“Mme. Hanako, whom I saw and applauded in ‘The Martyr’ at the Opera, came to see me, through the kindness of Miss Loie Fuller, who discovered Sada Yacco for us some years ago. It is delightful to see at close hand and in so attractive a guise this little creature, who looks so frightful when, with convulsed eyes, she mimics the death agony. There is a pretty smile on the lips which at the theatre are curled under the pain of hara-kiri. She made me think of Orestes exhibiting the funeral urn to Electra: ‘As you see, we bring the little remnants in a little urn.’
“Loie Fuller, who was a soubrette before being the goddess of light, an enchantress of strange visions, has become enamoured of this dramatic Japanese art and has popularised it everywhere, through Sada Yacco and then through Mme. Hanako. I have always observed that Loie Fuller has a very keen intelligence. I am not surprised that Alexandre Dumas said to me: ‘She ought to write out her impressions and her memories.’ I should like to hear from her how she first conceived these radiant dances, of which the public has never grown tired, and which she has just begun again at the Hippodrome. She is, however, more ready to talk philosophy than the stage. Gaily, with her blue eye and her faun-like smile, she replied to my question: ‘It’s just chance. The light came to me. I didn’t have to go to it.’”
I apologize for reproducing these eulogistic words. I have even suppressed certain passages, for M. Claretie was very complimentary. It was, however, absolutely necessary that I should make this citation, since out of it grew the present book.
M. Claretie had quoted Dumas’ opinion. He returned to the charge.
Soon after, in fact, I received a letter from M. Claretie urging me to begin my “memoirs.” Perhaps he was right, but I hardly dared undertake such a terrible task all alone. It looked so formidable to write a book, and a book about myself!
One afternoon I called on Mme. Claretie. A number of pleasant people were there and, after Mme. Claretie had mentioned this notion of “memoirs” which her husband, following Dumas’ lead, had favoured, they all began to ask me questions about myself, my art and the steps by which I had created it. Everyone tried to encourage me to undertake the work.
A short time after this Mme. Claretie sent me tickets for her box at the Théâtre-Français. I went there with several friends. There were twelve of us, among whom was Mrs. Mason, wife of the American Consul-General, who is the most remarkable statesman I have ever known, and the best diplomatist of the service.
In return for the Clareties’ kindness I invited them to be present at one of my rehearsals of ‘Salome.’ They were good enough to accept my invitation and one evening they arrived at the Théâtre des Arts while I was at work. Later I came forward to join them. We stood in the gloom of a dimly lighted hall. The orchestra was rehearsing. All at once a dispute arose between the musical composer and the orchestra leader. The composer said:
“They don’t do it that way at the Opera.”
Thereupon the young orchestra leader replied: