One night in 1905，1 was dancing in Berlin。 Although as a rule I never notice the audience when I am dancing—they always seem to me like some great god representing Humanity—this evening I was aware of some personality sitting in the front row。Not that I looked， or saw， who it was， but I was psychically aware of its presence， and， when the performance was over， there came into my loge a beautiful being。But he was very angry。
“You are marvellous！”he exclaimed。“You are wonderful！But why have you stolen my ideas？Where did you get my scenery？”
“What are you talking about？These are my own blue curtains。 I invented them when I was five years old， and I have danced before them ever since！”
“No！They are my décors and my ideas！But you are the being I imagined in them。You are the living realisation of all my dreams。”
“But who are you？”
Then came from his mouth these wonderful words：
“I am the son of Ellen Terry。”
Ellen Terry， my most perfect ideal of woman！Ellen Terry……！
“Why， you must come home and have supper with us，”said my unsuspecting mother。“Since you take such aninterest in Isadora's art， you must come home to supper with us。”
And Craig came home to supper。
He was in a wild state of excitement。 He wanted to explain all his ideas about his art， his ambitions……
And I was most interested。
But， one by one， my mother and the others became quite sleepy， and， one by one， they went of to bed with various excuses， and we were left alone。 Craig went on talking about the art of the theatre。He illustrated his art with gestures。
Suddenly， in the midst of all this， he said：
“But what are you doing here？You， the great artist， living in the midst of this family？Why， it's absurd！I was the one who saw and invented you。 You belong to my scenery。”
Craig was tall， willowy， with a face recalling that of his wonderful mother， but even more delicate in features。 In spite of his height， there was something feminine about him， especially about the mouth， which was sensitive and thin？lipped。The golden curls of his boyhood pictures—Ellen Terry’s golden？haired little boy， so familiar to London audiences—were somewhat darkened。His eyes， very near？sighted， flashed a steely fire behind his glasses。He gave one the impression of delicacy， a certain almost womanly weakness。Only his hands， with their broad？tipped fingers and simian square thumbs， bespoke strength。He always laughingly referred to them as murderous thumbs—“Good to choke you with， my dear！”
I， like one hypnotised， allowed him to put my cape over my little white tunic。 He took my hand；we flew down the stairs to the street。Then he hailed a taxi and said， in his best German，“Meine Frau und mich， wir wollen nach Potsdam gehen。”
Several taxis refused to take us， but finally we found one， and of we went to Potsdam。 At dawn we arrived。We stopped at a little hotel that was just opening its doors， and we drank cofee。Then， as the sun was getting high in the heavens， we started back for Berlin。
We arrived in Berlin at about nine o'clock， and then we thought，“What are we to do？”We could not go back to my mother， so we went to see a friend called Elsie de Brugaire。 Elsie de Brugaire was a Bohemian。She received us with most tender sympathy。She gave us some breakfast—scrambled eggs and coffee。She put me to sleep in her bedroom。I went to sleep and did not awake until evening。
Craig then took me up to his studio at the top of a high building in Berlin。 There was a black， waxed floor with rose？leaves， artificial rose？leaves， strewn all over it。
Here stood before me brilliant youth， beauty， genius；and， all inflamed with sudden love， I flew into his arms with all the magnetic willingness of a temperament which had for two years lain dormant， but waiting to spring forth。 Here I found an answering temperament， worthy of my metal。In him I had met the fesh of my fesh， the blood of my blood。Often he cried to me，“Ah， you are my sister。”
I do not know how other women remember their lovers。 I suppose it is the correct thing to stop always at a man's head， shoulders， hands， etc。，and then describe his clothes， but I always see him， as that first night in the studio， when his white， lithe， gleaming body emerged from the chrysalis of clothes and shone upon my dazzled eyes in all his splendour。
So must Endymion， when first discovered by the glistening eyes of Diana， in tall， slender whiteness， so must Hyacinthus， Narcissus， and the bright， brave Perseus have looked。 More like an angel of Blake than a mortal youth he appeared。Hardly were my eyes ravished by his beauty than I was drawn toward him， entwined， melted。As fame meets fame， we burned in one bright fire。Here， at last， was my mate；my love；my self—for we were not two， but one， that one amazing being of whom Plato tells in the Phaedrus， two halves of the same soul。
This was not a young man making love to a girl。 This was the meeting of twin souls。The light covering of fesh was so transmuted with ecstasy that earthly passion became a heavenly embrace of white， fiery fame。
There are joys so complete， so all perfect， that one should not survive them。 Ah， why did not my burning soul find exit that night， and fy， like Blake's angel， through the clouds of our earth to another sphere？
His love was young， fresh， and strong， and he had neither the nerves nor nature of a voluptuary， but preferred to turn from love？making before satiety set in， and to translate the fiery energy of his youth to the magic of his Art。
In his studio was no couch， no easy chair， and no dinner。 We slept on the foor that night。He was penniless， and I didn't dare go home for money。I slept there for two weeks。When we wanted a dinner， he ordered one to be sent up， on credit， and I hid on the balcony until it came， then crept in and shared it。
My poor mother went around to all the police stations and all the embassies， saying that some vile seducer had run off with her daughter；while my impresario was wild with anxiety at my sudden disappearance。 Vast audiences had been turned away， and no one knew what had happened。However， an announcement was wisely published in the papers to the effect that Miss Isadora Duncan had been taken seriously ill with tonsilitis。
When two weeks had passed， we returned to my mother's house；and， to tell the truth， in spite of my mad passion， I was a bit tired of sleeping on a hard floor， and having nothing to eat except what he could get from the delicatessen， or when we sallied out after dark。
When my mother saw Gordon Craig， she cried，“Vile seducer， leave the house！”
She was furiously jealous of him。
Gordon Craig is one of the most extraordinary geniuses of our epoch—a creature like Shelley， made of fire and lightning。 He was the inspirer of the whole trend of the modern theatre。True， he has never taken an active part in the practical life of the stage。He has stayed apart and dreamed， and his dreams have inspired all that is beautifulin the modern theatre today。Without him， we should never have had Reinhardt， Jacques Corpeau， Stanislavsky。Without him， we would still be back in the old realistic scenery， every leaf shimmering on the trees， all the houses with their doors opening and shutting。
Craig was a brilliant companion。 He was one of the few people I have ever met who was in a state of exaltation from morning till night。Even with the first cup of cofee his imagination caught fre and was sparkling。An ordinary walk through the streets with him was like a promenade in Thebes of ancient Egypt with a superior High Priest。
Whether due to his extraordinary near？sightedness or not， he would suddenly stop， take out his pencil and paper？block， and， looking at a fearful specimen of modern German architecture， a neuer kinst praktisch apartment house， explain how beautiful it was。He would then commence a feverish sketch of it which， when completed， resembled the Temple of Denderah of Egypt。
He always entered in a state of wild excitement over a tree or a bird or a child he had seen on his way。 One never spent a dull moment with him。No， he was always either in the throes of highest delight or the other extreme—in those moods which suddenly followed after， when the whole sky seemed to turn black， and a sudden apprehension filled all the air。One's breath was slowly pumped from the body， and nothing was left anywhere but the blackness of anguish。
Unfortunately， as time progressed， these dark moods became more and more frequent。 Why？Well， principallybecause whenever he said，“My work。My work！”as he often did， I replied gently，“Oh， yes， your work。How wonderful。You are a genius—but， you know， there is my school”；and his fist would come down on the table，“Yes， but my work。”And I would answer，“Certainly， very important。Your work is the setting， but the first is the living being， for from the soul radiates everything。First my school， the radiant human being moving in perfect beauty；then your work， the perfect setting for this being。”
These discussions often ended in thunderous and gloomy silences。 Then the woman in me， alarmed， would awaken。“Oh， darling， have I offended you？”And he，“Offended？Oh， no！All women are damned nuisances， and you are a damned nuisance， interfering with my work。My work！My work！”
He would go out， slamming the door。 Only the noise of the slammed door would awaken me to the terrible catastrophe。I would await his return and， when he didn't return， spend the night in stormy and tragic weeping。Such was the tragedy。These scenes， oft repeated， ended by making life quite inharmonious and impossible。
It was my fate to inspire the great love of this genius；and it was my fate to endeavour to reconcile the continuing of my own career with his love。 Impossible combination！After the first few weeks of wild， impassioned love？making， there began the waging of the fiercest battle mat was ever known， between the genius of Gordon Craig and the inspirations of my Art。
“Why don't you stop this？”he used to say。“Why do you want to go on the stage and wave your arms about？Why don't you stay at home and sharpen my lead pencils？”
And yet Gordon Craig appreciates my Art as no one else has ever appreciated it。 But his amour propre， his jealousy as an artist， would not allow him to admit mat any woman could really be an artist。
My sister Elizabeth had formed for the Grünewald School a committee of very prominent and aristocratic women of Berlin。When they learned of Craig， they sent me a long letter， couched in majestic terms of reproach， and said that they， members of the good bourgeois society， could no longer be patronesses of a school where the leader had such loose ideas of morals。
Frau Mendelssohn， wife of the great banker， was chosen by these ladies to present to me this letter。 When she came with this tremendous parchment， she looked at me a bit unsteadily and， suddenly bursting into tears， threw the letter on the floor， and， taking me in her arms， cried：“Don't think I ever signed that wretched letter。As for the other ladies， there is nothing to be done with them。They will no longer be patrons of this school。Only they still believe in your sister， Elizabeth。”
Now Elizabeth had her own ideas， but she did not make them public， so I saw the creed of these ladies was that anything is right if you don't talk about it！These womenso roused my indignation that I took the Philharmonic Saal and gave a special lecture on me dance as an art of liberation， and ended with a talk on the right of woman to love and bear children as she pleased。
Of course， people will respond，“But what about the children？”Well， I could give the names of many prominent people who were born out of wedlock。 It has not prevented them from obtaining fame and fortune。But， leaving that， I said to myself， How can a woman go into this marriage contract with a man who she thinks is so mean that， in case of a quarrel， he wouldn't even support his own children？If she thinks he is such a man， why should she marry him？I suppose truth and mutual faith are the first principles of love。At any rate， I believe， as a wage？earning woman， that if I make the great sacrifice of strength and health， and even risk my life， to have a child， I should certainly not do so if， on some future occasion， the man can say that the child belongs to him by law， and he will take it from me and I shall see it only three times a year！
A very witty American writer once replied to his mistress， when she said：“What would the child think of us if we were not married？”by saying：“If your child and my child were that sort of child， we would not care what it thought of us。”
Any intelligent woman who reads the marriage contract and then goes into it， deserves all the consequences。
This lecture caused considerable scandal。 Half of the audience sympathised with me， and the other half hissedand threw anything that came to their hands on to the stage。In the end， the unconsenting half left the hall， and I was left with the others， and we had an interesting debate on the rights and wrongs of women， which was considerably in advance of the Women's Movement of the present day。
I continued to live in our apartment in Victoria Strasse， whereas Elizabeth went out to live at the school。 My mother vacillated between the two places。From now on my mother， who had， during all the times of privation and disaster， borne her troubles with such extraordinary courage， began to find life very dull。Perhaps this was on account of her Irish character， which could not stand prosperity as well as adversity。Her temper became most uneven。Indeed， she was often in such moods that nothing pleased her。For the first time since our voyage abroad， she began to express a longing for America， and said how much better everything was there—the food， and so forth。
When we took her to the best restaurant in Berlin， thinking to please her， and asked her，“Mother， what will you have to eat？”she would reply“Give me shrimps。”If they were not in season， she would expatiate against the country， the misery of a land where shrimps did not exist， and she would refuse to eat anything at all。 If there happened to be shrimps， she would again complain， saying how much better the shrimps were in San Francisco。
I think that this turning of her character was probably due to the habitual state of virtue in which my mother had lived， for so many years devoting herself only to herchildren。 Now that we found interests so absorbing that they continually took us away from her， she realised that she had actually wasted the best years of her life on us， leaving nothing for herself；as I think so many mothers do， especially in America。These uncertain humours on her part increased more and more， and she continually expressed the desire to return to her native town， until at last she did so， shortly afterwards。
My mind dwelt always upon that villa in Grünewald， with its forty little beds。How inexplicable is fate， for certainly， had I met Craig a few months sooner， there would have been no villa， no school。In him I found such completion that I would have felt no need for founding a school。But， now that this dream of my childhood was actually commenced， it became an ldée fixe。
Shortly after， I discovered—and there could not be the slightest doubt about it—that I was pregnant。 I dreamt that Ellen Terry appeared to me in a shimmering gown， such as she wore in Imogens， leading by the hand a little blonde child， a little girl who resembled her exactly， and， in her marvellous voice， she called to me—“Isadora， love。Love……Love……”
From that moment I knew what was coming to me out of the shadowy world of Nothingness before Birth。 Such a child would come， to bring me joy and sorrow。Joy and Sorrow！Birth and Death！Rhythm of the Dance of Life！
The divine message sang in all my being。 I continued to dance before the public；to teach my school， to love my Endy？mion。
Poor Craig was restless， impatient， unhappy， bit his nails to the quick， exclaiming often：“My work。 My work。My work。”
Always the savage Nature interfering with Art。 But I was comforted by my lovely dream of Ellen， and this dream was repeated again twice。
Spring arrived。 I had a contract for Denmark， Sweden， and Germany。In Copenhagen， what surprised me most was the extraordinarily intelligent and happy look on the faces of the young women， striding along the streets alone and free， like boys， with their student caps placed on their black curls。I was astonished。I had never seen such fine girls。And it was explained to me that this was the first country to win the vote for women。
I had to take this tour because of the depleting expenses of the school。 I had drawn upon my entire reserve funds， and had no money left。
At Stockholm I had a very enthusiastic audience， and， after the performance， the girls from the Gymnastic School escorted me to my hotel， leaping and galloping beside my carriage to express their delight at seeing me。 I visited their Gymnastic Institution， but my visit did not leave me an ardent devotee。It seems to me that Swedish gymnastics aremeant for the static， immobile body， but take no account of the living， fowing， human body。Also it regards the muscles as an end in themselves， instead of recognising them merely as the mechanical frame， a never？ending source of growth。The Swedish Gymnasium is a false system of body culture， because it takes no account of the imagination， and thinks of the body as an object， instead of vital， kinetic energy。
I visited the schools and explained this as best I might to the pupils。 But， as I expected， they did not understand much。
While I was in Stockholm I sent an invitation to Strindberg， whom I greatly admired， to come and see me dance。 He replied that he never went anywhere， that he hated human beings。I ofered him a seat on the stage， but even then he did not come。
After a successful season in Stockholm， we returned to Germany by water。 On the boat I became quite ill， and I realised that it would be better for me to cease making any more tours for the time being。Anyway， I had a great longing to be alone， and to retire far from the gaze of human beings。
In the month of June， after a short visit to my school， I had an intense desire to be near the sea。 I went first to The Hague， and from there to a little village called Nordwyck， on the shores of the North Sea。Here I rented a little white villa in the dunes， called Villa Maria。
I was so inexperienced as to think that having a baby was a perfectly natural process。 I went to live in this villa， which was a hundred miles from any town， and I engaged a village doctor。In my ignorance， I was quite content to have this village doctor， who， I think， was only used to peasant women。
From Nordwyck to the nearest village， Kadwyck， was about three kilometres。 Here I lived， all by myself。Each day I walked from Nordwyck to Kadwyck and back。Always I had this longing for the sea；to be alone in Nordwyck， in the little white villa， quite isolated among the sand？dunes which stretched for miles on either side of the lovely country。I lived in the Villa Maria for June， July， and August。
In the meantime I kept up an active correspondence with my sister Elizabeth， who was in charge of the Grünewald School in my absence。During that month of July， I wrote in my diary precepts for the teaching of the school， and I worked out a series of five hundred exercises which would take the pupils from the simplest movements to the most complex， a regular compendium of the dance。
My little niece Temple， who was being educated at the Grünewald School， came to spend three weeks with me。She used to dance by the sea。
Craig was restless。 He came and went。But I was no longer alone。The child asserted itself now， more and more。It was strange to see my beautiful marble body softened and broken and stretched and deformed。It is an uncanny revenge of Nature that， the more refined the nerves， the more sensitive the brain， the more all this tendsto suffering。Sleepless nights， painful hours。But joy too。Boundless， unlimited joy， when I strode every day over the sands between Nordwyck and Kadwyck， with the sea， the great waves， looking on one side， and the swelling dunes on the other， along the deserted beach。Almost always， on that coast， the wind blows， sometimes a gentle， billowing zephyr， sometimes a breeze so strong that I had to struggle against it。Occasionally the storms grew terrific， and the Villa Maria was rocked and bufeted all night like a ship at sea。
I grew to dread any society。 People said such banalities。How little is appreciated the sanctity of the pregnant mother。I once saw a woman walking alone along the street， carrying a child within her。The passers？by did not regard her with reverence， but smiled at one another derisively， as though this woman， carrying the burden of coming life， was an excellent joke。
I closed my doors to every visitor except a good and faithful friend who came over from The Hague on his bicycle， bringing me books and magazines， and cheering me with his discourses on recent art， music， and literature。 At that time he was married to a great poetess of whom he spoke often with worshipful tenderness。He was a methodical man。He came on certain days， and even a big storm did not deter him from his schedule。Except for him， I was mostly alone with the sea and the dunes and the child， who seemed already to have a great， strong impatience to enter the world。
As I walked beside the sea， I sometimes felt an excess ofstrength and prowess， and I thought this creature would be mine， mine alone， but on other days， when the sky was grey and the cold North Sea waves were angry， I had sudden， sinking moods， when I felt myself some poor animal in a mighty trap， and I struggled with an overwhelming desire to escape， escape。 Where？Perhaps even into the midst of the sullen waves。I struggled against such moods and bravery overcame them， nor did I ever let anyone suspect what I felt， but， nevertheless， such moods were waiting for me at odd hours， and were difficult to avoid。Also I thought that most people were receding from me。My mother seemed thousands of miles away。Craig was also strangely remote， and always immersed in his Art， whereas I could think less and less of my Art， and was only absorbed in this fearful， monstrous task which had fallen to me；this maddening， joy？giving， pain？giving mystery。
How long and tortuous lagged the hours。 The days， weeks， months， how slowly they passed！With alternate hope and despair， I often thought of the pilgrimage of my childhood， my youth， my wanderings in distant countries， my discoveries in Art， and they were as a misty， far？away prologue， leading up to this—the before？birth of a child。What any peasant woman could have！This was the culminating point of all my ambitions！
Why wasn't my dear mother with me？It was because she had some absurd prejudice that I should be married。 But she had been married， had found it impossible， and had divorced her husband。Why should she want me to enterthe trap where she had been cruelly bitten？I was against marriage with every intelligent force of my being。I believed it then， and still believe it to be an absurd and enslaving institution， leading—especially with artists—inevitably to the divorce courts， and preposterous and vulgar lawsuits。If anyone doubts what I say， just let them make up a little tally of all the artists divorced， and all the scandals in the American papers in the last ten years。Yet the dear public loves its artists and could not live without them， I suppose。
In August there came to stay with me， as a nurse， a woman who afterwards became my very dear friend， Marie Kist。 I have never met a more patient， sweeter， or kinder one。She was a great comfort。From now on， I confess， I began to be assailed with all sorts of fears。In vain I told myself that every woman had children。My grandmother had eight My mother had four。It was all in the course of life， etc。I was， nevertheless， conscious of fear。Of what？Certainly not of death， nor even of pain—some unknown fear， of what I did not know。
August waned。 September came。My burden had become very heavy。Villa Maria was perched on the dunes。One mounted by a fight of almost one hundred steps。Often I thought of my dancing， and sometimes a ferce regret for my Art assailed me。But then I would feel three energetic kicks， and a form turning within me。I would smile and think。After all， what is Art but a faint mirror for the Joy and Miracle of Life？
More and more my lovely body bulged under my astonished gaze。 My hard little breasts grew large and soft， and fell。My nimble feet grew slower， my ankles swelled， my hips were painful。Where was my lovely， youthful naiad form？Where my ambition？My fame？Often， in spite of myself， I felt very miserable and defeated。This game with the giant Life was too much。But then I thought of the child to come， and all such painful thoughts ceased。
Helpless， cruel hours of waiting in the night；lying on the left side the heart is smothered；turning on the right side， still no comfort；finally lying on the back；always a prey to the energy of the child， trying with one's hands pressed on the swelling body to give a message to the child。 Cruel hours of tender waiting in the night。What seems countless nights passing like this。With what a price we pay for the glory of motherhood。
One day I had an intensely happy surprise。 A sweet friend I had known in Paris—her name was Kathleen—came from Paris and said she had the intention of staying with me。She was a magnetic person， filled with life and health and courage。She afterwards married the explorer—Captain Scott。
We were all sitting at tea one afternoon when I felt a thud， as if someone had pounded me in the middle of the back， and then a fearful pain， as if someone had put a gimlet into my spine and was trying to break it open。 From that moment the torture began， as if I， poor victim， were in the hands of some mighty and pitiless executioner。No sooner had I recovered from one assault than another began。Talk about the Spanish Inquisition！No woman whohas borne a child would have to fear it。It must have been a mild sport in comparison。Relentless， cruel， knowing no release， no pity， this terrible， unseen genie had me in his grip， and was， in continued spasms， tearing my bones and my sinews apart。They say such sufering is soon forgotten。All I have to reply is that I have only to shut my eyes and I hear again my shrieks and groans as they were then， like something encircling me apart from myself。
It is unheard？of， uncivilised barbarism that any woman should still be forced to bear such monstrous torture。It should be remedied。It should be stopped。It is simply absurd that， with our modern science， painless childbirth does not exist as a matter of course。It is as unpardonable as if doctors should operate for appendicitis without an anaesthetic！What unholy patience， or lack of intelligence have women in general that they should for one moment endure this outrageous massacre of themselves？
For two days and two nights this unspeakable horror continued。 And， on the third morning， this absurd doctor brought out an immense pair of forceps and， without an anaesthetic of any sort， achieved the butchery。I suppose that， perhaps with the exception of being pinned underneath a railway train， nothing could possibly resemble what I suffered。Don't let me hear of any Woman's Movement or Suffrage Movement until women have put an end to this， I believe， wholly useless agony， and insist that the operation of childbirth， like other operations， shall be made painless and endurable。
What insane superstition stands in the way of such a measure？What lackadaisical， criminal inattention？Of course， one can reply that all women don't suffer to this degree。 No， neither do the Red Indians， the peasants， or the African negroes。But the more civilised the woman， the more fearful the agony， the useless agony。For the sake of the civilised woman， a civilised remedy to this horror should be found。
Well， I did not die because of it。 No， I didn't die—nor does the poor victim taken timely from the rack。And then， you may say， when I saw the baby I was repaid。Yes， certainly I had a consummate joy， but nevertheless I tremble with indignation even today when I think of what I endured， and of what many women victims endure through the unspeakable egotism and blindness of men of science who permit such atrocities when they can be remedied。
Ah， but the baby！The baby was astonishing；formed like a Cupid， with blue eyes and long， brown hair， that afterwards fell out and gave place to golden curls。 And， miracle of miracles， that mouth sought my breast and bit with toothless gums， and pulled and drank the milk that gushed forth。What mother has ever told the feeling when the babe's mouth bites at her nipple， and the milk gushes from her breast？This cruel biting mouth， like the mouth of a lover， and our lover's mouth， in turn， reminding us of the babe。
Oh， women， what is the good of us learning to become lawyers， painters， or sculptors， when this miracle exists？Now I knew this tremendous love， surpassing the love of man。 I was stretched and bleeding， torn and helpless， while the little being sucked and howled。Life， life， life！Give me life！Oh， where was my Art？My Art or any Art？What did I care for Art？I felt I was a God， superior to any artist。
During the first weeks， I used to lie long hours with the baby in my arms， watching her asleep；sometimes catching a gaze from her eyes；feeling very near the edge， the mystery， perhaps the knowledge of Life。 This soul in the newly created body which answered my gaze with such apparently old eyes—the eyes of Eternity—gazing into mine with love。Love， perhaps， was the answer of all。What words could describe this joy？What wonder that I， who am not a writer， cannot find any words at all！
We returned to Grünewald with the baby and my sweet friend Marie Kist。All the children were delighted to see the baby。I said to Elizabeth，“She is our youngest pupil。”Everyone asked，“What shall we name her？”Craig thought of a wonderful Irish name， Deirdre。Deirdre—beloved of Ireland。So we called her Deirdrie。
Little by little my strength came back。 Often I stood before the wonderful Amazon， our votive statue， with sympathetic understanding， for she， too， was never to be so gloriously fit for the battle again。
