Guilbert and all the rest of the world. A sonnet by Mr. André
Raffalovich states just that difference so subtly that I must quote it
to help out my interpretation:

If you want hearty laughter, country mirth--
Or frantic gestures of an acrobat,
Heels over head--or floating lace skirts worth
I know not what, a large eccentric hat
And diamonds, the gift of some dull boy--
Then when you see her do not wrong Yvette,
Because Yvette is not a clever toy,
A tawdry doll in fairy limelight set ...
And should her song sound cynical and base
At first, herself ungainly, or her smile
Monotonous--wait, listen, watch her face:
The sufferings of those the world calls vile
She sings, and as you watch Yvette Guilbert,
You too will shiver, seeing their despair.

Now to me Yvette Guilbert was exquisite from the first moment.
"Exquisite!" I said under my breath, as I first saw her come upon the
stage. But it is not merely by her personal charm that she thrills you,
though that is strange, perverse, unaccountable.

It is not merely that she can do pure comedy, that she can be frankly,
deliciously, gay. There is one of her songs in which she laughs,
chuckles, and trills a rapid flurry of broken words and phrases, with
the sudden, spontaneous, irresponsible mirth of a bird. But where she is
most herself is in a manner of tragic comedy which has never been seen
on the music-hall stage from the beginning. It is the profoundly sad and