PAVLOVA COMES TO THE CITY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17878, 21 June 1926, Page 15

PAVLOVA COMES TO THE CITY.

HER PERSONALITY HAS DISTINCTIVE CHARM. Pavlova’s hobby is sculpture. She told a “Star” reporter so yesterday. ” You see, there is so much in common between the sculptor’s art and mine. In each the lines and curves count for so mudh. I try to sculpture a little myself, but as yet I have done nothing publicly—-some day, perhaps. I have painted—but sculpture I love best. “ Ah, ha, the interview. Come to a cozy comer, there we may talk better.” This was Anna Pavlova’s greeting as she met the interviewer who broke in upon her Sabbath rest yesterday afternoon. Genius is traditionally supposed to be much less cordial than this, and it was an agreeable surprise for the intruder to be piloted towards a glowing fire. Sitting before him was one of the greatest artists of our day, one who in her art has had no equal since the great Taglione died over forty years ago. Even then, perhaps, it is not wise to talk about an equal. Pavlova is the spirit of the dance incarnate. She is lithe, petite, dark and in walking she makes an airy thistle-down progress. She moves, but one can hardly see why. Such daintiness cauld scarcely be found outside fairyland and surely there is lyric joy in each step. Pavlova has no affectations, and she is somewhat contemptuous of the less great who have. Naturalness, she says, is one of the secrets of her success. That quality, too rare indeed among the exalted, she prizes above most others. In her presence one feels drowsed and alert by turns. A radiant personality such as hers sends out a drugging warmth, but then, on the other hand ah intellectual shaft suddenly wakens one to full consciousness. Her face, small and mobile, reflects each mood, and the swift expressions are constant illustrations for her talk. Her speech is quick, and that delightful Gallic-savoured English of hers has an entrancing quality. Little broken sentences, original and adequate, tell her story. Pavlova confesses that her art occupies most .of her time, but of course there are periods of rest. In Europe eight months of the year she dances, and during the remaining months she trav’els for rest. Maybe, she goes down to Italy or Switzerland to a health resort. After that a little journey to Paris, where she likes renewing old friendships. Then perhaps to her house in Hampstead which she loves so much. In this way she refreshes herself so that she is able to continue charming audiences and rouse poets to tyrical endeavour. Walking is her favourite exercise and no day passes without it Of her diet she had nothing to say. After all. that was an inappropriate subject for conversation half way through a winter afternoon. The mind should be a little less mundane after the postprandial slackening. Pavlova has fifteen children, but they are not her own. During the war, when things were bad in Europe, she decided that she would have to do her share towards alleviation of distress. She took charge of fifteen orphaned Russian children in Paris, and provided a house for them. “ There was food, clothes, a schooling to pay for, and I could get no help. So at times I say Pavlova must dance for the children and the money from my special recitals in South America, China, India, anywhere, is for raj' children.” A rich little laugh was the preliminary to her reply when she was asked if she was superstitious. “No, I don’t believe anything in Nature is against us. Nature must help us. There are people who say that- the peacock is unlucky. The peacock is a beautiful bird, it cannot be against us.” Pavlova did not know that she was carried across the threshold of a theatre when she made her first appearance in it. She laughed when she was told the little legend which said she was.