ng a representation of opera in a town the name of
which I have forgotten, Mme. Cavalazzi wore a costume of green and
white, while her male companion wore red, so that in the _pas de deux_
which concluded the ballet they formed automatically a semblance of
the Italian banner. The audience was raised to a hysterical pitch of
enthusiasm and rushed from the theatre in a violent mood, which
resulted in an immediate encounter with the Austrians and their
eventual expulsion from the city.

Isadora's pantomimic interpretation of the _Marseillaise_, given in
New York before the United States had entered the world war, aroused
as vehement and excited an expression of enthusiasm as it would be
possible for an artist to awaken in our theatre today. The audiences
stood up and scarcely restrained their impatience to cheer. At the
previous performances in Paris, I am told, the effect approached the
incredible.... In a robe the colour of blood she stands enfolded; she
sees the enemy advance; she feels the enemy as it grasps her by the
throat; she kisses her flag; she tastes blood; she is all but crushed
under the weight of the attack; and then she rises, triumphant, with
the terrible cry, _Aux armes, citoyens!_ Part of her effect is gained
by gesture, part by the massing of her body, but the greater part by
facial expression. In the anguished appeal she does not make a sound,
beyond that made by the orchestra, but the hideous din of a hundred
raucous voices seems to ring in our ears. We see Felicien Rops's
_Vengeance_ come to life; we see the _sans-culottes_ following the
carts of the aristocrats on the way to execution ... and finally we
see the superb calm, the majestic flowing strength of the Victory of
Samothrace.... At times, legs, arms, a leg or an arm, the throat, or
the exposed breast assume an importance above that of the rest of the
mass, suggesting the unfinished sculpture of Michael Angelo, an
aposiopesis which, of course, served as Rodin's inspiration.

In the _Marche Slav_ of Tschaikovsky Isadora symbolizes her conception
of the Russian moujik rising from slavery to freedom. With her hands
bound behind her back, groping, stumbling, head-bowed, knees bent, she
struggles forward, clad only in a short red garment that barely covers
her thighs. With furtive glances of extreme despair she peers above
and ahead. When the strains of _God Save the Czar_ are first heard in
the orchestra she falls to her knees and you see the pea