Photoplay (Oct-Dec 1937)

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After that you will never, not for one minute, give the world a chance to forget that you are what you are, and that its applause is your due. Her mind made up, Sonja said to Wilhelm that night, standing beside his chair before the great fire: "There are many competitions and I want to win all of them. But the summer is coming and the pond will be water again, and then where will I practice? There is no rink in Oslo." "I can't make a rink for you, Little One," Wilhelm said equably. "Aren't you satisfied? Now, already, you are world's champion — " "No." Sonja put her hand on his arm. "There are artificial rinks in London. The Ice Club— the Crystal Palace. I've read about them. Papa, please — " T HE portrait of her life from that time until 1928 must be done with sound and color and short fragmentary pictures against the overtone of her incredible ambition which at last had become an obsession. Summers were London, at first: the train that carried her there, the medium-priced hotel suite (these Henies were not extravagant people, ever) where Selma and Sonja and the tutor lived, the new life of a greater metropolis, the necessity for speaking English. Different food — steak pudding, savories. The surface cars. Ice carefully smoothed and lined with spectators' galleries. Going with Selma to see "Primrose" and Paul Lannin in "Stop Flirting." Fog, and the sound of the steamers in the Thames; a new skating instructor; more people than were possible all walking on the same street; Piccadilly, the Mall, and Buckingham Palace — the inside of Buckingham Palace — tea with Their Majesties, because Queen Maud of Norway was George V's sister, and the Prince of Wales, with his courtly, almost stilted acknowledgment of their introduction, after all she'd heard. . . . She won the world's championship again the next year, and the next one, and still again, the next; she met more kings and her name was larger in type and her tutors were not exactly servile but even so — ■ Lief, when she was home, watched his tongue; and the people who came down to the pond in winter came down by the scores. There was still another instructor, from whom she learned the crossfoot spin and three dozen new routines. She worked harder and harder and the world applauded until the sound of it was the sound of her absolute triumph. She was happy. When the Olympics were held in 1928 she was ready for them. She knew what would happen. She had practiced this long and this faithfully, and her craftsmanship on ice was superlative. She was a showman, instinctively: her costume would be startlingly all-white, well made. She would play to the judges, offering to them her smooth flying grace and her bright Northern beauty, saying to them with these things, See: I am the best skater in all the world. I am better than any of the others in this competition. These sparkling diamonds pinned to my dress are gifts from great monarchs, and the flowers presented to me at the end of my exhibition were from a king, because my skating is not merely skating but a dance on ice, incarnate rhythm, a new kind of beauty. The winter games were held at St. Moritz, and it was that easy. D URING the next four years, until there could be another Olympics, she contented herself with winning the European women's skating championships and any other honor that could possibly be fought for on ice. So that she was busy, almost always. There were no hours given to introspection because there were no hours free; she was growing up, she was fifteen, and seventeen, and finally eighteen, and the normal adolescent life she denied herself she seldom missed. Only sometimes .... Sometimes, when her practice at the Ice Club was over for the day, she would walk back to her hotel alone through the twilight. Twilight is a wistful hour, especially in London, and a favorite of lovers. She would glance in the bright windows of great cafes and see men and women, in couples, seated at tables, engrossed in each other; she would look up at the open upper decks of great omnibuses and see girls of her own age, always with an attentive boy, and she would realize that there was a special something in the eyes of these people that was not reflected in her own. For a little time a feeling of loss, an inexplicable loneliness, would enclose her; then, through the vague sadness, the murmured echo of many hands striking together would come to her and she would smile, satisfied. She had this. She was Sonja Henie. Madame Karsavina, the famous Russian with whom she studied dancing, was a sophisticate. Sometimes she said to Sonja, with a kind of arch suggestion in her low voice, "You work so hard. When do you find time for men?" "There are no men." "But you are young and very beautiful— ah well," Madame's shrug was expressive, "love is for the little people who have nothing better, for the provincials. You, my dear, are a cosmopolite, a woman of the world — and a great personality, never forget that. There will be time later." "Much later," agreed Sonja, seriously. S ET on her path, she found her own momentum carrying her higher and higher, to increasing peaks of glory. She gave command performances before the British sovereigns. She skated in France and Italy and Switzerland and Germany and in all countries, bowing afterward beneath the boxes of Hitler and Mussolini and a dozen lesser rulers. She came to America to Lake Placid in 1932 and easily retained her title there, and she went back to Europe knowing that another nation was on her list of the conquered. Back in Oslo, in the big sitting room with its great chairs and its constantly crackling fire, she gathered with Wilhelm and Selma for council. There must be a new goal. She had won everything there was to win and made indisputable her title as the world's greatest skater. "You must stop now, Little One," Wilhelm told her sternly, through the smoke of his meerschaum. "You can go no farther. It's time that you began to live a different kind of life, to give a little more time to yourself. You are a woman now, not a little girl — nor an automaton. It isn't natural for a young