Her smile is but
the formal Cupid's-bow of the ballerina; but I think there is a
clairvoyance of posterity in the large eyes, and, in the pose, a self-
consciousness subtler than merely that of one who, dancing, leads all
men by the heart-strings. A something is there which is almost
shyness. Clearly, she knows it to be thus that she will be remembered;
feels this to be the moment of her immortality. Her form is all but in
profile, swaying far forward, but her face is full-turned to us. Her
arms float upon the air. Below the stark ruff of muslin about her
waist, her legs are as a tilted pair of compasses; one point in the
air, the other impinging the ground. One tiptoe poised ever so lightly
upon the earth, as though the muslin wings at her shoulders were not
quite strong enough to bear her up into the sky! So she remains,
hovering betwixt two elements; a creature exquisitely ambiguous, being
neither aerial nor of the earth. She knows that she is mortal, yet is
conscious of apotheosis. She knows that she, though herself must
perish, is imperishable; for she sees us, her posterity, gazing fondly
back at her. She is touched. And we, a little envious of those who did
once see Grisi plain, always shall find solace in this pretty picture
of her; holding it to be, for all the artificiality of its convention,
as much more real as it is prettier than the stringent ballet-girls of
Degas.
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