egregious philistine who could find her, even in most conventional and
academic vein, other than a delight to the eye. Her superb mastery of
technique, if nothing else, must command his admiration. But it is her
distinction that she delights not merely the eye, but the intelligence;
behind all that she does is the artist’s instinct of selection and
co-ordination. Other dancers one has seen who moved prettily, took
graceful poses, displayed a nice appreciation of rhythm--yet showed
themselves no more than elegant dabblers, failing to achieve the unity
which proceeds alone from a true artistic impulse. Pavlova does nothing
meaningless. Her least step is full of intention, and an intention made
convincingly apparent. It may be the lightest, airiest conceit--a
butterfly’s capricious hovering, for example, so daintily suggested in
“Les Papillons,” or the roguish mirth she reads into the well-known
pizzicato passage of the “Sylvia” ballet music--but her art can make
where a touch less sensitive would mar.
But in such a case as this it is idle to attempt description, and
comparisons are equally futile. One must be content with a single word
of highest praise, and say that Pavlova, like every true artist, is
unique.