Anna Pavlova.
Since I first saw her this year she has been a Sleeping Beauty (very wide awake) and a Chrysanthemum and many other lovely things. In Autumn Leaves, where her bloom is blown away by the fierce ardour of the Wind, and she is left to die forsaken, she recalled a little the moving sadness of her Dying Swan. It was a “choreographic poem” of her own making—to music of Chopin—and I think I have never seen anything more fascinating than the colour and movement of the Autumn Leaves and the “splendour and speed” of the Autumn Wind. This was danced by Mr. Stowitts, and it couldn’t have been in better hands or feet. M. Volinine is largely content to be a source of support and uplift to his partner, but in The Walpurgis Night he gave us an astounding exhibition of poise and resilience. In The Magic Flute (not Mozart’s but Drigo’s), Mlle. Butsova had a great triumph. She has all the arts and graces of her craft that can be taught, and to these she adds one of the few gifts that no training can confer—the natural joy of life that comes of just being young.
O.S.
“Food prices were coming down. Soap had already been reduced 1d. a lb.”—Daily Paper.
We tried it in 1917, but found it deficient in protein.
“You’re sure this is Wiltshire bacon?”
“Er—I wouldn’t like to guarantee it, Madam—not absolutely.”
“Where do you get it from, then?”
“Well, it comes from America, Madam.”