During the last thirty years of its period of nurture and development in Russia the ballet has developed in two directions. Neither of these are popular and successful in Russia, where the old traditional and established ballet of the early nineteenth century--what may be called "academic" dancing--is alone in demand. What we call "the Russian ballet" is dramatic in nature, and includes such wonderful combinations of music, scenery, costume, and perfect artistic expression by dancing and gesture as we have seen in Scheherazade, Cleopatra, Prince Igorre, Tamar, and Petrouschka. It promises in its latest development to supplant the musical drama known as "opera," in which the human voice is used. But the most striking development is that in which dancing appears as the exponent of lyrical poetry. It is to the teaching of Isadora Duncan that the Russian dancers admit their indebtedness for this new departure. When undertaken by untrained dancers and amateurs (even by the innovator herself) the attempt to interpret lyrical subjects showed some ingenuity in conception, but failed to command general appreciation, as the efforts of a painter or an actor, who has not acquired command of the material of his art, also fail. But when Anna Pavlova brought her lifelong training as a dancer and her poetic imagination to the interpretation of masterpieces of music inspired by such subjects as "Night," "The Dying Rose," "The Wounded Swan," and the moonlight mystery of "Les Sylphides," a new and most poignant form of emotional expression became apparent. A single figure moving over the stage with expressive steps and gestures of the arms, with lips and eyes guided and controlled by consummate art, blended itself with and interpreted to the spectator the poetic thought of a great musical composer and a great writer. This new development of the dancer's art may remain with us. But it requires the presence of one who combines the rare gifts possessed by Madame Pavlova--perfect technique and poetic sympathy.
Many people derive a definite part of the pleasure given to them by an orchestral concert from the contemplation of the movements of the instrumentalists and the directive interpreting gestures of a great "conductor." Others would prefer the orchestra and its leader to be unseen; they find special delight in hearing great music surge and float from no visible source through the dimly-lit aisles of a vast cathedral. They do not desire their eyes to be called in aid of music unless the appeal to vision is complete and worthy of the theme. It is, I think, undeniable that Dr. Richter and my friend Sir Henry Wood, whose expressive backs and persuasive hands are so dear to concert audiences, are a kind of dwindled ballet dancers, connected by the drum-major of the military band and the dancing "choragus" with the primeval phase of the arts when music and dancing were inseparable.