Full text: The little review (9 (1923), 4)

(See the ridiculous article by Gaston Calmette in Figaro.) Igor 
Strawinsky gave his “Sacre du Printemps.” Erik Satie already 
passed for mad. In the realm of the dance, we were forgetting 
Isadora Duncan, that nullity, in our astonishment over the dar 
ing of Valentine de Saint-Point who created “la Metachorie.” 
I do not mean by this that the Muse-Pourpre, as this descendant 
of Lamartine loved to call himself, invented an entirely new 
choregraphy but I cannot deny that we felt a real pleasure in his 
attempts and experiments. 
It was the famous epoch when Paris revelled in the ridicu 
lous. Cardinal Amette, an archbishop, condemned the tango 
in the name of the church. As a reprisal Eve Lavalliere played 
in a travesty of this name. Gaby Deslys turned things topsy 
turvy. Henry Bataille undressed Yvonne de Bray in “Phalene.” 
Madame Caillaux killed Monsieur Calmette. De Max played 
the “Salome” of Oscar Wilde. Picasso created cubism. Sarah 
Bernhardt was not yet dead nor had she lost a leg. 
Since my pen writes this name, I must say exactly what I think 
of this tragedienne whose death is deplored by all the world, 
whose every visit to America was received with incredible en 
thusiasm. Sarah, against every novelty, was up to her last hour 
the principal pivot of a delayed fashion. Actors and actresses 
had their eyes fixed upon her alone and as she, for eighty years, 
had sung her verse and wept her prose, so all the actors and 
actresses sang their verse and wept their prose. It can be said 
that a whole generation limped behind this cripple. 
Is it not so, Blanche Dufrene, you whom I loved and who 
were found hanged in your dressing-room? Is it not so, Moreno? 
Jean Vonnel? 
On the contrary, the only tragedian who owes nothing to any 
one, who searches, feels, composes his text, knows neither fame 
nor success. ... I refer to Edouard de Max. It is true that 
the legend which surrounds him discredits him. I am his 
friend; I know his home with its burning incense, his old ser 
vant, his sumptuous pyjamas, his silk shirts, his mocking spirit, 
his rings, his melancholy, his bracelets, the depth of his eyes. 
All this does not prevent me from repeating that he is the only 
actor, a hundred cubits above a Mounet-Sully or a Gemier.

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