Pavlova is at her best (inevitably) when limited to the true functions of her art. As with Nijinsky, the dance is her proper medium of expression, though perhaps not so wholly. In some of her performances she displays a facile power of extrinsic gesture suggestive of qualities as mime which whet the desire to see her in dramatic ballet. The distribution of her favours betwixt Pierrot and Harlequin, her jealous partners when she dances, as Columbine, in Drigo’s “Pas de Trois,” is inspired by coquetry as frivolous and mirthful as the airy gaiety which her nimble feet express. In “L’Automne Bacchanale” there is a passion and a fervour which owe something to the actress’ art as well as to the dancer’s. It may seem idle to attempt a discrimination between two things so nearly identical, but seeing the view so commonly held in this country of dancing--that it consists merely of the rhythmic movement of the limbs according to certain arbitrary rules, the greatest of dancers being no more than the exponent of a perfect technique--it is perhaps worth while to lay stress upon the part which temperament must play. Possibly “L’Automne Bacchanale” is not the best illustration to cite of the dancer’s conscious art; no one of the least susceptibility, it may be supposed, certainly not Pavlova, could fail to respond to Glazounov’s tempestuous music. Who has been spectator of that brilliant episode that did not feel his pulses quicken, and thrilling through his veins an echo, however faint, of the pæan of youth and love and joy? Pavlova at all events, if not her compatriots, has been able to recapture something of the old Greek ardour. But Pavlova’s sheer grace can never fail of appreciation. It would be an 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.