“It is too many for a dancer who before coming to Paris already has
imitators here.”
Influenced by the voice and bearing of a man who had formerly played
the part of Mephistopheles on the stage which he now directed, Mr.
Stein did not dare to make further inquiries.
The impression made upon me by the terms that my agent brought back
is easily imagined. To accept four appearances a month, even if M.
Gailhard actually made a proposition to that effect, was not to
be thought of. That, from a pecuniary standpoint, was altogether
insufficient. I thought the matter over. My mind was quickly made up.
After dinner I bundled my agent and my mother into a carriage and
gave the driver the address of the Folies-Bergère, for I knew that
my agent, on his own responsibility, had written to the manager of
this big music hall. On the way I explained to Mr. Stein that I was
governing myself by the advice that he had given me sometime before,
and that I was going to ask the manager of the Folies-Bergère for an
engagement.
Imagine my astonishment when, in getting out of the carriage in front
of the Folies, I found myself face to face with a “serpentine dancer”
reproduced in violent tones on some huge placards. This dancer was not
Loie Fuller.
Here was the cataclysm, my utter annihilation.
Nevertheless I went into the theatre. I stated the object of my visit.
I asked to see the manager. They told me that I could be received only
at the close of the performance, and they assigned us, my mother, Mr.
Stein and myself, seats in one corner of the balcony, whence we were
able to follow the performance.
The performance!
I could not help poking a little fun at that performance. It would be
hard to describe what I saw that evening. I awaited the “serpentine
dancer,” my rival, my robber--for she was a robber, was she not, she
who was stealing not only my dances but all my beautiful dreams?
Finally she came out. I trembled all over. Cold perspiration appeared
on my temples. I shut my eyes. When I reopened them I saw there on the
stage one of my contemporaries who, some time before, in the United
States, having borrowed money from me had neglected to repay it. She
had kept right on borrowing, that was all. But this time I had made up
my mind to force her to give back what she had taken from me.
Presently I ceased to want to do anything of the sort. Instead of
further upsetting me the sight of her soothed me. The longer she danced
the calmer I became. And when she had finished her “turn,” I began to
applaud sincerely and with great joy.
It was not admiration that elicited my applause but an entirely
opposite feeling. My imitator was so ordinary that, sure of my own
superiority, I no longer dreaded her. In fact I could gladly have
kissed her for the pleasure that her revelation of inefficiency gave me.
After the performance, when we were in the manager’s presence, M.
Marchand was then the man, I let him know how I felt, through the
intermediation of Mr. Stein, who acted as interpreter.
The hall by this time was empty. There were only six of us on the
stage; M. Marchand, his wife, the second orchestra leader, M. Henri
Hambourg, Mr. Stein, my mother and I.
“Ask M. Marchand,” I said to Mr. Stein, “why he has engaged a woman
who gives a feeble copy of my dances when you wrote him from Berlin to
propose his talking with me.”
Instead of translating my question my “interpreter” replied:
“Are you really so sure of yourself? Have you forgotten that you have
been proposing to dance at the Opera? Perhaps he knows about it.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I replied. “Put the question to him just the
same. And besides, this man doesn’t know anything.”
I learned afterwards that M. Marchand spoke English and understood
it as well as Mr. Stein and I. He must have had great difficulty,
that evening, in checking a longing to laugh. As a matter of fact he
restrained it perfectly, for we were unable to detect it, and we did
not discover that he was familiar with Shakespeare’s language.
Mr. Stein forthwith translated my question.
“I engaged this dancer,” replied M. Marchand in French, “because the
Casino de Paris is announcing a serpentine dance and because I cannot
afford to let them get ahead of me.”
“But,” I asked, “are there other dancers of this sort at Parisian
theatres?”
“No. The one at the Casino has broken her engagement. But for my part
I had already engaged your imitator. As you see, she is meeting with
no great success, and I fancy that you will hardly achieve it either.
Nevertheless, if you care to give me a rehearsal I am at your service.”
“Thank you. You would like me to give you a rehearsal so that a thief
may steal some more of my dances!”
But my agent urged me so strongly to show the manager what my dances
were like, especially as compared with those of my imitator, that I
decided to do so.
I put on my robes, one after the other, and began to dance. The
orchestra was composed of a single violin, and for illumination I had
only the footlights.
When I had finished the manager made me come into his private office
and proposed to engage me then and there. I was to make my appearance
as soon as the other dancer had ended her engagement.
“No,” I declared. “If I come to you this woman will have to go.”
“But,” he said, “I have engaged her. She cannot leave until the end of
her agreement.”
“You have only to pay her for her performances and she will go.”
He objected then that lithographs, newspaper advertisements and other
things had been prepared for her, and that, if she stopped dancing, the
public might protest.
“Very well. In that case I will dance in her place, under her name,
with her music, until you have arranged everything for my debut.”
The next day he paid my imitator and she left the theatre.
That same evening I took her place and I was obliged to repeat her
dance four or five times.
Then we set ourselves at work seriously upon rehearsals for my debut,
which was announced to occur a week later.
After I had danced twice under my imitator’s name the manager of the
Folies-Bergère took me to the office of the Figaro.
I knew well that from the point of view of advertising this was an
excellent idea, but I did not know until long after that my definite
engagement had depended on the impression I created there. I have
not forgotten that I owe my entire career to the memorable success I
achieved on that occasion.
Eight days later the general rehearsal occurred, which ended only at
four o’clock in the morning, and still I had been unable to complete my
programme, comprising five dances: 1, the serpentine; 2, the violet; 3,
the butterfly; 4, a dance the public later called the “white dance.” As
a finale I intended to dance with illumination from beneath, the light
coming through a square of glass over which I hovered, and this was to
be the climax of my dances. After the fourth number my electricians,
who were exhausted, left me there unceremoniously.
I was unwilling to make my appearance without my last dance, but, in
the face of my manager’s threat to cancel our contract, I finally
yielded.
Next day I was able, nevertheless, to rehearse this fifth dance, and
at the time of the performance everything was ready for my initial
appearance.
The enthusiasm of the audience grew progressively while I danced.
When the curtain fell after the fourth dance, the applause was
deafening and the music that served as prelude to dance number five
could not be heard. Upon the manager’s order the curtain was raised
again and again, and the plaudits continued to deafen us. I had to
yield to the inevitable; it was impossible, and useless, to keep on
dancing. The four dances, with the encores, had lasted forty-five
minutes and, despite the stimulus of great success, I had reached the
limit of my strength.
I looked at the manager and asked:
“How about the last one?”
“We don’t need it. Those you have just danced have been enough to stir
the audience up. Don’t you hear the cheering?”
A moment later we were surrounded by a great crowd and I was almost
dragged to my dressing-room.
[Illustration: THE DANCE OF FLAME
_Photo_ _Lafitte_]
From that day on I had adventure after adventure. Not until long
afterward was I able to get the benefit of my fifth dance. Some years
later I initiated at Paris the dance of the fire and the lily, and that
once again at the Folies-Bergère. I remember an ovation very similar to
that at my first appearance. This time, however, I was no longer an
unknown performer, as in 1892. I had numerous Parisian friends in the
house. Many of them came upon the stage to congratulate me, and amongst
them, Calvé. She took me in her arms, kissed me and said:
“It’s wonderful! Loie, you are a genius.”
And two big tears coursed down her cheeks. I have never seen Calvé
prettier than at that moment.
Well, that is the story of my first appearance in Paris.
VI
LIGHT AND THE DANCE
Since it is generally agreed that I have created something new,
something composed of light, colour, music, and the dance, more
especially of light and the dance, it seems to me that it would perhaps
be appropriate, after having considered my creation from the anecdotal
and picturesque standpoint, to explain, in more serious terms, just
what my ideas are relative to my art, and how I conceive it both
independently and in its relationship to other arts. If I appear to be
too serious I apologise in advance.
I hope that this theoretical “essay” will be better received than a
certain practical essay that I undertook, soon after my arrival in
Paris, in the cathedral of Notre Dame.
Notre Dame! The great cathedral of which France is justly proud was
naturally the objective of one of my earliest artistic pilgrimages, I
may say of the very earliest. The tall columns, whose shafts, composed
of little assembled columns, rise clear to the vaults; the admirable
proportions of the nave; the choir, the seats of old carved oak, and
the railings of wrought iron--this harmonious and magnificent pile
impressed me deeply. But what enchanted me more than anything else
was the marvellous glass of the lateral rose windows, and even more,
perhaps, the rays of sunlight that vibrated in the church, in various
directions, intensely coloured, as a result of having passed through
these sumptuous windows.
I quite forgot where I was. I took my handkerchief from my pocket, a
white handkerchief, and I waved it in the beams of coloured light,
just as in the evening I waved my silken materials in the rays of my
reflectors.
Suddenly a tall imposing man, adorned with a heavy silver chain, which
swung from an impressive neck, advanced ceremoniously toward me, seized
me by the arm and led me toward the entrance, directing a conversation
at me which I appreciated as lacking in friendliness although I did not
understand a word. To be brief he dropped me on to the pavement. There
he looked at me with so severe an expression that I understood his
intention was never to let me enter the church again under any pretext.
My mother was as frightened as I was.
Just then a gentleman came along, who, seeing us completely taken
aback, asked us what had happened. I pointed to the man with the chain,
who was still wrathfully surveying us.
“Ask him about it,” I said.
The gentleman translated the beadle’s language to me.
“Tell that woman to go away; she is crazy.”
Such was my first visit to Notre Dame and the vexatious experience that
my love of colour and light caused.
When I came to Europe I had never been inside an art museum. The life
that I led in the United States had given me neither motive nor leisure
to become interested in masterpieces, and my knowledge of art was
hardly worth mentioning. The first museum whose threshold I crossed was
the British Museum. Then I visited the National Gallery. Later I became
acquainted with the Louvre and, in due course, with most of the great
museums of Europe. The circumstance that has struck me most forcibly in
regard to these museums is that the architects have not given adequate
attention to considerations of light.
Thanks to this defect I get in most museums an impression of a
disagreeable medley. When I look at the objects for some moments the
sensation of weariness overcomes me, it becomes impossible to separate
the things one from another. I have always wondered if a day will not
come when this problem of lighting will be better solved. The question
of illumination, of reflection, of rays of light falling upon objects,
is so essential that I cannot understand why so little importance has
been attached to it. Nowhere have I seen a museum where the lighting
was perfect. The panes of glass that let the light through ought to be
hidden or veiled just as are the lamps that light theatres, then the
objects can be observed without the annoyance of the sparkle of the
window.
The efforts of the architect ought to be directed altogether in that
direction--to the redistribution of light. There are a thousand ways
of distributing it. In order that it may fulfil the desired conditions
light ought to be brought directly to pictures and statues instead of
getting there by chance.
Colour is disintegrated light. The rays of light, disintegrated by
vibrations, touch one object and another, and this disintegration,
photographed in the retina, is always chemically the result of
changes in matter and in beams of light. Each one of these effects is
designated under the name of colour.
Our acquaintance with the production and variations of these effects is
precisely at the point where music was when there was no music.
In its earliest stage music was only natural harmony; the noise of
the waterfall, the rumbling of the storm, the gentle whisper of the
west wind, the murmur of the watercourses, the rattling of rain on
dry leaves, all the sounds of still water and of the raging sea, the
sleeping of lakes, the tumult of the hurricane, the soughing of the
wind, the dreadful roar of the cyclone, the crashing of the thunder,
the crackling of branches.
Afterwards the singing birds and then all the animals emitted their
various sounds. Harmony was there; man, classifying and arranging the
sounds, created music.
We all know what man has been able to get from it since then.
Man, past master of the musical realm, is to-day still in the infancy
of art, from the standpoint of control of light.
If I have been the first to employ coloured light, I deserve no special
praise for that. I cannot explain the circumstance; I do not know how I
do it. I can only reply, like Hippocrates when he was asked what time
was: “Ask it of me,” he said; “and I cannot tell you; ask it not and I
know it well.”
It is a matter of intuition, of instinct, and nothing else.
Sight is perhaps the first, the most acute, of our senses. But as we
are born with this sense sufficiently well developed to enable us to
make good use of it, it is afterward the last that we try to perfect.
For we concern ourselves with everything sooner than with beauty. So
there is no reason for surprise that the colour sense is the last to be
developed.
Yet, notwithstanding, colour so pervades everything that the whole
universe is busy producing it, everywhere and in everything. It is a
continued recurrence, caused by processes of chemical composition and
decomposition. The day will come when man will know how to employ them
so delightfully that it will be hard to conceive how he could have
lived so long in the darkness in which he dwells to-day.
Our knowledge of motion is nearly as primitive as our knowledge of
colour. We say “prostrated by grief,” but, in reality, we pay attention
only to the grief; “transported with joy,” but we observe only the joy;
“weighed down by chagrin,” but we consider only the chagrin. Throughout
we place no value on the movement that expresses the thought. We are
not taught to do so, and we never think of it.
Who of us has not been pained by a movement of impatience, a lifting of
the eyebrows, a shaking of the head, the sudden withdrawal of a hand?
We are far from knowing that there is as much harmony in motion as in
music and colour. We do not grasp the facts of motion.
How often we have heard it said: “I cannot bear this colour.” But have
we ever reflected that a given motion is produced by such and such
music? A polka or a waltz to which we listen informs us as to the
motions of the dance and blends its variations. A clear sparkling day
produces upon us quite a different effect from a dull sad day, and by
pushing these observations further we should begin to comprehend some
more delicate effects which influence our organism.
In the quiet atmosphere of a conservatory with green glass, our actions
are different from those in a compartment with red or blue glass. But
usually we pay no attention to this relationship of actions and their
causes. These are, however, things that must be observed when one
dances to an accompaniment of light and music properly harmonised.
Light, colour, motion and music.
Observation, intuition, and finally comprehension.
Let us try to forget educational processes in so far as dancing is
concerned. Let us free ourselves from the sense that is ordinarily
assigned to the word. Let us endeavour to forget what is understood by
it to-day. To rediscover the primitive form of the dance, transformed
into a thousand shapes that have only a very distant relationship to
it, we shall have to go back to the early history of the race. We then
get a notion what the origin of the dance must have been and what has
made it what it is to-day.
At present dancing signifies motions of the arms and legs. It means
a conventional motion, at first with one arm and one leg, then a
repetition of the same figure with the other arm and the other leg. It
is accompanied by music, each note calls for a corresponding motion,
and the motion, it is unnecessary to say, is regulated rather by the
time than by the spirit of the music. So much the worse for the poor
mortal who cannot do with his left leg what he does with his right leg.
So much worse for the dancer who cannot keep in time, or, to express
it better, who cannot make as many motions as there are notes. It is
terrifying to consider the strength and ability that are needed for
proficiency.
Slow music calls for a slow dance, just as fast music requires a fast
dance.
In general, music ought to follow the dance. The best musician is he
who can permit the dancer to direct the music instead of the music
inspiring the dance. All this is proved to us by the natural outcome of
the motives which first impelled men to dance. Nowadays these motives
are forgotten, and it is no longer considered that there should be a
reason for dancing.
In point of fact the dancer on hearing a piece of new music, says: “Oh,
I cannot dance to that air.” To dance to new music, the dancer has to
learn the conventional steps adapted to that music.
Music, however, ought to indicate a form of harmony or an idea with
instinctive passion, and this instinct ought to incite the dancer to
follow the harmony without special preparation. This is the true dance.
To lead us to grasp the real and most extensive connotation of the word
dance, let us try to forget what is implied by the choreographic art of
our day.
What is the dance? It is motion.
What is motion? The expression of a sensation.
What is a sensation? The reaction in the human body produced by an
impression or an idea perceived by the mind.
A sensation is the reverberation that the body receives when an
impression strikes the mind. When the tree bends and resumes its
balance it has received an impression from the wind or the storm. When
an animal is frightened its body receives an impression of fear, and it
flees and trembles or else stands at bay. If it be wounded, it falls.
So it is when matter responds to immaterial causes. Man, civilised and
sophisticated, is alone best able to inhibit his own impulses.
In the dance, and there ought to be a word better adapted to the thing,
the human body should, despite conventional limitations, express all
the sensations or emotions that it experiences. The human body is ready
to express, and it would express if it were at liberty to do so, all
sensations just as the body of an animal.
Ignoring conventions, following only my own instinct, I am able to
translate the sensations we have all felt without suspecting that they
could be expressed. We all know that in the powerful emotions of joy,
sorrow, horror, or despair, the body expresses the emotion it has
received from the mind. The mind serves as a medium and causes these
sensations to be caught up by the body. In fact, the body responds to
these sensations to such an extent sometimes that, especially when the
shock is violent, life is suspended or even leaves the body altogether.
But natural and violent movements are possible only in the midst of
grand or terrible circumstances. They are only occasional motions.
To impress an idea I endeavour, by my motions, to cause its birth
in the spectator’s mind, to awaken his imagination, that it may be
prepared to receive the image.
Thus we are able, I do not say to understand, but to feel within
ourselves as an impulse an indefinable and wavering force, which urges
and dominates us. Well, I can express this force which is indefinable
but certain in its impact. I have motion. That means that all the
elements of nature may be expressed.
Let us take a “_tranche de vie_.” That expresses surprise, deception,
contentment, uncertainty, resignation, hope, distress, joy, fatigue,
feebleness, and, finally, death. Are not all these sensations, each
one in turn, humanity’s lot? And why can not these things be expressed
by the dance, guided intelligently, as well as by life itself? Because
each life expresses one by one all these emotions. One can express even
the religious sensations. Can we not again express the sensations that
music arouses in us, either a nocturne of Chopin’s or a sonata of
Beethoven’s, a slow movement by Mendelssohn, one of Schumann’s lieder,
or even the cadence of lines of poetry?
As a matter of fact, motion has been the starting point of all effort
at self-expression, and it is faithful to nature. In experiencing one
sensation we cannot express another by motions, even when we can do so
in words.
Since motion and not language is truthful, we have accordingly
perverted our powers of comprehension.
That is what I have wanted to say and I apologise for having said it at
such length, but I felt that it was necessary.
VII
A JOURNEY TO RUSSIA--A BROKEN CONTRACT
Soon after I had made my first appearance at the Folies-Bergère a
Russian manager, in accordance with an arrangement with my Parisian
manager, M. Marchand, asked to engage me, and I signed with him for St.
Petersburg.
My engagement was for the following spring.
At the end of the winter, in April, on the very day on which we were to
leave for Russia, my mother tottered and would certainly have fallen if
I had not been there to support her. I asked what was the matter. She
didn’t know, but for some time she had been suffering. She went to bed,
saying:
“I cannot go. But you take the train so as not to disappoint your
people, and I will follow you to-morrow morning.”
I was unwilling, however, to leave her in such a condition. The manager
of the Folies-Bergère, who had acted as intermediary between the
Russian manager and myself, had come to the station to say good-bye.
When he saw that I had missed the train he came to our house and
“showed off.” Meantime, I had called in a local physician, who could
not tell me what was the trouble with my mother. As he was French I
understood only that she was very ill. My mother’s condition grew worse
and I made up my mind not to leave her.
Next day M. Marchand returned, and this time with representatives of
the police. They compelled me to dress myself and then took me down
to the station, where, almost by main force, they put me on the train
along with my electricians.
Despite my explicit resolutions of the night before, there I was on my
way to Russia!
At the first stopping-place I left the train and boarded one which took
me back to Paris. I found my mother much worse, and I begged the doctor
to mention my name to no one.
I had engaged a nurse to watch over my mother. For two days I hid
whenever anyone came, to such an extent did I feel myself in the hands
of the Philistines.