My best friend and greatest comforter in those days was the musician， Hener Skene。 He had a strange character， in that he despised success or personal ambition。He adored my Art， and was only happy when playing for me。He had the most extraordinary admiration for me of anyone I have ever met。A marvellous pianist， with nerves of steel， he often played all night for me—Beethoven's Symphonies one night， on another the whole cycle of the Ring， from Rheingold to the G？tter？d？mmerung。
In January 1913 we made a tournée in Russia together。A strange incident marked this trip。Arriving at Kief one morning at daybreak， we took a sleigh to the hotel。Hardly awakened from sleep， suddenly I saw on either side of the road， quite clearly， two rows of coffins， but they were not ordinary coffins， they were the coffins of children。I clutched Skene’s arm。
“Look，”I said，“all the children—all the children are dead！”
He reassured me。
“But there is nothing。”
“What？Can't you see？”
“No；there is nothing but the snow—the snow heaped up on either side of the road。 What a strange hallucination！It is fatigue。”
That day， to rest me and calm my nerves， I went to a Russian bath。 In Russia the baths are arranged with tiers of long wooden shelves in the hot rooms。I was lying upon one of these shelves， and the attendant was out of the room， when suddenly the heat overcame me and I fell from the shelf to the marble foor beneath。
The attendant found me lying unconscious， and they had to carry me back to the hotel。 A doctor was sent for， and diagnosed a slight concussion of the brain。
“You cannot possibly dance to？night—high fever—”
“But I have a horror of disappointing the public，”and I insisted upon going to the theatre。
The programme was Chopin。 Quite unexpectedly， at the end of the programme I said to Skene：
“Play the Funeral March of Chopin。”
“But why？”he asked。“You have never danced it。”
“I don't know—play it。”
I insisted so earnestly that he acceded to my wish， and I danced to the march。 I danced a creature who carries in her arms her dead， with slow， hesitating steps， towards the last resting？place。I danced the descent into the grave， and finally the spirit escaping from the imprisoning flesh and rising， rising towards the Light—the Resurrection。
When I finished and the curtain fell， there was a curious silence。 I looked at Skene。He was deathly pale and trembling。He took my hands in his。They were icy。
“Never ask me to play that again，”he pleaded。“I experi？enced death itself。 I even inhaled the odour of whitefowers—funeral fowers—and I saw cofns of children—coffins—”
We were both shaken and unnerved， and I believe that some spirit gave us that night a singular premonition of what was to come。
When we returned to Paris in April 1913，Skene played this march again for me at the Trocadero at the end of a long performance。 After a religious silence， the public remained awed， and then applauded wildly。Some women were weeping—some almost hysterical。
Probably the past， the present， and the future are like a long road。 Beyond each turn the road exists， only we cannot see it， and we think this is the future， but the future is there already waiting for us。
After the vision of the Funeral March in Kief I began to experience a strange sense of coming evil， which depressed me。 I gave some representations upon my return to Berlin， and again I was under a certain spell to compose a dance of one going forward in the world suddenly crushed by a terrible blow， and the wounded rising after this cruel stroke of Fate to， perhaps， a new hope。
My children， who had been staying with Elizabeth during my tour in Russia， were brought to me in Berlin。 They were in wonderful health and spirits， and danced about， the very expression of joy。Together we returned to Paris， to my vast house in Neuilly。
Once again I was at Neuilly， living with my children。 Often I stood upon the balcony， unknown to her， andwatched Deirdre composing dances of her own。She also danced to poems of her own composition—the little childish figure in the great blue studio， with the sweet， childish voice saying，“Now I am a bird， and I fy so， so high among the clouds”；and，“Now I am a fower looking up to the bird and swaying， so， so。”Watching her exquisite grace and beauty， I dreamed that she， perhaps， would carry on my school as I imagined it。She was my best pupil。
Patrick was also beginning to dance， to a weird music of his own。 Only he would never allow me to teach him。“No，”he would say solemnly，“Patrick will dance Patrick's own dance alone。”
Living there at Neuilly， working in the studio， reading for hours in my library， playing in the garden with my children or teaching them to dance， I was quite happy， and dreaded any more tours which would separate me from the children。 As they became more beautiful each day， so it became more difficult for me to have the courage to leave them。I had always prophesied a great artist to come who would combine the two gifts of creating music and dancing simultaneously， and when my little boy danced， it seemed to me that he might become the one who would create the new dance born from the new music。
Not only was I allied to these two adorable children by the poignant tie of flesh and blood， but I also had with them a higher bond to an almost superhuman degree， the tie of Art。 They were both passionately fond of music， and would beg to remain in the studio when Skene played orI worked， when they would sit so quiet， with such intense faces， that I was sometimes frightened that beings so young should exhibit so serious an attention。
I remember one afternoon that great artist Raoul Pugno was playing Mozart。 The children entered on tiptoe and stood on either side of the piano as he played。When he had finished they each， with one accord， put their blonde heads under his arms and gazed at him with such admiration that he was startled and exclaimed：
“From whence come these angels—Mozart's angels—”at which they laughed and climbed on his knees and hid their faces on his beard。
I gazed at the beautiful group with tender emotion， but what if I had known then how near were all three to that shadowy land“from whence no traveller returns？”
This was the month of March。 I was dancing alternately at the Ch？telet and the Trocadero， but， in spite of the fact that every relative touchstone of my life bespoke happiness， I sufered continually from a strange oppression。
Again one night at the Trocadero I danced Chopin's Funeral March with Skene playing the organ， and again I felt over my forehead that icy breath and smelt the same strong scent of white tuberoses and funeral fowers。 Deirdre， a lovely white figure in the central box， when she saw me dancing this， suddenly wept as if her little heart would break， and cried out，“Oh， why should my Mama be so sad and sorry？”
This was the frst faint note of the prelude of the tragedy which presently was to end all hopes of any natural， joyouslife for me—for ever after。 I believe that， although one may seem to go on living， there are some sorrows that kill。One's body may drag along its weary way on earth， but one's spirit is crushed—for ever crushed。I have heard people speak of the ennobling infuence of sorrow。I can only say that those last days of my life， before the blow fell， were actually the last few days of my spiritual life。Ever since then I have had only one desire—to fy—to fy—to fy from the horror of it， and my life has been but a series of weird nights from it all， resembling the sad Wandering Jew， the Flying Dutchman；and all life has been to me but as a phantom ship upon a phantom ocean。
By some strange coincidence， the psychic happening often fnds its refection in material objects。 Poiret， when he designed for me that exotic and mysterious apartment of which I have spoken， had placed on each golden door a double black cross。At frst I found this design only original and bizarre， but little by little these black double crosses began to afect me in a curious manner。
As I have said， notwithstanding all the seemingly fortunate circumstances of my life， I had been living under a strange oppression—a sort of sinister foreboding， and now I suddenly found myself at night awakening with a start and a feeling of fright。 I kept a night？light burning， and one night， by its dim glow， I saw emerging from the double black cross which faced my bed a moving figure， draped in black， which approached the foot of the bed and gazed at me with pitiful eyes。For some moments I wastransfixed with horror， then I turned on the lights full， and the figure vanished；but this curious hallucination—the first of the kind that I had ever had—occurred again and then again， at intervals。
I was so troubled by this that one night at a dinner given by my kind friend， Mrs。 Rachel Boyer， I confided in her。She was alarmed， and， with her usual good？heartedness， insisted on telephoning at once for her doctor。“For，”she said，“you must have some sickness of the nerves。”
The young and handsome Dr。 René Badet arrived。I told him of these visions。
“Your nerves are evidently overstrained：you must go for some days into the country。”
“But I am giving recitals under contract in Paris，”I replied。
“Well， go to Versailles—it is so near you will be able to motor in， and the air will do you good。”
The next day I told this to the children's dear nurse， who was very pleased。“Versailles will be so good for the children，”she said。
So we packed a few valises， and were about to start forth， when there appeared at my gate， and slowly advanced up the path， a slender figure draped in black。 Was it my overwrought nerves， or was this the same figure that emerged nightly from the double cross？She came up to me。
“I have run away，”she said，“only to see you。 I have been dreaming of you lately， and felt I must see you。”
Then I recognised her。 It was the ancient Queen ofNaples。Only a few days before I had taken Deirdre to see her。I said：
“Deirdre， we are going to see a Queen。”
“Oh， then， I must wear my robe de fête，”said Deirdre， for so she called a little dress Poiret had made for her， an elaborate thing with many embroidered rufes。
I had spent some time in teaching her to make a real Court curtsey， and she was delighted， only at the last moment she burst into tears and said，“Oh， Mama， I am afraid to go and see a real Queen。”
I believe poor little Deirdre thought she would be obliged to enter a real Court， as in a fairy pantomime， but when， in the great little house on the edge of the Bois， she was presented to the slight， exquisite woman with her white hair braided in a crown， she made a brave attempt to do her Court curtsey， and then， laughing， few into the outstretched Royal arms。 She had no fear of the Queen， who was all goodness and grace。
This day， when she came in her mourning veil， I explained to her that we were departing for Versailles， and the reason。 She said she would be very pleased to come with us—it would be an adventure。On the way， with a sudden tender gesture， she took my two little ones in her arms and held them to her bosom， but when I saw those two blonde heads enshrouded in black， again I experienced that strange oppression that had so often afected me lately。
At Versailles we had a merry tea with the children， and then I escorted the Queen of Naples back to her dwelling。 I have never met a sweeter， more sympathetic， or more intelligent spirit than the sister of the ill？fated Elizabeth。
Awakening in the lovely park of the Trianon Hotel next morning， all my fears and forebodings were dissipated。 The doctor was right；it was the country I needed。Alas， if the Chorus of the Greek Tragedy had been there！They might have cited an instance that often， by taking the opposite road to avoid misfortune， we walk straight into it， as was the case of the unhappy Oedipus。If I had never gone to Versailles to escape the prophetic vision of Death that was over me， the children would not， three days later， have met their death on that same road。
I remember that evening so well， for I danced as never before。 I was no longer a woman， but a flame of joy—a fire—the sparks that rose， the smoke whirling from the hearts of the public—And， as a farewell， after a dozen encores， I danced last of all the“Moment Musical，”and， as I danced， it seemed to me that something sang within my heart“Life and Love—the Highest Ecstasy—and all are mine to give—are mine to give—are mine to to give to those who need them。”And suddenly it seemed as if Deirdre were sitting on one of my shoulders and Patrick on the other， perfectly balanced， in perfect joy， and as I looked from one side to another in my dance， I met their laughing， bright baby faces—baby smiles—and my feet were never tired。
After that dance I had a great surprise。 Lohengrin， whom I had not seen from the time of his departure for Egypt， some months before， came into my loge。He seemed deeply affected by my dancing that evening and by our meeting， and proposed to join us at supper at Augustin's apartment in the Champs Elysées Hotel。We returned and waited before the spread table。Moments passed—an hour passed—he did not come。This attitude threw me into a state of cruel nervousness。In spite of the fact that I knew he had not taken that Egyptian trip alone， I had been deeply glad to see him， for I loved him always and longed to show him his own son， who had grown strong and beautiful in his father’s absence。But when three o’clock came and he had not arrived， bitterly disappointed I left to rejoin the children at Versailles。
After the emotion of the performance and the wearing ner？vousness of waiting， I was worn out， and， throwing myself into my bed， I slept profoundly。
I was awakened early next morning when the children came in， as was their custom， to leap upon my bed with shouts of laughter。 Then， as was our habit， we had breakfast together。
Patrick was more than usually boisterous， and amused himself by turning over the chairs， and as each chair fell he shouted with joy。
Then a singular thing happened。 The night before someone， whose identity I have never known， sent me two beautifully bound copies of the works of Barbey d'Aurevilly。Ireached out my hand and took up one of these volumes from the table beside me。I was about to chide Patrick for making over？much noise， when， by hazard， I opened the book， and my eye fell on the name“Niobe，”and then these words：
“Belle， et mère d’enfants dignes de toi， tu souriais quand on te parlait de l’Olympe。Pour te punir， les flèches des Dieux atteignirent les têtes dévouées de tes enfants， que ne protégea pas ton découvert。”
Even the nurse said，“Please， Patrick， don't make such a noise；you annoy Mama。”
She was a sweet， good woman， the most patient in the world， and she adored both children。
“Oh， let him be，”I cried。“Think what life would be， nurse， without their noise。”
And the direct thought came to me—How empty and dark would life be without them， for more than my Art， and a thousand times more than the love of any man， they had filled and crowded my life with happiness。 I read further：
“Quand il ne resta plus de poitrine à percer que la tienne， tu la tournas avidement du c？té d’où venaient les coups……et tu attendis！Mais en vain， noble et malheureuse femme。L’arc des Dieux était détendu et se jouait de toi。—
“Tu attendis ainsi—toute la vie—dans un désespoir tranquille et sombrement contenu。Tu n’avais pas jeté les cris familiers aux poitrines humaines。Tu devins inerte， et l’on raconte que tu fus changée en rocher pour exprimer l’infexibilité de ton cceur—”
And then I closed the book， for a sudden fear caught meat the heart。 I opened my arms and called both children to me， and， as my arms closed about them， I felt sudden tears—for I remember every word and gesture of that morning。How often on sleepless nights I have gone over and over each moment of it， and wondered hopelessly why some vision had not warned me， to prevent what was to come。
It was a mild grey morning。 The windows were open on the park， where the trees were putting on their first blossoms。I felt for the first time that year the peculiar rush of joy which comes over us in the first soft spring days， and between the delight of spring and the sight of my children， so rosy and lovely and happy， I had such a great emotion of joy that I suddenly jumped out of bed and began to dance with them， all three of us bubbling with laughter。The nurse looked on smiling， too。
Suddenly the telephone rang。 It was L。's voice， asking me to come to town to meet him and bring the children。“I want to see them。”He had not seen them for four months。
I was delighted to think this would bring about the reconciliation I longed for， and I whispered the news to Deirdre。
“Oh， Patrick，”she cried，“where do you think we are going to？day？”
How often I hear the childish voice，“Where do you think we are going to？day？”
My poor， fragile， beautiful children， if I had known that day what a cruel fate would find you！Where， where did you go that day？
And then the nurse said，“Madame， I think it's going to rain—perhaps they had better stay here。”
How often， as in a horrible nightmare， I have heard her warning and cursed my unconsciousness of it。 But I thought the meeting with L。would be so much simpler if the children were there。
On the way in the automobile on that last ride from Versailles to Paris， holding the little forms in my arms， I was filled with new hope and confidence in life。 I knew that when L。saw Patrick he would forget all his personal feelings against me， and I dreamed that our love might go on to create some really great purpose。
Before leaving for Egypt， L。 had bought an important piece of land in the centre of Paris and meant to build there a theatre for my school—a theatre that would be a meeting？place and a haven for all the great artists of the world。I thought that Duse would find there a fitting frame for her divine art， and that here Mounet？Sully would be able to realise his long cherished ambition to play the trilogy of Oedipus Rex。Antigone， and Oedipus at Colonus in sequence。
All this I thought of on that drive to Paris， and my heart was light with great hopes of Art。 That theatre was fated never to be built， nor Duse to find the temple worthy of her， and Mounet？Sully died without ever realising his wish to give the trilogy of Sophocles。Why is it that the artist’s hope is almost always an unfulfilled dream？
It was as I thought。 L。was delighted to see his little boyagain， and Deirdre， whom he tenderly loved。We had a very gay luncheon at an Italian restaurant， where we ate much spaghetti， drank Chianti， and talked of the future of the wonderful theatre。
“It will be Isadora's Theatre，”L。 said。
“No，”I replied，“it will be Patrick's Theatre， for Patrick is the Great Composer， who will create the Dance to the Music of the Future。”
When the lunch was finished L。 said，“I feel so happy today， why not go to the Salon des Humoristes？”
But I had an engagement to rehearse， so L。 took our young friend H。de S。，who was with us， while I， with the children and the nurse， returned to Neuilly。When we were before the door I said to the nurse：
“Will you come in with the children and wait？”
But she said，“No， madame， I think we had better return。 The little ones need rest。”
Then I kissed them and said，“I will also return soon。”And then， in leaving， little Deirdre put her lips against the glass window。 I leaned forward and kissed the glass on the spot where her lips were at that moment。The cold glass gave me an uncanny impression。
I entered my great studio。 It was not yet time for the rehearsal。I thought to rest a while， and mounted to my apartment， where I threw myself down on the couch。There were fowers and a box of bonbons that someone had sent me。I took one in my hand and ate it lazily， thinking，“Surely， after all， I am very happy—perhaps the happiest woman inthe world。My Art， success， fortune， love， but， above all， my beautiful children。”
I was thus lazily eating sweets and smiling to myself， thinking，“L。 has returned；all will be well，”when there came to my ears a strange， unearthly cry。
I turned my head。 L。was there， staggering like a drunken man。His knees gave way—he fell before me—and from his lips came these words：
“The children—the children—are dead！”
I remember a strange stillness came upon me， only in my throat I felt a burning， as if I had swallowed some live coals。 But I could not understand。I spoke to him very softly；I tried to calm him；I told him it could not be true。
Then other people came， but I could not conceive what had happened。 Then entered a man with dark beard。I was told he was a doctor。“It is not true，”he said。“I will save them。”
I believed him。 I wanted to go with him， but people held me back。I know now that this was because they did not wish me to know that there was indeed no hope。They feared the shock would make me insane， but I was， at that time， lifted to a state of exaltation。I saw everyone about me weeping， but I did not weep。On the contrary， I felt an immense desire to console everyone。Looking back， it is difficult for me to understand my strange state of mind。Was it that I was really in a state of clairvoyance， and thatI knew that death does not exist—that those two little cold images of wax were not my children， but merely their cast？off garments？That the souls of my children lived in radiance， but lived for ever？
Only twice comes that cry of the mother which one hears as without one's self—at birth and at death。 For when I felt in mine those little cold hands that would never again press mine in return， I heard my cries—the same cries as I had heard at their birth。Why the same？Since one is the cry of supreme joy and the other of sorrow。I do not know why， but I know they are the same。Is it not that in all the universe there is but one great cry containing Sorrow， Joy， Ecstasy， Agony—the Mother Cry of Creation？
How many times we go forth in the morning on some light errand and， passing the black， sinister procession of a Christian burial， we shudder and think of all our loved ones， and will not let the thought creep in that one day we shall be the mourners in such a black procession。
From my earliest childhood I have always felt a great antipathy for anything connected with churches or church dogma。 The readings of Ingersoll and Darwin and pagan philosophy had strengthened this antipathy。I am against the modern code of marriage， and I think the modern idea of a funeral is ghastly and ugly to a degree of barbarism。As I had the courage to refuse marriage and to refuse to have my children baptised， so now I refused to admit in theirdeath the mummery of what one calls Christian burial。I had one desire—that this horrible accident should be transformed into beauty。The unhappiness was too great for tears。I could not weep。Crowds of friends came to me weeping。Crowds of people stood in the garden and the street weeping， but I would not weep， only I expressed a strong will that these people who came to show their sympathy in black should be transformed to beauty。I did not put on black。Why change one's dress？I have always held the wearing of mourning to be absurd and unnecessary。Augustin， Elizabeth， and Raymond sensed my wish， and they built in the studio a huge mound of fowers， and when I was conscious the first thing I heard was the Colonne orchestra playing the beautiful lament of Gluck's“Orphée。”
But how difficult it is in one day to change ugly instincts and to create beauty。 If I had had my wish there would have been no sinister black？hatted men， no hearses， none of the useless ugly mummery which makes of Death a macabre horror instead of exaltation。How splendid was the act of Byron in burning Shelley’s body on the pyre by the sea！But I could only find in our civilisation the less beautiful alternative of the crematorium。
How I wanted， when parting from the remains of my children and their sweet nurse， some gesture， some last radiance。 Surely the day will come when the Intelligence of the World will finally revolt at these ugly rites of the Church， and create and participate in some final ceremony of beauty for their dead。Already the crematorium is agreat advance on the ghastly habit of putting bodies in the ground。There must be many who feel as I do， but of course my endeavour to express this was criticised and resented by many orthodox religionists， who considered that because I wanted to say farewell to my loved ones in Harmony， Colour， Light， and Beauty， and because I brought their bodies to the crematorium instead of putting them in the earth to be devoured by worms， I was a heartless and terrible woman。How long must we wait before some intelligence will prevail among us in Life， in Love—in Death？
I arrived at the dismal crypt of the crematorium and saw before me the coffins which entombed the golden heads， the clinging， flower？like hands， the swift little feet of all I loved—now to be consigned to the flames—to remain hereafter but a pathetic handful of ashes。
I returned to my Neuilly studio。 I had some definite plan to end my own life。How could I go on—after losing the children？Only it was the words of the little girls of my school， who stood around me—”Isadora， live for us。Are we not also your children？”—that awakened me to the task of soothing the grief of these other children， who stood there weeping their hearts out for the death of Deirdre and Patrick。
If this sorrow had come to me much earlier in life， I might have overcome it；if much later， it would not have been so terrible；but at that moment， in the full power and energy of life， it completely shattered my force and power。 If a great love had then enveloped me and carried me away—but L。did not respond to my call。
Raymond and his wife Penelope were leaving for Albania to work among the refugees。 He persuaded me to join them there。I left with Elizabeth and Augustin for Corfu。When we arrived in Milan to spend the night， I was shown into the same room in which I had spent such hours of confict four years before， debating the birth of little Patrick， and， now he had been born， had come with the angel face of my dream in St。Marco， and had gone。
When I looked again into the sinister eyes of the lady of the portrait， who seemed to say，“Is it not as I predicted—all leads to death？”—I experienced such a violent horror that I rushed down the corridor and begged Augustin to take me to another hotel。
We took the boat from Brindisi， and shortly after， one lovely morning， arrived in Corfu。 All Nature was glad and smiling， but I could find no comfort in it。Those who were with me say that for days and weeks I sat only staring before me。I took no account of time—I had entered a dreary land of greyness where no will to live or move existed。When real sorrow is encountered there is， for the stricken， no gesture， no expression。Like Niobe turned to stone， I sat and longed for annihilation in death。
L。 was in London。I thought if he would only come to me perhaps I could escape from this ghastly， death？like coma。Perhaps if I could feel warm， loving arms about me I might come to life。
One day I asked that no one should disturb me。 In my room with the windows darkened I lay flat on my bed with my hands clasped on my breast。I had arrived at the last limit of despair， and I repeated over and over again a message to L。：
“Come to me。 I need you。I am dying。If you do not come I will be following the children。”
I repeated this like a sort of Litany， over and over again。
When I rose I found it was midnight。 After that I slept painfully。
The next morning Augustin awakened me with a telegram in his hand：
“For God's sake send news of Isadora。 Will start at once for Corfu。L。”
The days that followed I waited with the first glimmer of hope I had had out of the darkness。
One morning L。 arrived， pale and agitated。
“I thought you were dead，”he said。
And then he told me that on the afternoon that I had sent him the message I had appeared to him， a vaporous vision at the foot of his bed， and told him in just the words of my message， so oft repeated—“Come to me—come to me—I need you—if you do not come I will die。”
When I had the proof of this telepathic bond between us， I had the hope also that by a spontaneous love gesture the un？happiness of the past might be redeemed to feel againthat stirring in my bosom；that my children might return to comfort me on earth。But it was not to be。My intense yearning—my sorrow—were too strong for L。to stand。One morning he left abruptly， without warning。I saw the steamer receding from Corfu， and knew that he was on board。I saw the steamer receding over the blue waters， and I was left once more alone。
Then I said to myself，“Either I must end life at once， or I must find some means to live in spite of the constant gnawing anguish that day and night devour me。”For every night—awake or asleep—I lived over that terrible last morning， heard Deirdre's voice，“Guess where we are going today”—heard the nurse say：“Madame， perhaps they had better not go out today，”and heard my frenzied reply，“You are right。 Keep them， good nurse， keep them；do not let them go out today。”
Raymond came from Albania。 He was， as usual， filled with enthusiasm。“The whole country is in need。The villages devastated；the children starving。How can you stay here in your selfish grief？Come and help to feed the children—comfort the women。”
His pleading was effective。 Again I put on my Greek tunic and sandals and followed Raymond to Albania。He had the most original methods of organising a camp for the succour of the Albanian refugees。He went to the market？place in Corfu and bought raw wool。This he loaded on a little steamer he had hired， and carried it to Santi Quaranta， the chief port for the refugees。
“But， Raymond，”I said，“how are you going to feed the hungry with raw wool？”
“Wait，”said Raymond，“you will see。 If I brought them bread it would only be for today；but I bring them wool， which is for the future。”
We landed on the rocky coast of Santi Quaranta， where Raymond had organised a centre。 A sign said，“Who wants to spin wool will receive a drachma a day。”
A line of poor， lean， famished women was soon formed。 With the drachma they would receive yellow corn， which the Greek Government was selling in the port。
Then Raymond piloted his little boat again to Corfu。 There he commanded carpenters to make for him weaving looms， and， returning to Santi Quaranta，“Who wants to weave spun wool in patterns for one drachma a day？”
Crowds of hungry applied for the task。 These patterns Raymond furnished them from ancient Greek vase designs。Soon he had a line of weaving women by the sea， and he taught them to sing in unison with their weaving。When the designs were woven they turned out to be beautiful couch covers， which Raymond sent to London to be sold at 50 per cent profit。With this profit he started a bakery and sold white bread 50 percent。cheaper than the Greek Government was selling yellow corn， and so he started his village。
We lived in a tent by the sea。 Each morning at sunrise we dipped in the sea and swam。Now and then Raymond had a surplus of bread and potatoes， so we went over the hills to the villages and distributed the bread to the hungry。
Albania is a strange， tragic country。 There was the first altar to Zeus the Thunderer。He was called Zeus the Thunderer because in this country—winter and summer—are continual thunderstorms and violent rains。Through these storms we trudged in our tunics and sandals， and I realised that to be washed by the rain is really more exhilarating than to walk in a mackintosh。
I saw many tragic sights。 A mother sitting under a tree with her baby in her arms and three or four small children clinging to her—all hungry and without a home；their house burnt， the husband and father killed by the Turks， the focks stolen， the crops destroyed。There sat the poor mother with her remaining children。To such as these Raymond distributed many sacks of potatoes。
We returned to our camp weary， yet a strange happiness crept into my spirit。 My children were gone， but there were others—hungry and suffering。Might。I not live for those others？
It was in Santi Quaranta， where there were no coifeurs， that I first cut of my hair and threw it into the sea。
When my health and strength came back， this life among the refugees became impossible for me。 No doubt there is a great diference between the life of the artist and that of the saint。My artist life awoke within me。It was quite impossible， I felt， with my limited means， to stop the food of misery represented by the Albanian refugees。
