Omaha daily bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 187?-1922, June 23, 1912, SOCIETY, Image 21
I. ll The Dmajia Sunday Be ZINE1 JAGE t i 1 r f 1 ft V. V Copyright. 1913. by Araerloan-Examintr. Great Britain Rights Reierved. Interviewed for the First Time-By Alan Dale An Intimate Picture of the Woman "With a Riddle for a Face' Who May Be a Greater Bernhardt IDA RUBENSTEIN probably is the mott interesting theatrical per tonality in Europe. Paris knew her first, only a few years ago, its a dancer, from Russia, and was captivated. But the pres ently . justified her boundless ambition by exhibiting dramatic talent of the highest order, D'Annunzio, greatest of modern literary geniuses of the decadent school spendthrift and dandy, who had broken many feminine hearts, including that of Eleanor Date, and cynically wrote a novel - about it saw Ida Rubenttein and threw himself at her feet For her he wrote his tragic masterpiece, "St Sebeatien," while attacking the citadel of her heart with all his acquired skill. She pro duced his tragedy, brilliantly, and then coldly turned her back up. on him the only woman who had successfully resisted D'Aa. nunciothe first to break hit heart By ALAN DALE ' If l LAI ll U I Ivl I H U W . 'i-v vff"? "ipwCrv , V v" . - S t. , vvvP'Hi"CV t --,-' Paris, June 1. - kt TERSAILLES, that once sheltered poor " A Marie Antoinette before she lost her' ' ' y ,'head, now shelters the enigmatic, toys serious actress-dancer known as Ida Rubin stein, who is never likely to lose Tier head. Versailles, f till of memories of the past, leaps into the immediate present as the home of the much discussed Russian, who has blos somed forth into a full-fledged Parislenne. And it Is at the Trianon Palace that Mile. Ida Rubinstein abides. (I may add that It la a hotel, because If t didn't, you would probably discover It.) But, like most Parisian ladleB-eten of " Russian birth Mile. Rubinstein has what 'they call a pieds-a-terre (a foothold) In Paris, She may lose herself at Versailles whenever she chooses, but she has a nook het-e, at No. S Rue Vanneau, which the calls her atelier workshop). You see, I'm translating every- ' thing I can for you, out of sheer goodness Of heart. Thank goodness, I didn't have to trip : out to Versailles, where aU the tourists go. I was not obliged to chat to Mile. Ida amid the atmospheric souvenirs of Marie Antoinette- There is a fitness in everything. She - bade me to her atelier at No. 82 Rue Van- neau, and thither went I, filled with curiosity. Mile. Rubinstein had just closed an en gagement at the Chatelet Theatre in "Helena of Sparta," that ran for sit nights onlyprob ably owing to Us stupendous success. How ever, know that she waB no poor little" struggler-ess, cast down by the non-run of a colossal production. What cared she? More -over the king is dead; Long live the King! Mile- Rubinstein is billed to appear In Oscar Wilde's "Salome," in a few weeks to come, with special music, special costumes (or non. -costumesT) and specially special iconic ef fects. I had never seen Ida Rubinstein. "All Pa rls" has spoken to me of her, and I know her of course. She is always dolna- things. Last t J 1 stein'i HI I Pote I ll 1 "HeIene year when I was in Paris she produced an enormous affair called "The, Martyr of St Sebastien," by D'AuhunElo,' with niuslc by Dubussy, and that, tbo, seemed 'too big even for Paris. la fact,'. Ida Rubinstein is a power here, as women can be when they are odd, or beautiful, or fantastic, or energetic. She produces the best of everything, and if n falls, is she cast down? Not" on your life. Jamais, which means neverl They put me In a little elevator, at No. 82 Rue Vanneau, and told me that it would stop all by itself at Mile. Rubinstein's atelier on the sixth floor. I hate those elevators minus elevator boy, They move as though they never wanted to get anywhere or in tended to get anywhere and there you are, locked in, and powerless-, As I was enclosed in this personal ascenseur I said goodby to myself and shut my eyes. When I awoke It seemed ah hour after I was at the sixth floor, at the open door of Mile- Rubinstein's atelier. ; ' There she stood, in a harrow gray satin skirt, so tight that it showed every line of her figure. A hat with one of those back ward feathers that look like the rudders of boats added to her height, and she wore a reil, well over her face. It was a curious riddle of a face. She was livid almost green. The whiteness of her Skin gleamed strangely. Her, Hps, scarlet, like a wouhd, gave one an odd sensation of mingled fascination and re pulsion. Two dark eyes pierced the veil. Mile. Rubinstein looked pensive, distraite, and exceedingly sad. Her hands, with the long, tapering fingers, were nn&dorned by a single Jewel. A single diamond glistened among the laces on her unemotional breast She was a remarkable figure, and the sight of her op-' pressed me vaguely, t felt I should never be able to "make conversation." Words failed mewhlch is unusual. She stood there la her immense studio, lighted from ibove (the studio, not Mile. Ru binsteia). It was a colossal apartment, with a slippery floor. At one end was a raised platform, red-carpeted and railed. A few books, yellow-bound, graced a shelf. It tyas all very cold and systematic- A few minutes (probably seconds) later, she smiled. If the Sphinx could smile, it would ftmile exactly as Mile. Ida Rubinstein did. "I practise the dance here," she said apolo getically, la perfect English almost the Eng lish of an Englishwoman "although I live at Versailles.1" ; Her voice, though low and well modulated, echoed through the room. I could not imagine her practising dancing anywhere- She seemed so languid. Presently she sank upon a sofa and looked at me through her veil and half closed eyes. A tiny little dog, th cutest, tiniest spaniel I have ever seen, dashed into the room and, dogglly, begged me to take him on my lap. The little dog broke the Ice. Mile. Rubinstein broke into a human smile as I fondled the dog. "That is Cora," she said, with a semblance of animation. "Isn't the a dear? I have fifty dogs at my home in Versailles, and, above all. I have a leopard, that I acquired in Africa. I love my leopard better than anything, but I cannot bring it to Paris, because it is savage. Cora is the only pet I have hefe." At any rate, I had made a hit with Cora. She nestled la my ' arm and never even loooked at Mile- Rubinstein, who still lay on the sofri in apparent fatigue. "Pari is so frivolous," the said presently, r " " ' m mil. ic i. ' i vpnpl. ilMliIP! iif Wliilliliilll J " :,.liiSI liiiliilf if &piiiiiir lllilf 'Jiiliilllllll IHMp) I AiiliiMI A ' liillX " ,v " k i $. ' 7 i , mm b awBM mi " i ';' f W-: mm - ' 4' "-.u pii Hi kmm. flip v 'v ciX " mi L T f - -" m --mm 5i ft it- The Newest "Art" Photograph of Ida Ruberutcin "She was Livid lmot Green. . , Her lips, Scarlet Like a Wound, Gave One an Odd Sensation of Mingled , Fascina- i tion and Repulsion" Says Alan Dale, Who U Seen Sitting in a cor ner with Her Dcj Mile. Rubenstein, as ahe Appeared in the Principal Part of Her Ballet, "Sheherazade." . after I had lured her from' a veritable Jungle of monosyllables. She had said "Yes" and "No" so often that I had begun to despair of her, and had nearly given her up, when, some how or other, she seemed to spring into life. She lifted up her veil, and her white face looked whiter, her red lips redder, and her dark eyes darker . "Paris is so frivolous," she repeated, "that sometimes I think it It above Its head. My beautiful production of 'Helene of Sparta' Quite magnificent, and I was Helene-haa closed. The same thing happened with 'The Marty." of St. Sebastien.' Do you know why? Pari was Jeaious of D'Annunzio. It was the first time he had ever written in French, and they were afraid. They said he wrote bad French, and other stupidities like that. He had always written in Italian and had been translated. Oh, D'Annunzio it wonderful. His books could be dramatized, but he will not permit it. He prefers to be his own master. In the future, I think, he will write plays in stead of novels. He has acquired a taste for It But Paris is so light!" She looked at me cynically. Her face now eeemed drab in the fading light. The little warm body of Cora was a comfort to me. "You know that they won't have Ibsen in Paris" the went on. "They simply will not tolerate him. Oh, yes, 'Nora' they don't mind, becauae it is so easy. The other plays they ,n! not tolerate. And Strindberg they do 2 toow h m here- I once saw 'The Father S St Petersburg. It is very dreadful-too dreadful for Paris. Paris wants to laugh all thT time Then Paris must dine, and Paris Su. 55. lid the theatres must not inter r with that I am going to produce 'Sa lome.' "tie one-act play, and It will be good tor an entire evening." She was getting a bit less languorous, but , with the best of intentions one could not have called her a merry soul! They will dine before they come to tee 'Salome'," the said, "and it will begin very late, and they will sup when they oa seen Salome,' and it will end very early. They like that. One dares not to make a i serious upeS for they are not .erlous in Parts." "What do you wear as Salome?" I asked rather stammeringly. "I have not yet seen my costume, the Bald carelessly (and I wondered!), "but It will be very beautiful. It Is specially de Blgned for me. Yes. I dance the Dance of the Seven Veils, and I try to do something new You know we have not finished with Salome in Paris. It is all so beautiful! I consider myself an actress and dancer. I think the dance Is a part of the drama. It Is an expression of drama. The real dancer mutt be dramatic. She cannot dance unless she has drama in her soul. I love to combine dancing and drama- Yet I love serious .,, MvnflturA is serious. I cannot laugh at the Boulevard theatres in Paris. They oppress me." ' Was it a pose? If so, it was well done- She had not budged from the sofa. Her veil wat still lifted, but she had ceased to smile. "They want me to go to America, she said softly. "They want me to act In America, but it is so far! I have never been there." I was silent. It is not wise to contradict a lady Rumor saith that once, a deca4e ago, Mile. Ida Rubinstein was In America. Rumor, forsooth! Prate not to me of rumor. If Mile. . . i A n KaIIava thot fiha hfla never been In America, I'll believe it. That aparta. aa teem to be her insinuation. "If I ever go to America," she said, "I want to play drama there In English. I want to tiv Hedda Gabler, which I love. That is my ambition. 1 Another of my ambitions. JSr.-' play 'Helene of Sparta' in Germanin Berlia , 16 Perhaps I shall do it- Then I dance always. - If I ever come to America, I shall dance as well. But, you see, I speak English. When I ' wat a little girl I had an English governess -in Russia, and I spoke even better than I do , now. We are all linguists In Russia-" - "Do you know your fellow-countrywoman, Nazimova, who has made a hit in America, playing la English?", . ' She looked at me inquiringly. '.'I never' heard of her," she said. "She could not have . been famous In Russia. Once a famous Rus sian actress, now dead, went to New York .' and played there in Russian, but she was not a success. No, I do not know Nazimova. Do they like Ibsen in America ?"; , .' I gave her a brief frightfully .brief his tory of Ibsen in the United States. She lis - tened with closed eyes, or at least I fancied ? that she listened. Perhaps she didn't In any1 case, I do not think that a career in U. S. A. is ; of vast importance to her. She makes her v magnificent productions here in Paris,' and it they fail she does not worry. Her look of profound melancholy is merely habitual. Cora barked and jumped from my tap. t felt that I could not stay in that oppressive studio any longer without Cora. Mile- Ida Rubinstein sat up and adressed some endear ing epithets to Cora. Yet this little dog did not go to her. It capered round and round the room. Mile. Ida laughed aloud for the first time. The dog amused her. certainly did not. . . She showed me pictures of "The Martyr of St. Sebastien" around the walls of the atelier. She had five hundred of them by which to remember that most costly of experiments'. She pointed to them rather listlessly, trailing her gray satin skirt on the polished floor. The little dog barked itself away. I shivered slightly. She put down her veil and moved toward the door. Alone, in the little Self-working elevator, I breathed again. I could not understand Mile. Ida Rubinstein, though, and perhaps lecause, her English was so perfect V From . ' fy&h'''' Paris ftw P"ter ' WLV Mile. ll Ruben H l ll stein -; W I I l . Helene J ' L3sCTi 3.1 of KvHllriu raffuiwf I mm h L II