Dancing Star:
The Story of ANNA PAVLOVA
GLADYS MALVERN
ILLUSTRATED BY SUSANNE SUBA
Contents
Part One
1 A DREAM TO CHERISH
2 FAITH IN THE DREAM
3 A NEW LIFE BEGINS
4 SCHOOL
5 WORK
6 OPPORTUNITY
7 PRIMA BALLERINA
8 REVOLT
9 BIRTH OF THE SWAN
10 THE GREAT CECCHETTI
11 CHALLENGE TO A SWAN
12 THE TURNING POINT
Part Two
13 NEW FIELDS TO CONQUER
14 THE WARNING
15 A PREMONITION COMES TRUE
16 BEHIND THE SCENES
17 FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES
18 DANGER
19 THE SWAN WITH RUFFLED FEATHERS
20 THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF
21 THE SWAN FLIES HOME
22 PAVLOVA THE DAUNTLESS
23 THE LAST CURTAIN
BIBLIOGRAPHY
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
First Edition published 1942 by Julian Messner, Inc.
Copyright © 1942, 2013 by Glady Malvern estate
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2893-6
Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
TO CORINNE
with love and
gratitude
Part One
CREATION OF AN ARTISTE
1 A DREAM TO CHERISH
“NOW, my little Niura,” announced Madame Pavlova, “you and I are on our way to Fairyland!”
Anna’s dark eyes looked up at her mother excitedly. Fairyland! Where was it?
The sleigh traveled swiftly, noiselessly over the newly fallen snow. Houses stood tall and angular against the midwinter blackness of the sky. The world had suddenly become strange, new. The street lights made little yellow patches upon the untouched snow. People walked quickly; dark, mysterious, huddled against the brisk, biting wind. All at once St. Petersburg had become a different place—eery, beautiful.
Only Mamasha was the same. Dear Mamasha. A bit frightened at what was in store for her, Anna leaned closer to her mother. It seemed odd that just an ordinary sleigh should be carrying them into Fairyland. When one is eight, one still rather believes in fairies, but never believes that one will actually ever go to Fairyland. And now, here they were, she and Mamasha, on their way to see the Sleeping Beauty and the Prince!
“Really Fairyland?” asked Anna, in a small, awed voice.
Mamasha—Little Mother—laughed. “Not really. It’s a make-believe Fairyland—in a theater.”
Anna lapsed into silence. Except for the summers, she and Mamasha lived alone in a small, dark apartment in one of St. Petersburg’s poorer sections. Every summer they went to a little house in the country. Anna had never been anywhere else.
There was never enough money. Anna knew how Mamasha had to scrimp and economize to eke out the bare necessities for the two of them; but somehow Mamasha always managed to have little fancy colored eggs and toys at Easter, and always at Christmas there would be the little fir tree with its candles, a few toys, and perhaps some extra surprise, some extra treat; but never such a treat as this Christmas—there had never been Fairyland before!
Anna, whose pet name was Niura, knew her fairy stories almost by heart. Her favorite was The Sleeping Beauty. And now, in a little while, the Sleeping Beauty was to step out of the pages of a book and come to life!
A theater. Mamasha had told her it was the Marinsky Theater, but at that time the name meant nothing to her. Anna’s brow grew thoughtful. A theater, then, was Fairyland? Yes, that was it, a theater was a make-believe kingdom, a place where startling things happened, things different and apart from everyday existence. She had never been to a theater before, and as the sleigh drew nearer, her heart beat faster and faster until she could hear it above the noise of the wind, above the sound of the sleigh bells, above the thud-thud of the horse’s hoofs.
“Here we are,” announced Mamasha at last, gaily.
Anna bounded out of the sleigh and stood staring about excitedly. A big, fine building, brightly lighted. Crowds. Gentlemen in high hats and flowing mustaches. Ladies with rich fur capes. What long trains the ladies had! How the jewels sparkled in their hair, on their fingers!
Though dressed in her best, Mamasha looked shabby beside those others. But she didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were as bright and excited as her daughter’s as, hand in hand, they found their way to the cheaper seats.
“Where’s Fairyland?” asked the child breathlessly.
“Wait. You’ll see it, my little one. Down there—down there on the stage. Ssh! Here comes the orchestra. The music is by Tchaikovsky.”
Anna’s eyes fixed themselves upon the curtain. As she watched, the lights in the vast auditorium were dimmed, voices were hushed. Suddenly there was music, music such as she had never heard. Then the curtain rose.
Yes, yes, it was truly Fairyland! There, below her, was a golden palace. There was the Sleeping Beauty!
At first the child sat numbed, tense. Then chills began going up and down her spine. Her hands clenched. She could feel the nails piercing the flesh of her palms, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, only this—only loveliness mattered. She was trembling, troubled, breathless—it was all so beautiful, so thrilling. Sometimes she felt she couldn’t stand any more. Now and then a little cry of joy escaped her, and Mamasha said, “Ssh!”
When the old witch appeared in her rat-drawn chariot, Anna put her face in her hands. Then, almost before she knew it, she peeked out between her fingers, and there was a crowd of young girls, dancing.
When the curtain came down for the intermission, Anna could not applaud. She sat, her wonder-bright eyes riveted upon the stage. Mamasha’s voice brought her back to her surroundings with a start. Mamasha was laughing.
“Would you like to dance like those girls?”
“Oh no!” cried Anna.
Mamasha raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “No?”
“No! Not like them! I want to dance like the Sleeping Beauty! And—and I shall dance like that, Mamasha!”
It was as if some magic wand had been waved over Anna Pavlova, changing her from a carefree child into a force, awakening her soul, giving her a new vision—a high, almost unbelievable vision. A little voice up in her head kept saying, “Dance … dance … dance. You must dance!”
But Mamasha didn’t seem to hear the voice. Her eyes were upon her daughter’s hands. “Niura! Tch! Look at your hands! Why, you’ve cut into your palms with those nails of yours! Tch! Look, your hands are bleeding! Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you. I didn’t know you’d feel like this about it.”
She took the small hands and wiped them tenderly with her handkerchief. Madame Pavlova had the curious feeling that her daughter was not a child any more, not her little Niura, but a stranger, someone foreign and remote. Anna’s face was paler than usual. Her eyes were fixed upon the stage again—impatient eyes, something tragic in them.
When the ballet was over, she no longer reached for Mamasha’s hand, sometimes she even forgot that Mamasha was there at all. Not now did she pause to stare at the fine ladies, ablaze with jewels, holding up their long trains as they moved toward their sleighs.
She entered their own shabby rented sleigh gravely, sitting very stiff, unmindful of the streets, the increasing cold, the now-whirling snow. She was seeing herself as the Sleeping Beauty, trying to remember every movement, every mood, every beat of the music.
Arriving home, she went at once to tell the Virgin of this wonderful thing that had happened to her. As in most Russian homes, the Pavlovas had a small icon, a picture of the Virgin, before which always a little lamp burned. As far back as she could remember, Anna had loved the slender, girlish figure in the blue, flowing robes. She confided all her secrets to the Virgin, and always the Virgin was there, waiting to hear them, smiling that serene and tender smile.
“I will be a great dancer,” Anna explained, “and you’ll help me, won’t you? You’ll look on while I dance, and you’ll be glad?”
It seemed to the small girl that the Virgin smiled, and Anna went to bed feeling that she had received a blessing, that her beloved Virgin was approving, and that nothing would interfere.
Dance … dance … dance. It was like a beat in her brain, in her blood, in all the muscles of her thin little body. She could not sleep for hours. Dance … dance … dance. At last she fell asleep, and in dreams she saw herself seeming to float through space, dancing as light as thistledown.
“Dear Mamasha,” she began next morning, “you’ll help me learn to dance?”
Madame Pavlova’s face was grave. Dance? This frail child? Dancing took strength, endurance. Her daughter was thin, painfully thin. All her life she had been sickly. There had been one disease after another: measles, scarlet fever, diphtheria.
“You want me to dance, don’t you, Mamasha?”
“You? Dance?”
“You—want me to? You must, Mamasha!”
“Why y-yes. Yes, of course.”
“And you’ll take me to where I can learn? Please! Oh Mamasha, please!’ ”
It was just a mood, thought Madame Pavlova. In a few days the child would forget about it. Children always got strange ideas, but these ideas were quickly forgotten. So she kissed her daughter and dismissed the thought from her mind.
Hours later she came upon Anna—dancing! Her dolls were forgotten. Madame Pavlova stopped, entranced. How could the child remember the steps, the postures? It was incredible! Unmindful of her mother, Anna kept on dancing. Sometimes she would rest a few seconds, then begin again.
“Anna! You must stop this! Play with your dolls. Go out into the sunlight!”
“No, Mamasha, no! I must dance! And I—I can’t get it right!”
Day followed day, and she could talk of nothing else.
“I’ll be a ballerina! I shall dance to the music of Tchaikovsky!” she declared.
Constantly she insisted that her mother take her to the place where she could learn to dance. Madame Pavlova began to realize the intensity of her daughter.
She told the child what little she knew about the Imperial Russian theaters, explaining that these theaters were not like any others in the world. They were under government control.
“If you join the school,” she went on, “you’ll have to live there. I’ll be able to see you only on Sundays and for vacations. So that is what you’ll have to do in order to be a dancer. And how about me? Think of me here all alone! You don’t want to leave Mamasha?”
The small face went grave. Yes, it was a great sacrifice to go away from Mamasha. And what would Mamasha do without her? Mamasha had no one but Anna. Grandmother, yes; but grandmother lived at Ligovo.
“N-no,” she said, after a lengthy pause, “no, I—I—don’t, but—” the small chin took on a firmness, “but if that’s the only way to become a great dancer, then—then—well, then there’s nothing else we can do!”
It didn’t, thought Madame Pavlova, sound like a child of eight talking. These last weeks she had often felt that Anna was not a child any more.
“No, Niura,” said Mamasha at last, “I can’t—I can’t let you go!”
Anna began to cry. Mamasha tried to soothe her, promised a new hat, a new doll, anything. Anna continued to cry. Then, still crying, she flung her arms about her mother’s neck, kissed her, pleaded.
“You’ll be so proud of me, Mamasha, when you see me dancing, when you see me in Fairyland! The stage—it is Fairyland!”
Madame Pavlova took her daughter in her arms. After all, she reasoned, was this not the sensible thing to do? Suppose something should happen to her? Then what would become of Anna? Besides, how could she continue to provide for a growing girl, give her advantages?
Her husband, who had been a minor government employee, had died when the child was two. There was a meager pension. The ballet school was free, everything was furnished. If Anna did not go to the school, what would she do in the future? What would become of her? This way, at the school, the future was all taken care of. There were no risks. She had heard that the children, in addition to learning to dance, received a good education, and there was always plenty to eat. When they grew up, they were assured of a livelihood. Yes, perhaps it was a good idea.
“There. Don’t cry, little Niura. Yes, it’s all right. We’ll go and see about the school.”
Tears disappeared as if by magic. Anna laughed, clapped her hands, kissed her mother.
“When? When?” she demanded.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
It seemed an eternity before tomorrow. How could she wait? How painfully the moments dragged! Suddenly an arresting thought made her cry out in alarm. Suppose there should be no tomorrow!
But there was.
Anna awoke early. Yes, the great day was really here. It wasn’t a dream.
“Hurry, Mamasha, hurry!” she kept saying.
“There’s time enough. Are you so eager to leave me, then? Be still. Sit down quietly, for goodness’ sake!”
At last they were off.
“Will I be able to get into the school right away?” asked Anna.
“I don’t know.”
Mamasha was in no mood for talking. She moved so fast Anna had difficulty in keeping up with her. At last they reached the school. It was a great, impressive building, and there were many people coming and going. Mamasha’s hold upon Anna’s hand tightened. For a time they stood just looking about, not knowing which way to turn.
At last a man came and asked Mamasha what she wanted. Haltingly, trying to be very calm, Mamasha Pavlova explained. “My daughter, Anna Pavlova. She wants to be a—a—ballet dancer.”
The man glanced down at the thin, pale face of the child. It seemed to be all eyes, eyes that looked feverish. Anyone could see that a child like that had not the stamina to be a dancer. People were such fools, he thought. They came from all over Russia, bringing their children, begging to be admitted, the rich and the poor. And so few could even hope to be accepted!
“Well,” he muttered, “sit down and wait.”
They obeyed. The man walked away. As minutes passed, Anna’s heart raced faster. Suppose the man had forgotten about them? Suppose, after all, they wouldn’t let her join the school? How could she live if she didn’t dance?
Mamasha sat very straight, her eyes staring ahead. Now she began an impatient tapping with the toe of her shoe.
At last the man came, motioned to them.
Almost at once they were ushered into an elaborate office. A man behind the desk regarded them with unfriendly eyes. Again Madame Pavlova explained her reason for being here. The man looked them over, his face expressionless.
“How old is the little girl?” he asked.
“She’s eight—eight years.”
“We don’t admit children under ten,” he said crisply, and became very busy with some papers on his desk. “Take her home. Bring her back on her tenth birthday.”
Madame Pavlova thanked him, took Anna’s hand.
It was with difficulty that the child kept back the tears. Two years. Two years to wait!
Mamasha was smiling as they reached the street. “Two years,” she declared cheerily. “Anything can happen in two years. Who knows? In two years, perhaps, you’ll forget all about this.”
Forget? Forget? Could she forget to breathe?
“So we’ll just go home—and wait,” announced Mamasha. She walked slower now. There seemed no longer any hurry about anything.
Anna could not speak. She was fighting back the tears, fighting to keep her underlip from trembling. Two years. “Anything can happen in two years,” Mamasha had said. Yes, but nothing would happen to keep her from dancing. Suddenly, all tears were gone. She only wanted to get home and start practicing again.
Dance … dance … dance.
Yes, she would dance—and nothing would stop her, nothing—nothing in all the world!
2 FAITH IN THE DREAM
WHEN Anna Pavlova was born, at St. Petersburg in 1882, no one believed she could live. As soon as it was possible for the child to leave her mother, she was taken to the country and put in the care of her grandmother. Grandmother lived at Ligovo, a suburb of St. Petersburg. The doctors hoped that the country air would prove beneficial to this small, sickly child.
Ligovo was a village. There were a few scattered houses, straggling, unpaved roads, a church. This was a sharp contrast to St. Petersburg, where streets were noisy and bustling, where there were smart shops, great palaces, schools, restaurants, theaters.
Ligovo is in the north of Russia. The surrounding countryside was melancholy, silent. A local teacher taught Anna from the Bible, and she regularly attended church with her grandmother. They would trudge up the long, dusty road together in the sun or the wind or the rain or the snow, for nothing could keep Grandmother from the small, ramshackle church.
Sometimes when Anna was out gathering mushrooms in the autumn, or gathering snowdrops in early spring, she would wonder what it meant, that passage which the teacher so often read: “Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you?”
Now that she was eight, and the idea of dancing had come to her, she thought about that verse more and more. At last she knew what that passage in Corinthians meant! Yes, within her body was a Holy Presence which would one day pour forth its glory through her, Anna Pavlova!
Often her mother and grandmother would look on as she practiced, and she would hear them speak in hushed voices.
“It’s remarkable how she does it!”
“That child’s a born dancer!”
Then her mother would sigh—a deep, tragic sigh. “She hardly seems like a child any more. She seemed to grow up—all of a sudden—after I took her to the Marinsky. I’m losing my little Niura. The desire to dance grows stronger instead of less! One day it will take her away from us.”
But they had other conversations, too, mostly about the mice.
The whole house was overrun with them. For weeks, each night, they carefully set traps, putting them close to the mice holes, filling them with choice morsels of cheese; but the traps remained empty, useless.
“I can’t understand it,” Grandmother would say, worriedly.
“Since when do mice turn up their noses at good, sharp cheese?”
“Yes, it’s very strange. I don’t know what we’re going to do. What kind of mice are these? I thought mice were always hungry!”
“It certainly is a mystery. All these traps—and not a mouse will go near one of them! I never heard of such a thing!”
Then one day the mystery was cleared up. Grandmother came upon Anna feeding the mice!
“So,” she cried sternly, “that’s why we have no hungry mice around here! No wonder they won’t go near the traps! Tch! Don’t you know, you silly little thing, that your mother and I have been setting traps every night to catch these mice?”
Anna looked up, horrified. “But the mice are sweet, and they’re tame! Why should you want to kill them?”
Grandmother tried to explain, but Anna was so fond of animals that she could not bear to think of the mice being killed. Nevertheless, the grownups had their way about ridding the house of this nuisance.
It worried Anna, too, that her mother had to struggle all the time against poverty. Little Mother’s pretty face was always drawn into anxious lines. In winter she and her mother took long walks along the canal: Anna’s much-mended woolen gloves on a string around her neck, her red flannel petticoat showing a little below her dress, a bonnet which Mamasha had knitted drawn close around her ears. They would stand for a time watching the men load the barges; then, like other poor people, they would pick up armfuls of wood, all they could carry, and trudge home through the snow with it. Once they were home and had stuffed the wood into the fire, Mamasha would sit sewing, patching, lengthening hems and sleeves.
“You’ll just have to get another year’s wear out of this dress, Niura. My, I don’t know what I’m going to do if you keep growing so fast!”
“Wait till I’m a dancer, Mamasha! You’ll have a big, fine house, and all the wood you want, and a fire in every room, and a new dress every month!”
Madame Pavlova, who was a sincerely pious person, would cross herself quickly. “If it be God’s will,” she murmured. “Oh Niura, don’t want this so terribly! They say there are never vacancies for more than eighteen new pupils a year at the Imperial schools, and hundreds of children from all over Russia are continuously seeking admittance!
“What else will I learn at the school besides dancing?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. Music, fencing, languages. I suppose they’ll even make you learn choreography, too.”
“What’s choreography?” asked the child.
Mamasha’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “Choreography? Well, it’s—it’s—oh dear! Just what is choreography? Well, you know how it is when I plan to make a dress for you? I think where the seams will be and where the trimming will be? And what will be the color and all that? I’m designing the dress, do you see?”
Anna nodded.
“Well, choreography is like that, only it’s designing dances instead of dresses. The choreographer plans out a certain ballet, all the gestures and the movements and everything, and then he tells the dancers just what to do.”
“A choreographer must be almost the greatest man in the world,” decided Anna thoughtfully. “Isn’t it wonderful, Mamasha? Isn’t it simply wonderful?”
“What’s wonderful?”
“Everything. Us. The world. Choreographers. Dancing. Living. All that’s ahead of me. All that’s waiting. All that’s here and all that’s coming.”
Mamasha sighed. “No,” she murmured, “it isn’t right to ask too much, to expect too much. How can we know what is God’s will?”
Anna laughed, ran to the other side of the room, brought forward a chair, placing it in the center.
“This,” she announced, “is the Marinsky Theater. This chair is the box.”
“The box for the Czar?”
“No, indeed. This is the box where you shall sit.”
Mamasha looked startled. “Me? I’m to sit in a box?”
“Of course. You’ll sit in a box with diamonds in your hair, and a dress that shows your shoulders. Come, Mamasha, sit here!”
Entering into the spirit of the game, Mamasha laughed, sat very elegantly on the edge of the chair, lifted her head very high, and began a movement with her hand as if she were holding a fan.
“Now, I—” announced the child, excitedly, “I’m a prima ballerina!”
“Oh,” said Mamasha, as if this were nothing very unusual.
Anna ran to one side of the room. “I’m a prima ballerina!” She ran forward gracefully, struck a pose. “Behold me!”
Mamasha applauded. Anna bowed and flung kisses, kisses to the right of her, kisses to the left of her. Then they both began to laugh, and Anna flung herself into her mother’s lap.
“It’ll come true,” she cried, “it’ll all come true!”
The child was strangely happy now. She was hardly ever ill any more. Weeks passed swiftly. Anna practiced her dancing, and gave increased interest to her school lessons, for Mamasha had discovered that in order to be admitted to the Imperial Ballet School each child had to pass not only a physical examination, but a rigid mental one as well.
Anna learned all she could about the Imperial schools and was never wearied of discussing them. One was at Moscow and one was at St. Petersburg. When you were accepted as a student at either of these schools you were under the care of the government. The Imperial Russian theaters, however, included vastly more than two schools. It was a far-reaching, efficient organization, and there was none other like it in the world.
In St. Petersburg, in addition to the school, it included three imposing theaters and four troupes. Each theater had its own corps de ballet, and each had its own orchestra of over a hundred musicians.
After being graduated from the school, there was never a moment’s uncertainty about securing an engagement. A girl automatically entered the corps de ballet. After that, her progress depended entirely upon her own talent. If she worked hard and showed promise, she was given small parts. After that, if she continued to improve, she progressed to second dancer, then première danseuse, then prima ballerina, then ballerina, and finally she might achieve the highest honor—ballerina assoluta.
They were well paid. Each salary continued every week throughout the year, even including the three-month vacation. When a dancer had danced for twenty years, she was allowed a benefit performance in addition to a generous pension for life.
After seeing The Sleeping Beauty as part of her Christmas celebration, Anna never saw another performance during her two years of waiting. There was never enough money for such frivolities. Every penny was needed for food and rent.
Each summer she and her mother moved to the country. For days prior to leaving St. Petersburg, all practicing stopped, and Anna fluttered about the small apartment helping Mamasha pack bedding, buckets, boxes, the samovar, the pots and skillets, the dishes and the precious icon, so that they could all be loaded into a great open wagon and taken to the country.
It was so lovely in the country. The silence. The soothing scent of the fir trees through the quiet, brooding dusk.
The house was incredibly tiny, so tiny that they had to spend most of their time on the veranda. Sitting there placidly through long, uninterrupted hours, her mother tried to teach Anna to sew, made her practice reading aloud, but these days Anna loved to get away from the house, even away from Mamasha, and wander barefoot among the kindly fir trees, watching the butterflies as they danced. Oh, the lightness, the beauty of them! The way their colorful, iridescent wings fluttered so rapturously in the sunlight, as though they loved being alive! That was the way she would dance someday—effortless and free and joyous—like a butterfly.
Sometimes she sat on the ground, weaving a garland of wild flowers. Then she put it on her head and leaned back against the tree. Encircled on all sides by the deep stillness, she saw herself as the Sleeping Beauty, felt within herself the rhythm of Tchaikovsky’s music. How easy it was, in imagination, to rise on her toes and go soaring through the air! Why could she never do it when she practiced?
Each passing day brought her nearer and nearer the Imperial Ballet School… Now she was eight and a half. Now she was nine. Now she was nine and a half. And now, now at last—“Mamasha! Mamasha!”
“Goodness, Niura! What in the world is it? Why do you wake up and suddenly start yelling like that? What is it? Are you ill?”
“No! No! It’s so wonderful! Oh Mamasha, isn’t it wonderful?”
“What’s wonderful? What are you talking about?”
“Why, I’m ten, Mamasha! I’m ten years old today!”
3 A NEW LIFE BEGINS
HER mother laughed. “Ten! What a big girl! Almost a young lady!”
“Now we can go back to the school! Now they’ll take me!”
The smile faded from her mother’s face. She stared at the eager child for a long time. Then she said, “Yes, yes. Well, I’ll go today and see about it.”
Anna watched as Mamasha put on her best dress, her best hat. Then she stood at the window watching as her mother walked down the street.
How long it was before Mamasha returned! Finally, there she was, turning the handle of the door.
“Well,” cried Anna, “will they take me? Is it all right?”
“I don’t know yet. I had to fill out an application. In a few days we’ll be notified. It seems they have a certain day each year when they inspect applicants.”
Anna heaved a deep, discouraged sigh.
“Don’t set your hopes on it,” said Mamasha, tiredly. “I was talking to one woman who was filling out an application, too. She said her little girl, and many others, prepare for their examination at the school by taking private dancing lessons from the dancers themselves. But we haven’t any money to do that. So who knows? They probably won’t take you.”
Anna’s eyes filled with quick tears. “They will! They must!”
“Perhaps, but don’t depend upon it, Niura. Look, I’ll make you a gingerbread man like at Christmas time!”
“Gingerbread man! I don’t want a gingerbread man! I don’t want anything in the world—but just to be a dancer!”
She ran to the Virgin. “Please,” she begged, “please make them take me!”
Every day was an eternity. Even practicing didn’t make the time pass any quicker. Anna watched every mail for the notification. Every night she said to herself, “It will come tomorrow.”
And one day it did.
Now Mamasha was very busy. She washed Anna’s best stockings, and spent almost an hour polishing the child’s worn, scuffed shoes, rubbing them with wax. Then the best dress had to be lengthened, and three new petticoats had to be stiffly starched. When at last Anna was dressed, feeling very elegant and fresh and clean, Mamasha kept smoothing her hair, tugging at her dress.
“Don’t forget to stand with your shoulders straight,” Mamasha kept saying.
But when they were seated in the horse-drawn street car, she and Mamasha had little to say to each other. Anna’s hands were icy. She kept them tight in her lap, so that Mamasha wouldn’t see how they trembled.
As they approached the school, an ornate building of stone, Anna was surprised at its bigness. She hadn’t remembered how huge a place it was.
A servant in uniform stood opening the doors of the carriages as they drove up. What a crowd of people there were! Hundreds of children, some beautifully dressed, others in rags. What a bustle there was, what babbling! They were all ushered into a large room on the first floor and told to wait. It was a lovely, luxurious room, with pictures of the royal family on the walls. A tall lady in dull black was walking about with an air of authority, and there were other ladies, very important, dressed all alike in blue.
Mamasha began talking to the woman beside her. At last Mamasha turned to Anna. “She says that one in black is the directress of the school, and the ones in blue are governesses. She says that during the first year you’re on probation, and a child who doesn’t show enough progress is dismissed. She says only the best ones are kept. Stand up straight, Niura. Don’t look so frightened.”
“The children,” announced the directress at last, “will form in line, two and two, and march into the next room.”
Anna turned to her mother. “Will I have to leave you?” she asked, in a small, quavery voice.
“Yes. Here, let me smooth your hair. Keep your shoulders straight.”
Everything was very quiet now. The air was alive with tension. Hundreds of children, bright-eyed, expectant, formed a seemingly interminable line. The next room was even larger than the first. It was high-ceilinged, sparsely furnished. There were benches along the walls. At one end was a long row of chairs and tables for the examiners—men and women, looking very dignified, very stern, very important.
At intervals they would glance down at a long list in front of them, and a tall man would call out a name. A child would step forth from the line and move alone to the center of the great room.
“Stand still,” the man would say. Then, after a long time, “Very well, now walk the length of the room… Now run … now sit down.”
When the child had obeyed, the teachers would discuss her in low voices. Was she awkward? Graceful? Poised? Notes would be made on paper. Then the teachers would walk around the child, examine her legs.
“Put your heels together … yes, hmm.”
Sometimes they would feel the child’s legs, then there would be more discussions, more notations.
There were questions. “Where were you born? When? Your name? Your mother’s name? Your grandmother’s name? Your father’s name? His business?… ”
The first test took a long time. After it, many children were dismissed as ineligible.
“Now,” came the deep voice of the tall man, “you who are left, form in line, two by two.”
The children, still excited, obeyed. Now they were marched into a big, white room, and, after they had undressed, were given crisp, white dressing gowns. A group of doctors began thumping each little chest, listening to every rapidly beating heart through a stethoscope, making more notes. The examination was thorough. It took a long, long time. The children were tired now, sagging their weight from one leg to another. There were tests for vision, tests for hearing. And when it was all over, many of them were sent away, sobbing.
So few were left. The governesses, stern and uncommunicative, helped them to dress.
“Form into a line,” came the order finally, “two by two.”
“Where are we going now?” whispered a little girl who fell into line beside Anna.
“I don’t know,” Anna answered.
They soon found out. They were led into another large room; maids served them tea and sandwiches.
When the lunch was over, further examinations followed. Each child was made to sing a scale. Then there were tests in reading, writing, arithmetic.
Again there were eliminations.
Now there were only about twenty children left. They were permitted to return to the front room. Mamasha’s face was white, tired. She was leaning back tiredly.
“Mamasha,” asked Anna eagerly, “is it over now?”
“No, not yet. Oh dear, it’s almost six o’clock!”
Outside, it was already dark. Anna’s hands were clammy with nervousness. In the other room the judges made little notes on paper, talking. Would the judges never stop their discussions? Why had she come? Better to have stayed away. Why should they admit her—with her shabby dress and her worn shoes? Oh, she had felt very spruce and grand and confident when she had started out, but now she looked about at the other children. What chance had she when these other girls were dressed so beautifully? No, she had lost. She knew it. Why wait? All her prayers had failed. All her practicing was for nothing. Despair engulfed her—deep, tragic, unbearable.
“Stop fidgeting,” whispered her mother.
“Form into line, please, two and two,” ordered the crisp voice of the directress.
“Mamasha, I—”
“Do as you’re told. Hurry. Goodness, will we be here all night? Is there no end to this?”
“What’s the use, Mamasha? They—”
“Ssh. They’re going to read out the names now. Get into line!”
Feet heavy, heart leaden, shoulders sunken, Anna obeyed. When they entered the next room, the tall man with the beard arose, cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, picked up a paper, adjusted his glasses.
How slow he was!