"But Ranna is a great artist. I will learn a lot from him. In fact we are planning a recital."
"A noble ambition but may I reminding you that your adagio with Arthur today left to be desired much."
"But I'm not going to do adagio."
"How you know in your next show it is not required?"
"I don't want to do the same thing over and over in a Broadway show. I want to improve myself. To be an artist."
Master seemed unprepared for this revelation and looked at her incredulously. Then he shook his finger.
"You know what that means? Slave, slave, slave. An artist is too tired for parties. Also, where will you do this art? At the Opera? Or will you travel from place to place afraid of breaking your ankle on bad stages. Also you must be a Pavlova before in this country people will come and see you. Even for her not. This is not yet a country for a ballet. You're a lucky girl to be a première danseuse on Broadway. Pavlova could do at thirteen what you do now only. If another Diaghilev was here I would say by all means try but there is not. It is my hope on Broadway a man like Beman will give fine ballet a chance. I work with you and the others for this. Perhaps, from my teaching, and maybe other ballet teachers, comes a beginning here. Perhaps when Diaghilev or other ballet companies come it will be possible a renaissance in America of this great art. Not that I wish to discourage you." He patted her paternally.
"My goodness, I don't expect to go on the road or give up the theatre. I just want to give a recital of artistic dances I can't do in a show. Something I create myself. I thought maybe I'd do one Greek number too, like Isadora Duncan, but on the toes. I love those Greek costumes."
The mention of Duncan manifestly annoyed Master. "Isadora is a great personality but not a great dancer. Her technique is child's play. However, so long as you work I do not complain, but do not come to me if with that barefoot Hindu technique your arch falls. For your Ranna it is good but for a ballerina, never!
"You'll see, you'll be proud of me."
She put on her velvet fur-trimmed carriage boots and new grey astrakhan coat and went over to Childs' for cocoa and cinnamon toast and sat looking out on Fifth Avenue reflecting on what Master had said. It seems to me, she thought, refusing to feel dispirited, that every person thinks his idea of art is best so one might as well figure out one's own.
