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[01], DUNCAN DANCER 

Wesleyan University
WesScholar

Te NEH/Mellon Open Book Program, Dance
Titles  open access Ebooks

Wesleyan University Press

1966

Duncan Dancer, an Autobiography
Irma Duncan

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[02], Cover

DUNCAN DANCER 

ALSO BY IRMA DUNCAN 
The Technique of Isadora Duncan 
Isadora Duncan's Russian Days 
(with Allan Ross Macdougall) 

[05], Cover

DUNCAN DANCER 
An Autobiography by 
IRMA DUNCAN 

Wesleyan University Pre.rs 
MIDDLETOWN, CONNECTICUT 
36834000067439 

[06]

Copyright 1965, 1966 by Irma Duncan Rogers 

 This work appeared in condensed form in Dance Perspectives, numbers 21 and 22, 1965. The courtesy of the publisher in assigning the copyright is gratefully acknowledged. 
 Grateful acknowledgment is also made to the proprietors of the rights for their gracious permission to reprint the following materials under their control: 
 "The Child-Dancers," by Percy MacKaye, copyright  1914, 1942 Arvia MacKaye Ege and Christy MacKaye Barnes; reprinted by their permission. 
"Delight," by John Galsworthy, reprinted by permission of the author, of Charles Scribner's Sons, and of William Heinemann Ltd. United States copyright  1910 Charles Scribner's Sons, renewal copyright  1938 
Ada Galsworthy; British copyright  1910 John Galsworthy. 
 Excerpt from Isadora, by Allan Ross Macdougall, copyright  1960 Thomas Nelson & Sons; reprinted by their permission. 
 Excerpts from My Life, by Isadora Duncan, copyright  1928, 1955 Live-right Publishing Corporation (Black and Gold Library); reprinted by their permission. 
 Excerpts from The Art of the Dance, by Isadora Duncan, are published by the courtesy of Theatre Arts Books, New York, as successors to the book publishing department of Theatre Arts, .Inc. Copyright  1928 Helen Hackett, Inc.; renewal copyright  1956 Helen Hackett. 

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 66-14664 

First edition 

Duncan Dancer, by Irma Duncan, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial4.0 International License 
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/legalcode 

Publication of this title is funded by the Humanities Open Book program, a joint initiative of The National Endowment for the Humanities and The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. 

[07]

FOR 
Sherman, my husband. 
"and a book of remembrance was written." 
Malachi 3,3. 

[09], p. vii-viii * DUNCAN DANCER *

Contents 

Foreword xi 
Note on Sources xiii 

PART I. 1905-1913 

 Prelude 3 
1. Follow Me 10 
2. Dancer of the Future 20 
3 The Greatest Thing in Life 37 
4 European Tour 62 
5 Sojourn at Chateau Villegenis 86 
6. Elizabeth Takes Over 101 
7 Lesson in the Temple 113 
8. You Must Be My Children 124 

PART II. 1913-1921 

 9 Dionysion 137 
10. Growing Up 148 
11. Isadora Duncan Dancers 163 
12. Demeter and Persephone 187 
13 The School Is Dead, Long Live the School 198

PART III. 1921-1933 

14. Exile 217 
I5. Little Dividend 232 
16. A Last Visit 240 
17 Plough the Ground, Sow the Seed 249 
18. If You Will Be Faithful 259 
19. To China and Back 273 
20. Return to Moscow 300 
21. Finale 309 
22. Curtain 315 
23. The End and a New Beginning 326 

Index of Names 343 

[11], p. ix-x * DUNCAN DANCER * 

Illustrations 
												facing page 

Isadora Duncan at the Theatre of Dionysus, Athens, 1904. 18
 
(upper) Isadora in her own equipage, Berlin, 1905. 
(lower) Marta, Lisa, and Gerda before a statuette of Isadora, Grunewald, 1905. 19 

Isadora with Grunewald students, 1905 ; Irma at right, fifth couple from top. 50 

Pupils of the Isadora Duncan School, 1906-1908. 

(upper I.) Erica. (upper r.) Irma. 
(lower I.) Theresa. (lower r.) Anna. 51

(upper) Irma and Isadora, N euilly, 1908. 
(lower) Gordon Craig and Isadora, Berlin, I904. 82 

Pillbox hats and Polish coats, Chateau Villegenis, October I908. Irma on running board, center; Preston Sturges behind shoulder of girl at wheel. 83 

(upper) Elizabeth Duncan's school, Darmstadt. Irma at left among her little pupils; Elizabeth and Max Merz at right. 
(lower) Deirdre and Irma aboard ship to Egypt, 1912: snapshot by Isadora Duncan. 114 

Isadora with Deirdre and Patrick. 115 

(upper) Dionysian, 1914 
(lower) Dionysian: the six Duncan girls with statue of dancing 
maenad. 146 

(upper) Walter Rummel and Isadora, 1919. 
(lower) Duncan Dancers, 1920: Lisa, Irma, Margot. 147 

Irma Duncan: dance photo by Arnold Genthe, 1917. 178 

Irma Duncan dancing outdoors, Greece, 1920. 179 

Isadora to Irma, October I, 1920: "Your letter has made me Happy-" 210
 
Irma Duncan: portrait photo by Edward Steichen; Versailles, 1920. Inscribed: "Gay dancing eyes of the eager dancing faun girl. With a vivat-Edward Steichen." 211
 
(upper) Irma Duncan in Moscow, ca. 1925. 
(lower) The Isadora Duncan School, Moscow. 306 

"The young woman I never knew." Irma's mother, photographed years before her marriage. 307 

[13], p. xi-xiii

Foreword 

My life with Isadora Duncan dates from 1905, until her untimely end in 1927. This period covers most of my own career as a dancer. During all these vital, creative years of working together, neither of us was able to leave some tangible result of our transient art. This book must therefore remain the sole, abiding record of my work in the world of the dance. 
 I.D. [Irma Duncan]
 Longway, 1966. 
..
      1905 ,       1927 .          .                      .      ,       .
 I.D. [ ]
 Longway, 1966. 

[15]

Note on Sources: Many of the quotations in this book come from papers in the personal collection of Irma Duncan. These materials have been given by Miss Duncan to the Dance Division of the New York Public Library. In some cases, similar statements may be found in published works, but Miss Duncan has used the original sources whenever possible. All translations have been made by the author. References to works frequently cited have been abbreviated: Life-Isadora Duncan, My Life (New York, 1928); Art-Isadora Duncan, The Art of the Dance (New York, 1928). Other works cited are acknowledged elsewhere in this volume. 
..
  .            .         -  .          ,      ,    .    .       :  
 Life-Isadora Duncan,   (-, 1928);
 Art-Isadora Duncan,   (-, 1928). 
        .


** 

 PART I. 1905-1913 ** 
 I. 1905-1913

[17], p. 3-9 * DUNCAN DANCER * Prelude * 

Prelude 


THE most fateful day of my life, the one destined to make the greatest changes in it, occurred at the end of January, 1905. The sky was dark, for a heavy fog had rolled in from the North Sea during the night, obscuring the streets of Hamburg. I had been born near there in a small town in Schleswig-Holstein, but my mother now lived on the outskirts of this city. 
..
      ,         ,     1905 .   ,         ,   .   ,    -,         .

I can see the child I was then, bundled up warm against the damp weather, wearing a velvet bonnet and wool mittens, sitting beside my mother in the electric tramcar that carried me, not only from the quiet suburbs to the busy center of town, but also out of one kind of world into an entirely different one. 
..
   ,    ,   -  ,      ,        ,            ,     ,   .

As we clanged along the Steindam leading to the more elegant section of Hamburg, I felt a mounting excitement. I was also somewhat frightened at what was about to happen, for I was to audition for a famous dancer to see if I could become a pupil in her school. This had come about because mother had seen an announcement in the newspaper saying that Isadora Duncan, the young American dancer who was then creating a furor in Germany, wanted pupils for her newly founded school in Berlin. 
..
      ,      ,    .     ,    ,         ,  ,        .   ,      ,   ,      ,      ,          .

Mother had been dreaming of a stage career for me ever since a neighbor of ours, a music teacher, discovered that I had a good singing voice. This immediately reminded her of Ernestine Schumann-Heink, prima donna of the Hamburg Opera, for mother had come in contact with the glamorous world of the theatre when she acted as governess for the singer's little boy. 
..
         ,   ,  , ,     .      -,   ,   -       ,          .

The curtain actually rose on my dance career the day before, when mother tried unsuccessfully to enroll me at the Municipal Theatre School. The directress, a dour-looking woman in a tight black dress, poked her head out of the door. When she saw me, she immediately pronounced me too young. "Bring your daughter back when she is twelve years old," she said. 
..
         ,          . ,      ,    .    ,       .   ,     , -  .

Mother tried hopefully to describe my acting and singing talents, but she cut her short with, "Those are the rules, Madam, goodbye," and shut the door on us. 
..
         ,     :  , ,  ,    .

It was just as well she did, as otherwise I might never have met Isadora Duncan. However, the fates were even then busy weaving the threads that would bring us together. 
..
   ,   , ,       .   ,        ,    .

That same evening mother put me to bed earlier than usual, perhaps to sleep off my supposed disappointment, although the rejection at the Theatre School had actually left no impression on me. She then cleared away the supper dishes from the kitchen table and retired to the front parlour, or gute Stube, as they say in Hamburg. She sat down on the mahogany sofa covered with black damask above which hung a picture of my late father with his curly red hair and bristling mustache. On the round mahog - any table in front of her, covered with a fringed cloth, she spread the evening newspaper. An old-fashioned oil lamp provided the only illumination. Electricity was a fairly recent convenience that had not as yet penetrated the outskirts of our city to light up the uniformly gloomy row of houses where we lived. 
..
         , ,      ,              .                  ,    .       ,   ,              .    -    ,   ,    .   -   .     ,        ,      ,    .

My mother looked old and careworn. Her smooth dark hair was streaked with gray, for she was past fifty. She had worked hard most of her life and didn't really know what leisure meant. My father's death had left us in somewhat straitened circum-stances. A Hanoverian by birth, at a time when the elector of that province was also a British royal duke, he owned a small foodstore in Wandsbeck. When mother met him he was a widower with five children, the youngest being a mere infant. Mother took on the job of caring for them all. I was born when my parents were in their late forties. Thus I have no remembrance of mother as a young woman. Of my father I have practically no recollection at all, since I was only four years old when he died. His image is therefore just faintly imprinted in my memory. 
..
     . Ÿ     ,      .          ,   .         .   ,   ,         ,       .    ,      ,     .       .  ,      .  ,         .        ,       ,   .         .

Instead of sending her stepchildren to an orphanage as she was advised to do, mother preferred to struggle along as best she could in order to provide a decent home for them, seeing to it that they obtained work when they finished school. By the time I too had reached school age they had all left; only I, mother's one child of her own, remained at home.
..
 ,       ,    ,   ,  ,     , ,    ,   .   ,      ,   ;  ,   ,  .

Though small of stature and frail in appearance, mother possessed enormous energy and a vast fund of human kindness; always cheerful, she managed to eke out a living. 
..
     ,         ;  , -     .

Perusing the paper now, she came across a startling announcement. It seemed almost miraculous that such a wonderful chance for the advancement of my stage career should present itself so opportunely. The more she read, the more excited she became. A nervous woman and highly emotional, she suddenly jumped up and rushed into the bedroom where I lay fast asleep. 
..
 ,     .   ,             .    ,    .     ,       ,    .

"Irma! Irma dear!" she called. "Wake up, wake up, my child!" I could not immediately figure out what had happened; her voice sounded so urgent. Impatiently she lifted me out of bed. "Come along, I want to read you something wonderful," she said, and carried me into the next room. 
..
! , !  . , ,  !     ,  ;     .      . ,     - , -        .

Holding me on her lap, mother sat down again. She moved the lamp a little closer, smoothed out the rumpled pages of the newspaper, adjusted the gold-rimmed pince-nez hanging from a black ribbon around her neck, and jerked me into an upright position, all apparently at one and the same time. 
..
   ,   .    ,    ,     ,      ,      ,  , ,      .

"Sit up and listen," she said briskly. Pointing a forefinger at some inky black print, totally indecipherable to me, she began to read aloud. 
..
  , -   .      ,    ,    .

I sat up and forced myself to listen to the article about a famous "barefoot dancer named Isadora Duncan," of whom I had never heard. It appeared she was then performing with considerable eclat at the Thalia Theatre in Hamburg. She was described as "a slender creature like a Greek goddess come to life." 
..
              ,      . ,           .      ,   ,  .

Pronouncing each word slowly so I could understand, mother read that Isadora Duncan had, only two weeks before, opened a dance school for little girls in Grunewald, near Berlin. And stressing the next words, she said, "Only children aged six to ten are acceptable." 
..
   ,   ,  ,   ,      ,       ,   .   ,  :         .

Mother looked at me over her pince-nez. "Did you understand, dear? That means you won't have to wait till you are twelve! Now listen to the description of the school." 
..
     .  , ?  ,     ,     !    .

The building is a three-story structure with a large basement and top floor. All the rooms are spacious and airy and the many windows allow free access of sunlight and fresh air. On the walls in every room are representations of antique art, and in the dormitories hang Donatello's terra cottas depecting children at play as well as Della Robbia's colorful Madonnas. There are large copies of dancing figures on friezes in the schoolroom, and on a long shelf in the music room is a lovely collection of Tanagra figurines. All these works of art are supposed to give the children a sense and appreciation of beauty, which in turn will influence their dancing, according to Miss Duncan. 
..
          .      ,            .         ,      ,     ,       .        ,        -    .    ,            , ,   ,    .

The children are boarded and educated free of charge; this includes clothes and other necessities. Besides their dance training personally conducted by Isadora Duncan, the pupils will also receive academic instruction from a competent public school teacher and in addition, in order to stimulate their artistic sensibilities, there will be regular visits to museums with lectures on art. Two governesses are in charge, and the management of the school is in the hands of Miss Isadora's sister, Elizabeth Duncan. 
..
     ;        .   ,    ,           ,  ,              .   ,         ,  .

This free, non-profit dance school, founded by Isadora Duncan and entirely supported by her financially, is not a philanthropic institution in the ordinary sense but an enterprise dedicated to the promotion of health and beauty in mankind. Both physically and spiritually the children will here receive an education providing them with the highest intelligence in the healthiest body. 
..
    ,          ,       ,  ,       .  ,      ,       .

"How wonderful!" mother exclaimed. "Irma, how would you like to be a dancer?" 
..
 !  . ,     ?

I did not know what to say. The only dancing I had done was at Hallowe'en. After dark, with the other children in our block, I would skip joyfully along the street with a colored paper lantern on a stick. Holding it high up in the air I would sing a little German rhyme: 
Lanterne! Lanterne! 
Sonne, Mond und Sterne 
Macht aus euer Licht, 
Macht aus euer Licht, 
Aber loescht mir meine Lanterne nicht! 
..
  ,  .  ,   ,   .   ,      ,           .     ,     :
! !
,   
 ,
 ,
    !

Little did I then realize how extraordinarily symbolic that simple gesture of holding high the torch while dancing would be for me in the future. 
..
    ,   ,            .

When mother asked if I wanted to be a dancer, my answer could not have been too enthusiastic. She tried to arouse my interest by sounding very enthusiastic herself. 
..
  ,     ,       .     ,   .

"Here, Irma, listen to this! 'In the summertime the pupils will take their lessons out of doors. Clad only in a light, short tunic and with bare feet, they will be taught to move freely in harmony with nature. They will learn to express their own childlike feelings in the dance....'" 
..
, ,  ! "         .         ,        .         ..."

"Just think how wonderful that must be!" mother said, thinking no doubt of all the summer days I was forced to spend playing on the dusty street or in our cheerless back yard. "If I send you to that school, who knows ... perhaps some day ... you too will be a famous dancer!" She laughed and hugged me tight. "Tell me, darling, would you like to try this school?" 
..
,   !  ,      ,              .       ,   ...  , - ...     !      .  , ,      ?

"I don't know," I said hesitatingly, for the thought of leaving home for a distant city frightened me. "Why do I have to decide tonight?" I felt very sleepy. "Can't we wait till tomorrow?" 
..
 ,   ,     ,       ,  .    ?     .      ?

"No!" Mother explained we had to decide tonight because the dancer was giving only one more tryout early tomorrow morning. After further persuasion I agreed to go. Mother at once carried me back to bed. In the dark bedroom, while tucking me in, she said in a strangely serious voice: 
..
!  ,       ,         .      .      .   ,  ,     :

"Just one more thing, darling, before you go to sleep. I must tell you that the pupils are required to remain at the school till they have reached their eighteenth year. That means we shall be separated for a long, long time." 
..
  , ,  .    ,      ,      .  ,     .

I sat bolt upright and blurted out, "No, I don't want to go!" and straightway felt much relieved. Mother pushed me back onto the pillows. Calmly she reminded me of the wonderful things I would receive at that school-things she could not provide. And she promised to visit me often, which reassured me somewhat. And so, tired of this long discussion in what seemed to me the middle of the night, I once more agreed to attend the tryout. 
..
      : ,    !    .      .       ,       , - ,     .      ,    .  ,       ,     ,       .

I had no sooner closed my eyes when I heard mother murmur as if to herself, "What a dreadfully long time to be separated. Oh, how I shall miss you. Darling, will you miss me?" 
..
   ,  ,   ,    :        . ,      . ,     ? 

Alarmed at her emotional outburst, I started to cry. I threw my arms about her and sobbed, "0 Mama, I shall miss you too!" 
..
   ,   .     : ,    !

Mother stroked my head. "Go to sleep now, for we shall have to get up very early to be there on time ...." 
..
   .  ,      ,    ...

And here we were, on our way to meet the "barefoot dancer," who they said looked like a Greek goddess come to life. The tramcar stopped in front of the Hamburger Hof, our destination. By the big clock over the front desk, mother noticed with a start that we were late for the audition. She asked hastily for Miss Duncan's suite and on being informed clutched my hand, racing me quickly up the carpeted stairs. The sound of music on the third floor led us directly to the right door. Mother knocked repeatedly, but there was no answer. When the music stopped, she knocked again. A maid in black uniform with crisp white cap and apron opened the door. She said curtly, "Sorry, the tryout is over." She was about to close the door again when mother intervened. 
..
  ,   ,    , ,   ,    , .     ,   .           ,     .        , ,    ,     .           .    ,    .   ,   .            .   : ,  .     ,   .

"Won't you announce us anyway?" she inquired. 
"I have orders not to admit any more applicants," the maid said primly. 
"Oh please," mother pleaded, "we have come a long way. Our connections were bad, and my little girl will be so disappointed. Please explain this to Miss Duncan." 
..
       ? -  .
       , -   ., , -  , -    .    ,       . ,    .

The maid looked down at me for a minute. She must have seen a small pale face with two big blue-green eyes staring back at her. Perhaps she was touched by my solemn expression as I clung tightly to mother's hand, for she said in a friendlier tone, "Wait here while I go and inquire." 
..
    .  ,         - ,    . ,     ,       ,       : ,     .

Mother immediately bent down to straighten my bonnet and retie the satin bow under my chin. With nervous gestures she straightened her own hat and veil, reminding me for the tenth time to be sure to make a nice knicks for the lady when we shook hands. 
..
   ,    ,       .         ,     ,  ,       ,      .

How often since have I recalled that moment! And I always remember with a feeling of profound gratitude that the door did open to me, for through it I passed into a world of wider horizons. But most of all I offer thanks to a kind Providence that made it possible for me to meet the remarkable woman who was to mean so much to me. And I still hear those words that opened the fateful door: 
"Enter, please. Madame will receive you!" 
..
     !       ,    ,           .        ,      ,        .        ,     :
, ,   !


[26], p.10-19 * DUNCAN DANCER * Follow Me * 

-=1=-

Follow Me
  

Our momentous meeting took place in a room full of people-parents and their children-who had come for the tryout. But because I arrived too late, I received special attention. 
..
     ,  ,    ,    .      ,    .

On entering the famous dancer's room, I felt a pleasant sensation of warmth and the fragrance of numerous vases and baskets of fresh flowers. The instant she stepped forward to greet me, in bare feet and ankle-length white tunic, looking indeed like a Greek goddess come to life, I had eyes only for her. With childish pleasure I noticed the white ribbon she wore in her light brown hair. I had never seen anyone so lovely and angelic-looking or anyone dressed in that way. Beside mother's long black dress made in the Victorian fashion, Isadora's simple attire gave her the appearance of a creature from another planet. I fell completely under the charm of her sweet smile when she bent down to take my hand while I curtsied. 
..
    ,              .   ,    ,   ,        ,     ,  ,     .       ,     - .       ,   ,   .      ,    ,          .        ,   ,     ,     .

In a soft voice, speaking in halting German, she told mother that the tryout was over. Mother once again made her excuses, and Isadora must have relented, for she told her to remove my clothes quickly so she could have a look at me. Mother knelt down and promptly started to undress me, right there in front of all those people. It happened so quickly I didn't have time to be scared. In her haste to comply with Isadora's request, mother had difficulty with the many hooks and buttons that encumbered even children's clothing in those days.
..
 ,   ,   ,   ,   .    ,  ,  , ,        ,      .         ,     .    ,     .  ,    ,        ,        .

After she had removed the black stockings, the high-buttoned shoes, and the last petticoat, I stood exposed in a cotton camisole and a pair of lace-edged underpants, from which dangled long black garters. I felt terribly ashamed when, thus accoutred, I was made to stand alone in the center of the room. But not for long. The lovely vision in the Greek tunic returned and asked my name. 
"Come and stand here in front of me, Irma, and do exactly as I do." 
..
 ,     ,         ,  ,    ,      ,      .    , ,  ,       .   .          .
    , ,    ,   .

The soft strains of Schumann's Traumerei came floating to my ears as Isadora Duncan slowly began to raise her bare arms to the music. She watched me closely as I imitated her gesture and then, after a while, she seemed no longer to pay attention to me. A faraway look had come into her eyes as, lost in the music, she raised her beautiful arms and with a swaying motion of her body moved them gently from side to side like the branches of a tree put in motion by the wind. How well I was going to know that expression 1 She once said, Like swelling sails in the wind, the movements of my dance carry me onward and upward and I feel the presence of a mighty power within me. 
..
       ,           .     ,     ,            .      , ,   ,    , ,        ,   ,    .      .   :     ,        ,        .

And how much would I learn to feel that power growing steadily in all the years we worked together. This is how we first came in contact with each other-the great teacher and her small pupil-standing face to face, oblivious of the other people present, moving in unison to the music in our first dance to-gether. With what poignancy I would recall this scene toward the end. 
..
     ,          .          -      ,    ,       ,         .           .

A nod to the musician at the upright piano, and the tempo changed to a lighter rhythm, an allegretto. She swiftly changed the mood and darted away, skipping gracefully around the room. All eyes, I was fascinated watching her circle about me like a bird. She reminded me of the sea gulls I had often observed skimming across the big lake directly in front of the hotel. Uncertain what to do next, I remained where I was. Still dancing, she beckoned to me and called out gaily, Follow me! Follow me! 
..
    ,       , .      ,    .  ,   ,      ,  .     ,    ,       .  ,   ,   ,  .   ,      :   !   !

Her radiant personality was contagious. I lost my selfconsciousness and bravely skipped after her, trying my best to do exactly as she did. I undulated my little arms in emulation of her for all I was worth. But, in that absurd deshabille with the long black garters flapping against my legs at every step, I must have looked comical. I heard her laugh when she stopped abruptly and said, That is enough, my dear. Go and put on your things. 
..
Ÿ    .       ,      ,   .          ,   .         ,       , ,  ,  .    ,      :  ,  .     .

While mother dressed me, I kept looking back over my shoulder at the lovely vision in white who had cast such a spell over me. She slowly went from one child to another of the many assembled there and deliberately made her choice as if picking flowers. I shall take you and you, I heard her chant, and you and you .... 
..
   ,           ,      .                 ,    .     ,    :  ,  ...

I glanced with envy at the girls she had chosen. Would she want me too? I wondered, secretly yearning to go with her wherever she went, for this was something I now wanted to do more than anything else. However, she passed me by. She turned instead with sudden animation and interest toward a young man, sketchbook and pencil in hand, who had been quietly sitting in the background observing. He whispered a few words, which caused Isadora to turn around and look at me. She came over to where I stood beside mother, anxiously waiting for her to notice me. She smiled, took my hand in hers and, leading me to the group of girls she had selected, gently said, And Irma, I will take you, too. 
..
     ,   .     ?   ,     ,     ,     ,         .     .            ,      ,        .    ,        .     ,      ,   ,    .  ,          ,   ,  :  ,    .

I had no idea then of the role the young artist had played for me. When years later I once asked Isadora what exactly had prompted her to choose me for her pupil, she appeared surprised at my question. 
Why, don't you know? It was Gordon Craig. He said to me, 'Take her, she has the eyes!' 
Of course I said that about you to Isadora, Gordon Craig told me recently when I inquired. In answer to my letter, he wrote from Vence in the south of France where he now resides:
..
       ,       .        ,         ,     .
,    ?    .   :  ,   !
,      , -     ,   .            ,    :

Dear Irma: 
So once again I find you, dont doubt if I remember you. But to get your letter is perhaps the best thing which has happened to me for many years - and no perhaps at all. . . . I look on you as you were, small and holding up your hands as in the picture and your blessed heart is just the same as it was when a child, I feel this. 
The Hamburger Hof, do I remember that! Yes, and it was a foggy week - dark by day. I drew a poor sketch of the side of the hotel from my window and some lights. . . . The date I was in Hamburg with her was January 24th to Jist, 1905. 
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  [],   ! ,      -  .           .... ,       ,    24 , 1905 .

And that is how I became Isadora Duncan's pupil. The chances of our ever meeting had been very slim. Was it hazard or destiny-who can tell? 
Follow me, follow me! she had said when first we met. And follow her I did, from then on to the end. 
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There were five of us when we children gathered the next morning at her hotel to be attired in our new school uniform consisting of tunic and sandals and a little hooded woolen cape. 
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Dressed alike, we looked like sisters. I distinctly recall the sense of freedom I experienced in those light and simple clothes, which were the distinctive Duncan uniform and which would henceforth set us apart from other people. Goodbye petticoats and cumbersome dresses with bothersome hooks and high-buttoned shoes. We children, strangers only a moment ago, now timidly smiled at each other in a new-found comradeship. 
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We were soon on our way to the station. I had never traveled in a train before. In all the excitement I completely lost track of mother. Accompanied by Isadora's maid, we settled ourselves in a second-class compartment in the train for Berlin when, amidst all the confusion, I heard someone tap on the window. It was mother. She tried bravely to smile, but her eyes were red from weeping. I did not immediately understand why she should be crying, since I was on my way to that marvelous school she had told me about, where I would soon be happily playing and dancing with my schoolmates. Why wasn't she happy too? Poor mother! She still had her stepchildren, but I was the only child of her own. Did she have a premonition? Though I would see her again, the bond would never be  the same. How could she possibly imagine that her daughter was leaving her, not for a few years as she believed, but that an inscrutable destiny was taking her away practically forever. I leaned out the open window and kissed mother goodbye. She clung to my hand. A sudden shrill blast of the train whistle and we slowly moved out of the station. Mother kept pace with the moving train to the end of the platform. My last glimpse of her showed a weeping black-robed figure with a small bundle, my discarded clothes, pressed tightly to her breast. 
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A few hours later we arrived in Berlin. A pale winter sun brightened the city. The maid shepherded her small flock to the exit where our new guardian awaited us. She sat in a closed carriage, looking very beautiful. To my childish imagination she represented the legendary Fairy Queen in her coach, carrying me and my companions off to her enchanted castle in the forest. 
Come and sit here beside me, she said sweetly as I climbed in. I was thrilled! 
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The horses rapidly traversed the long chaussee leading to the Grunewald. Filled with expectation, we all sat quiet as mice. When the carriage at last stopped in front of a yellow stucco villa with a tall picket fence, she said, Here is the school! We all got out. Wide-eyed with curiosity about what awaited us within, I climbed the many stairs to the entrance. Never was I so surprised as when the door opened and there right in front of me stood the seminude statue of a Greek Amazon on a pedestal, her head nearly touching the ceiling! We all gaped with astonishment. When I recovered from my initial shock, I turned to look for an explanation from the beautiful lady who had brought us here. But the Fairy Queen had vanished-coach and all. 
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Left alone in these strange surroundings and frightened, we children instinctively drew closer together. A curious odor of bay leaves pervaded the hall, emanating from the dried laurel wreaths that decorated the walls. I had the sensation of having entered a chapel. We remained there waiting for what seemed an unconscionable time. 
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Then something happened. Over to one side some sliding doors opened a crack, and out peered a small monkeylike face, brown and wrinkled. This face stared at us for a minute; then the doors opened wider, and a small woman stepped out. Out-landishly attired in a long red Chinese coat embroidered all over with flowers and parrots, this strange apparition mysteriously approached, limping slightly. She slowly circled around the little group, huddled close together for protection. She kept her hands hidden Chinese-fashion in her voluminous sleeves. 
We did not know what to make of it. Who was this? 
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Without a kind word of greeting to the pathetic little group in her house, this odd creature poked her funny face into each one of our faces for a silent scrutiny and then disappeared as mysteriously as she had come, closing the sliding doors behind her. 
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I suddenly longed for the comforting arms of my mother. The others must have had similar reactions, for Erica-the youngest, a mere tyke of four-suddenly burst into loud, heart-rending wails. We all were about to join her when, luckily, two nursemaids appeared. 
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Ah! here they are, our little Hamburgers! they exclaimed. With pleasant grins lighting up their young faces, they said, Welcome to the Duncan School! and in a cheerful, lively manner hustled us off. 
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Chatting all the way downstairs, they hurried us to the large, airy basement, where they helped us remove our newly acquired white woolen coats with pink-lined hoods and our winter over-shoes. What you children need is some nice hot tea and bread and butter, one of them said. That will cheer you up. 
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And then you are going to meet all your new playmates, the other one grinned and jerked her thumb in the direction of the nearby dining hall. Listen to them! They have just come back from their daily outing. 
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The loud hubbub of children's voices resounded in the basement. It stopped suddenly, the moment we newcomers entered the room. 
Meet our little Hamburgers! one of the nurses called out. 
You all have time to get acquainted before tea. 
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Being an only child and having played mostly solitary games at home, I always felt shy when confronted with a mass on-slaught of other children. But this group looked like a cheerful, friendly lot, with their cheeks red from the wintry air and out-of-doors activities, and their eyes shining. They pushed forward for a closer view of us. A pretty, dark-haired girl with round rosy cheeks and small chocolate-brown eyes, older and taller than myself, made her way through the crowd and grasped my hand. My name is Anna, she said sweetly. What is yours? 
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I introduced myself and she immediately made me feel at home by saying, I want you to meet my friend Theresa, and she put her arm around the waist of a girl who was her opposite in coloring, with blue eyes, blonde hair, and a lot of freckles on her tiny nose. They made a charming pair. Anna, who ap-parently loved to get things organized, then drew out a darling little girl nearer my own age and size. She had a dainty heart-shaped face with hazel eyes and dark lashes. I especially admired her dark, naturally wavy hair. Anna introduced us, stating im-portantly, This is Temple. She is Miss Isadora's niece! (the daughter of her brother Augustin, as I later learned). 
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Temple said, Hello! and stared at me with lips half-open in an expectant sort of way, which I soon found out was a little habit she had. I didn't say anything but thought, What luck! to be the niece of a Fairy Queen! I could not get further acquainted with her, for Anna, who had taken me in tow, had more girls to introduce, mainly the younger ones. There was Lise! with the pretty golden curls and the large brown eyes of a startled deer. And beside her, little Gretel with violet eyes, ash-blonde hair, and the delicate look of a Dresden china doll. There were many more-Isabelle, Gerda, Marta, Stephanie-too many names to remember all at once. When we sat at the long refectory table, I counted twenty girls. I discovered later they came from every part of Germany, some from Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, and Poland; Temple was the only American. 
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I do not know exactly how we chose those children, Isadora once said. I was so anxious to fill the Grunewald and the forty little beds, that I took the children without discrimination, or merely on account of a sweet smile or pretty eyes; and I did not ask myself whether or not they were capable of becoming future dancers.* 
*Life, p. 177. 
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* , . 177. 

I asked Anna, who took her seat beside me at tea, how she liked it here. She didn't answer directly but inquired, Have you met Tante Miss? 
Tante who? I was puzzled. Who is that? 
Didn't you see her upstairs? 
Oh, you mean the one in the funny red coat with the parrots on it? 
Anna nodded eagerly, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 
What do you think of her? 
I was so scared. 
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Anna whispered, We are all a bit frightened of her. She is Miss Duncan, Miss Isadora's older sister. We call her Tante Miss. And with the superior air of one who had been enrolled at the school for the space of a whole week before I arrived, she added, But everybody else is very nice here, you'll see! Attention everyone! One of the nursemaids at the end of the table clapped her hands for silence. I am going to take the new ones upstairs to bed. The rest of you stay down here and don't make too much noise. Is that understood? 
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A shout by many throats in the affirmative answered her. Well then, come with me, all you little Hamburgers. You must be tired from the trip and the excitement. Early to bed and early to rise for you five, and tomorrow you'll be fresh and rested and can have a good time with the other children. 
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With these words she marched us upstairs to the dormitory, where five white beds, with blue satin coverlets and muslin canopies tied with blue ribbon at the top, awaited us. The winter's pale setting sun cast a pink glow over the pretty white and blue room. It struck me as peculiar having to go to bed in daylight, but I didn't mind in the least as soon as I saw the canopied bed that was to be mine. In Germany we call this a Himmelbett, or heavenbed, associated always with children of the rich. The average child merely dreamed of such a heavenly bed, curtained in flowing white muslin and covered in satin, fit for a princess. I could hardly wait, after I had folded my Duncan uniform on the white chair at the foot and placed my sandals neatly underneath, as I had been shown, to climb into my Himmelbett and pull the silk coverlet up to my chin, finding that my dream had come true. 
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While some of the other children dawdled and little Erica, the baby of the school, had to be undressed and put to bed by Fraulein (as we were told to call her), I glanced about the room. On the wall directly opposite hung the most appealing picture: a large Madonna and Child in ceramic on an azure background, framed in a garland of fruit and flowers in glazed colors, so natural they looked real. At home in our dark, damp bedroom I had only a dull framed proverb. Here, in the Duncan School, everything was different! 
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But the picture that pleased me most was the small reproduction of an angel playing the viol that was attached to the bedstead above my head. The other beds had similar Renaissance pictures, each one representing an angel playing a different instrument. But I liked mine the best; the face of my guardian angel, framed in dark curls and inclined over the instrument, had so divine an expression that one could almost hear the melody. When Fraulein closed the Venetian blinds, curtailing my observation, I stretched out with contentment and tried to go to sleep. 
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[35], p. 18-19.
Isadora Duncan at the Theatre of Dionysus, Athens, 1904. 
[36], p. 18-19.
Isadora in her own equipage, Berlin, 1905. 
Marta, Lisa, and Gerda before a statuette of Isadora, Grunewald, 1905. 
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It was not easy. All the fresh impressions and strange sights that had crowded these last three days tumbled through my mind. The pine-scented air of the nearby forest filled the room with fragrance. Through the open window I could hear the dis-tant rumble of the Rundbahn passing by. The melancholy hoot of the locomotive, a sound forever afterward evoking memories of my childhood, made me feel drowsy. Still I could not relax into sleep. Something was missing. What I longed for was not the comforting arms of my own mother giving me a goodnight kiss. It was just one more sight, before I dozed off, of the beauti-ful Fairy Queen, who had brought us here to her enchanted castle in the woods. She and her coach seemed to have disappeared completely. 
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I began to fear I would never see her again when I noticed a shadowy vision tiptoeing silently from bed to bed, bending over each child. At last she reached me. It was the Fairy Queen! She placed a cookie between my lips and kissed me. Good night, darling, sleep well, she murmured, and was gone. I sighed happily and fell into a peaceful slumber on the threshold of a bright new world.
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[38], p.20-36 * DUNCAN DANCER * Dancer of the Future * 

-=2=-

Dancer of the Future
 

THE year she established her first school, Isadora was basking in newfound fame and popularity. It was Germanys privilege in the opening years of the twentieth century to offer the comparatively unknown American dancer both serious recognition and lucrative success. She chose Germany, she once remarked, as the centre of philosophy and culture which I then believed it to be, for the founding of my school. * 
*Life, p. 177. 
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Germany, at that period still an empire, had for the last three decades enjoyed a state of uninterrupted peace. The liberal arts and sciences flourished. It was no wonder, then, that when Isadora arrived with her dances inspired by Hellenic ideals, the artists and intelligentsia of Germany saw in her some divine manifestation. She in turn-her imagination kindled by the great masters of German music-started a bold new venture in dance history when she created her own choreography to Beethovens Seventh Symphony, the one that Wagner had labeled the Apotheosis of Dance. It was animated by her desire to weld the two sister arts, music and dance, closer together. Such a venture created a sensation among music lovers, who tangled in hot debates as to whether or not the music of Beethoven needed this visualization. But she had no choice, for only in great music did she find the source of inspiration that harmo-nized with her lofty ideals. 
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To fully comprehend and appreciate her epoch-making contribution to the history of the dance, it is imperative to recall the primitive, stagnant state in which that art was then floundering. The so-called classical ballet was an uninspiring and uninteresting acrobatic exercise which, as one contemporary critic observed, had no validity other than a mere diversion. No one who considered himself an intellectual gave the dance as it was then serious consideration. Not until Isadora Duncan arrived on the scene and gave the dance new form and life did she, according to the same source, help us to realize that the dance can be an art. 
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Another spectator, who described her as being tall, graceful and slender with a small oval face, good features and a mass of dark hair; who is beautiful on the stage and has particularly graceful arms and hands, saw in the California girl a dancer of remarkable skill, whose art . . . has a wonderful eloquence of its own. It is as far from the acrobatics of the opera dancer as from the conventional tricks by which the pantomimists are wont to express the more elementary human emotions. To the above quoted reviews of a German and an English writer should be added the impression of a contemporary French journalist, who describes a rehearsal he once attended in a theatre in France. On a bare stage a troupe of girls in pink tights, tutus and ballet slippers, with woolen shawls across their shoulders to keep them warm on that drafty stage, evolve slowly under the direction of a ballet master. 
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The ballet master, bustling about, made the troupe repeat the same movement a dozen times. But it never seemed quite right. He got very angry and stormed at them. The stick with which he beat time, tapping it against the floor, frequently struck the legs in pink tights. This whole set-up had something infinitely sinister about it, something very sad. All this inanimate gymnastic had only a very faint resemblance to what one imagines the dance to be. The dance must after all express something. It is not enough to execute movements with the legs alone, the whole body must participiate. The entire being must express some feeling. Our ballerinas are for the most part marvelously articulated dolls whose grace we can admire but whose pointes and jetes battues cannot be considered anything more than choreographical exercises. It will be the glory of Isadora Duncan, that wanting to renew the art of the dance, she drew her inspiration from ancient Greece and revived for us again that epoch of beauty. 
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Isadoras appearance on the stage in a simple chiton a la greque and sans pink tights (a shocking sight to the prudish element in society) led people to believe that she wanted to revive the Greek dance. Yet she herself categorically stated, My dance is not Greek. I am not a Greek. I am American. She felt her dance had sprung from the roots of life as her Irish pioneer ancestors lived it in a covered wagon traversing the wide spaces of the West on their way to California in 49. All this my grandmother danced in the Irish jig, she told her pupils, and I learned it from her and put into it my own aspiration of young America.* 
* Cf. Life, p. 340. 
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With the same enterprising spirit that had animated her pioneer ancestors, she undertook the formidable task of establishing her long-dreamed of school. I know of no other precedent in modern times where a young artist, at the start of a promising career, is moved to invest hard-won earnings in a philanthropical enterprise simply to gratify some lofty ideal. But Isadora Duncan did just that. Rather than invest her money in diamonds and costly furs and expensive mansions and other luxuries so many women crave, she spent every penny she earned on the upkeep of her school. I had no wish for the triumphal world tours (which her manager urged on her), Isadora, the idealist, explained. I wanted to study, continue my researches, create a dance and movements which then did not exist, and the dream of my school which had haunted all my childhood, became stronger and stronger.+ 
+ Life, p. 141. 
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Months before she founded her school late in December 1904, Isadora was walking with a friend when they happened upon a group of girls doing calisthenics with dumbbells in an open courtyard. The girls, dressed in black woolen bloomers, long-sleeved middy blouses, black stockings and shoes, went through their exercises in a lifeless manner. Isadora, bent on reform, not only in the art of dance but also in dress, said to her companion, Consider these poor girls trying to exercise with all those horrible clothes on l One of these days I am going to change all that.
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How are you going to bring that about? Her friend reminded her of the age they lived in and the ingrained prudishness of centuries. It would be a miracle. Isadora answered with conviction, 
I am determined to found a school, where children will walk barefoot in sandals the same as I do and wear short, sleeveless tunics so they can move in utter freedom and be a fine example to all the other children in the world. They shall learn not to be ashamed to expose their limbs to the rays of the health giving sun. And I shall teach them to dance; not in the stilted, outworn tradition of either a fairy, a nymph, or a coquette, as I found when I was a child and took dancing lessons, but in harmony with everything that is beautiful in nature. 
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Ardently wishing to share her revelation of truth and beauty with others, she spared no time or expense. Engaged in this laudable endeavor for the benefit of children in general and the good of her future little charges in particular, she had to overcome much antagonistic opposition from all those who live like ants in an anthill, greeting every advanced idea with ridicule. Many critics were then barking at her heels, trying to disparage her efforts and ridicule her art. One deluded member of that confraternity went so far as to question whether she could dance at all! Comparing her technique unfavorably with that of the contemporary ballet, he declared her lacking in both the correct physical requirements for a dancer and the required technique to establish a new art form. He proposed that the question of her qualifications be placed before the ballet masters of the world. Let them be the judge! he sneered, little realizing that he hurled this jeer at the woman destined to raise the dance to a level equal with all the other arts. 
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Isadora, who had concentrated on proving the obsolescence of the ballet, declaring that the principles of the ballet school are in direct opposition to what I am aiming at, did not let the insult go unchallenged. In January or February 1903, she sent a typical reply to the offending newspaper, the Morgen Post:
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I was very much embarrassed on reading your esteemed paper to find that you had asked of so many admirable masters of the dance to expend such deep thought and consideration on so insignificant a subject as my humble self. I feel that much literature was somewhat wasted on so unworthy a subject. And I suggest that instead of asking them Can Miss Duncan Dance? you should have called their attention to a far more celebrated dancer - one who has been dancing in Berlin for some years before Miss Duncan appeared. A natural dancer who also in her style (which Miss Duncan tries to follow) is in direct opposition to the school of the ballet of today.
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The dancer I allude to is the statue of the dancing Maenad in the Berlin Museum. Now will you kindly write again to the admirable masters and mistresses of the ballet and ask them-Can the dancing Maenad dance?
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For the dancer of whom I speak has never tried to walk on the end of her toes. Neither has she spent time in the practice of leaping in the air in order to find out how many times she could clap her heels together before she came down again. She wears neither corset or tights and her bare feet rest freely in her sandals.
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I believe a prize has been offered for the sculptor who could replace the broken arms in their original position. I suggest it might be even more useful for art of today to offer a prize for whoever could reproduce in life the heavenly pose of her body and the secret beauty of her movement. I suggest that your excellent paper might offer such a prize, and the excellent masters and mistresses of the ballet compete for it.
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Perhaps after a trial of some years they will have learned something about human anatomy, something about the beauty, the purity, the intelligence of the movements of the human body. Breathlessly awaiting their learned reply, I remain, sincerely yours, 
Isadora Duncan 
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In her concentrated studies of the origin of movement (which the ballet claims starts at the hips) the truth was inevitably revealed to her. When she declared, Every movement starts from within, from here, placing both hands on her chest to illustrate to her pupils, she had the centrality of the solor plexus in mind. From there the nerve signals of the brain generate the impetus that must precede every movement. She soon discovered that there exists a Science of Movement-something that no one had discovered before. When medical scientists of today tell us that there is a right and a wrong to every movement we make, it is a fact that Isadora discovered over a half-century ago. And she proceeded to teach and demonstrate this truth through her dancing. Her entire technique was based on this idea. Endowed with natures rarest gift-genius-she possessed a strong, prophetic vision of her own important mission in life. In a lecture delivered before the Press Association in Berlin at the outset of her career she stated it eloquently: 
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The dancer of the future will be one whose body and soul have grown so harmoniously together that the natural language of that soul will have become the movement of the body. The dancer will not belong to a nation but to all humanity. 
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Oh, what a field is here awaiting her! Do you not feel that she is near, that she is coming, this dancer of the future? She will help womankind to a new knowledge of the possible strength and beauty of their bodies, and the relation of their bodies to the earth nature and to the children of the future. She will dance, the body emerging again from centuries of civilized forgetfulness, emerging not in the nudity of primitive man, but in a new nakedness, no longer at war with spirituality and intelligence, but joining with them in a glorious harmony.
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This is the mission of the dancer of the future. . . . Let us prepare the place for her. I would build for her a temple to await her. Perhaps she is yet unborn, perhaps she is now a little child. Perhaps, oh blissful! it may be my holy mission to guide her first steps, to watch the progress of her movements day by day until, far outgrowing my poor teaching, her movements will become godlike, mirroring in themselves the waves, the winds, the movements of growing things, the flight of birds, the passing of clouds, and finally the thought of man in relation to the universe.
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Oh, she is coming, the dancer of the future! The free spirit who will yet inhabit the body of new woman; more glorious than any woman that has yet been; more beautiful than the Egyptian, than the Greek, the early Italian, than all women of past centuries-the highest intelligence in the freest body!* 
*Reconstructed from notes in 1903 copybook. 
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*     1903 .

Inscrutable fate propelled me, wrapped in childish insouciance, to become the unwitting pawn for an idealistic experiment. I was chosen to play my part in two pioneering projects that resulted in considerable benefit to mankind.
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First: I was to be initiated into a completely novel mode of dance expression, based on an entirely novel technique; the foundation of a newly created dance form composed of movements and gestures never employed before by any dancer, anywhere, that did not come to life until my great teacher, Isadora Duncan, invented them.
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Second: my schoolmates and I would henceforth be compelled, nolens volens, to take an active part in the promotion of the dress reform that was innovated and designed by Isadora. By dint of our courageous example, a general adoption (with minor modifications) of this sane, simple, and beautiful fashion came about.
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It was an ambitious program and one we undertook wholeheartedly in the first instance, but with certain reservations and many misgivings in the second. I can still see the shocked expressions among the local population, especially women, when we Duncan pupils first appeared in broad daylight with the coming of spring, appareled in tunics and with our bare feet in sandals, on the open streets of Berlin. Pitying exclamations like, Oh, you poor, poor, little children! Why, you must be freezing to death with so little on! engulfed us. Approaching our innocent governess with threatening gestures and looks, they shouted after her, Its cruelty, thats what it is! We ought to get the police after you. Cruel! Cruel! Cruel!
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   ,         ,         .         ,  ,  ,  ,        ,        ,    .   : , , , ,  ! , ,  ,       !  .          ,     :  ,   !      . ! ! !

Unfortunately, that wasnt by any means the end of it. No one had reckoned with the other children of the neighborhood, mostly boys, who subjected us poor victims to what amounted to a minor persecution. Like the Christian martyrs of old, we were actually stoned. Frequently (and this was most humiliating) the children pelted us-in this era of horse-drawn carriages-with something else entirely! In this way we were continually forced to dodge either stones that hurt or filth that besmirched. We often panicked, despite heroic efforts on the part of our chaperone to fend off these wild hordes of insultscreaming juveniles.
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 ,     .       ,   ,      ,    .     ,    .  (    )    -      - -  !  ,       ,     .     ,        ,       ,   .

How I dreaded those daily outings! They made me feel ashamed to be exposing my bare limbs in public, and they instilled in me an unreasonable complex, which I later had great difficulty in overcoming, about not dressing like other human beings. New ideas always frighten people. But it hardly seems credible that, in the first decade of this atomic century, the pupils of Isadora Duncan should have been stoned because of their unconventional dress. But a novel idea was on the march and nothing could stop its progress.
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My education as a dancer of the future was purposely delayed until I had mastered the minutiae of daily school routine. My first lesson, for instance, had nothing to do with dancing. For identification's sake, we had each been provided with anumber. Mine was 16. The day after my arrival I was handed a length of white tape with red numbers, which I was taught to sew neatly into every piece of clothing. There happened to be something symbolic about mine. The street number of the Duncan School was also 16. In my childish fashion I took great pride in that fact, together with a sort of proprietary interest.
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        ,        .   , ,      .       .   16.             ,       .   - .       16. -,  -   ,      .

It was not easy to ad just to a school discipline that demanded lining up in pairs every time we walked up and down the stairs to go from one classroom to another and even on our daily promenade. There were long periods every day when we were not allowed to speak, and infraction of that strict rule meant punishment. Then I was forced to eat food I didn't like. But hardest of all was getting up at 6:30 every morning to go through an hour's exercise before breakfast. Clad only in blue one-piece bathing suits (years before Annette Kellerman made her sensational appearance in one!) , we held onto rails along the wall and went through a series of limbering-up exercises we children used to call Beinschwingen and Kniebeugen. When Isadora said, Gymnastics must come before dancing, she never meant before breakfast. That was strictly the Spartan idea of Elizabeth Duncan, not the Athenian ideal of her sister.
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    ,       ,        ,        ,      .     ,     ,       .      ,    .       6:30  ,      .        (    ,         !),            ,  , ,    .   :     ,        .       ,      .

The rest of the morning was taken up by schoolwork presided over by a regular public school teacher supplied by the German government. Dancing and music or singing lessons occupied the afternoon hours. Fresh in my memory is the unforgettable occasion of my first lesson in our dance room, standing there in bare feet and wearing a short white tunic made of cheesecloth. The room seemed very large to me, although it could not have measured more than twenty-five by eighteen feet. Empty except for a few benches ranged along a wall and a brown felt carpet tacked to the floor, it had many windows and a glass-enclosed porch off to one side, from which a door opened onto a flight of iron stairs leading down into the garden. Sliding doors on the opposite wall connected with the spacious music room, where a grand piano (an Ibach) occupied the semicircular space formed by a large bay window.
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           ,   .         .     -         ,           .     ,           . ,    ,   ,    ,   ,           ,        ,   .           ,   ( )   ,   .

Here, as everywhere else in the house, antique bas-reliefs formed the decorative motif. I principally remember the large one of a Nike tying her sandals; she was minus a head but had beautifully flowing draperies. I was fortunate enough nearly two decades later to admire the original in Greece. However much I admired these works of art, none could compare to the small statuette of our own goddess of the dance gracefully poised on a tripod in one corner of the dance room. It inspired and helped me more to understand Isadoras art than all the archaic Greek representations. Whenever the guiding spirit of our school was absent-and that occurred more frequently than we liked-her adoring youthful pupils would gather in front of it and offer a silent prayer, as to a votive statue, wishing for her speedy return. For it was in this room that she initiated us into the fundamental principles of her dance, teaching us to walk in harmony and beauty with arms raised to the light. With the intuition of a true artist, she knew how to impart an understanding of her aims to her young disciples-a feat that her older sister, who took over when Isadora left, was never able to accomplish.
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,     ,     .    ,      ;     ,       .        ,     .        ,              ,         .         ,     .  ,       -    ,     -              ,   .             ,            .      ,         - ,    ,    ,   .

It seems strange that a woman suffering from a defect, which made one leg slightly shorter than the other, should have been put in charge of our basic dance instruction. But such was the case. As we grew up, we learned to accept with equanimity Isadora's unpredictable nature. But for a long time I puzzled, trying to figure out how Isadora expected us to learn to dance from her lame sister, who not once appeared in a dance tunic or demonstrated a movement for the pupils. She always wore the voluminous Chinese coat, which helped to hide her defect and restricted her teaching to simple dance steps. She taught us the waltz, the polka, and the mazurka-all of them popular dances in her youth-for she had conducted social dancing classes in America. She would lift her skirt a few inches and demonstrate the step; that was all. Now and then she would roll up her long, loose-hanging sleeves and illustrate a series of arm movements devoid of any expression or meaning, merely to impart suppleness. Her method of teaching had nothing in common with Isadora's, which relied a great deal on inspirational technique. Thus, under Elizabeth's guidance, we at first learned to dance rather perfunctorily. Somehow, however, we acquired enough basic knowledge and made sufficient progress for Isadora to work with us. One lesson from her made up for all of Tante Miss's routine. According to her own precepts, Isadora taught us simple, rhythmic movements-walking, running, skipping - movements that come naturally to children.
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 ,  ,   ,       ,           .   .   ,        .    ,  ,   ,        ,              .      ,            .    ,    -       ,          .         ;  .       ,        ,  -   ,    . Ÿ        ,      .  ,         .  -          ,     .         .    ,    ,   - , ,  - ,      .

European children have the quaint custom of calling grownups with whom they come in close contact by the courtesy title of Aunt or Uncle. When we called her Tante Isadora, she acted horrified. She said, Now that you are my pupils, you may call me Isadora, or darling Isadora, but never, never call me Auntie! On the contrary, her sister, who was twelve years older than she, did not object to the somewhat incongruous appellation of Tante Miss, which was given her when the German pupils in the beginning thought the prefix Miss was her name. Somehow or other, it suited her perfectly. Tante Miss, who lived in the school, we saw every day. Isadora, who had an apartment on the Hardenbergstrasse in Charlottenburg, we saw seldom.
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       ,             .     Ҹ ,  .  : ,    ,        ,  ,     ! ,  ,       ,        ,   ,         .   ,    .  ,    ,     . ,        ,   .

Of the three Americans who instructed us in the arts of dance and music, Professor Passmore, our singing teacher, impressed us most as an American. Mr. Passmore, who looked like a cartoon of Uncle Sam with his beard and side whiskers, had his own method of teaching singing. A cheerful gentleman who liked to laugh a lot, he placed us in a semicircle, with hands resting on top of our heads, and made us vocalize to the words Santa Barbara a Santa Clara. That this curious, outlandish incantation, repeated at every lesson, held an important message concerning my future could not of course be guessed. Santa Barbara, the first American city whose name I learned to pronounce and sing, would turn out to be the birthplace of the man I was to marry. Dear Professor Passmore-had he only known! The Jay is a jolly old bird, heigh-ho! -that was the first song in American he taught us-a composition of his own-and that is how we children regarded him-as a Jolly Old Bird. After his Wednesday and Friday singing lessons he would drink a cup of tea with Tante Miss in the music room as he conversed animatedly with her and his long black beard had a funny way of moving up and down, much to our amusement. He was, in fact, a skillful vocal instructor, guiding our voices gently into their natural pitch and emphasizing breath control. This was a technique we were grateful for later, when we had to sing and dance at the same time.
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  ,        ,  ,   ,        .  ,           ,     .  ,    ,    ,    ,      - -.  ,     ,       ,  , ,  . -,   ,       ,    ,        .   ,   !  -   , -! -      ,     -    -      ,     .                 ,      ,            ,   .  ,  ,   ,             .   ,      ,       .

Learning something new every day, the time passed swiftly and I had no chance to suffer from those attacks of Heimweh that were shortly to reduce the number of pupils in the Grunewald school to fifteen. Mother had decided that. I should try out the school thoroughly before making up my mind whether or not to stay. Just before Easter she wrote me to stay on if I wished. I still have the letter I wrote to her in reply. My first letter was dated April 30, 1905. I wrote with the steep, large lettering of an eight-year-old that I was glad she had decided to leave me at school.
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 -   ,   ,           ,          .   .     ,   ,   .      ,     ,   .      ,      .      30  1905 .        ,    ,       .

To make absolutely sure that I was in good hands, mother had repeatedly tried to get permission to visit me. Her many requests were refused by Elizabeth under the pretext that in-sufficient time had elapsed for me to become acclimatized. These refusals, made without Isadora's knowledge, angered mother. As soon as Isadora appeared again in Hamburg, mother went to see her. Isadora received her very kindly, immediately assuring her that she could visit me whenever she wanted. Graciously, she invited mother to stay at the school during her visit.
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I had no idea mother was coming. One morning, when we descended to the basement dining hall, lined up in pairs as usual and holding hands, not allowed to speak a single word, I suddenly saw mother. I was even more speechless than before. Dressed in a mauve silk negligee, her hair still in braids and quickly pinned up, she stood beside a narrow iron cot in a corner. The moment she saw me, she held out her arms and came rushing to me for an emotional embrace. As she pressed me to her breast, she called out endearments in her native Schleswig-Holstein dialect. This embarrassed me in front of the others. Most of them had never seen mother, and I wanted terribly for her to make a good impression. She clung so long to me that Fraulein thought discipline was being impaired. She called out, Now Irma, sit down and eat your breakfast first and visit with your mother afterward.
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The other children were already seated, a big steaming bowl of hot porridge in front of each of them. But no one ate. Fascinated, they just stared at my mother. Their eyes filled with longing as they thought of their own mothers, whom they had not seen for months. Mother spoke to them gently, giving each a smile, trying to make their acquaintance. By her mere presence she spread a sort of homey Gemutlichkeit, a tenderness only mothers know how to bestow. Hearing her speak in the familiar, clipped North German accent, the girls from Hamburg became so homesick they started to cry. Later, except for little Erica and myself, they all returned home.
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I had permission to skip school and spend the entire day with mother. I remember sitting in a coffee shop where she let me stuff myself with pastry and hot chocolate, something I hadn't tasted since I entered the school. While I was eating, she pumped me further about the food I was getting there. 
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Tell me frankly, she said, how you like it. 
Oh, so so. Not the way you cook, Mama. 
What do they give you? Tell me in detail. 
Vegetables, I said, making a wry face. 
What else? That can't be all? 
Macaroni ... you know, that sort of stuff. 
No meat? 
No meat. 
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  ,  ,   .
, .  ,   , .
     ?  .
, -  ,   .
- ?   ?
 ...  ,   .
 ?
 .

Mother looked worried. At home I had eaten meat every day, and sometimes she would give me raw chopped meat with onions on black bread and plenty of salt and pepper, which I actually ate with relish. Naturally, after that kind of fare, our vegetarian diet was unappetizing and tasteless. There was no use complaining; the school physician, Dr. Hoffa, had ordered it. I loathed it with all my heart and stomach, and never had enough to eat. But I did not say this to mother. I did not want to upset her.
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  .      ,                 ,      . ,    ,       .   ;  ,  ,  .        ,      .      .     .

And for dessert-you do get dessert, don't you? she asked hopefully. 
Yes, prunes. 
Prunes every day? 
No, sometimes we get sago pudding. 
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   -   ,   ? -    .
, .
  ?
,     .

When she learned that we had five meals a day-breakfast, second breakfast, luncheon, tea, and supper-she was satisfied that I wasn't starving. She promised to send me some homemade cake as soon as she got back. She still looked worried. Are you sure they are treating you all right and that you really like it there? she wanted to know. 
I like it fine, Mama, I assured her. The people are very nice . . . some nicer than others. 
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  ,         - ,  , ,   ,    ,    .      ,    .     .  ,      ,     ? -   .
  , , -   .   ...   .

I thought of Isadora. And suddenly, out of the blue, it struck me how much of a stranger mother had become. In the short span of three months, I had somehow grown away from her, as if I had entered another world. And of course I had. Being educated far in advance of ordinary children, dressing differently from them, we Duncan pupils had indeed been set apart. Like members of a religious community, under the benediction of some holy influence, we became an ever more dedicated group as we were further initiated into the secrets of Isadora's art. This was a world that no outsider could enter, nor could he ever fathom the depths of understanding and spiritual communion that existed amongst us whenever we worked or danced together with Isadora. That was a secret known to ourselves alone.
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   .  , ,  ,    .      ,  -   ,       . , ,    .       ,  -,    .    ,   -  ,      ,        .   ,        ,           ,    ,        .   ,   .

I had known Isadora so far only as a teacher. That spring for the first time I had the joy of seeing her perform on the stage. Sitting in a box with her other pupils, I watched her give a program called Dance Idylls which she originally performed in 1900, at the New Gallery in London under the patronage of H.R.H. the Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein. It contained a group of dances set to early Italian music, with costumes and dance motifs copied from Renaissance paintings. In those early days she made use of whatever stage decor was available, such as a sky-blue panorama in the background and tree groupings for the wings on either side. Later she adopted those tall, blue-gray curtains of her own design (though this was disputed by Gordon Craig), which she used henceforth exclusively. Those famous tall curtains subsequently became standard equipment, in one color or another, at every theatre, concert hall, school auditorium, or television set-wherever a neutral background was required.
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        .         ,     .       ,  ,        ,      1900 ,        Ÿ      -.     ,     ,     ,     .         ,               .      -    (     ),     .        ,     ,   ,  ,      - ,    .

On that memorable day when we first saw her perform, Isadoras dancing, lively and beautiful with all her youthful charm, was a revelation to her pupils. One particular dance made the most indelible impression on my childish mind. It was called Angel Playing the Viol, to cello music by Peri. In this dance, in which she did not move her feet at all, I saw before my astonished eyes my guardian angel come to life. It was the one in the picture above my bed. Ever afterward, when I looked at this picture, it was Isadoras face I saw.
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Of this performance Karl Federn, the German writer who instructed her in Nietzsches philosophy, wrote: 
A simple scene ... a green carpet and a spacious gray-blue backdrop . . . almost childish and laughable seems this stage decor until she appears, for then the scene changes with each of her dances and becomes real. So powerful is the mood she creates that we can see meadows and the flowers she gathers . . hear the waves break against the shore and surmise the approach in the distance of a fleet of ancient ships with billowing sails. 
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    ,  ,      , :
  ...     - ...     ,    ,   ,    ,             .     ,       ,   .. ,                 .

Her entrance, her walk, her simple gesture of greeting are movements of beauty. She wears no tights, no frilled ballet skirts, her slender limbs gleam through the veils and her dance is religion. . . . She appears as the Angel with Viol out of the painting by Ambrosio di Predis. A long violet garment worn over grayish veils floats down to her bare feet. In her hair, which hangs loosely to her shoulders, she wears a crown of white and red roses. And the Quattrocento comes alive again before us with all its innocence and deep religious feeling.
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Ÿ ,  ,     -   .    ,    ,      ,    - ....           .   ,    ,     .  ,     ,        .             .

Pan and Echo-a short Greek tunic, her hair tied into a knot. We ask ourselves: Can this possibly be the same creature? With wonderful gestures expressive of the antique ideal, she resurrects the nostalgia of Hellas. How many statues have come to life in her! In a heavily draped Greek attire, she mourns to music of Gluck over the death of Eurydice, in rhythmic, measured, ceremonious grief that mounts and mounts until she sinks to the ground in despair. And then she appears again-this time the scene is darker, wrapped in sombre shadows, and her gown is colorless and floating like the shadows, and her movements are rapid and ghostlike: the shadows of the underworld listening to Orpheus. Suddenly the scene is bright again and everything is joy and contentment-Orpheus has found his Eurydice.
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   -   ,    .   :         ?   ,   ,    .     !            , , , ,  ,    ,        .    ,  -     ,    ,      ,  ,         :     .     ,       -    .

She has a dance without music, awesome and very gripping, called Death and the Maiden . . . as in Maeterlincks Intruse, death announces itself unseen but intensely apprehended. . . . The spectator feels a cold shiver run up and down his spine. Everyone has sensed the awesome presence of the destroyer.* 
*From Nach Funfundzwansig lahren, dated 1928, in Isadora Duncan's Der Tanz der Zukunft [The Dance of the Future] Eine Vorlesung [Jena (a university town in central Germany, in Thuringia), 1929] iii-iv. 
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     ,    ,    ...    ,    ,   ....  ,       .     .*
*   ,  1928 ,  Der Tanz der Zukunft   [ ]   [ (    ,  ), 1929] iii-iv.

(Isadora once remarked that she did not call this dance Death and the Maiden when she composed it, but that she had some vague idea of it as Maiden and brutal reality, and it was the audience who named it Death. If one recalls her own tragic end, the dance seems almost prophetic.)
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(  ,         ,    ,      -    ,      ,      .      ,    .)

The unusual gift of the great artist to make others see the things born of her imagination gave depth and significance to everything Isadora created. She knew how to dance with such commanding authority that those who saw her perform were impressed even when they did not comprehend the meaning of her art. Few dancers possess such insight into music that the dance seems to express exactly what the composer intended. Richard Wagner has said: The most genuine of all art forms is the dance. Its artistic medium is the living human being, and not merely one part of it but the whole body from the soles of the feet to the top of the head. For anyone completely sensitive to art, music and poetry can only truly become comprehensible through the art of the dance-mime. And with every gesture Isadora Duncan revealed herself as a supreme dance-mime. She was the prototype of her own inspired vision of the Dancer of the Future-whose dance belongs to no one nation but to all of humanity.
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[55], p.37-61 * DUNCAN DANCER * The Greatest Thing in Life * 

-=3=-

The Greatest Thing in Life
   

WE must adopt more children and build an addition to the school! Isadora exclaimed enthusiastically when she saw the progress we had made during her five months absence. Returning from one of her protracted tours in the latter part of June that same year, she was filled with plans for the future, not counting the expense. Her sister was more practical. Where will the money come from? As it is, we are living way beyond our budget. 
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         ! -   ,  ,        .              ,      ,   . Ÿ    .   ?     ,     .

I have an idea! Never at a loss to make life more exciting, Isadora said, We'll give a benefit performance and show the children off to the public for the first time. That will surely arouse sufficient interest. We will ask everybody we know to subscribe.
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That's an excellent idea, Elizabeth agreed, since she had already enlisted the aid of several Berlin society ladies to act as patronesses of the school. She added, Princess Henry of Reuss was here a few days ago and saw the pupils dance. She was enchanted. 
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  , -  ,          ,      .  :           ,   .   .

Princess Henry VII of Reuss, whose principality in Thuringia was a small one, possessed, nevertheless, enormous wealth. A woman close to the Imperial court, she could be useful in getting other influential ladies to join. 
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  VII  ,      , ,   ,  . ,    ,      ,     .

I shall write to her immediately, Isadora said, and she composed the following letter: 
Dear Princess: For the last eight months twenty little girls have been living together in my school in Grunewald creating much joy to themselves, a delight to all who have seen them, and a radiant hope for the future of the Art of the Dance. 
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 :             ,      ,   ,   ,        .

I wish to take twenty-five more next winter. This will necessitate a new building erected on the vacant plot next door. As you know, I have given my entire earnings to the maintenance of the school and am most pleased to do so in the future. But they are not enough for the new ground and erection of the second building to be connected by a passageway with the old one. So I am giving a benefit at Krolls Opera House on July 20th, as a means of raising money for it.
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        .    ,      .   ,        ,        .     ,            .         20 ,  ,     .
 
Of course we do not expect people who are out of town to be present but that they may subscribe and give their tickets to artists, etc. All the artists who have visited the school have been enthusiastic in their praises for the lovely dancing of the little girls and are unanimous in their belief in the value of the school to art and the state. 
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,       ,           ..  ,   ,                      .

I myself am delighted with the progress of my pupils and am convinced that almost every child has more or less talent for the dance if directed along natural channels; and that the dancing of these little girls will be a source of much joy to the public in the years to come. For this reason I do not hesitate to ask for help in the advancing of my idea and feel sure my request will meet with your sympathy. 
Isadora Duncan 
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Among the various artists she mentions as visiting the school was an unknown Swiss musician called Jaques-Dalcroze. He witnessed a lesson once, and I recall the occasion vividly because of his infectious enthusiasm and constant interruptions. What fascinated him most were the kinetics involved in what Isadora called the scale of movements, which started with a slow walk, gradually accelerating into a fast and faster pace till it evolved into a run, and from there by degrees reverted to a slow walk again.
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            -.     ,       -      .     ,   ,     ,     ,        ,      ,        .

"Ha!" he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat in great agitation; and he inquired of Tante Miss, "May I have your permissiOn to improvise at the piano for a repetition of this exercise?" Permission granted, he proceeded to improvise for us. When he left, he signed the guest book, which was always on top of the piano. A few years later, he founded his whole system of Eurythmics on what he had seen that day at our school.
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! -  ,     ;     :      ,        ?  ,   .   ,    ,     .           ,         .
 
Such things occurred so frequently with people interested in the new dance form Isadora had invented that it was no wonder she should constantly voice the complaint, "Everybody is running off with my ideas!" Unfortunately, they could not be patented. If they could have been, what royalties she might have collected from her millions of imitators, including the Russian ballet!
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      ,     ,   ,  ,      :    !  ,     .     ,           ,   !

It so happened that the well-known German composer Engelbert Humperdinck lived next door to us on Trabener-strasse. Famous for his universally beloved children's opera Hansel and Gretel, he headed the committee for the support of our school. One afternoon we all went to have tea with him and his family. A man of about fifty, he regaled us by playing music from his opera such as the "Knusper-Waltzer" and the lively, tuneful "Rosenringel" and "Tanzreigen." Appropriately enough for our youthful years, Isadora taught us a dance to the last two compositions. Humperdinck often played his tunes for us to get the right tempo and feeling. He played them with such verve that we children responded with natural spontaneity and put all we had into the charming dance.
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 ,              .         ,      .            .   ,   ,     ,   -  ,    .      ,        .      ,       .      ,  , ,      ,    ,   .

The subscription list mounted daily, with Princess Reuss contributing a thousand goldmarks; Princess von Meiningen, a hundred; Frau von Mendelsohn of the banking family, also a thousand; Countess Harrach, a lady-in-waiting to the Kaiserin, five hundred; Siegfried Wagner, son of Richard Wagner of Bayreuth, a thousand; and so forth down the list to Frau Begas, the wife of Reinhold Begas, the famous German sculptor, who created the national monument to Emperor William I as well as many of the principal statues of Berlin. Isadora gave us new silk tunics in pastel shades of blue, pink, and yellow to wear for the occasion, making us discard the cheesecloth ones entirely. Also we had small wreaths of rosebuds for our hair.
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   ,   -   ;   , ;      ,  ;  ,   (), ;  ,     , ;  ..      ,   ,   ,       I,       .          ,    ,     ,      .            .

Then came the big day. The excitement of that moment can never be repeated. Here I was, after only seven months of apprenticeship, ready to make my stage debut. Such a thrill comes to few children, and when it does they are never afterwards the same. A marvelous ingredient, a wonderful feeling of accomplishment, is then added to the ordinary routine of daily existence. This is something that the average child does not expeience.
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We were to appear at the very end of Isadora's performance. Quietly, we entered the stage door of the big Opera House late at night. We had slept all afternoon and early evening so as to be fresh and bright. I had an awesome sensation as I mounted the stairs to the dressing rooms while the performance was in progress. The sound of the orchestra playing faintly reached my ears. The curious, indefinable smell of backstage familiar to every performer, mixed with the unseen but nevertheless acutely sensed, electrifying presence of the hushed audience out in front, gave me my first attack of stage fright. The stern voice of Tante Miss saying, "Here, sit down in front of me so I can put your make-up on," brought me out of it.
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        . ,          .       ,     .     ,       ,   .  ,  ,    . ,    ,   ,   ,      ,     ,       .     : ,   ,      ,     .

I did as I was told, holding my hair back so she could smear cold cream over my face. When she finished and had applied the lipstick, she said, "There you are! I made you a nice cupid's bow." She surveyed me critically to judge the effect of her handi-work. "Now don't touch your face," she warned. "Who's next?" This strange, unfamiliar business of make-up completed, I turned to the mirror. A rouged and powdered face stared back, resembling a painted mask; a face that was and yet was not mine. How familiar this pre-curtain ritual was to become in the course of my long theatrical career!
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  ,   ,    ,       .       ,  :    !      .    ,      .     ,  . " ?"  ,     ,    .       ,   ; ,      .        ,          !

When the other children had been similarly transformed with the aid of poudre de riz and Dorin's rouge, and we stood The Greatest Thing in Life 41 ready in silk tunics and circlets of rosebuds for a final inspection, we all jumped and looked startled when a shrill bell suddenly rang in our dressing room.
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"This is it!" Tante Miss said. "Get ready to go downstairs, and don't forget to put on your slippers and woolen shawls." Then, lined up two by two, we were hustled downstairs. With finger on her lips, Tante Miss signaled us to keep quiet and take our places backstage. Excitement took hold of me again, for I was about to experience something completely unknown, like diving into deep water. The orchestra struck up the by-now-familiar melody and, waiting in the wings poised to take off on cue, I summoned up my courage and dashed out onto the vast, empty stage of the Royal Opera House.
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" !" -  .           . ,  ,   .             .    ,      -  ,     .     , , ,     ,         ,    .

Dancing from the encircling shadows into the glaring light, I instantly forgot my previous nervousness, as I lost myself in the music and the dance. What joy, to dance in natural abandon carried along by the beautiful sounds of a symphony orchestra! This utterly entrancing sensation made all of us dance with such spontaneous enjoyment that we must have projected our own happiness across the footlights, for when we finished the audience responded with deafening applause.
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      ,      ,        .  ,     ,     !            ,  ,  ,       ,  ,   ,    .

The shock of this unexpected noise descended upon us with the suddenness of a thunderclap. We turned for reassurance toward the wings, where, near the proscenium arch, we had espied the lithe figure of our idol, who had been watching our dancing and for whom alone we had danced. Sensing our childish alarm, she quickly advanced toward us smiling, her light draperies floating behind her. Arms filled with long-stemmed roses, she stopped in our midst and took a bow while the gaze of her little pupils turned toward her as flowers toward the sun.
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The audience clamored for encores. When the music began again, Isadora quickly whispered to us to dance toward her, one by one, from the opposite corner of the stage. We did so, and as each child skipped up she handed her a pink rose. With the flowers in our hands, we then circled about her as she posed in the center of the stage, arms outstretched as if to embrace us all in a loving, maternal gesture. Happy, laughing children danced a rondo about her, a real "Rosenringel Reigen," and in that ecstatic group was one who wished this happy dance would never, never stop.
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   .    ,    ,     ,   ,    .   ,     ,     .         ,      ,        ,  . ,      ,   ,       ,  ,       .

In the audience that night in July 1905 was Gordon Craig. He gave his impression later: She called her little pupils to come to her and please the public with their little leapings and runnings! as they did, and with her leading them the whole troupe became irresistibly lovely. I suppose some people even then and there began reasoning about it all, trying to pluck out the heart of the mystery. But I and hundreds of others who saw this first revelation did not stop to reason, for we too had all read what the poets had written of life and love and nature, and we did not reason then; we read, we wept and laughed for joy. And to see her shepherding her little flock, keeping them together and especially looking after one very small one of four years old, was a sight no one there had ever seen before and, I suppose, will never see again.* 
*In a talk for BBC Radio.
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     1905      .      :     ,            !    ,          .  ,           ,    .     ,     ,   ,      ,     ,   ,     ;  ,      .   ,      ,           ,   ,       ,  ,    .*
*    .

Whoever would have believed it possible that our innocent dance debut should bring forth wrath from on high? No one less than the German Kaiserin, Auguste Victoria, a pious woman (who inspired her husband's famous remark about its being woman's duty to occupy herself solely with Kinder, Kirche, Kueche), pronounced herself outrageously shocked at children performing in bare limbs. Brought up in the Victorian era, when the sight of a woman's ankle was considered daring, she could not look upon children's bare legs without feeling that it was immoral. If the poor Kaiserin could only see her royal descendants today going bare-legged in the summertime, she surely would realize what enormous progress has been made against prudishness through the good example set by that same group of dancing children she once criticized.
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   ,          ?   ,     ()  ,   (       ,        ", ,  [, , ]",     ,      .    ,       ,        ,  ,   .       ,          ,    ,       ,        ,   - .

Her official utterance condemning the display of bare limbs occasioned wide publicity. It aroused further controversy and also a livelier interest on the part of influential people in Isadora Duncan's school for the education of children along modern lines. It was then the only one of its kind in the world teaching freedom of motion; a sane, healthy attitude toward the human body; and, to complement these two important objectives, an appropriate dress reform. Nothing comparable had been seen in the Occidental world since the Hellenic and Roman civilizations. It was no wonder that under these circumstances the question of the propriety of exposing limbs to public view should be discussed seriously even by learned professors. How much the question was a topic of the day is evident in an article written in 1906: 
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Ÿ  ,    ,   .    ,                   .   ,   ,  ,    ; ,     ;         -   .              . ,                  .     ,   ,   1906 :

[61], p.43 * IN ISADORA DUNCAN'S HOUSE * 

Several ladies and gentlemen of society recently gathered together in Grunewald to have Isadora's sister Elizabeth Duncan present to them the pupils of the Duncan School. 
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          ,  ,   ,     .

The inte1ior of Isadora's home breathes the severe style of classical Greece softened by modern conveniences. Everywhere subdued colors and geometric lines and, in all things, from the reliefs of old Italian masters hanging on the walls, to the colorful flowers decorating the tables, a display of good taste. What the visitor is immediately aware of and what helps to dispel any lingering skepticism and calls forth respect is that here are people who have more than a sure sense of good taste. What impresses him is that there is indeed a great idea behind all this-perhaps a way of life. 
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       ,   .       ,   ,     ,   ,   ,  ,  . ,               ,   ,    ,        .   ,       - ,  .

As we enter the festive hall we behold, in addition to the ancient Greek spirit, the most refreshing youth. We are confronted with what at first impact confuses and leaves one dumbfounded; namely, a group of seventeen little girls in tunics of transparent silk and with hair unbound and carefully adorned with flowers or a simple diadem! 
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     ,  ,   ,   .    ,         ;  ,            ,        !

Seventeen youthful dancers, that is a total of thirty-four little dancing legs, bare as bare can be. And here is something curious! However greatly it may contradict one's conventional customs, the spectator is hardly conscious of this bareness of limbs in these surroundings. He does not perceive it as something odd or even offensive but rather as an aesthetic necessity, and he gains the impression that even the smallest sandal would spoil the quiet flow of lines. 
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  ,        ,   .   - ! ,        ,           .    ,      ,     ,     ,         .

One of the little dancers takes a big ball and bounces it onto the floor. She skips around it playfully and continues to bounce the ball with dancing gestures. Never have I seen anything so gracefull Never beheld so harmoniously rounded a dance image that appeared so entirely natural. . . . 
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           .         .       .        ,    ....

How very difficult to achieve, and how very seldom employed in ordinary life, is the beauty of apparently the simplest of human motions. The Duncan sisters are quite right when they regard the walk, the rhythmic stride, as the basis for all dance art. As the most important of the 95,140 combinations of movements which, according to the opinion of the dance theoretician Emanuel of Paris, are possible for the human body to achieve. 
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           , -,     .    ,    ,  ,      .     95,140  , ,       ,    .

Whether the little Duncan girls stride ceremoniously in the manner of antique choruses, whether they hop about cheerfully or mime games, always, their every movement seems born out of the spirit of the music .... What enjoyment does the sight of a well-proportioned foot and the play of its muscles afford! This wonderful adjunct to the human body has become estranged to modern man. The compulsion of footwear has so pitiably crippled it that it has become almost a shameful thing. These child-dancers have completely normal feet. And since the whole foot and not the toes alone have been designed by nature to support the body's weight, their art does not deteriorate into the mannered offense which is the alpha and the omega of the old-style ballet and which causes those who practice it so much effort and pain ....
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  ,          ,   , 	       ,   , ,    ....             !           .      ,    .   -   .     ,            ,        ,             ,        ...
 
Better-cared-for children cannot be imagined, and they are all visibly and most lovingly devoted to the cause. Elizabeth Duncan conducted us into the dormitories: a symphony in white and blue bathed in light and fresh air, in an orderliness and cleanliness that conveys an indescribable comfort. The girls are to remain in this house till they are seventeen, thereafter they are going to appear with Isadora Duncan on the stage. It is reassuring to know that this gay but fundamentally serious art of the dance has, in this conception, a future. 
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   ,    ,         .      :   -,     ,    ,    .         ,          . ,   ,          .

When, after two hours which passed like a dream, I stood once more in the tumult of the streets in the midst of hurrying, perspiring, and laborious people, the skeptic stirred again in me and I asked myself: What is the purpose of all this? What benefit is there in it for us modern-machine people living in this era of shrillest disharmonies, in this piece of ancient Greece transplanted to a northern clime? ... But then, above conflicting sentiments the thought arose, that even if there seems to be no practical use for it, one must admit it really is very nice when, far removed from the monstrous, dusty highroad trodden by millions, there exist a few gardens here and there secluded and filled with "Wunderblumen." 
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   ,    ,        ,    ,     ,    :    ?      ,  ,      ,     ,    ? ...  ,   ,  ,        ,  ,     , ,     ,  ,          .

This was not the first skeptic nor the last to ask himself: Of what practical use is all this? He had part of the answer when he surmised that it was "perhaps a way of life." New ideas are seldom of immediate, general benefit to the contemporary generation. Sufficient time must elapse before the seeds start to germinate and take root. Isadora's credo was: "To dance is to live." She said that what she wanted was a school of life, for man's greatest riches were in his soul, in his imagination. She called the dance "not a diversion but a religion"; and she taught that idea to the children in her school. "Life is the root and art is the flower." Again and again she would reiterate that dance was the most natural and most beautiful aid to the development of the growing child in its constant movement, and only that education was right which included the dance.* 
* Cf. Art, pp. 88, 141-142 
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    ,  ,   :     ?     ,   ,   ,  .     ,     .  ,      ,    .   :  -  .  ,  ,   , -   ,         ,   .     ,  ;         .  -  ,   - .     ,                ,      ,  .*
* .  , . 88, 141-142.

It is not surprising that intelligent men were somewhat perplexed when they first came in personal contact with a living demonstration of this credo. Isadora Duncan's idea was still above their heads. Cultured Europeans were suddenly confronted with the unusual phenomenon of seeing an American (and a woman at that) bring culture from the New World to the Old. It had always been the reverse. Her unique dance art represented one of the very few genuine, original art forms the United States had produced in its less than two hundred years of existence. 
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Frequent inquiries as to the exact purpose of her dance school came from every direction. In a notebook of this period, she set forth her views: 
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If the dance is not to come to life again as an art, then far better that its name should rest in the dust of antiquity . . . . I am deeply interested in the question: Is the dance a sister art or not; and if so, how shall it be brought to life as an art? And I put this question quite apart from myself or my dance, which may be nothing-or something-simply as a question which must be of interest to most people. 
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       ,   ,       ....    :        ?   ,        ?            ,     -  - -  ,       .

My dancing is to me an instinctive thing born with me . . . . You call me a barefoot dancer. To me you might as well say a bare-headed or bare-handed dancer. I took off my clothes to dance because I felt the rhythm and freedom of my body better that way. In all ages when the dance was an art, the feet were lett free as well as the rest of the body; also, whenever the dance has had an influence on the other arts-as in the beautiful bas-reliefs of dancing figures of the Greeks. . . . 
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  -   ,  ....     .              .    ,  ,         .   ,    ,   ,     ; ,  ,        -       .... 

If you would think of this a bit you would see that the conception of a dancing figure as being in light drapery and without shoes is not mine especially, but simply the ideal dancing figure as thought of by all artists of all times. Then you would cease to use the title "barefoot dancer," which I confess I detest; and you would see that in endeavoring to found a school for the renewing of the dance as an art, it is quite natural that the pupils should follow in their dress the hint given them by the Great Masters in portraying the dancing figures. . . . 
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     ,  ,             ,     ,       .       ,   ,  ;    , ,        ,  ,        ,    ,   .... 

I have danced before the public continuously since I was a little girl; in all these years, although certainly there has been much blame and discussion, there has been on the whole a general feeling of joyous acclaim and encouragement . . . that has upborne me on my way, for I felt it was a sort of voice from the people that such a dance was wanted, needed. . . . 
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Now I could not think that I could teach another what had been a gradual evolution of my own being and a work of all my life. But I felt I must give response to all these questionings. And so the idea gradually came to me ... to endeavor to found a school whose object would be the finding of the true dancing. Not in any way a copy of my dance, but the study of the dance as an Art. 
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    ,      ,            .   ,       .        ...    ,       .        ,     .

And in the 1906 prospectus of the Grunewald school, she stated its purposes clearly: 
To rediscover the beautiful, rhythmical motions of the human body, to call back to life again that ideal movement which should be in harmony with the highest physical type, and to awaken once more an art which has slept for two thousand years-these are the serious aims of the school. 
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     1906      :
       ,      ,         ,    ,     , -    .

Isadora's initial effort to arouse sufficient interest for the financial support of the Grunewald school had not been very successful. She found herself forced to rely entirely on her own resources for the ever increasing upkeep of her establishment. Thereafter, she was kept constantly on the move despite her wish not to go on triumphal world tours to earn enough money to feed many little mouths five times a day. This made her undertake tours lasting so long that her pupils didn't get even a glimpse of her for months, sometimes an entire year-much to the regret of her devoted charges, who missed her inspiring presence and guidance. Tante Miss, who was now in complete charge, could never fill that void. Neither physically nor in character did she in the slightest degree resemble her younger, more talented sister. Less idealistic and of a more pedantic temperament, she proved in the end to be of an infinitely more practical mind. The enthusiastic response of the public to our initial performance suggested to her the idea that the school might help to support itself. 
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  ,        ,    .              .       ,         ,    ,         .      ,          ,     ,     ,         .  ,        ,      .  ,           ,   .       ,     ,      .       ,     ,       .

In order to learn from nature, the great teacher, we were often taken to the woods in summer to observe the waving of trees, the flight of birds, or the movements of clouds. Learning to dance from these, we developed a sensitive understanding of nature. Isadora once remarked on how often, returning from these studies to the dance room, we pupils felt in our bodies an irresistible impulse to dance out one or another movement which we had just observed. And thus in time, she thought, some of us would come to the composition of our own dances; but even when we were dancing together, each one, while forming a part of the whole under group inspiration, would preserve a creative individuality.* 
*Cf. Art, p. 82. 
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   ,  ,      ,     ,     .    ,     .   ,  ,       , , ,           ,     . ,  ,  ,  ,         ;      ,   ,      ,    .*
*. , . 82.

Not being a choreographer herself, Tante Miss now thought of following Isadora's suggestion and encouraged us to compose dances. The charming Kinderscenen by Schumann easily inspired ideas for this. She employed the method of letting us all improvise together and then, picking the one who had hit on the best interpretation, singling her out to develop her idea. In this ingenious way we composed a whole group of little poems, danced either singly or in group formation. I contributed several compositions. One of them I danced as a solo called "Poor Orphan Child." My dramatic instinct came to the fore as, with hesitant steps, I went from side to side holding out my hand, palm upturned, in a pitiable gesture of begging for alms. Isadora liked it so much she always made me dance this when visitors came to the school. 
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Tante Miss made all the costumes herself. She was very adept at it. Here was something she apparently enjoyed doing. I once saw her sitting on the floor contentedly pasting tiny golden paillettes one by one onto white silk angel gowns-the ones we wore for Schubert's "Sarabande." 
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She dearly loved to give us small objects to hold while we danced, probably because we did not always know what to do with our hands and she didn't either. We had a variety of bells, cymbals, hoops, garlands, scarves and even, for the "Italian Marinari" dance, short lengths of genuine seaman's rope, decorated with the national colors of Italy! Isadora, the purist, who preferred the Doric to the Ionic style, did not, of course, entirely approve of this. But we children thought most of these gadgets were fun, except that I didn't care to dance with small brass cymbals tied to my hands. Isadora herself had discarded these adjuncts long ago, and we later learned from her how expressive and varied the gestures of the hands can be when executed with the artfulness of a master. 
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      ,   ,   , , ,     ,     ,      .     , , , ,   ,    ,    ,    ! , ,      ,  ,   .  , , ,      ,   ,         ,    .      ,      ,            .

One day, at the end of our rehearsal of the program, Tante Miss said that she had an important communication to make. We immediately sat hushed and attentive. "We have," she announced, "the great honor of presenting this first program of dances from our school for the second time in public at the composer's anniversary." Very composer-conscious ever since we had met Humperdinck, we wanted to know whether Robert Schumann was still alive. Tante Miss shook her head. "No," she said, "he died half a century ago, and we have been asked to help commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of his death. So you must all dance especially well on that day." 
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,     ,   ,      .    .   , -  , -                  .   ,    ,    ,      .    . , -  , -    ,         .         .

We had given the program initially at a Sunday matinee at the Theater Des Westens in Berlin three months after our debut at the Opera House. This, our first independent appearance, was reviewed in the National Zeitung dated October 31, 1905: 
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                     .     ,       31  1905 : 

As the curtain rose a sweet little child skipped out onto the stage to a melody by Schumann in a delicate chiffon tunic. With bare feet she tripped lightly and daintily across the carpet . . . and soon there came a second, and then a third elfin figure until the stage was filled with about twenty similar shapes. The images they evoked were of enchanting gracefulness. They floated across and chased each other like irridescent butterflies with multicolored wings, bending, swaying, springing, and dancing like spirits from Oberon's court. . . . At times they resembled allegorical figures representing Autumn and Winter, indicating with characteristic but simple gestures the disparate moods of nature. 
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  ,             .          ...    ,     ,          . ,   ,   .       ,      , , ,   ,     ....       ,    ,  ,        .

And again they appeared, this time as angels in long white gowns and wreaths of flowers in the hair striding gravely about. Then followed a very frolicsome dance . . . an animated swarm of colors and small shapes as if a storm wind had tossed the flowers in a meadow together.* And then in the next dance the girls would break up into orderly groups, those in the foreground seeming to paraphrase the melody while the taller girls in the background indicated the accompaniment. . . . Almost everything went along with admirable precision, but every now and then the set figures gave way and the little ones would skip about spontaneously, and this especially was delightful and interesting because it demonstrated conclusively how well they have learned to coordinate their movements. 
* "Courante" by Carelli; a "Blind-man's-buff," danced and choreographed by Irma. 
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   ,   ,            ,  .     ...      ,         .*          , ,    , ,  ,            ....      ,        ,    ,       ,     ,       .
* ; ,      .

It is important to remark that every form of affectation was avoided. The whole thing gave the impression of having been worked out with the characteristic naturalness of expression peculiar to children. This appears to me to be of primary importance in their work. The public applauded the youthful artists enthusiastically and with great vigor. 
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Someone on the commemorative committee must have seen this program and invited us to Zwickau, Schumann's birthplace, for the anniversary performance. For our first voyage away from school we had each been supplied with a small wicker suitcase held together by two leather straps. It contained our dance costumes and accessories, including a pair of slippers and a woolen shawl for backstage. I remember with what pride I carried mine, which had the number 16 painted in black on the outside.
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-              ,   ,   .       ,        ,    .        ,            .  ,      ,    16,     .
 
It was the middle of summer, and the village made a picturesque sight nestling in a valley at the foot of the Erzgebirge in Saxony. In the market place of this medieval town stood the house where Schumann was born, and nearby was the Gothic merchant's hall, turned into a theatre, where we would dance to his music. Perhaps his spirit watched over us, for the townspeople took us instantly to their hearts. 
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All sixteen of us had been billeted in the quaint old house of the local gold-and-silver smith and his friendly young wife. When we left, he presented each child with a small silver chain with a silver pendant. "They were made in my workshop," he said, "and my wife and I would like you to wear them as a memento of Zwickau and Robert Schumann's commemoration festivities." Alas, we wore them only once, for "jewelry" was strictly forbidden. Tante Miss confiscated them and we never saw the little silver chains again. 
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           -      .   ,          .      , -  , -      ,           . ,      ,       .    ,         .

[] Isadora with Grunewald students, 1905; Irma at right, fifth couple from top.
 
[] Pupils of the Isadora Duncan School, 1906-1908. 
(upper 1.) Erica. (upper r.) Irma. 
(lower 1.) Theresa. (lower r.) Anna. 

From Zwickau we proceeded to other cities in Saxony-Dresden, Leipzig, etc.-making a small tour of Germany which lasted till Christmas. Another Christmas away from home. . . . In the library there was a large tree, festooned all over with golden threads and tiny red apples. Small wax candles burned in wire holders that made the golden threads glisten. There was the joy of opening a package from home filled with goodies. Under the tree were paper plates, one for each child, containing gingerbread, assorted nuts, and-in the center-the yearly Christmas symbol, a single orange. 
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        - ,   ..,     ,    .      ....     ,       .        ,     .      ,  .     ,     ,  ,    -   -   ,  .

By far the grandest present came from Isadora. Though absent on a tour through Holland and Belgium, she had sent us pretty new dresses and bonnets specially designed by her and made in the Hague. Both the dresses and velvet bonnets were blue and edged with swansdown. Mother had sent me a hand-some doll with blond curls and a purple velvet dress. I had loved playing with dolls at home, but now I discovered to my surprise that I had no further interest in them. 
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    .         ,        ,       .          .            .      ,      ,        .

To our delight, we received another present from our goldsmith friend-a silver thimble-which we were allowed to keep. For as long as we lived in Germany, each year under the Christmas tree, we found a small silver trinket-a bangle for our hair or a cup-most of which he never knew we were not permitted to keep. Each year we would open his gift eagerly but with sadness, knowing that if only Isadora were present she would never have deprived us of these things. 
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  ,        - -  ,    .   ,     ,     ,      -      ,       ,       .        ,   , , ,     ,        .

That winter in Hamburg mother received a letter: 
The Isadora Duncan School will appear on Sunday at one o'clock at the Thalia Theater in Hamburg. We have asked the management to place two seats at your disposal. The school will arrive late Saturday night and the directress of the school, Miss Elizabeth Duncan, begs you for the sake of the children's health and peace not, under any circumstances, to visit them either upon arrival or departure. You will have an opportunity to see your little daughter Irma after the performance around three o'clock in the dressing room backstage. 
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       : 
             .         .      ,   ,   ,                 ,   .                  .

After the performance the children are invited to a tea party given by the local committee for the support of the school. Since the departure is set for six o'clock, it will be impossible for Miss Duncan to permit you to take your little daughter home for the afternoon. The shortness of time and other considerations will make it otherwise difficult for Miss Duncan to keep the necessary control over her charges for whom she is responsible. 
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As well can be imagined, mother felt like rejecting these demands. The middle-aged spinster who caused them to be written obviously did not understand or sympathize with a mother's feelings. However, not wanting to cause any trouble and familiar with Elizabeth's Spartan tactics, she decided to abide by the rules. Mother came backstage after the matinee, her arms laden with flowers. She handed several small bouquets to her favorites and the biggest one to me. She hugged me and said, "All of you danced so beautifully." Then she kissed me and whispered, "But oh, Irma, you were simply wonderful!" 
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   ,       .   ,    , ,       . ,           ,    .      ,     .           .     :     .      : , ,   !

Mother had good reason to be proud of me, for only a year ago I had lived at home inconspicuous as a blade of grass; then events in my young life moved so fast that here I was returning to my home town dancing at the same theatre Isadora Duncan had appeared in that memorable week of our first encounter. In the interim I had not only made my dance debut and gone on tour, but I was already featured in two solo numbers of my own choreography. Enough to encourage any talented youngster, no matter what restrictions were necessary to achieve success. Mother must have realized this when, after once more requesting permission to take me home and being refused by Tante Miss, she did not insist on her inviolable parental rights. Since I was a scholarship pupil, Tante Miss considered me school property, and there was nothing mother could do but take me away for good. Knowing how much I loved dancing and being Isadora's pupil, she naturally did not wish to hurt my chances. 
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     ,        ,  ;          ,        ,      ,           .         ,     ,              .     ,   ,      . ,  ,  ,   ,             ,        .      ,      ,      ,     . ,        , , ,     .

Actually, however, none of us really knew what our future was to be at that extraordinary institution dedicated to an untried, idealistic experiment. Doubts of any sort were hardly ever raised by those who saw us dance, but there happened to be someone among the spectators that day in Hamburg who did voice them. His article was signed only with the initials V.M.: 
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The house was well attended, everyone was delighted and enthusiastic. The contrast was immense. In the middle of a snowy winter's day this charming idyll of spring, these tender human buds who devote themselves with such earnestness and understanding, and at the same time with all the grace and ease of youth, to this art although they can't possibly know what it will later offer them in return for all this devotion. 
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This thought must occur immediately to every philanthropist. And it is reassuring to learn from the school prospectus that the leaders of the Duncan Dance School have taken this point well into consideration, that they are preparing their pupils adequately for the struggle of existence. 
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         .  ,      ,         ,          .

There also arises another concern as one views this performance for the second time. Will this art be strong enough to continue to hold attention, or is it merely a beautiful dream, which one may dream only once? . . . But it can't be denied that it is a beautiful art, in its present form perhaps not yet an end in itself, but surely a good seed to which one may wish a favorable growth and fruitful ripening. 
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During the first year at school we developed a strong attachment to our pretty young nursemaids, a brunette and a blonde, Fraulein Lippach and Fraulein Konegen. The day they packed their things and departed, what a wailing went up among the smaller children! Tante Miss, however, was deaf to our laments and remained adamant in dismissing them. What we needed, she explained, was an English governess, so we could learn to speak English. I had learned my first English words at Isadora's knee when she taught her pupils to recite Keats' immortal lines: "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty, - that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." "That is the motto of our school," she said, "and I want each and every one to learn these lines by heart." 
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              ,   ,     .   ,       ,      !  , ,           .   ,     ,      -.         ,         :  -  ,   -    /      ,    .    , -  , -   ,        .

If she could only have remained with us, and continued to instruct us in this way, what a difference it would have made in our young lives! Instead of growing up directly under her benign influence, we were subjected to all kinds of indignities and abuses under the regime of our new English governess, a veritable ogre if there ever was one. A woman of vague features, completely colorless, with bad teeth and pale gums, she struck terror in our hearts the moment we laid eyes on her. She had, besides, the revolting habit of cracking her knuckles incessantly; we were convinced she cracked them even in her sleep. And her methods of teaching discipline were thoroughly antiquated. She treated us as if we were hard metal and she a blacksmith hammering us into shape. 
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            ,        !  ,       ,            ,  ,   - .    ,  ,      ,     ,     .  ,        ;   ,       .        .     ,      ,   ,     .

I would not be living up to the maxim Isadora taught us if, in this history of her school, I refrained from telling the whole truth, the good and the bad. "The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together." In later years, when we were grown up, we often would harp on this unhappy period in our childhood, much to Isadora's annoyance. Finally she was driven to exclaim, "Why do you girls always talk about the bad things? Why don't you sometimes also remember the beautiful things that happened to you at school? I am sure there was more of that in the long run." 
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      ,    ,           ,    ,   .    -  ,   	 .    ,   ,          ,    . ,   :  , ,     ?        ,      ?  ,       . "

And so it undoubtedly was. However, it is a queer quirk of the human mind to recall the unhappy things of childhood more vividly than the beautiful. The good things are taken for granted by children. Cruel treatment comes as a shock and is resented and has psychologically a traumatic effect, sometimes with bad results. I firmly believe that stupidity is the root of all evil. There were unhappy things that can definitely be traced to the stupidity of our English governess and the unenlightened attitude of Tante Miss when it came to cruel treatment. Their behavior was in direct contravention of the instructions of Isadora, who did not believe in punishment and personally used only logical reasoning to correct our misdeeds. Unfortunately, her prolonged absences made her completely unaware of what went on in the intimate lives of her charges. Insufficient control and superintendence is the only blame attached to her, since she sincerely believed that by placing us in the trusted care of her sister, she had left us in the best of hands. 
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 , , .   ,     ,       ,  .      .            ,    .   ,   -   .   ,              ,      .      ,           ,    .  ,          ,       .     -  ,   ,    , ,      ,      .

With the arrival of our hated governess I, for one, developed a real propensity for what she called "being naughty," and the occasions when I was sent hungry to bed were innumerable. Often, when I disobeyed, the governess tied me to the foot of my bed, leaving me there for hours like a martyr at the stake. Her sadistic corporal punishments belonged to the dark ages, and after she had inflicted this hurt I would weep and look at the picture of my guardian angel. Where was Isadora? I could not understand why she was never there when we needed her in this beautiful house in the pine forest, which she had wanted to be a children's paradise. She herself found Grunewald to be "very melancholy" when she did return. No wonder! 
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     , ,     ,    ,  ,      ,  . ,   ,       ,    ,    . Ÿ      ,   ,     ,        -.   ?    ,      ,            ,      .      ,   . !

No use complaining to Tante Miss; she knew very well what went on and punished us herself, only in subtler ways. Writing to mother was of no avail; all our mail had to be censored. I felt trapped. Then I thought of our kindly old Norwegian cook. Frequently, out of pity, she would surreptitiously slip me a slice of dark, dry bread when I had been sent to bed without my supper. With her help, I managed to smuggle a letter out to mother. 
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     ;    ,  ,    ,   .     ;      .     .         . ,  ,        ,       .        .

Within a few days mother's short telegram, saying "I am coming to take Irma home," came as a great surprise to Tante Miss. That was the last thing she wanted to happen. In a state of considerable alarm for fear Isadora would hear of this, she called me to her study for a private interview, something she had never done before. By cajolery and flattery she finally persuaded me to change my mind, but not until she had promised to stop the more cruel kinds of punishment. When mother came, some blind, childish loyalty to my absent idol made me refrain from telling her everything. Her protests to Tante Miss did some good, for the harsher treatment ceased, but she could not persuade me to go home. "Just for a little while," she urged, "till Isadora returns and we can explain it all to her directly. I know she will understand. She was very nice to me and said such nice things about you the last time I saw her. "But I heard an inner voice prompting me: "Don't go. Stay here. This is where you belong." 
..
      ,   :     ,      .   ,   .      ,     ,        ,      .         ,    ,        .   , - ,          ,    . Ÿ      - ,      ,        .  - , -  , -   ,    ,       .  ,   .                 ,    .     ,   :  .  ,   ,     ''.

Usually, with the coming of spring, we could count on our idol's return. And, as anticipated, one fine morning in early May she breezed in, looking radiant in a brown and pink traveling costume. Her small brown cap had a pink chiffon veil becomingly draped around it. (She loved veils and wore them in various attractive ways.) All unhappiness was instantly erased from our minds; we gathered about her with happy smiles. Then she asked us to dance. That was always the first thing she wanted to see. Afterwards we were called into the library, the most elegant room in the house, where the two sisters were seated together on the couch below the big window. We knew something was in the wind or we would not have been asked to come there. Isadora said: 
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,   ,       . ,   ,         ,       .          . (        .)       ;       .     .    ,    .     ,     ,         .  ,  - ,       .  :

"You have danced so well I would like to take all of you to have tea at my apartment. But it is just a small place, so I can ask only four or five." With her sister's permission she invited three of the smaller ones and her niece. Then she said, "And I would like Irma to come too." I glanced in agitation at Tante Miss, who of late had substituted deprivation of privileges for corporal punishment. She stared at me, wrinkled her brow, smacked her tooth, and said flatly, "Irma cannot go; she has been naughty." 
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   ,      ,      ,      ,        .          .   :    ,    .      ,          .    ,  ,     :    ,   .

I could not recall what sin I had committed; I never could. My trespasses consisted entirely of talking back, for I never did anything really bad. Nor, as far as I remember, did the other children ever commit any really offensive acts. I was close to tears and stood there shamefacedly with lowered eyelids, scraping my foot on the carpet. Isadora, who had just seen me dance my "Poor Orphan Child" for the first time and liked it, said placatingly to her sister, "Oh, Elizabeth, let's make an exception for once and let her go." 
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   ,    ;    .      ,        .   ,      -  .           ,    . ,    ,           ,    : , ,         帻.

"No, that would be a bad example for the others. I am sorry, but I can't allow it." 
Isadora was not in the habit of being contradicted by anyone. However, she did not say anything further, although she seemed annoyed. While the other invited children rushed upstairs to don their party clothes (the new swansdown-trimmed dresses Isadora had given us for Christmas), I lingered in the hall trying to hide my tears. Suddenly I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I turned around and there was Isadora whispering quickly, "Shh, keep quiet, darling! Go and get dressed and then wait in my carriage, but don't let anyone see you! Hurry!" 
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,      .  ,      . 
       .      ,   .         ,      (   ,      ),    ,   .        .  ,    : , , !   ,      ,      ! !

How we children giggled at the wonderful trick Isadora had played on old Tante Miss! When we arrived at the apartment in Hardenbergstrasse, we found Gordon Craig seated there on the sofa smoking a pipe. I had not seen him since that day in Hamburg over a year ago. After tea, Isadora took a stack of her photographs out of a drawer and threw them on the floor saying, "Here they are, children; pick any picture you like and I will autograph it for you!" 
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 , ,    ,       !       ,  ,      ,  .            .              , : , ,   ,   ,      !

While we carefully made our individual choices, she and Craig sat together watching us with the affection of indulgent parents. It gave me such a comfortable, homey feeling. Children always crave affection and loving kindness, and parents try to give it to them. But children harbored in an institution, no matter how humane the treatment, are starved for that loving individual attention of caresses and endearments that a mother usually bestows on them. Most regrettably, Elizabeth Duncan, in whose charge we were left and to whom we instinctively turned for those signs of comfort and affection, never-in all the years we were in her care-offered an endearment or a gentle pat on the cheek to any of her pupils. That is why most of them did not feel any affection for her either. 
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         ,     ,       .     ,  .       ,      .  ,   ,   ,    ,     ,    ,     .  ,  ,      ,            ,  -   ,      , -           -   .           .

With Isadora it was entirely different. Children know instinctively when they are loved. That afternoon in her apartment we were completely happy. She autographed all our photographs, inscribing mine "With love and kisses." I hugged the pretty picture to my breast and carried it back to school like a trophy. 
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    .   ,   .          .     ,      .            ,  .

As if she had sensed what troubled her little pupils and had seen into their hearts, she came next day to Grunewald to teach us an unforgettable lesson. Early in the morning, while we sat at our desks, she opened the door and entered the classroom. Our teacher and the entire class rose to their feet. 
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  ,         ,        ,     .  ,      ,       .        .

"Good morning!" Isadora said cheerfully. "Please be seated and don't let me interrupt." Turning to our schoolmarm, Frau Zschetzsching, who sat at her desk on a raised dais looking very prim in a white blouse with high boned collar and hair done up in a pompadour, Isadora said, "Please continue with whatever you were studying. I'll sit here quietly and listen." 
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" !" -   . , ,     .     ,  ,        ,            ,    (   ),  : ,  ,   .       .

Our schoolmarm was flustered in front of the famous personage whose acquaintance she had not made before, this being Isadora's first visit to her classroom. "We were doing arithmetic," she answered, "but I don't think that will interest you, Miss Duncan. Let us turn to another subject. Would you like to hear the children recite poetry?" 
"Yes, I love poetry, that would be very nice." 
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      ,      , -        .   , -  , -    ,    ,  .     .   ,    ?
,   ,     .

Although we had no inhibitions about dancing before a public, we all were tongue-tied and embarrassed to stand up and recite. The stuttering and loss of memory were pitiful to hear. It was in turn painful for us to see our schoolmarm's angry discomfiture mounting by the minute and Isadora's puzzled look as she made a concentrated effort to understand our incoherent German. With an embarrassed smile, Frau Zschetzsching finally said, "Well, they don't seem to be in very good form today. I think, perhaps, with the Gniidige Frau's permission ..." 
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         ,        ,    .      .   ,    ,     ,    ,     ,     .       : , ,     . , ,     ... 

"May I put a question to them?" Isadora interrupted her. 
"Of course." Our schoolmarm looked relieved. Isadora stood up, assumed her familiar stance with head slightly inclined to one side and chin tilted upwards, while all eyes were riveted on her. 
"Tell me, children," she said earnestly, "what is the greatest thing in life?"
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    ?   . 
.      .  ,    ,    ,    ,       .
 , , -   , -     ?

A ray of intelligence flowed back into our dull minds. Instantly, a flurry of hands shot into the air, furiously wigwagging for attention. The answer to that one was obvious. We all knew it. So when she asked, we all shouted in unison, "To dance!" and sat back with an expression of triumph on our shining faces. But Isadora sadly shook her head. We could not believe our ears when we heard her say, "No, dancing is not the greatest thing in life." 
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      .     ,   .      .    . ,   ,     : !        .     .      ,  ,   : ,  -      .

That sounded like heresy, coming from her-of all people-the greatest dancer in the world! What could it be? Music? Painting? Singing? Our choices showed the influence of our thorough artistic education. No, no, no, none of those, she told us. We gave up. Lifting one forefinger for emphasis, she announced in a clear, vibrant voice: 
"The greatest thing in life is-LOVE!" 
..
   ,    -    -    !     ? ? ? ?        . , , ,   ,   .  .      ,   ,  : 
    -  !

We stared at her dumbfounded. She turned for corroboration to our schoolmarm and asked, "Is it not true?" To our astonishment, the prim schoolteacher had turned crimson with confusion. Delighted with the dramatic effect she had created, Isadora waved a graceful farewell, said "Adieu!" and disappeared. 
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     .         :    ?   ,      .   ,   ,    , : !  .

No sooner was the door closed than a chorus of eager voices questioned our schoolmarm. "What did she mean, Frau Zschetzsching? Why is love the greatest thing? Why, why, why?"
She rapped her desk for order and said, "Be quiet! Sit down, and I will explain." 
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   ,        .     ,  ?   ? , , ?         : , ,   .

Slowly she opened a drawer of the desk and drew forth a black book. We recognized it as the New Testament, from which she read us a lesson each day. With a solemn expression, she announced, "Let me read you a verse from First Corinthians." While we sat with hands folded in prayer and assumed the proper, pious mien expected of us, she intoned:
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        .      ,        .     :        .   ,    ,  ,    ,  ,  :

"Though I speak with the tongue of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal" and she continued through the whole thirteenth chapter, which ends, "And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love." 
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      ,     ,      	 ,      ,  :    , , ,   ,     - .

Our teacher fixed us with a stern look. "This, my dear children, is what Miss Duncan meant when she said the greatest thing in life is love." She closed the book with a loud thud and said, "Class dismissed!"
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     . ,   ,  ,      ,   ,      -  .      :  !

It was entirely by chance (because printed material of that sort was carefully kept away from our hands) that a few weeks later we saw an item in an illustrated weekly telling of Isadora's marriage to Gordon Craig. Naturally Isadora's personal life was a closed book to her young disciples, so this piece of news aroused the wildest interest. There was one thing we could not comprehend-why had we not been told? Surely, if this story were true (we had no way of knowing then that it was not), we reasoned that we would have heard about it from Tante Miss. This fascinating news item remained an unsolved riddle as far as Isadora's pupils were concerned. 
..
-   (           ),         ,       . ,           ,       .  ,      -      ? ,       (   ,    ),    ,         .          .

For a whole year thereafter we did not obtain as much as a glimpse of her. She was at that time expecting the birth of her first child at a secluded beach cottage in Nordwyck, Holland-fact of which her pupils were kept in strict ignorance. She had invited her niece to visit her and had included Erica and me too, but Tante Miss as usual said No. So that we would not feel too disappointed, Isadora in the kindness of her heart sent us some toys. I remember the penciled note she included saying: "Dear Irma, Here is a lamb for you and a pink kitten for little Erica. Love, Isadora." I treasured the note more than the toy lamb on wheels, for which I considered myself too old, as I had reached the ripe age of ten. 
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         ,     .                , ,        .      ,      ,   ,  ,  .         ,        .    ,    :  ,          . , .    ,     ,       ,         .

Years later, I found a thought she wrote in her diary while awaiting her first born. It said: "Yellow tulips, white hyacinths, great window spaces of sky, black steps leading to a balcony-four red pillars. Dearest Baby, if you can remember these things and always love them." 
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    ,      ,   .   :  ,  ,    ,   ,   , -    .  ,         .

When at last we saw her again in Grunewald the following spring she appeared with a sweet blue-eyed baby in her arms. Her own contribution to "the greatest thing in life." She held the child up for all of us to see and admire and said, "Very soon, she will be the youngest pupil in the school." 
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, ,        ,       . Ÿ       .       ,        :        .


[82], p.62-85 * DUNCAN DANCER * European Tour * 

-=4=-

European Tour
 

IT was night and the train sped eastward. We always traveled third class. At night the smaller children, leaving the hard benches for the older girls to stretch out on, climbed up into the Gepaecknetz, a luggage rack that was shaped like a tiny hammock though it was not as comfortable. The iron braces hurt my back even though I tried to pad them with my coat or woolen shawl. However, it was better to lie down, no matter how uncomfortably, than to sit up all night. 
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  ,     .      .   ,      ,    ,   ,    (),      ,      .     ,         . ,   ,    ,    .

Contrary to the policy of the school (that we were not to appear on the stage together with our famous teacher until we reached the age of seventeen), Isadora had decided to take us on tour with her. All agog over the big adventure, I could hardly sleep, knowing that at this moment, in the middle of winter, we were traveling at top speed to St. Petersburg in Russia. What a fantastic place the name alone con jured up in my lively imagination! I had read about that frozen land to the north where fierce animals, such as wild bears and wolves, roamed through the endless forests; and of the cities where men called tsars lived in courts of Oriental splendor, speaking a barbaric tongue no one could understand. 
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   (          ,     ),        .    ,    , ,    ,   ,       -  .           !        ,   ,      ,    ;  ,    ,      ,    ,     .

Though I was not, as a rule, a very good student-lapsing too often into daydreams during which I listened to the long-drawn hoot of the suburban trains and imagined I was on the way to some far-off place - I always gave undivided attention to geography. It was my favorite subject. I did not have a good memory for verses, but the jingles Frau Zschetzsching taught us to remember geographical names, I seldom forgot. There was, for instance: "Ural Gebirge, Ural Fluss, Caspisches Meer und Caucasus." Was this an omen of the future? How was I to know that a time would come when I would traverse the Urals, the Caspian Sea, and all of the Caucasus on many occasions with the pupils of my own school to dance for the Russian people. Now as a child of ten, the largest part of Europe had appeared merely as a colored blotch on my geographical map. It was most exciting to see it take on actual dimension and reality. 
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   ,  ,   ,     ,           ,     -  ! -      .     .        ,         ,    . , :  ,  ,    ..     ?     ,   ,      ,     ,         . ,    ,            .    ,       .

This was vividly brought home to me the instant we changed trains at the frontier to the wider-gauged Russian cars, with a Russian conductor, big brass samovars of hot water for chai, and candles that burned during the night instead of gaslight. I kept my eyes glued to the window, as did all the other children, on the lookout for wolves and wild bears when the gloomy woods, deep in snow, stretched out on either side. But we saw nothing. That did not prevent us from having goose pimples all over. 
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   ,           ,   ,          ,   ,   .      ,     ,      ,   ,   ,    .     .           .

All would have been perfect but for one thing. Dining car meals being far too expensive, Tante Miss provisioned us with a hamper of the most outlandish food. A faddist by nature, she was currently addicted to a health-food diet. Throughout the three long days of our trip she fed us, three times a day, nothing but dried figs, dried bananas, and nuts. "Don't make a fuss," she admonished me when I refused to eat any more. I tried to explain that my stomach was upset. She wouldn't hear of it. "Non-sense, this is good for you," she insisted. "Just think of something else while you eat. The other girls seem to like it, why don't you?" 
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   ,     .      ,        .    ,         .              , ,   ,    .   - , -   ,      .   ,     .     . ,    ,  .   - ,  .   ,   ?

There was no use protesting. No one could be more tyrannical than Tante Miss, and it was health-food diet or go hungry. I knew something awful would happen, and it did. As we stood disheveled, unwashed, and travel-weary in the middle of the elegant lobby of the best hotel in St. Petersburg, I experienced an awful attack of biliousness. While waiting there for our rooms to be assigned I saw, as through a green miasma, the golden open-caged elevator ride up and down discharging passengers, who leisurely wended their way toward the restaurant hidden behind pots of tall palms. The odor of expensive food wafted my way, together with the sounds of dinner music, the usual selections from The Gypsy Baron. And then it happened 1 Like a contagious wave, my sickness started to spread among the other girls. A group of green-looking children was led upstairs and put to bed. Tante Miss shook her head in dismay. "Too much excitement, I'm afraid," she said. We knew better. Too many dried bananas, figs, and nuts! 
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   .      ,   ,         .  ,   - ,  .    ,          -,     .   ,     ,  ,    ,           ,  ,      ,      .          ,     .    .   ,       .          .      . ,   , -  .   .    ,   !

Feeling fine the next day, after a good night's rest in real beds and some real food, we made the acquaintance of St. Petersburg. In those forever vanished times the city was lively and brilliant in its mantle of deep snow. The jolly sleighrides from the hotel to the theatre and back every day were our special delight. To children, there is nothing quite so much fun as a ride in an open sleigh. There was always a long string of them when we sallied forth, since each accommodated only two passengers. The bulky clothes of the Isvostchik, with his long beard covered with frost, reminded us of Santa Claus. Off we went at a fast clip, sliding down the broad Nevsky Prospect, a bear rug across the knees and the merry tinkling of little bells in our ears, sounding so festive and gay we could hardly refrain from shouting for joy. 
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     ,          ,    -.   ,   ,          .              .      ,     .   ,      ,          .      ,  ,    -.    ,     ,            ,     ,         .

Our first performance, on February 9, 1908, proved a gala event in the Russian capital. Presented as a benefit for a charitable organization under the august auspices of H.I.H. (His Imperial Highness) Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna, sister of the Tsar, it drew the elite and aristocracy of St. Petersburg society to the Maryinsky Theatre. Isadora danced her "Iphigenia" program, and we appeared at the very end in a "Werber Waltz" by Lanner, which she had choreographed and taught us in May of 1907, and which we had first performed in Mannheim that summer for the city's three-hundred-year jubilee. Isadora wrote of this dance: 
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   9  1908      .         Ÿ      ,  ,         .     ,           ,         1907 ,              .     :

I taught them to weave and entwine, to part and unite, in endless rounds and successions. Now resembling the Loves of a Pompeian frieze, now the youthful Graces of Donatello, or again the airy flights of Titania's following, the light of inspiration and divine music shone in their youthful forms and faces. The sight of these dancing children was so beautiful it awakened the admiration of all artists and poets.* 
*Life, p. 214. 
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     ,   ,      . ,     ,    ,     ,            .       ,        .*
* , . 214.

"How darling they are! Look at the one over there, isn't she cute! My, what beautiful hair! You must simply love to dance, you look so happy!" Such were the usual backstage compliments we heard when people crowded into our dressing room. But after that performance at the Maryinsky Theatre, there was so much Russian spoken it made my head swim. We all sighed with relief when the audience was gone. 
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  !   ,  , ,   ! ,   !      ,   !     ,   ,      .           ,     .     ,   .

Then there was a soft knock at the door, and a soft voice said, "May I come in?" The moment she entered, we recognized Anna Pavlova. We had seen her dance in an old-style ballet the night before. She approached and kissed each one of us, murmuring "Dooshinka, dooshinka."+ Dressed in a white gown with a long, glittering white shawl over her shoulders, she looked as she had on the stage-tiny, dainty, and very pretty with her dark hair tied back into a knot, ballerina-fashion. The young man with her carried a large box of candy which she offered us. Our hawk-eyed English governess stepped forward and took it away saying, "Sorry, Madame, but the children are not allowed to eat candy, except one a day." With these words she disappeared, carrying the candy with her. 
+"Darling" 
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     ,    :   ?    ,    .          .       ,  , .+           ,   ,      - ,    ,       ,   .         ,    .         , : , ,      ,   .     ,     .
+""

As soon as the door closed behind the ogress, Anna Pavlova (who also had been brought up in an institution) whipped out another box of candy from beneath her long shawl. With gestures of her hands indicating for us to hide it quickly, quickly, she helped us to stow it away in one of our wicker suitcases. We simply loved her for that clever trick. Lying in bed that night, under cover of darkness, we had a feast. Needless to say, we saw no more of the other box of candy, except the telltale wrappings scattered about our governess' room. 
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     ,   (     )      -   .    ,  ,     ,           .        .     ,   ,    .  ,        ,   ,     .

Summoned one morning to Isadora's suite, we found her seated on a chaise-longue surrounded by shoe boxes. "There is a pair of golden sandals for each of you," she said. "Try them on and see if they fit." 
..
     ,  ,     ,    .       , -  .    ,   .

From a bolt of pink silk two lengths of material were cut and stitched up at the sides. With two small buttons, one for each shoulder, the material was caught up and fastened together to form armholes and "voila, presto!" we soon each had a new pink silk tunic. A Russian embroidered belt completed the costume. 
..
            .    ,     ,      ,     , !.        .     .

Our suspicion that this new getup signified that something special was afoot was verified when Isadora announced, "This afternoon we are going to have tea with a real grand duke. What do you think of that! " She explained that his name was Andre Vladimirovitch and he was a cousin of the Tsar. "He lives in that big white house on the other side of the river; you must have noticed it when you took a walk along the Neva. You must be on your very best behavior," she admonished. 
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 ,       - ,  ,   :          .     !  ,           .           , ,  ,  ,    .     , -  .

We found the idea of meeting a royal personage quite overpowering, for in Germany everybody, from infancy on, was taught to look upon royalty as some kind of demigod. We did not look forward to the encounter with great pleasure. 
..
      ,  ,     ,   ,           .        .

When the time came, instead of going by the Troitsky Bridge we crossed the frozen river in sleighs and got out directly below the house. Andre Vladimirovitch, resplendent in uniform and decorations, greeted us jovially. A young man of twenty-seven, he was tall, blond, and good-looking, and he spoke to us children in German. Without formality, he proceeded to show Isadora and the rest of us his brand-new mansion, including the bathrooms with sunken marble bathtubs, which he had built for his mistress the prima ballerina Mathilde Kschessinska, who was seven years older than he. The latter, holding a little boy by the hand, followed the Grand Duke silently wherever he went. This tiny, mouselike woman dressed in black, with small features and dark frizzy hair, I took at first to be the boy's governess, but the child was their son Vova.* Next to the brilliant personality of the Grand Duke, she made no impression at all. 
* Vova, short for Vladimir. 
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  ,  ,     ,           .  ,     ,   .     ,   ,   ,       -.      ,    ,    ,         ,       -  ,       .    ,     ,   ,    .     ,   ,        ,       ,      .*            .
* ,   .

Soon many other guests arrived and crowded into the dining room, where we children were seated at a table laden with the most mouth-watering assortment of French pastries, towering layer cakes, fruit tarts, and candies-none of which we touched despite the repeated urging of our friendly regal host. We hated to be on display and reacted with chronic shyness. Finally the Grand Duke took a plate filled with chocolate candies and personally passed them around. 
..
       ,  , ,         ,  ,     -       ,        .          .            .

"Notice how polite they are," he said. "Each takes only one little piece. None of them would dare take two." 
When he reached me with the silver platter, I took one like the others, but-being a child of spirit-I stopped him when he was about to withdraw and deliberately chose another. "Ha, ha!" he threw back his head and laughed. "Good for you," he said, patting me on the head. That broke the ice, and the adults retired to the salon for their own refreshments, leaving us in peace to enjoy ours. 
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 ,   , -  .      .        .
       ,   ,  , ,   ,   ,        . 
-!     . ,  ,  ,    .   ,         ,    ,   .

After tea, the Grand Duke wanted to know whether Isadora would favor them with a little dance. But she refused. How about the children? He and his guests would love to see them dance. Our music director, a young Viennese by the name of Max Merz, regretfully informed Isadora that he had not brought any music with him. However, he liked to improvise, and sitting down at the piano he started to play. Isadora conferred with Elizabeth about what to do when the latter surprised me by saying: 
"Let Irma dance something, she knows how to improvise." 
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     ,        .   .   ?      ,   .   ,       ,    ,        .    , ,   ,  .      ,  ,    , :
   -,    .

Isadora looked undecided. "Well, if you say so, Elizabeth," and she told me to try. 
I had never improvised before so large a company and felt very timid. A command is a command, however. Trembling with nervousness, I hid behind one of the tall columns in the Greek-style hall to take off my pink socks and golden sandals. Unfortunately the hall had a marble floor not at all pleasant to dance on in winter. Concerned about this situation, Madame Kschessinska suggested spreading sheets on the floor. But they proved too great a hazard because they slipped. I much preferred the solid ground to dance on. 
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  . ,    , ,     .
            . ,  -  .   ,            ,        .  ,     ,      .   , -      .     ,    .       ,  .

In her "Memoirs" Mathilde Kschessinska recalls this scene when she tells of our visit to her new palace. An old woman in her nineties, she now resides in France and still teaches ballet in her school in Paris. When I wrote to her a few years ago she very kindly responded, giving me news of herself and her work. After the Russian revolution she became the morganatic wife of the Grand Duke and goes now by the title of H.S.H. (Her Serene Highness) Princesse Mathilde Romanovsky-Krasinsky. Having always been a friend and genuine admirer of Isadora, she assured me that she had not forgotten her or her performances in St. Petersburg, which she always remembered with great pleasure. 
..
       ,        .    ,               .       ,    ,       .              Ÿ    -.        ,    ,         -,      .

On that freezing day in February, 1908, when I put my bare feet on that marble floor I felt as if standing on ice. So I moved about quickly and danced with great verve to keep my feet off the ground as much as possible. My spirited dance was much applauded, though no one guessed the reason why. I must have given a good account of myself, for Isadora hugged me warmly-more for my sportsmanship, I imagine, than for anything else. The Grand Duke shook my hand, saying, "That is something our ballerinas can't do-improvise." I felt very proud of myself and only wished mother could see me now .... 
..
      1908 ,          ,   ,      .         ,        .      ,    , . ,  ,    ,       - ,     ,    - .     , :  ,       - .       ,     ....

Having made the acquaintance of a Grand Duke, we now wondered whether by good luck we might not obtain just a glimpse of Tsar Nicholas II himself. Every time we passed the dark red facade of the Winter Palace, my childish curiosity was aroused. What did the ruler of this vast country look like? I soon discovered. Once, coming back from a walk near the river, we noticed a closed carriage accompanied by several outriders in uniform. A pale-faced man with a small goatee, wearing a peaked cap, glanced out the window. When he saw us, he smiled and waved his hand in greeting. Somebody shouted, "The Tsar! The Tsar!" We all stared after the retreating vehicle. Could that really have been the Tsar? Where was his crown, his ermine robe, his golden coach? Little did I suspect that the time was soon at hand when the last of the Tsars would be deprived forever of these imperial appurtenances, or that I would one day stand in that tragic cellar in the Urals where he and his family had been shot to death during the revolution that would topple his throne and cause all this brilliant life to collapse. 
..
   ,    ,            II.  ,    -   ,    .      ?    . ,     ,    ,     .    ,    ,   ,   .    ,     . - : ! !      .     ?   ,  ,   ?   ,    ,          , ,   -       ,           ,           .

Our two weeks in St. Petersburg passed all too swiftly. Of the many interesting sights we had seen there, one other experience remained outstanding-our visit to the Imperial Ballet School. "I took my little pupils to witness the training of the children of the ballet school," Isadora said, "and they observed them with the view of swallows circling freely in the air looking at caged canary birds."* 
*Life, p. 215. 
..
    -   .    ,    ,     -      .     ,       , -  , -     ,      ,     .*
* , . 215.

Under the direction of Marius Petipa, who obstinately clung to the passe traditions, the ballet was not amenable to any change whatsoever. Only with the coming of the young, forward-looking ballet master Michael Fokine, who took over several years later, did a radical change take place. He adopted many of the new ideas Isadora Duncan had brought to the dance, and thus the Russian ballet underwent the transformation for which it is known today. These revolutionary ideas, which marked a new epoch in the art of dance, Fokine saw demonstrated for the first time in January 1905, when Isadora made her initial appearance in Russia. 
..
   ,      ,    - .    ,    ,      ,   .      ,      , ,  ,    ,    .   ,       ,      1905 ,      .

Mathilde Kschessinska saw Isadora Duncan dance for the first time in Vienna in 1903. She frankly confesses to having been completely conquered by her art. She was so carried away, she says, by her "Blue Danube Waltz" that she climbed on her seat and cheered as loud as she could with the rest of the audience. As a professional dancer of the first order herself, she easily recognized the hard work that had produced such beautiful dancing and made Isadora the perfect mistress of her art. 
..
   ,        1903 .   ,      . ,   ,      ,         ,   ,    .      ,     ,     ,        .

I think that this above-mentioned earlier date is of special interest. Because of her position as prima ballerina assoluta of the Imperial Ballet in St. Petersburg, possessing enormous authority in that organization, she must surely have adopted and made use of some of the new ideas Isadora Duncan originated. Thus Isadora's influence undoubtedly made itself felt on a part of the Russian ballet as early as 1903, although she herself made her debut in that city only in January 1905. 
..
 ,         . -      -    -,      , , ,         ,    .  ,  , ,        1903 ,           1905 .

Kschessinska, reminiscing about how the new changes came about that transformed the old-style ballet, stresses in her "Memoirs" the overwhelming impression the young American dancer made on Fokine. With a wild enthusiasm he immediately commenced to initiate the necessary reform. Hoping to obtain the same inspiration from the same source as Isadora did, for her new-found art, he went to the Hermitage Museum to study the Greek vases for dance movements. His first Greek-inspired production was a ballet called Eunice, in which Kschessinska danced the principal part. On that opening night performance the many old balletomanes criticized him severely for his obvious copying of what they termed "Duncanism." But being a staunch supporter of Fokine, M. Kschessinska always considered that first performance on December 10, 1906, a date of importance in the transformation of the old-style ballet to a freer expression. She and Fokine worked closely together toward that goal. In 1907-08, Kschessinska decided to take Vaslav Nijinsky, who had graduated from the Ballet School only the year before, for a new dancing partner, recognizing in him a great talent. After our performances in St. Petersburg in 1908, and having seen Isadora's Chopin program, they initially danced together at the Maryinsky Theatre to Chopin's "Nocturne," choreographed by Fokine.
..
,   ,    ,     ,      ,      .         .         ,    ,   ,    ,       .      -    ,      .               ,    .     , .       10  1906            .        .  1907-08 .       ,       ,     ,     .     -  1908  ,    ,          ,  .

At the time of our visit, none of the famous dancers associated with the ballet school in St. Petersburg had yet been completely emancipated artistically. Nor were their names (with one or two exceptions) known outside of their own country. Not until five years after their first contact with Isadora's ideas did they form the great company known as the Diaghilev Ballets Russes, which brought that roster of world-renowned names, such as Nijinsky, Pavlova, Karsavina, Fokine, and others to the attention of foreign countries for the first time. While most of these ballet dancers freely admitted that Isadora Duncan's ideas gave new life to their once moribund art and helped to beautify it, they all maintained that neither Isadora herself nor her pupils could execute ballet movements, whereas any well-trained ballet dancer could easily assimilate and execute any Duncan movements. 
..
        ,      -,       [   ].   (    )        .               ,     ,        ,   , , ,   ,       .          ,               ,    ,    ,         ,              .

This assumption to my mind has always seemed both illogical and absurd. They forget, or don't seem to comprehend, that Isadora Duncan's theory of the dance precludes any assimilation of movements based on ballet technique and therefore no ballet technique can produce the proper Duncan movement and expression. Although Isadora's art has incontestably helped to beautify the ballet and given it new life, the converse does not apply. The art of Isadora Duncan has never been either beautified or revitalized by the ballet.
..
         .   , -,  ,         ,    ,             .            ,   .          .

That morning we watched for three hours while the ballet girls of different age-groups stood in rows on the tips of their toes going through torturing exercises in a bare room with a large portrait of the Tsar hanging on the wall. We were familiar with many of the exercises. We practiced barre work ourselves-though of course in a much more relaxed style, without distortions, and from natural positions of the feet. 
..
      ,            ,           ,   .      .     , , ,     ,  ,     .

What amazed us Duncan pupils was the way the ballet students danced continuously in front of a mirror, closely watching every move they made. There were no wall mirrors in our school. Our teacher's philosophy of the dance forbade any such visual aids. Isadora taught us to close our eyes and listen to the music with our souls. Then we were to dance in accordance with this music heard inwardly and, while listening, feel an inner self awakening deep within us. Its strength would animate our bodies. 
..
  ,  ,        ,      .       .        .          .          ,    , ,      .       .

"This is the first step in dancing as I understand it," she used to say. "This is the truly creative dancer, natural but not imitative, speaking in movement out of himself and out of something greater than all selves. It is the mission of all art to express the highest and most beautiful ideals of man. What ideal does the ballet express? All ballet movements are sterile because they are unnatural; their purpose is to create the delusion that the law of gravitation does not exist for them."* 
* Cf. Art, pp. 52, 55-56. 
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    ,   , -  .    , ,   ,        - ,   .    -       .     ?    ,    ;   -  ,       .*
* . , . 52, 55-56.

She pronounced an anathema on dancers who comprehended only with the brain, who loaded down their dances with empty gestures devoid of meaning, and on all those systems of dancing that are merely arranged gymnastics, too logically understood. In this connection, as far as physical education for children was concerned, she once said, "It seems to me criminal to entrust children, who cannot defend themselves, to this injurious training. In my opinion it is a crime to teach the child to guide his growing body by the stern power of the brain, while deadening impulse and inspiration." 
..
    ,    ,      ,  ,      ,    ,    .   ,     ,   :     ,     ,   . -,  -         ,        .

To which I might add that ballet of the present period has not fundamentally changed its principles. Despite some liberation from old bonds, it still does not represent a true art of the dance, but only highly accomplished acrobatics. The male dancer, not going on toe, is not as hampered in the evolution of kinetics as the ballerina. But so long as the latter cannot make more than a few movements unaided, or is kept in a constant state of levitation by her partner if not tossed about like a set of Indian clubs between several assistants, her physical activities can hardly be dignified by the term dancing. 
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     ,         .       ,  -      ,     . -,     [   ],      ,  .                      ,    ,       ,         .

I recall almost nothing of Helsingfors, Finland, the next stop on our itinerary, except the abnormal amount of butter we were urged to eat in order to keep from freezing, for the temperature was below zero. Then we gave performances in Warsaw and Lodsz in Poland. Warsaw, where we stayed for a week at the Hotel Bristol, stands out primarily because of the new coats Isadora designed and had made to order for us. Of coarse gray military material, they were edged off and embroidered each with a different color-blue, green, brown, wine red-and we also had those little pillbox caps that are now so much en vogue to match. We referred to them as our Polish coats and, although they scratched quite a bit, being unlined, we took inordinate pride in them and even insisted on wearing them in the summertime. 
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      , ,      ,     ,     ,   ,     .          . ,         ,    -  ,      .        ,      - , , ,  ,         -,    ,   .       ,     ,   ,           ,      .

The tour continued through Holland and Belgium and, since each stop took up a week or more, it was spring by the time we returned to Germany to dance at the various southern watering places such as Wiesbaden. By this time the weather was warm enough for us to perform out of doors, as we did on the extensive lawn in front of the Kurhaus in Baden-Baden. 
..
     , ,       ,      ,        ,   .       ,      ,           -.

At the International Art and Landscaping Exhibition in Mannheim in the previous year, we danced in the middle of a rose garden, against the dramatic background of an illuminated fountain and its reflecting pool. For this occasion the water was turned off, and the fountain proper was boarded over to provide a stage. To reach it, we were paddled across the pool in flower-bedecked gondolas manned by costumed gondoliers. At night the scene was lit by floodlights; and the performance, seen as if suspended in mid-air, took on a most romantic aspect. A select but enthusiastic audience attended. An article in a local newspaper described the end of the performance:
..
                ,          .      ,     ,   .    ,       ,   .    ;  ,     ,    .  ,   .       :

The crowd swiftly passed by the brightly illuminated water tower and fountain so as not to dim the inner vision glowing with the beauty and grace they had just witnessed. For they were all very much moved by the wonder of the dances a small group of children had presented there. Repeatedly one hears men both old and young exclaim: "How delightful! That was really quite enchanting! "-not to mention the enthusiastic remarks of the women! While Isadora danced alone, her reform movement in the art of the dance did not carry quite the conviction it has when she shows us her graceful dancing children. What appears to our present doubting generation only as a dream will become a reality for the children of the next generation. 
..
         ,         ,     .        ,      .  ,  ,  ,   , :  !    ! -       !       ,            ,   ,         . ,         ,      .

We children were apparently successfully putting our message across to the people, as Isadora had hoped we would, proving that her efforts had not been in vain. More and more people began to understand what Isadora's art was all about now that they saw it could be transmitted to others. She had wanted her pupils to set a good example to all the other children in the world. With what fine result we fulfilled this wish can be gleaned from the following article, which appeared in a Swiss paper after a performance we had given in Zurich: 
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, , -,     ,   ,   ,      .       ,    ,   ,      .  ,            .        ,     ,       ,     :

To begin with: the appearance of the Duncan Dancers was a complete victory! We noticed with the greatest pleasure the many children present in the audience and hope there will be an even greater number here tomorrow, because here they have an example of what the true dance should be, so different from the instruction they receive in their usual social or ballet dancing classes. One must see with one's own eyes with what clarity of expression these Duncan pupils perform in order truly to appreciate their unique art. . . . The magnificent free strides of their simple walk, which one has already much admired in Isadora Duncan, has also become a salient characteristic of her young pupils. The arms, the hands, the entire body is here awakened into graceful motion and rhythmic life. 
..
  ,       !       ,   ,  ,      ,        ,     ,    ,           .    ,       ,      ....      ,        ,       . , ,          .

For instance, with what grace did a group of three slender girls raise their arms and close into a small circle . . . or, as in the Lanner Waltz, when a fine silken fabric arched overhead into a triumphal arch beneath which the dancing children passed in pairs and then scattered to the four winds; or that supple backward thrust of the body and head with raised arms indicating a delightful Dionysiac joy .... 
..
,               ... ,   -,          ,      ,      ;           ,     .

To correctly evaluate what these children achieve with their dancing one should immediately afterwards see some of the stereotype movements of the ballet. Anyone endowed with a normal, healthy perception would not be able to stand it by comparison; for the latter is all artificiality while the former offers us, together with simplicity, a truly artistically styled naturalness. 
..
  ,       ,         . ,  ,  ,      ;   -   ,              .

Appearing on the same program with Isadora, as we were now doing, did not imply that we actually danced with her; we were still too young for that. The only exception to this rule was the "Reigen" we did together at the very end of each performance by way of an encore. It was always a wonderful event for us. Then the act of dancing invariably took on a special meaning for me. Just to hold hands with Isadora, as I often did in the circle, and to watch the radiant expression on her face when she danced, was so inspiring that I carry the memory of it with me to this day. Isadora herself derived unique pleasure from this, for she said: 
..
      ,     ,  ,        ;       .       ,           .       .         .      ,      ,        ,   ,   ,           .       ,   :

Whenever I felt their willing hands in mine, felt the pull and swing of their little bodies as we danced our fast-paced rondos, I always envisioned that orchestra of dancers I would one day bring to life. The sight of these dancing children was so beautiful they strengthened my faith in the ultimate perfection of an orchestra of dancers which would be to sight what the great symphonies were to sound. A vast ensemble dancing the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven.* 
*Life, p. 140. 
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 ,   ,             ,      ,   ,    ,   -   .       ,          ,    ,      .  ,    .*
*, . 140.

That artistic goal was still a long way off. In the meanwhile, she presented her pupils to the European public, with the promise that in the future they would dance in a mighty array such as the world had never seen. 
..
    .            ,          ,     .

So far, the tour had taken us in three months to six countries. At the end of our engagements in the south of Germany, we continued on to France. How thrilled I was to be going to Paris! At the Gare du Nord the porters dressed in blue smocks rushed into our compartments shouting, "Porteur! porteur!" and I had a hard time holding onto my now well-traveled wicker suitcase. Tante Miss, who had been reading a novel-Renard's Pail de Garotte-to brush up on her French while sitting up all night in the day coach, shushed the swarm of blue-smocked porters away. "Allez-vous en, allez-vous en," she kept repeating until they had gone. 
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          .            .         !  -- ,    ,    , , ! !,            .  ,           ,    ,    . , ,   ,    .

We finally managed to evade their grasping hands and reached the street safely through the noise and bustle of a busy terminal. We found an old-fashioned horse-drawn omnibus waiting for us. On the steps outside the French station I breathed in the soft, caressing night air, eagerly observing the sights and sounds of Paris. They immediately struck me as being, in some indefinable way, unlike those of any other country I had seen. No one who has been to Paris in the month of May will ever forget it. 
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            ,      .  ,      .  ,    ,   ,   ,        .      - ,     ,   . ,       ,     .

Sitting on two banquettes facing each other, and attired in our Polish coats and pillbox caps, we were able to take in the sights at leisure. The stodgy omnibus lumbered down the Rue de la Fayette and then continued along the Boulevard Haussmann while the horses' hoofs clumped hard on the uneven pavement, making the windows rattle. Debouching onto the Place de l'Etoile, straddled by the massive Arch of Triumph, we saw the heart of the city suddenly open like a picture book before our enchanted eyes. Illuminated by garlands of lights strung along both sides of the magnificent Avenue des Champs-Elysees and reaching toward the Place de la Concorde where the fountains were playing, Paris was beautiful. 
..
   ,    ,         ,       .         ,       ,           ,   .    ,    ,  ,     ,    ,    .   ,             ,   ,   .

In the spring of 1908, the uncrowded traffic moved at a much slower pace than it does today. It did not obliterate the sense of calm spaciousness that was such a notable characteristic of the French capital, for vehicles then consisted mainly of elegantly accoutered phaetons and equipages. Every now and then a silent electric automobile, signaling its approach by delicately ringing a bell, would overtake our steadily plodding omnibus. Progressing at a slow pace, we finally entered the suburb of Neuilly. 
..
 1908      ,  .      ,       ,              .      ,    ,    ,   ,    .   ,      .

The long passage from east to west across Paris had occupied the better part of an hour. During the last part of it we began to feel drowsy. I glanced over at Tante Miss sitting in one corner with her eyes closed; she seemed to be dozing. We had been very quiet, since her presence was enough to curb our speech. She frowned on any kind of chit-chat and always told us to keep quiet. But as soon as we entered the wide A venue de Neuilly, with its broad center strip of grass and trees, we saw that a spring fair was in progress. Instantly we were wide awake. 
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           .        .     ,    ,  ; , , .    ,      ,    .    -      . ,         ,        ,  ,    .   .

"A carnival! A carnival!" we shouted in unison. In all the years at school we had seen plenty of museums, but not one fair. The sight of this one made us hop up and down on our seats with glee. At home in Hamburg mother had taken me to the Christmas fair. Everything was there just as I remembered it: the milling crowds; the double row of lighted booths filled with toys and gingerbread; the incessant shouts of the hawkers offering their wares; the spinning carrousels, each blaring forth another brassy tune; the pungent smell of steaming sausages. Above it all an acrid odor of magnesium flares floated like a cloud of incense offered to the spirit of King Carnival. We clapped our hands in childish rapture and laughed, wishing we could jump out and join in the fun; but the stern voice of Tante Miss spoiled our innocent enjoyment with, "Come down off those benches immediately and keep quiet!" 
..
! !    .         ,    .              .         .   ,   :  ;    ,    ;   ,   ;  ,        ;    .   ,   ,     ,    .         , ,       ;         :       !

We obeyed reluctantly. Her attitude toward us was one of perpetual reproof. She never missed a chance of reminding us to behave with more dignity because we were pupils of the Isadora Duncan School-as if that should stop our normal urge for fun and mischief. Disgruntled grumblings and little grimaces behind her back were our ineffectual revenge. We were craning our necks to get another good look at the gay fair despite her reproof, when the lumbering omnibus suddenly veered sharply to the right, jumbling us together. 
..
  . Ÿ      .         ,      ,        ,            .            .   ,       ,    ,      ,   .

We had turned into a quiet side street of the residential section. By comparison with the broad and lively main thoroughfare, it seemed as deserted as a cemetery. The strident music of the calliopes and hurdy-gurdies grew fainter and fainter until only the monotonous clop, clop of the horses remained. The street was dark, with only a gaslight flickering here and there. After a while the brakes screeched, and the omnibus came to a sudden halt. 
..
       .           ,  .     -     ,     ,   .   ,        .     ,    .

"This is where we get out," Tante Miss said wearily. The omnibus did not deposit us in front of a hotel or pension as we had expected, but had stopped in front of a church with a tall, slender steeple. A churchyard on one side and a small house on the other presented an eerie picture. All was silent and dark except for a light burning in the window of the house. We did not know what to make of this. My curiosity got the better of me. I timidly asked Tante Miss where we were, not really expecting an answer because she never told us anything. She surprised me by explaining wearily but patiently, "This is our new home, we are going to remain here for as long as we stay in Paris." 
"In this church?" 
"No, silly, of course not. In the little house beside it. Just follow me." And she added, while we trouped up to the house together, "This used to be the rectory of the American church, but it isn't any longer. Now, no further questions. Take your suitcases and go inside; supper is waiting." 
..
   ,   .        ,    ,      ,  . 	
         ,   .     ,       .   ,    .    .     ,   ,   ,        .   , ,   :    ,      ,     .
  ?
, , , .      ,    .   ,      :        ,      . ,   .    ,  ."

There was something important that she did not explain. None of us had any inkling when we went to bed that night that we would never return to Grunewald. Isadora considered Germany (mainly for personal reasons but also because of the Kaiserin's puritanical views) no longer the proper place for her school. With the closing of the house in Grunewald, she now had just twelve of her most talented pupils left. 
..
 - ,    .     ,      ,       .  ,   (    ,   -    ())        .     ,          .

We appeared with her for a month or more at the Theatre de la Gaiete Lyrique in Paris that spring. Gordon Craig, who was then living in Paris and came to our performances, wrote in his notebook: 
..
             ,  .  ,          ,     :

It was here that she first used the great blue curtains some twenty or twenty-five feet high, which followed my designs as may be seen in my The Arts of the Theatre, published in 1905 and which I had made in 1901-2-3. She pretends that she used them in 1904 in Berlin where I saw her dance for the first time in December. She did not use them then. She used a few curtains six feet in height. 
..
              [6-7,5 ],    ,       ,   1905       1901-2-3.   ,     1904   ,        .     .         [2 ].

Performing every night, practicing, and rehearsing, we were kept busy. During the day, out for a stroll and some fresh airalways walking in orderly pairs-we often stopped in the Bois where the acacia trees were in bloom to watch the Parisian children at play. They rolled hoops or tossed diabolos into the air or played cache-cache, hiding from their nurses behind the big trees. We sometimes envied them, for our toys were left in Grunewald and we had nothing to play with. But at night, when the little Parisians slept, we envied them no longer. For then came our turn to play. Dancing on the stage to our hearts' content in harmony with beautiful music played by a fine orchestra under the baton of the great Colonne [The Colonne Orchestra is a French symphony orchestra, founded in 1873 by the violinist and conductor Edouard Colonne] - what could be a more stirring game! We never tired of it and eagerly looked forward to our nightly gambols. 
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  ,   ,   .   ,       ,   ,     ,    ,       .           -,       .    ,       ,       .  ,    ,     .     .   ,        ,         -      !             .

Not that our academic studies were neglected. Frau Zschetzsching came from Germany to resume them after a three-month vacation. She also taught us French, a language she pronounced with a strong Germanic accent, which bore no resemblance to the way the natives spoke. We learned to pronounce it better from singing the old folk songs "Sur le pont d'Avignon" and "Le Chevalier de la Marjolaine." 
..
 ,      .     ,      .      , ,       ,       ,   .     ,             .

Although we had contributed to our upkeep by giving paid performances ever since our stage debut, the expenses of the school mounted and became more and more difficult to meet. Away on tour, Isadora would be constantly bombarded by telegrams from her sister or mother asking for funds-a thousand marks here, two thousand marks there, until she felt like saying, "To heck with it all!" She always remembered this effort of sustaining the school's expenses as uphill work, like straining forward against the rapids of a river. She had no sooner returned from Russia at the end of June than Charles Frohman proposed an extended engagement in London, together with her pupils. This was all so quickly organized that she had no time to rest from her strenuous tour. It seemed that the Duchess of Manchester, who was a dollar princess, was ready to sponsor the Duncan School in England, and so we all went there to dance at the Duke of York's Theatre, beginning July 6, 1908. 
..
       ,         ,            .                  -    ,     ,      :  !      ,     ,    , ,      .         ,            .     ,           . ,   ,    ,       ,      ,      ,   6  1908 .

It rained almost the whole time, and we took melancholy walks into Hyde Park from our nearby lodgings in Half Moon Street, finding no gay children at play but only placid sheep grazing on the common. Frohman had advertised us somewhat sensationally as "Twenty Parisian Dancers." That this statement was misleading and inaccurate on both counts did not bother this seasoned showman one bit. However, he gave us the thrill of our young lives when he presented each of us with a little gold watch. We simply squealed with delight. To be in possession of a real gold watch was the height of our ambition. We were seldom given presents. No longer were our daily outings in Hyde Park melancholy; we positively beamed with pride as we walked about in the rain with our watches pinned to the outside of our coats. After a week of this, alas, our golden watches turned a nasty green. 
..
    ,        -        ,        ,    ,    .         . ,           ,      .   ,         ,        .     .      -    .    .          -;      ,        ,     .   , ,     -.

Ellen Terry, the mother of Gordon Craig, tried to make up for this disappointment by taking us to the zoo; then to see Peter Pan and The Pirates of Penzance. She loved children and we loved her. She was the second celebrated actress we had met. The first one had been Eleonora Duse, who did not take us to a zoo. Instead, reclining on a couch a la Dame aux Camelias, she had placed her long, slender hands on our heads in benediction and murmured, "Que dieu vous garde!" 
..
 ,   ,    ,    ;       .   ,    .     ,    .    ,      .  ,    "    ",             :    !

The highlight of our month's stay in London turned out to be a command performance for their majesties King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. The day before this important occasion we lunched with the Duchess of Manchester at her lovely estate on the Thames. For a change we enjoyed a spell of beautiful weather, and the command performance was planned to be given outdoors. 
..
              VII   .                 .      ,        .

When we went in to luncheon, Isadora sat next to the Duchess and then asked me to sit beside her. This honor, pleasant as it was, made me nervous. Luncheon was served in grand style, with a uniformed footman in the ducal colors standing behind each chair. For a main course we had scrambled eggs and string beans. The latter happened to be my great aversion. I didn't think anyone would notice if I left them untouched, though I had been taught that leaving food constituted a grave social error. Just as the white-gloved footman was about to remove my plate, Isadora-who had been engaged in conversation with the Duchess-glanced my way and said, "Irma, eat your string beans." 
..
    ,     ,        .  ,   ,   .      ,           .         .     .   ,  - ,     ,   ,         .  ,         , ,    ,      : ,    .

What to do? Both she and the Duchess were giving me their undivided attention. Luckily the situation was saved when the Duchess, taking pity, said, "I know how she feels. I have a little niece who can't stand them either," and motioned to the footman to remove my plate. Then I heard her say to Isadora, "Their majesties are definitely coming tomorrow night, so why don't we have our coffee in the drawing room and talk about the arrangements, while the children go outside to play? It's such a lovely day." 
..
 ?  ,      .  ,   ,  , , :  ,    .     ,      ,       .   ,    :      ,              ,      ,  ?    ."

We breathed a sigh of relief. Amid heavy tapestries and embossed silver, the ducal luncheon had been a bit too formal and skimpy. Once out in the sunshine, the velvety lawns and the carefully tended flowerbeds restored our normal spirits. We roamed unattended through the park. At one point we came upon a charming sunken garden surrounded by a high wall, which-we noticed with delight-was covered with luscious peaches growing in espalier fashion. They hung there, well spaced, in glowing colors, like nature's miniature masterpieces, ripe for the picking. In the twinkling of an eye, two of the older girls had jumped into the garden whence they threw the golden fruit, flushed with pink, up to us. The first peaches we had ever eaten (they are considered a great luxury in Europe and are very scarce in the northern countries), they tasted as delicious and sweet as stolen fruit is supposed to. 
..
   .      ,       .   ,      ,     .      .  -       ,   , ,     ,    ,     ( ).   ,  ,   ,    ,   .         ,         .  ,   -  (           ),      ,      .

Hastily we wiped the telltale juice from our hands and lips, and walked sedately back, putting on an innocent air. We kept our fingers crossed that Isadora would not discover our misdeed. 
But suddenly we heard someone call from a distance, "Children! Children! Where are you?" 
..
   ,  -  : ! !  ?
              ,     .   ,      .

After the dance the next day, their majesties graciously shook hands with us, and the King wanted to know what everybody else in that overdressed era was always asking: "Are you not cold with so little on?" Bored with the same old question, we simply shook our heads and smiled. Queen Alexandra, elegantly gowned in the Victorian style with trailing skirt, feathered hat, and long feathered boa, enjoyed our dancing so much that she attended several of our matinees when we children presented our own program. She particularly liked the old German folk songs we sang and danced, such as "Haenslein sass im Schornstein und fiickte seine Schuh," in which I had the solo part, or the one where little Isabelle with the bushy hair was so amusing, which was called, "Hexlein, willst du tanzen." They probably recalled to the Queen her own childhood in Denmark. 
..
           ,    ,           : ,    ,   ?       ,      .  ,        ,      ,    ,      ,  , ,    .       ,     ,          ,       ,  ,         ,    ,  . ,       .

I must mention here that despite the frequent paid performances we children gave, none of us ever received any weekly allowance or pocket money. We got not even a penny's worth to buy an occasional lollipop or a ribbon for our hair. Naturally, with our strict upbringing, we dared not ask for any. Even small sums sent from home by our parents were frowned upon. Thoughts of filthy lucre had no place in our spiritual education dedicated to the true dance. So one can imagine the thrill I experienced when one day, in a restaurant in Piccadilly, I found a golden sovereign lying on the stair carpet. My exclamations of glee drew the governess' attention, and she grabbed it away from me. Like all children I believed in the rule "finders, keepers," but she said with a righteous air, "This must be returned to the management, immediately." Then the old hypocrite put it in her black leather bag and kept it. She happened to leave us that season for good. We children were so overjoyed to be rid of our dragon that I did not begrudge her my lucky find. To be rid of her was well worth the loss of a gold sovereign. 
..
   , ,     ,    ,            .       ,         . ,          .    ,     ,  .            ,   .  ,     ,   ,  ,    ,    ,    .      ,      .    ,      ,  ,      :      .            .          . , ,   ,     ,         .    ,    .

[] Irma and Isadora, Neuilly, 1908. 
[] Gordon Craig and Isadora, Berlin, 1904. 

[] Pillbox hats and Polish coats, Chateau Villegenis, October 1908. Irma on running board, center; Preston Sturges behind shoulder of girl at wheel.

The noted English novelist John Galsworthy saw us that June and wrote an article about the Duncan dancers: 
DELIGHT 
I was taken by a friend one afternoon to a theatre. When the curtain was raised, the stage was perfectly empty save for tall grey curtains which enclosed it on all sides, and presently through the thick folds of those curtains children came dancing in, singly, or in pairs, till a whole troop of ten or twelve were assembled. They were all girls; none, I think, more than fourteen years old, one or two certainly not more than eight. They wore but little clothing, their legs, feet and arms being quite bare. Their hair, too, was unbound; and their faces, grave and smiling, were so utterly dear and joyful, that in looking on them one felt transported to some Garden of Hesperides, where self was not, and the spirit floated in pure ether. Some of these children were fair and rounded, others dark and elf-like; but one and all looked entirely happy, and quite unself-conscious, giving no impression of artifice, though they evidently had the highest and most careful training. Each flight and whirling movement seemed conceived there and then out of the joy of being-dancing had surely never been a labour to them, either in rehearsal or performance. 
..
              :

      .    ,    ,     ,      ,           ,   ,   ,           .    ;  ,      ,   , ,   .    , ,      .     ;   ,   ,     , ,   ,  ,     -  ,    ,      .        ,    ;        ,      ,  , ,      . ,        ,   -        ,       .

There was no tiptoeing and posturing, no hopeless muscular achievement; all was rhythm, music, light, air, and above all things, happiness. Smiles and love had gone to the fashioning of their performance; and smiles and love shone from every one of their faces and from the clever white turnings of their limbs. 
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      ,     ;    , , ,  ,  , .        ;                 .

Amongst them-though all were delightful-there were two who especially riveted my attention. The first of these two was the tallest of all the children, a dark thin girl, in whose every expression and movement there was a kind of grave, fiery love. 
..
  -     -  ,     .          ,   ,        - ,  .

During one of the many dances, it fell to her to be the pursuer of a fair child, whose movements had a very strange soft charm; and this chase, which was like the hovering of a dragon-fly round some water-lily, or the wooing of a moonbeam by the June night, had in it a most magical sweet passion. That dark, tender huntress, so full of fire and yearning, had the queerest power of symbolising all longing, and moving one's heart. In her, pursuing her white love with such wistful fervour, and ever arrested at the very moment of conquest, one seemed to see the great secret force that hunts through the world, on and on, tragically unresting, immortally sweet. 
..
     ,      ,       ;   ,                 ,        .  	,  ,     ,    ,   ,    .  ,               , ,    ,     ,   ,  , .

The other child who particularly enchanted me was the smallest but one, a brown-haired fairy crowned with a half-moon of white flowers, who wore a scanty little rose-petal-coloured shift that floated about her in the most delightful fashion. She danced as never child danced. Every inch of her small head and body was full of the sacred fire of motion; and in her little pas seul she seemed to be the very spirit of movement. One felt that Joy had flown down, and was inhabiting there; one heard the rippling of Joy's laughter. And, indeed, through all the theatre had risen a rustling and whispering; and sudden bursts of laughing rapture. 
..
 ,    ,   ,   -  ,    ,       ,       .  ,     .            ;     " " , ,    .  ,         ;     .  ,       ;     .

I looked at my friend; he was trying stealthily to remove something from his eyes with a finger. And to myself the stage seemed very misty, and all things in the world lovable; as though that dancing fairy had touched them with tender fire, and made them golden. 
..
    ;     -   .       ,     ;             .

God knows where she got that power of bringing joy to our dry hearts: God knows how long she will keep it! But that little European Tour flying Love had in her the quality that lies in deep colour, in music, in the wind, and the sun, and in certain great works of art-the power to set the heart free from every barrier, and flood it with delight. 
..
 ,     ,      :  ,     !             ,     ,  ,  ,         -           .

John Galsworthy remembered our dancing years later. Lecturing at Princeton University, he spoke of losing oneself in the contemplation of beauty. He said, "How lost was I when I first looked on the Grand Canyon of Arizona; when I first saw Isadora Duncan's child dancers . . . or the Egyptian desert under the moon." 
..
      .     ,    ,      .  :   ,    -  ,         ...     .

This tribute by the English writer fittingly closes a chapter in the lives of Isadora's little pupils from the Grunewald school. The innocent years of childhood were rapidly drawing to an end. This long voyage to foreign lands had broadened my outlook and perceptions and had made me more aware of the outside world. With it, too, had vanished many of my childhood illusions. 
..
              .     .                   .         .


[108], p.86-100 * DUNCAN DANCER * Sojourn at Chateau Villegenis * 

-=5=-

Sojourn at Chateau Villegenis
   

EvERY life has its ups and its downs, its prosperous periods and its meagre ones. The same was true of Isadora's school. Ever since she founded her philanthropical institution, she had tried to keep it going despite financial difficulties. This meant an endless succession of dance tours with no time out to put down roots for the establishment of her private life. Once more, no sooner had the London season ended than she was off again. This time her destination was America. And once more she entrusted the school to the management of Elizabeth. She had no other alternative and no reason for not trusting her sister. 
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       ,      .      .   ,      ,    ,    .        ,        .  ,     ,   .       .        .             .

It had not been easy for Isadora to decide on this trip, putting the whole expanse of an ocean between herself and her loved ones for who knew how long. She said, "It cost me many pangs to part from my little baby Deirdre, who was now almost a year old, and from that other child-my School." 
..
       ,         ,   ,  .  :    ,       ,    ,     -  .

Although the number of her original pupils had dwindled to a mere dozen, she continued to pretend they still numbered twenty. Constantly on the lookout for people who might be persuaded to become patrons of her school, she was delighted upon her arrival in America when she met Mrs. W. E. Corey, a wealthy American lady who took an interest in furthering the arts. Before her marriage to a steel magnate, the former Mabel Gilman had been on the stage in musical comedy. An article appearing in a New York newspaper on September 20, 1908, said in part: 
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       ,   ,     .    ,        ,         ,     . . ,   ,    .  ,     ,         . ,   -  20  1908 , , :

It is owing to Mrs. W. E. Corey's desire to devote some of her present fortune to encouraging artists who need it that the twenty little members of Isadora Duncan's school for dancing are just now enjoying the delights of residence in a chateau, about forty miles from Paris. 
..
   - . .        ,    ,               ,      .

Mrs. Corey, who wants to help not only young dramatists but artists of all kinds as well, heard from Miss Duncan of her plans and the struggle that it was for her to maintain the school by her dancing. Even in France to clothe, feed and educate twenty children is not a slight financial undertaking, especially when they are reared carefully .... 
..
 ,       ,     ,      ,   ,         .   ,  ,    20 ,    ,      ....

"To think that you should be paying to house your school in Paris," said Mrs. Corey when she heard of the work that the children are doing, "when I have a chateau standing empty which they might as well occupy! There is a farm there, too, with all that they could want to eat, and there are servants with nothing to do but wait on them." 
..
  ,         , -   ,     ,   , -     ,  ,     !    ,     ,   ,   ,    .

Unfortunately, our unknown but very generous American hostess was not there to extend a welcome when we arrived late in September at her beautiful chateau. Instead we were met by her Irish mother, Mrs. Gilman, a short, square-shaped woman in her fifties, who displayed none of her daughter's generous traits. With Tante Miss and our French governess we had come on foot from the small station at Massy-Palaiseau two miles away, when we saw her standing by the front door. Her daughter's sudden affiuence through a rich alliance did not change Mrs. Gilman's manner or outlook from the skimpy days when Mabel had worked in the chorus line to earn a living. Dressed in a gray suit and wearing shiny black low-heeled shoes, she stood with feet apart and firmly planted in the graveled driveway. Like a watchdog, she was grimly determined to bar all comers from entering the house. Without offering a greeting she exclaimed, "Well, bless my soul! If they aren't here, the whole lot of them!" Pointing at some buildings across the drive-way enclosing a large courtyard where the stables were, she said to Elizabeth, "Their quarters are over there. I'm afraid your kids will only scuff up the parquet floors and scratch our nice furniture if I let them in here." She jerked a thumb behind her at the chateau. "Those rooms over there are plenty good enough for them. Come on and let me show you." 
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 ,  ,       ,   ,          .       ,  , ,      ,       .               -    ,  ,      .                   ,     ,    .            ,             .   ,          .   ,  : ,   !    ,   !      ,   ,   ,   :   .  ,             ,     .        .       . ,     .

With that remark, not very flattering to our general up-bringing (especially since the Grunewald school prided itself on an immaculate cleanliness and neatness), she stepped out energetically and conducted us to an apartment near the stables, probably originally occupied by the grooms. To my amazement I saw that, except for a large table and some chairs occupying the entire space in the small dining room, the rest of the rooms were completely devoid of furniture. There was not even a single chair. Furthermore, we children were obliged to sleep-not, as Isadora and her generous art patron in far-off America imagined, in the comfortable beds of the chateau-but on simple pallets spread on the hard floor. These primitive living quarters provided neither electricity nor sanitary facilities of any sort. Moreover, we later discovered, the whole place was infested with mice. At night, after blowing out the solitary candle serving as light, we could hear them hungrily gnawing at the woodwork. 
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  ,        ( ,        ),          , ,   .   ,  , ,       ,      ,      .     .  , , ,    -  ,      -     ,    , -    ,    .        ,   .  ,   ,      . ,   ,  ,  ,     .

Quite patently Mrs. Gilman had seen to it that her daughter Mabel's little guests would not enjoy "the delights of residence in a chateau." Nor, if she had any say about it, would they have "servants with nothing to do but wait on them." Her daughter's decision to place the chateau and everything in it at the disposal of Isadora's dance school obviously met with her complete disapproval. It must have been a real disappointment to her when Elizabeth left us there. 
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 ,    ,            .  ,     ,    ,     ,    .                  .  ,      ,     .

Tante Miss made no visible protest nor, for that matter, did she inform Isadora of the true conditions concerning our reception and accommodation at Mrs. Corey's chateau. She told us, "I am going to leave you here with Mademoiselle and a woman to do the cooking. I want you to be good children and obey Mademoiselle because I will be able to come out and see what you are doing only once in a while. I am staying in Paris at Isadora's apartment to take care of Deirdre." 
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      , ,   ,      ,         .   :         ,   .  ,        ,       ,   ,   ,           ,    .

Chateau Villegenis, where Elizabeth apparently was satisfied to leave us, was situated in the lovely Bievre valley, a few kilometers south of Paris and not far from Versailles to the west. It had once belonged to Napoleon's brother Jerome Bonaparte, the sometime King of Westphalia, who died there in 1860. To the north it was dominated by the imposing mass of the wood of Verrieres, a heavy stand of pine, oak, beech, and chestnut trees; and a river ran through the extensive property. 
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 , , -,    ,    ,     ,             .  -     , -  ,     1860 .       ,    , ,    ;      .

The chateau itself stood in the center of a wooded park, reached by a half-mile driveway from the main gate in the surrounding wall. The white house, with two wings in typical French style, mirrored its facade in a small lake, with a parterre of flowers extending to each side. The estate contained tennis courts, orchards, hot houses, a little ivy-covered chapel, and even a medieval donjon hidden deep in the woods. The house was beautifully appointed, with all the conveniences and servants galore; but Mrs. Gilman, together with a little girl called Francoise (a distant relative by marriage), lived there in solitary splendor. We were not invited to set foot in it, not even to take an occasional hot bath. For our daily ablutions we used a large tin pan and cold water drawn from the pump in the courtyard. The French governess pleaded in our behalf for the use of a bathroom, but to no effect. "I don't know why I should let you kids run all over my house," was Mrs. Gilman's only answer. 
..
      ,             .  ,       ,     ,    ,    .    , , ,          ( ),    .    ,       ;           (   )    .       ,       .           ,    .         ,      .   ,     ,      , -    .

And so, in the midst of these beautiful surroundings we children were destined to live in squalor, which made our stay at the chateau completely miserable. At first, in balmy October when we could spend all our time outdoors, it wasn't so bad. But we knew that October could not last forever. 
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,     , ,     ,        . ,   ,         ,      .   ,      .

At one point we even had hopes of leaving. Late one night we were told to pack our things quickly, and we were whisked off to Paris-only to be returned the next day. As usual, no one told us where we were going. But when I peevishly remarked at being kept in the dark that "we might be on our way to America; even then no one would tell us so," the response was that I had guessed correctly. 
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 -        .       ,     ,      .  ,    ,   .      ,     ,      ,         ,   ,    .

It seemed that Isadora's American tour had had an inauspicious beginning. To help drum up more interest, Mr. Frohman - remembering how our dancing had captivated even the sophisticated London audiences-may have had the idea of sending for us, and Isadora may have countermanded it because of the extra expense involved. In any case, we returned, greatly disappointed, to the chateau. 
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,        .     , - ,   ,        , ,    ,  , , ,    -  .   ,  ,  ,  .

That one night and day in Paris, we stayed at the tiny three-room apartment of Mrs. Mary Sturges (later Mrs. Desti), at 10 Rue Octave Feullet. She was an old friend of Isadora, an American divorcee and expatriate who made her home in France. A few days later she motored out to see us, bringing her little son Preston and a photographer. "I want to send Isadora a picture of you children," she said, "so that she can see how well you look and how happy you are here." 
..
         10-   ,        (  ).     ,       ,        .       ,        .       , -  , -    ,         .

A gay, rather frivolous woman, who liked to laugh at everything and was constitutionally unable to take anything seriously, she conceived the idea of posing us festooned all over her automobile. We put on our Polish coats and climbed aboard her 1908 model limousine, which had more polished brass trim than room to sit in. Preston (who later became the well-known play-wright and movie director), climbed in too and had his picture taken with us. It must have reassured our absent guardian that all was indeed well with her pupils at Mrs. Corey's marvelous French chateau, where we were enjoying a delightful residence and being tended by the servants who had nothing to do but wait on us. 
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,   ,           - ,     ,       .           1908 ,       ,    .  (      )  ,      .  ,     ,              ,         ,    ,    .

Mrs. Sturges only made matters worse by telling us in her gay, chatty manner, that she was taking Elizabeth and Mr. Merz, our music director, trip. "We are making a tour of the Rhineland," she informed us --in her easygoing way. When we pressed her for further details, she chatted on, "Well, I'm not supposed to tell you, so don't tell anyone I told you, but it seems that the Grand Duke of Hesse" - she stopped and wagged a finger at us in mock-seriousness. "Remember now, this is a secret! Well, the Grand Duke has offered Elizabeth a piece of property near Darmstadt for the building of a school of her own." 
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    ,     ,  ,       ,   ,  .      , -       .        ,  : ,     ,    ,    , , ,   ,          . ,   ! ,             .

When she saw that this piece of news left us gaping with utter astonishment, she hastily added, "Remember, not a word!" She waved gaily and grinned one last big grin as she got into her chauffeur-driven limousine, calling out, "Au revoir! See you again when I return!" The chauffeur tooted his brass horn, and we scattered like chickens. Then wheels crunched on the gravel and she was gone, leaving us shaken children trying to grasp fully this formidable piece of news. 
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  ,        ,   : ,  !    , ,        , :  !  ,   !       ,   ,  .     ,   ,  ,  ,        .

Our first reaction was to wonder, "Does Isadora know of this?" and, "What will happen to us?" As usual, there was no one to enlighten us, and our future seemed as uncertain as our present. Abandoned here in France by our second guardian, who had been entrusted by Isadora to take good care of us, we couldn't help feeling that we were a group of lost waifs. 
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     :     ?     ?  ,    ,       ,    .       ,      ,     ,      .

To cap it all, Mademoiselle packed up her things one day and left. Whether it was the bad food, or not getting paid, or that we were too much to cope with, we never knew. From that moment, left without any sort of supervision, we entered upon a state of total neglect. 
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   ,       .         ,      ,    ,    .   ,   - ,      .

The winter that year in France proved to be exceptionally severe. It was so cold that the pump froze and the older girls needed to hack the ice away to get water for our cold baths. By then our open sandals had worn thin and had such big holes in them that we were practically walking barefoot in the snow. Our clothing, too, was threadbare and provided little warmth. Fortunately, some coal fires in an open grate provided a little heat in the tiny rooms, otherwise we would surely have frozen to death. During the bad weather, confined indoors, we sat on the floor (there being no chairs) huddled close beside the hearth, and whiled the day away till bedtime. We had no books or games to keep us occupied. Apparently no one cared what happened to us. The cuisiniere, a mute old peasant woman, concerned herself exclusively with cooking what meagre food there was. The provisions dwindled rapidly. Our daily fare during the winter months consisted entirely of either pumpkin soup or a dish of plain boiled potatoes. Forks not being available, even though we were guests of a millionairess, we ate with spoons, the only eating utensils provided by Mrs. Gilman.
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        .   ,   ,       ,       .              ,       .         .  ,           ,      .    ,    ,      (   ),          .       ,     . -,     ,    . ,  ,     .   .                .    ,     ,   ,   ,   .

Time seemed to stand still, with nothing to look forward to, not even the approach of Christmas. The usual Christmas packages from home failed to arrive. Our parents had no idea of our exact whereabouts in France, and mail from Grunewald could not be forwarded. Not that we children were remiss in wanting to correspond; we simply lacked the money to buy stamps, and in our ignorance we had no inkling that letters could be sent without them. The prospect of having to celebrate our beloved Weihnachten alone in a strange land caused a great deal of homesickness. Christmas Eve had dawned bleakly when Mrs. Gilman surprised us by calling us over to the chateau. 
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, ,   ,   ,   .        .          ,        .  ,  , ,    ;         ,       ,       .  ,          ,   .  ,     ,    .

We tidied ourselves as best we could and eagerly approached our hostess, who stood waiting by a side door. With our bare toes sticking out of our sandals in the snow, we curtsied politely and said "Merry Christmas." 
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    ,  ,       ,       .    ,      ,       .

"Yes, that is what I want to see you about," she said, looking us over carefully without as much as a smile. She asked us into the glass-enclosed side entrance, but would not let us enter the house as if our presence might contaminate it. She opened the door and showed us the huge, decorated tree in the hall. With spontaneous exclamations at the beautiful sight of the tree and the many attractively wrapped presents beneath, we pressed forward for a closer view. But she restrained us. "No, don't go in," she said. "You will only scuff up the floors. I just thought you kids might like to see the tree since you haven't got one." 
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,  ,     , -  ,    ,   .         ,       ,        .       ,     .              ,       .    . ,  , -  .    ,   ,  , ,   ,      .

She stepped inside for a moment, returning with an open box of candies. "Here, take one," she said in a more friendly tone, and offered each child a bonbon. Then she closed the box and replaced it on the table in the hall. We stood crowded together in the small entrance watching her, not knowing what to do or say, hoping for a little more friendly human contact. 
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    ,       . ,   ,          .           .  ,     ,   ,  ,    ,      .

"Well, run along now," she said, dismissing us. "I just wanted to show you the tree. You understand, don't you?" We nodded our heads and sadly trudged back to our bare rooms. In Europe, the tree is lit and the presents are opened late on Christmas Eve. Glumly we sat on the floor close by the fire after our evening meal of pumpkin soup and waited for something to happen. But what? It was cold outside and snowing. 
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,  ,  ,  .       .  ,   ?           .     ,  ,   ,  .              ,   -.  ?        .

We could hear the wind in the chimney. We talked, remembering other, happier Christmases. Presently, to get in the right mood, I started softly to sing: "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht; alles schlaeft einsam wacht." The others joined in, and we sang on bravely till the end. With the last notes, our voices quavered and then failed. We all burst into tears. Through our tears, hungry as the mice in the wainscotting, we gnawed on raw acorns and chestnuts that we had gathered in the woods for Christmas presents-the only ones we had. We cried ourselves to sleep, lying on the miserable pallets on the floor. 
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    .  ,  ,   .   ,     ,    :  ,  ;    , .  ,      .      ,   .   .   , ,      ,      ,         - ,    .    ,      .

The following day, we looked through the frosty windows and watched the fine little friends of Francoise arriving for a party at the chateau. We were not invited, Mrs. Gilman's excuse being that we did not speak French. But Christmas is a day for children the world over and needs no special language for their understanding. 
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              ,     .    ,      ,     -.   -                .

It was a hopeless situation. With Isadora in America, Elizabeth in Germany-none of us knowing their exact whereabouts-and Mrs. Gilman ignoring our existence, we found ourselves helplessly trapped. In an effort to find a solution, I realized that outside help in our predicament could be obtained only by notifying mother. Not aware that an unfranked letter would actually reach her, this escape seemed closed too. As a result, a frightening sense of insecurity enveloped us all. 
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   .    ,    -        , -   ,   ,      .   ,  ,              .      ,     ,       ,      .        .

Because of the bad weather and for lack of proper clothing, our outdoor exercises had to be curtailed. The cramped rooms made indoor exercise equally impossible. We had no means of letting off excess energy, and so it was not surprising-cooped up as we were in four tiny rooms, like dumb animals in a cage-that the older girls should gang up on us younger ones for something amusing to do. The six older girls, all teenagers, tyrannized the younger to such an extent that we lived in constant terror. Children can be very cruel. As the oldest of the younger group, and possessed of a latent fiery temperament that needed only strong fanning to erupt like a volcano, I did not suffer from their machinations. They knew me and my temper too well. But one day, after a fierce quarrel when I tried to remonstrate with them and their unspeakable behavior, they held a court and sentenced me to Coventry. 
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-              .  ,   ,   .        ,     -     ,       , -          ,  ,  - .   ,  ,     ,      .     .           ,     ,  ,      .       .  ,   ,               ,        .

Now being sent to Coventry is not a pleasant experience, as most children in boarding school well know. In my case, where it lasted for weeks, it amounted to solitary confinement. If the youngest girls with whom I roomed even so much as glanced my way, they were severely punished. I became embittered, secretly vowing some kind of vengeance on the three ringleaders. 
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       ,       -.   ,     ,      .     ,      ,     ,     .   ,    -   .

At one point I became so morose I decided to run away. I had no money, and it meant walking all the way home to Hamburg. In desperation I packed my few belongings in a small satchel and sneaked out of the house before dawn. I got past the main gate without being seen by the gatekeeper and wandered determinedly along the highway to Paris. But after a few miles of walking in my torn sandals, I got footsore and so frightened at the enormity of my rash undertaking that I succumbed to my misgivings and returned to the chateau as the lesser of two evils. 
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 -     ,   .     ,      .                .     ,          .             ,       ,        ,     . 

I don't know how long this ostracism would have lasted (since I was too proud to ask the girls to forgive me) if a frightening incident had not occurred and changed their minds. As I have mentioned, coal fires burned in open grates in our bedrooms. One day I happened to be sitting in the farthest corner of the room while two little girls played close to the open fire. I was supposed to be in solitary confinement, but I knew that both Erica and Temple secretly sympathized with me, having themselves been badly treated by the big ones. I sensed that they played in this room on purpose, despite the risk they took, to keep me company after my month-long loneliness. 
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  ,       (     ,     ),          .    ,         .        ,         .       ,   ,   ,     ,        .  ,       ,   ,     ,         .

I was drawing pictures and paying them no heed when suddenly I heard a terrified scream. Erica's dress had caught fire, and the flames rapidly spread to her face. Temple stood petrified beside her, screaming. I rushed over and was trying to extinguish the flames with my bare hands when the older girls came running in. Seeing me struggle with Erica in an effort to subdue the flames, they recoiled in panic, thinking I meant to throw her in the fire. For the first time I saw fear written on their own nasty faces-fear of what I might be capable of doing to them in revenge. Their cowardly expressions gave me inner satisfaction, for I realized I now had the upper hand. 
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        ,     .   ,       .      ,  .         ,    . ,     ,   ,    , ,       .    ,       -  ,         .       ,    ,      .

"Don't stand there like idiots!" I shouted at them. "Go fetch the water cans quickly!" 
They obeyed my command with alacrity, relieved that I was not going to destroy them after all. When they brought the water, I poured it over Erica till the flames were extinguished. "Poor little Erica," I consoled her, rubbing her dry with a towel. "You'll be all right now." 
She threw her arms about me, and we kissed. Temple came up and whispered, "Irma, dear, none of us little ones are sore at you. THEY forced us to ignore you. Both Erica and I are so sorry for you." 
"I know, don't worry. You'll see, I'll get even with them yet." 
..
  ,  !   .    !
     ,  ,         .    ,     ,    .   ,   ,    .     .
  ,   .    : , ,   , ,   ,     .       .
 ,  . ,     .

That night, when I was about to drop off to sleep, one of the ringleaders bent down low over my pallet. I sat bolt upright in a combative mood. 
"What do you want?" 
"Sh, sh, don't be alarmed;'' she whispered. "Susanna wants to see you. She is ready to forgive you because of what you did to save Erica." 
..
  ,    ,       .        .
  ?
-,  , -  , -    .      ,   ,   .

Susanna, the eldest of our group, asked me to apologize. "Never!" was my defiant retort. She came from the same city I did and did not in the least impress me with her absurd airs. The other girls looked on her as a queen, she had them so hypnotized. To me she was just a stupid, stuck-up kid, and I told her so. At this lese majeste, the others acted stunned. When they had recovered sufficiently and saw that I was not going to kowtow to their silly queen, two of them crept up behind me. I stood there unaware in front of Susanna, who was propped up on pillows as if on a make-believe throne, when they suddenly doused me with a pitcher of ice-cold water. My fury aroused, I threatened them with dire destruction and rushed out of the room, bolting the connecting door. It was their only exit, and now I had them under complete control. I intended to keep them locked up in there for good. Now it was their turn to beg me to unbolt the door, and when they promised to behave and cause no more mischief, I set them free. 
..
,    ,   . "!"    .      ,   ,        .        ,   .      ,    ,      .      .       ,         ,      . ,  ,    ,     ,   ,        .   ,         ,   .       ,         .      .        ,         ,     ,   .

This life would have continued indefinitely but for the fortuitous arrival of a new governess. Fraulein Harting turned out to be a young, sympathetic Alsatian woman, who spoke both French and German. Overjoyed to have at long last someone who spoke our own language, I told her all that weighed on my mind and made me unhappy. When I confessed my big sin, my attempt to run away, I was ready for her to scold me. Instead, she asked earnestly, "Why didn't you? I would have done the same thing." I told her that I had no money to buy a ticket. "You need only go to the nearest station and ask for Travelers' Aid," she explained-and she told me how that society would always furnish a ticket home for anyone stranded in a foreign land. 
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    ,       .    ,   ,       .  ,    -,      ,    ,           .       ,   ,      .     :     ?      .   ,     ,   .            , -  ,    ,          ,     .

She told me also that it was possible to send a letter without stamps, postage due. I immediately decided to put her advice to the test. Not having written home for four months, I tore a page out of my copybook and poured out my heart to mother, telling her that Elizabeth Duncan had a plan for establishing a school in Germany, but that Isadora had decided to have hers in France. And to make no mistake about my preference! 
..
   ,       ,   .       .       ,           ,  ,          ,        .      !

Fraulein Harting's advice had been correct. Mother received the letter and instantly sent me money and a large package with all the necessities I had had to do without for so long, such as a brush and comb, soap, tooth powder, and writing paper. From Tante Miss and Isadora, we had not a word; they seemed to have forgotten us. 
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    .               ,       ,     , ,     .          ; , ,  .

Life in the rooms near the stables at Chateau Villegenis continued as before except that now we had a governess. We complained bitterly. For days we were fed only pumpkin soup, which I loathed. Once, rebelling, we refused to eat it. But our governess said, "I'm sorry. Pumpkin soup is all there is to eat. You will only have it again tomorrow for breakfast if you don't eat it tonight." 
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          -,   ,      .     .         ,   . , ,      .    : ,    -  ,  .        ,        .

"Oh, no I won't!" I suddenly shouted. Disgusted with the whole business, not only the horrible food, I seized the bowl of soup and flung it across the table at the wall. It landed directly above a photograph of Mabel Gilman in musical comedy costume, dripping all over the picture. There was a shocked pause. Everyone present stared at me while I stared defiantly at the big stain on the wall. Then Fraulein Harting found her voice. She pulled me by the ear, saying, "I'll teach you to throw food around! Come with me! " 
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, ,   !   .     ,      ,           .            ,     .   .     ,         .      .       :     !   !

She dragged me to the upper floor, locking me into a dark, unused room. "You can spend the night here and cool off!" she shouted, and left. I threw myself against the door and rattled the knob, screaming, "Let me out! Let me out! " Suffering a fearful attack of claustrophobia, I was frantic. When my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I saw that the room was crowded with furniture-all the furniture Mrs. Gilman had begrudged our using. In an access of fury, I climbed over the stuff, opened the window, and proceeded to throw out the furniture. Out it went, piece by piece: chairs, tables, mirrors, everything I could lift. The crashing on the hard ground outside made a big noise in the still night. 
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     ,    ,  .       ! -    .       , :  !  !     ,   .      ,  ,       -  ,    - .       ,      .  ,   : , , , ,    .           .

It wasn't long before Fraulein Harting came rushing back. She unlocked the door, screaming at me, "Are you crazy? Stop that immediately!" But I paid no heed and kept flinging furniture out the window with enormous gusto. It was a marvelous relief for my long-pent-up resentment. 
..
   ,    .       :  ?   !                .        .

All this shouting and excitement brought old Mrs. Gilman on the run. "What on earth is going on?" she wanted to know. By this time the governess had gotten hold of me and dragged me outside to the heap of broken furniture. 
"Look what you have done!" Fraulein Harting pointed out unnecessarily. I knew what I had done, and I was secretly glad of it the moment I saw Mrs. Gilman. For a while, the latter stood absolutely speechless. Finally she gave me a look of hate and said, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" 
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          .  ?   .              .
,   !    .  ,  ,      ,    .    .         :   ?

With my heart still pounding wildly from the exertion and the fury and the fear, I looked her straight in the eye and said nothing. On seeing this woman-who had shown so little compassion for the starving, freezing children who were guests under her roof-now reproaching me, I felt only bitterness well up in my heart. And although I cried hot tears of shame, I could not bring myself to say to her, "I'm sorry." 
..
           ,          .   ,      ,  ,      ,    ,       .       ,       : .

She started to upbraid me in the angry tones of an outraged woman, and I expected the worst in retaliation. But to my great surprise and relief, Fraulein Harting simply took me by the hand and led me straight to bed. She covered me up warmly and brought me a bowl of hot milk with bread in it. "There, calm yourself," she said. "Eat this and then go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." 
But we never did. I suppose she too had seen the mask fall from Mrs. Gilman's face and suddenly realized where the guilt of my rebellion really lay. Her sympathy was all for the neglected motherless children in her care, with no further concern about Mrs. Gilman's broken furniture. She told us she would go to Paris and bring us help. 
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        ,      . ,      ,            .             . , , -  .  ,    .   .
     . ,   ,       ,   ,      . Ÿ      ,    ,  -        .  ,        .

It was the end of March. Spring comes early in this part of France, and the flowers and trees were budding with fresh, new life. Instead of our governess, Mrs. Sturges showed up again on a Sunday. She carried a bolt of gray cloth under her arm and brought scissors and sewing material. Greeting us with squeals of laughter, she said pleasantly, "I brought you girls some material to make new dresses. I wanted to buy a pretty blue, but Elizabeth said gray was more practical. So here is some blue embroidery yarn for decorating. I also brought you some new sandals."
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    .       ,       ,  .   ,      .            .     ,   :          .     ,   ,     .  ,        .      .

With several more delighted squeals, she told us the wonderful news that Isadora was expected to return from America any day. We happily set to work on making new dresses for her arrival. And then, one marvelous sunny day in the first week of April, there she was! She actually stood before us, our idol, our goddess, our longed-for Isadora. The spell she cast with her very presence made everything seem rosy, all cares forgotten. She embraced us all tenderly and remarked how we had grown! She herself looked pale and worried. "Poor children," she said gently, hugging us, "poor children. Miss Harting told me everything. You must pack your things and come with me at once." 
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           ,           .           .  ,        ,   !     ,  ,  ,   . ,       ,    ,    .       ,   !      .  , -   ,  , -  .     :         .

But there was nothing to pack. Our old clothes were torn to tatters. We had thrown them away for rags the day before and left them in an empty storeroom beside the stables, where we had discovered an abandoned marble tub that once belonged to Jerome Bonaparte. With whoops of joy we had heated water in the kitchen and had taken our first hot bath in six months in the Napoleonic tub. No hot bath had ever felt so good! 
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   .       .              ,       ,  -   .                     .          !

Cleaned up now, our hair washed, wearing our new dresses and sandals, we were ready and oh! how willing to go and leave this place forever. At that moment Mrs. Gilman appeared to greet her distinguished visitor. When Isadora saw the squat figure in a gray suit and black low-heeled shoes, she cut her dead by turning her back and walking away without saying a word. 
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 ,    ,       ,     !         .      , ,     .              ,   ,    ,    . 

"Come on, children, get in the cars and let's go," Isadora called out. She took my hand, saying, "You come and sit with me in my car." I hopped in beside her, smiling happily. As we passed through the gate in the great wall surrounding Chateau Villegenis, I did not once look back at the place where I had been so unhappy. "With my hand in Isadora's I felt safe once more and happy. I leaned back blissfully against the soft cushions of the limousine and sighed contentedly. Everything seemed well again with me and my small world as we sped along the sunny highway to Paris. 
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, ,     , -  .       :         .     ,  .           ,        ,     .             .          .          ,        .


[123], p.101-112 * DUNCAN DANCER * Elizabeth Takes Over * 

-=6=-

Elizabeth Takes Over 
  

UPON Isadora's return from America, two events occurred that had a decisive bearing on our future as well as hers. One was the fateful meeting with the millionaire she had hoped would help to establish her school on a solid financial basis. This was Paris Singer. The other was her sister Elizabeth's quite unexpected competition. After a short engagement at the Gaiete-Lyrique Theatre in Paris there followed a month's vacation on the Riviera, for which Isadora provided us with a new, much more elaborate wardrobe. Then she resettled her pupils at Neuilly in a comfortable pension not far from the house she had bought with the dollars earned on her American tour. She once again devoted herself to the reorganization of her school in France. Starting with the nucleus from the Grunewald school, she found she had first to obtain the consent of the parents for our permanent residence in France. To this effect she sent them each a letter dated June 7, 1909: 
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       ,        ,    .    -    , ,   ,        .    .        .      -       ,      ,    .             ,   ,  ,     .         .       ,  ,           .          7  1909 :

My dance school no longer exists in Germany because of insufficient support. My own resources are no longer adequate to enable me to carry the expense alone. A group of influential friends, here in France, is now engaged in organizing a dance school under my sole direction, but supported by other funds. 
In this new establishment the pupils will continue as hitherto, to receive an academic, as well as an artistic education. The parents are requested to agree by contract to leave the children at the school till they have reached the age of eighteen. Having finished their education, the graduated pupils will then be able to obtain dance engagements through the school organization. Half of their fee will then be deducted for repayment of the expenses incurred for their education. 
If you should consider leaving your daughter with me under the above stipulated conditions, I beg you to let me know immediately. If otherwise, I shall find myself constrained to return your daughter to you. My address is: 68 Rue Chauveau, Neuilly pres Paris. Teleg. "Duncanides." 
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        -  .      ,       .   , ,  ,         ,    . 
         ,  ,    .     ,          .           .        ,    .
          ,       .  ,        .  : 68  ,   . . "".

At the same time, unbeknownst to all of those most intimately concerned with her project, Elizabeth Duncan had perfected and put into operation her secretly hatched plan of establishing a school under her own name in Germany. In order to start her enterprise with a trained group of pupils acting as her assistants, she caused a similar request to be sent to our parents. Hoping she would surely come out the winner in this contest for the possession of the original pupils, she placed enormous faith in the fact that the German parents were bound to prefer keeping their offspring in their homeland. She then made her intentions public by placing the following notice in the German press: 
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   ,    ,       ,                  .        ,     ,       . ,            ,      ,            .     ,      :

With reference to the sojourn of my sister Isadora Duncan and her school in Paris, I beg to state that I have been associated with this school since its foundation in the capacity of both teacher and director. My own activities have been widely recognized in Germany. I therefore declare that I am not taking any part in the re-establishing of a new school in Paris, France. As repeatedly stated, I shall continue my activities in Germany, specifically in Darmstadt, where my own school is now in the process of being built. I beg you not to construe this as going against my sister. I merely continue to pursue my long and successful-if at times difficult-activities in Germany. I shall proceed on my chosen path with the guarantee of the fine support I have received so far for my undertaking. 
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           ,   ,               .      .   ,          , .   ,      ,   ,      .      ,     .         -    -   .         ,       .

In the meanwhile, fearing that most of the pupils would prefer to remain with Isadora if given a choice, and egged on by Max Merz, her friend and adviser who master-minded the whole scheme, she resorted to some audacious tactics. We had not seen her for ages when she appeared one afternoon at our pension all smiles and innocence. Although most of us instinctively scattered like birds, sauve qui peut, at her approach, she managed to catch a few of the more trusting ones who had lingered behind. She made an unusually friendly gesture without arousing any suspicion and invited them to have tea in town. The girls accepted with pleasure. The next thing they knew, instead of having tea and cakes at Rumpelmayer's, they were on a train bound for Germany! But of course the rest of us at the pension had no inkling of this forced abduction till later. 
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"What do you mean by saying my sister has stolen five girls?" Isadora seemed terribly shocked by this dreadful accusation. Standing in the midst of a group of wildly excited children, she listened with growing amazement as we told our tale of how, through a ruse, the five girls had been kidnaped. We explained how, when the girls failed to reappear and Tante Miss returned without them on the following day at exactly the same time to try this trick on the rest of us, we became suspicious; how, under the pretext of getting dressed for the bogus party, we locked ourselves in and refused to come out of our rooms. As soon as she was gone, we had sent for Isadora in a hurry. 
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    , ,      ?       .      ,    ,       ,       .   ,      ,              ,       ,    ;   ,   ,     ,        .    ,      .

"This is an outrage!" she exclaimed angrily. "How is it possible that my own sister should do a thing like that to me? It is incredible!" 
But it was only too true. I had never seen Isadora so angry. Her sister's underhanded action had evidently come as a great shock to her. She contemplated us for a while in silence. Then she asked whether the rest of us wished to remain with her. We assured her that we did. Visibly moved by our sincere attachment, she said, "Very soon I'll have a beautiful new school organized here. Just have a little patience." 
..
 ! -   .  ,          ?  !
    .    ,    .    , ,     .    .   ,        .   ,    .     ,  :        ,  .   .

Then she turned to me. "Oh, by the way, Irma, I have a nice letter here from your mother. I received it this morning." And she showed me the letter in which mother asked her to send me home for a long-overdue vacation and a consultation. "I think your mother made a good suggestion," she said. "None of you has been home for over four years, and it is time you went back. You may visit your people for the summer months and I shall send for you when the new school is ready." And she added, "That is perhaps the best plan for the present, as I shall myself be absent for a while." Neither she nor her adoring pupils could possibly foresee that "absent for a while" would encompass the space of not only several months, but years. 
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    . , , ,        ,     .     ,             .  ,     , -  .         ,    .        ,    ,     .   : , ,    ,        .  ,       ,   -        ,   .

For my part, living at home with mother was very agreeable and a nice change from school routine. Only after two months of this, I became restless and, as time went by, longed more and more for a speedy return to Isadora and the company of my schoolmates. Life at the Duncan School, for better or worse, had become so much a part of me that I could not envision any other existence. At home, delimited by my mother's narrow horizon, I felt shut in. My initiation into the art of the dance had given me a need for beauty and a sense of higher aspirations that could no more be denied me than breathing. So when July, August, September, and most of October passed and I still had not heard from Isadora, I was seized with despair, believing I would never hear from her again. On the other hand, we had frequently received word from Mr. Merz, who in his capacity as director of the newly established Elizabeth Duncan School repeatedly begged me to join that organization. Loyal in my devotion to Isadora, I steadfastly refused. 
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  ,             .        ,  ,              .    ,   ,     ,        . ,     ,     .              ,        ,     . ,   , ,     ,         ,   ,   ,        .   ,      - ,                .     ,   .

I had been in contact once with the eldest pupil, Susanna, who also lived in Hamburg. She wanted to know if I had news from Isadora, because she too wondered at her silence. We exchanged opinions, and that was all. But a couple of days later I told mother for the first time about the feud I had had with Susanna at the chateau when she and the other two older girls had tormented the younger ones. Mother appeared shocked. 
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      ,     .   ,       ,        .   ,  .           ,       ,         .   .

"To think that I received her here in my house and was nice to her!" she said. "Why didn't you tell me before? I would have refused to let you associate with such a nasty girl. She is a bad influence, and I'm surprised that they kept her at the school." Then early one morning, when I happened to be still in bed, the doorbell rang. Mother went to answer. Who could it be so early? I sat up in bed to listen. Never was I so surprised as to hear the familiar Viennese accent of Max Merz inquiring whether I was at home? Mother conducted him into the front parlor. 
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 ,     ,   ,     !  .      ?   ,          .     ,   ,      . ,  ,       ,    .  .      ?    ,  .      ,       ,   ,    ?      .

During my stay with mother I had discarded my Duncan uniform so as not to appear conspicuous, and had worn the type of dresses and shoes used by other people. At the sound of Mr. Merz's voice, I jumped out of bed and reached for the suitcase that contained my school outfit. I put it on in a jiffy. When mother came to my room and said, "Guess who is here?" she was taken aback to see me standing there in sandals and tunic. I answered, "Yes, I know, and I am ready to go with him." Mr. Merz, a pleasant man in his middle thirties, greeted me warmly. "I knew you would never make the trip alone," he said, smiling. "That is why I came to fetch you." 
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          ,    ,      ,   .             ,      .      .        : ,  ?   ,       .  : ,  ,      .  ,      ,   .  ,        , -  , .      .

My resistance to joining Elizabeth's school weakened the moment I heard his voice. My deep yearning to be within my accustomed milieu again, where music and dancing were of the essence and nothing else really mattered, made me decide impulsively to go with him. But when mother heard that he intended to take Susanna back too, she strenuously objected to my going. "You must make a choice between my daughter and that other girl," she told him. 
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      ,     .         ,      ,       ,       .    ,      ,      .           , -   .

Before making a decision, Mr. Merz, who was pedantic and given to lecturing on sundry topics, wanted to consult with Professor Hohle, who was a member of the local committee for the support of our school. He and his family lived near us and knew me quite well. We went there, and Professor Hohle paid serious attention to what Merz had to say, but seemed surprised that he needed advice. He told him to take me. 
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So Mr. Merz and I on that same day took the train for Frankfurt-am-Main, where Tante Miss and the other five girls were temporarily located. They were living in the house of a Dr. Kling, on the Bockenheimer Landstrasse. It turned out to be a pleasant, old, musty-smelling house filled with books, for Dr. Kling, a bachelor and a learned man, had been a founder of the Germanic Museum in Nuremberg. His house, overgrown with climbing roses and set in a wooded plot where he maintained a bird sanctuary, had a mysterious, enchanted air. 
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   -         --,         .      ,   .   , ,  ,  ,    ,   ,      .  ,        ,     ,  ,  .

We arrived there late at night and I did not see the other girls, who were already in bed. But when I awoke in the morning, with the sun pouring through a window framed in climbing roses in which birds nested and kept up a constant twitter, I thought I heard a different kind of twittering besides. Without turning around, I became aware of the other girls clustered near my bed. I heard them whisper excitedly: 
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    ,      ,     .     ,   ,    ,        ,   ,      .  ,     ,    .  ,    :

"Oh, look! there is only one girl in here!" 
"Which one is it, do you think? Irma or Susanna?" 
"I don't know. I can't see-she has her head hidden in the pillow!" 
"Gee, I hope it's Irma." 
"Oh, so do!." 
"Me too." 
"Sh, sh. Suppose it is Susanna!" 
"I don't care!" 
..
, ,    !
  ,   ,   ?
  ,    -    !
,  .
,   !
 .
, . ,   !
  !

That was all I needed to hear to get their honest reaction. Joyfully I cast away the bedclothes and jumped out of bed. The moment they recognized me, we had a gay reunion. Laughing and chatting at the same time, they told me how glad they were to see me instead of Susanna. "We all hate her so," Anna said, and Theresa eagerly nodded assent. Both Lisel and Gretel chimed in, one saying, "We were afraid of her"; the other asking apprehensively, "Is she coming later?" 
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 ,     ,     .         .   ,    ,     .       ,   ,       .     , -  ,     .  ,   ,    :   帻;    :   ?

I delightedly assured them that neither of the two older girls would ever be allowed to return. We had got even with our former tormentors at last. With Erica and Temple scheduled to join us at a later date, we all rejoiced to be reunited again. Pleased and happy to be forming a smaller but much more congenial group, we hoped to remain together to the end. 
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Two years elapsed before the Darmstadt building could be completed. In the interim, led by Tante Miss and Merz, we girls gave combination lecture-dance recitals to support ourselves. These also served to make propaganda and drum up trade in the form of paying pupils for their newly founded institute for Korperkultur. Here young German girls would receive an education based mainly on physical culture and racial hygiene-a chauvinistic ideology that had nothing in common with Isadora Duncan's theory of physical education for children, which was founded on her dance art. 
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  ,       .  ,       , , ,    -,   .                  .      ,         , -  ,            ,     .

The motivating force behind all this Rassenkultur business was Max Merz. A fanatic on the subject, ambitious and an opportunist, he managed to exert a kind of Svengali influence over Elizabeth. Born in Vienna of Czech parents, he had studied composition and conducting at the Vienna Conservatory, finishing at the Hochschule fiir Musik in Berlin. Seeing Isadora Duncan dance one day, he became so fired with the idea of composing music for her that he applied for a job at the Grunewald school toward the end of 1906. There he met not Isadora but her older sister, and from that moment on they became close friends and allies. He acted as music director and conductor for the school performances. When Isadora decided to transfer her establishment to Paris, Merz prevailed upon Elizabeth to remain in Germany-the country he admired more than any other-and to open her own school there. Being more than devoted to him, she agreed wholeheartedly. 
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         .    ,   ,       ,   [      1894 ].    ,    ,       ,      .    ,    ,        ,           1906 .     ,    ,          .           .        ,    ,    , ,    ,   , -      .     ,   .

A clever man, obsessed with a theory to propound, he developed a natural bent for lecturing. He would get up and lecture at the drop of a hat anywhere, any time. His ordinary conversations invariably turned into speeches and, once started, he would harangue people for hours. In promoting the Elizabeth Duncan School for Physical Culture, he had at last found his true metier. Affable in manner and attractive to women-with the well-known Viennese charm of Kuss-die-Hand type of flattery-he encountered little difficulty in getting people to part with their money for his pet project. It was gradually taking form on a hill near Darmstadt, Merz having first cajoled the ruling grand duke to donate valuable property. As a doctrinaire preaching physical culture and racial hygiene on the one hand, and providing the musical accompaniment for our dance recitals on the other, he managed to confuse many of his listeners. As one alert Hamburg critic observed: 
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 ,  ,   ,       .        ,   .       , , ,    .        , ,    .        -     " "     -       ,           .         ,   -       .   ,  [       , , ],      ,       ,  ,        .       :

The Elizabeth Duncan School for young girls of the privileged class purports to be an institution devoted to physical culture-and not the art of the dance. Then why, for heaven's sake, do they distort the picture of their intentions by giving dance performances?
I am convinced that the majority of the public, despite the explanations of director Max Merz, left the theatre with the impression that this physical culture institution really represents a dance school. 
This is probably due to the name of Isadora Duncan, whose spirit presides over the whole show. 
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            ,   ,    .  ,  ,     ,   ?
 ,   ,      ,    ,         .
,      ,     .

No matter how hard Elizabeth and Merz tried to wean us away from Isadora's artistic influence, they did not succeed in obliterating the spirit of the dance as instilled by Isadora in her former pupils. To mold us into their concept of physical culture paragons, they even resorted to the desperate means of engaging an officer of the Swedish army to drill us in gymnastics. Isadora had expressly stated that "Swedish gymnastics is a false system of body culture because it takes no account of the imagination and regards the muscles as an end in themselves."* 
*Life, p. 189. 
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  ,            ,      ,       .         ,          ,    .   ,    -     ,           .* 
*, . 189.

When, after such rigorous physical training (resembling in every respect the stiff drill of soldiers on parade), month after month, year in and year out, we still kept the spark alive and continued to dance the way Isadora taught us, they continued to disparage our efforts. If people happened to praise our dancing, Elizabeth would tell them that we only "imitated" her sister. She was undoubtedly well aware of the fact that Isadora, as the creator and unique exponent of her art, was also our sole example, and that she, Elizabeth, had nothing whatsoever to contribute in this particular field. Her own pupils had to look elsewhere for inspiration and guidance if they wanted to qualify as genuine exponents of the dance as Isadora envisioned it. She knew that Isadora from the very beginning intended to train specially chosen disciples to carry on her art. 
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      (        ),   ,   ,         ,    ,      .     ,   ,      . , ,  ,  ,       ,     ,   , ,   ,         . Ÿ           ,        ,    .  ,              .

Her dancer's body being the instrument, Isadora represented in her own person two not necessarily related principles: both the creative and the interpretative. To interpret her choreography correctly, from both the physical and the spiritual points of view, we could not do otherwise than dance in her image. For reasons of her own, this was something Elizabeth wanted to prevent at all costs. 
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Ÿ    ,           :  ,   .     ,   ,      ,     ,     .          .

I for one, all the time I was a pupil of the Darmstadt school, could not reconcile Isadora's spiritual teachings with the materialistic ideologies expounded by Elizabeth or the racial theories advocated by Max Merz. Nor did I willingly submit to wearing their uncomfortable, unbecoming school uniform, consisting of scratchy gray woolen underwear, ditto clothes, and gray woolen stockings shaped like long opera gloves with a cot for each toe. The latter were meant to fit specially designed orthopedic foot-wear with a separate compartment accommodating the individual toes. The excruciating torture I sustained walking around in these modern instruments of the Inquisition cannot be easily described. Tante Miss had a knack for making her pupils feel miserable. Not that she set a fine example by using them herself. Oh no, her implacable Spartan attitude excluded her own discomforts. 
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  ,    ,      ,         ,     ,    .         ,      ,       ,                 .               .     ,        .           .  ,     ,   .  ,        .

Thus my education, which had started as a dancer and follower of Isadora Duncan's lofty ideals, was persistently being perverted. I was, against my will and natural inclination, abruptly directed into channels alien to my artistic instincts. It all culminated at the Hygienic Exhibition in Dresden in 1911. In the great hall (where a giant replica of a transparent heart pumping red blood greeted the visitor) we had an exhibit consisting of white plaster casts of our torsos and limbs. My own contribution was a life-size replica of my arm from shoulder to fingertips. Models of our school uniform were also shown. Preceded by lectures from both Mr. Merz and Elizabeth, we girls daily gave free demonstrations of our physical prowess acquired under their guidance via Swedish gymnastics. They reached the high point of their endeavors in the field of physical culture in Germany with that exhibition. With the award of the gold medal, their greatest ambition was achieved. 
..
 ,  ,         ,  .        ,    ,    .         1911 .    (     ,   ,  ),    ,         .               .       .    -   ,  , ,       ,       .               .         . 

One would have thought that Elizabeth Duncan possessed at least the intelligence, if not the generosity of heart, to acknowledge that we pupils of the original school had contributed largely to the success of hers; that as a group we represented a distinct asset to her and her work. More important, as far as our personal attitudes were concerned, she should have recognized that we could no longer be treated as children in constant need of correction and punishment. We were growing up (the eldest being seventeen) and desired her to establish a more amiable student-teacher relationship. But her unrealistic approach to her growing pupils made the relationship even more strained than before. And thus matters stood between us when, in the fall of 1912, the Darmstadt school was ready for our occupancy. 
..
   ,        ,    ,  ,  ,   ,      ;              .   ,      ,    ,        ,       .   ( )  ,          .             ,  .      ,   1912        .

Situated just outside the city on top of a hill, the new building commanded a sweeping view of the valley below, with the silver ribbon of the river Rhine winding away in the distance. Built along simple, functional, modern lines, the house had large airy rooms filled with the Grunewald furniture, which Elizabeth had appropriated. The large central hall was especially designed for such physical activities as the Elizabeth Duncan School had to offer. The day of inauguration was planned as a big event, with their highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Hessen-Darmstadt participating. 
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      ,         ,     ,  .   , ,  ,      ,    ,   .          ,      .       ,       -.

Some of us had met this ruler a few years earlier, when we had performed at the Hof Theatre. A grandson of Queen Victoria and a brother of the Tsarina, he was in his early forties. He was informal and democratic in manner, jovial of disposition, and somewhat given to practical jokes. He was also an enthusiastic patron of the theatre and often took part in amateur theatricals. He and his wife organized a dancing class at the palace so that their two little boys could learn to dance, and some of the older girls went there once a week to assist Tante Miss with the teaching. Under the benevolent patronage of the Duke and Duchess, the Darmstadt school was off to a good start. On the day of the inauguration they drove up in their horse-drawn carriage in grand style and, seated in the front row of the great crowd of spectators, graciously watched the ceremonies. 
..
         ,      .      ,    .       ,         .             .         ,        ,          ,      .          .             ,       ,    .

This was indeed the day of days for Max Merz. Triumphant, with coattails flying, he supervised and conducted the whole proceeding. He was reception committee, conductor of the choir singers, and main speaker all rolled into one. He even composed both the words and music for the pageant. It seemed to be entirely his show. His frenzied activity aroused my risibility, which gradually mounted to such a pitch that during the inaugural address I was suddenly seized with a terrible fit of the giggles. I stood directly behind him among all the other pupils, who were dressed in purest white to form a striking background for his slender figure attired in a dark frock coat.
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        . ,   ,      .    ,   ,    -   .     ,     . ,    .      ,      ,      ,      .         ,       ,        ,    .

When, inspired by the brilliant October sunshine and carried away by his own flamboyant oratory, he started to invoke his Teutonic gods, I could no longer control myself. Neither apparently could he, for without looking around he knew quite well whence these hysterical giggles originated. And so in the midst of his impassioned evocation of "Baldur! Oh, mighty sun god! I implore thee cast thy golden rays upon our work!" he suddenly stopped and startled not only me but the whole assembly by shouting, "Oh, Irma, shut up!" 
That effectively took care of me, but not the Grand Duke. He pulled his silk handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose vigorously while his shoulders shook with hidden laughter .... 
..
,           ,     -,      . ,      , ,  ,   ,    .        ! ,   !          !        ,    , : , , !
    ,     .           ,      ....

Following the official opening, the Elizabeth Duncan School settled down to its regular daily routine of academic studies in the morning and dance, music, or gymnastics in the afternoon. Many new pupils were enrolled, on both a paying and a scholarship basis. 
In this school, once I had shown an aptitude for teaching, I was formally entrusted with all the dance classes for children. Thus, at the youthful age of fifteen, I became a full-fledged teacher without pay. But what I gained was immense practical experience (by developing my own method of teaching) in instructing others, not only in the fundamentals, but also in the finer expressions of the true dance as taught to me by Isadora Duncan. But I am getting ahead of my story. 
..
  ,             ,    .        ,    . 
  ,       ,         .  ,      [1912 ]      .  ,   ,     (     )      ,       ,     .     .


[135], p.113-123 * DUNCAN DANCER * Lesson in the Temple * 

-=7=-

Lesson in the Temple 
  

I HAD not heard from Isadora for two years when, quite unexpectedly, she came to see us. This occurred in Dresden, where we were attending a hygienic exhibition; and Isadora, on a motor trip with Paris Singer, happened to be passing through. 
..
       ,      .    ,     ;  ,     ,  .

When she arrived to have lunch with her sister, we hardly recognized her. Her outward appearance had undergone a complete transformation. Gone were the simple tunic and sandals she always used to wear, as well as the flowing cape and skullcap that were almost a trademark of hers. Instead, she appeared in a very smart outfit that Paul Poiret, the famous French couturier, had designed especially for her in accordance with her taste for simple lines. It was quite a departure for him, who had just launched the eccentric fashion of the hobble skirt and cartwheel hat bedecked with ostrich plumes. And here we have proof of how Isadora Duncan influenced modern dress reform, for it was directly through Paul Poiret's designs copied from her ideas that the simple line of today's clothes evolved. "How the girls have grownl" she exclaimed when she saw us. She held my hand in hers for a moment and regarded me fondly and then said to her sister, "Be sure to bring this one along when you visit me in July." 
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      ,     . Ÿ     .      ,    ,      ,      .           ,   ,              .       ,         -    ,   .  ,     ,        ,             ,      .   , -  ,  .             ,    :   ,      .

Back at school I lived as in a dream, counting the days from then on till Tante Miss would get ready to leave. The middle of July came and went, and still I had not received the impatiently awaited sign from her. Had she forgotten? I was secretly elated that Isadora had singled me out, and having missed her for so long I was naturally eager to be with my idol again. But I also knew that Elizabeth suppressed favoritism, and judging by her former actions I did not count much on my chances. Then suddenly, late one afternoon, the governess came to me, saying, "Can you get packed in five minutes? Miss Duncan is going to take you along. But only if you hurry!"
I got downstairs with my hastily packed wicker suitcase just as Tante Miss stepped into the waiting cab. I had no time to say goodbye to the girls. My heart was beating fast with excitement in my joy to be with Isadora again. 
..
  ,     ,     ,      .     ,           .   ?       ,    , ,    , , ,      .    ,    , ,     ,       . ,  ,      :        ?      .  ,   !
        ,       .        .         ,     .

We arrived late at night in Ostend, and Isadora met us at the station. At the hotel she softly opened the door to the room where her two children were fast asleep with their English nanny. "You go and sleep in that bed over there beside the nurse, darling, and I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight!" Getting into bed beside her sleeping children, I had the sweet sensation of actually being one of her children too. With this thought I went to sleep, feeling happier than I had for a long time. 
..
     ,      .        ,          .        , ,     .  !        ,     ,       .     ,   ,     .

I awoke the next morning in a daze, not realizing immediately where I was. Bright sunlight filtered through the shutters, and I could get a whiff of tangy salt air and hear the waves thundering on the beach. Then I remembered we had come to Ostend on the North Sea, and I jumped out of bed and stepped onto the balcony to have a good look. My movements must have awakened Deirdre, for when I returned she was sitting up in bed. The last time I saw her she had been a mere infant. Now five years old, she looked me over carefully before asking timidly, "Who are you?" "I am your new playmate," I said. "I hope we shall be friends." 
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      ,  ,   .      ,          ,   .   ,        ,         ,   .  ,  ,  ,  ,   ,    .   ,    ,    . ,   ,     ,    :  ?      , -  . ,   .

"Have you seen my little brother?" she asked and pulled me over to his crib. "His name is Patrick and he is twelve months old." The baby, who was the son of Paris Singer, had blond curly hair. He looked very delicate and spent most of the time sleeping. 
..
    ? -        .   ,   .  ,     ,    .           .

[] Elizabeth Duncan's school, Darmstadt. Irma at left among her little pupils; Elizabeth and Max Merz at right. 137
[] Deirdre and Irma aboard ship to Egypt, 1912: snapshot by Isadora Duncan. 137

[] Isadora with Deirdre and Patrick. 138

"It would be a good idea if you taught Deirdre a few exercises," her mother told me one day. At that time I had never taught anyone, and so Deirdre, Isadora's little daughter, became my first pupil. She also suggested I teach her some simple piece of poetry like William Blake's "Little Lamb, who made thee?/Dost thou know who made thee,/Gave thee life, and bade thee feed/By the stream and o'er the mead?" Whenever her mother asked her to recite the poem, the poor child-timid and confused-could remember only the first line. Her mother would frown and scold, gently urging her to make more of an effort. Being a sensitive child, Deirdre would blush, hang her head, and start to cry. 
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  ,       , -     .       ,   ,   ,    .        ,       ,   ? /  ,   , /        /       ?"        ,  ,   ,     .     ,      .   ,  ,     .

To make her smile again, I dressed her in a pink candy-striped dress with a red sash, gave her a red pail and shovel, and took her down to the beach. There all the grownups sat in tall wicker chairs, which sheltered them from the stiff breeze that made the water too cold for bathing. The children, fully dressed, built sand castles at their feet. The band played in the pavilion on the boardwalk. And the fashionably dressed summer visitors - the women in hobble skirts with parasols, the men in white flannel trousers and blue jackets-paraded up and down. Few people ventured into the water. When they did, they entered a bathhouse on wheels, where they donned bathing suits that fully covered the body. Then a team of horses pulled the bathhouse out to sea. I found it a frightening experience and refused to do it more than once. 
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   ,            ,      ,     .        ,      ,       . ,  ,      .      .     , -      ,         -    .      .    ,       ,    ,    .       .           .

A most embarrassing thing happened to me at Ostend the day we boarded Singer's yacht, the Lady Evelyn. We were about to take a channel cruise. "If the weather is good," our host had told us, "we'll sail tomorrow for the Isle of Wight to see the regatta at Cowes." 
There was a crew of fifty on the luxurious yacht, which had a festive air with all its pennants whipping gaily in the wind. She seemed to have more of them than any other boat lying in the harbor, especially on the afterdeck. 
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         ,      ,  .       .   , -   , -      ,     .
       ,          ,    . ,     ,     ,   ,   .

The instant I stepped aboard, Paris Singer came to me. "I am so sorry this unfortunate thing has happened," he said. "Please don't be too upset. It was an accident-it couldn't be helped. You see, the handle of your suitcase broke when it was carried across the gangplank, and it fell into the sea. The sailor who was carrying the suitcase jumped in and fished it out. But I'm afraid your clothes are ruined. I'm so sorry." 
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     ,     .   ,     , -  . ,   ,     -    .  ,    ,     ,     . ,       ,   ,    .   .

I gazed in horror at all my things hanging on a clothesline on the afterdeck, whipping madly in the breeze. It wasn't so much that they were wet as the dreadful fact that-since I had packed my new red diary with them-they were all hopelessly stained. Uncle Paris, as we children called him, gently placed his arm about me when he saw my consternation. "I'm afraid there isn't anything I can do," he said apologetically. "I wanted to telegraph Liberty's in London to send down some new clothes for you, but Elizabeth said not to do that. She said you could make out all right with what you have." 
..
       ,       ,    .     ,    ,   , ,         ,      .  ,    ,   ,    . ,     , -    .      ,     ,   ,     .  ,      ,    .

That was typical of Tante Miss. I was not surprised. It did not, however, increase my affection for her. On the entire cruise I wore the same dress I had on when I came aboard, thanks to her. Finally, when we reached Plymouth, Isadora took pity on me. She bought me the few new things I desperately needed, and everything took on a more cheerful aspect. On that cruise we visited the Channel Islands and Mont-Saint-Michel, then motored through a part of Devonshire where Paris Singer had an estate near Paignton. All too soon the summer holiday was over. The trip had to be cut short because of Patrick's illness. The baby contracted a fever, and his mother was in a rush to get to her own doctor in Paris.
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     .   .        .  ,  ,        ,     . ,     ,    .      ,     ,      .         --,     ,        .     .      -  .   ,           .

A week later I reluctantly had to say goodbye to Isadora. She came to see us off at the Gare du Nord where we boarded the train back to Germany. It was then she took me completely by surprise by saying quite casually, "Goodbye, dear. I'll see you next winter in Egypt." 
..
      .        ,        .      ,   :  , ,       .

EGYPT! I caught my breath. Had I heard correctly? I was dying to ask Elizabeth a thousand questions but refrained out of fear of how she might react. She was often so peculiar in my regard that I thought it wiser to keep my fingers crossed just in case and say nothing. From then on, the fall and winter months seemed to drag along endlessly. Christmas came and went without a word from Elizabeth about our coming trip. And then one day right after the New Year, word got around that she was getting ready to leave. I heard her hobble down the stairs from her top-floor bedroom, and anxiously I asked "Froecken," our Swedish governess, "Has Tante Miss said anything about my going with her?" 
"No, she hasn't. Are you ready to go?" 
..
!   .    ?  ,     ,      ,   .        ,   ,            .       , ,  .           .   ,   ,  ,    .  ,          ,      c,   :    -      ?
,   .   ?

I assured her that this time I was fully prepared. My bag was packed and all I needed was to hear my name called. At that instant from down in the front hall I heard Elizabeth's voice inquire impatiently, "Where is Irma? Why isn't she down here? If she isn't ready I shall have to leave without her." "I'm coming! I'm coming!" I shouted exuberantly and flew downstairs. 
"You lucky girl!" Theresa, my roommate, called after me. "Give my love to Isadora, and don't forget to write!" 
..
  ,        .    ,  ,    ,    .             :  ,    ?    ,     帻.  !  !        .
 ! ,    ,  .        !

I had only time to wave to the other girls from the taxi that waited at the side door. As usual, we were off in a rush. But I thought of my schoolmates left behind in the winter snow when the Simplon Express crossed the Alps into Italy, and how lucky I was indeed. For at Trieste we were to meet our host, Paris Singer, and the rest of the party that sailed with us to Alexandria and the fabled land of the pharaohs. 
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          ,     .  ,    .      ,    ,       ,    .         ,      ,           .

Ancient Egypt has a fascination all its own. To a young girl of my age, it was something straight out of the Arabian Nights. As in the days of Cleopatra, we sailed leisurely up the legendary river in comfortable houseboats. Arab servants in white caftan and red fez waited on us, bowing down to the ground exclaiming, "Allah be with you!" 
..
     .        -    .     ,          .          ,    :   !

During the day we watched mud huts and ruined temples glide by. At night, when the stars shone so brightly they looked like small moons, the air was filled with the curious native chanting of the crew. Dark shadows danced to the rhythmic beat of drums around a campfire. Most of our days under the hot Egyptian sun were spent in sightseeing. On donkeys or camels, our party often started out before sunrise to visit the ancient temples buried in the desert; each one different, each one remarkable. 
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          . ,     ,     ,      .         .          .           ,    ,   ;  ,  .

In Egypt, everything I saw took on the aspect of a fata morgana. Nothing seemed quite real. When, for example, after hours of sightseeing, one is tired and longs for a cool drink and a light collation-none of which can be obtained in the middle of the Libyan desert-then, lo and behold, a camel caravan appears like a mirage from out of nowhere. In a twinkling, like rubbing Aladdin's lamp, the camel drivers unload chairs and tables laden with sparkling cloths, and glass and silver are set up in the shade of a colonnade. A succulent meal of cold chicken, cold champagne, ripe dates, rachat lukoum (a Turkish delight), and Arabian coffee is served. After this repast fit for a pharaoh, all is removed and the caravan, with the swinging gait peculiar to camels, silently vanishes over the horizon.
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  ,   ,   - [   ,     ].     . , ,     ,          -            , - ,  ,  ,       .  ,    ,      ,   ,       .     ,  ,  ,   ( )   .  ,      ,  ,     ,   ,    .

One day, while visiting the Osiris temple near Abydos, I had another eerie experience. The temple was then still half-buried in sand, being explored by Professor Whittimore, the famous archaeologist. I walked along a raised boulder to get a better view of the desert and suddenly discovered that I was walking along one of the stone beams that was part of the roof, with a drop of fifty feet on either side. I cried out in alarm and was about to turn around in a state of panic, when I heard a quiet voice from way down below in the temple, saying, "Don't turn! Keep steady; look straight ahead and walk to the end. You can get off there." 
It was Isadora's voice guiding me to safety as, dizzy from the height, I tried to step forward as firmly as I could. I felt like a tightrope walker in some kind of nightmare, scared to death, never thinking I could make it. I did so, but only because of Isadora. 
..
,      ,       .    -   ,     ,  .     ,    ,   ,        ,    ,      [15 ]   .         ,       ,  :  , ,       ,   .
   ,    ,     ,     ,   .      - ,   ,   ,    .   ,   - .

The temple that was destined to have special significance for me was called Kom Ombo. Between Luxor and Aswan, our most southern stop before turning back, we passed through the narrow gorge of Silsileh, reaching Kom Ombo after dark. A full moon illuminated the temple, splendidly situated on a bluff directly above the river. It stood so close to the river that the propylaea had been washed away, but the building was protected by a high wall, and was the only ancient edifice erected directly on the banks of the Nile. Its other peculiarity was that it was dedicated to twin deities-Horus and Sobk-spirits of good and evil. 
..
,        ,   .    ,    ,    ,      ,      .    ,       .      ,    ,           ,     .      ,     - -    [The brothers Horus and Sobek] -    .

After dinner that night, I leaned against the railing on deck and gazed long and thoughtfully at the mysterious temple. All life and purpose gone, for how long had it brooded there in calm grandeur throughout the forgotten centuries? As I stood gazing, the silence was suddenly broken by strains of soft music. Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" came floating through the warm air; perfect music for a perfect setting. As if the great composer had written it especially for this scene, the beauty of the music blended with the radiant night and the mysterious temple bathed in white moonlight. Lost in my reverie, I was startled when someone suddenly whispered in my ear, "Quickly, come along with me." 
I had not heard anyone approach. Elizabeth motioned me to join her. She conducted me to her cabin while Hener Skene, Isadora's pianist, continued to play on the grand piano that had been especially installed on the open deck for this journey on the Nile. 
..
               .     ,            ?   , ,       .       ;     .          ,         ,    .    ,   ,  -     : ,   .
  ,  - .       .      ,   ,  ,    ,          .

She asked if I had brought my dance tunic along. Then I knew. The last thing I wanted to do was to dance for the company. As for dancing in front of Isadora, the very thought made me tremble. She had not seen me dance for three years. In my secret heart I did not wish to show her the result of three years of Body Culture a la Elizabeth Duncan. I dreaded the outcome; and, hoping I would be let off, I said quite truthfully that I had not brought my tunic.
..
 ,      .   . ,    ,    .     ,     .     ,   .              "   ".   ; , ,   ,    ,     .

"Well, that doesn't matter," Elizabeth said. She took her silk nightgown off a hook. "Here, wear that," she said. When she had arranged the gown to look like a short tunic, she said, "There, that's not too bad. No one will notice. Isadora wants you to dance." 
Imagining that I would dance on the open deck, which was luxuriously covered with deep-piled Oriental rugs, I asked, "Is Mr. Skene going to play for me?"
 Elizabeth shook her head. "No," she said, "Isadora wants you to dance in the temple." 
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 ,    , -  .        . ,  , -  .        ,  : , ,     .   .  ,   .
,       ,        ,  : ,      ?
  . , -  , -  ,      .

Quickly grasping at another excuse to get out of it, I asked, "How can I dance barefoot in the temple when the floor is covered with stone and rubble?" 
"Wear your sandals. No, they make too much noise scraping the stone floor; wear your sneakers." 
Again I grasped at a straw and told her I hadn't a pair with me, only to be disappointed when she said, "Here, take mine; they'll do." 
..
    ,    ,  :       ,      ?
  .  ,    ,   ,   .
      ,       ,   ,   : ,  ,  .

When she said, "All right, let's go," I cried in alarm, holding back, "Oh, no! Tante Miss, I really cannot go!" 
"Why not?" She gave me a sharp glance and clicked her tongue, a trick that always irritated me. 
"Because," I wailed unhappily, "I really don't know how to dance any more-that's why!" 
"Nonsense! Who ever heard of such a thing! Just do as I tell you to and let's have no more fuss." 
..
  : , ,   , : , ,  ,     ! 
 ?         , ,    .
 , -   , -    ,   !  !
!  -   ?   ,    ,      .

With these words she led me by the hand into the temple, like a lamb to the sacrifice. The ancient shrine with its two altars dedicated to the deities of good and evil, which only a moment ago I had found so beautiful, now looked frightening. I was forced to dance here against my will and better instinct by the twin personalities who so far had shaped my life. What would the outcome be? 
..
         ,    .     ,     ,        ,   .            ,       .   ?

"Ah, here she is," I heard Isadora say as I entered the forecourt where the whole party sat on broken columns and other bits of ruins strewn about. "Are you going to dance for us, my dear?"
"I don't know what to dance," I murmured sullenly, "without music and everything ...." 
..
,  , -   ,     ,             .     ,  ?
  ,  , -   , -    ...

"On such a wonderful moonlight night," Isadora enthused, "in this beautiful temple surely inspiration should not be lacking. Dance anything you fancy, whatever comes to mind." 
Only one thought came to my mind and that was to run away as fast as I could. But my training as a Duncan pupil prevailed, and I automatically reacted to the old belief that the performance must go on. With a feeling of "Well, let's have it over with as quickly as possible," I started to move as gracefully as I could without stumbling in my too large sneakers over the broken masonry and rubble littering the floor. 
..
    , -   , -          .  ,   , ,    . 
      ,        .       ,       ,    .   ,       ,     ,  ,             ,  . 

To keep some kind of rhythm, I silently hummed a familiar waltz melody to myself. To this unheard tune, I turned and swayed and leaped around in front of my audience for a few seconds in a perfunctory mood, simply to comply with Isadora's request until my sense of the utter inadequacy of the whole performance struck me dead in my tracks. That it must have seemed even worse to Isadora I could guess without being told. 
..
  - ,       .      ,            ,     ,           .         ,   ,    .

The instant I stopped, the immemorial silence my scraping feet had disturbed settled once again over the ruined temple. No one had moved or clapped their hands or made any comment. Embarrassed, I sat there waiting for the verdict that was inevitably to come from my idol. 
..
  ,   ,  ,     ,     .   ,       . ,   ,  ,        .

Slowly rising from her seat, Isadora spoke in gentle tones, but deliberately and distinctly: 
"Have you noticed how entirely unrelated her dance movements were to these extraordinary surroundings? She seemed to be completely unaware of them. What she just did consisted of some pretty little dance gestures she has learned-very nice, very light-hearted, but not in the slightest degree in harmony with the almost awesome sense of mystery that pervades this place and of which you are all, I am sure, deeply aware." 
..
    ,    ,    :
 ,           ? , ,     . ,     ,      ,    -  ,  ,             ,        ,  ,  .

In the pause that followed I felt like sinking into the ground. I realized how true her criticism was. But why did she have to make it in front of all these people? My pride was hurt, and in stupid, girlish fashion I resented this action, especially since I had been made to dance against my better judgment. I was about to get up and rush from the temple when Isadora resumed her impromptu lecture. 
..
    ,    .  ,    .           ?    ,   ,  ,    ,  ,        .       ,      .

"Any dance movement executed in a place like this"-and she swept the vast enclosure with a majestic gesture of her right arm-"must be in close rapport with the mystical vibrations these temple ruins generate. Let me show you what I mean." 
..
  ,    , -            -        ,     . 

Adjusting her flowing white shawl, she strode across the court and disappeared into the shadows in the background. The members of our party regrouped themselves, seating themselves closer to watch what was going to happen. Among Isadora's and Singer's guests were the French artist Grandjouan* and the composer Dupin. There was also an elderly French couple, the Count and Countess de Berault, whose given names were Tristan and Isolde. All of them were great admirers of Isadora's art. 
*Grandjouan's sketches of Isadora were all made from life and give a true impression of her movements-which is not the case with those artists who depicted her from memory, in some instances even after her death. 
..
   ,     .     ,           .    ,  ,  ,  .         *   .     ,     ,      .       .
*             ,      ,     ,       .

Presently, as we peered into the background, we saw her emerge from the deep shadows cast by a peristyle of such massive proportions that it dwarfed her white-clad figure. But as soon as she started to move in and out of the tall lotus columns she seemed to grow in stature. The long shadows cast by the columns on the floor of the court formed a symmetrical pattern. And each time she stepped in her stately dance from the shadows into the strip of bright moonlight in between, there was a sudden flash created by her appearance. Alternating in this manner the entire length of the colonnade, slowly in one direction and faster coming back, she created a striking rhythm of brilliant flashes, which in a strange way suggested the beat of music. It was a piece of magic that held her onlookers spellbound. 
..
,     ,  ,      ,   (,   ),    ,         . ,     ,      , , ,   .  ,    ,   .   ,                ,    ,   .      ,      ,      ,      .    ,       .

When Isadora returned to her friends, they voiced their admiration. The French countess embraced her crying, "C'etait magnifique, magnifique!" 
Chatting animatedly about the phenomenon they had just witnessed-one that only an artist of genius could produce-the company slowly wended their way down the narrow path to the houseboats below. I remained alone in the temple. I, her pupil, had not seen Isadora dance for years. For me, this demonstration of her great powers was like manna from heaven. 
..
     ,    .     ,  , !
  ,     , ,       -          .     . ,  ,       .            .

Once more I wished, as I did when I first saw her, that I could dance like that. To my now more adult eyes, this was a revelation of what the true art of the dance should be. I had been taught a great lesson, one I would never forget, this moonlight night in the temple of Kom Ombo. 
..
 ,  ,   ,    ,     .  ,    ,    ,      .    ,     ,       .


[148], p.124-133 * DUNCAN DANCER * You Must Be My Children  * 

-=8=-

You Must Be My Children
    

MY holiday with Isadora in Egypt came to an end on my fifteenth birthday. The next day Elizabeth and I started on our long trip back to Darmstadt. We would have continued on to the Holy Land with the others had we not received an urgent message from Max Merz to return immediately. He had arranged a command performance to be given for the Grand Duke and Duchess of Weimar. 
..
           .         .          ,         ,    .          .

Coming from ancient Egypt, where I had danced like some pagan priestess on the rough stones in a temple by the Nile, I was now to dance on the polished parquet floor of an eighteenth-century palace. We performed for the Duke and his court in a lovely music room in the old Amalienpalast, illuminated by hundreds of candles burning in golden chandeliers. Here we went through the same dance exercises Elizabeth had taught us. But the memory of Kom Ombo, still fresh in my mind, made her unimaginative physical culture drill even harder to bear. Oh, how I longed for just one more lesson from Isadora! Little did I realize then how soon my ardent wish would be fulfilled. Ever since her liaison with the man who could provide her with luxury and every mundane distraction money could buy, Isadora's career had been neglected. But suddenly, upon her return from Egypt, she experienced an upsurge of her creative impulse. She once said of her constant struggle between her physical and her spiritual natures, "The woman in me and the artist are always fighting for the upper hand. But the artist always wins in the end." 
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   ,     -        ,            .              ,   ,    .       ,    .     ,      ,        . ,        !    ,      .   ,      ,             ,     .  ,    ,      .             :         ,      .

She retired to her house in Neuilly and set herself to work with renewed vigor, composing a whole program of new dances. She remarked at the time: 
There was a time when I filled my copybooks with notes and observations when I, myself, was filled with an apostolic sentiment for my art. When all kinds of naive audacities were mine. In those times I wanted to reform human life in its smallest details of costume, morals or nourishment. 
But ten years have passed since then and I have since had the leisure to prove the vanity of my noble ambitions. I now occupy myself entirely with the joys of my work and the preoccupation of my art. One can speak better of the dance by dancing than by the publication of commentaries and explanations. True art has no need for them, it speaks for itself.* 
*From a program note, Teatro Costanzi, Rome; cf. Art, p. 100. 
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            ,     .     :
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    ,         ,      .            .    , ,      .      ,     .* 
*   ,  , ; . , . 100. 

Entering her beautiful three-story studio in Neuilly was like entering a cathedral. The long blue drapes covering the walls and hanging down from the ceiling in heavy folds suggested a Gothic interior. The soft light filtering through alabaster lamps overhead lent a mystic atmosphere. An open stair-way at one end led to her private apartment upstairs, which was lavishly decorated by Paul Poiret. In this Parisian retreat the American dancer lived and worked alone. Her two children, with the nurse and servants, lived in a separate adjoining dwelling. 
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She took her work very seriously. Like other great creative artists, she craved solitude to work out her ideas. Nobody ever watched her doing it. Aside from the indispensable musician who acted as her accompanist and usually played in a corner with his back to her, no one was present. Not even her pupils were there unless she was choreographing special dances for them. That was the only time I ever saw her at work creatively. Otherwise, her studio was sacrosanct, and not even members of her family could enter. "My dance is my religion," she had often said; and she meant it. Of course, occasionally when she gave some of her gay parties in the studio, she would improvise on the spur of the moment if her guests asked her to dance. But then it would be something light and frivolous; never anything serious. 
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Another detail connected with her method of work I want to explain: she never practiced her dances before a mirror. She used the large wall mirror hidden behind the curtains only to check on her gymnastics and exercises at the barre, which she vigorously engaged in every morning. But when it came to dancing, she rejected this method of self-observation, claiming it only interfered with her inner concentration and expression. None of her pupils used a mirror in her work. Her credo when it come to expressing music, as she often told her pupils, was "to look within and dance in accordance with a music heard inwardly." 
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She claimed that there were three kinds of dancers: first, those who consider dancing as a sort of gymnastic drill, made up of impersonal and graceful arabesques; second, those who, by concentrating their minds, lead the body into the rhythm of a desired emotion, expressing a remembered feeling or experience; and finally, those who "convert the body into a luminous fluidity, surrendering it to the inspiration of the soul." This last she saw as the truly creative dancer.* 
*Cf. Art, pp. 51-52. 
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*. , . 51-52.

In the spring of 1913 Isadora asked her sister to bring the older girls, her original pupils, to Paris to appear with her in a series of performances at the Chatelet Theatre. The last time we had entered her beautiful studio on the Rue Chauveau was in 1909, as children. We now returned as young girls, eager to resume our studies with the only person in the world who could teach us to progress in our art. 
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 1913       ,   ,  ,          .  ,  ,   ,        ,   1909 .      ,         ,          .

Our happy anticipation was dashed to the ground the day of our first lesson. It was only natural that Isadora (whose brain-children we represented) should be disappointed with our manner of dancing. Four years of regimented training under the tutelage of her sister had left their mark on us. 
"They are terrible, simply terrible! Impossible! Whatever shall I do with them?" she wailed disconsolately, addressing her pianist Hener Skene. 
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Her reaction, though not quite unexpected, was nevertheless a shock to her doting pupils, who stood there speechless and with long faces, wishing they could crawl under a stone and hide. Her words cut deep. "What has happened to them? They dance without animation, stiff, without expression, without inner feeling-like automations! " 
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Ÿ ,     , ,   ,     ,    ,   ,        . Ÿ   .    ?    , ,  ,    -   ()!

With these words she pronounced her verdict on the Elizabeth Duncan School of which we were only the pitiful products. But we girls, or rather victims of Max Merz and his obsession with his Korperkultur and racial hygiene, had to bear the brunt of Isadora's condemnation in silence. We swallowed hard, choked back our tears, and tried with all our might to do better, hoping that under her inspired guidance we would soon recapture her spirit and come closer to her ideal. 
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Unfortunately, she turned out to be a very impatient teacher. Her method consisted in demonstrating the sequence of a dance perfectly executed by herself. Then, without demonstrating it step by step, she expected her pupils to understand immediately and repeat it. Impossible, of course. She danced the sequence again and again without obtaining any result and then gave up in disgust. When her pianist politely suggested she repeat the fast dance movement at a slower tempo so we could get the steps, she readily consented. 
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And then a curious thing happened. She floundered and found herself incapable of demonstrating the movement step by step. She looked surprised and then annoyed at several unsuccessful attempts to come to grips with the situation. Wearily, she leaned against the piano and said to Skene, "How perfectly extraordinary! This is quite a revelation to me. I am apparently unable to dissect my own dance in order to teach it to others. I had no idea how difficult this would be for me. I can dance my own choreography, but am unable to analyse any part of it for the benefit of others." 
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"That often happens to creative artists," Skene interposed. "The methodical approach is not a basis for inspiration. Teaching is an art in itself. Your own style of teaching is entirely by example and inspiration. There is nothing wrong with this method, only it is more difficult for the pupil, that's all." 
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     , -  .       .  -     .     -      .      ,    ,   ."

Difficult was right. She continued to train us in this "catch as catch can" fashion, repeating the dance movement until at least one of us caught on. Then she would say, "You have got the movement correctly. Now teach the others and I expect everybody to have it right by tomorrow." And that was that. Our dogged determination to master the advanced technique she had developed over the past years, while we were deprived of her teaching, paid off in the end. Seeing us work so hard every day, eager to make up for so much time lost, she took note of our progress and eventually devoted much of her time to teaching us a whole series of new dances, most of them set to the music of Schubert and Gluck. The audience, when they watched us perform in the theatre and admired our dancing because it seemed so effortless and spontaneous, imagined that all they needed was a few yards of chiffon and they could do the same. They had not the slightest conception of the amount of work and technique involved. 
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Finally came the day when we once more danced with Isadora on the same Chatelet stage where we had last performed together in 1909. The French writer Fernand Divoire, who first coined the expression "Isadorable," wrote at the time:
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   ,            ,         1909 .    ,     ,    :

Six slender young girls appeared on the scene attired in rosecolored scarves and crowned with flowers. Bare-limbed and light-footed they throw themselves joyfully into the dance. They are the little Isadorables we used to see dance when they were children. They are grown up now. Tall, supple and graceful, they combine their erstwhile naive gaiety with all the charm of young girls. No painting of Botticelli or Angelico, no Greek fresco depicting the vernal season expresses as much beauty, chastity and artlessness as these youthful dancers. 
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Isadora dances with them and is part of them. And the delighted audience applauds and applauds, freed of all everyday worries and care, left with no other thoughts but those of grace and youth eternal. 
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Such a performance rarely happens where, the orchestra gone, the lights extinguished, the ushers waiting to close the doors, so many of the audience remain to applaud frantically and acclaim the artist they worship. They insist on recalling the Isadorable one again and again, unable to part from her. After masses of flowers have been presented she gives the enthusiastic audience one last dance. 
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Joining hands with her six young girls they dance silently, without music, around the flowers heaped in the center of the stage--a ring around the roses-such as children play. This charming improvisation as we watch it unfold is unforgettable. Oh, garden of happy spirits! 
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Later that spring season we also danced with Isadora at the Trocadero, taking part in her Orpheus program. I still recall the thrill I experienced when she taught me the solo part in the dance depicting the scene of the Happy Spirit, a part she had always danced herself. To make matters even more exciting, she gave me the tunic of pale blue Liberty silk that she herself had always worn. I treasured it for many years. 
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During this particular period Isadora was at the zenith of her career. At the age of thirty-five she had everything any artist or young woman could wish: fame, success, money, two lovely children, and a man who was not only devoted to her but willing to put himself and his fortune to work for the cause of her art. He planned to build a theatre of the dance in Paris that would bear her name. It was to outshine the recently completed Theatre des Champs-Elysees, which in its exterior architectural decoration-as well as in its interior, painted frescos-had been inspired by her dances. The two artists who executed the decorations, the sculptor Bourdelle and the painter Denis, both admired Isadora's art profoundly and admitted to being greatly influenced by her. Among the dance decorations done by Maurice Denis is a gilded bas-relief panel on the mezzanine floor representing the six girls who appeared with her at the time. 
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The future seemed bright for me and my schoolmates, too. Our dream had come true at last-to be studying once more with Isadora. This had been our secret wish all along, while marking time at the Darmstadt school. When all looked so promising for the future that lovely month of April in Paris, in that "garden of happy spirits" the poet spoke of, who could have foreseen the unspeakable calamity hovering menacingly in the background, ready to pounce on its innocent victims, destroying them in a flash, and with them, our innocent dreams. 
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The nineteenth of April, that tragic turning point in Isadora Duncan's life, dawned wet and cold. We girls went as usual from our pension around the corner from the Rue Chauveau for our morning workout at the studio. A pleasant surprise awaited us. We found Deirdre and her little brother Patrick there playing games. They had come in that morning from Versailles, where they had spent the winter months. At the age of three Patrick could not yet talk except for a few words, but he understood quite well when his nanny coaxed him to show us how his mama bowed to the audience at the end of a performance. Deirdre always acted bashful when asked to do something, but not Patrick. Like a real actor he gave a cunning imitation of his famous mother acknowledging the applause. As we laughed and asked him to do it again, Isadora came in. She joined in the laughter and told us that we would all have luncheon at an Italian restaurant in town as the guests of Paris Singer. It was the last time we would all be so happily together. 
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We girls returned to our pension after lunch for our daily music lesson. Professor Edlinger, our teacher, had a nice baritone voice and loved to sing entire scores of operas, doing all the parts. That particular afternoon, while the rain continued unabated, he chose the stirring music of Wagner's Die Walkure for our lesson. All devout music lovers, we could sit and listen to him for hours. 
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While he sang Sigmund's impassioned "Winterstiirme wichen dem Wonnemond," I watched the heavy rainstorm bending the budding trees outside on the lawn, tearing off the tender green shoots and scattering them about in its fury. With branches wildly waving, the trees seemed to be dancing grotesquely to Wagner's music.
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The room felt cold and damp. I shivered and drew my woolen jacket closer about me. The hours passed. Twilight was descending when we reached that state of repleteness which beautiful music engenders and which is accompanied by a mild state of drowsiness. Then suddenly, like one of the great composer's own leitmotifs, we were all roused from our lethargy by a frantic knocking at the front door. We heard a door slam and rapid footsteps approached our room. 
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Temple's father appeared pale and haggard-looking like a phantom in the twilight. In a frantic state, his clothes dripping wet, he rushed to his daughter and held her tight. Frightened, she cried out in alarm, "What is the matter, father, what has happened?" 
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In a broken voice that sounded hollow in the gloom he announced the dreadful news: "Isadora's children are dead." 
After a night of terror in which I for one found little sleep, we all welcomed the sight of Mary Sturges who came to see us early the next morning. She described in detail the automobile accident that had caused the drowning of the two dear little children and their nurse in the river Seine. She told us to pack our things, since we would leave for Darmstadt immediately. But first we must say goodbye to Isadora. 
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  ,   , ,  ,       ,        .     ,            .  ,      ,       .       .

The storm had passed during the night. Walking the short distance to Isadora's house in the sunshine, listening to the chirping of the birds, my mind was filled with the saddest thoughts. At sixteen one believes death happens only to older people. It is quite incomprehensible to see innocent children struck down. I was frightened at the thought of having to look at them in death, while remembering their laughing faces of the day before. 
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We entered by a side door. The house was shrouded in silence, and only the blue alabaster lamps were lit, shedding an eerie light over everything. With fear in my heart I entered the downstairs library. There, on a couch covered by a black silk shawl embroidered with many small flowers, reposed the lifeless forms of the two children, lying close beside each other, their blond heads touching. Deirdre had her right arm curved lovingly about her baby brother as if to protect him even in sleep. 
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How often had I seen them together like this. I could not believe that they were dead despite the tall flickering tapers and the flowers heaped all around them. Seeing them thus I was more shocked than sad, and unable to shed tears. A black velvet rope stretched across the room separating us from them, and we stood there in silent contemplation for a few minutes. Then I heard someone whisper, "Come along now, girls, and say goodbye to Isadora." 
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We parted the long blue curtains and entered the vast studio. This was the moment I dreaded most. In the semidarkness I could at first barely see her. Immobile, like a statue, her head thrown back and eyes closed, she sat in an armchair. Tears flowed down her face. Her usually smiling, engaging countenance had, through unbearable grief, been distorted into a tortured mask. The picture of martyrdom incarnate, she resembled a Gothic saint carved in wood. 
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The moment we beheld her silent agony we all started to cry. Standing close beside her, I could not control my wild sobbing when she looked at me and, taking me into her arms, held my head close to her breast. Through my sobs I heard her say in a gentle, pitiful voice, "You must be my children now." 
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I doubt if there are many women in the world, including myself, who would be capable of expressing so humane and generous a thought at so tragic a moment. That she could find no bitterness in her heart toward a fate that left her foster children unharmed while these of her own flesh and blood lay dead beside her proves the greatness of her soul. If all human beings are ultimately judged by their acts on earth, I would say this was Isadora Duncan's finest hour. 
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** 
