XXIIITHE VALUE OF A NAMEWHEN in the autumn of 1892 I appeared for the first time at the Folies-Bergère I knew no one, absolutely no one, in Paris. Imagine then my surprise upon receiving one day a visiting card from one of the spectators on which these words were written in lead pencil:“Oh, well, old girl, I am fiercely glad to see that you have tapped the till. We are here, a whole gang of us, two boxes full, and we want you to join us after the performance.Your old pal.”The card bore a name with which I was unacquainted.This was some practical joke, or else the call-boy had made a slip in the address. I continued my disrobing without considering the matter further.All at once a gentleman rushed into my dressing-room.“Well, Mollie, my old girl, why don’t you reply to a comrade’s letter?”But on seeing me in street costume he stopped short and cried:“Well, but who are you? I thought you were Mollie Fuller!”Then I understood that he had taken me for one of his old friends.“I know whom you mean,” I answered, “but I am not Mollie Fuller. Mollie Fuller is very well known in the United States, where she is imitating my dances. We are often mistaken for each other, but you must realise that this isn’t the same person.”The gentleman was tall, stout, very dark, of distinguished appearance, with a certain odd defect in one of his eyes. He wore a full beard.I shall never forget his aspect as he apologised. Without asking me again to join his “gang” he disappeared even more quickly than he had entered.I often encountered him after that, and he always greeted me very respectfully. From my window looking upon the courtyard of a great hotel in London I have even been present at a dinner—such a dinner as had never before been seen there—given by this same gentleman. Caruso sang. The courtyard of the hotel had been transformed into a lake, and the host and his guests dined in gondolas. From my window I watched the banquet and I thought of the other supper towhich I had been invited involuntarily. The world is so small!I did not become the well-known Loie Fuller without, as is easily realised, being involved in some little adventures. I had once played the part of Jack Sheppard in the drama of that name. Our company stopped in Philadelphia. My father and mother were with me, and we took our meals in a very modest boarding-house.Some years after I returned, as a dancer, to this same city, and at the hotel at which I registered, it was one of the largest of the city, I was refused admittance. Without taking the trouble to ask why, I went elsewhere. But I thought over this irritating reception and as I could not understand it I returned to the hotel in question and asked to speak to the manager. On seeing me he looked amazed:“But you are not Loie Fuller.”I assured him that I certainly was Loie Fuller, and asked why he had been unwilling to receive me in his hotel.He told me the following story.“When you were playing Jack Sheppard one of the ladies of the company stayed here with Mr. Z. One day they had such a quarrel that I was obliged to ask them to vacate. This lady was registered under the name of Miss Fuller.”I had absolutely no idea who the person could be and I was trying to find out when at the theatresome one brought me the card of a gentleman who wanted to see me.His name was quite unfamiliar. This gentleman, however, might have been sent by a friend. Accordingly I received him. A tall gentleman entered, and, very much surprised, repeated the hotel man’s affirmation:“But you are not Loie Fuller!”I assured him that I was.He had known the “Loie Fuller” who had been entertained in my stead at the hotel and who sang in the chorus of “Jack Sheppard,” the play of which I was playing the principal part. He wanted to see her in her new incarnation and renew his acquaintance with her. When I had at last shown him his mistake he allowed me to see the counterfeit Loie Fuller’s picture. And as a matter of fact when we were made up for the stage there was a little resemblance.One day we were giving some performances at Lyons. On arriving at the theatre one of my electricians said to me:“The proprietress of the hotel where I am staying with my comrades is greatly annoyed. She says that you lived with her at the time of your last trip to Lyons. You were very well satisfied and promised to come again, and yet you have not come. She declares that it isn’t nice of you to show yourself so haughty under the pretext that now you are successful.”Everybody who is acquainted with me knows that such conduct is not at all characteristic of me. I was, therefore, very much surprised, I was unable to recall the name of the hotel the electrician mentioned. I asked him, therefore, to find out at what period I had put up at the hostelry of the good lady whose grievance he had just forwarded to me.The next day he told me the date. Now at that period I was at Bucharest. I was, therefore, more perplexed than ever, and I asked the electrician to continue his inquiry and to do his best to straighten out the difficulty.“My landlady,” he said, “is sure that it was you. She saw you at the theatre. It is the same dance and she bade me say again that she ‘is very much astonished at Miss Fuller’s conduct.’ You were so well satisfied with her house, both you and the gentleman with you.”I then went to the hotel to show the landlady that she was mistaken. She then made me look at the photograph of a woman who imitates everything that I do, passes her life watching over each one of my creations and follows me everywhere, whether to London, to New York, to Paris or Berlin.In addition to these rare adventures that come to my knowledge, how many others are there that I shall never know about?I never arrive in a town without Loie Fuller’shaving been there in advance of me, and even in Paris I have seen announced in flamboyant letters, “Loie Fuller, radiant dances,” and I have been able to see with my own eyes “la Loie Fuller” dance before my face.When I went to South America I discovered that there, too, Loie Fuller had been ahead of me.What I often wonder is what “imitations” in private life are perpetrated by these ladies, who are embarrassed by no scruples.So I am not the woman, perhaps my word will be taken for it, who, of all the world, is most appreciative of the value of a name. I might add that the American chorus girl of whom I have been writing came to Paris and that one day her lover left her there. Alone, without friends, without a cent, ill, she sent for me.Did I help her?I am afraid I did. When we see a dog in the street dying of hunger, we give him something to eat, and not in order that he may not bite us, not in order that he may be grateful to us; we give him something to eat because he is hungry.
WHEN in the autumn of 1892 I appeared for the first time at the Folies-Bergère I knew no one, absolutely no one, in Paris. Imagine then my surprise upon receiving one day a visiting card from one of the spectators on which these words were written in lead pencil:
“Oh, well, old girl, I am fiercely glad to see that you have tapped the till. We are here, a whole gang of us, two boxes full, and we want you to join us after the performance.
Your old pal.”
The card bore a name with which I was unacquainted.
This was some practical joke, or else the call-boy had made a slip in the address. I continued my disrobing without considering the matter further.
All at once a gentleman rushed into my dressing-room.
“Well, Mollie, my old girl, why don’t you reply to a comrade’s letter?”
But on seeing me in street costume he stopped short and cried:
“Well, but who are you? I thought you were Mollie Fuller!”
Then I understood that he had taken me for one of his old friends.
“I know whom you mean,” I answered, “but I am not Mollie Fuller. Mollie Fuller is very well known in the United States, where she is imitating my dances. We are often mistaken for each other, but you must realise that this isn’t the same person.”
The gentleman was tall, stout, very dark, of distinguished appearance, with a certain odd defect in one of his eyes. He wore a full beard.
I shall never forget his aspect as he apologised. Without asking me again to join his “gang” he disappeared even more quickly than he had entered.
I often encountered him after that, and he always greeted me very respectfully. From my window looking upon the courtyard of a great hotel in London I have even been present at a dinner—such a dinner as had never before been seen there—given by this same gentleman. Caruso sang. The courtyard of the hotel had been transformed into a lake, and the host and his guests dined in gondolas. From my window I watched the banquet and I thought of the other supper towhich I had been invited involuntarily. The world is so small!
I did not become the well-known Loie Fuller without, as is easily realised, being involved in some little adventures. I had once played the part of Jack Sheppard in the drama of that name. Our company stopped in Philadelphia. My father and mother were with me, and we took our meals in a very modest boarding-house.
Some years after I returned, as a dancer, to this same city, and at the hotel at which I registered, it was one of the largest of the city, I was refused admittance. Without taking the trouble to ask why, I went elsewhere. But I thought over this irritating reception and as I could not understand it I returned to the hotel in question and asked to speak to the manager. On seeing me he looked amazed:
“But you are not Loie Fuller.”
I assured him that I certainly was Loie Fuller, and asked why he had been unwilling to receive me in his hotel.
He told me the following story.
“When you were playing Jack Sheppard one of the ladies of the company stayed here with Mr. Z. One day they had such a quarrel that I was obliged to ask them to vacate. This lady was registered under the name of Miss Fuller.”
I had absolutely no idea who the person could be and I was trying to find out when at the theatresome one brought me the card of a gentleman who wanted to see me.
His name was quite unfamiliar. This gentleman, however, might have been sent by a friend. Accordingly I received him. A tall gentleman entered, and, very much surprised, repeated the hotel man’s affirmation:
“But you are not Loie Fuller!”
I assured him that I was.
He had known the “Loie Fuller” who had been entertained in my stead at the hotel and who sang in the chorus of “Jack Sheppard,” the play of which I was playing the principal part. He wanted to see her in her new incarnation and renew his acquaintance with her. When I had at last shown him his mistake he allowed me to see the counterfeit Loie Fuller’s picture. And as a matter of fact when we were made up for the stage there was a little resemblance.
One day we were giving some performances at Lyons. On arriving at the theatre one of my electricians said to me:
“The proprietress of the hotel where I am staying with my comrades is greatly annoyed. She says that you lived with her at the time of your last trip to Lyons. You were very well satisfied and promised to come again, and yet you have not come. She declares that it isn’t nice of you to show yourself so haughty under the pretext that now you are successful.”
Everybody who is acquainted with me knows that such conduct is not at all characteristic of me. I was, therefore, very much surprised, I was unable to recall the name of the hotel the electrician mentioned. I asked him, therefore, to find out at what period I had put up at the hostelry of the good lady whose grievance he had just forwarded to me.
The next day he told me the date. Now at that period I was at Bucharest. I was, therefore, more perplexed than ever, and I asked the electrician to continue his inquiry and to do his best to straighten out the difficulty.
“My landlady,” he said, “is sure that it was you. She saw you at the theatre. It is the same dance and she bade me say again that she ‘is very much astonished at Miss Fuller’s conduct.’ You were so well satisfied with her house, both you and the gentleman with you.”
I then went to the hotel to show the landlady that she was mistaken. She then made me look at the photograph of a woman who imitates everything that I do, passes her life watching over each one of my creations and follows me everywhere, whether to London, to New York, to Paris or Berlin.
In addition to these rare adventures that come to my knowledge, how many others are there that I shall never know about?
I never arrive in a town without Loie Fuller’shaving been there in advance of me, and even in Paris I have seen announced in flamboyant letters, “Loie Fuller, radiant dances,” and I have been able to see with my own eyes “la Loie Fuller” dance before my face.
When I went to South America I discovered that there, too, Loie Fuller had been ahead of me.
What I often wonder is what “imitations” in private life are perpetrated by these ladies, who are embarrassed by no scruples.
So I am not the woman, perhaps my word will be taken for it, who, of all the world, is most appreciative of the value of a name. I might add that the American chorus girl of whom I have been writing came to Paris and that one day her lover left her there. Alone, without friends, without a cent, ill, she sent for me.
Did I help her?
I am afraid I did. When we see a dog in the street dying of hunger, we give him something to eat, and not in order that he may not bite us, not in order that he may be grateful to us; we give him something to eat because he is hungry.