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Anna Pavlova: Ballerina Absoluta
Malana Mercurio
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Though Anna Pavlova came into great fame and fortune because
of her magnificent talents, she consistently donated much of
her wealth to those less fortunate, such as orphans in her
native Russia.
Click image to enlarge.
To follow, without halt, one aim; there is the secret of success.
And success? What is it?
I do not find it in the applause of the theater; it lies rather in the satisfaction of accomplishment. --Anna Pavlova, 1912
Anna Pavlova was born in St. Petersburg, premature and frail, sometime in the early 1880s. The exact year is not certain and if Anna herself knew, she never told anyone. She was the only child of poor parents and had the misfortune to lose her father, reputed to have been shiftless, when she was two.
Despite her poverty, her mother contrived to give Nura--such was her daughter's pet name--some little treat at the time of the great festivals, maybe a chocolate egg for Easter or a little fir tree for Christmas. When she was eight her mother promised her the most thrilling of joys--to take her to the Maryinsky Theater. And it was here she saw The Sleeping Beauty. Indeed, it was the first ballet that Anna Pavlova ever saw. She was very poor then and this ballet in St. Petersburg appeared splendid beyond words. The beautiful, graceful dancers seemed to be of another world: a world of dazzling enchantment.
One can imagine how the story of the wicked witch with her coach drawn by rats, and the lovely Princess Aurora who pricked her finger and fell asleep for a hundred years--to be awakened by a handsome prince--appealed to an impressionable child.
Nura, too, wished to be the Sleeping Beauty and she told her mother of her ambition to dance in that role in the same big theater. Her mother gaily laughed her fancy away, never dreaming that her own little girl was to grow up and become the greatest dancer of them all. Nura was to dance more perfectly, receive more accolades and become more famous than any dancer she had seen that night. She was to become "the incomparable Pavlova."
From that night on, the little girl's determination to dance grew steadily stronger. For that initial performance--her first sight of ballet--stirred her so deeply that she knew what she must be; not merely what she wished to be, for that wish had scarcely been born, but what she must be. She vowed she would dance Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty on the stage. Finally, in answer to her entreaties, her mother made application for her admittance to the Imperial Theater School. Anna Pavlova was ten.
After considerable delay, the candidate was approved and the arduous training began. Her ballet training was of the highest order and most severe. Anna Pavlova began this apprenticeship in an institution, founded by Peter the Great, where the discipline was more rigorous than that at many military academies. The pupils were required to study all the general academics they would normally have taken in a regular school, plus, of course, ballet and drama. Tuition was supplied without charge.
Anna Pavlova was apprenticed to a stern disciplinarian of the ballet. To achieve her dream of one day dancing beautifully, she was satisfied with nothing short of excellence. She asked very much of others and demanded the utmost of herself. She understood profoundly that the poetry of movement is attained only through tremendous effort. She exercised constantly; she rehearsed constantly. She tolerated no weaknesses; she accepted no excuses. With unswerving resolution, she turned her mind to an acceptance of an almost unbearable monotony of hourly dally dance techniques. Soft muscles were trained incessantly, week after week, year on year, until they became like strips of steel: responsive, agile, tireless.
A slim figure, almost a wand in its leanness, turned and twisted for half-hour periods without rest. With a perspiring little face screwed up in earnest effort, she would rise on her great toe half a thousand times a week or execute a virtuoso dance cadenza standing poised, as incredibly lone as six minutes, on the tip of the pedal extremities. The ballet master's net was not pleasant to those enmeshed in it. Triumphant emergence was achieved only by those who acquired admirable control, unflinching self-discipline. The earnest child did not permit the sheen of her dreams to wear off. The dedicated Pavlova wanted her dreams to come true.
In 1889, Anna was graduated and joined the regular ballet with the Maryinsky Theater, which was affiliated with the school. In June of that year she made her debut and at twenty-two she was made a full ballerina. This honorary title has lost much of its meaning in the U.S. today as almost anyone who can teeter about on her toes is called a ballerina. But in Russia it was emphatically different, and the term implied a status of rank. Anna Pavlova held a unique and unequivocally leading position. Her title, Prima Ballerina Absoluta, signified more than a title of rank, dignity and honor. The absolute ballerina is the symbol of absolute perfection, achieved in the tradition of the classical ballet. As a dancer, Anna Pavlova possessed in the highest degree the accumulated wisdom, the knowledge and the mastery of an aesthetic language. It was not her own invention, but she spoke it more poignantly than any of her contemporaries.
In due time Pavlova danced all the major roles with the Maryinsky. In 1903, she danced Giselle and astounded people with her interpretation of the poor gypsy girl who goes insane with grief over her dead lover. Critics say there has never been a greater Giselle than Pavlova. This was one of her favorite roles, and she danced it with so much feeling that at times even the girls in the corps were moved to tears.
In 1905, one of the great dancer-choreographers at the theater created a ballet especially for Pavlova. This was Le Cygne (The Swan) by Saint-Saëns, and the brilliant choreographer was Fokine.
Le Cygne is a simple dance which depicts a swan dying. The music is exquisite and Pavlova danced Le Cygne with disciplined but deep emotion. Today her ballet has won world recognition and is thought of as "Pavlova's dance." Shortly after her work with Fokine, Pavlova went to Italy to study with one of the greatest teachers of all time, Enrico Cecchetti, who had also instructed other world-famous ballet dancers--Kchessinska, Karsavina, and Nijinsky. A bond grew up between teacher and pupil and Pavlova loved Cecchetti like a father. For a while he was her private instructor and accompanied her on a world tour. In her later years, when she came to Milan to dance, Cecchetti always attended the performance and afterwards criticized or approved. Anna Pavlova sought his counsel and respected his opinions highly. Cecchetti, in turn, adored his ambitious pupil and thoroughly comprehended the magnitude of her art. He observed ardently: "I can teach her everything connected with dancing, but Pavlova has that which can only be taught by God."
When World War I broke out, Pavlova came to America and toured both continents. In the U.S. alone, she danced in every state. All the world had an opportunity to see her. Every year she made a world tour, although she could have earned as much money in her adopted city, London. And once, in Mexico, her performance was awaited so enthusiastically that it was held in the bull ring. There all could see her. The ring held 36,000 and it was filled when Pavlova danced.
Anna Pavlova had a lovely home in London, a sequestered spot, idyllic and luxuriant with gardens, called "Ivy House." The picturesque house had once been the home of the famous English landscape painter, JMW Turner. And to this elusive paradise, Anna Pavlova brought her furniture from St.
Petersburg, adding to this her collection of souvenirs from her travels in many parts of the world. Here, too, she had a charming aviary in the greenhouse; and flamingos and swans were to be seen in the ornamental lake she had built. The swans were a gift from some of her English friends, presented to her in gratitude for her memorable rendering of the dying swan. She was photographed many times with Jack, her tame pet swan; also with her several beloved dogs and cats. When she was not in her garden, Anna Pavlova was often to be found in her studio, drawing, painting and modeling. For all of these arts she had a natural gift, though completely untaught. For modeling, in particular, Pavlova had a real talent. Her art contributions, particularly her statuettes of dancers, resembled the exquisite creations of Catherine Barjansky, another Russian patriot of a quarter of a century late. Had Pavlova not chosen to become a dancer, she might well have attained distinction as a sculptress.
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Anna Pavlova, though born prematurely and into poverty, lived
to become one of the greatest ballerinas of all time--a
talented performer who was loved around the world.
Click image to enlarge.
Although Anna Pavlova's attachment to Russia remained deep rooted, she was never able to return after the revolution. But concern for her countrymen did not fade with absence; as a matter of truth, she was so grieved for the distressed and destitute state of the unhappy Russian refugees in Paris that she did everything in her power to help them, not only from her own private resources but also by means of vast entertainments and charitable performances. She established a permanent home for the children of Russian refugees and sent large sums of money for the relief of the destitute in Russia.
Religious principles served as a unifying force in her spiritual life. Pavlova was a Russian Orthodox. Her associates averred that she was a deeply religious woman; frequently they observed her making the Sign of the Cross before performances. She gave generously to charities and down-and-out dancers. All the flowers she received were sent to hospitals and the proceeds from the sales of her photographs went to support her private charity, "Home for Russian Children in Paris." If the proceeds were not enough, she gave from her own bank account.
In 1910, she came to dance at the Metropolitan Theater in New York. Tremendous crowds, eager for a first glimpse of the celebrated dancer, riveted their attention on the stage. And when her sylphlike figure appeared, they followed her every movement delineated with a soft and irresistible grace. The crowds seemed transported to another sphere where perfection reigned. Quite apart from the peerless beauty of her dancing, it was as though the spectators had caught a fleeting glimpse of the divine.
With captivating aplomb, she would jauntily sweep forward on that vast stage, giving a slight tilt of her head. Poised as if for flight, poised yet still, she gave that lovely and peaceful moment a touch of strangeness with the light eloquence of her incomparable hands. She would expand that breathless moment of waiting: distinctive, saucy, supreme. When the orchestra sounded, Pavlova glided forward. At the entry of tremolant violins, pure dancing began: swerving and spinning, swaying and swooning, pirouetting, coquetting, now leaping, now floating about like a tiny bit of thistledown blown hither and thither by the breath of the winds. Pavlova incarnated the music, one minute soaring, another spinning and still another drifting and fading from view, only to bound again through space with flashing eyes, swirling skirts--her body a sinuous flame, her soul a quivering harp. For she was a liquid poem. She was a Russian phenomenon. She was Pavlova, Queen of the Dance.
Neither illness nor fatigue could keep her from dancing. And in the end Pavlova accepted death rather than stop dancing. She had been in a train wreck on the Continent, and although she was uninjured, she caught a chill while waiting for aid. She contracted pneumonia at the age of forty-seven and her life hung in the balance. An operation would have relieved some of the pressure on her lungs, but it would have kept her from ever dancing again. She knew the possible consequence. She refused the operation.
As she lay in a delirium, she called for the costume of the swan and her wasted arms waved in the graceful movements of her favorite role. Her arms faltered. Remembering the dance, smiling, she closed her eyes. Pavlova was dead. The night she died, the ballet performance in Brussels was not canceled. All the dancers took their places and danced their parts--but no one replaced Pavlova. Instead a spotlight flickered about the stage as the ill-fated Swan.
This article was originally published in The Ave Maria, and has been reprinted with permission from the author.
Malana Mercurio is a freelance writer based in Oak Park,
Illinois. In her long and prolific writing career, she has
produced articles for many publications, including
Spiritual Life Quarterly, Highlights for
Children, Animal Cavalcade, Stories, The
National Humane Review, Young World, Quest,
and the Church School Literature Department of Springfield,
Illinois.
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