IVHOW I CAME TO PARISALITTLE while after my appearance at the Madison Square Theatre I was asked to dance for the benefit of a charity at the German theatre in New York. I had forgotten all about my promise until the day of the performance, when a card arrived to call it to my mind. I had neglected to ask my manager’s permission to appear on that evening, not thinking that he would refuse to grant the privilege of my participating in a philanthropic affair.A short time before there had taken place the first part of a painful incident which was destined to rupture the pleasant relations subsisting between the management of the Madison Square and myself. My manager’s associate had asked me as a great favour to come to open a ball given by some friends in his honour. Delighted to be of service to him, I readily agreed to do so. When I asked him the date of this affair he told me not to bother about that.It was just then that I asked permission to dance at the German theatre for the benefit of an actress who was ill. The manager consented. At theGerman theatre they had engaged a Roumanian orchestra for me. The leader of this orchestra, Mr. Sohmers, an enthusiastic man, as the Roumanians are apt to be, came to see me after I had danced and foretold for me the wonderful artistic success which I was sure to meet with in Europe. He advised me to go to Paris, where an artistically inclined public would give my dances the reception they deserved. From that moment on this became a fixed idea with me—to dance in Paris. Then the manager of the German theatre proposed to me a tour abroad, beginning with Berlin.I promised to think the matter over and acquaint him with my decision.Some days later the famous ball took place which my manager’s associate had asked me to open. I went to it.They took us, a friend who accompanied me, and myself, into a little drawing-room where they begged me to wait until some one should come and fetch me for my appearance on the stage. More than an hour passed. Finally a gentleman came to tell me that everything was ready. Through a corridor I reached the platform, which had been erected at the top of the ball-room. It was terribly dark, and the only light perceptible was the little ray that filtered through from one of my lanterns that was imperfectly closed. The hall looked totally empty. I saw, when I had taken my bearings, that the whole audience was disposedin the galleries, forming a balcony half-way up the room. The orchestra finished its overture and I began to dance. After having danced three times, as I was accustomed to do at the theatre, I returned to the scene to acknowledge the applause and I saw before me in luminous letters a sign with the words: “Don’t think Club.”That looked queer to me, but I did not attach much importance to it. I bowed again to the magnificently gowned women and the men, who were all in sombre black, and then, walking through the same passage way, I once more reached the dressing-room, where I put on my outdoor clothes and left. At the door I entered the carriage that had brought me there, and while we were on our way home I kept wondering what the Don’t Think Club could be.That worried me in spite of myself.The next morning my friend brought me a newspaper, in which I found on the first page a long article headed:“LOIE FULLER OPENS THE DON’T THINK CLUB.”There followed a description of the affair and of the orgies which took place there. The article had been written with a deliberate purpose of creating a scandal. I was exasperated beyond measure. I had gone there merely to please my manager, and the humiliation inflicted upon me wounded me deeply.Possibly he thought that I would never know where I had been. A single newspaper might print something about the affair; but most probably my manager thought it would never come to my notice. No newspaper men had been invited to the performance. There was one guest, a very little man but with a great reputation, who found himself among the invited, and he wrote the scandalous article, so I have been told.I have since had my revenge, a terrible revenge; for this man, then at the climax of his career, so mismanaged his affairs and those of others, that he was imprisoned.“Everybody is blaming him for the article,” my manager explained to me when I reproached him for having dragged me to this club.That was his only excuse. He thought he was lessening the insult by offering me more money. This offer so increased my anger that I tendered my resignation. I felt in no wise under obligation to a man who I thought had morally lost all right to consideration. This was the reason for my leaving, never to return.The notion of going to Paris possessed me after that more completely than before. I wanted to go to a city where, as I had been told, educated people would like my dancing and would accord it a place in the realm of art.I was making at this time one hundred and fifty dollars a week and I had just been offered fivehundred. I decided, nevertheless, to sign a contract with the manager of the German theatre that guaranteed me sixty-five dollars instead of five hundred. But the objective, after a tour in Europe, was Paris!While I was dancing in New York I had to begin to invent special robes for my new dances. These were just being made and, when I was about to leave for Europe, they were ready.The manager of the German Theatre had gone ahead and had reserved berths for us on one of the steamers.After taking leave of my friends I was still full of hope and ambition. My mother in vain tried to share my feelings; she could not avoid painful misgivings. As for me, I wanted to think only of the good things that awaited, and to forget all the past annoyances.During the voyage an evening entertainment was organised for the benefit of the seamen and I agreed to dance. A stage was arranged by the bridge. There with the sea for a background and with the coloured lights used for signalling as the media of illumination, I tried for the first time a series of new dances, each with a special gown.The enthusiasm of passengers and crew knew no bounds and I felt that I had taken my first step in the conquest of a new world.We landed in Germany. My manager came to meet us and took us to Berlin. But, to mygreat annoyance, I found that I was not to make my initial appearance for a month, and I could not discover in what city I was to make it.That meant a month of inactivity.Finally I learned that I was to make my debut, not at the Opera as my manager had promised, but in a music hall. The Opera was closed, and the music hall was the only place where I could dance.In that event I would dance only my first dance and would exhibit only a single gown, just as I had done in New York. I then chose three of my numbers and prepared myself for my appearance. But this debut was made without personal interest. In America the best theatres offered me engagements on much better terms than those I had to accept in Europe. In Berlin I was obliged to appear where my New York manager wished. If, before signing the contract, he had told me where I should have to dance I should have declined. But when the time for my appearance was at hand I was without resources and quite at his mercy. To cap the climax my mother fell seriously ill.At the time of which I am writing cholera had just broken out at Hamburg. My mother’s illness came on so suddenly that it was thought she was stricken with cholera. Everybody at the hotel was frightened, and we were obliged to take my poor mother to the cholera hospital.All these circumstances, conjoined with frightfullytrying weather, put me in bad shape for the struggle. I renounced everything, my pride, my highest hopes, and I started in assiduously to gain our livelihood. But I was disabled and without courage.After a month my German manager informed me he did not care to continue my contract. He was going back to the United States with a company that he had come for the express purpose of engaging in Germany. It seemed clear to me that his only motive in bringing me to Europe had been to procure the means with which to engage this new company and take it back with him. He travelled with his wife, a pretty American woman, who had become a close friend of mine, and who reproached him most bitterly on my account.Our manager left Berlin with his company, leaving me with only just enough money to pay my bills at the hotel when I had completed the contract that held me to the music hall in Berlin. I then had absolutely no engagement in sight. I learned that he was getting ten thousand marks—about $2,500—a month for me. And yet he had given me only about $300 a month. What was I to do? My appearance in Berlin had been deplorable and was likely to have an unfortunate influence on my whole career in Europe. My purse was empty, my mother ill. We had not the slightest hope of an engagement and we had no one to help us.A theatrical agent, an unknown man at that time, who has since become a theatrical manager, Mr. Marten Stein, came to see me, and I tried to continue at the music hall where I was dancing. I was obliged to make concessions to keep going a week or two more, to get money enough to go away and to look for a new engagement. I kept thinking more than ever of Paris. If I could only go there!In these circumstances Mr. Marten Stein secured for me a dozen performances in one of the beer gardens at Altona, the well-known pleasure resort near Hamburg. I earned there several hundred marks, which allowed us to go to Cologne, where I had to dance in a circus between an educated donkey and an elephant that played the organ. My humiliation was complete. Since then, however, occasions have not been lacking when I have realised that the proximity of trained horses and music-mad elephants is less humiliating than intercourse with some human beings.Finally I left for Paris.To economise as closely as possible we had to travel third class. But what did that matter? That was only a detail. I was going to Paris to succeed there or to sink into obscurity.
ALITTLE while after my appearance at the Madison Square Theatre I was asked to dance for the benefit of a charity at the German theatre in New York. I had forgotten all about my promise until the day of the performance, when a card arrived to call it to my mind. I had neglected to ask my manager’s permission to appear on that evening, not thinking that he would refuse to grant the privilege of my participating in a philanthropic affair.
A short time before there had taken place the first part of a painful incident which was destined to rupture the pleasant relations subsisting between the management of the Madison Square and myself. My manager’s associate had asked me as a great favour to come to open a ball given by some friends in his honour. Delighted to be of service to him, I readily agreed to do so. When I asked him the date of this affair he told me not to bother about that.
It was just then that I asked permission to dance at the German theatre for the benefit of an actress who was ill. The manager consented. At theGerman theatre they had engaged a Roumanian orchestra for me. The leader of this orchestra, Mr. Sohmers, an enthusiastic man, as the Roumanians are apt to be, came to see me after I had danced and foretold for me the wonderful artistic success which I was sure to meet with in Europe. He advised me to go to Paris, where an artistically inclined public would give my dances the reception they deserved. From that moment on this became a fixed idea with me—to dance in Paris. Then the manager of the German theatre proposed to me a tour abroad, beginning with Berlin.
I promised to think the matter over and acquaint him with my decision.
Some days later the famous ball took place which my manager’s associate had asked me to open. I went to it.
They took us, a friend who accompanied me, and myself, into a little drawing-room where they begged me to wait until some one should come and fetch me for my appearance on the stage. More than an hour passed. Finally a gentleman came to tell me that everything was ready. Through a corridor I reached the platform, which had been erected at the top of the ball-room. It was terribly dark, and the only light perceptible was the little ray that filtered through from one of my lanterns that was imperfectly closed. The hall looked totally empty. I saw, when I had taken my bearings, that the whole audience was disposedin the galleries, forming a balcony half-way up the room. The orchestra finished its overture and I began to dance. After having danced three times, as I was accustomed to do at the theatre, I returned to the scene to acknowledge the applause and I saw before me in luminous letters a sign with the words: “Don’t think Club.”
That looked queer to me, but I did not attach much importance to it. I bowed again to the magnificently gowned women and the men, who were all in sombre black, and then, walking through the same passage way, I once more reached the dressing-room, where I put on my outdoor clothes and left. At the door I entered the carriage that had brought me there, and while we were on our way home I kept wondering what the Don’t Think Club could be.
That worried me in spite of myself.
The next morning my friend brought me a newspaper, in which I found on the first page a long article headed:
“LOIE FULLER OPENS THE DON’T THINK CLUB.”
There followed a description of the affair and of the orgies which took place there. The article had been written with a deliberate purpose of creating a scandal. I was exasperated beyond measure. I had gone there merely to please my manager, and the humiliation inflicted upon me wounded me deeply.
Possibly he thought that I would never know where I had been. A single newspaper might print something about the affair; but most probably my manager thought it would never come to my notice. No newspaper men had been invited to the performance. There was one guest, a very little man but with a great reputation, who found himself among the invited, and he wrote the scandalous article, so I have been told.
I have since had my revenge, a terrible revenge; for this man, then at the climax of his career, so mismanaged his affairs and those of others, that he was imprisoned.
“Everybody is blaming him for the article,” my manager explained to me when I reproached him for having dragged me to this club.
That was his only excuse. He thought he was lessening the insult by offering me more money. This offer so increased my anger that I tendered my resignation. I felt in no wise under obligation to a man who I thought had morally lost all right to consideration. This was the reason for my leaving, never to return.
The notion of going to Paris possessed me after that more completely than before. I wanted to go to a city where, as I had been told, educated people would like my dancing and would accord it a place in the realm of art.
I was making at this time one hundred and fifty dollars a week and I had just been offered fivehundred. I decided, nevertheless, to sign a contract with the manager of the German theatre that guaranteed me sixty-five dollars instead of five hundred. But the objective, after a tour in Europe, was Paris!
While I was dancing in New York I had to begin to invent special robes for my new dances. These were just being made and, when I was about to leave for Europe, they were ready.
The manager of the German Theatre had gone ahead and had reserved berths for us on one of the steamers.
After taking leave of my friends I was still full of hope and ambition. My mother in vain tried to share my feelings; she could not avoid painful misgivings. As for me, I wanted to think only of the good things that awaited, and to forget all the past annoyances.
During the voyage an evening entertainment was organised for the benefit of the seamen and I agreed to dance. A stage was arranged by the bridge. There with the sea for a background and with the coloured lights used for signalling as the media of illumination, I tried for the first time a series of new dances, each with a special gown.
The enthusiasm of passengers and crew knew no bounds and I felt that I had taken my first step in the conquest of a new world.
We landed in Germany. My manager came to meet us and took us to Berlin. But, to mygreat annoyance, I found that I was not to make my initial appearance for a month, and I could not discover in what city I was to make it.
That meant a month of inactivity.
Finally I learned that I was to make my debut, not at the Opera as my manager had promised, but in a music hall. The Opera was closed, and the music hall was the only place where I could dance.
In that event I would dance only my first dance and would exhibit only a single gown, just as I had done in New York. I then chose three of my numbers and prepared myself for my appearance. But this debut was made without personal interest. In America the best theatres offered me engagements on much better terms than those I had to accept in Europe. In Berlin I was obliged to appear where my New York manager wished. If, before signing the contract, he had told me where I should have to dance I should have declined. But when the time for my appearance was at hand I was without resources and quite at his mercy. To cap the climax my mother fell seriously ill.
At the time of which I am writing cholera had just broken out at Hamburg. My mother’s illness came on so suddenly that it was thought she was stricken with cholera. Everybody at the hotel was frightened, and we were obliged to take my poor mother to the cholera hospital.
All these circumstances, conjoined with frightfullytrying weather, put me in bad shape for the struggle. I renounced everything, my pride, my highest hopes, and I started in assiduously to gain our livelihood. But I was disabled and without courage.
After a month my German manager informed me he did not care to continue my contract. He was going back to the United States with a company that he had come for the express purpose of engaging in Germany. It seemed clear to me that his only motive in bringing me to Europe had been to procure the means with which to engage this new company and take it back with him. He travelled with his wife, a pretty American woman, who had become a close friend of mine, and who reproached him most bitterly on my account.
Our manager left Berlin with his company, leaving me with only just enough money to pay my bills at the hotel when I had completed the contract that held me to the music hall in Berlin. I then had absolutely no engagement in sight. I learned that he was getting ten thousand marks—about $2,500—a month for me. And yet he had given me only about $300 a month. What was I to do? My appearance in Berlin had been deplorable and was likely to have an unfortunate influence on my whole career in Europe. My purse was empty, my mother ill. We had not the slightest hope of an engagement and we had no one to help us.
A theatrical agent, an unknown man at that time, who has since become a theatrical manager, Mr. Marten Stein, came to see me, and I tried to continue at the music hall where I was dancing. I was obliged to make concessions to keep going a week or two more, to get money enough to go away and to look for a new engagement. I kept thinking more than ever of Paris. If I could only go there!
In these circumstances Mr. Marten Stein secured for me a dozen performances in one of the beer gardens at Altona, the well-known pleasure resort near Hamburg. I earned there several hundred marks, which allowed us to go to Cologne, where I had to dance in a circus between an educated donkey and an elephant that played the organ. My humiliation was complete. Since then, however, occasions have not been lacking when I have realised that the proximity of trained horses and music-mad elephants is less humiliating than intercourse with some human beings.
Finally I left for Paris.
To economise as closely as possible we had to travel third class. But what did that matter? That was only a detail. I was going to Paris to succeed there or to sink into obscurity.