On the other hand, there are innumerable instances of her warmheartedness, her generosity, her tenderness. Passionately fond of children, and denied any of her own, the tenderness and concern she showed for all children was touching. This took on a very practical expression in the home she established and maintained in a hôtel privé in Paris for some thirty-odd refugee children. This she supported, not only with money, but with a close personal supervision.
Worldly things, money, jewelry, meant little to her. She was a truly simple person. Much of her most valuable jewelry was rarely, if ever, worn. Most of it remained in a safe-deposit vault in a Broadway bank in New York City, where it was found only after her death.
Money was anything but a motivating force in her life. I remember once when she was playing an engagement in Chicago. For some reason business was bad, very bad, as, on more than one occasion, it was. The public at this time was firmly staying away from the theatre. I was in a depressed mood, not only because expenses were high and receipts low, but because of the effect that half-empty houses might have on Pavlova and her spirits.
While I tried to put on a smiling front that night at supper after the performance, Pavlova soon penetrated my poker-faced veneer. She leaned across the table, took my hand.
“What’s wrong, Hurokchik?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I shrugged, with as much gallantry as I could muster.
She continued to regard me seriously for a moment. Then:
“Nonsense.” She repeated it with her usual finality of emphasis. “Nonsense. I know what’s wrong. Business is bad, and I’m to blame for it.... Look here ... I don’t want a penny, not a kopeck.... If you can manage, pay the boys and girls; but as for me, nothing. Nothing, do you understand? I don’t want it, and I shan’t take it.”
Pavlova’s human qualities were, perhaps, never more in evidence than at those times when, between tours and new productions, she rested “at home,” at lovely Ivy House, in that northern London suburb, Golder’s Green, not far from where there now rests all that was mortal of her: East Wall 3711.
Here in the rambling unpretentiousness of Ivy House, among her treasures, surrounded by her pets, she was completely herself. Here such parties as she gave took place. They were small parties, and the “chosen” who were invited were old friends and colleagues. Although the parties were small in size, the food was abundant and superlative. On her American tours she had discovered that peculiarly American institution, the cafeteria. After rehearsals, she would often pop into one with the entire company. Eyes a-twinkle, she would wait until all the company had chosen their various dishes, then select her own; after depositing her heavily laden tray at her own table, she would pass among the tables where the company was seated and sample something from every dish. Pavlova adored good food. She saw to it that good food was served at Ivy House and, for one so slight of figure, consumed it in amazing abundance.