There was always a deficit between our expenditure and our earnings， but it was a period of peace。 But this peaceful atmosphere had made Raymond restless。He left for Paris， and in the spring he bombarded us with telegrams imploring us to come to Paris， so one day Mother and I packed up our belongings and took the Channel boat。
After the fogs of London we arrived on a spring morning at Cherbourg。 France seemed to us like a garden， and from Cherbourg to Paris we leaned out of our third？class window all the way。Raymond met us at the station。He had let his hair grow long over his ears， and wore a turned？down collar and a flowing tie。We were somewhat astonished at this metamorphosis， but he explained to us that this was the fashion of the Latin Quarter， where he lived。He took us to his lodging， where we met a little midinette running down the stairs， and he regaled us on a bottle of red wine， which， he said， cost thirty centimes。After the red wine we set out to look for a studio。Raymond knew two words of French， and we walked along the streets saying，“Chercher atelier。”What we did not know was that atelier does not only mean a studio in France， but any kind of workshop。Finally， at dusk we found a studio in a courtyard， at the extraordinary price of fifty francs a month， furnished。We were overjoyed， and paid a month in advance。
We could not imagine why itwas so cheap， but that night we found out。Just as we had composed ourselves to rest， terrifc earthquakes seemed to shake the studio， and the whole thing seemed to jump into the air and then fall fat。This was repeated over and over again。Raymond went down to inspect， and found that we were refuged over a night imprimerie。Hence the cheapness of the studio。It somewhat damped our spirits， but， as fifty francs meant a great deal to us in those days， I proposed that it sounded like the sea and that we should pretend that we were at the seaside。The concierge provided the meals， twenty？five centimes for lunch and one franc a head for dinner， including wine。She used to bring up a bowl of salad and say with a polite smile，“Il faut tourner la salade。Monsieur et Mesdames， il faut tourner la salade。”
Raymond gave up the midinette and devoted himself to me， and we used to get up at fve o'clock in the morning， such was our excitement at being in Paris， and begin the day by dancing in the gardens of the Luxembourg， walk for miles all over Paris， and spend hours in the Louvre。 Raymond had already got a portfolio of drawings of all the Greek vases， and we spent so much time in the Greek vase room that the guardian grewsuspicious， and when I explained in pantomime that I had only come there to dance， he decided that he had to do with harmless lunatics， so he let us alone。I remember we spent hours and hours sitting on the waxed foor， sliding about to see the lower shelves， or standing on tip？toe saying，“Look， here is Dionysus，”or“Come here， here’s Medea killing her children。”
Day after day we returned to the Louvre， and could hardly be forced to leave at closing time。 We had no money， we had no friends in Paris， but we wanted nothing。The Louvre was our Paradise， and I have since met people who saw us then—me in my white dress and Liberty hat， and Raymond in his large black hat， open collar and flowing tie—and say we were two bizarre figures， so young and so absolutely absorbed in the Greek vases。At the closing hour we walked back through the dusk， lingering before the statues in the Tuileries gardens， and when we had dined of white beans， salad， and red wine， we were about as happy as anyone could be。
Raymond was very clever with his pencil。 In a few months he had copied all the Greek vases in the Louvre。But there exist certain silhouettes， which were afterwards published， which were not from Greek vases at all， but me， dancing in the nude， photographed by Raymond， which were passed of as Greek vases。
Besides the Louvre， we visited the Cluny Museum， the Car？navalet Museum， and Notre Dame， and all the other museums of Paris。I was especially entranced by the Carpeau group before the Opéra， and the Rude on the Arc de Triomphe。There was not a monument before which we did not stand in adoration， our young American souls uplifted before this culture which we had striven so hard to find。
Spring lengthened into summer and the great Exhibition of 1900 was opened， when， to my great joy， but to the discomfiture of Raymond， Charles H llé appeared onemorning at our studio in the Rue de la Gaiété。He had come over to see the Exhibition， and after that I was his constant companion。And I could not have had a more charming or intelligent guide。All day we roamed through the buildings， and in the evening we dined at the Eiffel Tower。He was kindness itself， and when I was tired he would put me into a rolling chair， and I was often feed， for the art of the Exhibition did not seem to me at all equal to the art of the Louvre， but I was very happy， for I adored Paris and I adored Charles Hallé。
On Sundays we took a train and went into the country， to wander through the gardens of Versailles or the forest of Saint？Germain。I danced for him in the forest， and he made sketches of me。And so the summer passed。It was not so happy， of course， for my poor mother and Raymond。
One great impression remained with me of the Exhibition of 1900—the dancing of Sadi Yacca， the great tragic dancer of Japan。 Night after night Charles H llé and I were thrilled by the wondrous art of this great tragedian。
Another， even greater impression， that has remained with me all my life was the“Rodin Pavilion，”where the complete works of the wonderful sculptor were shown for the frst time to the public。 When I first entered this Pavilion I stood in awe before the work of the great master。Without， at that time， knowing Rodin， I felt that I was in a new world， and each time I came I was indignant at the vulgar people who said“Where is his head？”or“Where is her arm？”I often turned and apostrophised the crowd， rating them soundly。“Don't you know，”I used to say，“that this is not the thing itself， but a symbol—a conception of the ideal of life。”
Autumn approached， and the last days of the Exhibition。 Charles Hallé had to return to London， but before going he presented to me his nephew， Charles NoufHard。“I leave Isadora in your care，”he said， when he was going。Noufard was a young man of about twenty？fve， more or less blasé，but he was completely captivated by the na？veté of this little American girl who had been confided to his care。He set out to complete my education in French art， telling me much about the Gothic， and making me appreciate for the frst time the epochs of Louis X Ⅲ，XIV， XV and XVⅠ。
We had left the studio in the Rue de la Gaiété and， with the remainder of our little savings， we took a large studio in the Avenue Le Villier。Raymond arranged this studio in a most original manner。Taking sheets of tinfoil， he rolled them and placed them over the gas jets， allowing the gas to flare through them like old Roman torches， thereby considerably increasing our gas bills！
In this studio my mother revived her music and， as in our childhood's days， for hours and hours she would play Chopin， Schumann， and Beethoven。 We had no bedroom or a bathroom in our studio。Raymond painted Greek columns round the walls， and we had a few carved chests in which we kept our mattresses。At night we took them from the chests and slept upon them。At this time Raymond invented his famous sandals， having discovered that allshoes were obnoxious。He was of an inventive disposition， and he spent three？quarters of the night working out his inventions and hammering， while my poor mother and I had to sleep on the chests as best we could。
Charles Noufflard was a constant visitor， and one day he brought to our studio two of his comrades， a pretty youth called Jacques Beaugnies， and a young literary called André Beaunier。Charles Noufard was very proud of me， and delighted to show me to his friends as a phenomenal American product。Naturally I danced for them。I was then studying the music of Chopin’s preludes， waltzes， and mazurkas。My mother played extremely well， with the firm， strong touch of a man， and with great feeling and insight and she would accompany me for hours。It was then that Jacques Beaugnies had the idea of asking his mother， Madame de St。Marceau， the wife of the sculptor， to have me dance one evening for her friends。
Madame de St。 Marceau had one of the most artistic and chic salons in Paris， and a rehearsal was arranged in the studio of her husband。At the piano sat a most remarkable man， with the fingers of a wizard。I was instantly attracted to him。
“Quel ravissement！”he exclaimed，“quel channe！Quelle jolie enfant！”And， taking me in his arms， he kissed me on both cheeks， in French fashion。 He was Messager， the great composer。
The evening of my début arrived。I danced before a group of people so kind， so enthusiastic， that I was quiteovercome。They scarcely waited for the end of a dance to call out，“Bravo， bravo， comme elle est exquise！Quelle enfant！”and at the end of the frst dance a tall figure， with piercing eyes， rose and embraced me。
“Quel est ton nom， petite fille？”he asked。
“Isadora，”J replied。
“Mais ton petit nom？”
“When I was a little girl they called me Dorita。”
“Oh， Dorita，”he cried， kissing my eyes， my cheeks， and my mouth，“tu es adorable”；and then Madame de St。 Marceau took my hand and said：
“This is the great Sardou。”
In fact， that room held all who counted in Parisian life， and， when I left， covered with flowers and compliments， my three cavaliers， Noufflard， Jacques Beaugnies， and André Beaunier， escorted me home beaming with pride and satisfaction because their little phenomenon had been such a success。
Of these three young men the one who was to become my greatest friend was not the tall and pleasant Charles Noufflard， or the good？looking Jacques Beaugnies， but the rather under？sized， pale？faced André Beaunier。He was pale and round？faced， but what a mind！I was always a“cerebrale，”and， although people will not believe it， my love？afairs of the head， of which I had many， were as interesting to me as those of the heart。André，who was at that time writing his first books， Petrarch and Simonde， came every day to see me， and it was through him that Ibecame acquainted with all the finest French literature。
By this time I had learned to read and converse fairly easily in French， and André Beaunier would read aloud to me in our studio for long afternoons and evenings。His voice had a cadence in it that was exquisitely sweet。He read to me the works of Molière， Flaubert， Théophile Gautier， Maupassant， and it was he who first read to me Maeterlinck’s Pelleas et Mélisande， and all the modern French books of the day。
Every afternoon there was a timid knock at the door of the studio。 It was André Beaunier， always with a new book or magazine under his arm。My mother could not understand my enthusiasm for this man， who was not her beau idéal of what a lover should be， for， as I have said before， he was fat and small， with small eyes， and one had to be a“cerebrale”to understand that those eyes were sparkling with wit and intelligence。Often， when he had read to me for two or three hours， we went of on the top of a Seine bus and rode down to the Ile de la Cité to gaze at Notre Dame in the moonlight。He knew every fgure of the facade， and could tell me the history of every stone。Then we would walk home， and now and then I would feel the timid pressure of André’s fingers on my arm。On Sundays， too， we would take a train and go out to Marly。There is a scene in one of Beaunier’s books in which he describes these walks in the forest—how I used to dance before him down the paths， beckoning to him like a nymph or dryad bubbling with laughter。
He confided to me all his impressions and the sort of literature which he wished to write， which would certainly never have been of the“best seller”description， but I believe that the name of André Beaunier will go down the centuries as one of the most exquisite writers of his time。He appeared one morning with a white tragic countenance。He would not tell me what was the reason of his emotion， but remained silent with set face and eyes staring before him， and on leaving kissed me on the forehead in such a significant manner that I had a premonition that he was going to his death， and remained in painful anxiety until—three days later—he returned in brilliant spirits and con？fessed he had fought a duel and wounded his adversary。I never knew for what reason the duel took place。In fact， I knew nothing of his personal life。He generally appeared at five or six each afternoon， and then he read to me or took me for walks， according to the weather or our mood。Once we sat at the opening where four roads cross in the Bois de Meudon。He named the right？hand。Fortune， the left Peace……and the road straight ahead Immortality；and“Where we are sitting？”I asked。“Love，”he replied in a low voice。“Then I prefer to remain here，”I exclaimed， delighted—but he only said：“We can’t remain here，”and rose and walked very fast down the road straight ahead。
Very disappointed and puzzled， I trotted after him calling out：“But why， but why， why do you leave me？”But he didn't speak again all the way home， and left me abruptly at the door of my studio。
This quaint and passionate friendship had lasted over a year when in the innocence of my heart I had dreamt to give it another expression。 One evening I plotted to send Mother and Raymond to the opera and to be alone—that afternoon I clandestinely bought a bottle of champagne。That evening， I set a little table with fowers， champagne， two glasses—and I donned a transparent tunic and wreathed my hair with roses and thus awaited André，feeling just like Tha s。He arrived， seemed very astonished and terribly embarrassed—he would hardly touch the champagne。I danced for him， but he seemed distrait， and finally left abruptly saying he had a great deal of writing to finish that evening。I was left alone with the roses and the champagne， and I wept bitterly。
When you recollect that at that time I was young and remarkably pretty， it's difficult to find an explanation of this episode and indeed I have never found one—but then I could only think in despair：“He doesn't love me。”And as a result of hurt vanity and pique， I began a violent firtation with one of the others of my trio of admirers， who was tall and blond and handsome and as enterprising as André was backwards in embraces and kisses。But this experiment also ended badly， for one night after a real champagne dinner in a Cabinet particulier he took me to a hotel room booked as Mr。and Mrs。X。I was trembling but happy。At last I would know what love was。I found myself in his arms， submerged in a storm of caresses， my heart pounding， every nerve bathed in pleasure， my whole being fooded in ecstatic joy。I am at last awakening to life， I exulted—when suddenly he started up and falling on his knees beside the bed in undescribable emotion cried：“Oh—why didn’t you tell me？What a crime I was about to commit—No， no， you must remain pure。Dress， dress at once！”
And， deaf to my laments， he put my coat around me and hurried me to a cab—and all the way home swore at himself in such a savage manner that I was very frightened。
What crime， I asked myself， was he about to commit？I felt dizzy， ill， and upset， again left at my studio door in a state of great discouragement。 My young blond friend never returned；he left shortly after for the Colonies， and when I met him years later， he asked：“Have you ever forgiven me？”“But for what——？”I questioned……
Such were my first youthful adventures at the borders of the strange land of Love， which I longed to enter and which was denied to me for many years by this too religious and awe？inspiring effect which I produced upon my lovers—but this last shock had a decided efect upon my emotional nature， turning all its force toward my Art which gave me the joys which Love withheld。
I spent long days and nights in the studio seeking that dance which might be the divine expression of the human spirit through the medium of the body's movement。 For hours I would stand quite still， my two hands foldedbetween my breasts， covering the solar plexus。My mother often became alarmed to see me remain for such long intervals quite motionless as if in a trance—but I was seeking， and finally discovered， the central spring of all movement， the crater of motor power， the unity from which all diversions of movements are born， the mirror of vision for the creation of the dance—it was from this discovery that was born the theory on which I founded my school。The ballet school taught the pupils that this spring was found in the centre of the back at the base of the spine。From this axis， says the ballet master
arms， legs， and trunk must move freely， giving the result of an articulated puppet。This method produces artificial mechanical movement not worthy of the soul。I， on the contrary， sought the source of the spiritual expression to fow into the channels of the body， filling it with vibrating light—the centrifugal force reflecting the spirit's vision。After many months， when I had learned to concentrate all my force to this one Centre， I found that thereafter when I listened to music the rays and vibrations of the music streamed to this one fount of light within me—there they reflected themselves in Spiritual Vision， not the brain's mirror， but the soul's， and from this vision I could express them in Dance。I have often tried to explain to artists this first basic theory of my Art。Stanislavski mentions my telling him of this in his book， My Life in Art。
It would seem as if it were a very difficult thing to explain in words， but when I stood before my class of eventhe smallest and poorest children and said：“Listen to the music with your soul。 Now， while listening， do you not feel an inner self awakening deep within you—that it is by its strength that your head is lifted， that your arms are raised， that you are walking slowly toward the light？”—they understood。This awakening is the first step in the dance， as I conceive it。
Even as the youngest child understands；from then on， even in walking， and in all their movements， they possess a spiritual power and grace which do not exist in any movement born from the physical frame， or created from the brain。 This is the reason why quite small children in my school appearing in the Trocadero or the Metropolitan Opera House before vast audiences have been enabled to hold those audiences with a magnetism generally possessed only by very great artists。But when these children grew older the counteracting influences of our materialistic civilisation took this force from them—and they lost their inspiration。
The peculiar environment of my childhood and youth had developed this power in me to a very great degree， and in diferent epochs of my life I have been enabled to shut out all outside infuences and to live in this force alone。 So， after my rather pathetic eforts to gain earthly love， I had a sudden revulsion and return to this force。
Hereafter， when André presented himself somewhat timidly and apologetically， I deluged him for hours with discourses on the Art of the Dance and a new school ofhuman movement， and I must say that he never seemed bored or tired， but would listen with the sweetest patience and sympathy while I explained to him each movement I had discovered。I also then dreamed of finding a first movement from which would be born a series of movements without my volition， but as the unconscious reaction of the primary movement。I had developed this movement in a series of different variations on several themes—such as the first movement of fear， followed by the natural reactions born of the primary emotion of Sorrow， from which would fow a dance of lamentation， or a love movement， from the unfolding of which， like the petals of a fower， the dancer would stream as a perfume。
These dances were without actual music， but seemed to create themselves from the rhythm of some invisible music。 From these studies I frst attempted to express the preludes of Chopin。I was also initiated to the music of Gluck。My mother was never wearied of playing for me， and would repeat the entire score of“Orpheus”over and over until dawn appeared in the studio window。
That window was high， covering the entire ceiling and curtainless—so that always， looking up， she saw the sky， the stars， the moon—though sometimes the rain pelted down and little trickles of water fell to the floor， for top studio windows are seldom rainproof；also in winter the studio was dreadfully cold and full of draughts， and in summer we baked—and as there was only one room， it was not always convenient for our different occupations。 But the elasticity of youth defies discomfort， and my mother was an angel of self？effacement and abnegation， only desiring to be helpful to my work。At that time the Countess Greffulhe was the reigning Society Queen。I received an invitation to dance in her drawing？room， where a fashionable throng was gathered， including all the celebrities of Paris Society。The Countess hailed me as a renaissance of Greek Art， but she was rather under the infuence of the Aphrodite of Pierre Louys and his Chanson de Bilitis， whereas I had the expression of a Doric column and the Parthenon pediments as seen in the cold light of the British Museum。
The Countess had erected in her drawing？room a small stage backed with a lattice， and in each opening of the lattice work was placed a red rose。This background of red roses did not at all suit the simplicity of my tunic or the religious expression of my dance， for， at this epoch， although I had read Pierre Louys and the Chanson de Bilitis， the Metamorphoses of Ovid and the songs of Sappho， the sensual meaning of these readings had entirely escaped me， which proves that there is no necessity to censor the literature of the young。What one has not experienced， one will never understand in print。
I was still a product of American puritanism—whether due to the blood of my pioneer grandfather and grandmother， who crossed the Plains in a covered wagon in'49，cutting their road through virgin forests over the Rocky Mountains and across the burning plains， sternly keeping of or battlingwith the hordes of hostile Indians；or my Scottish blood on my father's side， or whatever it was—the land of America had fashioned me as it does most of its youth—a Puritan， a mystic and a striver after the heroic expression rather than any sensual expression whatever， and I believe that most American artists are of the same mould。 Walt Whitman， in spite of the fact that his writings were once prohibited and classed as undesirable literature， and in spite of his frequent proclaiming of the joys of the body， is at heart a Puritan and so are most of our writers， sculptors， and painters。
Is it the great， rough land of America， or the broad open wind？swept spaces， or the shadow of Abraham Lincoln that looms over all， as compared to French sensual art？One might say that the American trend of education is to reduce the senses almost to nil。The real American is not a gold chaser or money lover， as the legend classes him， but an idealist and a mystic。Not that I mean for a moment to say that the American is without senses。On the contrary， the Anglo？Saxon in general， or the American with some Celtic blood， is， when it comes to the crucial moment， more fiery than the Italian， more sensuous than the French， more capable of desperate excesses than are the Russians。But the habit of early training has enclosed his temperament in a wall of iron， frosted over， and these things only come to pass when some extraordinary incident of life breaks through his reserve。Then one might say that the Anglo？Saxon or Celt is of all the nations the， most fery lover。I have known such characters who go to bed with two suits of pyjamas：one silk， for softness near the skin， and one woollen for warmth， with The Times， the Lancet， and a briar pipe， turn suddenly into satyrs such as would leave the Greeks behind， breaking into such a volcano of passion as would frighten an Italian for a week！
Therefore， that evening at the Countess Grefuhlhe's house， in an overcrowded salon full of marvellously dressed and bejewelled women， stifed by the perfume of the thousands of red roses， and stared at by a front row of jeunesse dorée， whose noses just reached the end of the stage and were almost brushed by my dancing toes， I was extremely unhappy， and felt it was all a failure；but the next morning I received from the Countess a gracious little note， thanking me and telling me to call at the concierge’s lodge for the cachet。I did not like having to call at the lodge， for I was over？sensitive about money， but the sum， after all， paid the rent of the studio。
Much pleasanter was an evening at the studio of the famous Madame Madeleine Le Marre， where I danced to the music of Orphée， and saw among the spectators， for the first time， the inspired face of the Sappho of France， the Comtesse de Noailles。Jean Lorain was also present and described his impressions in the Journal。
In addition to the two greatest sources of joy， the Louvre and the National Library， I now discovered a third：the charming library of the Opéra。The librarian took an affectionate interest in my researches， and placed at my disposal every work ever written on dancing， and alsoall the books on Greek music and theatre art。I applied myself to the task of reading everything that had ever been written on the Art of Dancing， from the earliest Egyptians to the present day， and I made special notes of all I read in a copy？book；but when I had finished this colossal experiment， I realised that the only dance masters I could have were Jean？Jacques Rousseau（“Emile”），Walt Whitman， and Nietzsche。
One dark afternoon there was a knock at the studio door。 A woman stood there。She was of such imposing stature and such powerful personality that her entrance seemed to be announced by one of those Wagnerian motifs， deep and strong， and bearing portents of coming events， and， indeed， the motif then announced has run through my life ever since， bringing in its vibrations stormy， tragic happenings。
“I am the Princess de Polignac，”she said，“a friend of the Countess Greffulhe。 When I saw you dance your art interested me， and particularly my husband， who is a composer。”
She had a handsome face， somewhat marred by a too heavy and protruding lower jaw and a masterful chin。 It might have been the face of a Roman Emperor， except that an expression of cold aloofness protected the otherwise voluptuous promise of her eyes and features。When she spoke her voice had also a hard， metallic twang， which was mystifying as coming from her， whom one would haveexpected to have richer， deeper tones。I afterwards divined that these cold looks and the tone of her voice were really a mask to hide， in spite of her princely position， a condition of extreme and sensitive shyness。I spoke to her of my Art and my hopes， and the Princess at once ofered to arrange a concert for me in her studio。She painted， and was also a fine musician， playing both the piano and the organ。The Princess seemed to sense the poverty of our bare， cold studio and our pinched looks， for， when abruptly leaving， she shyly placed an envelope on the table， in which we found two thousand francs。
I believe such acts as these are habitual with Madame de Polignac， in spite of her reputation of being rather cold and unsympathetic。
The next afternoon I went to her home， where I met the Prince de Polignac， a fne musician of considerable talent；an exquisite， slight gentleman， who always wore a little black velvet cap， which framed his delicate， beautiful face。 I donned my tunic and danced for him in his musicroom， and he was enraptured。He hailed me as a vision and a dream for which he had long waited。My theory of the relation of movement to sounds interested him deeply， as did all my hopes and ideals for the renaissance of the dance as an Art。He played for me delightfully on a charming old harpsichord， which he loved and caressed with his finely tapering fingers。I felt at once for him the warmth of appreciation， and when he finally exclaimed，“Quelle adorable enfant。Isadore， comme tu es adorable，”I repliedshyly，“Moi， aussi， je vous adore。Je voudrais bien danser toujours pour vous， et composer des danses réligieuses inspirees par votre belle musique。”
And then we envisaged a collaboration。 Alas， what a despairing waste there is on this earth。The hope of a collaboration， which would have been so precious to me， was soon afterwards cut short by his death。
The concert in the studio of the Princess was a great success， and， as she had the generous idea of opening her studio to the public， and not limiting the audience to her personal friends， there followed a more general interest in my work。 After this we also arranged a series of subscription concerts in our studio， which held an audience of twenty or thirty。The Prince and Princess de Polignac came to all these concerts， and I remember once， in his admiration， the Prince took of his velvet cap and waved it in the air， crying，“Vive Isadora。”
Eugène Carrière and his family also came to those concerts， and once Carrière did me the great honour of pronouncing a short discourse on the Dance。Among other things he said：
“Isadora， in her desire to express human sentiments， found in Greek art the finest models。 Full of admiration for the beautiful bas？relief figures， she was inspired by them。Yet， endowed with an instinct for discovery， she returned to Nature， whence came all these gestures， and， believing in imitating and revivifying the Greek dance， she found her own expression。She thinks of the Greeks， and only obeysher own self。It is her own joy and her own grief which she ofers us。Her forgetfulness of the moment and her search for happiness are her own desires。In recounting them to us so well， she invokes ours。Before the Greek works， revived for an instant for us， we are young with her， a new hope triumphs in us；and， when she expresses her submission to the inevitable， we， too， resign ourselves with her。
“The dance of Isadora Duncan is no longer a‘divertissement，'it is a personal manifestation， as a work of art more living， perhaps， and as fecund in inciting us to works for which we ourselves are destined。”
