announced. I received him, all the while wondering why my divinity’s
manager had come to see me. He explained that Madame Sarah Bernhardt
wanted to know if I could give her certain hints on the subject of the
lighting of her new play, “La Belle au Bois Dormant.” I was ill enough
to be in bed, but I arose to receive him. I promised him that I would
go to see Sarah the next day. The arrangement was inaccurately reported
and she understood that I was coming the same day. When she learned
that she could count on me only for the next day, she declared that I
had fallen ill very suddenly.
This thing wounded me to the quick, for I still loved Sarah. Next day
I went to her house and she saw that I was suffering, for I could not
utter a word. She took me in her arms and called me her treasure. That
was enough. Everything that I had was at her service, and I would have
done anything or given anything to help her. I did remain at rehearsal
to familiarise myself with what she needed in the way of illumination.
In her turn she came to my theatre after the performance to see some
lighting arrangements that I had installed especially for her play,
and with the sole object of pleasing her. She brought some people with
her. For her sake I received them all cordially. Among them was her
electrician. Each time that I took the trouble to show something to
Sarah the electrician would be overheard saying:
“But I can do that. That is easy to copy. Oh, I can do that, too.
That’s nothing at all.”
As always during my performances the spectators were in darkness,
and one of my friends; who had seated herself near Sarah to hear the
admiring things she would say; was staggered by what she did hear. And
in going away Sarah thanked me as she would thank anybody, overwhelming
me with pretty speeches.
On the morning of the next day the managing director of the theatre
at which I was dancing announced in the newspapers--without having
consulted me--that Sarah Bernhardt had come to see Loie Fuller’s
lighting effects with reference to the new play by Mm. Richepin et
Cain, “La Belle au Bois Dormant.”
I sent some one to Sarah to ask which lighting apparatus she would
like.
And this was her reply.
“My electricians would go on a strike if they thought I was about to
associate any one with them. They say they can do whatever I need
to have done. Besides, it is only a matter of a gauze curtain and a
revolving lamp. A thousand thanks to Loie.”
Am I alone to blame for my disillusionment? I had pictured something
incomprehensible because Sarah Bernhardt is an inspired artist.
But she is also a woman, and it took me twenty years to find it out.
She is a woman, a fact I shall now never be able to forget, but she
remains my divinity just the same.
IX
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
One evening at the Folies-Bergère two cards were brought to me. On one
of them was engraved the name of the Minister of Finance of the island
of Haiti; on the other, that of M. Eugène Poulle, also of Haiti.
What business could these two gentlemen have with me? The minister
probably wanted me to come and dance at his house.
The gentlemen entered, and I recognised in one of them my Jamaica exile.
But that calls for an explanation.
In 1890 I was engaged by an actor named William Morris for a tour of
the West Indies. I was to be star of the company, of which he was the
leading man.
One cold winter morning we sailed out of New York harbour, and hardly
were we at sea before we fell victims to a fearful storm. For two days
and two nights the captain remained on the bridge, and it looked as
if we were destined to sink. My mother and I had never undertaken an
ocean voyage before. We were terribly sick and, shut up in our cabin,
we supposed that at sea things always went this way. All that we
regretted was that we had ever made the trip. Certainly no one would
ever induce us to do so again.
When we arrived in southern waters and the waves were still, we
appreciated what an extraordinary gale it was that had so shaken us up.
Some days later we landed at Kingston, Jamaica.
My mother, Mr. Morris and I took rooms at the same hotel, the Clarendon.
We seemed to be the only guests there. We took our meals in a great
hall on the first floor, upon which all the rooms opened.
Yet we were not the only guests, for suddenly a gentleman appeared on
the scene.
At first we paid no particular attention to him, but gradually
we observed that he seemed to be very much depressed. As it was
excessively warm he was always dressed only in his pyjamas. This is
a detail that I happen to remember, for Mr. Morris also wore nothing
else. The heat was insufferable, but I have always liked heat by reason
of the chronic tendency to colds that I have had since my birth.
One day I asked my mother and Mr. Morris to invite the newcomer to our
table. I discovered with regret that conversation between us would be
impossible because he spoke only French and we only English. By means,
however, of pantomime and much good will on both sides, we managed to
make him understand our intention.
Our polite intercourse consisted in nods and smiles and bows and in
making our hands and arms go this way and that way. As soon, however,
as we had become acquainted our relations were at once established on a
very comfortable basis.
He went with us to the theatre every time we played, that was three
times a week, and we took our meals together. During the three months
in which we were in Jamaica, I never took the trouble to find out
his name. As a general principle I am always less concerned with my
friends’ names than with my friends themselves.
After Jamaica we returned to New York and I hardly ever thought of
Kingston again.
Two years later, when I was dancing at the Folies-Bergère, an elegant
gentleman, accompanied by a friend, asked for an interview. He turned
out to be our Jamaica companion and his friend the Minister of Finance
of Haiti.
In the meantime he had learned English and was able to tell me that
the period at which we had seen him at Kingston was only a few months
after the breaking out of a revolution in Haiti. Our friend’s father,
one of the leading bankers of the island, had been assassinated, and he
himself had been obliged to escape in a small boat. He had been rescued
at sea and brought to Kingston. All the while he was in Jamaica he had
been trying to communicate with his friends, by way of New York, and he
had not been able to learn whether his mother, his brothers, and his
sisters were dead or alive.
A short time after our departure he got into communication with his
family and discovered that affairs were beginning to improve. He
returned home and found everybody safe and sound, except, of course,
his unfortunate father.
After having told me this story, which explained his sadness at the
time of our first meeting, he asked me:
“How can I be of service to you? You seem to have everything that
success can bring, but there is one thing I can do, and one which, I am
sure, will give you great pleasure. I can present you to my old friend,
Alexandre Dumas,” he added, with a pretty smile.
“Really,” I said, overcome with joy. “Are you really willing to
introduce me to the author of _La Dame aux Camélias_?”
“Yes, indeed,” he replied.
That was worth a dozen visits to Jamaica, and I thanked him effusively.
A few days later he came to take me to Marly, where the great writer
lived.
During the journey in the railway carriage M. Poulle taught me a French
phrase, which I was to say when Dumas extended his hand: “Je suis très
contente de serrer votre main” (“I am delighted to grasp your hand”).
And of course, when the psychological moment arrived, I phrased the
words all askew. Instead of taking one of his hands I grasped both
and emphatically and with stress on each word, I said: “Je suis très
contente de votre main serrée” (“I am delighted with your close-fisted
hand”). I did not understand his reply, but my friend later on told me
that Dumas had replied: “My hand is not close-fisted, but I know what
you mean, child. My friend Poulle has related to me his experiences in
Jamaica, and I open my heart and my hand in your service.”
The gesture he made is the only thing which I remember, for all the
rest was Greek to me.
From this time on a great friendship, a great sympathy, subsisted
between us, although we were unable to understand each other. Among
the important men whom I have met few have exercised upon me a charm
such as that of Dumas. At first a little cold, almost stiff in
manner, he became, on further acquaintance, exquisitely affable, and
of a gallantry suggestive of the fine manners of the old days. At
first his words continued obscure to me, but gradually, as I became
familiar with the French language, I fell under the irresistible
charm of his conversation, with its beautifully logical and rounded
phrases, enamelled as it was with sparkling flashes of wit. Dumas had
practically two voices, two styles of speech; one which he employed in
ordinary circumstances, as in asking certain questions, or in giving
orders; the other the one in which he discussed a subject that greatly
interested him.
Very tall, with a somewhat dreamy look, he would survey you for a long
time, whilst deep in his eyes there gleamed a light of profound and
intelligent good will.
His hands, well modelled and large, were very handsome, and he had an
almost feminine love of being well groomed.
At breakfast one morning some one asked me if I was very fond of
M. Dumas, and I replied in French, which I still understood only
imperfectly: “I am very fond of her.”
Dumas, convulsed with laughter, said something that I did not get, but
which was translated for me thus:
“He says that he has been taken for a whole lot of things, but never
before for a woman.”
Dumas smiled again and kissed my hand, a circumstance that I have
always remembered.
Another time we were at Marly-le-Roi and the Count Primoli took a
number of photographs of us and of the garden, in which only a single
yellow rose was left.
Dumas picked this flower and gave it to me.
“My dear sir,” I said, “it is the last one in the garden. You ought not
to give it to me.”
M. Poulle, who served as translator, rendered this reply:
“Oh, very well. Since it is so valuable, what are you going to give me
in exchange?”
I replied that a woman could give only one thing for so pretty a
thought as that suggested by the rose.
“And that is?” he asked.
I drew his face toward mine and kissed him.
[Illustration: LOIE FULLER AND ALEXANDRE DUMAS
_Photo_ _Ellis_]
Just at this moment Count Primoli took a snap-shot of us, a picture
which I have never had the pleasure of owning. I have, however,
something better than a picture. I have kept the rose.
Conversing with Dumas I learned from him some things about which
I shall think as long as I live. One day, still with M. Poulle’s
assistance as interpreter, we were speaking of _La Dame aux Camélias_
and of the Demi-Monde and the character of the women who compose it. He
then said something that I shall never forget:
“When we find one of God’s creatures in whom we perceive nothing good,
the fault is perhaps in us.”
Another day I was driving two pretty Arab ponies that Dumas had bought
for his grandchildren. We had reached the bottom of a hillock, and the
horses were eager to climb it as quickly as they could.
He said to me:
“Hold them back. They will have to become of age before they will learn
that one should not go up hill on the gallop.”
When I asked, “What is it that urges them to run this way,” he replied:
“They are like men. They want to hurry and get through with whatever
annoys them.”
Once Alexandre Dumas came to call on me at the Grand Hotel, and from
that time on the people about the house looked upon me as a being
apart, for it was commonly said that Alexandre Dumas paid as few visits
as the Queen of England.
The last time that I saw him was in Paris, Rue Ampère, where he lived
in a magnificent _appartement_.
I remember that there was with him a certain M. Singer, an old friend
of Dumas’, who asked him if he was “indiscreet” and who rose to take
leave. Dumas took him by the arm and extending his free hand to me,
said:
“Indiscreet! Certainly not. All my friends ought to know Loie and be
fond of her.”
When I took leave of him he kissed me on the forehead and gave me a big
photograph, enlarged after a portrait of him when he was a child. On
the photograph were these words:
“From your little friend Alexandre.”
And this is one of my most precious souvenirs.
X
M. AND MME. CAMILLE FLAMMARION
In America we have a great actress named Modjeska. She is one of the
most interesting women I have ever met. She is a Pole, exiled from her
own country and married to Count Bozenta. Although she has a title
and is very much of an aristocrat by birth, she is possessed of those
conceptions of liberty that are generally attributed to the Nihilists.
It was, indeed, on that account that her own estates and those of her
husband were confiscated, and they themselves driven into exile. That
must have occurred about 1880 or a little before.
Then they found their way to free America, established themselves
there, and the countess decided to go on the stage.
To her great astonishment, and everybody else’s, it was soon evident
that the sacred fire burned in her. She became a great actress. In
America we are as fond of her as if she were a daughter of our own land.
Shortly after my first appearance at the Folies-Bergère a lady asked
to see me. It was the Countess Wolska, likewise a Pole, and a friend
of Modjeska’s. She, too, was living in exile with her father, who had
dared to write a revolutionary book called _The Polish Jew_.
It was through the kindness of Countess Wolska that I made the
acquaintance of M. and Mme. Flammarion. I shall never forget the
impression that Camille Flammarion made upon me the first time the
countess took me to his house, Rue Cassini. He wore a lounge jacket
of white flannel, edged with red lace. He had a veritable forest of
hair, which formed as it were a bonnet around his head. This was so
remarkable that I could not repress an exclamation. Mme. Flammarion
then told me that she frequently had to cut some of the locks, for her
husband’s hair grew with such vigour that he was tormented by it. Then
she showed me a cushion on a divan, and remarked, “There is where I put
his hair after cutting it.”
To give an accurate idea of Camille Flammarion’s style of wearing his
hair, you have only to multiply Paderewski’s head of hair by twelve.
At the time of my performance of Salome at the Athénée M. and Mme.
Flammarion came one evening to my dressing-room, after the performance,
along with Alexandre Dumas. As there were many other people there I
did not notice at first that the two men did not speak to each other.
Finally I became aware of it and I asked, in great surprise, “Is it
possible that the two most distinguished personalities in Paris are
not acquainted with each other?”
“It is not so remarkable,” replied Dumas, “for, you see, Flammarion
dwells in space, and I am just a cumberer of the earth.”
“Yes,” said Flammarion, “but a little star come out of the West has
brought us together.”
Dumas began to laugh and said, “That is the absolute truth.”
I joined the conversation and declared that the little American speck
of star-dust was very proud of having the honour and pleasure of
bringing together two such bright stars of France.
Few people understand that Flammarion is not content with being an
eminent astronomer. He counts among his assets some discoveries of the
greatest interest, most of which have no relation to astronomy.
One of them in particular interested me, as was natural.
Flammarion wanted to know whether colour has a certain influence on
organisms. How greatly such studies interest me is easily appreciated,
since I am rabid on the subject of colour.
He began his investigations by observing plants. He took half-a-dozen
geraniums, all of the same size, and put each of them in a little
conservatory with glass of different colours. One of the conservatories
had panes of white glass, and one geranium finally he planted in the
open air.
The result was surprising, as I can testify from having seen them.
One of the plants, a very fragile one, had expanded itself entirely at
great height. Another was very small but thick set. Still another had
no leaves. A fourth had only a small stem, some leaves and no branches.
Each plant was different according to the colour that had shaded it,
and even the one he had planted under the white glass was not quite
normal. Not one was green, a fact which proves not only that colour but
that glass has an action upon the plant. The only pretty plant was the
one that had been planted in the open air. This one was normal.
Continuing his experiments on the human body, Flammarion had panes of
different colours set in the windows of his observatory. Each person
who was sufficiently interested in his experiences not to be afraid of
the annoyances of sitting still in light of a green colour for an hour
or two, was able to feel the varied influences that colour conditions
induce in the system. It is a fact, for example, that yellow causes
enervation and that mauve engenders sleep.
I asked M. Flammarion if he thought that the colours with which we are
surrounded have an effect on our characters, and he replied:
“There is no doubt, is there, that each of us is better satisfied
with his appearance in one colour than in another? That is proved
by experience, for everybody will tell you: ‘I love this colour,’ or
‘I don’t care for that one.’ Isn’t it also said that such and such a
colour ‘suits’ or ‘doesn’t suit’ on such and such a person? All that
appears to prove that colour must exert some sort of influence, moral
or physical, or perhaps both simultaneously.”
It is only when you become intimately acquainted with Flammarion that
you appreciate what a deep thinker he is.
[Illustration: M. AND MME. CAMILLE FLAMMARION, TAKEN AT JUVISY
_Photo_ _Ellis_]
In all his work he is ably seconded by his wife. She, too, is a deep
thinker and a woman of remarkable initiative. She is one of the charter
members of the Association for Disarmament, and she gives a great
deal of time to other good works; yet these activities do not prevent
her from being one of the simplest of women and most accomplished of
housekeepers.
It may be interesting to describe briefly Flammarion’s country house.
They live in a château at Juvisy, in the very place where Louis XIII.
first conceived the project of building a royal palace. The terracing
was finished and the park laid out when there occurred a slight
earthquake, and Louis XIII. renounced his plan, turning his attention
to Versailles. But from that day to this no other earthquake has ever
occurred there. The remarkable situation of Juvisy merits a visit from
any one who loves natural beauty. The panorama that is unfolded from
it is one of the loveliest in France.
The château, which antedates Louis’ project, is still in existence.
There it was that Napoleon stayed for a while when on his way to
Fontainebleau. He held a council in the shade of a venerable tree,
which, from its superb height, dominates the grassy hill in front of
the château. Under the tree were installed the table and the stone
bench, which are still shown, in order that the Emperor might hold a
council of those who were faithful to him, and be free from the prying
eyes of inquisitive persons. Behind the château is the famous lane, a
great avenue completely covered by the branches of two rows of trees,
where according to tradition Napoleon passed some hours in congenial
company.
The château once became the property of an amateur astronomer. He
had an observatory built on it, and on his death he bequeathed this
wonderful estate to a man whom he had never met. This man was Camille
Flammarion.
I once attended a varnishing day with Camille Flammarion. I wanted to
do him the honour of going dressed in my best, and so I bought for the
occasion a costume which, I think, must have been very pretty. To go
with the gown I selected a hat with long ribbons hanging behind.
M. Flammarion appeared in a smoking jacket of brown velvet and a soft
hat.
Everybody in this gathering of specialists and artists was acquainted
with him. There was whispering to the effect that Loie Fuller was with
him, and soon we had around us more people than there were in front of
any single picture. I fancied that we looked very swell, but I was told
later on that we were followed principally because of our reputations,
because never a woman was arrayed as I was that day, and because M.
Flammarion’s garb was not exactly conventional.
Our success was such that one enthusiast even cut the ribbons from my
hat, probably to keep them as a souvenir of a spectacle that he thought
memorable.
In other circumstances I made a display that was not less memorable
though confined to a smaller number of spectators.
One evening I came home at eight o’clock and found my house full of
people. I had quite forgotten that I was giving a dinner party of about
forty covers. My chef had asked me, that very morning, if I would be
good enough to arrange for hiring some chairs and tables. He would take
care of the dinner without my being bothered with it further. But, as
I did not see a spare minute ahead of me that day, I requested him to
see to the accessories as well as to the menu itself, a thing that he
was very glad to do. The chairs, the tables and the dishes arrived. He
had made no terms regarding the accommodation, and had supposed that
I would be there to receive what was necessary and pay the bill. I had
not returned. They waited until seven o’clock and the chef decided as
my representative to pay the bill himself. He was asked to give three
hundred francs. The price seemed to him exorbitant, and he did not dare
to pay the bill without my consent. He was, however, so perplexed, so
afraid of seeing my dinner party a dead failure for want of chairs for
the guests to sit on, that he concluded he would advance the money.
Then he discovered that he had not enough with him, and the men from
the caterer’s went back with their chairs, tables, etc.
The chef was at his wit’s end. He did not know what to do until a
magnificent inspiration came to him. He went and told his troubles
to all my neighbours, who hastened to offer him chairs, tables,
dishes, glasses of every style and make. I made my entrance just as my
neighbours were sending in their goods, and while the invited guests
were beginning to arrive. Everybody turned to and helped lay the
tables, and I believe that I have never been present at a pleasanter
affair.
Some of the tables were high, others low. The chairs added to the
appearance of a general mix-up. Table cloths were sadly lacking, as
were knives and glasses. My chef did wonders in making us forget that
the banquet arrangements were not absolutely correct. The oddest thing
of all was that that evening, having met some friends, I had come
within an ace of not being present at my own dinner. In short, I had
forgotten all about it.
This dinner, at which there were among the guests Rodin and Fritz
Thaulow, was given in honour of M. and Mme. Flammarion.
XI
A VISIT AT RODIN’S
Most people are not acquainted with the temple of art at Meudon, which
the great sculptor, Auguste Rodin, has built near his house. The temple
is situated at the top of a little hill, and the outlook embraces one
of the most beautiful prospects around Paris.
The view to be obtained from Flammarion’s observatory at Juvisy made a
great impression on me. The view, however, which one has from Meudon,
though it is less sublime, stirs one more perceptibly. Juvisy simply
impresses through its atmosphere of grandeur, its calm, its suggestion
of the past.