform- 
 ance. 
 
 Sure of having a good audience I returned to 
 the hotel and told my friend that the occasion 
 she had desired so long had at last arrived. 
 
 I decided to give an evening for the press on the 
 same day on which my friend would appear at a 
 matinee before the Princess and members of the 
 diplomatic corps. 
 
 I then sent invitations to the Viennese artists 
 and art critics. When the day came everything 
 was in readiness. I had engaged an orchestra ; 
 the hall had floral decorations ; the buffet was 
 most appetising. 
 
 The English ambassador, his wife and daughter, 
 were among the first arrivals. There was a great 
 gathering in front of the hotel to admire their 
 carriage with the magnificent liveries. 
 
 Then came the turn of the American ambassador 
 and his wife, in a black carriage, very simple, 
 
 226 
 
A DIFFICUIvT SITUATION 
 
 but very elegant. Finally all the others arrived. 
 Suddenly the princess* turnout, so well known to 
 all Vienna, paused before the door. 
 
 After having welcomed my guests I begged 
 them to excuse me for a minute and I went in to 
 see the debutante. 
 
 It was half-past four. In ten minutes she was 
 due to begin. I found her with her feet in warm 
 water, in the act of dressing her hair, in a very- 
 leisurely manner. Startled, I begged her to hurry, 
 explaining that she ran the risk through her 
 negUgence of offending an audience that would 
 definitely give her her start. My words were 
 without effect. Very slowly she continued her 
 preparations. Feeling that I could do nothing 
 with her I returned to the drawing-room and made 
 the greatest effort of my life to get out of this 
 delicate situation. 
 
 I was obliged to make a little impromptu 
 address. What I said I have never known, but I 
 remember having vaguely fashioned something like 
 a dissertation on dancing and its value in relation 
 to the other arts and to nature. I said that the 
 young woman whom we were going to see was 
 not an imitator of the dancers depicted on the 
 Etruscan vases and the frescoes at Pompeii. She 
 was the living reality of which these paintings 
 were only an imitation. She was inspired by the 
 spirit which had made dancers of them. 
 
 All at once she made her entrance, calm and 
 
 227 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 indifferent, looking as if she did not care in the 
 least what our guests thought of her. 
 
 But it was not her air of indifference that 
 surprised me most. I could hardly refrain from 
 rubbing my eyes. She appeared to me nude, or 
 nearly so, to so slight an ex±ent did the gauze 
 which she wore cover her form. 
 
 She came to the front, and, while the orchestra 
 played a prelude from Chopin she stood motionless, 
 her eyes lowered, her arms hanging by her side. 
 Then she began to dance. 
 
 Oh, that dance, how I loved it ! To me it was 
 the most beautiful thing in the world. I forgot 
 the woman and all her faults, her absurd affecta- 
 tions, her costume, and even her bare legs. I 
 saw only the dancer, and the artistic pleasure 
 she was giving me. When she had finished no 
 one spoke. 
 
 I went up to the Princess. She said to me in 
 a low voice : 
 
 *' Why does she dance with so little clothing 
 on?" 
 
 Then I suddenly realised the strange attitude 
 of the public, and guided by a sort of inspiration, 
 I answered in tones loud enough so that everybody 
 should hear : 
 
 " I forgot to tell you how kind our artist is. 
 Her trunks upon which she relied absolutely for 
 the day have not arrived. Accordingly, rather 
 than give you the disappointment of not seeing 
 
 228 
 
A NEW DANCER 
 
 her dance, she appeared before you in the gown 
 in which she practises." 
 
 At nine o'clock the press performance took 
 place. Everybody was enthusiastic, but none 
 more so than I. 
 
 Next day I arranged a third performance for 
 painters and sculptors, and this affair was likewise 
 a great success. 
 
 A lady finally asked my friend to dance at her 
 house. The star demanded a very high price. 
 Persuaded by me the lady consented to pay the 
 big fee my dancer claimed to be worth. For 
 several weeks her success increased day by day. 
 
 Then, all at once, people seemed to have 
 forgotten the dancer. She was engaged only 
 rarely, but I was not discouraged. 
 
 Meantime, I had forgotten to mention it, my 
 friend's mother had joined us at Vienna, and in 
 place of one guest I now had two. 
 
 A little while after these performances we went 
 to Budapesth, where I gave a new entertainment 
 to launch my protegee. I invited all the best people 
 of the city to this. 
 
 The leading actress of the The&tre National 
 heard of the affair, and was anxious to take part in 
 it. I invited the theatrical managers as I had 
 done at Vienna. This time one of them was to 
 make up his mind regarding an engagement. 
 The next day he came to see me, and proposed 
 twenty performances in one of the first theatres 
 
 229 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S I.IFE 
 
 of Budapesth. My friend was to rehearse, begin- 
 ning the nex:t day. On that same day I had an 
 interminable rehearsal with my Japanese actors, 
 and I was detained from home until late in the 
 afternoon. On returning to the hotel I learned 
 that the dancer and her mother had gone to 
 Vienna to give there an evening performance I 
 had arranged for her before our departure. My 
 orchestra leader accompanied them. I was, I 
 must confess, a little surprised at the abruptness 
 with which they left, but I thought no more 
 about it until my orchestra leader returned. 
 
 He came back alone. At first he evaded 
 questions. Then he confessed that these ladies 
 did not expect to rejoin me. I could not, and 
 would not, believe him. 
 
 " Very well," he said. '' These are the precise 
 words which the mother uttered while we were on 
 the train. * Now that she has started you/ she 
 said, to her daughter, ' you have no more use for 
 her.' To which the daughter rephed, ' Well, I 
 haven't the least desire to go back to JjAe* '' 
 
 When these ladies were ready to return to Buda- 
 pesth they allowed my orchestra leader to go 
 without sending any message to me. I telegraphed 
 to find out if I was not to see them again. My 
 dancer replied with a telegram so worded : " Only 
 in case you will deposit to my credit ten thousand 
 francs in a Viennese bank before nine o clock 
 to-morrow morning/' 
 
 230 
 
A FALSE POSITION 
 
 This proceeding was all the more cruel as she 
 knew that I had just lost more than one hundred 
 thousand francs through a Viennese manager who 
 had broken his contract with my Japanese com- 
 pany. Besides, my expenses were very heavy 
 and I was badly embarrassed. After I left Buda- 
 pesth the dancer came there to fill the engagement 
 I had secured for her. Then she went to Vienna 
 and gave some performances there. I have been 
 told that she went to all the people to whom I had 
 presented her and asked them to take tickets. 
 She thus disposed of seats amounting to some 
 thousands of florins. Everybody was ready to 
 help her, including the wife of the English ambassa- 
 dor and the Princess of Metternich. Above all, I 
 must have gained a reputation as an impostor, for 
 my friend continued to appear in public in what 
 I had called her practising gown. 
 
 Some years later at Brussels I learned that my 
 dancer said to somebody who wanted to know 
 whether she was acquainted with Loie Fuller that 
 she did not know me. 
 
 231 
 
XXI 
 
 AMERICAN AFFAIRS 
 
 A STRANGER, and especially a Frenchman 
 who has never travelled in America 
 simply cannot imagine what our country 
 is like. A Frenchman may get an idea of 
 Germany without having seen it ; of Italy, without 
 having been there ; of India even, without 
 having visited it. It is impossible for him to 
 understand America as it is. 
 
 I had proof of the truth of this observation in 
 certain circumstances that were altogether unex- 
 pected. This experience I recall frequently as 
 one that was peculiarly amusing, so amusing indeed 
 that I regard the incident as one of the most comic 
 I have ever encountered. 
 
 The hero of the adventure was a young journalist 
 and man about town named Pierre Mortier. One 
 might imagine that from the fact of his profession, 
 which usually gives those who follow it a reason- 
 able smattering of everything, that he would be 
 less liable to surprise and astonishment than some 
 shop assistant or railway employee. The actual 
 occurrences proved the contrary. 
 
 232 
 
KIDNAPPING A FRENCHMAN 
 
 But let us view this farce from the rising of 
 the curtain. 
 
 I embarked on a steamer at Cherbourg, with 
 my mother and some friends, bound for New York. 
 Pierre Mortier came on board to offer his best 
 wishes for a deHghtful voyage. We made him 
 inspect our state-rooms, my friends and I, and we 
 shut him in one of them. In vain he battered 
 the wooden door with fist and foot. We were 
 deaf to his appeals, for we had decided to release 
 him only when the boat was already out of the 
 roadstead and bound for the shores of the new 
 world. 
 
 At first he protested, not without vehemence, 
 for he was not at all equipped as regards wardrobe 
 for such a voyage, but he soon cooled off and 
 gaily assumed his part in the rather strenuous farce 
 into which we had precipitated him. 
 
 " Be quiet,'* I said to him, '' everything will 
 come out all right.*' 
 
 '' But how ? I haven't even a spare collar 
 with me." 
 
 His appearance was so disconsolate that I 
 began to laugh heartily. Gaiety spreads from 
 one person to another as easily as gloom. He 
 began, in his turn, to laugh. 
 
 Arrived in New York we went to the best hotel 
 in Brooklyn. The first thing that caught Pierre 
 Mortier's eye in the hotel lobby was the unusual 
 number of spittoons. They were everywhere, of 
 
 233 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 all sizes and shapes, for Americans do not hesitate, 
 if they have no receptacle within easy reach, to 
 spit on the floor, and to throw the ends of their 
 cigars anywhere, without even taking the trouble 
 to extinguish them. 
 
 We reached our rooms. There in an array 
 along the wall some buckets, filled with water, 
 attracted his attention. " Some more spittoons ! " 
 cried Mortier. 
 
 Everybody laughed, and he said in a somewhat 
 peevish tone : 
 
 " Then what are those buckets for ? " 
 
 '' Why, in case of fire." 
 
 *'I thought," said Mortier, "that all American 
 buildings were fire-proof." 
 
 " That is what you hear in Paris, but houses of 
 that sort are really very rare." 
 
 " Yet you pay enough in your country to have 
 more comfort and security than anywhere else. 
 For instance, that carriage just now. It was 
 nothing short of robbery. Twenty-five francs to 
 take us from the station here. And such an old 
 trap ! I don't understand why your laws tolerate 
 such things." 
 
 Already he was beginning to protest. There 
 was sure to be something else the nex± day. 
 
 On awakening on the first morning he pressed 
 once on the electric button in his bedroom. A 
 bell-boy appeared, bringing a pitcher of ice water. 
 Thinking this a form of cheap wit Mortier sputtered 
 
 234 
 
THE FRENCHMAN AND THE BOOT BOY 
 
 some of his worst insults, happily couched in 
 French. The bell-boy, a huge negro, looked 
 calmly down upon this excited little man with the 
 fair hair and skin, and then, without asking for 
 his tip, quietly closed the door and went away. 
 
 This attitude of unconcern was not calculated 
 to assuage our friend's bellicose mood. He rang 
 the bell again, and three times instead of once. 
 That was the summons to be made when a guest 
 wanted a boot-black sent to take his boots. Such 
 a personage presented himself. 
 
 The personage explained to Mortier that if he 
 touched the bell once that brought ice water ; 
 three times a boot-black. But Mortier did not 
 understand a word of English. Accordingly the 
 boot-black did what the bearer of ice water 
 had done before, quite unconcernedly he went 
 away. 
 
 Pierre Mortier was in a furious rage when a 
 third boy presented himself, as black as the two 
 preceding, for all the attendants are negroes in 
 American hotels. This fellow was willing to 
 remove his boots. Some minutes passed. Mortier 
 was almost apoplectic with anger. The boy 
 reappeared. He explained to his cUent that he 
 gave the boots back only in return for a dollar. 
 Mortier was still in bed. To make him under- 
 stand, the negro lifted his clothes, which were 
 folded on a chair, and, whistHng, all the while, 
 rifled the pockets. He picked out a dollar, and 
 o 235 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 put it carelessly into his own pocket. Then he 
 left the boots on the floor and disappeared. 
 
 In a paroxysm of rage our friend dressed himself 
 in a great hurry and went to the hotel desk, where 
 he made the place resound with curses that no 
 one paid any attention to since no one understood 
 them. 
 
 On the evening of the same day Mortier put 
 his boots outside his door in order that they 
 might be cleaned before next morning, as is done 
 everywhere in England and France. 
 
 In America when something is left in front of 
 the door it is only as a sign that the object can be 
 thrown away. Mortier never saw his shoes again. 
 
 He rang, a negro presented himself. Mortier 
 demanded his shoes. He cried, stormed, threat- 
 ened. The negro backed up against the wall and 
 unconcernedly whistled a cake walk. 
 
 Speechless with rage, Mortier hurled himself 
 upon the black. The hotel negroes, especially 
 when they are not armed, are ordinarily lacking in 
 courage. Besides, this one had good reasons for 
 believing that his client had gone mad. So he 
 hastily decamped. 
 
 After that nothing could induce any one of the 
 negroes of the estabHshment to enter Mortier's 
 room as long as he remained at this hotel. 
 
 We did our best to explain to M. Mortier that 
 the domestics were nowise in the wrong. He 
 would not Usten to a word, but kept exclaiming, 
 
 236 
 
UNIMPRESSED WITH AMERICA 
 
 with his eyes sticking further out of his head than 
 usual (his eyes were naturally prominent) : 
 
 *' No, no ! In America you are savages, all 
 savages. Yes, savages and thieves. It is much 
 worse here than I had supposed.'* 
 
 One morning he went down alone into the 
 restaurant for breakfast. Some minutes after 
 we saw him bounding up the stairs. He was 
 livid and trembling with rage. On reaching the 
 door of our apartment, he burst out : 
 
 " This time it is too much. What is the matter 
 with these brutes here ? Has some change come 
 over me ? Tell me. Am I an object of ridicule ? 
 What is the matter with me ? When I entered the 
 restaurant a great fool looked me over from top 
 to bottom, and said something, thereupon every- 
 body began to stare at me. What is the trouble 
 with me ? Tell me what is the matter ? '* 
 
 What was the matter ? He wore a straw hat 
 with very narrow brim, one of those hats called 
 '* American" in Paris and of a kind that is never 
 worn in America. He also had " New Yorkey " 
 trousers such as were never cut in New York. 
 That was enough to let loose the risibilities of this 
 Yankee public, a public that is far from being 
 indulgent of little eccentricities in other people. 
 
 Instead of calming him our explanations 
 exasperated him, and it was only after he had 
 spent his violence that we succeeded in getting 
 him down to breakfast again. 
 
 237 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 The breakfast was not extraordinarily expen- 
 sive. But when he looked over his account Mortier 
 went into a rage. He had ordered the same things 
 that we did, and his bill was two dollars and a 
 half, that is about twelve and a half francs, 
 higher than ours. These twelve and a half francs 
 represented the price of a bottle of very ordinary 
 red wine, which he had ordered. 
 
 " Do you want me to tell you what your 
 Americans are,*' he shouted. '* Well, they are, 
 and don't you forget it either, they are every one 
 thieves, savages, hogs. They are hogs, hogs ! 
 That one word expresses it.'' 
 
 One morning at eight o'clock, after we had had 
 coffee together, he left us. 
 
 '' I am going to take a little walk," he said. 
 " I shall be back in half an hour." 
 
 The half hour lasted until seven o'clock in 
 the evening. You can imagine how anxious we 
 became. 
 
 This is what happened. 
 
 Seeing that everybody, almost without excep- 
 tion, was headed in the same direction, he followed 
 the crowd along the side walk. Presently he found 
 himself on Brooklyn Bridge, black with people 
 and burdened with cars, those bound to New 
 York filled to overflowing, the others returning to 
 Brooklyn completely empty. 
 
 Mortier did not know that all Brooklyn goes to 
 work on the New York side, where the business 
 
 238 
 
AN INNOCENT ABROAD 
 
 district is situated, and that everybody goes to 
 work at the same hour in this peculiar country. 
 Astonished, curious, a little bewildered, he followed 
 the crowd. Once across the bridge he found 
 himself in one of the innumerable streets of 
 New York. 
 
 On the New York side he looked round him to 
 establish a landmark by which he could find his 
 way back. He did not discover one, but it seemed 
 impossible to get lost, as he had only to return 
 to the base of this big bridge to retrace his steps 
 to Brooklyn. He kept on, therefore, until he 
 had completely satisfied his curiosity. Then he 
 retraced his steps, or at least he thought he was 
 doing so. He looked for the bridge, but in vain. 
 Everybody walked so quickly that his very 
 courteous *' Pardon, Monsieur,*' met with no 
 response. Once or twice he made a bad efiEort at 
 asking for *' Brooklyn Bridge.'' This met with 
 no better success. 
 
 All the while he was unable to find a policeman. 
 
 The idea occurred to him, a magnificent idea, 
 of going into a shop. No one made the slightest 
 effort to help him. The assistants were interested 
 only in trying to sell him everything which the 
 house contained. Finally he found himself in a 
 street where there were only clothing merchants. 
 Hardly had he set foot there when he was seized 
 and dragged into a shop. An hour passed before 
 Mortier could escape, more dead than alive, from 
 
 239 
 
riFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 the merchant's clutches. The information he 
 gave led us to suppose that this must have been 
 the famous Baxter Street, the quarter in which 
 Jewish second-hand dealers ply their trade. It 
 was past five o'clock when he succeeded finally 
 in regaining the bridge, and then it was only with 
 difficulty that he got across, for it was already 
 overcrowded with workers returning to their 
 homes in Brooklyn. 
 
 Finally he found the hotel again, swearing 
 that he was going to take the first steamer for 
 Europe. 
 
 " An3rwhere,*' he would groan ; " I would rather 
 be anywhere in the world than here. I'm not 
 going to stay another hour in such a country. A 
 rotten country ! Rotten people ! " 
 
 This time, in Pierre Mortier's eyes, we were 
 '* rotten." It would be hard to estimate how 
 many discourteous adjectives this young man 
 applied to our people in a short time. He must 
 have made a record. 
 
 However, the Brooklyn hotel at which we were 
 staying was equipped '* on the European plan " 
 with carefully chosen menus ^ la carte. 
 
 In the city to which we went later there waa 
 a purely American hotel, at which we put up. 
 A central plate surrounded by a dozen Uttle plates 
 stood in front of each guest. All these were filled 
 simultaneously with soup, entrees, fish, meat, 
 vegetables and fruit. The guests with hasty^ 
 
 240 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA 
 
 movements gobbled smoked salmon, roast beef, 
 chicken, mashed potatoes, badly cooked *' pie/' 
 salad, cheese, fruit, pudding, ice-cream, with ap- 
 parently no regard for the effect of the hazardous 
 mixtures on their digestive organs. 
 
 Mortier left the table completely disheartened 
 by this spectacle. 
 
 *' What are those savages made of," he said. 
 " Upon my word they make me look back with 
 regret to the thieves in New York. And when you 
 consider that to urge down their hideous mixtures 
 they incessantly guzzle ice-water and keep chewing 
 olives, just as civilised people eat bread ! ** 
 
 When we returned to New York Mortier went 
 to the Holland House, a hotel at which French 
 was spoken, and where things were done in a 
 manner approximating nearer to what he was 
 accustomed to. 
 
 America — ^this America which on the steamer 
 he had assured himself would be perfect — ^had come 
 to interest him only in places where it had lost 
 its own character. He found it good only in the 
 few spots where it resembled Paris. In this was 
 not this young joumaHst, after all, like most of 
 his compatriots when they undertake to travel 
 even in other countries than in America ? 
 
 At the Holland House Pierre Mortier relaxed a 
 little. He even became more polite in his expres- 
 sions regarding America and Americans. But an 
 incident occurred that brought the young reporter's 
 
 241 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 distaste for the country to a head, and precipitated 
 his departure. 
 
 One day on returning to the Holland House he 
 forgot to pay his cabman and found him ten hours 
 later still standing in front of the hotel. His 
 charge was a dollar and a half an hour. That 
 meant that Mortier had to give up fifteen dollars. 
 
 Our friend thought at first the house porter 
 should have paid for the trip, and had the charge 
 made on his bill. Accordingly he complained at 
 the hotel desk regarding what he called a piece of 
 negligence. 
 
 Although the house was conducted on the 
 French plan they gave him a thoroughly American 
 answer : 
 
 " Well, that has nothing to do with the porter. 
 You ordered the carriage, didn't you ? Yes. 
 You had the use of it, didn't you ? Yes. Well, 
 then, what do you expect ? If you don't know 
 what you want, it isn't up to the employees to 
 run after you to find out. They've got something 
 else to do." 
 
 By the next steamer Pierre Mortier left the 
 United States for good and all, swearing never 
 again to set foot there. 
 
 Mr. W. Boosey, the English pubUsher, had some 
 very different experiences in the United States. 
 
 On board the steamer he had become acquainted 
 with a very interesting and companionable Ameri- 
 can, who invited him to lunch at Delmonico's. 
 
 242 
 
A PUZZLED ENGWSHMAN 
 
 " Thanks awfully/' said the Englishman as he 
 accepted. '* On what day ? '' 
 
 " Any day you please." 
 
 That was a little vague, but Mr. Boosey assured 
 him that he should be dehghted, and would come as 
 soon as he had a free day. He was afraid of not 
 having said the proper thing, from the American 
 point of view. This notion bothered him for 
 several days. 
 
 Finally, just before sailing, he asked the 
 American again when they should lunch together 
 at Delmonico's. 
 
 His friend replied : ''On Thursday or Saturday, 
 whichever suits you best." 
 
 The Englishman decided on Thursday. 
 
 The day set for the lunch arrived and Mr. 
 Boosey was prompt to keep the appointment. He 
 asked for Mr. X., and they showed him to a table. 
 Half-past one, two, half-past two, three o'clock, 
 and still no American. 
 
 The Englishman, patient though he was, began 
 to find time hanging heavily on his hands. He 
 thought he must have made a mistake as to the 
 day, and at last he sent for the manager. 
 
 " What," said the manager, " didn't the waiter 
 tell you that Mr. X. had telephoned that he could 
 not come, and that he begged you to order 
 whatever you liked? He will attend to the 
 account." 
 
 Imagine what the EngUshman must have 
 
 243 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 thought. He had come to lunch with a gentleman, 
 not to have his food paid for by some one. Just 
 at that moment the American rushed into the 
 restaurant. 
 
 " I am awfully sorry, my dear fellow, but I am 
 glad to find you still here. I had quite forgotten 
 about our lunch up to two o'clock, and then I 
 telephoned. I didn't think I could get here at all. 
 I had a deal on, one involving a million dollars, 
 and I simply couldn't leave it. Have you had 
 your bite ? No ? Well, I haven't either. Well, 
 then, let us go and sit down." 
 
 And they sat down. Mr. Boosey wiU never 
 forget his American entertainer. 
 
 The American had, it must be confessed, treated 
 his EngHsh guest with a certain negligence. 
 However Httle he may be inclined to philosophical 
 considerations, nothing is more instructive to a 
 thorough-going EngHshman than to observe the 
 manner in which a Yankee ordinarily observes 
 the civilised conventions and the lofty spirit in 
 which he also looks upon anyone who is not an 
 American. Nothing §ives him a better notion of 
 the high opinion Americans have of themselves 
 than to hear a Yankee say : 
 
 " Well, what are you anyway ? EngUsh, I'll 
 bet." 
 
 Then, after a profound sigh and with an indefin- 
 able sweep of the hand : "As for me," with 
 emphasis on the '' me," *' I am an American." 
 
 244 
 
A VIEW OF LIBERTY 
 
 He seems to experience genuine annoyance at 
 having to face a man who isn't an American. 
 
 Every American thinks, without ever being 
 guilty of profound reflection on the subject, that 
 everybody, whatever his nationality, would have 
 preferred first to see the light of day in the United 
 States. For the United States, if one were to 
 accept the cheerful American belief, is a free 
 country whose parallel does not exist anywhere 
 in the world. 
 
 The native American claims to have the advan- 
 tage of being a citizen of the world's freest 
 country. If you were to say to most Americans 
 that there is a great deal of liberty in England, 
 they would think that you were trying to make 
 fun of them, and they would tell you that they did 
 not believe it. They admit, occasionally, that 
 there is a little freedom outside of the United 
 States, but they will add : 
 
 " What a pity there isn't more of it." 
 
 The American believes himself completely 
 emancipated, for freedom^ is the passion of the 
 whole people. He pays for this catchword, which 
 satisfies him, for having no basis of comparison 
 he in reality does not know what he possesses 
 and what he lacks. 
 
 The Spanish American is not less picturesque 
 than the Anglo-Saxon American. 
 
 I had an engagement for a season at the city 
 of Mexico, I made my first appearance at 
 
 245 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 the Grand Theatre-National in presence of five 
 thousand spectators. On returning to the Hotel 
 Sands, the most beautiful hotel in the city, I 
 found there the municipal orchestra come to 
 serenade me. 
 
 At the end of my stay I was asked to take part 
 in a charitable performance. The house was 
 packed, despite the high price of the seats. After 
 the performance a great banquet was given, under 
 the auspices of the festival committee. 
 
 At the table I was received with an enthusiasm 
 which was quite Mexican, and that means with 
 an enthusiasm that could be hardly surpassed in 
 any country of the world. Throughout the 
 repast I kept receiving presents. Some of the 
 women took off their bracelets, others their rings, 
 others their brooches, and, in spite of my pro- 
 testations, insisted on giving them to me. 
 
 '* Absolutely at your service ! " 
 
 They obUged me to take them all. 
 
 I was inexpressibly embarrassed by my booty. 
 When I returned to the hotel I asked the clerk 
 to put all these jewels in a safe place. 
 
 He looked at the jewels and said : 
 
 '* But you will have to send them back, madam.*' 
 
 " Send them back ? Why, they were given me.*' 
 
 *' It is the custom here, madam. Presents 
 ■are always returned.*' 
 
 *' What am I going to do ? I am leaving 
 lo-morrow morning at six o'clock, and I don't 
 
 246 
 
MEXICAN HOSPITAI.ITY 
 
 know the names of the people who have entrusted 
 their jewels to me." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Well, then, I don't know what to do. After 
 all, keep them.'* 
 
 Next day, accordingly, when I departed, I 
 took the precious package, thinking that we 
 should return from Cuba, to which we were bound, 
 by way of Mexico, and that I should then look up 
 the owners of *' my '* jewels. 
 
 In Cuba all our plans were changed. We 
 left directly for New York, with the object of 
 returning at once to Europe. Consequently I 
 have never given back the jewels. 
 
 I sometimes wonder what my friends of some 
 hours must think of a woman who dared to accept, 
 under protest, the presents that were tendered 
 her. 
 
 While we were in Mexico I had occasion to offer 
 a cheque payable in New York for some books 
 I was buying 
 
 No one, absolutely no one, wanted to accept 
 it. Then I went to the Chief of Police, General 
 Carbadjadoes, whom I knew and he telegraphed 
 to a New York bank, from which the reply was 
 received that, *' I^oie Fuller's cheques are per- 
 fectly good." 
 
 That put an end to any reluctance among the 
 merchants, who afterward, on the contrary, over- 
 whelmed me with all sorts of propositions. 
 
 247 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 My most vivid impressions of Mexico were of 
 the abounding and well-regulated enthusiasm 
 of the upper classes and the extraordinary in- 
 solence of the tradespeople. The whole character 
 of the country is expressed in these two traits. 
 
 On the liner that took us to the United States 
 Pierre Mortier, for I shall have to mention him 
 once more, made the acquaintance of a young 
 Roumanian, who seemed to be a well-bred man, 
 a very well-bred man. In Mortier enthusiasm 
 is as easily evoked as is condemnation, and he 
 presented this man to me in a most cordial manner. 
 
 Upon our arrival the young man said to me : 
 
 *' I have so many little parcels that I don't 
 know where to put them. Would you do me 
 the great favour of taking care of this one ? *' 
 
 I gave the object to my maid, who put it in my 
 travelling case, and it passed the inspection of 
 the customs-house oflScer. 
 
 That evening at the hotel the young man called 
 on me with Mortier, and I gave him back his 
 package. 
 
 He opened it smiling, and showed me the 
 contents. 
 
 I had fraudulently brought in a bag of imcut 
 rubies. 
 
 I treated the Roumanian as a cheat and told 
 him that if he did not make the matter right 
 with the customs I should hand him over to the 
 authorities. Smiling all the while he promised 
 
 248 
 
A SMUGGWNG ADVENTURE 
 
 that, since I took the affair to heart, he would go 
 and make his peace, and he left. 
 
 I never saw him or his rubies again, it is needless 
 to say. 
 
 I believe that from this time forward they 
 have been seeking me in vain to charge me with 
 smuggUng a package through the customs-house. 
 
 249 
 
XXII 
 
 GAB 
 
 FOR eight years Gab and I have lived 
 together on terms of the greatest intimacy, 
 like two sisters. Gab is much younger than 
 I and regards me with deep affection. 
 Often I look at her curiously. She seems to 
 read what is in my face and replies to my mute 
 interrogation. 
 
 '* You cannot understand me. You are Saxon 
 and I am I<atin." 
 
 When I survey her I find myself thinking as 
 she thinks, and I wonder if there exists a way 
 of comprehending that we Anglo-Saxons do not 
 possess. Gab is deeply serious. She has long, 
 black eyes which seem to slumber perpetually. 
 When she walks, despite her youth, she proceeds 
 with slow and protracted steps, which give you an 
 impression that she must be of a serious and 
 meditative nature. 
 
 When I became acquainted with her she wa 
 living in a dark little apartment, furnished m 
 Hindu style, where in her black velvet cos- 
 tume she looked like some Byzantine princess. 
 Jean Aicard, the poet, said one day that her voice 
 
 250 
 
A STRANGE PERSONALITY 
 is of velvet, her skin and locks are of velvet, her 
 eyes are of velvet and her name ought to be 
 Velours. If one could compare her to a living 
 creature a boa constrictor would be most ap- 
 propriate, for her movements are like those 
 of a snake. There is nothing sinuous, nothing 
 rampant about them, but the ensemble of her 
 motions suggests the suppleness of the young 
 adder. 
 
 I knew Gab for at least two years before it 
 entered into my head that she was fond of me. 
 She was always so calm, so silent, so undemon- 
 strative, so unlike any other human being that 
 only a supernatural personality, it seemed, would 
 ever be able to understand her. 
 
 Her eyes and her hair are just alike, deep 
 black and very brilliant. In her presence people 
 never know for certain whether she is looking 
 at them or not. Yet nothing about them escapes 
 her, and through her half-closed eyes she penetrates 
 to the very depths of their souls. She is neither 
 tall nor slight, neither plump nor thin. Her skin 
 is like alabaster, her abundant locks are parted 
 in the middle and brought together in a knot 
 behind the head, just as our grandmothers did 
 their hair. Her teeth are small, regular and white 
 as pearls. Her nose is straight and graceful. 
 Her face is full and her head is so large that she 
 never finds quite hair enough to dress it with. 
 
 When Gab was a baby she had as playmates 
 p 351 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 a donkey, a pony and an army of lead soldiers, 
 including Napoleon in his various aspects, with 
 horses, rifles and wooden cannon. When I 
 became acquainted with her she still had with 
 her the nurse who had taken her mother's place. 
 This woman told me that Gab used to make her 
 play horse while she took the part of Napoleon, 
 until the poor nurse staggered with fatigue. She 
 told me again that Gab was so shy that when her 
 mother received a visitor, if the child were in the 
 drawing-room and there was no way of escape, 
 the little one would hide herself behind a curtain 
 and would not budge until the intruder went 
 away. Her mother was so much concerned with 
 what she called the child's timidity that she 
 was unwilling to force her in any way. Gab 
 subsequently has explained to me that she was 
 not afraid and was not timid, but the truth was 
 she could not endure certain people and that she 
 did not wish to be obUged to see those wh( 
 annoyed her. 
 
 She is just the same to-day. For years wheneve 
 a visitor came in by one door she would go out 
 by another, and it made no difference whether the 
 person came for a long call or for only a single word. 
 At lunch or at dinner nothing could, and nothing 
 can, induce Gab to meet people. ^| 
 
 Gab has an iron will. Her nurse told me that 
 one day on a journey with her parents Gab, who 
 was then a very small girl, wanted to have 
 
 252 
 
 ) 
 
 J 
 
GAB 
 
A GREAT BEAUTY 
 
 donkey that was running along the railway track. 
 She cried for the donkey and did not cease until 
 they had found the beast and bought it for her. 
 
 Gab has rarely to be corrected. It seems as if 
 some one had taught her all the politeness in the 
 world, and all the seriousness as well. When nine 
 years old she was reading Schopenhauer. At 
 fourteen she was carrying on special research 
 among the archives of the State police. At sixteen 
 she was studying the literature of ancient India. 
 At eighteen she published a manuscript she had 
 found after her mother's death. She spent her 
 pocket money to have it published. The title of 
 the book was Au Loin, and Jean Lorrain declared 
 that it was the most beautiful book on India 
 which he had ever read. 
 
 Gab's mother must have written this book during 
 her journey in India, for a short time before her 
 death she had visited this interesting country, and 
 had gained access to private houses and courts to 
 which Europeans are not ordinarily admitted. 
 She was a marvellously beautiful woman, and made 
 a great sensation in a country in which beauty is 
 held in high regard. 
 
 The story goes that one evening at a ball in the 
 viceroy's palace, to which she had been invited, 
 her entrance made such a sensation that all the 
 couples, forgetting that they were there to dance, 
 stopped and came forward to admire her radiant 
 beauty. 
 
 255 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 When she died those who attended her funeral 
 wept like children, saying that she was too 
 beautiful to have been an ordinary mortal, and 
 that there was something supernatural in her 
 countenance. 
 
 All her life she had been called the beautiful 
 Mme. X. 
 
 At the time of my debut at the Folies-Bergere 
 Gab was fourteen years old. One day her mother 
 said to her : *' There is a new foreign dancer whom 
 everybody is going to see. We will see her at a 
 matinee." 
 
 On reaching the theatre to buy seats the day 
 before the performance they asked about me at 
 the ticket office. Gab's mother, whose beauty 
 captivated everybody, had no trouble in getting 
 aU the information she wanted. The following 
 dialogue ensued : 
 
 " Is she pretty ? '' asked Gab's mother. 
 
 '* No, she is not pretty," was the reply. 
 
 " Is she common, ordinary ? " 
 
 '' No, she has an individuaUty of her own." 
 
 " Tall ? " 
 
 " Rather slight than taU." 
 
 " Is she young ? " 
 
 ^' Yes, I suppose so, but I could not swear to it." 
 
 " Is she brunette or blonde ? " 
 
 " She has brown hair and blue eyes, very blue." 
 
 '' Is she smart ? " 
 jOh, no. Not smart. She is anything but 
 256 
 
 ^< 
 
SOME DISCREET INQUIRIES 
 
 that. She is a queer sort of girl who seems to 
 think of nothing but her work/' 
 
 ** Is she retiring ? '* 
 
 *' Well, yes. She knows nobody and sees 
 nobody. She has continued to be quite unac- 
 quainted in Paris. She lives on the third storey at 
 the end of a court in a house to the rear of the Folies- 
 Bergere, and she never goes out unless with 
 the manager of the theatre or his wife and with her 
 mother, who never leaves her.** 
 
 '* Does her dancing weary her greatly ? '* 
 
 " After the dance she is so tired that they have 
 to carry her home and she goes to bed at once. 
 The first time she came here she stayed at the 
 Grand Hotel, but the manager has given her the 
 appartement of which I have been speaking . He has 
 had a door let in at the rear of the stage, so that 
 she can return to her rooms without having 
 to go upon the street. She remains forty-five 
 nainutes on the stage. The white dance alone 
 l^sts eleven minutes. That is very fatiguing for 
 her ; she sticks at it too long, but the public is 
 never willing to let her stop.'* 
 
 *' Is she amiable ? '* 
 
 " Well, she does not know a word of French, 
 but she smiles all the time, and says, * bong-jour.' '* 
 
 At this moment the manager, M. Marchand, 
 who had come near the ticket office, and who fell 
 victim to the irresistible charm of Gab's mother, 
 joined in the conversation. 
 
 257 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S I.IFE 
 
 ** She is a very complex personality, Miss Loie 
 Fuller," he said. '' She has no patience but 
 displays nevertheless an incredible amount of 
 perseverance. She is always rehearsing with her 
 electric apparatus, engaged in search of new effects, 
 and she sometimes keeps her electricians at work 
 until six o'clock in the morning. No one would 
 venture to make the slightest suggestion to her 
 about this ; overwork seems to agree with her. 
 She stops neither for dinner nor for supper. She is 
 endlessly seeking for combinations of light and 
 colour." 
 
 Then he added, as if aside : 
 
 '* They are queer people, these Americans." 
 
 Gab's mother then asked about my studies and 
 my ideas. 
 
 " She has just been interviewed on this subject, 
 and the interview was published this morning. 
 Among other things she said, in speaking of the 
 effect that she obtains : ' Everybody knows when 
 it is successful, but no one realises how one has 
 to keep at it to succeed. That is what I am 
 after unceasingly.' The interviewer asked her if 
 there was no established system, no books that 
 could help her in her work. She looked aston- 
 ished and replied,^' I do not see how any one could 
 use words to indicate the rays of light in their 
 imperceptible and unceasing interplay that is 
 changing all the time.' " 
 
 My manager then drew the newspaper from 
 
 258 
 
SENSATION AND THOUGHT 
 
 his pocket and read this passage from my exposi- 
 tion : 
 
 " ' One needs to have order in one's thinking to 
 be able to write. One can feel rays of light, in 
 disintegration or in transition only as one feels 
 heat or cold. One cannot tell in words what one 
 feels. Sensations are not thoughts.' '* 
 
 *' ' But music, for example, can be reduced to 
 notation.' " 
 
 " This seemed to surprise her. She was silent, 
 reflected a moment, and then said : 
 
 *' ' I ought to think about that, but it seems to 
 me that the vibration represented by sight is a 
 finer sense, more indefinite, more fugitive, than 
 that of sound. Sounds have a more fixed char- 
 acter and they are limited. As for sight it has 
 no limit, or none at least that we recognise. In 
 any case we are more ignorant of things that 
 concern our eyes than those which address them- 
 selves to our ears. Perhaps this is because our 
 eyes from infancy are better developed at an 
 earlier stage, and because seeing is a faculty the 
 young child exercises sooner than hearing. The 
 field of visual harmony as compared with aural 
 harmony is like sunshine in comparison with 
 moonlight. That is why there took place in the 
 human brain a great development of the sense 
 of sight, long before we were able to direct it or 
 even to understand the results or the uses of it.' " 
 
 " Those who watch I^oie Fuller during her work," 
 
 259 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 continued M. Marchand, after he had put the 
 paper back into his pocket, " are struck by the 
 transformation that takes place in her as she 
 speaks, or as she directs her men to try this 
 experiment or that. In point of fact, Madame, 
 she has transformed the FoUes-Bergere. Every 
 evening the usual audience is lost amid a 
 crowd composed of scholars, painters, sculptors, 
 writers and ambassadors, and at the matinees 
 there is a crowd of women and children. All 
 the chairs and tables of the galleries have been 
 piled up behind the orchestra chairs and all the 
 people, forgetftd of their rank and dignity, cUmb 
 over them like a crowd of urchins. All that for 
 a young girl who does not seem to suspect that 
 she has won success. Would you Uke an example ? 
 Lately my wife took her to a large store to buy 
 some handkerchiefs. The first thing Miss Fuller 
 saw was some handkerchiefs marked ' IfOie Fuller,' 
 and she was surprised to note that some one 
 had the same name as hers. When they told her : 
 * Why, not at all. It is your name that appears 
 on these handkerchiefs,' she rephed : 
 
 " ' How can that be ? These people don't 
 know me.' 
 
 " She did not understand and could not under- 
 stand that it was on account of her success." 
 
 Gab's mother, after acknowledging the manager's 
 salutation as he said good-bye, again asked the 
 ticket office men : 
 
 260 
 
"A IvITTI^E COUNTRY-GIRIv " 
 
 '' She is a proper person, then ? " 
 
 *' Good Heavens, yes. She is so middle class 
 that she looks like a Httle country girl. I suspect 
 that she has never dreamed of trying to be swell. 
 She came here with a valise and a Httle steamer 
 trunk, and dressed as in this photograph,'* 
 he added, showing the portrait I had given 
 him. 
 
 This photograph depicted me in a yachting cap, 
 a straight-cut dress of indefinite colour, and sup- 
 ported by straps. A light underwaist, a short 
 jacket and a very simple cape completed my 
 costume. 
 
 After seeing this Gab and her mother went 
 home with their seats for nex± day's matinee. 
 This matinee impressed Gab to such a degree that 
 on reaching home this child of fourteen wrote 
 the following lines in my honour : 
 
 '* A luminous and impalpable shadow. Across 
 the dark brown night flits a pallid, palpitating 
 reflection. And while petals fly in the air a 
 supernatural golden flower rises toward the sky. 
 It is not a sister of the terrestrial flowers which shed 
 their dream particles upon our aching souls. Like 
 them the gigantic flower brings no consolation. 
 It grew in a strange region under the moon's 
 blue rays. I^ife beats in its transparent stem, 
 and its clear leaves hang loosely in the shade Hke 
 great tormented arms. Just a dream efflorescence 
 displays itself and meditates. It is the flower's 
 
 263 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 living poetry that sings there, delicate, fugitive 
 and mysterious. 
 
 *' It is the unsullied firmament, bestrewn with 
 stars and it is the dance of fire. 
 
 "A crackUng flame is kindled. It turns and 
 twists and glows. Smoke, heavy as an incense, 
 rises and mingles in the darkness where embers 
 glow. In the midst of the tumult, licked by 
 torrents of foaming fire, a mask, also a strange 
 flame, is outlined in the reddish air. The flames 
 die into a single flame, which grows to im- 
 mensity. You might think that human thought 
 were rending itself in the darkness. And we 
 await with anxious hearts the beauty that passes. 
 
 " Soul of the flowers, soul of the sky, soul of 
 flame, lyoie Fuller has given them to us. Words 
 and phrases avail nothing. She has created 
 the soul of the dance, for until I/oie Fuller came 
 the dance was without soul ! 
 
 '' It had no soul in Greece when among fair 
 wheat heads on days flooded with sunshine 
 beautiful children danced gaily, brandishing their 
 golden sickles. Rigid, majestic, and somewhat 
 too formal, it had no soul under the Grand 
 Monarch. It had no soul when it might have 
 had one. The eighteenth century dances, the 
 minuet in a whirl of powder ; the waltz is only 
 an embrace, the woman cult revived. 
 
 " The soul of the dance was destined to be born 
 in this sad and feverish age. lyoie Fuller modelled 
 
 264 
 
I.OIE FULIvER'S SECRET 
 
 form out of a dream. Our foolish desires, our 
 dread of mere nothing, these she expressed in her 
 dance of fire. To satisfy our thirst for oblivion 
 she humanised the flowers. Happier than her 
 brothers, the lords of creation, she caused her 
 silent deeds to live and in the darkness, this 
 setting of grandeur, no human defect marred her 
 beauty. Providence shows itself kindly toward 
 her. In its great secret I/)ie shares. 
 
 " Amorous of the resplendent beauty in nature 
 she asks it questions out of her clear eyes. To 
 seize the unknown her hand becomes coaxing. 
 Her firm, precise glance penetrates the soul of 
 things even when they have none. The in- 
 animate becomes animate, and thinks under her 
 magical desire, and the ' dream pantomime * is 
 evolved. 
 
 '' Charmingly womanly she has chosen the 
 sweetest and finest among sleeping lives. She 
 is the butterfly, she is the fire, she is light, heaven, 
 the stars. Frail, under floating material, flowery 
 with pale gold, with calcedony and beryl, Salome 
 passed in her power. Afterwards humanity went 
 by feverishly. To calm our frayed souls and our 
 childish nightmares a fragile figure dances in a 
 celestial robe." 
 
 And now, fifteen years after. Gab still teUs me, 
 when we speak of the impression I made on her 
 at the time she wrote these pages full of ingenuous 
 emotion, 
 
 265 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 " I never see you exactly as you are," she says, 
 '* but as you seemed to me on that day.*' 
 
 I wonder if her friendship, so well foimded and 
 positive, is not intimately mingled with the love 
 of form, of colour and of light, which I interpreted 
 synthetically before her eyes when I appeared 
 before her for the first time. 
 
 266 
 
XXIII 
 
 THE VAI.UE OF A NAME 
 
 WHEN in the autumn of 1892 I appeared 
 for the first time at the FoHes-Berg^re 
 I knew no one, absolutely no one, in 
 Paris. Imagine then my surprise upon 
 receiving one day a visiting card from one of the 
 spectators on which these words were written in 
 lead pencil : 
 
 " Oh, well, old girl, I am fiercely glad to see 
 that you have tapped the till. We are here, a 
 whole gang of us, two boxes full, and we want you 
 to join us after the performance. 
 
 Your old pal.*' 
 
 The card bore a name with which I was 
 unacquainted. 
 
 This was some practical joke, or else the caU- 
 boy had made a sUp in the address. I continued 
 my disrobing without considering the matter 
 further. 
 
 All at once a gentleman rushed into my dressing- 
 room. 
 
 " Well, Mollie, my old girl, why don't you reply 
 to a comrade's letter ? " 
 
 267 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 But on seeing me in street costume he stopped 
 short and cried : 
 
 " Well, but who are you ? I thought you were 
 Mollie Fuller ! " 
 
 Then I understood that he had taken me for 
 one of his old friends. 
 
 ''I know whom you mean/' I answered, *' but 
 I am not Mollie Fuller. Mollie Fuller is very well 
 known in the United States, where she is imitating 
 my dances. We are often mistaken for each 
 other, but you must realise that this isn't the 
 same person.'' 
 
 The gentleman was tall, stout, very dark, of 
 distinguished appearance, with a certain odd 
 defect in one of his eyes. He wore a fuU 
 beard. 
 
 I shall never forget his aspect as he apologised. 
 Without asking me again to join his '' gang " 
 he disappeared even more quickly than he had 
 entered. 
 
 I often encountered him after that, and he 
 always greeted me very respectfully. From my 
 window looking upon the courtyard of a great 
 hotel in London I have even been present at a 
 dinner — such a dinner as had never before been 
 seen there — ^given by this same gentleman. Caruso 
 sang. The courtyard of the hotel had been trans- 
 formed into a lake, and the host and his guests 
 dined in gondolas. From my window I watched 
 the banquet and I thought of the other supper to 
 
 268 
 
THE REM. LOIE FUIvI^ER 
 
 which I had been invited involuntarily. The world 
 is so small ! 
 
 I did not become the well-known lyoie Fuller 
 without, as is easily realised, being involved in 
 some little adventures. I had once played the 
 part of Jack Sheppard in the drama of that name. 
 Our company stopped in Philadelphia. My father 
 and mother were with me, and we took our meals 
 in a very modest boarding-house. 
 
 Some years after I returned, as a dancer, to this 
 same city, and at the hotel at which I registered, 
 it was one of the largest of the city, I was refused 
 admittance. Without taking the trouble to ask 
 why, I went elsewhere. But I thought over this 
 irritating reception and as I cotdd not understand 
 it I returned to the hotel in question and asked 
 to speak to the manager. On seeing me he looked 
 amazed : 
 
 " But you are not lyoie Fuller.'* 
 
 I assured him that I certainly was Loie Fuller, 
 and asked why he had been unwilling to receive 
 me in his hotel. 
 
 He told me the following story. 
 
 '' When you were playing Jack Sheppard one 
 of the ladies of the company stayed here with 
 Mr. Z. One day they had such a quarrel that I 
 was obliged to ask them to vacate. This lady 
 was registered under the name of Miss Fuller.*' 
 
 I had absolutely no idea who the person could 
 be and I was trying to find out when at the theatre 
 
 269 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 some one brought me the card of a gentleman who 
 wanted to see me. 
 
 His name was quite unfamiliar. This gentleman, 
 however, might have been sent by a friend. 
 Accordingly I received him. A tall gentleman 
 entered, and, very much surprised, repeated the 
 hotel man's affirmation : 
 
 '' But you are not Loie Fuller ! '* 
 
 I assured him that I was. 
 
 He had known the ** I/)ie Fuller '' who had 
 been entertained in my stead at the hotel and who 
 sang in the chorus of '' Jack Sheppard," the play 
 of which I was playing the principal part. He 
 wanted to see her in her new incarnation and 
 renew his acquaintance with her. When I had 
 at last shown him his mistake he allowed me to 
 see the counterfeit I^oie Fuller's picture. And 
 as a matter of fact when we were made up for the 
 stage there was a Httle resemblance. 
 
 One day we were giving some performances at 
 Lyons. On arriving at the theatre one of my 
 electricians said to me : 
 
 '' The proprietress of the hotel where I am stay- 
 ing with my comrades is greatly annoyed. She 
 says that you Hved with her at the time of your 
 last trip to Lyons. You were very well satisfied 
 and promised to come again, and yet you have 
 not come. She declares that it isn't nice of you 
 to show yourself so haughty under the pretext 
 that now you are successful." 
 
 370 
 
A FORERUNNER 
 
 Everybody who is acquainted with me knows 
 that such conduct is not at all characteristic of 
 me. I was, therefore, very much surprised, 
 I was unable to recall the name of the hotel the 
 electrician mentioned. I asked him, therefore, 
 to find out at what period I had put up at the 
 hostelry of the good lady whose grievance he had 
 just forwarded to me. 
 
 The next day he told me the date. Now at 
 that period I was at Bucharest. I was, therefore, 
 more perplexed than ever, and I asked the elec- 
 trician to continue his inquiry and to do his best 
 to straighten out the difficulty. 
 
 '' My landlady,*' he said, '' is sure that it was 
 you. She saw you at the theatre. It is the 
 same dance and she bade me say again that she 
 ' is very much astonished at Miss Fuller's conduct.' 
 You were so well satisfied with her house, both 
 you and the gentleman with you." 
 
 I then went to the hotel to show the landlady 
 that she was mistaken. She then made me look 
 at the photograph of a woman who imitates 
 everything that I do, passes her life watching over 
 each one of my creations and follows me every- 
 where, whether to lyondon, to New York, to 
 Paris or Berlin. 
 
 In addition to these rare adventures that come 
 to my knowledge, how many others are there that 
 I shall never know about ? 
 
 I never arrive in a town without lyoie Fuller's 
 Q 271 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 having been there in advance of me, and even 
 in Paris I have seen announced in flamboyant 
 letters, '' Loie Fuller, radiant dances/' and I 
 have been able to see with my own eyes *' la I^oie 
 Fuller '' dance before my face. 
 
 When I went to South America I discovered 
 that there, too, I^oie Fuller had been ahead of me. 
 
 What I often wonder is what '' imitations '' 
 in private life are perpetrated by these ladies, who 
 are embarrassed by no scruples. 
 
 So I am not the woman, perhaps my word will 
 be taken for it, who, of all the world, is most 
 appreciative of the value of a name. I might add 
 that the American chorus girl of whom I have 
 been writing came to Paris and that one day her 
 lover left her there. Alone, without friends, 
 without a cent, ill, she sent for me. 
 
 Did I help her ? 
 
 I am afraid I did. When we see a dog in the 
 street dying of hunger, we give him something to 
 eat, and not in order that he may not bite us, not 
 in order that he may be grateful to us ; we give 
 him something to eat because he is hungry. 
 
 272 
 
XXIV 
 
 HOW M. CI.ARETIK INDUCED MB TO WRITE THIS 
 
 BOOK 
 
 ONE evening during the Exposition of 1900 
 M. and Mme. Jules Claretie came to my 
 little theatre in the Rue de Paris, to see 
 Sada Yacco in her famous death-scene. 
 After the performance they came behind the scenes, 
 where I was presented to them. 
 
 Several years passed and I became interested, 
 as I have explained, in a little Japanese artist, 
 Hanako. I remembered how Sada Yacco had 
 pleased the Clareties, and I asked them to come 
 and see my new Japanese star. After the per- 
 formance they came to the dressing-room of the 
 dearest little actress in the world, and I had the 
 pleasure of receiving them there. 
 
 Some days later I received an invitation to 
 lunch with M. and Mme. Claretie. It was extended 
 to little Hanako and myself. The day arrived, 
 and we set forth. Hanako appeared to be quite 
 unaware that she was going to lunch with a cele- 
 brated writer, and experienced no excitement at 
 the idea of paying a visit to the director of the 
 world's first theatre. I had lived in Paris long 
 
 273 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 enough to be able to group people according to 
 their standing, and I was, for my part, somewhat 
 confused. Hanako was curious only as regards 
 the things she was going to see, since all intercourse 
 with others was barred from the fact that she 
 spoke only Japanese. Indeed, it was because she 
 knew it would please me, and because I had 
 expressly begged her to do so, was she willing to 
 come to this lunch. She was charming, with her 
 odd little wooden sandals, which she called her 
 shoes, and her robes worn one over the other. 
 She gave an impression of nothing lacking. Hanako 
 is so exquisite that it is difficult to draw her 
 likeness. Her stature is so slight that she barely 
 reaches a tall man's waist. 
 
 Mme. Claretie received us so cordially that we 
 were at once glad we came. Then M. Claretie 
 came in, very refined and very simple. He was 
 accompanied by M. Prudhon, an impressive 
 person, who did not utter a word. He was pre- 
 sented to me as the director's right-hand man. 
 I wondered how it was possible to carry on 
 business without saying anything. From noon 
 until three o'clock, as a matter of fact, I did not 
 hear a single word escape his lips. At the table 
 I asked Mme. Claretie, in an undertone in 
 English : 
 
 '' Is he dumb ? " 
 
 She began to laugh in her friendly and reassuring 
 way and replied : 
 
 274 
 
A STRANGEIvY SILENT GUEST 
 
 *' Oh, no, but he never has much to say." 
 
 Then, thinking the ice broken, I looked at M. 
 Prudhon smiHng. He did not smile at all, and I 
 said to him vivaciously : 
 
 '' If you continue to contradict me in that way 
 I won't say another word to you/' 
 
 M. Prudhon, still serious, bowed and had nothing 
 to say. 
 
 This quip, which did not even make him smile, 
 was not an original one with me, I make haste 
 to say. I had heard it said by a young girl who 
 was my private secretary, and who wanted to stir 
 up a gentleman who was unpleasantly silent. 
 M. Prudhon reminded me of that man, and I 
 wanted to see what effect the remark would have 
 on him. It had no effect. 
 
 While I am speaking of this secretary I ought 
 to devote a few lines to her, although I have no 
 reason to remember her kindly. She was a pretty, 
 young girl, always ex:quisitely gowned, although 
 her financial resources were slight. To my extreme 
 displeasure I found out later the explanation of 
 the enigma. 
 
 She was my secretary, and I often sent her to 
 place orders among all my tradespeople. At the 
 same time that she gave orders for things that I 
 wanted she ordered them for herself, taking care 
 not to call for two articles of the same make. I 
 never had gloves or veils or handkerchiefs. She 
 always had taken the last of them. She always 
 
 275 
 
riFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER^S WFE 
 
 thought that she had ordered more of them, and 
 would sally forth to order more. 
 
 One day I sent her to Tiffany's, the jewellers. 
 She added only a mere little trinket to my order, 
 a locket with her monogram set in diamonds. I 
 received the bill in due course, but she had 
 left me. Previously she had gone with me to 
 Nice, and had remained there while I was on the 
 road in the United States. When I returned 
 I learned that during my absence she had 
 lived at the hotel where I left her and that her 
 bill, charged to my account, amounted to nearly 
 6,000 francs. 
 
 Presently other invoices arrived from dyers and 
 cleaners, glove makers, shoemakers, costumiers, 
 modistes, furriers, linendrapers and finally the 
 bill from Tiffany's. 
 
 But the limit was reached when a student 
 from the Beaux Arts asked me if I could not return 
 him sixty-six francs which he had lent me two years 
 before through the medium of my pretty secre-^ 
 tary. Next there came a gentleman from lyondon^ 
 one whom I held in too great esteem to go into 
 details, who asked me for ten pounds sterling 
 which he had loaned me, again through the 
 medium of my clever and well-dressed secretary. 
 
 But in speaking of my troubles I am liable to 
 forget my lunch v/ith the Clareties. 
 
 As we were about to sit down Mme. Claretie 
 brought in an elderly woman of very pleasant 
 
 276 
 
A NONAGENARIAN'S COMPLAINT 
 
 appearance. I have rarely seen motions easier, 
 more simple or more harmonious. I^eaning 
 against each other they made a delightful picture. 
 Mme. Claretie presented me to her mother. I 
 asked how she was. 
 
 *' Oh, I am very well," she replied, " my eyes 
 are my only trouble. I cannot read without 
 glasses, and the glasses annoy me a great deal." 
 
 She had always been very fond of reading, 
 and could not bring herself to the idea of reading 
 no more. I sympathised with her and told her 
 so. Then suddenly it occurred to me to ask her 
 how old she was. 
 
 '' Ninety-five years," she replied. 
 
 And she was complaining of not being able to 
 read any longer without glasses ! 
 
 We spoke of her grandchildren and her great 
 grandchildren. I asked her if the happiness of 
 being surrounded by so many affectionate people 
 did not bring large compensation for the infirmities 
 of age. 
 
 She replied: 
 
 *' I love my children and my grandchildren, and 
 I live in them. But that does not restore to me 
 my eyesight. It is terrible not to be able to see." 
 
 And she was right. Love gave her strength 
 to bear her misfortune, but she feared that the 
 prison of darkness would claim her as its prey. 
 Before going to the dining-room she had taken 
 her daughter's arm. She had no assistance on 
 
 277 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 the other hand in eating. Her good humour 
 was unvarying. 
 
 She took some knitting from a work-basket, 
 and said in a firm voice : 
 
 " I must work. I can no longer see well enough 
 to be sure that my knitting is well done, but I 
 have to keep busy, nevertheless.'* 
 
 Mme. Claretie asked me if I was acquainted 
 with Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 I told her how I had chanced to meet him. 
 Then M. Claretie asked me numerous questions, 
 which I tried to evade in order not to seem to talk 
 about myself all the time. Imagine my astonish- 
 ment when next morning I read in the Temps 
 an article, a column and a half long, devoted 
 entirely to our visit at M. Claretie's and signed 
 by the gentleman himself. 
 
 '' Mme. Hanako,'' he wrote, '' is in town, a little 
 person, delightfully odd and charming. In her 
 blue or green robes, embroidered with flowers of 
 many colours, she is like a costly doll, or a prettily 
 animated idol, which should have a bird's voice. 
 The sculptor Rodin may possibly show us her 
 refined features and keen eyes at the next Salon, 
 for he is occupied just now with a study of her, 
 and I beheve a statue of the comedienne. He 
 has never had a better model. These Japanese, 
 who are so energetic, leaping into the fray like 
 the ants upon a tree trunk, are Hkewise capable 
 of the most complete immobility and the greatest 
 
 278 
 
A TRIBUTE 
 
 patience. These divergent qualities constitute 
 the strength of their race. 
 
 '*Mme. Hanako, whom I saw and applauded 
 in ' The Martyr ' at the Opera, came to see me, 
 through the kindness of Miss lyoie Fuller, who 
 discovered Sada Yacco for us some years ago. 
 It is delightful to see at close hand and in so 
 attractive a guise this little creature, who looks 
 so frightfxil when, with convulsed eyes, she mimics 
 the death agony. There is a pretty smile on the 
 lips which at the theatre are curled under the pain 
 of hara-kiri. She made me think of Orestes 
 exhibiting the funeral urn to Electra : ' As you 
 see, we bring the little remnants in a little urn.* 
 
 *' lyoie Fuller, who was a soubrette before being 
 the goddess of light, an enchantress of strange 
 visions, has become enamoured of this dramatic 
 Japanese art and has popularised it everywhere, 
 through Sada Yacco and then through Mme. 
 Hanako. I have always observed that lyoie 
 Fuller has a very keen intelligence. I am not 
 surprised that Alex:andre Dumas said to me : 
 ' She ought to write out her impressions and her 
 memories.' I should like to hear from her how she 
 first conceived these radiant dances, of which the 
 public has never grown tired, and which she has 
 just begun again at the Hippodrome. She is, 
 however, more ready to talk philosophy than the 
 stage. Gaily, with her blue eye and her faun-like 
 smile, she repHed to my question : ' It's just 
 
 279 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S WFE 
 
 chance. The light came to me. I didn't have 
 to go to it.' '' 
 
 I apologize for reproducing these eulogistic 
 words. I have even suppressed certain passages, 
 for M. Claretie was very compHmentary. It was, 
 however, absolutely necessary that I should make 
 this citation, since out of it grew the present book. 
 
 M. Claretie had quoted Dumas' opinion. He 
 returned to the charge. 
 
 Soon after, in fact, I received a letter from M. 
 Claretie urging me to begin my '* memoirs." 
 Perhaps he was right, but I hardly dared under- 
 take such a terrible task all alone. It looked so 
 formidable to write a book, and a book about 
 myself ! 
 
 One afternoon I called on Mme. Claretie. A 
 number of pleasant people were there and, after 
 Mme. Claretie had mentioned this notion of 
 '* memoirs " which her husband, following Dumas' 
 lead, had favoured, they all began to ask me 
 questions about myself, my art and the steps 
 by which I had created it. Everyone tried to 
 encourage me to undertake the work. 
 
 A short time after this Mme. Claretie sent me 
 tickets for her box at the Theatre-Frangais. I 
 went there with several friends. There were 
 twelve of us, among whom was Mrs. Mason, wife 
 of the American Consul-General, who is the most 
 remarkable statesman I have ever known, and 
 the best diplomatist of the service. 
 
 280 
 
AN INDISCREET REMARK 
 
 In return for the Clareties* kindness I invited 
 them to be present at one of my rehearsals of 
 ' Salome.*' They were good enough to accept 
 my invitation and one evening they arrived at the 
 Theatre des Arts while I was at work. I^ater I 
 came forward to join them. We stood in the 
 gloom of a dimly lighted hall. The orchestra 
 was rehearsing. All at once a dispute arose 
 between the musical composer and the orchestra 
 leader. The composer said : 
 
 " They don't do it that way at the Opera." 
 
 Thereupon the young orchestra leader replied : 
 
 *' Don't speak to me of subsidised theatres. 
 There's nothing more imbecile anywhere." 
 
 He laid great stress on the words *' subsidised " 
 and *' imbecile." 
 
 M. Claretie asked me who this young man was. 
 I had not heard ex:actly what he said. Neverthe- 
 less, as I knew something embarrassing had 
 occurred, I tried to excuse him, alleging that 
 he had been rehearsing all day, that half his 
 musicians had deserted to take positions at the 
 Opera and that they had left him only the under- 
 studies. 
 
 M. Claretie, whose good nature is proverbial, 
 paid no attention to the incident. Several days 
 later, indeed, on November 5, 1907, he wrote for 
 the Temps a long article, which is more eulogistic 
 than I deserve, but which I cite because it gives 
 an impression of my work at a rehearsal. 
 
 281 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S UFE 
 
 '* The other evening/' he wrote, '' I had, as it 
 were, a vision of a theatre of the future, something 
 of the nature of a feministic theatre. 
 
 '' Women are more and more taking men's 
 places. They are steadily supplanting the so- 
 called stronger sex. The court-house swarms with 
 women lawyers. The literature of imagination 
 and observation will soon belong to women of 
 letters. In spite of man's declaration that there 
 shall be no woman doctor for him the female 
 physician continues to pass her examinations and 
 brilliantly. Just watch and you will see woman 
 growing in influence and power ; and if, as in 
 Gladstone's phrase, the nineteenth century was 
 the working-man's century, the twentieth will be 
 the women's century. 
 
 " I have been at the Theatre des Arts, Boulevard 
 des Batignolles, at a private rehearsal, which Miss 
 lyoie Fuller invited me to attend. She is about 
 to present there to-morrow a ' mute drama ' — 
 we used to call it a pantomime — ^the Tragedie de 
 Salome J by M. Robert d'Humieres, who has rivalled 
 Rudyard Kipling in translating it. I/)ie Fuller 
 will show several new dances there : the dance of 
 pearls, in which she entwines herself in strings 
 of pearls taken from the coffin of Herodias ; the 
 snake dance, which she performs in the midst of 
 a wild incantation ; the dance of steel, the dance 
 of silver, and the dance of fright, which causes her 
 to flee, panic-stricken, from the sight of John's 
 
 282 
 
THE DANCE OF FEAR FROM "SAInMK 
 
MIRACIvES OF UGHT 
 
 decapitated head persistently following her and 
 surveying her with martyred eyes. 
 
 *' lyoie Fuller has made studies in a special 
 laboratory of all the effects of light that trans- 
 form the stage, with the Dead Sea, seen from 
 a height, and the terraces of Herod's palace. She 
 has succeeded, by means of various projections, 
 in giving the actual appearance of the storm, a 
 glimpse of the moonbeams cast upon the waves, 
 of the horror of a sea of blood. Of Mount Nebo, 
 where Moses, dying, hailed the promised land, and 
 the hills of Moab which border the horizon, fade 
 into each other where night envelops them. The 
 light in a weird way changes the appearance of 
 the picturesque country. Clouds traverse the 
 sky. Waves break or become smooth as a surface 
 of mother-of-pearl. The electric apparatus is 
 so arranged that a signal effects magical changes. 
 
 '' We shall view miracles of Hght ere long at the 
 theatre. When M. Fortuny, son of the distinguished 
 Spanish artist, has realised ' his theatre ' we shall 
 have glorious visions. Little by little the scenery 
 encroaches upon the stage, and perhaps beautiful 
 verses, well pronounced, will be worthy of all these 
 marvels. 
 
 '' It is certain that new capacities are developing 
 in theatrical art, and that Miss Loie Fuller will have 
 been responsible for an important contribution. 
 I should not venture to say how she has created 
 her light effects. She has actually been turned 
 
 285 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S LIFE 
 
 out by her landlord because of an explosion in her 
 apparatus. Had she not been so well known she 
 would have been taken for an anarchist. At this 
 theatre, Rue des Batignolles, where I once wit- 
 nessed the direst of melodramas that ever made 
 popular audiences shiver, at this theatre, which has 
 become elegant and sumptuous with its handsome, 
 modernised decorations, at the Theatre des Arts, 
 she has installed her footUghts, her electric lamps, 
 all this visual fairyland which she has invented 
 and perfected, which has made of her a unique 
 personality, an independent creator, a revolutionist 
 in art. 
 
 " There, on that evening when I saw her rehearse 
 Salome in ever3^day clothes, without costume, her 
 glasses over her eyes, measuring her steps, out- 
 lining in her dark robe the seductive and suggestive 
 movements, which she will produce to-morrow in 
 her brilliant costume, I seemed to be watching a 
 wonderful impresaria, manager of her troupe as 
 well as mistress of the audience, giving her 
 directions to the orchestra, to the mechanicians, 
 with an exquisite politeness, smiUng in face of 
 the inevitable nerve-racking circumstances, always 
 good-natured and making herself obeyed, as all 
 real leaders do, by giving orders in a tone that 
 sounds like asking a favour. 
 
 *' * Will you be good enough to give us a little 
 more light ? Yes. That is it. Thank you.' 
 
 *' On the stage another woman in street dress, 
 
 286 
 
SALOME 
 
 with a note-book in her hand, very amiable, too, 
 and very exact in her directions and questions, 
 took the parts of John the Baptist, half nude, 
 of Herod in his purple mantle, of Herodias mag- 
 nificent under her veils, and assumed the function 
 of regisseur (one cannot yet say regisserice) . And 
 I was struck by the smoothness of all this per- 
 formance of a complicated piece, with its move- 
 ments and various changes. These two American 
 women, without raising their voices, quietly but 
 with the absolute brevity of practical people 
 (distrust at the theatre those who talk too much), 
 these two women with their little hands fashioned 
 for command were managing the rehearsal as an 
 expert Amazon drives a restive horse. 
 
 " Then I had the immense pleasure of seeing 
 this Salome in everyday clothes dance her steps 
 without the illusion created by theatrical costume, 
 with a simple strip of stuff, sometimes red and 
 sometimes green, for the purpose of studying the 
 reflections on the moving folds under the electric 
 light. It was Salome dancing, but a Salome in a 
 short skirt, a Salome with a jacket over her 
 shoulders, a Salome in a tailor-made dress, whose 
 hands — ^mobile, expressive, tender or threatening 
 hands, white hands, hands Uke the tips of birds' 
 wings — emerged from the clothes, imparted to 
 them all the poetry of the dance, of the seductive 
 dance or the dance of fright, the infernal dance 
 or the dance of deUght. The gleam from the 
 
 287 
 
FIFTEEN YEARS OF A DANCER'S lylFE 
 
 footlights reflected itself on the dancer^s glasses 
 and blazed there like flame, like fugitive flashes, 
 and nothing could be at once more fantastic and 
 more charming than these twists of the body, 
 these caressing motions, these hands, again, these 
 dream hands waving there before Herod, superb 
 in his theatrical mantle, and observing the sight of 
 the dance ideaHsed in the everyday costume. 
 
 " I can well believe that I^oie Fuller's Salome 
 is destined to add a Salome unforeseen of all the 
 Salomes that we have been privileged to see. 
 With M. Florent Schmitt's music she connects 
 the wonders of her luminous effects. This woman, 
 who has so profoundly influenced the modes, 
 the tone of materials, has discovered still further 
 effects, and I can imagine the picturesqueness of 
 the movements when she envelops herself with the 
 black serpents which she used the other evening 
 only among the accessories behind the scenes." 
 
 That evening between the two scenes, M. 
 Claretie again spoke of my book ; and, to sum up, 
 it is thanks to his insistence that I decided to 
 dip my pen in the inkwell and to begin these 
 *' memoirs." It was a long task, this book was, 
 long and formidable for me. And so many Uttle 
 incidents, sometimes comic and sometimes tragic, 
 have already recurred during the making of this 
 manuscript that they might alone suffice to fill 
 a second volume. 
 
 288 
 
OLD FAMILY RECORDS 
 
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 and biographical value. From time to time 
 a book will appear based upon such material. 
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 but also family papers that tell of the social 
 
OLD FAMILY RECORDS 
 
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 experts. 
 
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 without involving the possessor of the 
 original documents in any expense or liabiHty. 
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 enclosed, giving some particulars of their 
 nature (if letters, by whom and to whom 
 written), dates and approximate extent. 
 
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