Death of a Swan

Like the great actress Eleonora Duse, the great dancer Anna Pavlova last week died in a hotel, on tour, in a strange country.* In France, near Dijon, a railroad accident kept her waiting for hours in an unheated train. She caught cold and by the time she reached The Hague, planning to dance there, influenza had developed, also pleurisy. Death came swiftly, in three days. Operations and injections were useless. Pavlova's heart was weak. On the third day she roused from a coma and spoke to Victor Dandre, her husband and accompanist. She thought she was herself again, high on her toes, poised for dancing. "Play that last measure softly," she said.

So great was the renown of Anna Pavlova that, like Pianist Ignace Jan Paderewski, she attracted thousands who had no particular interest in her art. For 20 years and more she was a world figure. She danced for Tsar Nicholas II, for Emperor Frances Joseph of Austria, for Emperor William II of Germany, King Albert of the Belgians, King Alfonso of Spain, King Edward and Queen Alexandra. She danced for Europeans, for Americans, for Chinese and for Zulus, toured in all 350,000 miles. Next year she had intended to return to the U. S., to make some 80 appearances. Because her fame was made so young, people thought she must be getting on, but she was only 45.

Pavlova started dancing at eight. Her mother had taken her, a thin, bright-eyed child, to see Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty danced in a St. Petersburg theatre. Pavlova instantly fancied herself as the heroine. She wanted to be a dancer but the Imperial Ballet school would not accept children under ten. She studied by herself for two years, then entered the school. At 16 she was prima ballerina at the Imperial Opera. Her U. S. debut was at Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera House in 1910. The performance began at 11:00 p. m. The audience kept her dancing and bowing for two hours. Later with her own company she produced many elaborate ballets but most memorable was her simple Swan Dance at the end of which, bravely dying, she crumpled into a pitiful, feathery heap.

Little is known of Pavlova's private life, she believed so fervently in keeping it to herself. First sight of Pavlova in repose was startling: her legs were so obvious and so overdeveloped in comparison with her frail body. She took cod-liver oil in vain effort to fatten her trunk. As artist she was as jealous as she was confident of first place. As leader of her troupe she was a benevolent martinet. She bossed them sternly in their dance regimen, nursed them through their personal woes. Before every performance, despite her assurance of success and applause, she was nervous, tense. In public she affected simple, obscuring clothes. In the privacy of her home she liked soft, comfortable things.

When she was in Boston six years ago a newshawk discovered that she was married to Accompanist Dandre. Pavlova had kept it secret for 17 years. Her relations with the Soviet Government were known to be unfriendly, Red Moscow regarding her as "a darling of the aristocrats."

Pavlova's own home was in London near Hampstead Heath. There she had a beautiful garden and an aviary, stocked with swans, flamingoes, pigeons. There she was taken last week, wrapped in gold brocade. In Utrecht her troupe danced of for the benefit of Russian students.

*Duse died in Pittsburgh six years ago.

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