Just as there are days when my life seems to have been a Golden Legend studded with precious jewels， a flowery field with multitudes of blossoms， a radiant morn with love and happiness crowning every hour；when I have found no words to express my ecstasy and joy of life；when the idea of my school seems a ray of genius， or when I actually believe that， although not tangible， my school is a great success；when my Art is a resurrection；so there are other days when， trying to recollect my life， I am filled only with a great disgust and a feeling of utter emptiness。 The past seems but a series of catastrophes and the future a certain calamity from the brain of a lunatic。
What is the truth of a human life， and who can fnd it？God Himself would be puzzled。 In the midst of all this anguish and delight；this flth and this luminous purity；this feshly body flled with hell fire， and this same body alight with heroism and beauty—where is the truth？God knows， or the devil knows—but I suspect they are both puzzled。
So， on some imaginative days， my mind is like a stained？glass window through which I see beautiful and fantastic beauties—marvellous forms and richest colours；and， on other days， I look only through dull， grey？glass windows and view the dull grey rubbish？heap called life。
If we could only dive down within ourselves and bringup thought as the diver brings up pearls—precious pearls from the closed oysters of silence in the depths of our subconsciousness！
After the long struggle to keep my school together， alone， sick at heart， discouraged， my wish was to return to Paris， where it might be possible to realise some money on my property。 Then Mary returned from Europe and telephoned me from Biltmore。I told her of my plight， and she said，“My great friend Gordon Selfridge is leaving tomorrow。If I ask him， surely he will get you a ticket。”
I was so worn out with the struggle and heart？break of my stay in America that I accepted this idea gladly， and the next morning sailed from New York。When I arrived in London I had not the money to go on to Paris， so I took a lodging in Duke Street， and telegraphed to diferent friends in Paris， but got no answers， probably owing to the war。I spent some terrible and gloomy weeks in that melancholy lodging， completely stranded。Alone and ill， without a cent， my school destroyed and the war appearing to go on interminably， I used to sit at the dark window at night and watch the air raids， and wish that a bomb might fall on me to end my troubles。Suicide is so tempting。I have often thought of it， but something always holds me back。Certainly if suicide pellets were sold in drug stores as plainly as some preventives， I think the intelligentsia of all countries would doubtless disappear overnight in conquered agony。
In despair I cabled to L。，but got no reply。 A manager had arranged some performances for my pupils， who wantedto seek their careers in America。They afterwards toured as the Isadora Duncan Dancers， but none of the profits of these tours were given to me， and I found myself in a desperate situation， until by chance I met a charming member of the French Embassy， who came to my rescue and took me to Paris。There I engaged a room in the Palais D'Orsay， and resorted to moneylenders for the necessary funds。
Every morning at fve o'clock we were awakened by the brutal boom of the Big Bertha， a ftting beginning for the sinister day which went on with frequent terrible news from the Front。 Death， bloodshed， butchery， filled the miserable hours， and at night the whistling warning of the air raids。
One bright recollection of this time was meeting with the famous“Ace”Garros at a friend's house one evening， when he played Chopin and I danced， and he brought me home on foot from Passy to the Quai D'Orsay。 There was an air raid， which we watched， and under which I danced for him on the Place de la Concorde—he sitting on the edge of a fountain？basin applauding me， his melancholy dark eyes lit up by the fire of the rockets that fell and exploded quite near us。He told me that night that he only sought and wished for death。Shortly after， the Angel of Heroes sought and carried him away—away from this life that he did not love。
The days passed in dreary monotony。 I would gladly have been a nurse， but I realised the futility of adding whatwould have been a superfluous force when the applicants for nursing were waiting in rows。So I thought to turn to my Art again， although my heart was so heavy that I wondered if my feet could bear the weight。
There is a song of Wagner's that I love—“The Angel”—which tells of a spirit sitting in utter sadness and desolation， to whom comes an Angel of Light， and such an angel then came to me， in these dark days， when a friend brought Walter Rummel， the pianist， to see me。
When he entered I thought he was the picture of the youthful Liszt come out of its frame—so tall， slight， with a burnished lock over the high forehead， and eyes like clear wells of shining light。 He played for me。I called him my Archangel。We worked in the foyer of the theatre which Réjane had graciously put at my disposal， and during the booms of the Big Bertha， and amidst the echoes of the war news， he played for me Liszt’s“Thoughts of God in the Wilderness，”St。Francis speaking to the birds， and I composed new dances to the inspiration of his playing， dances all comprised of prayer and sweetness and light， and once more my spirit came to life， drawn back by the heavenly melodies which sang beneath the touch of his fingers。This was the beginning of the most hallowed and ethereal love of my life。
No one has ever played Liszt as my Archangel played him， because he has the vision。 He sees beyond the written score what frenzy really means， and frenzy spoken daily with angels。
He was all gentleness and sweetness， and yet passion burned him。 He performed with unconsenting frenzy。His nerves consumed him， his soul rebelled。He did not give way to passion with the spontaneous ardour of youth， but， on the contrary， his loathing was as evident as the irresistible feeling which possessed him。He was like a dancing saint on a brazier of live coals。To love such a man is as dangerous as difcult。Loathing of love can easily turn to hatred against the aggressor。
How strange and terrible to approach a human being through the envelope of fesh and fnd a soul—through its envelope of flesh to find pleasure， sensation， illusion。 Ah！Above all—illusion of what men call happiness—through the envelope of flesh， through the appearance， illusion—what men call love。
The reader must remember that these memories cover many years， and that each time a new love came to me， in the form of demon or angel or simple man， I believed that this was the only one for whom I had waited so long， that this love would be the final resurrection of my life。 But I suppose love always brings this conviction。Each love？afair in my life would have made a novel， and they all ended badly。I have always waited for that one which would end well， and last for ever and ever—like the optimistic cinemas！
The miracle of love is the varied themes and keys in which it can be played， and the love of one man compared to another may be as different as hearing the music of Beethoven compared to the music of Puccini， and theinstrument that gives the response to these melodious players is woman。 And I suppose a woman who has known but one man is like a person who has beard only one composer。
As the summer progressed we sought a quiet retreat in the South。 There， near the Port of St。Jean on Cap Ferrat， in the almost deserted hotel， we made our studio in the empty garage， and all through the days and evenings he played celestial music and I danced。
What a blissful time now came to me， gladdened by my Archangel， surrounded by the sea， living only in music。 It was like the dream of Catholics dead and gone to Heaven。What a pendulum is life—the deeper the agony， the higher the ecstasy—each time the lower sinking in sorrow， the higher tossed in joy。
Now and then we issued from our retreat to give a beneft for the unfortunate or a concert for the wounded， but mostly we were alone， and through music and love， through love and music， my soul dwelt in the heights of bliss。
In a villa near by lived a venerable priest and his sister， Madame Giraldy。 He had been a White Monk in South Africa。They were our only friends， and I often danced for them the inspired and holy music of Liszt。But as the summer waned we found a studio in Nice， and， when the Armistice was proclaimed， we returned to Paris。
The war was over。 We watched the victory march through the Arc de Triomphe， and we shouted，“The worldis saved。”For the moment we were all poets， but， alas！as the poet awoke to find bread and cheese for his beloved， so the world awoke to its commercial necessities。
My Archangel took me by the hand and we went to Bellevue。 We found the house falling into ruins。Still， we thought， why not rebuild it？And we spent some deluded months endeavouring to find the funds for this impossible task。
At last we were persuaded of the impossibility of the task， and accepted a reasonable offer of purchase by the French Government， who were of opinion that this great house would be admirable as a factory for asphyxiating gases for the next year。 After having seen my Dionysion transformed into a hospital for the wounded， I was fated to finally abandon it to become a factory of instruments of war。The loss of Bellevue seems a great pity—Bellevue—the view was so beautiful。
When the sale was at last accomplished and the money in the bank， I bought a house in the Rue de la Pompe which had been the former Salle Beethoven， and here I made my studio。
My Archangel had a very sweet sense of compassion。 He seemed to feel all the sorrow which made my heart so heavy and which often caused me sleepless and tearful nights。At such hours he would gaze at me with such pitying and lumi？nous eyes that my spirit was comforted。
And in the studio our two arts blended into one in a marvellous manner， while under his influence my dance became etherialised。 He was the first to initiate me tothe full spiritual meaning of the works of Franz Liszt， of whose music we composed an entire recital。In the quiet music？room of the Salle Beethoven I also began the studies of some great frescoes in movement and light which I wished to realise from Parsifal。
There we spent holy hours， our united souls borne up by the mysterious force which possessed us。 Often as I danced and he played， as I lifted my arms and my soul went up from my body in the long fight of the silver strains of the Grail， it seemed as if we had created a spiritual entity quite apart from ourselves， and， as sound and gesture fowed up to the Infinite， another answer echoed from above。
I believe that from the psychic force of this musical moment， when out two spirits were so attuned in the holy energy of love， we were on the verge of another world。 Our audience felt the force of this combined power， and often a curious psychosis existed in the theatre such as I had not known before。If my Archangel and I had pursued these studies further， I have no doubt that we might have arrived at the spontaneous creation of movements of such spiritual force as to bring a new revelation to mankind。How pitiful that earthly passion should have put an end to this holy pursuit of highest beauty。For， just as in the legend， one is never content but opens the door for the bad fairy， who introduces all sorts of trouble；so I， instead of being content to pursue the happiness I had found， felt returning the old will to remake the school， and， to this end， I cabled to my pupils in America。
When they joined me I gathered together a few faithful friends to whom I said，“Let us all go to Athens and look upon the Acropolis， for we may yet found a school in Greece。”
How one's motives are misinterpreted！A writer in The New Yorker（1927）spoke of this trip as“her extravagance knew no bounds。 She took a house？party and， beginning at Venice， went on to Athens。”
Alas for me！My pupils arrived， young and pretty and successful。 My Archangel looked upon them—and fell—fell to one。
How describe this journey， which was for me Love's Calvary？How I first noticed their affection at the H？tel Excelsior on the Lido， where we stopped for some weeks， how I was assured of it on the boat going to Greece；and how the assurance fnally spoilt for me， for ever， the view of the Aoropolis by moonlight—these are the stations of Love’s Calvary。
On our arrival in Athens everything seemed propitious for the school。 By the kindness of Venezelos， the Zappeion was put at my disposition。Here we had our studio and here I worked every morning with my pupils， endeavouring to inspire them with a dance worthy of the Acropolis。My plan was to have trained a thousand children for great Dionysian festivals in the Stadium。
Every day we went to the Acropolis， and， remembering my first visit there in 1904，it was for me an intensely touching sight to see the youthful forms of my pupilsnow in their dance realising a part， at least， of the dream that I had had there sixteen years before。 And， now that everything seemed to indicate that the war was over， I should be able to form my long？sought school in Athens。
My pupils， who had arrived from America with certain affectations and mannerisms which displeased me， lost them under the glorious sky of Athens and the inspiration of the magnificent view of mountains and sea and great Art。
The painter， Edward Steichen， who was one of our party， took many lovely pictures in the Acropolis and in the theatre of Dionysus， which faintly foreshadowed the splendid vision I longed to create in Greece。
We found Kopanos a ruin， inhabited by shepherds and their flocks of mountain goats， but， nothing daunted， I decided soon to clear the ground and rebuild the house。 The work began at once。The accumulated rubbish of years was cleared away and a young architect undertook the task of putting in doors and windows， and a roof。We laid a dancing carpet in the high living？room and had a grand piano brought up。Here every afternoon， with the gorgeous view of the sun setting behind the Acropolis， and difusing soft purple and golden rays over the sea， my Archangel played to us magnifcent and inspiring music—Bach， Beethoven， Wagner， Liszt。In the cool of the evenings we all wreathed our brows with circlets of the lovely white jasmine fowers that the Athenian boys sell in the streets， and strolled down to supper by the sea at Phaleron。
My Archangel， among this bevy of flower？crowned maidens， resembled Parsifal in Kundry’s garden， only I began to notice a new expression in his eyes， which spoke more of earth than of Heaven。I had imagined our love so strong in its intellectual and spiritual fastness that it was some time before the truth dawned on me that his shining wings had been transformed into two ardent arms which could seize and hold the body of a dryad。All my experience availed me nothing， and this was a terrible shock to me。From then on， an uneasy， terrible pain possessed me， and in spite of myself I began to watch the indications of their growing love with feelings which， to my horror， sometimes awakened a demon akin to murder。
One evening at sunset， when my Archangel—who was more and more rapidly taking on the resemblance of a human being—had just finished the great march of the G？tterd？mmerung， and the last notes were dying on the air， seeming to melt into the purple rays， to echo from Hymettus and illumine the sea itself， I suddenly saw a meeting of their eyes， flaming with equal ardour in the scarlet sundown。
On seeing this a spasm of rage seized me with such violence that it frightened me。 I turned and walked away， and all that night I wandered about the hills near Hymettus， possessed with a frenzy of despair。Certainly I had known before in my life that green？eyed monster whose fangs inspire the worst of sufferings， but never to such a degree had I been possessed by such a terriblepassion as I now felt。I loved， and， at the same time， hated them both， and this experience has given me much sympathy with and understanding for those unfortunates who， goaded by unimaginable torture through jealousy， kill the one they love。
To avoid arriving at this calamity， I took a little group of my pupils， and my friend Edward Steichen， and we mounted by the wonderful road passing Ancient Thebes to Chalcis， where I saw the very golden sands on which I had imagined the maidens on Euboea dancing in honour of Iphigenia's ill？fated wedding。
But， for the moment， all the glories of Hellas could not cast out the infernal demon that possessed me， which constantly flled my mind with the picture of the two left behind in Athens， gnawing at my vitals and eating like acid into my brain， and， on our return， the sight of them both on the balcony which stretched before our bedroom windows， radiant with youth and mutual fire， completed my misery。
I cannot understand such a possession now， but， at the time， it enmeshed me and was as impossible to escape as scarlet？fever or small？pox。In spite of this， however， I taught my pupils each day， and continued plans for the school in Athens， upon which everything seemed to smile。The Ministry of Venezelos was most amenable to my plans， and the populace of Athens enthusiastic。
One day we were all invited to a grand demonstration in honour of Venezelos and the young King， which tookplace in the Stadium。 Fifty thousand people took part in this demonstration， as well as the entire Greek Church， and when the young King and Venezelos entered the Stadium they received a glorious ovation。The procession of Patriarchs in their brocade robes， stiff with gold embroidery， glittering in the sun， was an amazing sight。
When I entered the Stadium in my softly draped peplum， followed by a group of living Tanagra fgures， the pleasant Constantine Melas came forward and presented me with a laurel crown， saying：
“You， Isadora， bring to us again the immortal beauty of Phidias and the age of Greece's greatness，”and I replied：
“Ah， help me to create a thousand magnifcent dancers to dance in this Stadium in such a splendid way that the whole world will come here to gaze upon them with wonder and delight。”
As I fnished these words， I noticed the Archangel rap？turously holding the hand of his favourite， and for once I felt reconciled。What do petty passions matter in face of my Great Vision， I thought， and beamed at them with love and forgiveness。But that night when， on the balcony， I saw their two heads together， silhouetted against the moon， I was again a prey to the petty， human feeling which wrought such havoc that I wandered forth wildly alone， and brooded over a Sapphic leap from the Parthenon’s rock。
No words can describe the suffering of the tortuous passion which consumed me， and the soft beauty of my surroundings only made my unhappiness more intense。 And there seemed to be no outlet for the situation。Could the complication of a mortal passion make us forgo the immortal plans for a great musical collaboration？Nor could I send my pupil from the school where she had been brought up， and the alternative of watching their love each day and refraining from expressing the volume of my chagrin seemed also impossible。It was， in fact， an impasse。There remained the possibility of rising to spiritual heights above all this， but， in spite of my unhappiness， the constant exercise of dancing， the long excursions in the hills， the daily swimming in the sea gave me a keen appetite and an earthly violence of emotion difficult to control。
And so I continued， and， while I endeavoured to teach my pupils beauty， calm， philosophy， and harmony， I was inwardly writhing in the clutch of most deadly torment。 What the situation would have led to eventually I do not know。
The only resource I had was to assume an armour of exaggerated gaiety and try to drown my sufferings in the heady wines of Greece every night as we supped by the sea。 There might certainly have been a nobler way， but I was not then capable of fnding it。Anyhow， these are only my poor human experiences， and I try to put them down here。Whether they be worthy or worthless， they may perhaps serve as a guide to others as“What not to do。”But probably everyone seeks to avoid their own disaster and torment in the only way they can。
This impossible situation was put an end to by a strange stroke of Fate， caused by so slight a thing as the bite of amalicious little monkey， the monkey whose bite proved fatal to the young King。
For some days he hovered between life and death， and then came the sad announcement of his death， causing such a state of upheaval and revolution as to necessitate once more the departure of Venezelos and his party， and， incidentally， our departure also， for when we had been invited to Greece， it was as his guests， and we also fell political victims of the situation。 So all the money I had spent in rebuilding Kopanos and arranging the studio was lost， and we were all forced to abandon the dream of a school in Athens and take the boat， returning via Rome to Paris。
What a strange， torturous memory is this last visit to Athens in 1920，and the return to Paris， and the renewed agony and final separation and the departure of my Archangel and my pupil， who was also leaving me for ever。 Although I felt I had been the martyr of these happenings， she seemed to think just the opposite， and blamed me very bitterly for my feelings and lack of resignation about it all。
When at length I found myself alone in that house in the Rue de la Pompe， with its Beethoven Salle all prepared for the music of my Archangel， then my despair had no words。 I could no longer bear the sight of this house in which I had been so happy；indeed， I had a longing to fly from it and from the world， for， at the time， I believed that the world and love were dead for me。How many times in one's life one comes to that conclusion！Whereas， if we could seeover the next hill， there is a valley of fowers and happiness awaiting us。Especially do I resent the conclusion formed by so many women that， after the age of forty， a dignifed life should exclude all love？making。Ah， how wrong this is！
How mysterious it is to feel the life of the body， all through this weird journey on earth。 First the timid， shrinking， slight body of the young girl that I was and the change to the hardy Amazon；then the vine？wreathed bacchante drenched with wine， falling soft and resistless under the leap of the satyr。I live in my body like a spirit in a cloud—a cloud of rose fire and voluptuous response。
What nonsense to sing always of love and spring alone。 The colours of autumn are more glorious， more varied， and the joys of autumn are a thousandfold more powerful， terrible， beautiful。How I pity those poor women whose pallid， narrow creed precludes them from the magnifcent and generous gift of the autumn of love。Such was my poor mother， and to this absurd prejudice she owed the ageing and illness of her body at the epoch when it should have been most splendid， and the partial collapse of a brain which had been magnificent。I was once the timid prey， then the aggressive bacchante， but now I close over my lover as the sea over a bold swimmer， enclosing， swirling， encircling him in waves of cloud and fire。
In the spring of the year 1921 I received the following telegram from the Soviet Government：
“The Russian Government alone can understand you。 Come to us；we will make your school。”
From whence did this message come？From Hell？No—but the nearest place to it。 What stood for Hell in Europe—from the Soviet Government of Moscow。And looking round my empty house， void of my Archangel， of Hope， and of Love， I answered：
“Yes， I will come to Russia， and I will teach your children， on one condition—that you give me a studio and the wherewithal to work。”
The answer was“Yes，”so one day I found myself on a boat on the Thames， leaving London for Reval， and， eventually， Moscow。
Before leaving London I went to a fortune？teller， who said，“You are bound on a long journey。You will have many strange experiences， you will have troubles， you will marry—”
But at the word“marry”I cut her short with laughter。 I， who was always against marriage？I would never marry。The fortune？teller said，“Wait and see。”
On the way to Russia I had the detached feeling of a soul after death making its way to another sphere。 I thought I had left all the forms of European life behind me for ever。I actually believed that the ideal State， such as Plato， Karl Marx， and Lenin had dreamed it， had now by somemiracle been created on earth。With all the energy of my being， disappointed in the attempts to realise any of my Art visions in Europe， I was ready to enter the ideal domain of Communism。
I had brought no dresses along；I pictured myself spending the rest of my life in a red fannel blouse among comrades equally simply dressed and filled with brotherly love。
As the boat proceeded northwards， I looked back with contempt and pity at all the old institutions and habits of bourgeois Europe that I was leaving。 Henceforth to be a comrade among comrades， to carry out a vast plan to work for this generation of humanity。Adieu， then， inequality， injustice， and the brutality of the Old World which had made my school impossible。
When the boat at last arrived my heart gave a great throb of joy。 Now for the beautiful New World that had been created！Now for the World of Comrades。The dream that had been conceived in the head of Buddha；the dream that had resounded through the words of Christ；the dream that has been the ultimate hope of all great artists；the dream that Lenin had by a great magic turned to reality。I was entering now into this dream that my work and life might become a part of its glorious promise。
Adieu， Old World！I would hail a New World。
