** PART II. 1913-1921 ** 
 II. 1913-1921

[161], p.137-147 * DUNCAN DANCER * Dionysion * 

-=9=-

Dionysion


WouLD Isadora ever dance again? That was the question uppermost in our minds. It did not seem likely. She once confessed that in those dark moments she thought of committing suicide. She left her house in Neuilly after the funeral, never to return. In her subsequent restless wanderings through Greece and Italy, all that summer, she found no peace. At the beginning of September she settled for a long stay in Viareggio, where her friend Eleonora Duse lived. Since Isadora did not have a telephone, Duse would leave little penciled notes for her at the hotel whenever she came to call and did not find her in. 
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These notes, written in French, expressed Duse's concern and devotion for a friend and fellow artist she so greatly admired. La Duse scrawled them in her large handwriting, three or four words covering a whole page. The first note, dated September 13 (1913), was delivered by hand to the hotel where Isadora was staying. 
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Chere-My heart has been awaiting you for a long time-am here within two steps of you and shall come to you as soon as you desire-yours with all my heart. 
This morning at the Grand Hotel I left a letter and some flowers for you. Chere Isadora, des roses de la campagne, flowers from my garden. Tell me that you are not too sad to be in a hotel room. Dear, all day I hoped to be with you and tomorrow morning early I shall come and fetch you. But forgive my not coming this evening. It is raining too hard and I am not feeling well. 
I embrace you and thank you, de tout ame, for having come and searched me out at this moment which is without life, without art for you. 
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Dear, I have called four times today at the Grand Hotel to see you. The last time they told me you had moved to the Regina. I would like to see you this evening but a headache and the thunderstorm prevented me from going out again. I hope the sojourn at the seashore, so lonesome for you, will not be too painful. Shelley will speak to you there. Dream, work, and be valiant in your beautiful strength. 
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Of seeking out Eleonora Duse to comfort her in this tragic moment of her life, Isadora has said, "If I had not been able to bear the society of other people it was because they all played the comedy of trying to cheer me with forgetfulness. But Eleonora said: 'Tell me of your children' and she made me repeat all their little sayings and ways." 
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In another note left at the hotel for her friend, Duse said: Forgive my fatigue the other night. I could not speak to you, my heart pains me when I see you suffer. Be of good cheer tomorrow! I hope the view of the sea and the mountains will bring you peace. My thoughts watch over you and wish you courage, Chere loyale amie. To regain my own strength I must rest a little while longer by my doctor's orders. But I shall see you again soon and we will talk some more about the children-and art. 
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Isadora loved the sea, having been born near the Pacific Ocean, and she enjoyed swimming in salt water. She always used to go bathing wearing a black one-piece suit. Those were the days when women entered the water fully covered, even with stockings and shoes. In her simple, sensible attire, then considered outrageously scant, she naturally attracted much attention. Besides, she was a celebrity who only recently made tragic headlines the world over and photographers stuck to her heels and pestered her no matter how much she tried to evade them and other curiosity-seekers. When she complained of this to Duse, the latter said, "You cannot escape the crowds, they will always search you out." 
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Tired and annoyed by the curious throngs who trailed her wherever she went, Isadora rented a villa with a high wall around it, in a pine forest. Living there all alone, she had only the presence of Duse to comfort her. That great Italian actress was a devoted admirer of Isadora's art and encouraged her to find solace in her work. As the foremost tragedienne of her day, Eleonora Duse appreciated the noble sentiment of sorrow. They always spoke French together. Duse would say, "Ne perdez pas la belle douleur." 
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She advised Isadora to incorporate this ennobling experience into her art; to transfigure grief into a dance. And so Isadora wrote to her musician Skene: 
Life is nothing but chaos and terror; only music, beauty and art exist. Everything else is but a confused dream. Have you found a chorale or hymn by Bach or Palestrina on which I could work? I completely despair of life ... but perhaps I could create something beautiful in movement grown in the midst of a requiem which might comfort some people on earth sad as myself. Please search for me. 
In Cesar Franck's Redemption she found the inspiration to translate her tragic experience into movement, guided by the Biblical words, "Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing." 
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Years later, after Isadora's death, I asked Mary Desti (who had been with her that tragic day in 1913) whether Isadora had actually danced at her children's funeral as some newspapers reported at the time. She said, "No, Isadora never even entered her studio where the funeral service was held. She only listened to the music (played by the Paris Symphony Orchestra) below while sitting upstairs in the narrow gallery fronting her private apartment. But everybody watched her intently, and every time she as much as raised her head or moved her arm-since all her movements were beautiful-they thought she was dancing! Only I could see that she was numb with grief."
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Duse encouraged her with tender words to continue working as a form of salvation. Living in enforced retirement herself for lack of engagements, Eleonora knew from personal experience how it felt to be deprived of the exercise of one's art. Watching her dance one day and admiring Isadora's capacity to lose herself in the expression of music, feeling envious not to be able to do this herself, she told her friend: 
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"You, who can flee reality, chere genereuse! So courageous in life and gentle and submissive before death, how I wish I too could escape from reality! Without work, without risks life is nothing-a dream empty of dreams. What joy to see you take up anew the flight toward the light! May a beautiful dream of art carry you far, far away from here. Man coeur et man iime sont remplis de votre grandeur. For all the beauty I perceive in you, I thank you." 
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A deep-seated restlessness embedded in her nature, augmented by that constant torment gnawing at her vitals, impelled Isadora to leave the villa and her work. She had a sudden desire to go to Rome. St. Peter's with its great art works, the many fountains, the ancient ruins, the tombs along the Appian Way, all breathed eternal peace and calm. When Duse heard of this plan, she wrote: 
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Dear Isadora, Since we must say farewell, I beg you not to say it tonight but rather tomorrow in the full light of day at noon. Chere Isadora, how sad to see you leave! But you must find your wings again all by yourself, then you will re-enter a state of grace which is your art, your strength, your nobility-for sorrow is everywhere in this world .... My thoughts are with you, recuperate, have a good rest, do not despair. Your benevolence and all the illusions of your heart will never be lost. Adieu, et au revoir. Eleonora Duse 
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Isadora later confessed that when she was in the depths of despair only the thought of her school, "my other child" as she called it, saved her reason. A supernatural voice seemed to whisper to her to continue to teach little children to dance in beauty and according to the divine law. 
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Paris Singer, concerned for her welfare, did everything in his power to help her regain an interest in her work. With this aim in mind, he presented her, around Christmas time, with a magnificent building of palatial proportions to house her new school. He had bought the former Paillard Palace Hotel, completely furnished including silver, linen, and china. A fifteen-minute drive from Paris, it was situated in the rural hamlet of Bellevue-sur-Seine, close to the forests of Meudon and Saint-Cloud. On a bluff directly above the river, where the Seine makes a big loop, the sixty-two-room house had a magnificent panorama of Paris in the distance and the Seine valley in the foreground. 
Soon Isadora was busy remodeling the house to suit her purpose and preparing it for the influx of new pupils whom she expected. 
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In the meantime, we girls in Darmstadt had no inkling of these interesting developments. As usual, not a word concerning Isadora reached our ears. Early in the summer Augustin Duncan paid the school a visit, bringing with him his second wife, Margherita, and their little boy, Angus. As upon former occasions "Uncle Gus," as we called him, soon had an artistic project under way. In Grunewald he had taught us to recite and act small parts of Shakespeare's plays, such as A Midsummer Night's Dream. This time he wanted us to dance and mime the opera Echo and Narcisse by Gluck. He always took a great interest and an active part in furthering the artistic education of his sister's pupils-the only one of her brothers to do so. 
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While we were on tour with our new show, Augustin wrote to Isadora, who was then still living in Viareggio. In the hope of arousing her interest in our activities and thus taking her mind off her sorrow for a while, he wrote from Hamburg on October 18, 1913: 
My dearest Isadora, 
We have received some beautiful notices for "Echo and Narcisse," that show an appreciation of what I have been trying to realize. The lighting effects have been especially appreciated. We opened in Darmstadt with very good results. The Grand Duke and Prince Henry of Prussia attended with their wives. We repeated it in Mainz and had much better music. 
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Now we are here for two evenings. The first performance is bought out by the Lessing Society and the second is a public evening. It is being given in the new Opera House where they have a very good orchestra and a director from the Stadt Theater in Leipzig. This director is a famous man in Germany and is to give a fifteen-minute conference to the press to prepare them. We travel from here to Munich on November 4th, and are in Stuttgart Nov. 5th. Can't you come and see us at one of these places? We are to appear in Zurich on the 27th. 
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Margherita is corning on to see us at Stuttgart. The baby [Angus] is splendid and runs about the place his nose scratched up from tumbling. I do wish you would come either to Munich or Stuttgart because we have a beautiful plan if you would like it -without you it is unrealizable and must then remain a dream .... 
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I will write again more fully, am hurried this morning. We have just arrived here and there is a great deal to attend to. I will send you some clippings. It is a great success and a great advance and a tiny step forward towards your great idea. Love from us all, 
Gus 
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Our tour ended in Berlin. The recently opened Hotel Eden on the Kurfuerstendamm then represented the height in luxurious accommodations. We spent several weeks there over the Christmas and New Year's holidays. Gus, who was well aware of our love for Isadora and our antipathy toward his older sister, gave us the best Christmas present in the world when he surprised us with the wonderful news that Isadora wanted us six older girls and her niece to join her immediately in Paris, where she had founded a new school. 
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We shouted for joy and could hardly restrain our happiness, when the door opened and Tante Miss walked in, accompanied by Max Merz. Our faces fell, and solemnity descended like a pall over our exuberance. She showed us Isadora's telegram, saying, "I have no objection to your going to my sister for a while to help her get started with the school in France. After all, the main thing is that she finds a renewed interest in life. And we must do everything we can to help her." 
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Mr. Merz, who had been impatiently stalking up and down the room, interrupted her. "This is absurd, Elizabeth, utterly senseless. Why must we send all the girls at the same time? Can't we simply send one or two, and keep the rest? You know very well that we have a command performance to give for the Crown Prince and his wife in Potsdam in a few weeks. And what about our plans for appearing at the Salzburg festival this summer? Have you thought of that?" 
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"Yes, Merzl, yes, they will be back for that," Elizabeth reassured him. She always called him "Merzl" when she wanted to have her own way. Red in the face with fury, he stormed out of the room shouting, "You don't know what you are doing! This is ruin for us! " 
He went out, slamming the door behind him, and that was the last we girls saw of him for many years. He fully realized that, given a choice, we older girls without exception would prefer to remain with Isadora. 
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Elizabeth later came to Paris and tried to force us back for the command performance and Salzburg festival-without success, as far as I was concerned. I happened at the time to be ill with influenza. She found me in bed with a nurse in attendance. I had a high fever, but she imagined I was shamming and-disregarding the nurse's shocked protest-yanked me bodily out of bed. In my weakened condition, I fell down in a dead faint at her feet. 
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Isadora did not want us to go, and we, of course, resisted with all our might. The two or three girls that Elizabeth corralled for the command performance for the German Crown Prince insisted on coming back to Paris afterward. And that was the end of our association with Tante Miss. She functioned on her own from then on, with Max Merz beside her. For a few years she was in America, but most of her time was spent in Austria and Germany till her death in Stuttgart in 1948. The night in January, 1914, when we arrived at the gates of Isadora's school on top of a hill overlooking Paris, our jubilance at being reunited with her cannot be imagined. In the train coming from Berlin to Paris, we practically sang all the way. And now, when we saw her again after her terrible tragedy, waiting for her "other childrenn at the top of a flight of stairs, we rushed up two steps at a time into her outstretched arms. I felt I had come home at last. 
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Life took on a fresh meaning for all of us, working here together in harmony in this "Temple of the Dance of the Future" she had named Dionysian, after the ancient Greek god of creation. Since Isadora did not teach beginners, the instruction of the new pupils (mostly French and Russian children) devolved upon us older girls. She expressed herself most pleased with the knowledge and confidence with which we passed on her teachings. 
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Because she was expecting the birth of her third child (it was to die a few hours after birth), she herself would teach the older group while reclining on a couch, using only her hands and arms. She had changed much in appearance. She had cut her hair, and with this simple act set a fashion soon to be copied by other dancers and women all over the world, chalking up another reform to her credit. Immersed in her work and surrounded by happy, laughing children, she made a valiant effort to overcome the effects of the recent tragedy whose memory haunted her day and night. We six girls had nothing to offer her but our youthful enthusiasm for the dance, and our devotion. She said, "In the morning, when I entered the dancing room and they saw me, they would shout, 'Good morning Isadora!' It sounded so joyful. How could I be sad amongst them?"* 
*Cf. Life, p. 302. 
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* . , . 302.

In April she sent Anna and me to Russia to choose some Russian children for the school. Her brother and sister-in-law accompanied us. And here I ran into an unexpected and curious experience. One had to have a passport to visit Tsarist Russia. The regulations demanded a baptismal certificate in order to obtain a visa. This necessitated my going back to Hamburg, as I had no documents with me and Mr. Merz refused to be cooperative. When Margherita, who chaperoned me, discovered by talking with mother that I had never been baptized, it did not faze her in the least. I myself had been completely ignorant of my heathen status all these years, and could not have been more surprised. Fearing this would prevent my going to Russia, I said to Margherita, "I am afraid we are out of luck and must return to Paris. There is nothing we can do about this now." 
"Oh yes there is," Margherita retorted firmly. "We are going to have you baptized right away!" 
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In her breezy American style that would not admit to being thwarted in any undertaking, she picked up the phone and called the nearest Protestant church to arrange an interview with the pastor. The St. Petrikirche, consecrated in the twelfth century, is the oldest church in Hamburg. The pastor received us kindly in his study and, though sympathetic to our request, gravely refused to baptize me in a hurry merely to let me get a Russian visa. He insisted on a minimum three-week course of preparation and instruction in the Lutheran faith. 
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We persuaded him that this was impossible. Margherita explained in English that it was now or never. I suppose it was to save my soul that he then agreed to do it on the spot. While he retired to don his vestments, I entered the old church, where someone began to light the candles by the altar. The very moment Pastor Poppe gave me the benediction, a ray of sunlight pierced the beautiful stained-glass window and fell directly on my head as I was kneeling by the altar rail. I suddenly felt very sanctified. I heard mother crying softly into her handkerchief, and then the pastor solemnly shook hands with us as we departed. Half-way up the aisle he called out, "Wait a minute! Haven't you forgotten something?" And he waved the precious baptismal certificate for which Margherita, who acted as my godmother, had paid ten gold marks. We rushed to get it, jumped into a taxi, and drove to the Russian consulate. And here occurred the most ironic thing. When I handed in my passport, the clerk stamped on the Russian visa without demanding to see my certificate of baptism! Annoyed at his disinterest after all I had gone through to get it, I asked him why. He answered blandly, "Not necessary in your case. One can see at a glance you belong to the Aryan race." 
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Margherita and I met Anna and Augustin in Berlin and gaily continued on our mission to St. Petersburg. We stayed at the new Hotel Astoria, opposite the grand St. Isaac cathedral. Anna and I gave a small dance recital in the ballroom of that hotel. I remember how terribly thrilled we were to have the great Constantin Stanislawsky of the Moscow Art Theatre consent to introduce us to the audience and give a lecture on Isadora's art. At the end of our performance he personally presented each one of us with a lovely bouquet of flowers. Immensely proud and flattered, we took a snapshot of each other holding his flowers and posing with them on the window sill of our hotel room with the huge cathedral looming in the background. A nice souvenir of our only joint performance anywhere. 
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We remained in Russia for two months. Later, some of the other girls and Hener Skene joined us so we could give a few performances before returning to Paris with a group of newly recruited pupils. 
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We all led a happy, wonderful life with Isadora in that beautiful school. The fact that she treated us like adults and allowed us each a room to ourselves started things off to our entire satisfaction. She told us of her plan to build that theatre of the dance and drama so long dreamed of, and how she intended to make us members of a company patterned after the Comedie Francaise. Our artistic future seemed assured. Isadora too firmly believed that Dionysian had taken permanent roots and that she would live there for the rest of her life, continuing to do creative work.
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All these noble prospects came to an end when disaster struck once more-this time on a gigantic scale. In August the First World War set cannons to roaring over most of Europe, and the millions of soldiers wounded in battle needed help. Isadora gave her temple of the dance to the Red Cross for a hospital. She and her pupils fled to America, via London and Liverpool, where the streets were crowded with soldiers going off to war singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary." 
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The wild excitement engendered by those stirring times, added to the intriguing adventure of crossing the ocean to another continent, prevented my realizing what sad consequences the war would have for our school. In years to come, I have often looked back with deep regret that Dionysian existed for only seven short months. For it represented Isadora Duncan's ideal school, the perfect center and environment-now lost to posterity-for preserving the results of her work. And I regret also that she did not make more of an effort to keep it functioning despite the world-wide catastrophe. For wars have come and gone, and life is short, but art lives on forever. 
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[172], p.148-162 * DUNCAN DANCER * Growing Up * 

-=10=-

Growing Up


WE reached New York on September 13, 1914, after an uneventful voyage on the Cunard liner Lapland. But the moment we landed, all sorts of unforeseen and startling things happened in quick succession. 
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As soon as the immigration officials discovered that Isadora Duncan's school had arrived without the protection of a legal guardian, they barred our entry. To the great consternation of Mr. and Mrs. Augustin Duncan, who had safely brought us through war-torn Europe to America, we were not permitted to disembark, though their children were allowed to go ashore. With Alicia Franck, the school secretary, and Miss Baker, our English governess who volunteered to remain with us, we were locked up in that ignoble detention pen called Ellis Island. For this reason, my first impression of the United States was not a favorable one. 
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We remained incarcerated under armed guards, like a bunch of criminals, for two interminable weeks before the necessary formalities could be straightened out. I used to gaze in amazement at the heroic Statue of Liberty standing in the harbor nearby and wonder: Is this the land of the free? 
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New York at the time was in the grip of a formidable heat wave. This circumstance contributed no little to our extreme discomfort, for eighteen of us were crowded together in one small room with bath, sleeping on the bare floor like animals, without any covers or bedding. At that, we considered ourselves lucky when a kind immigration commissioner by the name of F. C. Howe placed his private quarters at our disposal, thus eliminating our having to sleep in the barrack-style dormitories with the rest of the unfortunate immigrants. We had also been accorded the privilege of eating in the public restaurant instead of having our meals at the community table, where fork and knife were chained to the tin plate in front of each person. On the day of our release, I learned what a condemned person must feel when suddenly granted freedom. That first free breath of air tastes like ambrosia. After that unpleasant experience, nothing seemed more wonderful than Ellsworth Ford's house near the water in Rye, where we found a hearty welcome. Under the giant elms and maples, late summer flowers still bloomed in profusion. Mrs. Ford, whose husband had owned a large hotel on Forty-second Street, was a lady of some literary pretentions and loved to be in the company of writers and poets. Through her we met the poets Witter Bynner and Percy Mac-Kaye. And it was here that MacKaye wrote the following poem about the young guests, refugees from war-torn Europe:
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THE CHILD-DANCERS 
 

A bomb has fallen over Notre Dame: 
Germans have burned another Belgian town: 
Russians quelled in the East: England in qualm:
I closed my eyes, and laid the paper down. 
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Grey ledge and moor-grass and pale bloom of light
By pale blue seas! 
What laughter of a child world-sprite, 
Sweet as the horns of lone October bees, 
Shrills the faint shore with mellow, old delight? 
What elves are these 
In smocks gray-blue as sea and ledge, 
Dancing upon the silvered edge 
Of darkness-each ecstatic one 
Making a happy orison, 
With shining limbs, to the low sunken sun? -
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See: now they cease 
Like nesting birds from flight: 
Demure and debonair 
They troop beside their hostess' chair 
To make their bedtime courtesies:
"Spokoinoi notchi! - Gute Nachtf
 Bon soir! Bon soir! - Good night!" 
What far-gleaned lives are these 
Linked in one holy family of art? -
Dreams: dreams once Christ and Plato dreamed: 
How fair their happy shades depart! 
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Dear God! how simple it all seemed, 
Till once again 
Before my eyes the red type quivered: Slain: 
Ten thousand of the enemy. 
Then laughter! laughter from the ancient sea 
Sang in the gloaming: Athens! Galilee! 
And elfin voices called from the extinguished light: 
"Spokoinoi notchi! - Gute Nacht!
 Bon soir! Bon soir! - Good night!" 
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Isadora turned up unexpectedly in October. None of us had been sure she would come to America. By that time we were cozily and comfortably settled for the winter in an old brownstone house on Gramercy Park. We lived there under the benign supervision of Margherita and Gus, with a Southern mammy in the basement kitchen to serve up real American cooking. I had a room of my own on the top floor; it looked out on the small square called a park, to which we had a key though we never used it. 
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The one thing that stands out in my memory is Miss Baker's presenting me with a pink silk nightgown for my birthday. For a strictly brought up European girl, this was a sure sign-like the first kiss on the hand-that I had definitely grown up. I did not wear it for a long time, but kept it wrapped in white tissue paper, naively believing this to be the beginning of a hope chest. Our days, as usual, started with early morning workouts over on Twenty-third Street and Fourth Avenue, where Isadora had fixed up a studio in an old loft. Mary Fanton Roberts, a very good friend and editor of the art magazine The Touchstone, described it: 
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A great space, silent and high, separated from the world by curtains of blue; soft lights streaming down rose scarves; back in the shadows low couches in brilliant colors-this is the setting for Isadora Duncan's school in the heart of New York.* 
*Art, p. 28. 
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 ,   ,     ;  ,  ,  ;         -          -.* 
*Art, . 28.

Into this setting one day marched the Mayor of New York, to a meeting arranged by a group of writers including Mabel Dodge, Walter Lippmann, John Collier, and others, who represented the Greenwich Village intelligentsia of that era. For some reason, Isadora was in a bad mood that day and refused to dance. She did, however, have the pupils parade in front of Mayor John Purroy Mitchel in their school uniforms. As an ardent advocate of dress reform, she tried to persuade the Mayor to make our costume official for all the children in New York. He gravely assured her he had no authority to enforce any attire on the populace, healthy or otherwise. Yet what no edict could enforce, the passing of time has successfully accomplished. Mayor Mitchel would be surprised if he lived today to see the many women and children on the sidewalks of his city clad in simple, sleeveless sheaths and with bare feet in sandals! 
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  ,    ,   -  ,   ,   ,  ,    ,    -  .  -            .   ,            .     ,             -.    ,         - ,   .  ,       ,  ,   .     ,     ,           ,            !

On a rainy November afternoon at the Metropolitan Opera House, Isadora's European school made its American debut. Since this was her first public dance performance after the death of her children, the program had a religious character. It opened with a requiem march and her premiere presentation of Schubert's "Ave Maria," the huge audience listening with profound reverence. Her hold on the mind of her spectators had not diminished with the years. Her older pupils did most of the dancing. As Minna Lederman commented later in the Mail, June 27, 1918: 
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     -,       .            ,    .           ,  ,    .          . Ÿ      .       27  1918 :

I see them now, circling on the immense stage, six girls, the light falling yellow over their young heads and along their arms so gently linked. Something idyllic, something innocent, tender, something indefinably grave was the slow movement of these young people together. 
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   ,    ,  , ,       ,       . - , - , , -   -        .

Under Isadora's guidance we made much progress that season. Early in the spring of the following year, she undertook a very ambitious project. A New York financier and art patron, Otto H. Kahn, made it possible for her to use the former Century Theatre on Central Park West as an experimental Greek theatre. "The Greek was essentially a democratic theatre," Isadora once stated in a pamphlet she wrote on the subject.* 
*Cf. Art, p. 87. 
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         . ,        . -      .                .  ,  ,  , -     ,      .* 
*. , . 87.

She removed the orchestra seats and covered the boxes with long draperies to make the old-fashioned theatre conform more closely to her ideal. Here she presented that spring season several shows composed of "Drama, Music, and Dance." 
..
        ,        .         ,   ,   .

For me personally, the outstanding event remains my taking part in the speaking chorus of an English version of Euripides' Iphigenia in Tauris, written especially by Witter Bynner for Isadora's presentation. It was staged by Augustin Duncan, who persuaded me, much against my will, to take part in the chorus. The stage directions say: "The great bell rings. One by one the Temple Maidens assemble." As the first chorister I had the opening lines, and can still hear myself proclaiming: 
 O we who dwell upon these Clashing Rocks 
 That guard the Euxine Sea,
 Keep silence now before Latona's Daughter,
 Artemis, Goddess of the pointed hills! 
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  ,              ,       .     ,   ,     ,    .   :   .      .         ,     ,   :
  ,      , 
    , 
     ,
 ,   !

The whole thing was to be a wonderful surprise for Isadora -so Gus assured me when I voiced my qualms about accepting the speaking part. "I am sure she won't like it," I kept repeating, while he kept insisting, "Nonsense, she will love it; you are very good in the part." 
..
        ,    ,       ,      .  ,     ,  ,  : ,   ,     .

And so I let myself be persuaded against my better judgment. At the initial rehearsal, the curtain went up on the big stage, where I suddenly stood revealed in solitary splendor high on a scaffolding representing the "Clashing Rocks." I had no sooner finished speaking when Isadora's voice rose in an angry pitch from the front row of the orchestra: "Take her away! Take her away! What is this, Gus? She can't do that; take her away!" 
..
          .        ,          ,   .     ,           :  !  !  , ?     ,  !

At her unexpectedly vehement outburst, I fled from the stage. Back in my dressing room I had an attack of hysterics. No sooner had I vanished than both Gus and Mr. Bynner rushed backstage. Both tried to console me and assuage my hurt feelings by telling me how effective my recitation had been. Bynner even threatened to withdraw his verse unless Isadora permitted me to act. 
..
        .       .    ,   ,      .         ,  ,    .      ,      .

"I told you, I told you," I repeated over and over again to Gus, who had brought all this about. He urged me not to give up. He said very earnestly, "Isadora is jealous. She thinks I am trying to make an actress of you." I could not quite believe this. But it must have been true, because a year later, when Attmore Robinson-who owned the Philadelphia Opera House at that time-sponsored my singing lessons with an Italian maestro and offered me operatic parts a la Mary Garden, she reacted in exactly the same way. She accused him of trying to alienate me from her school and make an opera star of me-something I had never considered seriously. As a matter of fact, I gave up my singing studies altogether after that scene with Isadora. 
..
  ,   , -      ,    .     .    :  .  ,      .      . ,  ,   ,    ,   ,        ,               ,     .     ,            ,      .  ,           .

But to return to the Century Theatre: the upshot of it all was that she gave in and I continued to perform the speaking part. As one of the four actresses (the others were Margherita Sargent, Helen Freeman, and Sarah Whitman), I had to have my name printed in the program. So far we all had performed anonymously whenever we danced with Isadora. She herself suggested that I use the name IRMA DUNCAN, and so it has been ever since. 
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    :     ,   ,      .      (   ,     ),        .       ,     .        ,      .

Because we spent all our waking hours in the Century Theatre for rehearsals and matinees and evening performances, Isadora decided to give up the Gramercy House and have us actually live there. The huge theatre had a complete set of private rooms, including a library and a kitchen, on the mezzanine floor. A Greek chef was hired and everything seemed very comfortable and most convenient. But there was one big flaw in this ideal situation that no one had reckoned with: namely, the Fire Department. One dark night after the show, when the lights were doused and all of us were fast asleep, a whole brigade of firemen forced their way in without warning and rudely evicted us. The next day (April24, 1915) the New York Tribune related this story in detail. Here are a few excerpts: 
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           ,    ,         .        ,    ,  .    ,        .         ,     :  ,   .      ,    ,     ,          .    (24  1915 ) -     .   :

Twenty sleepy little girls, pupils of Isadora Duncan, the dancer, were routed from their beds in the Century Theatre last night and were forced to find sleeping quarters elsewhere. Art and the Fire Department had clashed. 
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   ,   , ,          ,         .     .

Shortly before midnight the youngsters were safely quartered in the Hotel Empire, Broadway and Sixty-third Street. Miss Duncan was at her apartment in the Hotel Majestic, Central Park West, ill and suffering from the nervous strain attending the ousting of her little dancers from their cots, and vowing she would leave New York forever. 
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              .         ,    ,     ,         ,  ,    - .

Yesterday afternoon, Commissioner Adamson declared that the Century Theatre could not be used as a dormitory under the law and that the girls quartered there would have to lay their curly heads somewhere else than on cots in the theatre building. The dancer was ill when the edict from Fire Headquarters was brought to her by Frederick H. Toye, her manager. She promptly gave way to her emotions. She refused to take the order to quit the improvised dormitories seriously, however and at eight o'clock last night, shortly before the curtain rose on "Oedipus Rex," in which she and some of her older girls danced, the little ones were tucked into their beds in the pressroom on the promenade. Three hours later the nurses in charge awakened them with orders to dress quickly. Sleepy, and not knowing where they were going, they were bundled into taxicabs and taken to the Hotel Empire to complete their night's rest. 
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    ,            ,   ,  ,      - ,         .  ,    -      .,  .     .      ,      ,     ,   ,      ,          ,        -  .          . ,   ,   ,          ,     .

Miss Duncan was beside herself with indignation. She could not comprehend why she was forced to remove her girls from the Century Theatre building which she said was as safe as any hotel or apartment house in the city, merely because there was a building law that forebade their sleeping there. Furthermore, she said she would terminate her appearance in New York this evening. She declared she was being persecuted by the city officials. 
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      .    ,          , ,   ,    ,        ,  ,     ,    .  ,  ,       -  .  ,     .

Lieutenant Gallagher of the theatre inspection squad of the Fire Department unearthed the violation of the law. Wednesday afternoon Lieutenant Gallagher took a stroll along the second floor promenade. He pushed open a door and found himself in a room that bore evidences of being a dormitory, although a sign above his head proclaimed it a library .... Right before Gallagher's eyes were seven neatly covered beds in an orderly row, with as many dressing-tables littered with the appurtenances of feminine adornment. 
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            .           .       ,     ,       ...            ,     ,   .

On the lower floor he found nineteen cots in the pressroom. The tearoom had been converted into a dining room and the kitchen bore signs of being used not many hours since. The larder and ice-box were well stocked. Wishing to be sure of his grounds before reporting to headquarters, Gallagher bode his time. He waited till after the night performance. 
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        -.     ,      ,      .        .      ,     -,    .      .

Making his way along the darkened corridor, he approached the room where the seven cots stood in a row. He stepped inside and, hearing soft breathing, switched on the electric light. Seven curly heads lay upon seven white pillows. Seven pairs of sandals stood beside seven little beds, while from the wall hung seven Greek togas. Here and there were seven times seven flimsy articles of attire. When seven pairs of sleepy eyes opened and gazed in astonishment and seven startled "Ah's!" escaped from the awakened dancers, Lieutenant Gallagher blushed and fled in confusion. 
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   ,    ,    .    ,   ,   .        .        ,       .         ,   .         ,   : !,    ,       .

When our eight months' sojourn in the United States thus came to a sudden dramatic end, Isadora decided to turn her back on America and as one paper headlined it, "leave New York to Philistine Darkness! " She made good her threat; we sailed late in May on the Dante Alighieri for Naples, Italy, hoping to find a safe haven in one of the neutral countries. As ill luck would have it, immediately after our arrival Italy entered the war. So Isadora had to look elsewhere to shelter her school. 
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           ,     , ,      ,  -   !    ;         , ,        .  ,        .       ,    .

Her next choice was Greece, where her brother Raymond lived close to nature, weaving cloth in the mountains. Wanting no part of that, we put our collective foot down on the proposition. But it took a real mutiny on her pupils' part before she would change her mind. 
..
    ,        ,    .   ,        .        ,    .

"Then where would you like to go" she demanded, displeased with our insubordination, for Isadora always had her own way. "To Switzerland!" was our answer. 
For a year and four months, she settled her refugee school in a pensionnat des jeunes filles, first in Lausanne, later in Geneva. In the latter establishment, called "Les Hirondelles" (all Swiss pensionnats have floral or bird or insect nomenclature), Madame Dourouze, the headmistress, had her hands full. When the monthly check stopped coming in regularly, her sixteen new pensionaires presented a real problem. Wartime communications, difficult at best, failed completely when the checks had to come all the way from South America, where Isadora was on tour. In the end, when her own resources failed to take care of all of us, Madame Dourouze and others suggested we give a benefit performance to make up the debt. I immediately agreed to that plan enthusiastically. But some of the other girls had grave doubts whether we could engage in a performance of that sort without authorization. Anna especially had misgivings and would not consent to the plan without consulting our friends, among them the composer Ernest Bloch and his wife, who then lived in Geneva. 
..
     , -  ,   ,        .  !   . 
              ,   ,   .   ,   (        ,   ),   , ,   .       ,        . ,     ,  ,          ,     .   ,          ,    , ,         .        .          ,         .          ,     ,          ,     .

But each and every one urged us to do it. In this way we pupils of the Isadora Duncan School undertook our first independent venture. The successful outcome encouraged us to organize a tour through Switzerland, which we did under the management of Augustin Duncan, who had meanwhile been dispatched by Isadora from Buenos Aires to rescue her school. She had given him strict instructions to discourage us from returning to America, as we all fervently desired to do. The ten younger pupils, when funds ran low, were forced to go back home to their respective parents. Thus only we six original Grunewald pupils (myself, Anna, Erica, Lisa, Margot, and Theresa) remained. And nothing, no edict from Isadora or anyone else, could turn us from our firm determination to return to New York.
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      .  , ,    ,     .        ,       ,        -,    .     ,      ,     .   ,     ,       .  ,       (, , , ,   ).  ,       - ,            -.

We arrived at that crucial moment in world history when America was about to enter the war. New complications now arose because of our German nationality. Isadora, who was really delighted to see us again, said, ''I have decided to adopt you girls legally as my daughters." And she added, "I should have done this long ago." 
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         ,      .     -   . ,       , :      ,  .   :     .

However, because of the war, the necessary papers from abroad could not be obtained. And so we only changed our names to Duncan* as she suggested, legalizing this act in the New York court. We also applied for American citizenship. From this period dates the more intimate association I had with the woman who was now my foster mother. A growing, affectionate friendship would forge the already existing bond between us into an even closer one. This opportunity to get to know each other better arose after her break with Singer. His financial assistance had ceased abruptly, leaving her short of funds. Suddenly she found herself unable to keep up the style she was accustomed to. Nor could she maintain a school for grown-up girls. She gave up her elegant suite at the Ritz and reluctantly moved to a cheaper hotel. The six of us found temporary homes with relatives and friends. 
*My original name was Irma Dorette Henriette Erich-Grimme. 
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 -    -     .         *,   ,     - .      .         ,      . ,             .       ,      .     ,      .         ,    .         .               .          . 
*       -.

"Irma, you come and live with me," she said. "We'll make out somehow." So I roomed with her at the Woolcott on the west side of town. We managed to share the same room for a while until things became too cramped and, flinging economy to the winds, she engaged a three-room suite. We now each enjoyed a room and bath with a nice sitting room between. She had a knack for transforming a banal hotel room with a few deft touches here and there, using a Spanish shawl or an embroidered cloth to hide some ugly piece of furniture; creating an attractive, personal atmosphere. 
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,      , -  .  - .           .          ,      , ,    ,    .        ,     .               ,      ,   -  ;  ,  .

She always carried certain personal belongings with her on her travels. There was, for instance, the handsome Tiffany vanity set of vermeil silver and the tall flacon of "Ambre Antique" by Coty-her favorite perfume. On the bedside table was a photograph of Paris Singer and their little boy Patrick in a red leather frame, beside a small cluster of books, her constant traveling companions-The Bacchae, Electra, The Trojan Women, and other plays by Euripides. Also there was a slim volume of Sappho's poems in a French translation and Gabriele D' Annunzio's Contemplatione della Morte with the inscription, "To the divine Isadora Duncan who dances along the lines of immortality." On the writing desk was her red leather case containing her personal note paper, a small bottle of black India ink, and an ivory pen with a very broad nib. And, of course, always the photograph albums of herself and her children, bound in striped leather. 
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          . , ,               -   .                ,     ,      - , ,      .              '      ,     .             ,              . ,  ,          ,     .

Living and sharing things together, as any mother and young daughter would, I got to know her well. For the first time I got acquainted with the human side of the great artist who had always-from the beginning when I met her in that other hotel room in far-away Hamburg-been my sole inspiration.
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    ,      ,     .        ,   -   ,             -    .

Being temporarily deprived of the services of a personal maid, she was sitting on the bed sewing on a button when I happened to come in one day. Seeing her occupied with such a domestic chore gave me quite a start. It struck me for some reason as being very funny, and I started to laugh. "Why do you laugh?" she asked. "Do you think I am incapable of doing this sort of thing? I want you to know that I can also bake a very good peach pie. I bet that is more than you can do!" 
She was right. We had been taught housekeeping at school, but not cooking. Our hands had to be beautiful for dancing. Since then, however, I have made up for that deficiency. 
..
     ,       ,    . ,      ,    .  -    ,    . "  ?"  .  ,      ?  ,   ,          .  ,  ,    ! 
  .      ,   .        .   , ,    . 

We also discovered we had much in common. "Have you noticed that we both react to things in the same way?" she would ask. 
"I have noticed that we laugh at the same things, if this is what you mean." 
"Yes, but there is more to it than that. It is curious how one often finds a closer relationship with people to whom one is not related by flesh and blood." 
"I once read a book by Goethe," I said, remembering my literary class at Madame Dourouze's pensionnat, "in which he expounds the same idea. It is called 'elective affinities.'" 
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  ,     .  ,       ? -  . 
 ,      ,   ,     . 
,    ,  . ,         ,        .
 -   ø, -  ,       - , -       .    . 

She did not generally take life too seriously-only her art. She had a nice sense of humor and liked to tell amusing anecdotes that had happened to her. My own sense of humor is fairly acute and I could not live for long with anybody who totally lacked it. As for that anecdote which connects her name with George Bernard Shaw, he himself admitted that the "dancer" in question was not Isadora. The latter had no occasion to meet G. B.S. nor did she correspond with him. Her letters and writings give ample proof of her own native intelligence and wit. 
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       -   .      ,      ,    .      ,        -,      .    ,        ,   ,  ,    ,   .      ,     . Ÿ            .

That summer Isadora rented a small beach cottage on Long Island. We girls, reunited once more, had an apartment next door. I remember coaxing her into a movie house one evening when I discovered she had never seen a moving picture. "What, me! Set foot in there?" she exclaimed, horrified, but went in anyway. "How did you enjoy it?" I asked when it was over. She laughed and said, "It was more fun than I imagined-but what an awful picture!" 
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       -.  , ,   ,    .  ,        ,  ,       .  !  ? -    ,    .   ?  ,   .    :    ,    , -    !

Soon thereafter a movie company offered her a contract for a dance film. They were willing to pay a high price for it, and though she needed the money badly she adamantly refused. No one could persuade her to sell her art to the "flickers." In those jumpy pictures she was afraid her art would appear like a St. Vitus' dance. "I would rather not be remembered by posterity like that," she said. 
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         .        ,      ,   .         .  ,             .    ,      , -  .

She had a great craving for speed and for being constantly on the go. She liked to ride in her open touring car, a Packard with chauffeur, en grande vitesse (in those days, forty-five miles an hour was fast), over the narrow, dusty road all the way out to Montauk Point and back. The fresh air soon aroused her healthy appetite and she would say, "Let's stop at the Inn and get a nice rare steak and a bottle of red wine-unless you would rather have some steamed clams and Guinness stout." 
Her enormous vitality and energetic stamina often left me completely worn out. I weighed only a hundred pounds then and did not feel very strong. 
..
         .        ,   ,    (   70     ),        .        ,   :             ,           .
Ÿ           .     45       .

A continuous flow of visitors came to her beach cottage that summer of 1917. There we met such avant-garde artists as Marcel Duchamp, Francis Picabia, Edgard Varese, and the Russian diplomats Count Florinsky and Baron Ungern-Sternberg. A frequent visitor was Elsa Maxwell, who played tangos for us that she had composed herself. The famous Belgian violinist Eugene Ysaye came, and Andres de Segurola of the Metropolitan Opera, and of course always our old friend Arnold Genthe with Stephan Bourgeois, in whose Fifth Avenue Gallery I saw the first abstract sculpture. At about the same time we made friends with Wienold Reiss, the painter of Blackfoot Indians, in whose Greenwich Village studio we met such artists as Fritz Kreisler. And then of course Olga and Hans von Kaltenborn when the latter was still with the Brooklyn Eagle. Then there were Stuart Benson, editor of Collier's, and his friend Bill Hamilton. Later also our acquaintances included Max Eastman and Eugen Boissevain, who eventually married Edna St. Vincent Millay. It was a cross-section of the "people about town" during the war years. Most of them were more or less contemporaries of our foster mother. The marriageable men of our age-alas-were all in uniform "over there," fighting in the muddy trenches of the Argonne. 
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   1917        .      ,   ,  ,          -.     ,     ,   .     ,      -, , ,         ,         .          ,   ,        ,   .  , ,     ,       .    ,  ,     .          ,         - .    " "   .           .     -  -     ,     .

I suppose the most important factor in the process of growing up is the age-old story of falling in love. The sheltered life we girls had led so far, despite our many public appearances (and this was during the innocent years when the word "sex" could never be mentioned openly), prevented us from coming in contact with young men of our own age. We did not attend social affairs or organized dances as young people do nowadays. I imagine our professional existence acted as a hindrance. Everywhere advertised as a highbrow concert attraction, we had little opportunity to run into even that common garden variety called a stage-door Johnny. 
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 ,            .  ,  , ,    ,       (      ,       ),         .        ,        .  ,       .     ,   ,            ,   .

But never underestimate the power of love. Love always finds a way. In my case, stringent wartime circumstances unfortunately imposed a long separation. In the end, it turned out to have been an ill-starred romance, which caused me a great deal of unhappiness. 
..
     .    .       ,  ,   .   , ,     ,      .

In order to find a few moments of forgetfulness and distraction at that time, I used to frequent a small nickelodeon at the intersection of Broadway and Columbus Avenue on the west side, where I spent hours almost daily watching Lillian Gish, Norma Talmadge, Theda Bara or Pauline Frederick emote. And my favorite, the one I considered the most beautiful of all (though not the moving picture) Priscilla Dean in The Darling of Paris. Watching these stars of the silent pictures, I became quite screen-struck and harbored a secret ambition to become a moving picture actress. However, that youthful ambition is buried with the past together with the heartbreak of my young and romantic days. That nickelodeon is no more. In its stead, like Phoenix rising from the ashes, on that same spot there now stands the magnificent monument dedicated to the performing arts-Lincoln Center. 
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   ,         ,      ()     -   ,        ,  ,     .   , ,        (   )      .      ,     ,        .         ,        .      .  ,  ,   ,        ,    - -.

Despite our close relationship Isadora knew nothing about this unhappy state of affairs that put a blight on my youth. Though she and I talked freely on many subjects, I did not care to discuss so private a matter concerning one's heart emotions with anyone. I put on a brave front. Outwardly I maintained a cheerful attitude in the company of others and so successfully learned to hide my tears. 
This, I also learned, was one of the sad penalties for having at last grown up. 
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    ,         ,    .         ,      -   ,   .      .        ,        .
  ,         ,    .


[161], p.163-186 * DUNCAN DANCER * Isadora Duncan Dancers * 

-=11=-

Isadora Duncan Dancers 
   

Bv the above title the Isadora sextette eventually emerged as an independent group. Because of Isadora's constant opposition to our ambitious aims, it proved not at all an easy matter to accomplish. Our successful Swiss tour, where we appeared on our own and gave ample proof of being able to support our-selves, had encouraged us to continue in that path and had also bolstered our youthful self-esteem. We had reached a point of no return. 
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            . -      ,     .    ,       ,     ,     ,       ,      .    .

Much as we loved Isadora and venerated her as an artist and teacher, knowing she would spare nothing to keep us well and happy, we nevertheless ardently wished to be independent. Not merely financially but also artistically independent. With growing maturity, we came to realize that our franchise constituted a vital development in our character as creative artists and self-respecting human beings. A God-given right, so to speak. This overwhelming motivating force in our new relationship with Isadora, unfortunately, placed us in opposition to our mentor. It unavoidably became a constant cause of friction and contention between us which, with the passing of time, threatened to come inevitably to a head-on collision of wills. For she continued to treat us like children, subject to her every whim. I found it irritating that she persisted in looking upon her grown-up group of young girls as her "little pupils" from the Grunewald School, and not as individual artists developing to whatever degree each one could hope to reach. Whenever we aired our opinions on this subject of greater freedom and independence, she invariably voiced her objection. She insisted we stay away from the city and urged us to continue our studies. "New York is no place for young girls," she said. 
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           , ,     ,        ,       .   ,    .     ,                   .   ,  .  ,                .          ,           .         ,    .  ,              " "   ,      ,   - ,        .  ,             ,     .  ,           . -    , -  .

The same old story of children rebelling against parental authority repeated itself; the big city exerted a powerful fascination and drew us like a magnet. In the fall, while Isadora toured the West Coast, our wish was granted. Before leaving, she rented a large studio on the top floor of the newly constructed Hotel des Artistes on the upper west side, just off Central Park. Artists such as Alia Nazimova, James Montgomery Flagg, and the eccentric Russian timpano player Sasha Votichenko, also had studio apartments there. vVe got to know them well. 
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           ;          . ,     ,    .                ,    . ,    ,         ,     .    .

Here I resumed teaching children's classes, with little Marta Rousseau as my first American pupil. The idea of devoting my entire time to teaching had no particular appeal to me then. Most of the other girls were in complete accord. We confided our discontent to dear old Uncle Gus, who as ever had our best interest at heart. He warmly sympathized with our longing for greater freedom of expression in the art for which we had been trained since childhood. Our education as "dancers of the future" needed to find fulfillment, even as Isadora promised years ago. Now the time had come. 
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     ,        .      ,        .       .        , ,  ,     .           ,      .         ,       .   .

Without special authorization by his sister, Gus organized some performances for us at the Booth Theatre, in the heart of New York's theatrical district, under Charles Coburn's management. When the news reached Isadora in California, she instantly voiced her severe disapproval of Gus's action. This caused a serious disagreement between them for a while. I believe it left a wound that never quite healed on the part of Augustin Duncan. She sent a terse wire saying: "I forbid it. The girls are not yet ready for performances of their own in New York." She chose to ignore completely the inescapable fact that her pupils, ever since the early Grunewald days, were used to giving public performances on their own. Had she forgotten the special matinees at the Duke of York's Theatre in London in 1908? 
..
    ,        ,     -,    .      ,         .         .  ,    ,        .    ,   :   .        -.      ,   ,     ,        .              1908 ?

And, much more recently, the memorial performance she herself organized at the Trocadero in Paris before the outbreak of the war, when she occupied the stage box and proudly watched her pupils dance? Or the performances she permitted us to give in Russia in the spring of that same year? Hardly possible. Whatever her motives, the Booth Theatre engagement came to an abrupt end, placing Gus in an awkward position for having negotiated the whole thing with Coburn. And there was our displeasure. If she did not consider us ready now at the age of twenty, she probably never would, we told ourselves. Her explanation always remained the same. She had "not trained her pupils for the stage." 
..
      ,           ,     ,    ,    ?  ,           ?   .      ,        ,       ,      .    .           ,  , ,     ,   . Ÿ    .       .

Fate often has a way of accomplishing what cannot otherwise be changed. One need only cultivate enough patience. Disillusioned with life in her native land, ever homesick for France-though the war still raged there-Isadora decided at the end of her California tour to return to Paris. 
..
      ,    .   yf,hfnmcz  .      ,    ,      , -          .

"I am going back to France, because I find conditions here more than I can bear," she announced one day in February of 1918. "My struggles to establish a permanent school here have been to no avail. I feel utterly disheartened and much too discouraged to continue. Perhaps in France, where I have certain properties left, I may be able to raise some money and return in the fall." 
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   ,        [],    , -      1918 .           .         ,  . ,  ,      [] ,        .

Here it was again-that eternal question of finding the money to finance the school. Why would she not let us support ourselves? I began actually to resent my utter dependence on her for sustenance and support. Her objection to our making our own way and contributing to the school, rather than being a burden, was incomprehensible to me. Feeling just as discouraged on our own part, we queried, "What shall we do while you are abroad?" 
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     -     ,      .        ?                . Ÿ   ,         ,    ,   .     ,  :   ,     ?

Her answer really floored us and left me dumbfounded. She gave us a searching look and said nothing for a minute or two. Then came the bombshell, as far as we girls were concerned. She announced in a serious tone, "I want you all to return to Elizabeth's school here in Tarrytown." 
We were up in arms at once at the very thought of having to come under Elizabeth's thumb again. We all refused, point blank. "Oh, no! Isadora, not that!" we shouted angrily. "That is impossible!" 
"I for one won't do it!" I pronounced flatly, stamping my foot. "You can bet on that!" 
"Don't be impertinent!" she flashed back. "This is my earnest wish, because I know you will be safe there until I return." 
..
Ÿ        .          .      ,  , ,  .    :  ,        ,  . 
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We angrily argued back and forth, really frightened at the thought of having to submit once more to the unreasonable discipline of Tante Miss, especially now when most of us had come of age. The proposition seemed utterly preposterous. Resenting our foster mother's treachery-as we called it-we furiously stomped out of her room. Our adamant refusal to obey aroused her anger too, for her word had hitherto been law. Our insubordination made her so furious that she left a few weeks later for France without seeing us or saying goodbye. It was most unusual for her generous, kindhearted nature. Gus once again stepped into the breach. Finding ourselves suddenly completely penniless and on our own, we listened to his sage advice when he suggested that we find shelter at Elizabeth's school for the present, just long enough for him to get us another engagement. 
..
     , -           ,  ,      .    .       ,    ,      .       ,        .      ,        ,      .      ,  .     .          ,     ,             ,  ,        .

"I know how you girls feel about Elizabeth. I have spoken to her and she is quite agreeable to the idea that you merely board with her as paying guests, not pupils." 
That clinched the deal, and we moved to Tarrytown without further protest. Hearing of our move, Isadora wrote to her sister: 
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 ,  , ,   ,    ,      ,         ,    .
  ,        .    ,   :

Dearest Elizabeth: The first letter I received from any of you was April 20th-so you see I was more than two months without news. If the girls had only told me the last evening that they would go to Tarrytown we could have enjoyed four weeks of pleasant work. But human beings, contrary and cussed-and such a pity. It would have been such a comfort to know. 
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 :  ,     -  ,  20- ,    ,       .      ,     ,         .  , ,   , -   .     .

Our citizenship papers had not yet become final and, theoretically at least, we could still be considered "enemy aliens." Very conscious of this twilight-zone status as far as patriotic sentiments were concerned, with the red-lettered headlines screeching hatred for the enemy every day while General Foch and his valiant army made a desperate stand on the Marne, our utter surprise can be imagined at the news Gus brought to us. "Guess where I have booked you," he asked with a twinkle in his eye. "On a tour through the soldiers' camps!" And he added, "With the full approval of the War Department Commission on Training Camp Activities, of course." 
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       , , ,   ,        .       ,     ,  []   ,      ,              ,       ,    . ,    , -      .     !  :        - , .

In this way we were happy to be able to contribute our mite to a patriotic cause and to do what we could through our art to make the American doughboy happy. Camp Dix, Camp Upton, and all the other camps had their first cultural entertainment. I am afraid not many soldiers had a hankering for this spiritual sort of uplift; for the halls were nearly always half-empty. But we girls, on our way to becoming full-fledged citizens, got a great kick out of it and a wonderful sense of belonging. 
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 ,   ,           ,  ,   ,    .  ,            . ,        ;        .  , ,       ,       .

We had engaged the well-known pianist George Copeland to accompany us. Isadora Duncan was not at all aquainted with George Copeland, nor had she ever heard him play. The only thing she had heard about him was his reputation as the foremost interpeter of modern music, especially Debussy, in this country. Under the erroneous impression that we too interpreted Dubussy's music and being ever so watchful of our artistic presentation of her dance, she wrote to her pupils the following epistle: 
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     .         ,        . ,     ,     ,   ,   ,  .   ,      ,           ,      :

Please don't let anyone persuade you to try to dance to Debussy. It is only the music of the Senses and has no message to the Spirit. And then the gesture of Debussy is all inward- and has no outward or upward. I want you to dance only that music which goes from the soul in mounting circles. Why not study the Suite in D of Bach? Do you remember my dancing it? Please also continue always your studies of the Beethoven Seventh and the Schubert Seventh; and why not dance with Copeland the seven minuets of Beethoven that we studied in Fourth Avenue? And the Symphony in G of Mozart. There is a whole world of Mozart that you might study. 
..
,        .           .     -   -     ,  .  ,      ,       .       D ? ,  ? ,         ;          ,      ?    G .    ,    .

Plunge your soul in divine unconscious Giving deep within it, until it gives to your soul its Secret. That is how I have always tried to express music. My soul should become one with it, and the dance born from that embrace. Music has been in all my life the great Inspiration and will be perhaps someday the Consolation, for I have gone through such terrible years. No one has understood since I lost Deirdre and Patrick how pain has caused me at times to live in almost a delirium. In fact my poor brain has more often been crazed than anyone can know. Sometimes quite recently I feel as if I were awakening from a long fever. When you think of these years, think of the Funeral March of Schubert, the Ave Maria, the Redemption, and forget the times when my poor distracted soul trying to escape from suffering may well have given you all the appearance of madness. 
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         ,        .       .       ,  ,    .        , , -  ,       .   ,      ,           .          ,  -  . ,  ,  ,       .      ,     ,  ,    ,     ,    ,      .

I have reached such high peaks flooded with light, but my soul has no strength to live there-and no one has realized the horrible torture from which I have tried to escape. Some day if you understand sorrow you will understand too all I have lived through, and then you will only think of the light towards which I have pointed and you will know the real Isadora is there. In the meantime work and create Beauty and Harmony. The poor world has need of it, and with your six spirits going with one will, you can create a Beauty and Inspiration for a new Life. I am so happy that you are working and that you love it. Nourish your spirit from Plato and Dante, from Goethe and Schiller, Shakespeare and Nietzsche (don't forget that the Birth of Tragedy and the Spirit of Music are my Bible). With these to guide you, and the greatest music, you may go far. 
..
    ,  ,        ,      ,     . -,    ,   ,   ,       ,    ,   ,    .        .     ,     ,    ,         .   ,     .       ,  ø  ,    ( ,       -  ).  ,   ,   ,    .

Dear children, I take you in my arms. And here is a kiss for Anna, and here one for Therese, and one for Irma, and here is a kiss for Gretel (Margot) and one for little Erika-and a kiss for you, dearest Lise!. Let us pray that this separation will only bring us nearer and closer in a higher communion-and soon we will all dance together Reigen. All my love, Isadora* 
*Isadora, by Allan Ross Macdougall, pp. 173-174. 
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 ,     .     ,     ,    ,      ()      -    ,  !  ,              -          . 
   , * 
*,   , . 173-174.

DUNCAN DANCERS ON THEIR OWN AT LAST read the head-line of an article written by the distinguished music critic Pitts Sanborn of the Globe. He went on to say: 
It might seem incredible that one of the rarest and most enchanting events of all the musical year should be reserved for the twenty-seventh day of June, but in time of war, at any rate, the Isadora Duncan Dancers gave last evening an entertainment truly exquisite in its charm and artistic quality. For the nonce let comment stop with the general impression of a ravishing performance-altogether a memorable evening. 
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      []   ,        .   :
  ,                    ,    ,   ,       ,        .             -    .

And Sigmund Spaeth wrote for the Mail: It may truthfully be claimed that no dancing in the world today has more of truth and sincerity in its appeal than has the dancing of these six adopted daughters of Isadora Duncan. When people thronged about the stage of Carnegie Hall waving hats and handkerchiefs with loud shouts from the gallery and no inclination or any desire to go home, it was a spontaneous demonstration of approval. There can be no doubt of the fitness of the Duncan Dancers to carry on the unique art created by Isadora Duncan. It makes little difference whether they appear singly or in groups, always they impart the same involuntary thrill that comes only when art is based on something very real. Whether it is Anna's interpretive art, or the rhythmic certainty of Theresa, or Lisa's airy leaps, or the dramatic eloquence of Irma ... there is always the effect of a youthful spontaneity, a direct challenge to everything that is artificial and insincere. There are no cut and dried methods in this art and there is little evidence of the stupendous technique that underlies it. A technique of which one becomes aware only in seeing the clumsy efforts of untrained and uninitiated imitators. This individualizing of the dancers is making them for the first time in their careers, distinct artistic personalities.
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     :   ,  ,               ,        .      -,          ,      ,     .             ,   .   ,        ,       ,    ,     -  .     ,    ,    ,     ...     ,      .       (, ) ,    []  ,      . ,     ,        .      ,    ,   .

I would like to stress here that his last remark proves what Isadora years ago predicted and hoped would come to pass. Observing her apprentice pupils in Grunewald developing her new idea of the dance, she said, "While forming part of a whole, they will preserve a creative individuality." 
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    ,     ,          .      ,    ,  :   ,    .

We lived at the time in a large studio on the top floor of the Carnegie Hall annex which we sublet from Alys Bently. To have emerged finally from our chrysalis (from "a moving row of shadow shapes in imitation of Isadora," as one severe critic remarked of our previous joint appearances with her), and to have, at long last, gained individual recognition, was a great source of satisfaction to each one of us. Now that we were free to dance to the music of our own choice (apart from the modern composers), the music of Chopin especially afforded us a wider scope for individual interpretations, some of them based on our teacher's choreography, some on our own. For she had previously-on the advice of Hener Skene-encouraged her pupils to compose their own dances.
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            -,        .       (       ,           ), , ,   ,        . ,           (  ),           ,        ,      .  ,    ,      .

I still recall the initial lesson in dance composition she gave me privately and how miserably I erred in interpreting the Brahms song she had chosen. It began "If I were a bird," so I flew about the room as if I were a bird. When I stopped, I saw "that look" on Isadora's face. I was terrified. No, she explained, the song did not say "I am a bird," it said "If I were a bird." It meant, "I wish I could fly to you, but I am earth-bound." From her couch, she demonstrated with beautiful gestures how the dance should have been done. She had really thought out the language of movement. There and then she taught me a valuable lesson, which I subsequently used as an example whenever I tried my hand at choreography. 
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         ,      ,         ,   .      ,     ,     .   ,       .   . ,  ,     ,  :     .  :  ,       ,     .        ,    .     .       ,       ,     .

We six Duncan girls knew we had definitely "arrived" as a distinct artistic ensemble when-the day after our successful New York debut-a lady reporter asked for an interview. As an outsider's point of view, it may be of some interest here to show how each girl impressed her: 
Modest and charming are these young women, ranging in age from a little under to a little over twenty, with a pleasant affection for one another and single in their ambition to dance anywhere, everywhere, so long as they can appear uncompromisingly as interpreters of music .... 
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,   , ,         ,          -    .    ,     ,       :
   -   ,      ,    ,      ,          ,        ...

They speak many languages. . . . Anna, the black-eyed, the black-haired, is the leader in their lives as in their dancing. She is practical, she always plans. She has a way of saying "We children," and her voice carries great authority. And she is very beautiful, beautifully made, with a most exquisite modeling of chin and neck and shoulders. Though she is not tall there is something heroic in her structure. 
..
    ... , , ,     ,    .  ,   .      , ,      .    ,  ,     ,   .    ,     - .

All of them are rather small, surprisingly fragile to see after their dancing, which leaves the impression of long bodies. Lisa of the famous leapings, and Margot, both unusually slender, are still more delicate in repose than in motion .... Erica is the youngest, a quiet dark-eyed child, who looks upon the world with great solemnity and on rare occasion smiles. 
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   ,  ,      ,     .   ,  ,   ,       ,   ...  -  ,   ,            .

Theresa is to my mind the loveliest of all-a simple maiden with long, blond braids wound round her head. She is complete in her response to music, and when she dances, her face, alight with joy, gives me great pleasure. Waltzing, she is more than anyone like Isadora, lost ecstatic, whirling through an immense quiet .... 
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,   ,     -      ,    .       ,    ,  ,  ,    . ,  ,  -, []  ,  ,    ...

Irma is another very slight girl, perhaps the most distinctive member of the group, in whose mocking grey-eyed face there is mingled wisdom with a mischievous gaiety. She has an amusing wit. She is gifted; the others speak of a singing voice which she, however, has neglected. To see her dance is to have a feeling that some day she may make of herself an actress. . . . 
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 -     , ,    ,          .    .  ;     ,  , , .    -  ,        ...

When Isadora passes, nothing of her will remain but these young girls. After her own dancing they are her greatest contribution to art. They are the mould into which she has struggled to pour her genius. . . . Through their magnificent bodies, Isadora has projected a new ideal of woman's beauty .... Today, Isadora, who assembled and brought them here, is far from them. . . . And today they are making their first large venture unguided by her. From under the protecting wing of genius they emerge to test themselves, to feel their own weight and the space about them. 
Though they are the offerings of Isadora's spirit, each one begins now to measure her lot and her fame alone. 
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  ,     ,    .    ,        .   ,          ...           ...  ,     ,   ...           . -     ,   ,       .
    ,           . 

One engagement led to another and eventually to a transcontinental tour. We also did our bit for various war charities. The major event of this kind was an open-air recital with the Barrere Orchestra for Italian war relief that was staged at Kenilworth, the George Pratt estate in Glen Cove on Long Island Sound. Mr. Pratt, an amateur color photographer, took many pictures of us the week end we stayed with him and his wife. He posed us in graceful attitudes holding aloft garlands of roses or standing among the tall Madonna lilies and among the blue iris reflected in the limpid pool of the sunken garden where we danced. 
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     ,   ,   .          .                 ,     ,     -   -.  , -,   ,       ,        .      ,          ,    ,      ,   .

Even while dancing for Allied war relief, I could never quite forget the "other side." In my mind's eye I saw mother living in Germany, now an enemy country and my homeland no more. With a heavy heart, I wondered what her fate might be, for I had not heard from her since America entered the fray. I worried a great deal over her. And then one glorious morning I awoke to the ringing of bells and blowing of whistles. The shrieks of sirens brought me rushing to the window. There, in the street, was the strangest sight. Grown-up people holding hands like children and dancing for joy down the avenue! Then I knew. The war was over, the armistice had been signed. Overcome with long-pent-up emotion and utter relief that the horrible, bloody nightmare was terminated, I sank down on my bed and cried, thanking God for PEACE. That same day, the eleventh of November, I wrote two letters; one to my German mother, the other to my dear foster mother. Weeks later I received answers from both. Mother had survived the holocaust but was very ill. I sent her money and food packages, doing what I could from that distance to help. Isadora wrote from the Riviera Palace Hotel in Nice: 
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Dearest Irma, If you knew how happy it makes me to receive letters from you, you would all write oftener. Now you must admit I am a good prophet-since the beginning I predicted the Republic of Germany. What good news! And think how wonderful, for you all can now hope to dance the Marche Lorraine at Munich! I started bravely to make a tour of the French provinces but after three evenings was stopped by the Grippe closing all the theatres so have come back to Nice where, as usual, am living on Hopes. 
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 .    ,       ,     .    ,     -       .   !  ,  ,           !        , ,   ,    ,     , ,  ,   .

I think now, if you wish it, I can arrange for you all to join me very soon. Passports etc., will be simplified. 
I have given up writing to Elizabeth and Augustin as they never answered even once-it is true many letters are lost. Tell me your plans, how far is your tour booked and what prospects, and send me your programmes. Everything you are doing interests me. I have the promise of a beautiful large hall to work in here. Perhaps you would all like to come in the spring? But tell me frankly your ideas and wishes. 
..
 , ,    ,   ,        .   ..,  . 
      ,        - ,   .     ,        ,     .   ,   .       ,   . ,      ?        .

It is a beautiful morning the sun is sparkling on the sea and warm. I take long walks by the sea and my heart goes over to you. Do write me news of all our friends. . . . If you were here we would study the 9th Symphony [of Beethoven] to celebrate the Peace. Here is a kiss of Peace and Hope for each of you. With all my love-
Isadora 
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  ,       .     ,      .      ...     ,    9-  ,   .          .     -


Our reunion had to be postponed for more than a year. We girls had contracts for a second tour. During the season of 1919-1920 our tour brought us all the way across the country to California, Isadora's birthplace. She had been born in San Francisco, and that lovely city exerted a special appeal for her pupils. We tried to dance our very best at our first matinee at the Columbia Theatre to make her fellow Californians proud of us. We must have succeeded, for Redfern Mason of the San Francisco Examiner wrote: One goes to see these six girls in a mood that has a note of reverence in it. During the trials of the war they have not yielded to the voice of those who would commercialize their art. They have closed their ears to the gilded seduction of vaudeville. Their ideal has remained inviolate and uncheapened. . . . 
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     .       .    1919-1920          ,   .    -,          .          ,        . ,  ,  ,     -  :        ,      .         ,     .        .      ...

Gluck, Chopin and Schubert; that is the lyre of three chords from which they drew their inspiration .... The Chopin group brought out the personality of each individual dancer. Anna danced a mazurka and a valse. Irma gave us the "Minute Valse." In another life I think she danced at the Feast of Reason during the French Revolution. She has the tenseness and clean-cut emotional suggestiveness of Yvette Guilbert. 
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,   ;     ,      ...      .     .     .   ,  ,         .          .

Lisa of the golden locks is kin to Undine of romantic legend. In the Schubert dances we saw the other girls. Nothing is more beautiful than are those Schubert waltzes with their old-time memories and their sentiment of "Heimweh." The girls put their hearts into the dancing and the house simmered with contentment.
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   ,     .       .    ,              .      ,     .

In the audience was Mrs. Duncan, the mother and first teacher of Isadora, happy to see her daughter's art pulsating and young in another generation. It is wonderful to have revitalized an art and that is what Isadora and her disciples have done .... Today the Isadora Duncan girls dance in Oakland, next Sunday they will again be seen at the Columbia. Not to see them is a misfortune; carelessly to miss them would be a crime. 
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    ,     ,  ,          .   ,   ,       ...       ,         .    - ;      .

We had not seen Isadora's mother since we were children in Grunewald. She used to sit on the garden steps in the pale northern sun and tell us about her home-California; of the abundance of flowers and fruit growing there, and the glorious hot sun shining every day, and of her longing to go back. "Some day you will go there and love it too," she said. Her prediction had now come true. She seemed happy to see us. A very ancient lady then, she nevertheless accepted with pleasure when we invited her and her Norwegian companion (who in the old Grunewald days had been our governess for a while) to spend the two weeks of Christmas with us at the St. Francis Hotel. 
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             .                 ; -     ,       ,      . -      , -  .    . ,    .   ,   ,       ,         (         ),            .

We received a hearty welcome everywhere in the larger towns of California. The only prudish place was Santa Barbara, where the mayor refused us permission to dance with bare legs. When I think of the bikini suits currently en vogue there, I feel quite proud of having been a martyr for the adoption of a more enlightened attitude by the present generation. Not only that, but considering that we encountered nowhere a real dance audience such as exists nowadays, we Duncan girls can be proud also of having contributed our share toward bringing about a greater appreciation of that art in this country. 
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        .     -,          .           ,    ,          .   , , ,        ,      , ,  ,   ,             .

I am not able to recall the many details of our grand tour through the States. I kept a little diary at the time, and a few pages from it may give a better idea of what was involved in such one-night stands as it mostly turned out to be. Our return trip started with the end of the holiday season. 
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          .       ,           ,         ,     .        . 

Saturday, Jan. 3, 1920. 
Goodbye California! We are taking 6 o'clock train to Colorado Springs. 
Tuesday, Jan. 6. 
Arrived 1:30 Colorado Springs. Antlers Hotel. A health resort kind of a place. Surprise! Wienold Reiss showed up, he is on his way to paint Blackfoot Indians in Montana. In the evening saw a vaudeville show at the Burns Theatre. 
Wednesday, Jan. 7.
A nice day. Took a motor drive out to the Garden of the Gods, huge, red water-washed rocks in various shapes of corrosion. 8:30 performance at the Burns Theatre. A very small but select audience. 
Thursday, Jan. 8. 
A magnificent day, snow on the mountains and sunshine. Took a train to Denver and arrived at 5 o'clock. Brown Palace Hotel. A horrible place. 8:30 performance at the Auditorium with an enormous stage and a correspondingly large audience. Had supper afterwards at the hotel with Judge Lindsey and his wife. 
..
, 3 , 1920 .
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The Judge, of course, was Ben B. Lindsey of the Juvenile Court, whose ideas about "companionate marriage" caused something of a national sensation when he published them in book form several years later. Our Denver performance seemed to impress him, as it did at least some others of the audience. But we were working against a real handicap. The Denver Times reported the circumstances the next day: 
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,  ,   .      ,       -   ,           .    , ,    ,       .      .        :

Those who did not attend the performance of the Isadora Duncan dancers and George Copeland, pianist, last night at the Auditorium missed a rare combination of the terpsichorean art with that of the musician and deprived themselves of a share in one of the most restful, refreshing evenings that has been offered Denver concertgoers this season. The Lions Club of Denver sponsored the event. . . . 
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,            ,    ,       -,         ,  ,        .      ...

The huge stage was so effectively draped and curtained that it gave the impression of unlimited space, and the slender figures stole from its recesses like nymphs slipping thru wondrous woods. So carefully are the dances and the music blended that the portrayal of emotion is absolute and distinctive. One of the most effective was the "March Funebre," by Chopin, in which five of the graceful figures draped in purple robes glide forth in slow, steady rhythm truly typifying a funeral cortege, while one of the figures in a filmy shroud portrays the dead for whom they mourn and the resurrection. . . . 
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       ,      ,      ,  ,    .      ,       .      - ,     ,    ,   ,  , -    ,            ,      ...

Unfortunately the Auditorium grew so cold during the performance that it was impossible to sit thru the entire program with any degree of comfort and many left before the end for that reason. One shivered in sympathy for the bare-footed dancers in their filmy attire. 
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Friday, Jan. 9.
Judge Lindsey invited us to visit his court this morning. Only Theresa, Margot, and I went. He is presiding over the "Stokes Case." Mrs. Stokes is suing for the custody of her children and she will get custody too if Judge Lindsey wins out. After lunch listened to more Juvenile cases of boys and girls in trouble with the law. Very, very interesting. It gives one a different slant on life. Had dinner with the Judge and his lovely wife. 
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, 9 .
        .  ,    .    .          ,     ,    .         ,    . ,  .     .       . 

Saturday, Jan. 10. 
The Lindseys invited us to see Trixie Friganza in "Oh Mama!" We met her backstage. She is amusing off as on stage. 
Sunday, Jan. 11. 
The Judge and his wife called on us this morning and drove us up through the mountains covered with snow for a wonderful view down on Denver. We all lunched together at our hotel. Leaving at 8 o'clock for Kansas City. 
Tuesday, Jan. 12. 
Kansas City is a big, sooty town. Had a 3 o'clock matinee at the Schubert Theatre. A lovely audience, very appreciative but we had to rush our performance on account of the Sothern-Marlowe show that followed immediately. 
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, 10 .
        !     .  ,   . 
, 11 .
            ,  ,     .       .   8   -. 
, 12 .
- - ,  .     3- .  ,  ,            -,    . 

Wednesday, Jan. 14. 
In St. Joseph. All hotels overcrowded because of convention. Had to stop at a second rate Station Hotel. 8:30 performance on a rotten stage. No more St. Joe for me! Tomorrow we dance in Topeka. 
Friday, Jan. 16. 
Arrived late in Newton and on account of a train wreck had to motor over to Hutchinson. 8:30 performance at Convention Hall with a fine, big stage but a very noisy audience. Dogs barking, children screaming, first George made a speech asking them to be quiet and then Anna did the same. 
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, 14 .
 . .    - .      . 8:30    .      !     . 
, 16 .
     -       . 8:30  -  ,  ,    .  ,  ,    ,   ,       . 

Saturday, Jan. 17. 
Leaving for Wichita on the Interurban. Catastrophe! Found there was a strike on and our stagehands are not allowed to work. The Theatre manager himself and several other gentlemen volunteered to help set the stage (lay the carpet, hang the curtains, set the lights, move the piano) and work during the performance at Forum Hall. For some reason the lights worked only on one side the other pitch darkness but we didn't care the audience was large and most enthusia!'tic. 
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, 17 .
    . !  ,       .            ( ,  ,  ,  )        .  -       ,   ,     ,       ! 

Sunday, Jan. 28. 
We spent all day in a day coach on the Santa Fe which is invariably late and uncomfortable. Arrived after midnight in Oklahoma City. Hotels had no vacancies-drat those conventions--and so we were forced to spend the night in what looked suspiciously like a disreputable house, dirty as Hell. 
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, 28 .
        -,     .     -.       -    -        ,   ,   , ,  . 

Monday, Jan. 19. 
A perfectly glorious day, warm and sunny spring-like weather. We decided to enjoy it and rented an open car for an hour's drive to get some fresh air in our lungs after those long train rides and soak up the sunshine. Evening performance at Overhulser (what a name!) Opera House and leaving immediately afterwards for Tulsa, another big "oil town." 
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, 19 .
  ,     .           ,               .     ( !)          ,     .

One had to be very young and healthy for that kind of a life. The dancing was always a pleasure but oh, those train rides! And the incessant packing and unpacking, since we had no maid and had to do everything ourselves. We always envied George Copeland, whose traveling companion acted as his valet. He went through none of the frenzy of having to change costumes while performing. He always appeared cool and col1ected. His favorite pastime during the interminable train rides consisted in a game of cards; he was also a collector of fine antique jewelry. In the end, he came out far ahead of us girls financially. We had to pay not only our own traveling expenses but his and those of a stage crew of three men. We carted our own decor with us everywhere. 
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         .    , , ,   !     ,            .     ,       .           .      .           ;        .   , ,   ,    , .          ,        .     .

From Tulsa we proceeded to St. Louis, and from there to Ohio, via Hamilton, making large jumps through the Middle West. When we arrived in Detroit on January 27, we discovered to our great annoyance that we had a whole long week to wait before our performance there. A full week's delay meant more expense, and it also increased our impatience to return home as soon as possible. 
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     -,      ,      .      27 ,     ,       ,     .       ,          .

Wienold Reiss had been commissioned by Otto Baumgarten, the owner of the new Crillon Restaurant on East Fifty-third Street in New York, to paint our individual portraits. On his way north, he told us that they had been installed in the blue and gray "Duncan Room" at the fashionable restaurant. We were dying to see this, for fame seemed to have caught up with us. 
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 ,           -,       .       ,      -     .  ,   ,   , ,  .

Wednesday, Jan. 29. 
Snow and very cold here in Detroit and found an influenza epidemic raging. Oh, how I long for sunny California! We shall have to stay at the Tuller Hotel for a week, with nothing to do but go to the movies. They are showing Theda Bara in "The Blue Flame" and "Don't Change Your Husband" with Gloria Swanson and my favorite-Tom Meighan. 
Tuesday, Feb. 3.
Evening performance at the Powers Theatre in Grand Rapids. A sold-out house! Erica became suddenly very sick; we called doctor and he says she has to have her appendix out at once! Erica went to the hospital alone, for the rest of us had to leave for Toledo. Poor Erica! 
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, 29 .
    ,  ,  ,    . ,      !         ,    ,     .                    . 
, 3 .
      -. !    ;   ,   ,       !      ,         .  ! 

Wednesday, Feb. 4.
Toledo. We received a wire from Erica's doctor. The operation was successful and she is O.K. Gave a performance at Coliseum Hall. It is freezingly cold here and for that reason had not a big audience. 
Thursday, Feb. 5.
In Cleveland at the Hotel Statler. Danced to a sold-out house at the new Masonic Temple with a nice ample stage but, alas, poor lighting. Many of the music critics here are Copeland's friends. 
Saturday, Feb. 7.
The critics wrote only about George; didn't mention us girls at all. Heard from Erica. She is quite out of danger and sitting up in a chair already. I see in the papers that they are having terrible blizzards in New York. Am not too anxious now to return would much rather go back to California. Depart for Utica on Sunday. 
Monday, Feb. 9.
Encountered a heavy snowstorm in Utica. Tonight we are giving our 62nd performance on this trip. Full house and a nice audience. Left for home. 
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Tuesday, Feb. 10. 
We arrived an hour late at Grand Central Station. Back at last! Nearly all our friends there to greet us. Gus and Margherita, Stephan, Bill, Arnold, Stuart etc. We all had dinner together in the famous "Duncan Room" at the Crillon. Otto Baumgarten gave us a fine dinner with wine and liqueurs. Grossing seventy-five thousand dollars on this tour we only deposited twelve thousand to our credit at the Guaranty Trust.
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       . -!       .   , , , ,   ..          .          .           ,    12        .

We rented a small furnished apartment on West Fifty-eighth Street near the Plaza. Our former English teacher from Geneva, Miss Annie von Stockhausen, acted as chaperone. Here we often entertained our various friends for tea, cocktail parties being unknown in those days. We were celebrities in our own right and attracted much attention wherever we went as a group. The fashionable, glossy magazines frequently reproduced our photographs, most of them by Arnold Genthe. Like other attractive young women in the limelight, we too had a number of admirers; some with serious intentions, others not. Of the latter species Isadora, who always acted much as any bourgeois mother toward her adopted daughters, would warn us by saying, "They are men who only care to profit by your youth and give you nothing in return. It sickens me when I think of it and raises my indignation." 
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            .               .         ,       .          ,     ,  .       ,    -  .          ,      ;    ,  - .    ,     ,        ,   , :  ,              .     ,   ,     .

However, none of us had any immediate plans for marriage. Too immersed in our burgeoning careers, anxious to build a little financial security for ourselves, we were quite content to turn all our efforts in that direction. Everybody made much of us on our return from a successful tour. For a while we led a gay social life, as can be seen from my diary notes: 
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            .      ,       ,    ,         .           .       ,     : 

Feb. 12. 
We had tea at Stuart Benson's place. Johnny Aubert [Erica's beau from Geneva] is in town. He has already given several piano recitals. We shall hear him on Saturday. 
Feb. 14.
Went over to Brooklyn to hear Johnny Aubert with the Symphony Orchestra, Stransky conducting. A concerto by Grieg. He seems to have put on some weight but otherwise looks the same. He is a good musician and very charming young man, I like him. He is going to dine with us on Thursday, the day Erica returns from Grand Rapids. 
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Sunday, Feb. 15. 
The other girls have all gone to Tenafly for a visit with the Rousseaus and their two little children Marta and Theodore Jr. I have the blues and remained at home. Freddo Sides who works for Alavoine's called and invited me to luncheon. We talked about Isadora, he admires her tremendously. Likes my dancing too. 
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Feb. 17. 
Expected Johnny for tea but he never showed up. W.R. [Wienold Reiss] came instead. Freddo sent me two seats for the Opera to see the Sakharoffs dance. They used an exact copy of our stage setting. Their dance had no continuity of movement-nothing but poses. 
Feb. 25. 
We all had dinner at Albert Rothbart's. He engaged an Egyptian necromancer to amuse us with tricks evoking spirits, etc. Quite funny. 
Feb. 26. 
I received a lot of flowers for my birthday. Miss Annie served tea. Arnold presented me with a new dance photo of myself. 
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Feb. 28. 
Gave a children's matinee at 10:30 A.M. over in New Jersey at the Lyceum Theatre with Beryl Rubenstein at the piano. Miss N., the manager, a beast of a woman, spoiled the whole show by insisting on interrupting our dances in order to explain things to the children. When Anna objected she insulted her in front of the audience. Oh, it was dreadful. The stage and lights were pretty awful too and Beryl didn't play too well either-anyhow, what can one expect at ten in the morning! 
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    10:30   -        .  ., ,  ,   ,   ,     ,    .   ,     . ,   .      ,        -   ,      ! 

Sunday, Feb. 29. 
Rosenbach, Genthe, the Sigmund Spaeths, came to tea with us here at our diggings. Our primitive way of making tea on a spirit lamp is quite interesting to watch. In the evening we girls had dinner at Billy and Mary Roberts' apartment on East I 8th Street. (How their wooden stairs do creak!) 
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March 1. 
Johnny Aubert played for us tonight at our studio in Carnegie Hall. Bach, Mozart, Schumann and Chopin, very beautifully. He has much improved since we heard him in Geneva .... Tomorrow afternoon we have a dress rehearsal at Aeolian Hall with our conductor Edward Falck. We are going over the orchestra mUSIC. 
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Sunday, March 7.
Rosenbach, Ordinsky, Johnny, Max Eastman and Eugene Boissevain for tea. Afterwards we girls had dinner at Max Eastman's apartment in Greenwich Village that he shares with Boissevain. He recited poems all evening by the fireside. 
March 20. 
Worked at the studio. Gene and Max came around later, and Lisa and I went for a drive with them out to the Bronx Zoo. 
March 12. 
At 8:30 performance at Carnegie Hall with orchestra. A wonderful performance to a capacity house. The audience actually cheered at the end. Supper party at Voisin's with friends afterwards. 
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 8:30   -  .     .     .     .

The following day all the New York papers carried rave notices. Just for the record, it may not be amiss to quote a few lines. Heywood Broun, writing in the Tribune, said: 
The Isadora Duncan Dancers made their first appearance of this season. . . . They have just got back from the Pacific coast and in the year of absence have made great steps towards artistic maturity .... The program was largely of ensembles from Gluck's Iphigenia, the Schmitt waltzes and a war horse of Johann Strauss's called "Southern Roses." For encores there were Chopin's Polonaise and the Marche Lorraine. 
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    -    .   , ,      .  ,   , :
        ...       ,            ...        ,           .        .

In the ensemble dancing the personal idiosyncrasies of the dancers were properly subdued, but that Lisa must needs show off her jumping. . . . The dancers in the Gluck Amazon dance and the two encores gave the finest thrill that the present stage in this country can afford. . . . 
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         ,  ,  ,     ...              ,         ...

A capacity audience first applauded, then cheered, then sat motionless at the end of the program till it got more dances. These children, who two years ago were pleading at our doorstep for attention, have gone in with tremendous blessings. Another reviewer, writing under the pseudonym The Listener, observed: 
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   ,  ,       ,     .  ,        ,    .  ,    , :

Without the aid of Isadora, the Isadora Duncan Dancers have, in a swift, hard working year, become the chief champions of that art which she revived. Today they are undoubtedly its most inspiring interpreters too. Youth, Grace, Beauty, a thorough schooling in aesthetics; a year ago they had all these as their assets. Today they have that one thing more necessary-a power of imagination which enables them to create, actually to create a sheer and independent beauty from out of the moments of their faith-fullest interpretations. 
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  ,     ,        ,   .  , ,     . , , ,   ;        .     -   -  ,    ,              .

Carnegie Hall held an audience of amazingly large size on Saturday night to see these young dancers . . . an audience which thundered and thirsted for more through a blue darkness and which found in the dances, both separate and ensemble, to Chopin's music a succession of glowing explanations. No explanation of Chopin alone-for that would be a sorry task to ask of youth-but for life itself and all it hides of poetry and beauty. 
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    -     ,      ... ,             ,  ,   ,      .  ,   -          -       ,     . 

Sunday, March 21. 
Gene has sent me a lovely Java Batik. He and Max invited Lisa and me to lunch at Longue Vue by the river. A sunny day, the first day of spring. Band I heard Jascha Heifetz at Aeolian Hall. We all had dinner together at St. Luke's Place and then went to another concert at the Hippodrome with the Ampico piano . . . 
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     .           -  .  ,   .       .        ,            (American Piano Company,   )... 

March 27. 
Margherita and Angus went with us to Boston, at the Copley Plaza. We gave a 3 o'clock matinee at Symphony Hall. Full house, great success. Beryl Rubinstein made good music at the piano for us. Many prominent people in audience including Senator Lodge. Leaving on the midnight train. 
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March 28.
We arrived early in New York on a beautiful day. Had luncheon at the Crillon with Otto, Miss Annie came too. Later we heard Galli-Curci at the Hippodrome. 
Sunday, April 4. 
Left early this morning for Croton with Anna, Lisa and Margot. A nasty, rainy day. Had lunch with Max Eastman at his bungalow and went for a drive afterwards, called on Isabelle and her baby. She is the same as she always was at school. After dinner went up the hill to Dudley Field Malone's house. Had drinks and danced. Motored back late at night. It was fun. 
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April 6. 
Performance at the Metropolitan Opera House with orchestra, danced Symphony by Schubert. A big success. What a thrill it was to dance again at the Met, what memories of our appearances together with Isadora l Had supper party at Reiss' studio in the village.
April 10. 
We received a cable from Isadora. She wants us to come over and work with her in France from June to October on new programs and also give performances. 
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    .  ,                ,    .

Happy in the thought of seeing Isadora again and craving the fresh inspiration working with her would bring us, we girls nonetheless found ourselves in a quandary. Should we accept her offer or decline it? We had several important factors to consider. Knowing our foster mother as well as we did, we had no assurance that she would let us return to the States at the appointed time. Sol Hurok, our new manager, had signed us up for another season, a commitment we intended to keep at all costs. Our newly won emancipation and financial independence had to be maintained, come what might. There was also the question of citizenship papers. Would the State Department allow us to leave? I especially held back from committing myself to this trip abroad. I voiced my doubts to Gus, who wrote his sister: "All the girls are willing to accept your offer. Only Irma is 'holding out.'" 
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   ,         ,   ,  , ,      .         ?        .       ,   ,    ,          .  ,   ,     , - ,      .          ,    .     .      ?     ,       .     ,    :      .   .

I insisted on a written contract from Isadora, stating the conditions and guaranteeing our release at the end of the season, so we could return in time for our winter engagements. Being a bit psychic, I could not suppress a distinct feeling that, once in Isadora's grip, we would not be able to extricate ourselves. To my utter surprise, she readily agreed to signing a contract with us. But once I held it in my hands, I instantly realized the complete futility of this gesture. It was just a piece of paper. 
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In my diary for May 15, I noted, "Our last performance of the season at Carnegie Hall"-not suspecting in the least what my inner voice kept trying to tell me: namely, that this was indeed the end of the Isadora Duncan Dancers as a group of six. The first link in the chain would be broken by Erica. She and Margot never having been particularly outstanding in the dance, Erica decided to make an end of her own dance career. Her ambition now was to study painting with Wienold Reiss. This she did after a summer vacation in Switzerland. As for myself, little did I dream that with destiny pulling unseen strings, I would not set foot on American soil for many years. Here are the last entries of my diary before I left: 
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    15   :       - -   ,         : ,         -     .       .          ,       .        .        .   ,     ,   ,   ,          .        : 

April 20. 
To Baltimore. It is always lovely in Baltimore, but we had a poor house. And this was a Benefit performance for our manager Mr. Hurok at the Lyric Theatre. 
April 21. 
Took an early train to Washington. Gus went with us. Matinee at Poli-Schubert Theatre-an old place but a good house. The audience not quite so enthusiastic as last year. Here we met Mr. F. Howe again former Immigration Commissioner when we landed on Ellis Island. He wants to help us with obtaining passports for France. We have still two years to go before we become citizens. So it is necessary to get special permission in order to leave the country. 
April 22.
It is so lovely in Washington, everything green and in blossom. Went for a long drive into the surrounding country, after a bit of sight-seeing. Leaving on the midnight train for Altoona. Saturday we dance in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. And then home. 
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Sunday, May 2. 
Got up early to go to Yonkers by train where Gene and Max met us with their car. We motored over to Connecticut to visit Art Young than back to Croton for lunch, out of doors picnic style. Dudley Field Malone came. He promised to help with the passports. 
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May 27. 
Anna returned from her trip to Washington where she had an interview with Secretary of State Polk. He gave her a letter with permission to leave the country only temporarily for the purpose of engagements abroad. So all is well. This is Isadora's birthday. 
May 29. 
Motored out to the U ntermeyer estate in Yonkers to have our pictures taken for Vogue in the Greek Garden by Arnold Genthe. We have another cable from Isadora saying she sent the contracts for us to sign. 
June 22. 
Goodbye America. Sailing at 1 o'clock on the S.S. Leopoldina for France. 
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[211], p.187-197 * DUNCAN DANCER * Demeter and Persephone * 

-=12=-

Demeter and Persephone 
  

EVER since she went to Greece in 1904, when she thought of founding a school, Isadora had dreamed of bringing her pupils there some day. Soon after we joined her in Paris, she said, "Let us all go to Athens and look upon the Parthenon. I may yet found a school there." 
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C         1904 ,      ,       .   ,       ,  :         . ,  f  .

With the sale of her property at Bellevue-sur-Seine to the French government (something she had been trying to negotiate unsuccessfully for a long time), her dream was to be realized. Her plans called for our departure at the end of July. I remember Paul Poiret giving a fancy farewell party for us with some of his beautiful models at the Oasis Club-a very chic place. As bad luck would have it, that same night poor Anna was stricken with an inflamed appendix. This necessitated a change of plans. 
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     --   ( ,          ),      . Ÿ        .  ,                  -   .    ,          .    .

Isadora had to stay, but she sent Lisa and me, chaperoned by Christine Dallies, ahead to Venice. She told us to wait there. The rest, including her friend and pianist Walter Rummel, intended to follow when Anna could make the journey. Once again, exact details of our trip to Italy and Greece escape me, and I must needs consult my faithful diary. 
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July 31, 1920. 
Departing for Venice tonight via Milano. Arrived on Sunday Aug. 1, in a downpour. To make matters worse I caught a painful cinder in my eye. Eager to catch my first sight of the Queen of the Adriatic, I leaned too far out of the train window completely disregarding the warning below, "E pericoloso sporghesi!" A motorboat whisked us out to the Lido and the Hotel Excelsior. Got only a glimpse and even less because of the cinder which inflamed my eye. But what a mysterious, fascinating place is Venice! 
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 31, 1920.
      .    1   .   ,        .        ,       ,       :  !          .        - ,    .   ,   - ! 

Aug. 2. 
Sasha and Dolly Votichenko are also staying at the Lido. Could hardly wait to get back to Venice. St. Mark's is perfectly adorable, the Palais des Doges lovely. I am crazy about Venice and its atmosphere of an operatic stage setting. Had tea at Florian's on the piazza. Did some shopping and had dinner at Bonevechiatti's. Wonderful moonlight ride in gondola along the Grand Canal. 
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Aug.3. 
Went bathing in the blue Adriatic at Lido Beach directly in front of hotel. After lunch returned to town. Tea at Florian's. Some more shopping and a lengthy promenade around town. Dined again on the little open terrace of Bonevechiatti, an excellent restaurant. The risotto is superb, exactly the way I like it. 
Aug. 5. 
To Venice and stopped at Florian's for an ice cream. Then down the canal to the station to meet Margot and Theresa. The others won't be long in joining us, they said. Anna is rapidly mending. 
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Aug. 7. 
Visited the church of San Marco and the Palais des Doges. At Florian's as usual. We expected Isadora today but no sign of her yet. 
Sunday, Aug. 8.
They came today. We all went bathing together except Anna who still looks frail and very pale. Isadora invited me for a gondola ride. We dined at the Danieli and watched the Tom bola on the piazza afterwards. She appeared to be in a state of shock. Very taciturn and morose. It seems she and the Archangel [Walter Rummel] had a serious quarrel. 
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Aug. 10. 
Who would surprise us today but George Copeland and his friend Arthur. Both have been in Venice for weeks. We introduced him to Isadora since they had not met before. We invited them to luncheon. There is dancing on the terrace tonight. George made a date with us for tomorrow's lunch at Vapois in Venice including Sasha, Dolly and Isadora. 
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Friday, Aug. 13. 
Unlucky Friday! And how!! Seems that Anna and the Archangel have fallen in love. Isadora is awfully jealous. She made us all move to the Danieli, forsaking the Excelsior and the Lido. I told Christine: "Cette histoire avec Anna et l' Archangel est vraiement embetante. ll parait qu' elle est amoureuse de lui, mais lui aime encore beaucoup Isadora. Grande tragedie!" 
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Aug. 14. 
After a good luncheon at our favorite place-Bonevechiatti-we went, accompanied by Sasha to show us the way, to the famous Fortuni Shop. We each bought a different color dress. Mine is rose-colored. I love it. 
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The pleated Fortuni gown came into existence in 1910, when Signor Fortuni designed the first one for Isadora, in the hope she would display it in her performances and help to make him famous. She did not, however, consider his gowns suitable for dancing professionally, and never wore one on the stage. She did invariably wear them at home or to parties and frequently was photographed in one of Fortuni's creations made of fine India silk, often gold-stenciled and with Venetian beads along the sides. 
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     1910 ,       ,  ,            .                 .                ,     ,          .

It amused us to see how the gowns were twisted together and tied with a belt-an exact imitation of the way we treated our dance tunics. To achieve the same pleated effect observed on Greek statuary, we started out by sprinkling the tunics with water. Two girls then got hold of the ends, folding one tiny pleat upon the other, and then gave the whole thing a twist, held together by a ribbon. This had to be repeated after each performance, so the tunics would be in proper shape for the next one. With so many tunics involved, it was a laborious and patience-demanding process. Isadora herself taught us this trick. She must also have shown it to Fortuni, who invented a secret process to keep the gowns artificially though not permanently pleated. 
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  ,   ,         -   ,       .      ,    ,      .     ,      ,     .       ,         [].     ,      .      .       ,    ,   []  ,    .

We girls always longed to own one of these long, clinging tunics that give women the beauty of archaic Greek statues. Only now could we afford to buy them. We soon discovered their one big flaw. It was absolutely fatal to sit down in these gowns-the pleats all disappeared! If I may be allowed a bad pun: an un-fortuniate situation, indeed, which permanent pleating corrects in modern dresses. 
Society ladies with an artistic bent eventually took up the fad of wearing Fortuni dresses, another instance of the influence exerted by Isadora Duncan on the world of fashion. 
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, ,       ,  ,       .        .       .        -  !       :   ,        ().
            ,           . 

Monday, Aug. 16. 
After luncheon we rented a gondola for the Lido where we met Isadora. At sunset we returned and had dinner on Isadora's balcony at the Hotel Britannia. Steichen arrived tonight. We are getting ready to leave for Greece tomorrow. 
Aug. 17. 
We got up at six A.M. only to find that all the motorboats are on strike. Were obliged to rent gondolas with all our baggage and row way out into the middle of the harbour in order to board the Austrian vessel, S.S. Canonia. Luckily it was a lovely warm day. The Adriatic's deep blue color is quite startling to see after the dull, muddy waters of the canal. 
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Aug. 18. 
Reached Bari late in the day. A hot little town. Had dinner and went to the hot little theatre where we saw a Neapolitan group of actors perform a completely incomprehensible play with all the exaggerations of a Polichinelle show. Didn't like it. Tomorrow we expect to reach Brindisi. 
Aug. 19. 
Brindisi looks exactly the way I remembered it from my last visit on our way to Egypt. Same old place with same old stairs leading up to an uninteresting town. 
Aug. 20. 
Stopped at Corfu for a few hours, visited the former German Kaiser's villa-the Achillion. Wonderful view from up there. The sea so blue and the islands in the distance like rosy clouds. 
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Sunday, Aug. 22. 
Passed the Isthmus of Corinth very early in the morning. At high noon in ferocious heat set foot on Attic soil. Landed at Piraeus and immediately motored out to Falerone near the sea. Not much of a place. I didn't care for it nor did the other girls. We returned to Athens and engaged rooms at the Grande Bretagne. The ones that face the square and open into a long balcony-terrace. Isadora occupied the end suite on the right. At the Zappeion Garden we bought the fragrant white jasmine blossoms for our hair from the boy flower vendors who followed us-shouting with shrill, high voices: "Smeen! Smeen!" until we gave in. Had a gay dinner there. Greek food-caille aux riz, black olives, stuffed eggplant washed down with Resin wine and to the accompaniment of Greek zither music. Afterwards looked at the Temple of Zeus in the moonlight. Beautiful! 
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     .         .           .    .       .         -. ,          .     .            ,   , ,    ,     : ! !    .    .   -  ,  ,  ,         .        . ! 

Aug. 23. 
I forgot to record yesterday that the first thing Isadora did after we unpacked at the hotel was to show us Copanos, the Greek house she started to build in 1904 when she first visited Athens. It was never finished and only one room has a roof over it. There is no water, and goats were stabled here, by the looks of things. She wants to have it cleaned and to furnish it with a grand piano for a studio. What optimism. The heat is atrocious, I nearly succumbed to it. Only the marvelous view of the Acropolis opposite made it all worth while. 
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   ,  ,     ,      ,    ,  ,      1904 ,    .     [],        .   ,      ,   .  ,   ( )        .  .  ,    .         .

Aug. 24. 
Modern Athens is not particularly attractive, I noticed going shopping. Saw some lovely Amazon statues at the National Museum. Isadora and the rest went up to the Acropolis to look at the Parthenon. I refused to go. She was displeased. I intend to wait till there is a full moon and, if possible, go up there alone. At a moment like that I don't relish crowds. 
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Aug. 27. 
Full moon! As luck would have it, the nice young man I met on the boat coming to Greece called on me after dinner. He asked me to see the Parthenon by moonlight. By a strange coincidence, no other visitors were up there. 
Overcome himself by the glorious sight, he let me wander off in silence as I wanted to be alone. An unearthly vision of beauty -no words can describe it. In the moonlight the marble shimmered snowy white, the way it must originally have appeared. Its daytime color is orange. 
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Early this morning, Isadora, showing herself very restless, suddenly ordered an open touring car. She invited Edward [Steichen], Lisa, Margot and myself to accompany her on a trip to Aulis and Chalcis. We rushed northward raising a cloud of dust behind us. Coming down the mountain near the island of Euboea we stopped to gaze at one of the most surprisin~Iy beautiful views in the world-the seashore of Chalcis. There, in Euripides' legend, Iphigenia and her handmaidens played on the shore. How often, in our imagination, had we simulated their Attic games there in our dances to the music of Gluck! What a thrill actually to see it there below us in the sunlight. Were in time for luncheon at the hotel. In the evening walked along the shore where Iphigenia and her maidens trod of yore. Had a nice dinner at San Stephan by the sea. 
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   ,    ,     .    [], ,   ,         .    ,     .      ,  ,            -   . ,   ,       .                !  ,   ,   ,  ,  .      .    ,       -.    -  . 

Aug. 30. 
Continued down the coast to view the Temple and Theatre of Dionysos. Just a few stones left, and overgrown with vegetation. Steichen, having forgotten in the hurry of sudden departure to bring his camera along, asked me to lend him my little Brownie. He snapped a few pictures of us three girls and Isadora in the ancient theatre. 
After lunch we motored back to Athens via Thebes. There is great excitement in Athens over the arrival of Venizelos. We watched him pass from the hotel balcony.
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        .        .  ,      .

The month of August had passed pleasantly. But in September all sorts of unpleasant things occurred. To begin with, Theresa had a nearly fatal sunstroke. I nursed her day and night applying cold compresses over her feverish body till a doctor could be summoned, it being a holiday. He said my treatment saved her life. Then Anna had to go to the hospital with an infection and Margot, too, was unwell. Lisa caught a bad cold, and later I myself came down with a strep throat. The Greek doctor told me to gargle with lemon juice. Isadora suffered mostly from bad humor on that never-to-be-forgotten trip to Greece. 
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So it happened that she only started to work with us on September 25, in the Zappeion Museum, where the government provided her with a large hall. Three years had elapsed since last we worked together. She started on the Seventh Symphony of Beethoven, parts of which we knew and had performed with her in New York. Following that, she taught us the Scherzo of Tchaikowsky's Sixth. Two weeks before we began to work with her, she told us quite frankly that she opposed our return to the States. This was my turn to say to the other girls, "I told you so!" It did not exactly come as a surprise to me. Several days later, when we failed to show up in New York on the prescribed date, we received a cable from our American manager. He threatened us with breach of contract and heavy costs. Lisa and I offered to come immediately, but he wanted all six or none. A huge argument resulted with Isadora. I suggested quite logically, so it seemed to me, in order to evade a lawsuit, that we fulfill our contract and then return to her. But she would have none of this. 
"I did not bring you up and teach you my art, only to have you exploited by theatrical managers," she admonished us. 
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        ,      , -   . 

She wanted us to perform only under her guidance and to help her found a school for a thousand children in Greece. Most of the other girls had meekly given in to her wishes. I made the big mistake of growing more obstinate and infuriated by the minute. And when I do, I am bound to say almost anything. This unreasonable attitude of hers aroused all my ire. In the heat of the argument, which developed into an angry dialogue, the other girls not saying a word, I really lost my temper. She said I had an ugly Broadway spirit and if I felt that way I had better return to America. With that, I stormed out of her suite and rushed straightaway to the steamship office, still smarting from the verbal blows. Back at the Hotel d'Angleterre, where we girls lived, I sat down and tried to be calm. My anger is soon spent; I seldom harbor grievances for long. I regretted the vehemence of my unguarded utterances. On calmer judgment, I sat down and wrote her a letter, trying to explain my motives and all those things one really can't explain, that remain the secrets of a human heart. 
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Hotel d'Angleterre, Athens, Sept. 30, 1920. 
Dear Isadora: I inquired at the steamship office and there is a very good boat sailing for New York on the 10th of October. I think I had better book a passage on it-this will be the most convenient way to get rid of me. I quite understand that a "cheap Broadway spirit" has nothing to do with your art. Because, if that is all you see in me, I should certainly not remain another day with you. 
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 , , 30  1920 .
 :     ,  10   -    .  ,       -        .   ,           .  ,   ,     , , ,        .

Words are futile. I really cannot explain my true nature to you. It is, at times, even too complicated for me. Your art which is the highest expression of all that is pure and divine in man, makes those who practice it-if they are pure at heart-purer. And if they are great-greater. But a spirit that is fundamentally not simple and naive cannot so easily be molded. I cannot change my inner self, nor can you. 
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One thing I am unable to comprehend: How is it that you, with your intelligence and intuition, have not been able correctly to judge my character before? I think it is rather too late now. What a waste and what a crime! For another person might have profited in my stead and been of real help to you. Someone to be proud of, and of real value to you, who could be a fine example to those hundreds who are going to follow. 
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I don't feel I can thank you for what you have done for me, since it has apparently all been in vain. On the contrary, I would rather curse the day you took my hand and led me to your school. Your hand has always pointed upward. This made us sense there is something beyond-something more important than life. And willingly I wanted to be led. Now, you turn around with a frown on your face and point a finger of scorn at me and say that you see into my soul and what you see is . . . Isadora, do you really think you have the eyes of God? 
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Maybe only very earthly, petty things are obscuring your vision. Perhaps, if you had tried to peer into my soul with a little more understanding, you would truly have been able to see. I am a queer girl, one must take me as I am. If you could have done so, who knows, I might have been of genuine service to you until my death. But I don't believe in sacrifice. You did not sacrifice your life either for the sake of your school. The idea of the school has always been your salvation. In your worst moments of anguish and misery it has been your only joy and inspiration. But it has not been everything in your life! How then can you expect that I should devote mine entirely to the future of the school? 
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Two days later I received a message delivered by hand: 
Dearest Irma-
I have just received your letter. I can't answer it now but will tomorrow. I think there is a great deal of misunderstanding. At any rate, you must confess that the things you say sometimes would make a saint angry. Whatever you decide and whether you really want to go back to New York or not, please don't doubt of my very great love for you who are to me exactly like my own little girl. And if I become so furious it is only that I want your future to be splendid. I am probably stupid to take the small things you say in earnest. 
I will answer your letter tomorrow. With a kiss and all my love-Isadora 
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I waited anxiously for her letter, glad that she held no rancor and much comforted by her nice note. When the messenger appeared next day at my hotel, he handed me an envelope that contained not only her letter of explanation but also a picture. The picture was self-explanatory. It portrayed the Greek goddess Demeter, Mother Earth, handing on a torch to her young daughter Persephone, the new life, bringing light to the world. 
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Dear Irma-
I answer your letter. In the first place, do not believe the words which were wrung from me in anger by your extraordinary exasperating attitude. Blot out the "Broadway" phrase, it has nothing to do with you or me. And as for "Getting rid of you," it is because you are so precious to me and to my art that I have made such an effort to tell you the real future of the work, which is not for you or me but for the generations to come. 
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As for sacrifice-take one example. When in December, 1914, Paris Singer said to me, "If you have the courage to start your school now, I will give you the house in Bellevue and 100,000 francs a year to do it with," I hesitated, for the idea of seeing little children at that time meant absolute torture to me. But I answered, "yes," for the thought this opportunity might never come again and it would be a crime to deprive those children. 
No one will ever know what it cost me to teach those children at Bellevue. Often, in the midst of a lesson, I went upstairs and cried with agony, "No, I can't look at them!" But the next day I tried again. 
I think in fact it was this fearful struggle that killed the little Baby that was my only hope. And you know since then I have not been able to look at a child without bursting into tears. And yet, I am willing to take them again and teach them. Is not that sacrifice? 
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   -   .    1914     :         ,        100,000   ,   , -  ,            .    ,        ,       . 
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 ,   ,       ,     .    ,  ,       ,  .           .    ?

And such a useless sacrifice, as all Bellevue is gone and the little children that were there have come to nothing. 
I only have a few more years to do it. Won't you help me? Before I die, at least one hundred beings must understand the work and give it to others. 
You irritated me the other day by the stupid things you said until I would have said anything. But my expression and tears often when you dance must have proved to you that I found it beautiful. I want it to be more so and glorious, especially the Beethoven. 
I don't ask any of you to sacrifice all your life for the school. I only want you to give me a part of each year to helping me. The rest of the year you may tour as you like. And above all, I want you to learn the Iphigenie, the Orphee, the Beethoven and all to a state of perfection, or as near it as possible, before dancing it in a theatre. 
Come this morning to work. Forgive anything I have said that wounded you-1 did not mean it. You are for me always my little Irma whom I love most dearly. And I am for you-your friend. 
Isadora 
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Dear, dear Isadora: 
I read your beautiful letter and I think if we don't speak to each other we understand each other better. I also want to ask you a hundred times pardon for everything I have said-it must all have been very insulting to you. For there is nothing in this wide world too beautiful that I could say or do to compensate you for all that you have given me spiritually and materially. I do want to aid you in every way possible so that your wonderful idea shall be realized. And on the day we actually see a hundred children dance, I too will shed tears of joy. You are right; we should all agree to work part of the time together as you suggest. I am willing to wait and not perform till we have perfected our work. We look up to you to guide us and let us know when the time has come. 
I want you to know that I love you more than my own mother. I cannot show you my affection but it is all in my heart. 
-Love, 
Irma 
October 1, 1920. 
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- , 
 
1  1920 .

Dearest Irma-
your letter has made me happy. Now, hand in hand, we will go forward and conquer the world in harmony and love. 
-Isadora 
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[222], p.198-214 * DUNCAN DANCER * The School Is Dead, Long Live the School * 

-=13=-

The School Is Dead, Long Live the School 
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THE bite of a pet monkey that killed the King of Greece decided our departure. The performances we planned to give in Athens had to be canceled. We left toward the end of October for Paris. 
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There is a street in Passy, which George du Maurier describes in his Peter Ibbetson as the "Street of the Pump," winding its way to Paris through the Arc de Triomphe at one end and to the river Seine at the other. He called it a delightful street where the "butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker" still had their boutiques within the residential quarter. Here Isadora bought a house because of the large room in the rear, called "Salle Beethoven," where intime concerts could be given. She converted it into a studio with the same blue curtains and carpet. We girls had rooms in a small hotel nearby. 
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What little money we had saved from our tours in the States dwindled alarmingly. In order to economize, we rented a small furnished apartment on the Rue Eugene Manuel, in Passy, a short distance away from Isadora's house. Here we were left to struggle along financially as best we could; for one moment our foster mother lavished everything on her adopted children, the next she withdrew her support. That is why we were so eager to give performances. As always, we had to wait for Isadora's consent. We chafed under this inactivity, having no outlet for our pent-up energies. But, being young, we managed to enjoy life from day to day, whatever it might bring. We hired a cook from the provinces, a bonne at oute faire, who went on her daily errand dressed in a black shawl with a market basket on her arm. 
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Like all French women, she had the culinary touch with a Gallic flavor, and I can still see us girls sitting at the round table in our tiny salle a manger, relishing every savory morsel. The lamp with a green shade suspended from the ceiling directly over the dining table created a warm, homey atmosphere. As soon as the table was cleared, with no neighborhood movies available to attend, we sought amusement in a game of whist.
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Working at the studio on Rue de la Pompe, we frequently lunched with Isadora and Rummel. On those occasions she would take the precaution of drawing the dark velvet curtains over the windows to shut out the brilliant spring sunshine, which left us in the dark except for a red Japanese lantern burning on the side table. She said it created a more restful light. But it also erased all those fine encroaching lines and wrinkles on the face of any woman in her forties, a little vanity on the part of the famous dancer that fooled no one. Sunday was her day at home when friends dropped in for tea. I often went with her to shop in an American bakery on the Rue de Bac for her favorite-coconut cake. Afternoon tea was a daily habit with her. 
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That winter and spring of 1921 turned out to be quite a social season. We attended the theatre frequently, concerts galore. The Ukrainian Chorus was the big attraction in Paris that season, and the elegant Bal Noire et Blanc at the Champs Elysee Theatre. We often had friends take us to night clubs such as the Peroquet, where the American Negro entertainer Josephine Baker held forth. 
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    1921     .    ,   .          ,          .     ,      ,   ,       .

I must interrupt my story here to point out and correct some popular misconceptions. In all my life with Isadora I never attended a so-called "orgy," staged either by her or by anyone else, as the newspapers loved to misrepresent. A champagne party and supper where guests dance, cut funny capers, and generally enjoy themselves in public cannot exactly be termed an "orgy"! That happened every day in the social world I used to know and is a festive occasion most people have enjoyed at least once in their lives. 
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Outside of an occasional cocktail before meals, none of us girls, nor Isadora, ever indulged in drinking or especially craving hard liquor. Our European tastes were conditioned to wines. Only in her late forties, after her marriage to a Russian and under his malign influence, did she acquire a habit for stronger stuff. But no one who ever knew her intimately in her day-by-day existence could ever honestly accuse her of becoming an alcoholic in her last years. That, to my certain knowledge, represents a gross calumny. 
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Now to go on: Afterward we continued on to Joe Zelli's opening with Maurice and Hughes, the popular ballroom dancers of that period. Maurice had lately dropped his former long-time partner Florence Walton, which created a sensation. Isadora, in a short Chanel gown covered with gold beads, liked to dance to tango music rather than the fox trot. She knew none of the conventional steps; she always improvised her own, much to the confusion of her male partners. 
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I recall her telling me that once in San Francisco in 1918, when she appeared there in a Chopin recital with the pianist Harold Bauer, the audience as usual clamored for an encore at the end. Tired of hearing more Chopin she decided on a sudden, whimsical impulse to dance a tango. The tango was then the latest craze in popular dance. Harold Bauer protested, not knowing any popular tunes as a concert pianist of the first order. He considered it below his dignity but Isadora urged him along saying, "Oh just improvise on the rhythm and I'll do the same," adding slyly, "The public won't be able to tell the difference!" 
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She was right, they loved it and wanted her to repeat the "Duncan Tango" but she never did that again. In Paris that year the tango was still very popular, thanks to the expert ballroom dancers who specialized in this Argentine dance like Maurice and the American movie star Rudolph Valentino. A place called El Garron on Montmartre caught her fancy. It was a small room, with banquettes upholstered in red velvet along three walls; the fourth was taken over by two rows of sixteen Argentine accordion players in red coats. And how electrifyingly they could play those exotic Latin tunes. I learned to dance the Argentine tango very well, with a professional partner as tutor. Even today, my feet can't resist beating the measure whenever I hear one played. We usually danced through the night and at dawn sped over to Les Hailes for the traditional reveler's soupe a l'oignon and crusty French bread warm from the oven. Ah, sacree jeunesse! What exuberant fun we had! Curiously enough for one so young, those diversions did not make me forget the more serious ambition then nagging at my psyche-to make a name for myself as an artist. 
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The year before, in the fall of 1920, it all had seemed so promising when Isadora and Rummel and we girls worked in artistic harmony and enthusiasm on a new project, the study of Parsifal. She taught us the Flower Maiden Scene, while she portrayed Kundry in her bewitched garden enticing Parsifal. And a beautiful etherealized choreography for the Holy Grail music. 
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The world premiere took place on November 27, 1920, at the now-vanished Trocadero. That evening, at the theatre, she summoned us to her dressing room a few minutes before curtain time. It was an event for her pupils, because this joint appearance was the first in two years. Her dressing room had the familiar look I had seen so many times since my childhood, for she always liked to say a word or two of encouragement and give us inspiration. She sat in front of her dressing table which was covered with a lace cloth and littered with an assortment of makeup. Leaning against the frame of the mirror and pinned above it were reproductions of Greek sculpture and friezes. 
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   27  1920    .   ,  ,           .      ,          .      ,       ,             .      ,         .        ,      . 

On a table beside her, still partly wrapped in green tissue from the florist's box, lay the fresh flowers she used as wreaths or decorations for her various dances. The open wardrobe trunk spilled over with a profusion of tunics and scarfs needed for the performance. The chaise longue in a corner held her white and red Indian shawls, so she could stretch out and rest during the intermission. A three-hour program of uninterrupted dancing is a most strenuous affair. The throat gets parched, and to quench one's thirst with water is fatal. Aqua pura has a funny way of jumping around inside with every lively step, a horrid sensation. For that reason, to ease the maddening thirst, she preferred a glass of champagne during the intermission. She never touched a drop of anything stronger. 
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A pleasant perfume of flowers and cologne enveloped us six girls as we entered, dressed in flesh-colored Flower Maiden attire with blooms in our hair and a garland from shoulder to waist. Each one was different. My floral adornment consisted of large anemones in a combination of vivid red, purple, and white. 
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She smiled and looked us over critically. "You all look ravishing," she whispered. Then she fixed her glance on me with a small moue of dissatisfaction and said, "I do wish, Irma, that you would not wear your hair so low over the forehead. It hides your nice wide brow." She got up and brushed my forelocks back as far as they could go, tilting my anemone wreath to the back of my head. Inwardly I seethed with annoyance, just waiting to push it all forward again as soon as I left her dressing room. She insisted in having her own way even in such trifles. Then she did something she hitherto had refrained from doing. She offered us a large goblet of champagne and urged each of us to take one sip. "It won't hurt you and may put you in the right mood for the seduction scene," she whispered. (It was her habit to keep complete silence for hours on the day of a performance.) She herself looked like the Goddess of Seduction, in a long cream-colored satin gown, a flowing red velvet cape, and a crown of red and white roses in her auburn hair. 
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She reminded us that we had a truly magnificent orchestra of a hundred musicians to play Wagner's glorious music for our dancing, so we must give our very best performance that night. She changed after the intermission and donned the gray, drab shift of a penitente to pray for divine grace and forgiveness. She danced to the Good Friday music-and danced it as no Wagnerian Kundry of the great master's imagination ever interpreted this role. The program ended with the Venusberg and Bacchanale from Tannhiiuser in which she danced the part of Venus, with rose petals floating down over her throughout that sensitively imagined scene. Here all the love and sensuality inherent in the score were merely indicated by her, brought to life in the imagination rather than the flesh. It was one of her most perfect choreographic masterpieces. 
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Thrilling as was this experience at the Trocadero-it eventually proved to have been the culmination of our artistic collaboration-it left me strangely dissatisfied. Isadora tolerated no solo dancing by her disciples in our joint appearances. However humble my own efforts compared to her genius, I chafed at remaining part of the chorus all my life. The artist in me longed for self-expression. 
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Isadora arranged several performances during the winter season-the opening one, with an all-Wagner program, took place on November 27 as already mentioned. It was our first public appearance since we girls had come abroad five months before. The famous contract we signed with Isadora, being of no further value, we tore up and threw away. Dissension was in the air. One of the causes, which we resented and which disrupted the harmony that should have prevailed, was the discovery that she had tried to enter into negotiations with Hurok, our New York manager, without consulting us. Her secretary, Norman Harle, inquired of Augustin Duncan what the prospects might be. Gus, still annoyed about the contract which he had once arranged for his sister and which she did not keep, answered: 
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Nov. 25, 1920 
My dear Mr. Harle: 
Your letter received, but I have had no opportunity of replying to it until now. I had occasion to see Mr. Hurok the other day and he asked me to write you the following and to give you his address in case you cared to write to him. He expresses a willingness to arrange some appearances in this country, with or without the girls, after the first of January. Even as late as March running into April and May provided the negotiation was completed by Christmas time. 
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25  1920 . 
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Orchestra is only possible for New York (Metropolitan); piano on the road. Isadora could get a large fee, possibly $2,000 a performance, if she appeared with piano. But even $1,000 is unlikely if orchestra is insisted upon, outside of New York. In the latter case Hurok would not guarantee but only share on percentage. However, I advise you to write to him direct and leave me out of the negotiation. Do not ask less than $2,000 guarantee with piano. You can get it. Turn that into francs at the present rate of exchange and realize what that would mean. 
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H. also offers a tour of the Orient. My advice is that you deal with him direct and not any representative, as they do not represent him. My own opinion is that Isadora should not come to this country. The conditions are worse than ever before and I do not believe she would fulfill her contract. No one else in the business is more hopeful than I am on that point and therefore she could not make advantageous terms. For instance, payment in advance and steamer fares paid-entirely out of the question. She would be forced to stand all the risk of failure to carry out the bookings, as confidence in the likelihood of fulfilling a contract once made, is down to Zero. 
Very truly yours, 
Augustin Duncan 
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Nothing came of this plan. What little money we had saved from our American tour, even changed into francs at the then favorable rate of exchange, soon came to an end. The only way we knew to earn a living was by giving public performances, though every time we did, we ran counter to our teacher's wishes. Naturally we resented this situation, which caused much unhappiness. Money matters are notoriousfor causing trouble and ruining the best of friendships. To make up for our financial deficiency, we entered into negotiations with a French concert manager, who was willing to arrange a tour of the provinces for us. Because of her personal estrangement from Isadora, Anna had left the group. Thus only four girls remained-Lisa, Theresa, Margot, and myself. 
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Being careful to obtain Isadora's consent, I wrote to her. She was at that time in London, giving joint recitals with Walter Rummel. She agreed, providing she received 33 per cent of our fees after expenses had been paid. Her wire to me stated: "Programme Lyon: first part selection Iphigenie; second part Schubert Waltzes, Marche Militaire. Pianist playing solos Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven. No Chopin or any modern music." 
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As artists in our own right, we did not like her dictating to us. We considered it unreasonable and unjust on her part to interfere with our own mature judgment on such matters. We could not go on forever performing the same dances. She tolerated no solo dancing when we girls appeared with her. To me, the freedom of expression provided by a solo dance was necessary to my own artistic satisfaction. I suggested we call the whole thing off. Feeling frustrated and chafing under this constant control, we foolishly let ofF steam by talking the situation over with close friends, such as Mary Desti (formerly Mary Sturges) and Dolly Votichenko. We had no one else to help or advise us. As usual under such circumstances, where dissension is in the offing, the inevitable gossips-who simply itched to carry a tale and to embroider it in the telling-came to the fore. On hearing these exaggerated reports about us, our foster mother dispatched a letter from London: 
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My dear Children-
This is a message for all of you. Please reflect that all the things you say to my discredit reflect eventually on yourselves. And the people to whom you give your love and confidence have never done for you and will never do for you one per cent of what I have done, and am still willing to do for you. But it is discouraging when I hear from all sides that in return you only try to break all my relations in Paris and cut all my friendships. 
I assure you that this can do you no good and my patience is almost at an end. If you could only learn a bit of discretion. Please work and live simply-read and study-and either be true to me or leave me on your own names and your own responsibility. Please write me. With love, 
Isadora 
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In our apartment on the Rue Eugene Manuel in Passy, we immediately held a council of war. Isadora had offered to pay our rent but had failed to do so. The landlord threatened to evict us. Not knowing what to do, our own funds being depleted, Lisa managed to borrow enough to tide us over. Borrowing money was not to our liking. We aspired only to achieve independence, to earn our own living as we had done in the States. This could, under no provocation, be construed as showing ingratitude to our dear foster mother. I wrote her again of our financial dilemma and the trouble with the landlord, mentioning the loan we had to get. She immediately sent word through her secretary for us to move into her house at 103 Rue de la Pompe. But she sent no funds to pay off the loan. 
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Meanwhile Dolly Votichenko made a special trip to Brussels, where Isadora had a dance engagement. Within a short space of time, we received another sharp letter from our foster mother, written from the Hotel Metropole and dated April 30, 1921: 
My dear Children: 
I had a great joy and some hope in receiving Lisel's letter which I confess has been rather dampened since meeting Dolly Votichenko here who says that the way you all speak of me made her think that I was possibly some sort of monster. And in fact she repeated to me word for word what Mary had already told me. This is really too much and my patience is at an end. That you should speak of me this way is simply disgusting. 
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        ,       (     ).               ,      30  1921 :
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First, she says, you accuse me of having "left you to starve" in Geneva. Whereas you know perfectly well that I sent you by telegraph all the money I had in the bank in Buenos Aires and left myself not enough to pay my hotel bill. When on account of the war conditions this money did not reach you, I sent Augustin from Buenos Aires to Geneva to rescue you, leaving me alone and without aid in a strange country.
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Second, it seems you accuse me of having "deserted you," in New York. You will please remember that I sold all I had, even my shawls, and only left New York when you were successfully launched at Carnegie Hall, with a lucrative contract before you. I arrived in London ill and penniless and telegraphed to Augustin that I had no money to reach Paris but received no answer from any of you. 
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-, ,     ,      -. , , ,    ,    ,   ,   -        -     .    ,    ,   ,      ,    ,        .

Third, it seems you accuse me of not procuring you engagements. On this score I am writing Mr. Harle to write you an account of money spent and time and cables amounting to 800 francs, to America trying to fix contracts for you. Also he will give you the true account of the contract which you seem to ignore.
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-, ,     ,     .       ,          ,       800 ,      .        ,  , , .

Fourth, it seems you accuse me of not teaching you, when I have given you the very secret and most holy of my art. And to crown this you tell Dolly that I am jealous of you as an artist. Really, my poor children, I think you have all taken leave of your senses. And to comble that you say I owe Lisel money. This is shameful!
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-, ,     ,     ,          . ,   ,   ,     ,   .   ,   ,  ,       .   ,     .  !

That I should hear all this from a stranger-really my affection for you and my patience is about at an end. As for the way Anna has spoken of me, I think she must be demented. My only crime toward her was a too great indulgence and affection for her. But my patience is at an end. If you can not understand that talking of me in this way you are doing me a great deal of harm and in doing me harm, are doing yourself harm . . . 
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,          -   ,          .   ,     ,  ,     .               .    .     , ,     ,     ,    ,   ...

In the meantime I beg you learn not to tell every little stupid idea in your heads to strangers. If you wish your tickets to America or elsewhere, Mr. Harle will arrange them, as your present attitude toward me seems to me to make further relations very difficult. I am, as Harle says, "fed up." 
Isadora 
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               .           ,    , ,   ,        . ,   , . 


Merely to set the record straight, I want to point out that Isadora left four months before we were "successfully launched at Carnegie Hall" in New York, and with "a lucrative contract" ahead of us. 
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   ,   ,        ,      -  -     .

However, these recriminations were not getting us anywhere. Isadora returned from her successful tour of England and Belgium in May. On the twenty-sixth, the day before her forty-third birthday, the French papers fairly brimmed over with the news that she had decided to go to Soviet Russia. Reporters swarmed all over her house, jostling each other in order to obtain a first-hand interview. Apparently, while she was in London, the head of the Russian Trade Commission, Leonide Krassine, hearing of her desire to go to Russia under the Communist regime, promised to help her obtain an official invitation. Her idea of founding a great school of the dance there appealed to the Bolsheviks, primarily as a wonderful piece of propaganda. 
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      .            .   ,      ,      ,       .     ,   ,      . ,     ,      ,          ,      .         ,  ,   .

Her desire to go to Soviet Russia was no news to us girls. Her reason for this move was made quite explicit in an interview she had granted a woman reporter in Paris even before we left America. The article, which appeared in an English paper, stated: 
She received us graciously, with all the ease and naturalness which characterizes her dancing. In a dark, loose-fitting dress, her mink toque on the table beside her and fur coat thrown back, Isadora looked most charming. Her bobbed coiffure is most becoming and harmonizes with the expression of Irish sympathy and humour alternating with the warm California sunshine laughing in her eyes and mouth. There is in her face also--behind its vivaciousness-that indefinable mystic or spiritual quality which is so peculiar to great teachers. Asked, if she expected to start a new school of dancing this was her reply: 
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Ÿ          . Ÿ          ,    -     ,    .  ,     , : 
   ,     ,    .     ,            ,    . Ÿ              ,     ,      .     -    -     ,     .  ,        ,   :

"Nothing would please me more, but this time it must have a government guarantee. There must be some protection against the pupils of the school leaving and commercializing their knowledge before it has reached the stage of perfection. And this can only come about through the cooperation of a government. You may recall how under the Czar's regime that very thing was accomplished for the Imperial Russian Ballet. It is the only assurance of success." 
"What about the French government? The French have always been liberal patrons of art and they have admired your dancing," was the interpolated remark. 
"Pouf! It's a question of money. The state of French finances ..." and she dismissed them with a broad comprehensive gesture. 
..
     ,        .       ,      ,      .         .   ,            .    .
   ?     ,     , -    . 
!   .   ...,        . 

"And this story of your going to Russia to receive help from the Bolsheviki, what about that?" 
"I did say that it didn't matter to me what the government was and that if Russia offered me a school I would go there and accept it. But of the Bolsheviks and their politics I know nothing. So contradictory are the stories concerning the Bolshevist attitude toward art, that one doesn't have any conception what it really is. I most certainly wouldn't hesitate to accept an offer from Russia .... Four fortunes have disappeared in this effort of mine to re-create dancing as the Greeks knew it-a natural expression of the spirit or the soul. Out of the twenty-five children whom I trained, only six were loyal. ... These six girls could teach hundreds of pupils. But people say, they are beautiful and I suppose they will marry." 
She smiled sweetly though a bit sadly at this conclusion. Miss Duncan, during the course of afternoon tea related the history of her school which has never before been published. It is a fascinating tale. 
..
    ,     ,     ,   ? 
 ,    ,   ,  ,      ,      ,         .        ,     ,     . ,  ,        ...        ,    , -     .    ,   ,    . ...        .   ,   ,   ,  .
  ,      .          ,     .   .

"Who wants to go to Russia with me?" Isadora asked us when she came back from London. I unhesitatingly said I would. The other two girls (Lisa and Theresa, for we were only three now dancing with her) seemed less interested. She smiled at me and said, "I knew I could count on you." 
"I'll go wherever you want to go," I assured her. "I'll even follow you to Mars, if that is the place you have chosen to found your new school. Providing you are serious and really mean to go through with it." 
..
      ?  ,     ,     ,  .    (  ,      ,    )   .     :  ,     .
  ,   , -   .        ,   ,   ,     .   ,      .

She triumphantly produced a telegram she had just received from the People's Commissar of Education, Anatole Vasilief Lunacharsky, officially inviting her to Moscow. Overjoyed, she immediately thought of giving a party for her friends to tell them the good news. Among them were several Russian immigrants who had fled from the Revolution. When they heard that Isadora had really made up her mind to go to the land of the Bolsheviks, they seemed terribly shocked. One of the women went down on her knees before Isadora and implored her by all the holy saints not to go. 
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   ,          ,      . ,     ,     ,     .      ,   .   ,        ,    .                .

"You don't know what you are letting yourself in for! Food is so scarce that the Communists are slaughtering four-year-old children and eating them! Look, I have a letter here, smuggled out of Russia, telling us about this. Please, please, don't go, Isadora!" she implored her. 
"Well, if this is true," Isadora responded, looking pale and grim, "then I must go." 
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  ,     !   ,        ! ,    ,   ,   . , ,  , !   . 
,   , -  ,    , -    .

After the guests departed, and she and I remained alone in the studio where the planned festivity had turned ihto a session of horror tales, she looked ruefully at me, trying to gauge my reaction. By way of laughing the whole thing off, she said as a joke, "Don't worry, Irma; they'll eat me first anyway. There is a whole lot more of me than you. In the meanwhile, you'll manage to escape!" 
..
    ,        ,        ,      ,    .  , ,    :  , ;       .   ,  .      !"

I confess the stories made my flesh creep. However, having heard the worst about the Communists, I still could not quite believe that they officially sanctioned cannibalism.
On the last day of May, Isadora gave another reception, a far pleasanter one, for artists and writers. The pianist de Renneville played, Jacques Copeau read his poems, and we danced. Cecile Sartoris, a woman journalist who was present, later wrote: 
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        ,    ,    .    ,    ,   .  , -,  ,  : 

This evening Isadora dances for us; a dozen friends. It is her adieu. She is off to Brussels, then on to London. And after . . . 
Here she is then, surging out of the shadow, she who thought to resuscitate in our midst the play of noble attitudes, the rhythm of grace in the movements of life! Under the vaporous envelope of her veils she embodies, successively inquietude, melancholy, doubt, resignation, hope. Her face is like the surface of a lake where the ripples pass, like a mirror reflecting the rapid race of clouds. 
It is so beautiful that we do not applaud. Only our oppressed breaths reveal in the silence what our dumb enthusiasm bears of anguish. 
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      ;  .   .    ,    .  ... 
 ,   ,        ,     !        , - , , , , . Ÿ     ,   ,  ,    .
  ,    .       ,      .

[] Isadora to Irma, October 1, 1920: "Your letter has made me Happy-" .. 235

[] Irma Duncan: portrait photo by Edward Steichen, Versailles, 1920 .. 236 

Inscribed: "Gay dancing eyes of the eager dancing faun girl. With a vivat- Edward Steichen." 
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:       .   -  .

Then she calls her pupils. There are only three, on this evening before departure, but it seems as though the Graces of Falconnet have left the pedestal where they have stood for more than a century. And these graces here have more than line; they have the charm of life. They come and go, dancing a rondo, while over them and about them floats the scarf with which Proudhon encircled the delicate face of Psyche. 
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    .        ,  ,     ,     .      ,  ;     .    ,   ,        ,      .

It is incomparably charming, youthful and gay. Isadora leans over to me: "And if they were five hundred, if they were a thousand, don't you think that they would be lovelier still; don't you think that they would give the people something to rest them from their blackest care? For there will not only be us; my pupils will teach all the little ones. They will know how to dance as they know how to read: there will be joy for all!" 
"And if you are hungry?" asks a sceptic. Isadora shrugs her magnificent shoulders, and with an accent made grave by conviction: "We will dance so as not to think of it!" 
O cricket! Delicious cricket that puts to shame the ants! 
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  ,   .    :      ,     ,    ,      ;   ,     -,        ?     ;      .   ,  ,    :    !
    ? -  .         ,    :   ,     !
!  ,   ! 

Isadora sublet her house on the Rue de la Pompe, and two days later we got our visas. I noted in my diary: "June 3, 1921. Leaving on the 4 o'clock train for Brussels. Poor little Gretel has to stay behind all by herself. I don't believe we girls shall ever live together again. Lisa, Theresa and myself are all that are left of the Duncan Dancers." 
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          ,        .     : 3  1921 .   4-   .        .   ,        . ,    - ,     .

Isadora considered Margot (or Gretel as we called her) too frail to make the trip. The number of Isadora's disciples was rapidly dwindling. We gave several performances in the Belgian capital before proceeding to England. The London Observer wrote of our recital at Queen's Hall: 
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   ( ,    )  ,   .     .       ,     .          :

Last night Isadora Duncan with her three pupils, Irma, Theresa and Lisa, appeared ... in a Grand Festival of Music and Dance. But Dance is surely hardly the right word; what we saw was Keats' Grecian Vase come to life-with some moving tragedie added to its living grace. Tchaikovsky's Symphony Pathetique teems with emotion-not pure musical emotion-but emotion that can be expressed in bodily action and facial play. It was very interesting to observe the interpretation of this by the great artist and her three pupils. 
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       , ,     ...      .  , ,     ;  ,      -  -  ,     .     ,     ,  ,          .             .

The first movement she took alone and made it a wonderful example of the beauty of slow motions . . . it became intensely tragic rather than merely "pathetic" as indeed it should. On the five-four movement that followed the younger artists alone took the first section, the elder appearing and the younger disappearing as the second and contrasting section began. (The effect was perhaps that of Care driving away the Graces) .... In the Scherzo all were on the stage together. The last movement (the Lamentoso) Isadora Duncan alone ... 
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              ...    ,    ,    .  - ,    ,   ,  ,   ,     . (, ,   ,    ) ...       .   (o)     ...

The experience last night was a very interesting one, and as the music was played exactly as in a fine concert performance, one did not feel the objection that one docs when one hears some of these Chopin and Schumann ballets that have become so popular, where music is rhythmically and orchestrally sacrificed in order that set forms of bodily movement and an arbitrary story may be made of it. . . . 
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     ,       ,     ,     ,  -        ,    ,       ,     ,       ...

It was really in every way a great evening and one is amazed that the hall should be half empty. Will it be full next Saturday? This will be the last opportunity of seeing Isadora Duncan before she goes to her work in Russia-to return when? 
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  ,    ,  [ ]    ,     .       ?       ,        ,  , ?

Thirteen years had passed since we girls had last danced in London in the Duke of York's Theatre. What childhood memories it brought back! The golden watch that turned out to be pure brass; the famous luncheon party at the Duchess of Manchester's house, and the purloined peaches; dancing for the King and Queen; and oh! my lost sovereign! We reminisced about these things in our dressing room after the performance when, lo and behold! who should suddenly open the door and walk in? As if conjured up from the past by our talking about it, like some specter of our childhood days, the tormentor we all loathed and feared-our former English governess! 
She stood there and silently looked at us, even as a serpent hypnotizes its prey. We stared back in stony silence, then we turned around and left. After all these years, she still personified the serpent in our childhood paradise. 
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     ,  , ,          .      !  ,    ;           ;     ;  !   !         , ,  ,  !       ?        ,  -    , ,       -    !
       ,      .      ,     .             .

That last performance in London spelled finish to Isadora's original school. Theresa and Lisa confided to me their fears and their resolve not to accompany Isadora to Soviet Russia. "What has gotten into her!" Theresa wailed. "Why, of all places, revolutionary Russia?" 
"It must be perfectly awful there," Lisa chimed in. "The people are starving, disease is rampant, and they walk about in rags. At least, that is what the papers say. What sort of place is that for her to found a dance school in? I cannot understand herl" 
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         .               .     ! -  . ,   ,   ?
    , -  .  ,  ,     .   ,    .         ?     .

"How shall I ever have the courage to tell her?" Theresa worried. "I know she is going to have a real fit when she hears we have decided not to go with her. It is going to be awful." 
"Yes, please, Irma, be present when we tell her tomorrow morning," Lisa said. "You may be able to help us explain our reasons better than we can. I don't want her to think I am refusing my help, but I am willing to do anything she asksexcept go to Russia. I am simply plain scared of the Bolshies-and that is the whole truth." 
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     ? -  .  ,      ,   ,       .   . 
, , ,   ,      , -  .        ,   .   ,   ,      ,     ,   ,     .    ,     .

I sympathized with the girls and their reluctance to embark on so dangerous a mission. Few people in those days expressed a willingness to enter, much less live in a country where law and order as we knew it in the West had been completely abolished. The dictatorship of Lenin and Trotsky had created an unholy blood-bath in their unhappy country ever since the October Revolution four years earlier. Certainly it was no fit place for a group of young, sensitive girls, who were concerned for their immediate future. I agreed to support them in their dreaded interview with our foster mother. 
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          .         ,      ,    ,      ,   .                ,   . ,       ,  ,      .            .

It turned out exactly as we had feared: grand hysterics on her part and a flood of tears on theirs. "Ingrates," she called them. When they finally left her angry presence, pale and shaken, I turned to leave also, intending to see the girls off at the station. She called after me, "And you, Irma, are you also leaving me?" 
I hastily assured her I had given her my solemn word and that I meant to keep it. She embraced me, visibly moved, and with tears in her eyes, softly whispered, "Thanks. You are all I now have left in this world." 
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 ,   :          . , -   .  , ,    ,   ,     ,     .   :  , ,    ?
   ,             .   ,       ,  : ,  ,        .

That afternoon I saw the girls off, saying a sad farewell, since none of us knew when we would meet again. Theresa was planning to marry Stephan Bourgeois, and Lisa was planning an American tour with Anna and Margot. I returned to find Isadora in the midst of a gay party. Dressed in a French gown of lace over blue satin, she sat surrounded by English friends all imbibing champagne. The moment I entered somebody shouted facetiously, "Here comes the school!" 
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         ,      ,    .       ,          .  ,      .         ,      ,   .    , - : ,  !

Everybody laughed and joined in nicknaming me "the School." Only Isadora remained serious. Into my mind flashed the silly game we children in Grunewald used to play with our identification numbers and I always proudly ended up with the best prize-number 16, the house number of our beloved Duncan School. And now I myself had to laugh, for here I was actually personifying it. At that instant, Isadora slowly rose from her couch and solemnly called for attention. In the silence that ensued she raised her glass and said, "I propose a toast to Irma." Everybody stood up and Isadora continued, "Here is to the school. God bless her!" 
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   ,   .    .      ,   ,   ,     ,        - 16,      .      ,       .            .  ,  ,      :    .  ,   : ,  ,    !