The next morning I drove out to see Duse， who was living in a rose？coloured villa behind a vineyard。She came down a vine？covered walk to meet me， like a glorious angel。She took me in her arms， and her wonderful eyes beamed upon me such love and tenderness that I felt just as Dante must have felt when， in theParadiso， he encountered the divine Beatrice。
From then on I lived at Viareggio， finding courage from the radiance of Eleanora's eyes。 She used to rock me in her arms， consoling my pain， but not only consoling， for she seemed to take my sorrow to her own breast， and I realised that if I had not been able to bear the society of other people， it was because they all played the comedy of trying to cheer me with forgetfulness。Whereas Eleanora said：“Tell me about Deirdre and Patrick，”and made me repeat to her all their little sayings and ways， and show her their photos， which she kissed and cried over。She never said，“Cease to grieve，”but grieved with me， and， for the first time since their death， I felt I was not alone。For Eleanor Duse was a super？being。Her heart was so great it could receive the tragedy of the world， her spirit the most radiant that has ever shone through the dark sorrows of this earth。Often， when I walked with her by the sea， it seemed to me that her head was among the stars， her hands reached to the mountain？tops。
Looking up to the mountain， she once said to me：
“See the stern rough sides of the Croce， how sombre and forbidding they seem beside the tree？covered slopes of the Ghilardone， the sunny vines and lovely flowering trees。But if you look to the top of the dark rough Croce you will perceive a gleam of white marble waiting for the sculptor to give it immortality， whereas the Ghilardone produces only the wherewithal for man’s earthly needs—the other his dream。Such is the artist’s life—dark， sombre， tragic， but giving the white marble from which spring man’s aspirations。”
Eleanora loved Shelley， and sometimes at the end of September， in the frequent storms， when a fash of lightning broke over the sullen waves， she would point to the sea， saying：
“Regard—the ashes of Shelley fash—he is there， walking over the waves。”
As I was pestered by strangers always staring at me in the hotel， I took a villa。 But what made me choose such a place？A large， red brick house set far back in a forest of melancholy pine？trees， and enclosed within a great wall。And if the outside was sad， the interior was of a melancholy that defes description。It had been inhabited， so the village legend ran， by a lady who， after an unhappy passion for a personage of high rank at the Austrian Court—some said Franz Josef himself—had the further misfortune of seeing the son of their union go mad。At the top of the villa there was a small room with barred windows， the walls paintedin fantastic designs and a small， square aperture in the door through which food had evidently been handed to the poor young madman when he became dangerous。On the roof was a great open loggia， looking over the sea on one side and the mountains on the other。
This gloomy abode， which contained at least sixty rooms， it was my fancy to rent I think it was the enclosed pine forest and the wonderful view from the loggia that attracted me。 I asked Eleanora if she would not like to live there with me， but she refused politely， and， moving in from her summer villa， took a little white house near by。
Now Duse had the most extraordinary peculiarity as to correspondence。 If you were in another country she might only send you a long telegram from time to time in three years， but， living near by， she sent a charming little word almost every day， and sometimes two or three in the day， and then we would meet and often walk by the sea， when Duse would say，“The Tragic Dance promenades with the Tragic Muse。”
One day Duse and I were walking by the sea when she turned to me。 The setting sun made a fery halo about her head。She gazed at me long and curiously。
“Isadora，”she said in a choking voice，“don't， don't seek happiness again。 You have on your brow the mark of the great unhappy ones of the earth。What has happened to you is but the prologue。Do not tempt Fate again。”
Ah， Eleanora， if I had but heeded your warning！But hope is a hard plant to kill， and， no matter how many branchesare knocked of and destroyed， it will always put forth new shoots。
Duse was then a magnificent creature， in the full power of her life and intelligence。 When she walked along the beach she took long strides， walking unlike any other woman I have ever seen。She wore no corset， and her fgure， at that time very large and full， would have distressed a lover of fashion， but expressed a noble grandeur。Everything about her was the expression of her great and tortured soul。Often she read to me from the Greek tragedies， or from Shakespeare， and when I heard her read certain lines of Antigone I thought what a crime it was that this splendid interpretation was not being given to the world。It is not true that Duse's long retirement from the stage in the fullness and ripeness of her Art was due， as some people prefer to think， to an unhappy love or some other sentimental reason， nor even to ill？health， but she had not the help or the capital necessary to carry out her ideas of Art as she wished—that is the simple， shameful truth。The world that“loves Art”left this greatest actress of the world to eat her heart out in solitude and poverty for ffteen long years。When Morris Gest finally came to the realisation of this， and arranged a tournée for her in America， it was too late， for she died on that last tour， pathetically endeavouring to amass the money necessary for her work， for which she had waited all those long years。
I hired a grand piano for the villa， and then I sent a telegram to my faithful friend Skene， who joined me at once。 Eleanora was passionately fond of music， and every evening he played for her Beethoven， Chopin， Schumann， Schubert。Sometimes she would sing in a low， exquisitely toned voice， her favourite song，“In questa tomba，”and， at the last words—“Ingrata—Ingrata”—her tone and looks took on such a deeply tragic and reproachful expression that one could not look at her without tears。
One day at dusk I rose suddenly， and， asking Skene to play， I danced for her the Adagio from the Sonata Pathetique of Beethoven。 It was the first gesture I had made since the 19th of April， and Duse thanked me by taking me in her arms and kissing me。
“Isadora，”she said，“what are you doing here？You must return to your Art。 It is your only salvation。”
Eleanora knew that I had received， a few days before， an ofer of a contract to tour South America。
“Accept this contract，”she urged me；“if you knew how short life is and how there can be long years of ennui， ennui—nothing but ennui！Escape from the sorrow and ennui—escape！”
“Fuir， fuir，”she said， but my heart was too heavy。 I could make some gestures before Eleanora， but to go again before a public seemed to me impossible。My whole being was too tortured—every heart？beat only crying out for my children。As long as I was with Eleanora I was comforted， but the night in this lonesome villa， with the echoes from all itsempty， gloomy rooms， I passed in waiting for the morning。Then I would rise and swim out into the sea。I thought I would swim so far that I should be unable to return， but always my body of itself turned landward—such is the force of life in a young body。
One grey， autumn afternoon， I was walking alone along the sands when， suddenly， I saw going just ahead of me the figures of my children Deirdre and Patrick， hand in hand。 I called to them， but they ran laughing ahead of me just out of reach。I ran after them—followed—called—and suddenly they disappeared in the midst of the sea？spray。Then a terrible apprehension came upon me。This vision of my children—was I mad？I had for some moments the distinct feeling that I was then with one foot over the line which divides madness from sanity。I saw before me the asylum—the life of dreary monotony—and in bitter despair I fell upon my face and cried aloud。
I don't know how long I had lain there when I felt a pitying hand on my head。 I looked up and saw what I thought to be one of the beautiful contemplation figures of the Sistine Chapel。He stood there， just come from the sea， and said：
“Why are you always weeping？Is there nothing I can do for you—to help you？”
I looked up。
“Yes，”I replied。“Save me—save more than my life—my reason。 Give me a child。”
That night we stood together on the roof of my villa。 The sun was setting beyond the sea， the moon risingand flooding with sparkling light the marble side of the mountain， and when I felt his strong youthful arms about me and his lips on mine， when all his Italian passion descended on me， I felt that I was rescued from grief and death， brought back to light—to love again。
The next morning， when I recounted all this to Eleanora she did not seem at all astonished。 Artists live so continually in a land of legend and fantasy that for the youth of Michael Angelo to come from the sea to comfort me seemed to her quite natural， and， although she hated meeting strangers， she even graciously consented that I should present to her my young Angelo， and we visited his studio—for he was a sculptor。
“You really think he is a genius？”she asked me， after viewing his work。
“Without a doubt，”I replied，“and probably he will be a second Michael Angelo。”
Youth is wonderfully elastic。 Youth believes in everything， and I almost believed that my new love would conquer sorrow。Then I was so tired of the constant horrible pain。There was a poem of Victor Hugo's that I used to read constantly， and I fnally persuaded myself，“Yes， they will come back；they are only waiting to return to me。”But alas this illusion did not last long。
It seemed that my lover belonged to a strict Italian family and he was engaged to a young girl who also belonged to a strict Italian family。 He had not told me this， but one day he explained it to me in a letter and then saidfarewell。But I was not at all angry with him。I felt he had saved my reason， and then I knew I was no longer alone；and from this moment I entered into a phase of intense mysticism。I felt that my children's spirits hovered near me—that they would return to console me on earth。
As the autumn approached， Eleanora moved to her apartment in Florence， and I also abandoned my gloomy villa。 I went first to Florence and then to Rome， where I planned to spend the winter。I spent Christmas in Rome。It was sad enough， but I said to myself：“Nevertheless I am not in the tomb or the mad？house—I am here。”And my faithful friend Skene reamined with me。He never questioned， never doubted—only gave me his friendship and adoration—and his music。
Rome is a wonderful city for a sorrowful soul。 At a time when the dazzling brightness and perfection of Athens would have made my pain more acute， Rome， with its great ruins， tombs， and inspired monuments， witness of so many dead generations， was an anodyne。Especially I liked to wander in the Appian Way at early morning， when， between the long rows of tombs， the wine carts came in from Frascati with their sleeping drivers like tired fauns reclining on the wine barrels。Then it seemed to me that time ceased to exist I was as a ghost who had wandered on the Appian Way for a thousand years， with the great spaces of the Campagna and the great arch of Raphael's sky above。Sometimes I lifted my arms to this sky and danced along—a tragic figure between the rows of tombs。
At night Skene and I wandered forth and stopped often by the many fountains that never cease to flow from the prodigal springs of the mountain。 I loved to sit by the fountain and hear the water rippling and splashing。Often I would sit there weeping silently， my gentle companion holding my hands in sympathy。
From these sad wanderings I was awakened one day by a long telegram from L。 beseeching me in the name of my Art to return to Paris， and under the infuence of this message I took the train for Paris。On the way we passed Viareggio。I saw the roof of the red brick villa among the pines and thought of the months of alternate despair and hope I had spent there， and of my divine friend Eleanora， whom I was leaving。
L。 had ready for me a magnifcent suite of rooms at the Crillon， overlooking the Place de la Concorde， and filled with fowers。When I told him of my Viareggio experience and my mystic dream of the children's reincarnation and return to earth， he hid his face in his hands， and， after what seemed a struggle， he said：
“I came to you first in 1908 to help you， but our love led us to tragedy。 Now let us create your school， as you wish it， and some beauty on this sad earth for others。”
Then he told me he had bought the great hotel at Bellevue， with its terrace overlooking all Paris and it gardens sloping to the river and rooms for a thousand children。 It only depended on me for the school to exist for all time。
“If you are willing to leave all personal feeling aside and， for the time being， to exist only for an idea，”he said。
Seeing what a tangled mesh of sorrow and catastrophe this life had brought me， in which only my idea always shone bright and untarnished above it all， I consented。
The next morning we visited Bellevue and， from then on， decorators， furnishers were busy under my direction， transforming this rather banal hotel to a Temple of the Dance of the Future。
There were fifty new aspirants chosen from a concours in the centre of Paris， there were the pupils of the first school， the governesses。
The dancing？rooms were the dining？rooms of the old hotel， hung with my blue curtains。In the centre of the long room I built a platform with stairs leading down from it， and this platform could be used for the spectators or by the authors who sometimes tried their works there。I had come to the conclusion that the monotony and languor of life in an ordinary school is partly caused by the foors being all on the same level。Therefore， between many of the rooms I made little passages leading up on one side and again leading down。The dining？room was arranged like the English House of Commons in London， with rows of seats in tiers going up on either side， the older pupils and teachers on the higher seats and the children below。
In the midst of this moving， bubbling life I once more found the courage to teach， and the pupils learned with the most extraordinary rapidity。 In three months from theopening of the school they had made such progress that they were the wonder and admiration of all the artists who came to see them。Saturday was the Artists'Day。A public lesson for artists was given in the morning from eleven to one o'clock， and then， with L。's usual prodigality， there was a great lunch served for the artists and children together。As the weather grew finer it was served in the garden， and after lunch there was music， poetry， and dancing。
Rodin， whose house was on the opposite hill， at Meudon， paid us frequent visits。 He would sit in the dancing？room making sketches of the young girls and children as they danced。Once he said to me：
“If I had only had such models when I was young！Models who can move， and move according to Nature and harmony！I have had beautiful models， it is true， but never one who understood the science of movement as your pupils do。”
I bought for the children many？coloured capes， and when they left the school to walk in the woods， as they danced and ran， they resembled a fock of beautiful birds。
I believed that this school at Bellevue would be permanent and that I should spend there all the years of my life， and leave there all the results of my work。
In the month of June we gave a festival at the Trocadero。 I sat in a loge watching my pupils dance。At certain parts of the programme the audience rose and shouted with enthusiasm and joy。At the close they applauded at such length that they would not leave。I believe that thisextraordinary enthusiasm for children who were in no wise trained dancers or artists was enthusiasm for the hope of some new movement in humanity which I had dimly foreseen。These were indeed the gestures of the vision of Nietzsche：
“Zarathustra the dancer， Zarathustra the light one， who beckoneth with his pinions， one ready for fight， beckoning unto all birds， ready and prepared， a blissfully light？spirited one。”
These were the future dancers of the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven。
