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$4.50

                           S. HUROK PRESENTS

                      A MEMOIR OF THE DANCE WORLD

                             BY =S. HUROK=


In these exciting memoirs, S. Hurok, Impresario Extraordinary, reveals
the incredible inside story of the glamorous and temperamental world of
the dance, a story only he is qualified to tell. From the golden times
of the immortal Anna Pavlova to the fabulous Sadler’s Wells Ballet,
Hurok has stood in the storm-center as brilliant companies and
extravagant personalities fought for the center of the stage.

Famous as “the man who brought ballet to America and America to the
ballet,” the Impresario writes with intimate knowledge of the dancers
who have enchanted millions and whose names have lighted up the marquees
of the world. Isadora Duncan, Loie Fuller, Lydia Lopokova, Escudero, the
Fokines, Adolph Bolm, Argentinita, Massine, Alicia Markova, Anton Dolin,
Robert Helpmann, Shan-Kar, Martha Graham, Moira Shearer, Margot Fonteyn,
Ninette de Valois, and Frederick Ashton are only a few of the
celebrities

     (_cont’d on back flap_)

     (_cont’d from front flap_)

who shine and smoulder through these pages.

The fantastic financial and amorous intrigues that have split ballet
companies asunder come in for examination, as do the complicated
dealings of the strange “Col.” de Basil and his various Ballet Russe
enterprises; Lucia Chase and her Ballet Theatre; and the phenomenal
tours of the Sadler’s Wells companies.

Although the Impresario’s pen is sometimes cutting, it is also blessed
by an unfailing sense of humor and by his deep understanding that a
great artist seldom exists without a flamboyant temperament to match.

There are many beautiful illustrations--32 pages.


[Illustration: _Hermitage house inc._]

8 West 13 Street
New York, N. Y.




                           S. HUROK PRESENTS




                               S. HUROK

                              _Presents_


                      A MEMOIR OF THE DANCE WORLD

                              By S. Hurok


                    HERMITAGE HOUSE NEW YORK   1953


                     COPYRIGHT, 1953, BY S. HUROK
                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

     Published simultaneously in Canada by Geo. J. McLeod, Toronto

             Library of Congress Catalog Number: 53-11291

                      MANUFACTURED IN THE U.S.A.
             AMERICAN BOOK-STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK


                To
                The United States of America:
                Whose freedom I found as a youth;
                Which I cherish;
                And without which nothing that has
                    been accomplished in a lifetime
                    of endeavour could have come to pass




CONTENTS


 1. Prelude: How It All Began                                         11

 2. The Swan                                                          17

 3. Three Ladies: Not from the Maryinsky                              28

 4. Sextette                                                          47

 5. Three Ladies of the Maryinsky--and Others                         66

 6. Tristan and Isolde: Michel and Vera Fokine                        92

 7. Ballet Reborn in America: W. De Basil and his Ballets
     Russes De Monte Carlo                                           105

 8. Revolution and Counter-Revolution: Leonide Massine
     and the New Ballet Russe De Monte Carlo                         125

 9. What Price Originality? The Original Ballet Russe                138

10. The Best of Plans ... Ballet Theatre                             147

11. Indecisive Interlude: De Basil’s Farewell and a Pair of
      Classical Britons                                              183

12. Ballet Climax--Sadler’s Wells and After ...                      208

13. Epilogue: Unborn Tomorrow                                        310

    Index                                                            323




                           S. HUROK PRESENTS




1. Prelude: How It All Began


In the mid-forties, after the publication of my first book, a number of
people approached me with the idea of my doing another book dealing with
the dance and ballet organizations I had managed.

I did not feel the time was ripe for such a book. Moreover, had I
written it then, it would have been a different book, and would have
carried quite another burden. If it had been done at that time, it would
have been called _To Hell With Ballet!_

In the intervening period a good deal has happened in the world of
ballet. The pessimism that prompted the former title has given way on my
part to a more optimistic note. The reasons for this change of heart and
attitude will be apparent to the reader.

At any rate, this book had to be written. In the volume of memoirs that
appeared some seven years ago I made an unequivocal statement to that
effect, when I wrote: “There’s no doubt about it. Ballet is different.
Some day I am going to write a book about it.”

Here it is. It is a very personal account, dealing with dance and ballet
as I have seen it and known it. For thirty-four years I have not only
watched ballet, but have had a wide, first-hand experience of and
contact with most of the leading dance and ballet organizations of the
world. This book is written out of that experience.

Ballet on this continent has come a long way along the road since the
night I bowed silently over the expressive hand of Anna Pavlova as she
stood among the elephants in Charles B. Dillingham’s Hippodrome. I like
to think, with what I hope is a pardonable pride, that I have helped it
on its journey. It has given me greater pleasure than any of the
multifarious other activities of my managerial career. On that side of
the ledger lies the balance. It has also given me a generous share of
heartaches and headaches. But, if I had it all to do over again, there
is little I would have ordered otherwise.

Because of these things, I believe my point of view is wider than that
of the scholar, the critic, or the enthusiast. Ballet is glamourous. It
is technical and complex; an exacting science. It is also highly
emotional, on the stage, behind the scenes, and often away from the
theatre. Temperament is by no means confined to the dancing artists.

During the course of these close contacts with the dance, a mass of
material has accumulated; far too much for a single book. Therefore, I
am going to attempt to give a panorama of the high spots (and some of
the low spots, as well) of three-and-one-half decades of managing dance
attractions, together with impressions of those organizations and
personalities that have, individually and collectively, contributed to
make ballet what it is today.

With a book of this kind a good resolution is to set down nothing one
has not seen or heard for oneself. For the most part I shall try to
stick to that resolution. Whenever it becomes necessary to depart from
it, appropriate credit will be accorded. Without question there are
times when silence is the wiser part of narration, and undoubtedly there
will be times when, in these pages, silence may be regarded, I hope, as
an indication of wisdom. However, there are not likely to be many such
instances, since a devotion to candid avowal will compel the dropping of
the curtain for a few blank moments and raising it again at a more
satisfactory stage only to spare the feelings of others rather than
myself.

One of the questions I have asked myself is where and how did this
passionate interest in dance arise. I was, as almost every one knows,
born in Russia. Dance and music are a part of the Russian. Russia was
the home of a ballet that reached the highest perfection of its time: an
organization whose influence is felt wherever and whenever a ballet
slipper is donned. Yet, as a country lad, springing from an obscure
provincial town, brought up in my father’s village hardware business and
on his tobacco plantation, I am unable to boast of having been bowled
over, smitten, marked for life by being taken at a tender age to see
the Imperial Ballet. No such heaven-sent dispensation was mine. I was a
long-time American citizen before I saw ballet in Russia.

Nevertheless, I believe that the fact I was born in Russia not only
shaped my ends, but provided that divinity that changed a
common-or-garden-variety little boy into what I eventually became.
Consciously or unconsciously the Russian adores the artist, denies the
artist nothing. As a normal, healthy, small-town lad, in Pogar, deep in
the Ukraine, I sensed these things rather than understood them. For it
was in Pogar and Staradrube and Gomel, places of no importance, that I
not only came into contact with the Russian “adoration” of the artist;
but, something much more important, I drank in that love of music and
dance that has motivated the entire course of my life.

The Imperial Ballet was not a touring organization; and Pogar,
Staradrube and Gomel were far too unimportant and inconspicuous even to
be visited by vacationing stars on a holiday jaunt or barnstorming trip.
But the people of Pogar, Staradrube and Gomel sang and danced.

The people of Pogar (at most there might have been five thousand of
them) were a hard-working folk but they were a happy people, a
fun-loving people, when days work was done. Above all else they were a
hospitable people. Their chief source of livelihood was flax and
tobacco, a flourishing business in the surrounding countryside, which
served to provide the villagers with their means for life, since Pogar
was composed in the main of tradesmen and little supply houses which, in
turn, served the necessaries to the surrounding countryside.

Still fresh in my mind is the wonder of the changing seasons in Pogar,
always sharply contrasted, each with its joys, each having its tincture
of trouble. The joys remain, however; the troubles recede and vanish.
Winter and its long nights, with the long hauls through the snow to the
nearest railway station, forty frigid miles away: a two-day journey with
the sleighs; the bivouacked nights to rest the horses. I remember how
bitterly cold it was, as I lay in the sleigh or alternately sat beside
the driver, wrapped in heavy clothes and muffled to my eyes; how, in the
driving snow, horses and drivers would sometimes lose the road entirely,
and the time spent in retracing tracks until the posts and pine trees
marking what once had been the edges of the road were found. Then how,
with horses nearly exhausted and our spirits low, we would glimpse the
flickering of a light in the far distance, and, heading towards it,
would find a cluster of little peasant huts. Once arrived, we would
arouse these poor, simple people, sometimes from their beds, and would
be welcomed, not as strangers, but rather as old friends. I remember
how, in the dead of night, still full of sleep, they would prepare warm
food and hot tea; how they would insist on our taking their best and
warmest beds, those on the stove itself, while they would curl up in a
corner on the floor. Then, in the morning, after more hot tea and a
piping breakfast, horses fed and refreshed, they would send us on our
way with their blessing, stubbornly refusing to accept anything in the
way of payment for the night’s lodging.

This warm, human, generous hospitality of the Russian peasant has not
changed through devastation by war and pestilence. Neither Tsardom nor
Bolshevism could alter the basic humanity of the Russian people, who are
among the kindest and most hospitable on earth.

The winter nights in Pogar, when the snow ceased falling and the moon
shone on the tinselly scene, were filled with a magic and unforgettable
beauty. The Christmas feasting and festivities will remain with me
always. But the sharpest of all memories is the picture of the Easter
fun and frolic, preceded by the Carnival of Butter-Week. Spring had
come. It mattered little that Pogar’s unpaved roads were knee-deep in
mud; the sun was climbing to a greater warmth: that we knew. We knew the
days were drawing out. It was then that music and dance were greater,
keener pleasures than ever. Every one sang. All danced. Even the lame
and the halt tried to do a step or two.

We made the _Karavod_: dancing in a circle, singing the old,
time-honored songs. And there was an old resident, who lived along the
main roadway in a shabby little house set back from the lane itself, a
man who might have been any age at all--for he seemed ageless--who was a
_Skazatel_ of folk songs and stories. He narrated tales and sang stories
of the distant, remote past.

The village orchestra, come Easter time, tuned up out of doors. There
was always a violin and an accordion. That was basic; but if additional
musicians were free from their work, sometimes the orchestra was
augmented by a _balalaika_ or two, a guitar or a zither--a wonderful
combination--particularly when the contrabass player was at liberty.
They played, and we all sang, above all, we sang folk song after folk
song. Then we danced: polkas without end, and the _Crakoviak_; and the
hoppy, jumpy _Maiufess_, while the wonderful little band proceeded to
outdo itself with heartrending vibratos, tremulous tremolos, and
glissandos that rushed up and down all the octaves.

Spring merged into summer. The lilacs and the violets faded; but the
summer evenings were long and the change from day to night was slow and
imperceptible. It took the sun many hours to make up its mind to
disappear behind the horizon, and even then, after the edge of the
burning disk had been swallowed up by the edge of the Ukranian plain,
its scarlet, orange and pink memories still lingered fondly on the sky,
and on the surface of our little lake, as if it were reluctant to leave
our quiet land.

It was then the music rose again; the _balalaikas_ strummed, and I, as
poor a _balalaika_ player as ever there was, added tenuous chords to the
melodies. From the near distance came the sound of a boy singing to the
accompaniment of a wooden flute; and, as he momentarily ceased, from an
even greater distance came the thin wail of a shepherd’s pipe.

There was music at night, there was music in the morning. The people
sang and danced. The village lake, over which the setting sun loved to
linger, gave onto a little stream, hardly more than a brook. The tiny
brook sang on its journey, and the rivulets danced on to the Desna; from
there into the Sozh on its way to Gomel, down the Dnieper past the
ancient city of Kiev, en route to the Black Sea. And in all the towns
and villages it passed, I knew the people were singing and dancing.

This was something I sensed rather than knew. It was this background of
music and dance that was uppermost in my thoughts as I left Russia to
make my way, confused and uncertain as to ambition and direction.
Despite the impact of the sumptuousness of the bright new world that
greeted me on my arrival in America, I found a people who neither sang
nor danced. (I am not referring to the melodies of Tin-Pan Alley or the
turkey-trot.) I could not understand it. I was dismayed by it. I was
filled with a determination to help bring music and dance into their
lives; to make these things an important part of their very existence.

The story of the transition to America has been told. The transition was
motivated primarily by an overwhelming desire for freedom. In 1904 I
heard Maxim Gorky speak. Although it was six months later before I knew
who Maxim Gorky was, I have never forgotten what he said. Yet, moved as
I was by Gorky’s flaming utterance, it was Benjamin Franklin who became
my ideal.

It was some time during Russia’s fateful year of 1905 that, somehow, a
translation of _Poor Richard’s Almanack_ fell into my hands. Franklin’s
ideas of freedom to me symbolized America. There, I knew, was a freedom,
a liberty of spirit that could not be equalled.

Although I arrived at Castle Garden, New York, after a twenty-three day
voyage, in May, 1906, it was the fact that Philadelphia was the home of
Benjamin Franklin that drew me to that city to make it my first American
abiding place.

The evidence of these boyhood dreams of America has been proved by my
own experience.

My dream has become a reality.




2. The Swan


It was The Swan who determined my career in dance and ballet management.
Whatever my confused aspirations on arriving in America, the music and
dance I had imbibed at the folk fonts of Pogar remained with me.

I have told the story of the gradual clarification of those aspirations
in the tale of the march forward from Brooklyn’s Brownsville. The story
of Music for the Masses has become a part of the musical history of
America. I had two obsessions: music and dance. Music for the Masses had
become a reality. “The Hurok Audience,” as _The Morning Telegraph_
frequently called it, was the public to which, two decades later, _The
New York Times_ paid homage by asserting I had done more for music than
the phonograph.

Through the interesting and exciting days of presenting Chaliapine,
Schumann-Heink, Eugene Ysaye, Mischa Elman, Efrem Zimbalist, Tetrazzini,
Tito Ruffo, the question of the dance, my other obsession, and how to do
for it what I had succeeded in doing for music, was always in my mind.

It was then I met The Swan.

Anna Pavlova is a symbol of ballet in America; nay, throughout the
world. I knew that here in America were a people who loved the dance, if
they could but know it. The only way for them to know it, I felt, was to
expose them to it in the finest form of theatre dance: the ballet.

The position that ballet holds today in the affections of the American
public is the result of that exposure, coupled with a strongly
increasing enthusiasm that not only holds its devotees, but brings to it
a constantly growing new audience. But it was not always thus. Prior to
the advent to these shores of Anna Pavlova there was no continuous
development. America, to be sure, had had theatrical dancing
sporadically since the repeal of the anti-theatre act in 1789. But all
of it, imported from Europe, for the most part, had been by fits and
starts. From the time of the famous Fanny Ellsler’s triumphs in _La
Tarantule_ and _La Cracovienne_, in 1840-1842, until the arrival of Anna
Pavlova, in 1910, there was a long balletic drought, relieved only by
occasional showers.

America was not reluctant in its balletic demonstrations in the Fanny
Ellsler period, when the opportunities for appreciation were provided.
The American tour of the passionately dramatic Fanny Ellsler was made in
a delirium of enthusiasm. She was the guest of President Van Buren at
the White House, and during her Washington engagement, Congress
suspended its sittings on the days she danced. She was pelted with
flowers, and red carpets were unrolled and spread for her feet to pass
over. Even the water in which she washed her hands was preserved in
bottles, so it is said, and venerated as a sacred relic. Her delirious
_Cachucha_ caused forthright Americans to perform the European
balletomaniac rite of toasting her health in champagne drunk from her
own ballet shoes.

It is necessary now and then, I feel, to mark a time and place for
purposes of guidance. Therefore, I believe that the first appearance of
Anna Pavlova at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York on 28th
February, 1910 is a date to remember, since it may be said to mark the
beginning of the ballet era in our country.

That first visit was made possible by the generosity of a very great
American Maecenas, the late Otto H. Kahn, to whom the art world of
America owes an incalculable debt. The arrangement was for a season of
four weeks. Her success was instantaneous. Her like never had been seen.
The success was the more remarkable considering the circumstances of the
performance, facts not, perhaps, generally remembered. Giulio
Gatti-Cazzaza, the Italian director of the Metropolitan Opera House, was
not what might be called exactly sympathetic to Otto Kahn’s
determination to establish the Opera House on a better rounded scheme
than the then prevalent over-exploitation of Enrico Caruso. As an
Italian opera director, Gatti-Cazzaza was even less sympathetic to the
dance, and was, moreover, extremely dubious that Metropolitan audiences
would accept ballet, other than as an inconsequential _divertissement_
during the course of an opera. So opposed to dance was he, as a matter
of fact, that, although he eventually married Rosina Galli, the _prima
ballerina_ of the Metropolitan, he made her fight for ballet every inch
of the way and, on general operatic principle, opposed everything she
attempted to do for the dance.

Because of his “anti-dance” attitude, and in order to “play safe,” Gatti
ordained that Pavlova’s American debut be scheduled to follow a
performance of Massenet’s opera _Werther_. The Massenet opera being a
fairly long three-act work, its final curtain did not fall until past
eleven o’clock. By the time the stage was ready for the first American
appearance of Pavlova, it was close to eleven-thirty. The audience that
had remained largely out of curiosity rather than from any sense of
expectation left reluctantly at the end. The dancing they had seen was
like nothing ever shown before in the reasonably long history of the
Metropolitan. For her début Pavlova had chosen Delibes’ human-doll
ballet, _Coppélia_, giving her in the role of Swanilda a part in which
she excelled. The triumph was almost entirely Pavlova’s. The role of
Frantz allowed her partner, Mikhail Mordkin, little opportunity for
virtuoso display, the _corps de ballet_ seems to have been
undistinguished, and the Metropolitan conductor, Podesti, most certainly
was not a conductor for ballet, whatever else he might have been.

Altogether, in this first season, there were four performances of
_Coppélia_, and two of _Hungary_, a ballet composed by Alexandre
Glazounow. Additional works during a short tour that followed, and which
included Boston and Baltimore, were the Bacchanale from Glazounow’s _The
Seasons_, and _La Mort du Cygne_ (_The Dying Swan_), the miniature solo
ballet Michel Fokine had devised for her in 1905, which was to become
her symbol.

Such was the success, Pavlova returned for a full season in New York and
a subsequent tour the following autumn, bringing Mordkin’s adaptation of
_Giselle_, and another Mordkin work, _Azayae_.

It was six years later that The Swan floated into my life. In 1916,
Charles B. Dillingham, Broadway theatrical producer with a difference,
was the director of the Hippodrome, the unforgettable Sixth Avenue
institution. Dillingham was “different” for a number of reasons. He was
a theatre man of vision; the Hippodrome, with its fantastic and
colossal entertainments, if not his idea, was his triumph; he was
perhaps the only Broadway manager who had been offered the post of
business manager of the Metropolitan Opera Company, an offer he refused,
but he did accept a commission to make a complete survey of the
Metropolitan’s business affairs.

For years I had stood in awe of him.

In 1916, Dillingham engaged Pavlova to appear at the Hippodrome, with
her partner, Alexandre Volinine. Neither the auspices, the billing, nor
the setting could, by any stretch of the imagination, be termed ideal.
Dillingham’s Hippodrome bore the subtitle “The National Amusement
Institution of America,” an appellation as grandiose as the building
itself. The evening’s entertainment (plus daily matinees), of which The
Swan’s appearance was a part, was billed as “The Big Show, the Mammoth
Minstrels, and the Ice Ballet, The Merry Doll.”

Every night I was there in my favorite place at the back of the house. I
soon learned the time schedule. I could manage to miss the skaters, the
jugglers, the “mammoth” minstrels, the acrobats, the jumbo elephants. I
would arrive a few minutes before Pavlova’s entrance. I watched and
worshipped from afar. I had never met her. “Who was I,” I asked myself,
“to meet a divinity?”

One night, as the falling curtain cut her off from my view, a hand fell
on my shoulder. It was Dillingham, for whom my admiration remained but
my awe of him had decreased, since, by this time, we were both managers.
He looked at me with a little smile and said, “Come along, Sol. I’m
going back to her dressing-room.”

The long hoped for but never really expected moment had come. Long had I
rehearsed the speech I should make when and if this moment ever arrived.
Now the time was here and I was dumb. I could only look.

The Swan extended her hand as Dillingham presented me. She smiled. I
bent low over the world’s most expressive hand. At her suggestion the
three of us went to supper in the Palisades Amusement Park outdoor
restaurant, overlooking the Hudson and upper Manhattan.

I shall have a few things to say about Pavlova, the artist, about
Pavlova, the _ballerina_. Perhaps even more important is Pavlova, the
woman, Pavlova, the human being. These qualities came tumbling forth at
our first meeting. The impression was ineradicable. As she ate a
prodigious steak, as she laughed and talked, here was a sure and
certain indication of her insatiable love of life and its good things.
One of her tragedies, as I happen to know, is that fullness of life and
love were denied her.

I already have described this night in detail. I mention it again
because it sets a time and place: the beginnings of the realization of
the other part of my dream. I was already happily embarked on my avowed
purpose of bringing music to the masses. Although I may not have
realized it, that night when we first dined and talked and laughed, when
we rode the roller-coaster, and together danced the fox-trot at the
Palisades Amusement Park, was the beginning of my career in the world of
the dance.

During Pavlova’s Hippodrome engagement I doubt I missed a performance. I
also saw a good deal of her off stage. A close friendship was formed and
grew. Many suppers together, with Volinine, her partner, and Ivan
Clustine, her ballet-master.

In the years that followed there developed a long and unforgettable
association. Her first tour under my management, and large parts of
others, we made together; and not, I may say, entirely for business
reasons. Thus did I learn to know the real Anna Pavlova.

For those of a generation who know Pavlova only as a legend, there is a
large library of books about her as artist and dancer. As for myself, I
can only echo the opinion of J. L. Vaudoyer, the eminent French critic,
when he said: “Pavlova means to the dance, what a Racine is to poetry; a
Poussin to painting; a Gluck to music.”

At the time of the Pavlova tours, the state of balletic appreciation in
America was certainly not very high. Pioneering in ballet was hard,
slogging work for all concerned, from every point of view. The endless
travel was not only boring but fatiguing. It took all our joint and
several wits to overcome the former, a strong constitution to endure the
latter. Traveling conditions then were infinitely more primitive than
now, making the strain of constant touring all the greater. The reason
that Pavlova willingly endured these grinding tours year after year was
because, in my belief, she simply could not live without working. These
tours were not predicated upon any necessity. Twenty-five years of her
life, at least one-half of it, she spent on trains and ships. Aside from
Ivy House, in London, to which she made brief visits, hotel rooms were
almost her only home. There was no financial necessity for this.

Then, in addition to all the vicissitudes of travel under such
conditions, there persisted another aspect: the aesthetic inertia of
the public at the whistle-stops demanded every ounce and every facet of
audience persuasion.

Among certain latter-day critics there exists a tendency not so much to
belittle as to try to underrate Pavlova, the dancer, Pavlova, the
artist; to negate her very great achievement Many of these denigrators
never saw her; still fewer knew her. Let me, for the benefit of the
doubters and those readers of another generation who are in the same
predicament, try to sum her up as she was, in terms of today.

There exists a legend principally dealing with a certain intangible
quality she is said to have possessed. This legend is not exaggerated.
In any assessment of Anna Pavlova, her company, her productions, I ask
the reader to bear in mind that for twelve years she was the only ballet
pioneer regularly touring the country. She was the first to bring ballet
to hundreds of American communities. I should be the first to admit that
her stage productions, taken by and large, were less effective than are
those of today; but I ask you, at the same time, to bear in mind the
development of, and changes that have taken place in, the provincial
theatre in its progress from the gas-light age, and to try to compare
producing conditions as they were then, with the splendid auditoriums
and the modern equipment to be found in many places today. Compare, if
you will, the Broadway theatre productions of today with those of
thirty-five years ago.

Anna Pavlova was a firm believer in the “star” system, firmly entrenched
as she was in the unassailable position of the _prima ballerina
assoluta_. Her companies were always adequate. They were completely and
perfectly disciplined. They were at all times reflections of her own
directing and organizing ability. Always there were supporting dancers
of more than competence. Her partners are names to be honored and
remembered in ballet: Adolph Bolm, with whom she made her first tour
away from Imperial Russia and its Ballet: Mikhail Mordkin, Laurent
Novikoff, Alexandre Volinine, and Pierre Vladimiroff; the latter three,
one in the American mid-west, one in Paris, and one in New York, still
founts of technical knowledge and tradition for aspiring dancers.

In its time and place her repertoire was large and varied. Pavlova was
acquainting a great country with an art hitherto unknown. She was
bringing ballet to the masses. If there was more convention than
experiment in her programmes, it must be remembered that there did not
exist an audience even for convention, much less one ready for
experimentation. An audience had to be created.

It should be noted that at this time there did not exist as well, so far
as this continent was concerned, as there did in Europe, any body of
informed critical opinion. The newspapers of the wide open spaces did
not have a single dance critic. In these places dance was left to music
and theatre reporters in the better instances; to sports writers on less
fortunate occasions.

Conditions were not notably better in New York. Richard Aldrich, then
the music critic of _The New York Times_, was completely anti-dance, and
used the word “sacrilege” in connection with Pavlova and her
performances. More sympathetic attitudes were recorded later by W. J.
Henderson of _The Sun_, and by Deems Taylor. About the only New York
metropolitan critic with any real understanding of and appreciation for
the dance was that informed champion of the arts, Carl Van Vechten.

I have mentioned Pavlova’s title as _prima ballerina assoluta_. She held
it indisputably. In the hierarchy of ballet it is a three-fold title,
signifying honor, dignity, and the establishment of its holder in the
highest rank. With Pavlova it was all these things. But it was something
more. Hers was a unique position. She was the possessor of an absolute
perfection, a perfection achieved in the most difficult of all
schools--the school of tradition of the classical ballet. She possessed,
as an artist, the accumulated wisdom of a unique aesthetic language.
This language she uttered with a beauty and conviction greater than that
of her contemporaries.

Unlike certain _ballerinas_ of today, and one in particular who would
like ballet-lovers to regard her as the protégé, disciple, and
reincarnation of Pavlova rolled into one, Pavlova never indulged in
exhibitions of technical feats of remarkable virtuosity for the mere
sake of eliciting gasps from an audience. Hers was an exhibition of the
traditional school at its best, a school famed for its soundness. Her
balance was something almost incredible; but never was it used for
circus effects. There was in everything she did an exquisite lyricism,
and an incomparable grace. And I come once again to that intangible
quality of hers. Diaghileff, with whom her independent, individualistic
spirit could remain only a brief time, called her “ ... the greatest
_ballerina_ in the world. Like a Taglioni, she doesn’t dance, but
floats; of her, also, one might say she could walk over a cornfield
without breaking a stalk.” The distinguished playwright, John Van
Druten, years later, used a similar simile, when he described Pavlova’s
dancing “as the wind passing like a shadow over a field of wheat.”

Does it matter that Pavlova did not leave behind any examples of great
choreographic art? Is it of any lasting importance that her repertoire
was not studded with experiments, but rather was composed of sound,
well-made pieces, chiefly by her ballet-master, Ivan Clustine? Hers was
a highly personal art. The purity and nobility of her style compensated
and more than compensated for any production shortcomings. The important
thing she left behind is an ineffable spirit that inhabits every
performance of classical ballet, every classroom where classical ballet
is taught. As a dancer, no one had had a greater flexibility in styles,
a finer dramatic ability, a deeper sense of character, a wider range of
facial expressions. Let us not forget her successful excursions into the
Oriental dance, the Hindu, the dances of Japan.

Above and beyond all this, I like to remember the great humanity and
simplicity of Pavlova, the woman. I have seen all sides of her
character. There are those who could testify to a very human side. A
friend of mine, on being taken back stage at the Manhattan Opera House
in New York to meet Pavlova for the first time, was greeted by a
fusillade of ballet slippers being hurled with unerring aim, not at him,
but at the departing back of her husband, Victor Dandré, all to the
accompaniment of pungent Russian imprecations. Under the strain of
constant performance and rehearsal, she was human enough to be ill
tempered. It was quite possible for her to be completely unreasonable.

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.

One of these Ivy House parties in particular I remember vividly, for her
old friend, Féodor Chaliapine, that stupendous figure of the world of
the theatre who had played such an important part in my own life and
career, was, on this occasion, the life of the party. He was in a
gargantuan mood. He had already dined before he arrived at Ivy House. I
could imagine the dinner he had put away, for often his table abounded
with such delicacies as a large salmon, often a side of lamb, suckling
pigs, and tureens of _schchee_ and _borscht_. But despite this, he did
ample justice to Pavlova’s buffet and bar. His jokes and stories were
told to a spellbound audience. These were the rare occasions on which I
have seen this great musician, with his sombre, rather monkish face,
really relax.

This night Pavlova was equally animated, and Chaliapine and she vied
with each other in story-telling. I studied them both as I watched them.
Pavlova had told me of her own origins and first beginnings; about her
father, her mother, her childhood poverty. Here she sat, sprung from
such a humble start, the world’s greatest dancer, the chatelaine of a
beautiful and simple home, the entire world at her feet.

Facing her was another achievement, the poor boy of Kazan, who, in his
early life, suffered the pangs of hunger and misery which are the common
experience of the Russian poor. He had told me how, as a lad of
seventeen in the town of Kazan without a kopeck in his pocket, day after
day, he would walk through the streets and hungrily gaze into the
windows of the bakers’ shops with hopeless longing. “Hurok,” he had
said, “hunger is the most debasing of all suffering; it makes a man like
a beast, it humiliates him.”

One of the few serious stories he told that evening was of the time when
he and my childhood idol, Maxim Gorky, were working on the boats on the
Volga and had to improvise trousers out of two pairs of old wheat-sacks
which they tied round their waists. Gorky and Chaliapine were both from
Kazan and of the same age. Tonight, as the party wore on, Chaliapine
sang folk songs, gay songs, sad songs, ribald songs. Loving fine
raiment, tonight he had worn a tall gray top hat. When he arrived and we
had greeted him in the hallway, I caught him watching his reflection in
the long mirror and getting great satisfaction out of it. Now, as he
sang, he became a Tsar, and it was difficult to imagine that he had
never been anything but a great Tsar all his life.

The party waxed even gayer, the hour grew late. We were all sitting on
the floor: Pavlova, Chaliapine, his wife Masha, and the other guests.
Chaliapine had been gazing at Pavlova for some time. Suddenly he turned
and fixed his eyes on his wife appraisingly.

“Masha, my dear,” he said, after a long moment, “you don’t object to my
having a child by Annushka?”

Masha smiled tolerantly and quickly replied:

“Why don’t you ask her?”

Chaliapine, with all the dignity and solemnity of a Boris Godunoff, put
the question to Pavlova. Pavlova’s eyes fixed themselves on his, with
equal gravity.

“My dear Fedya,” she said, quite solemnly, “such matters are not
discussed in public.”

She paused, then added mischievously:

“Let us make an appointment. I am leaving for Paris in a day or two....
Perhaps I shall take you along with me....”

       *       *       *       *       *

In all the dance, Pavlova was my first love. It was from her I received
my strongest and most lasting impressions. She proved and realized my
dreams. To the Western World, and particularly to America, she brought a
new and stimulating form of art expression. She introduced standards, if
not ideas, that have had an almost revolutionary effect.

Anna Pavlova had everything, both as an artist and as a human being.




3. Three Ladies: Not From
the Maryinsky


A. _A NEGLECTED AMERICAN GENIUS--AND
HER “CHILDREN”_

Although my association with her was marked by a series of explosions
and an overall atmosphere of tragi-comedy, it is a source of pride to me
that I was able to number among my dance connections that neglected
American genius, Isadora Duncan.

It was Anna Pavlova who spurred my enthusiasm to bring Isadora to her
own country, in 1922, a fact accomplished only with considerable
difficulty, as those who have read my earlier volume of memoirs will
recollect.

Despite the fact they had little in common, Pavlova had a tremendous
respect for this tall American dancer, who abhorred ballet.

Genius is a dangerous word. Often it is bandied about carelessly and,
sometimes, indiscriminately. In the case of this long-limbed girl from
California it could not be applied more accurately or more precisely,
for she was a genius as a person as well as an artist. She brought to
Europe and to her own America, as well, a new aesthetic.

One of four children of a rebellious mother who divorced the father she
did not love, Isadora’s childhood was spent in a quasi-Bohemian
atmosphere in her native San Francisco, where her mother eked out a
dubious living by giving music lessons. Isadora was the youngest of the
four. Brother Augustin took to the theatre; Brother Raymond to long
hair, sandals, Greek robes, and asceticism; Sister Elizabeth eventually
took over Isadora’s Berlin School.

What started Isadora on the road of the dance may never be known;
although it is a well established fact that she danced as a child in San
Francisco, and early in her career traveled across the United States,
dancing her way, more or less, to New York. I am reasonably certain that
her dancing of that period bore little or no relation to that of her
later period. Her early works were, for the most part, innocuous little
pieces done to snippets of music by Romantic composers. Her triumphs
were in monumental works by Beethoven, Wagner, César Franck.

Her battle was for “freedom”: freedom in the dance; freedom in wearing
apparel; freedom for women; freedom for the body; freedom for the human
spirit. In the dance, ballet was to her a distortion of the human form.
Personally, I suspect the truth was that the strict discipline of ballet
was something to which Isadora could not submit. Inspiration was her
guiding force. She wore Greek draperies when she danced; her feet were
bare. Yet there are photographs of Isadora, taken in the later
’nineties, showing her wearing ballet slippers, and a costume in which
considerable lace is to be seen. It was Europe, I feel, that “freed” her
dance.

Isadora’s was a European triumph. In turn she conquered Germany,
Austria-Hungary, Russia, Greece. She was hailed and fêted. There was no
place in the American theatre for Isadora’s simplicity and utter
artlessness. It was in Budapest that the tide turned for her, thanks
particularly to an able manager, one Alexander Gross. While I never knew
Mr. Gross, I believe he fulfilled the true manager’s purpose and
function. Gross made an audience for a great artist, an audience where
one did not exist before, until, eventually, all Europe was her
audience.

I have said that inspiration was Isadora’s guide. She did, of course,
have theories of dance; but these theories were, for the most part,
expressed in vague and general, rather than in precise and particular,
terms. They can be summed up in a sentence. She believed that dance was
life: therefore, the expression of some inner impulse, or urge, or
inspiration. The source of this impulse she believed was centered in
the solar plexus. She also believed she was of tremendous importance.
Her own ideas of her own importance were, in my opinion, sometimes
inflated.

To her eternal credit it must be noted that she battled against sugary
music, against trivial themes, against artificiality of all sorts. When
her “inspiration” did not proceed directly from the solar plexus, she
found it in nature--in the waves of the sea and their rhythms, in the
simple process of the opening of a flower.

These frank and simple and desirable objectives, if they had been all,
would not have excited the tremendous opposition that was hers
throughout her lifetime. Nor did this opposition, I believe, spring
solely from her unconventional ideas on love and sex. Isadora insisted
on becoming a citizen of the world, a champion of the world’s less
fortunate, the underprivileged. In doing so she cleared the air of a lot
of nonsense and a lot of nineteenth century prudery which was by way of
being carried over into the twentieth.

In Europe, in each and every country she visited, she arrayed herself on
the side of the angels, i.e., the revolutionaries. The same is true in
her own country. She shocked her wealthy patrons with demonstrations of
her own particular brand of democracy.

There was an occasion, during one of her appearances at the Metropolitan
Opera House, when she walked with that especial Isadorian grace to the
footlights and gave the audience, with special reference to the
boxholders, the benefits of the following speech:

“Beethoven and Schubert,” she said, “were children of the people all
their lives. They were poor men and their great work was inspired by and
belongs to humanity. The people need great drama, music, dancing. We
went over to the East Side and gave a performance for nothing. What
happened? The people sat there transfixed, with tears rolling down their
cheeks. That is how they cared for it. Funds of life and poetry and art
are waiting to spring from the people of the East Side.... Build for
them a great amphitheatre, the only democratic form of theatre, where
everyone has an equal view, no boxes; no balconies.... Why don’t you
give art to the people who really need it? Great music should no longer
be kept for the delight of a handful of cultured people. It should be
given free to the masses. It is as necessary for them as air and bread.
Give it to them, for it is the spiritual wine of humanity.”

As for the ballet, she continued to have none of it. She once remarked:
“The old-fashioned waltz and mazurka are merely an expression of sickly
sentimentality and romance which our youth and our times have outgrown.
The minuet is but the expression of the unctuous servility of courtiers
at the time of Louis XIV and hooped skirts.”

Isadora’s European successes led to the establishment of schools of her
own, where her theories could be expounded and developed. The first of
these was in Berlin, and as her pupils, her “children,” developed, she
appeared with them. When she first went to Russia, the controversy she
stirred up has become a matter of ballet history; and it is a matter of
record that she influenced that father of the “romantic revolution” in
ballet, Michel Fokine.

Russia figured extensively in Isadora’s life, for she gave seasons
there, first in 1905, and again in 1907 and 1912. Then, revolutionary
that she was, she returned to the Soviet in 1921, established a school
there and, in 1922, married the “hooligan” poet, Sergei Essenin.
Throughout her life, Isadora had denounced marriage as an institution,
disavowed it, fought it, bore three children outside it, on the ground
that it existed only for the enslavement of woman.

There had been three Duncan seasons in America before I brought her, in
1922, for what proved to be her final visit to her native country. The
earlier American series were in 1908, when she danced with Walter
Damrosch and the New York Symphony Orchestra, at the Metropolitan Opera
House, prior to a tour; in 1911, when she again danced with Damrosch;
again in 1916, when she returned to California, early the next year,
after a twenty-two years’ absence. She also visited New York, briefly,
in 1915, impulsively renting a studio at Fourth Avenue and Twenty-third
Street, with the idea of establishing a school. It was during this brief
visit that she made history of a kind by suddenly improvising a dance to
the French national anthem at the Metropolitan Opera House.

As I have pointed out, enlightened dance criticism, so far as the
newspapers were concerned, in those days was almost non-existent. For
those readers who might be interested, however, there are available, in
the files of _The New York Times_, penetrating analyses of her
performances by the discerning Carl Van Vechten.

The story of Isadora’s intervening years is marked by light and shadow.
Hers was a life that could not long retain happiness within its grasp.
Snatches of happiness were hers in her brief association with England’s
greatly talented stage designer, that misunderstood genius of the
theatre, Gordon Craig, the son of Ellen Terry, by whom Isadora had a
child; and yet another child by the lover who was known only as
Lohengrin.

Her passionate love of children was touching. Never was it better
exemplified than by her several schools, her devotion to the girls and
her concern for them. Most of all was it apparent in her selflessness in
her attitude towards her own two children. It is not difficult to
imagine the depth of the tragedy for her when a car in which they were
riding on their way to Versailles toppled into the Seine, and the
children were drowned. A third child, her dream of comfort and
consolation, died at birth.

It was in an attempt to forget this last tragedy that she brought her
school to New York. That same Otto Kahn, who had made Pavlova’s first
visit to America possible, came to her rescue and footed the bills for a
four weeks’ season at the old Century Theatre, which stood in lower
Central Park West, where Brother Augustin held forth with Greek drama
and biblical verse, and Isadora and the “children” danced. The public
remained away. There was a press appeal for funds with which to
liquidate a $12,000 indebtedness and to provide funds with which to get
Isadora and the “children” to Italy. Another distinguished art patron,
the late Frank Vanderlip, and others came to the rescue with cash and
note endorsements. Thus, once again, Isadora put her native America
behind her in disgust. Her parting shot at the country of her birth was
a blast at Americans living and battening in luxury on their war profits
while Europe bled.

Her 1916-1917 visit to her home shores was no more auspicious than the
others. She danced, as I have said, at the Metropolitan Opera House.
Lover Lohengrin gave her a magnificent party following the performance,
a soirée that ended in an expensive and scandalous debácle. Isadora sold
her jewels piece by piece, and succeeded in establishing her school at
Long Beach. Quickly the money disappeared, and Gordon Selfridge, the
London equivalent of Marshall Field, paid her passage to London. The
“children,” now grown up into the “Isadorables,” remained behind to make
themselves American careers.

It was after Isadora’s departure for London, in 1917, that I undertook
to help the six “children” to attain their desires. They were a
half-dozen of the loveliest children imaginable.

For their American debut as an independent group, we first engaged
George Copeland, specialist in the works of contemporary French and
Spanish composers, and an artist of the first rank, and later, Beryl
Rubinstein, American composer and teacher, and until his recent death
director of the Cleveland Institute, as accompanists.

Smart New York had adopted the “Isadorables.” The fashionable magazines
had taken them up and had spread Dr. Arnold Genthe’s photographs of
Anna, Lysel, Gretl, Thérése, Erica, and Irma over their pages. Frank
Crowninshield championed them. During a hot June they sold out a
half-dozen performances in Carnegie Hall, which takes some doing at any
time of the year. Following a successful tour, I presented them at the
Metropolitan Opera House, this time with an orchestra.

The girls, charming, delightful, fresh, were a direct product of
Isadora, for which she used herself as model. Theirs was a reproduction
of Isadora’s art. One of them functions actively today, Maria Thérésa,
giving out a fine, strong, sturdy reflection of Isadora’s training and
ideas. Basically, as an individualist, Isadora was a solo artist. She
made no great effort to build up group dances into a series of linked
dances that result in some form of dance drama. Such mass dances as she
arranged were in imitation of the Greek chorus. Broken down into simple
elements, they were nothing more than lines of girls, all of whom
repeated the same simple movements. Her own creative gifts, which were
magnificent, found their expression in her solo dances, and it is in
this respect Maria Thérésa splendidly carries on.

It was in Germany that Isadora’s ideas made the deepest impression, and
any legacy she may have left finds its expression in the “free” school
that comes out of that country. If she had no abiding place, Berlin saw
more of her when she was at her best than any other country. It was
there that the term “goddess” was attached to her. Even the sick were
brought to see the performances of the _Göttliche Heilige_ Isadora in
order that they might be cured. The serious German writers were greatly
impressed. Isadora expressed it thus: “The weekly receptions at our
house in Victoria Strasse became the centre of artistic and literary
enthusiasm. Here took place many learned discussions on the dance as a
fine art; for the Germans take every art discussion most seriously, and
give the deepest consideration to it. My dance became the subject of
violent and even fiery debates. Whole columns constantly appeared in all
the papers, sometimes hailing me as a genius of a newly discovered art,
sometimes denouncing me as a destroyer of the real classic dance, i.e.,
the ballet.”

In _Impresario_ I have written about Isadora’s last American tour,
under my management, in all its more lurid aspects. In February, 1923,
she returned to France, and in 1924 went back to Russia with her
poet-husband, Essenin. Not long after, Essenin hanged himself to a hook
on the wall of his room in the Hotel Angleterre, in Leningrad. In 1927,
Isadora returned to Paris, and on 8th July gave her last concert at the
Théâtre Mogador.

Her last conversation with me in Paris was of the “children.” This time
she was referring to the pupils at her school in Russia. As I listened,
I could only feel that these “children” were to her but symbols of her
own two children wastefully drowned in the Seine. She wanted me to bring
her Russian “children” to America--a visit, as it were, of her own
spirit to her native land which had refused to accept her.

I promised.

In 1928, I was able to fulfill that promise by bringing fifteen of them,
chosen by Irma of the “Isadorables,” for a tour. Irma came with them,
presided over them; brought them back for a second tour. Irma now lives
quietly in the Connecticut countryside.

A twisting scarf, caught in the wheels of the car in which she was
riding, ended the earthly career of a misunderstood American genius. Was
the end deliberate? I only know she longed to die, she with the
passionate love for life.

A tremendous freedom-loving American, she may, I feel, be called the
first American dancer, in the sense that she brought a new style and a
new manner, away from the accepted form of ballet. I, for one, believe
that Isadora did more than any one else I know for the dance in America,
and received less gratitude and recognition for her contribution.

Now that she is dead, I feel for her exactly as I always felt. Though we
do not love our friends for one particular quality but as a whole, there
is usually an element which, while the friend is still with us,
especially appeals to us, and the memory of which we most cherish when
he or she is absent for a while or for ever. For me that element in
Isadora was and is the extreme gentleness hidden in her heart of hearts.
Those who knew her only as a combative spirit in the world of the dance
may be astonished at that statement. Yet I hold that gentleness to have
been absolutely fundamental in her character and that not a few of her
troubles were attributable to continuing and exasperating outrage of it.

There was a superficial side of her that may seem to contradict that
gentleness. She had exasperating eccentricities, stupid affectations.
Her childishness and capriciousness, her downright wilfulness could
drive me nearly to distraction. She could, and often did waste infinite
hours of my time, and her own and others’ money. She lacked discipline
in herself, her life, her work. She could have been less arbitrary in
many things, including her condemnation of ballet. On the other hand,
she had a quality of communication rare indeed in the theatre. Her
faults were, as I have said, superficialities. At base she was a
genuinely gentle person.

Just because she was gentle she could, her sympathy being aroused, exert
herself to an extraordinary degree and after no gentle fashion on behalf
of those things in which she believed, and of others, particularly
artists. For the same reason, she frequently could not properly exert
herself on her own behalf. She was weary (weary unto death at the last)
when that spring of gentleness, in which some of her best work had its
origin, failed her. Hers was an intellect, in my opinion, of wider
range, of sterner mettle, of tougher integrity, of more persistent
energy and of more imaginative quality than those of her detractors. I
hold because of Isadora’s innate gentleness, and the fact it was so
fundamental a thing in her, being exasperated both by the events of her
life and by her intellect’s persistent commentary upon those events, she
became towards the close so utterly weary and exhausted that any
capacity for a rational synthesis was lost. Hers was a romantic nature,
and a rational synthesis usually proceeds by the tenderness of the heart
working upon the intellect to urge upon it some suspension of judgment,
and not by the hardness of the intellect working upon the heart and
bidding it, in reason’s name, to cease expecting to find things other
and better than they are: the hearts of other humans more tender and
their heads one whit less dense.

A few words on what has been criticized by many as her “free living.”
Today an unthinking license prevails in many circles. If Isadora’s life
displayed “license” in this sense, it certainly was not an unthinking
“license.” Isadora strongly held theories about personal freedom of
thought and behavior and dared to act according to them. Those theories
may be wrong. That is a problem I have not here space to discuss. But
that, believing in those theories, Isadora acted upon them and did not
reserve them merely for academic discussion, I hold to her eternal
credit. That Isadora did others and herself damage in the process must
be admitted. But I have observed that many “conventional” persons do
others and themselves a great deal of damage without displaying a tithe
of Isadora’s integrity and courage, since they act crudely upon theories
in which they no longer in their heart of hearts believe, or contradict
their theories in captious action for lack of courage to discover new
theories. Let us not forget that “few know the use of life before ’tis
past.” Isadora died before she was fifty, endowed with a temperament
little calculated to make easy the paths of true wisdom, paths which, I
venture to suggest, often contradict the stereotyped notions of them
entertained by those who are unable or unwilling too closely to consider
the matter. To her personal tragedies must be added the depressing
influence of the unfathomable indifference of her countrymen to art and
artists and to herself.

I take it I have said enough to indicate that such “conventional”
solutions as may occur to some readers were inadmissible in Isadora’s
case, just as inadmissible in fact as they would be in a novel by
Dostoievsky. In any event, she paid to the end for any mistakes she may
have made, and it is not our duty to sit in judgment on her, whether one
theoretically disapproves of her use of what sometimes has been called
the “escape-road.” It is one’s duty to understand, and by understanding
to forgive.

I have heard it remarked that there was a streak of cruelty in Isadora.
Gentle natures of acute sensibility and strong intelligence, long
exasperated by indifference and opposition to what they hold of
sovereign importance in art and life, are apt to turn cruel and even
vindictive at times. I never witnessed her alleged cruelty or
vindictiveness to any one and I will not go on hearsay.

One of the great satisfactions of a long career in the world of dance is
that I was able to be of some service to this neglected genius. I can
think of no finer summation of her than the words of that strange, aloof
genius of the British theatre, Gordon Craig, when he wrote:

    “ ... She springs from the Great Race----
           From the line of Sovereigns, who
         Maintain the world and make it move,
           From the Courageous Giants,
           The Guardians of Beauty----
           The Solver of all Riddles.”


_B. COLORED LIGHTS AND FLUTTERING SCARVES_

It is a far cry from Isadora to another American dancer, whose
“children” I toured across America and back, in 1926.

Loie Fuller, “the lady with the scarf,” was at that period championed by
her friend, the late Queen Marie of Roumania, when that royal lady
embarked upon a lecture tour of the United States that same year. Loie
Fuller was loosely attached to the royal entourage.

“La Loie” had established a school in Paris, and wanted to exhibit the
prowess of her pupils. I was inveigled into bringing them quite as much
by Loie Fuller’s dynamic, active manager, Mrs. Bloch, as I was by the
aging dancer herself.

Loie Fuller was something of a phenomenon. Born in Chicago, in 1862, her
first fame was gained as a child temperance lecturer in the mid-west.
According to her biographers, she took some dancing lessons, but found
the lessons too difficult and abandoned them after a short time.
Switching to the study of voice, she gave up her youthful Carrie Nation
attacks on alcohol and obtained a singing part in a stage production. As
the story goes, while she was appearing in this stage role, a friend in
India made her a gift of a long scarf of very light weight silk. Playing
with her present, watching it float through the air with the greatest of
ease, she found her vocation. It was as simple as that.

Here was something new: a dance in which a great amount of fluttering
silk was kept aloft, the while upon it there constantly played
variegated lights, projected by what in the profession is known as a
“color-wheel,” a circular device containing various colored media,
rotated before an arc-lamp. Thus was born the _Serpentine Dance_.

Here was no struggle on the part of the artist to find her medium of
expression, no seeking for a new technique or slogging effort perfecting
an old one; no hours spent sweating at the _barre_; no heartache. Loie
Fuller was not concerned with steps, with style, with a unique and
individual quality of movement. Loie Fuller had a scarf. Loie Fuller had
an instantaneous success. Her career was made on the _Serpentine Dance_.
But she also had one other inspiration. A “sunrise” stage effect that
she used was mistaken by the audience as a dance of fire, as the light
rays touched her flowing scarves and draperies. “La Loie” was not one to
miss a chance. She gathered her electricians about her--for in the early
days of stage lighting with electricity nothing was impossible. The
revolving “light-wheels” were increased in number, as were the
spot-lights.

Since all this happened in Paris, Loie Fuller’s _Danse de Feu_ became to
France what the _Serpentine Dance_ had been to America. The French
adopted her as their own. Widely loved, she became “La Loie.” Her stage
arrangements were often startling; they could not always be called
dancing. The arms and feet of her “children” were always subordinated to
the movements of the draperies. So tricky was the business of the
draperies that it is said that none of her designers or seamstresses
were permitted to know more than a small part of their actual
construction.

Her imitators were many, with the result that, for a time, the musical
comedy stages of both Europe and America had an inundation of
illuminated dry goods. It was the “children” who kept “La Loie’s”
serpentine and fire dances alive.

When Loie Fuller suggested the American tour, the idea interested me
because of the novelty involved. It was, incidentally, my only
“incognito” tour. I accepted an invitation from Queen Marie of Roumania
to visit her at the Royal Palace in Bucharest to discuss the proposed
tour with Her Majesty and Loie Fuller, who was a close friend and
confidante of the Queen. The tour was in the interest of one of the
Queen’s pet charities and, moreover, it had diplomatic overtones.
Naturally, under the circumstances, no managerial auspices were credited
on the programmes.

In addition to the purely Loie Fuller characteristic numbers, the Loie
Fuller Dancers, on this tour, offered _Some Dance Scenes from the Fairy
Tale of Her Majesty Queen Marie’s_ “_The Lilly of Life_,” as _presented
at the Grand Opera, Paris_.

Apart from this, the “children” had all the old Loie Fuller tricks, and
a few new ones. Their dance vocabulary was far from extensive, but there
was a pleasant enough quality about it.

When I made the tour, in association with Queen Marie, the “children”
were, to put it kindly, on the mature side; and it took a great deal of
their dramatic, vital and dynamic managers drive to keep the silks
fluttering aloft. Mrs. Bloch was a remarkable woman, who had handled the
“children” for Loie Fuller a long time.

The tour of the Loie Fuller Dancers is not one of my proudest
achievements; but I know the gay colours, the changing lights brought
pleasure to many.

Years later, on a visit to Paris, I received a telephone call from Mrs.
Bloch, requesting an appointment. It was arranged for the following day.
At the appointed hour I went down to the foyer of the Hotel Meurice to
await her coming.

Some minutes later, I observed an elderly lady, supported by a cane,
enter and cross the foyer, walking slowly as the aged do, and using her
cane noticeably to assist her. I paid scant attention until, from where
I sat near the desk, I overheard her explaining to the _conciérge_ that
she had a “rendezvous” with Monsieur Hurok.

I simply did not recognize the human dynamo of 1926. A quarter of a
century had slipped by. Much of that time, she told me, she had spent in
Africa. Despite the change in her physical appearance, despite the toll
of the years, the flame still burned within her.

Her mission? To try to get me to bring the Loie Fuller Dancers to
America for another tour.

As I observed the changes that had taken place in their manager, I could
not help visualizing what twenty-five years must have done to the
“children.”


C. _A TEUTONIC PRIESTESS_

My dance associations in what I may call my “early middle” period led me
into excursions far afield from that form of dance expression which is
to me the most completely satisfying form of theatrical experience.

For the sake of the record, let us set the date of this period as 1930.
Surely there have been few in the history of the dance whose approach to
the medium was so foreign to and so different from the classical ballet,
where lie my deepest interests and my chief delight, than that Teutonic
priestess, Mary Wigman.

When I brought Wigman to America, shortly after the Great Crash, she was
no longer young. She had been born in Germany, in 1886, and could hardly
have been called a “baby ballerina.” Originally a pupil of Emile Jacques
Dalcroze, the father of Eurhythmics, whose pupils in a “demonstration”
had kindled Wigman’s interest in the dance, she did not remain long with
him. Dalcroze himself, at this stage, apparently had little interest in
dancing. However, he established certain methods which proved of
interest to certain gifted dancers. The Dalcroze basis was musical, and
his chief function was to foster a feeling for music in his pupils.
Music frustrated, handicapped, restricted her, Wigman felt.
Individualist that she was, she left her teacher in order to work out
her own dance destiny. There followed a period of some uncertainty on
her part, and, for a time, she became a pupil of the Hungarian teacher,
Rudolf von Laban, who laid down in pre-war Germany the foundations for
modern dance. Unlike Isadora Duncan, Laban had no aversion to ballet. As
a matter of fact, he liked much of it, was influenced by it; was
impressed by the Diaghileff Ballet, was friendly with Diaghileff, and
became an intimate of Michel Fokine. His later violent reaction from
ballet was certainly not based on lack of knowledge of it.

At the Laban school, Wigman collaborated with him, and having a streak
of choreographic genius, was able to put some of Laban’s theories into
practical form. However, Mary Wigman’s forceful personality was greater
than any school and, in 1919, she broke away from Laban, and formed a
school of her own. She abandoned what were to her the restricting
influences of formal music, as Isadora had abandoned clothing
restrictions. A dancer of tremendous power, like Isadora she had an
overwhelming personality. Again, like Isadora, all this had a tendency
to make her pupils only pale imitations of herself. Wigman’s public
career, a secondary matter with her, actually began in Dresden, in 1918,
with her _Seven Dances of Life_. Dresden was her temple. Here the
Teutonic Priestess of the Dance presided over her personal religion of
movement. German girls were joined by Americans. The disciples grew in
number and spread out through Germany like proselyting missionaries.
Wigman groups radiated the gospel until one found schools and factories
and societies turning out _en masse_ for “demonstrations” of the Wigman
method. I have said that Wigman found music a deterrent to her method.

On the other hand, one of the most important features of her “school”
was a serious, thorough, Germanic research into the question of what she
felt was the proper musical accompaniment for dance. Her pupils learned
to devise their own rhythmic accompaniment. In her show pieces, at any
rate, Wigman’s technique was to have the music for the dance composed
simultaneously with the creation of the dance movements--certainly a new
type of collaboration.

In addition to forming a “_schule_,” where great emphasis was laid on
“_spannungen_,” perhaps best explained as tensions and relaxations, she
also created a philosophical cult in that strange hot-house that was
pre-war Germany, with an intellectualized approach to sex.

I had known about her and her work long before I signed a contract with
her for the 1930-1931 season. Pavlova had talked to me about her and had
aroused my curiosity and interest; but I was unable to imagine what
might be America’s reaction to her. I was turning the idea over in my
mind, when there appeared at my office,--in those days in West
Forty-second Street, overlooking Bryant Park,--a young and earnest
enthusiast to plead her case. His name was John Martin.

In an earlier chapter I have pointed out the low estate of dance
criticism of that period. In its wisdom, the _New York Times_ had,
shortly before the period of which I now write, taken tentative steps to
correct this deficiency by creating a dance department on the paper,
with John Martin engaged to report the dance. Martin’s earnest and
special pleading on behalf of Mary Wigman moved me and, as always, eager
to experiment and present something new and fresh, I decided to cast the
die.

The effect of my first announcement of her coming was a bit
disconcerting. The first to react were the devotees. There was a
fanaticism about them that was disturbing. It is one thing to have a
handful of vociferous idolaters, and quite another to be able to fill
houses with paying customers night after night.

When I met Wigman at the pier on her arrival in New York, I greeted a
middle-aged muscular Amazon, a rather stuffy appearing Teutonic Amazon,
wearing a beaver coat of dubious age, and a hat that had seen better
days. But what struck me more forcibly than the plainness of her apparel
was the woman herself. She greeted me with a warm smile; her gray eyes
were large, frank, and widely set; and from beneath the venerable and
rather battered hat, fell a shock of thick, wavy brown hair. She spoke
softly, deeply, in a completely unaccented English with a British
intonation.

There was no ballet company with her, no ship-load of scenery,
properties and costumes. Her company was made up of two persons in
addition to herself: a lesser Amazon in the person of Meta Mens, who
presided over Wigman’s costumes--one trunk--and her percussion
instruments--tam-tams, Balinese gongs, and a fistful of reedy wind
instruments; the other, a lanky, pale-faced chap with hyper-thyroid
eyes, Hanns Hastings, who composed and played such music as Wigman used.

On the day before the opening, I gave a party at the Plaza Hotel as a
semi-official welcome on the part of our American dancers, among whom
were included that great pioneer of our native contemporary dance,
Martha Graham, together with Doris Humphrey, Charles Weidman, and, of
course, that champion of the modern dance, John Martin.

Much depended upon Wigman’s first New York performance. A tour had been
arranged, but not booked. There is a decided difference in the terms. In
the language of the theatre, a tour is not “booked” until the contracts
have been signed. The preliminary arrangements are called “pencilling
in.” The pencil notations are inked only when signatures are attached to
the contracts. If the New York _première_ fizzled, there would be no
inking. I had taken the Forty-sixth Street Theatre, and the publicity
campaign under the direction of my good friend, Gerald Goode, had been
under way for weeks.

It was a distinguished audience and a curious one that assembled in the
Forty-sixth Street Theatre for the opening performance. It was an
enthusiastic one that left at the end. I had gone back stage before the
curtain rose to wish Wigman well, but the priestess was unapproachable.
As she did before each performance, she entered the “silence.” Under no
circumstances did she permit any disturbance. She would arrive at the
theatre a long time before the scheduled time of the curtain’s rise,
and, in her darkened dressing-room, lie in a mystic trance. Later she
danced as one possessed.

If the opening night audience was enthusiastic, which it was, I am
equally sure some of its members were confused. At later performances,
as I stood in my customary position at the rear of the auditorium as the
public left the theatre, I was not infrequently pressed by questions.
These questions, however they may have been phrased, meant the same
thing. “What do the dances mean?” “What is she trying to say?” “What
does it all signify?” I am not easily embarrassed, as a rule. The
constant reiteration of this question, however, proved an exception.

For the benefit of a generation unfamiliar with the Wigman dance, I
should explain that her dances were, as she called them, “cycles.” In
other words, her performances consisted of groups of dances with an
alleged relationship: a relationship so difficult to discern, however,
that I suspect it must have existed only in Wigman’s mind. The one dance
that stands out most vividly in my mind is one she called _Monotonie_.
In _Monotonie_, Wigman stood in the dead center of the stage. Then she
whirled and whirled and whirled. As the whirling continued she was first
erect, then slowly crouching, slowly rising until she was erect again;
but always whirling, the while a puny four-note phrase was endlessly
repeated. Through a sort of self-hypnosis, her whirling had an hypnotic
effect on her. In a sort of mystic trance herself, Wigman succeeded, up
to a point, in inducing a similar reaction on her public.

But what did it mean? I did not know, but I was determined to find out.
Audience members, local managers, newspaper men were badgering me for an
answer. To any query that I put to Wigman, her deep-throated reply was
always the same:

“Oh, the meaning is too deep; I really can’t explain it.”

It was much later, during the course of the tour following the New York
season, that I arrived at the “meaning” of Wigman’s dances, and that
will be told in its proper place.

After the tumult and the shouting had died that opening night at the
Forty-fourth Street Theatre, I took Wigman to supper with some friends.
As we left the theatre together, Wigman was still in her trance; but, as
the food was served, she came out of it with glistening eyes and a
rapid-fire sort of highly literate chatter, in the manner of one sliding
back to earth from the upper world.

The party over and Wigman back in her hotel, I sat up to await the press
notices. They were splendid. No one dared describe her “meaning,” but
all were agreed that here was a dynamic force in dance that drove home
her “message.” The notice I awaited most eagerly was that of the _New
York Times_. The first City Edition did not carry it, something which I
attributed to the lateness of the final curtain. I waited for the Late
City Edition. Still not a line about Wigman. I simply could not
understand.

For years I had struggled to have the dance treated with respect by the
press. Through the Pavlova days I talked and tried to convert editors to
a realization of its importance. Any readers who are interested have
only to turn up the files of their local newspapers and read the
“reviews” of the period of the Pavlova and Diaghileff companies to find
that ballet, in most cases, was “covered” by disgruntled music critics,
who had been assigned, in many cases obviously against their wills, to
review. You would find that the average music critic either overtly
disliked ballet and had said so, or else treated it flippantly.

At the time of Wigman’s arrival in America, the ice had been broken, as
I have said, by the appointment of John Martin at the head of a
full-time dance department at the _New York Times_. Mary Watkins,
eager, enthusiastic, informed, was fulfilling a like function on the
_New York Herald-Tribune_. Thus dance criticism was on its way to
becoming professional; and the men and women of knowledge and taste and
discernment who criticize dance today, I cannot criticize. For I have
respect for the professional.

The _New York Times_ review of Wigman’s opening performance did not
appear. Since John Martin had urged me to bring Wigman to America, it
was the more baffling. Prior to Martin’s engagement by the _New York
Times_, that remarkable and beloved figure, William (“Bill”) Chase, for
so many years the editor of the music department of the _Times_ and
formerly the music critic of the _Sun_, and to the end of his life my
very good friend, had “reported” the dance. Since he insisted he knew
nothing about it, he never attempted to criticize it. I had frequently
suggested to “Bill” that the _Times_ should have a qualified person at
the head of a _bona fide_ dance department. Eventually John Martin was
engaged, and I am happy to have been able to play a part in the
beginnings of the change on the part of the American press.

I have mentioned that the change was gradual, for Martin’s articles at
first were unsigned and had no by-line. In the early days, Martin merely
reported on dance events. To be sure, at that time, there was little
enough to report. Then Leonide Massine was brought to the Roxy Theatre
by the late Samuel Rothapfel to stage weekly presentations of ballet;
and then there was something about which to write. Since then John
Martin has helped materially to spread the gospel of ballet and dance.

It was at approximately the Massine-Roxy stage of the dance criticism
development that I searched the _Times_ for the Wigman notice. Most of
the newspapers carried rave reviews, and because they did, I was the
more mystified, since in the _Times_ there was not so much as a mention
even that the event had taken place. However, out-of-town friends,
including the late Richard Copley, well-known concert manager,
telephoned me from New Jersey to congratulate me on the glowing review
they had read in the Suburban Edition, and read it to me over the
telephone. There were dozens of other calls from suburban communities to
the same effect.

I called the editorial department of the _Times_ to enquire about its
omission from the New York City edition. There was some delay, but
eventually I was informed that it would seem that the night city editor
had read John Martin’s story in the Suburban Edition, saw that it
carried no by-line, no signature; read its glowing and enthusiastic
account of the Wigman _première_; and because it was so fulsome in its
enthusiasm, assumed it was merely a piece of press-agent’s ballyhoo, and
forthwith pulled it out of all other editions.

Armed with this information, I proceeded to bombard the _Times_ with
protests. One of these was directly to the head of the editorial
department, whom I asked to reprint the notice that had been dropped. I
was rather summarily told I was not to try to dictate to the _Times_
what it should print. By now utterly exasperated, I got hold of my
friend “Bill” Chase, who drily counselled me to “keep my shirt on.”
Chase immediately went on a tour of investigation. He called me back to
tell me that the Board of Editors at their daily meeting had gone into
the matter but were unwilling to print the notice I had asked, since
they had been “scooped” by the other newspapers and it was, therefore,
no longer news: but, they had decided that, in the future, Martin would
have a by-line. Then Chase added, with that wry New England humour of
his for which he was famous, that, with the possession of a by-line, no
editor would dare “kill” a review. It might, of course, be cut for
space, but never “killed.”

The next Sunday the readers of the _New York Times_ read John Martin’s
notice of Mary Wigman’s first performance, and it was uncut. But it was
a paid advertisement, bearing, in bold-faced type, the heading: “_THE
NEWS THAT’S FIT TO REPRINT_.”

As a result of the New York _première_, the “pencilled” tour was
“inked,” and I traveled most of the tour with the Priestess. Newspaper
men continued to demand to know the “meaning” of her dances. Since
Wigman, most literate of dancers, refused any explanation, I made up my
own. I told a reporter that Wigman was continuing and developing the
work of Isadora Duncan. The reporter wrote his story. It was printed.
Wigman read it without comment. From then on, however, Wigman’s reply to
all queries on the subject was: “Where Isadora Duncan stopped, there I
began.”

The quickly “inked” tour was a success beyond any anticipations I had
had, and a second tour was booked and played with equal success. The
mistake I made was when I brought her back for a third season, and with
a group of her disciples. America would accept one Wigman; but twenty
husky, bulky Teutonic Amazons in bathing suits with skirts were more
than our public could take.

Moreover, the group was not typical of the Wigman “schule” at anything
like its best. As a matter of fact, it was a long way from the Teutonic
Priestess’s highest standards.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was after the war. Mrs. Hurok and I were paying our first post-war
visit to Switzerland, and stopped off at Zurich. My right-hand bower,
Mae Frohman, had come to Zurich to join us. We learned that Wigman was
there as well, giving master-classes in association with Harald
Kreutzberg. Our initial efforts to find her were not successful.

Mrs. Hurok, Miss Frohman and I were at dinner. We were unaware that
another diner in the same restaurant was Mary Wigman. It was Miss
Frohman who recognized her as she was leaving the room. Wigman had
changed. Time had taken its inevitable toll. The meeting was a touching
one. We all foregathered in the lounge for a talk. Things were not easy
for her; nor was conversation exactly smooth. Her Dresden “_schule_” had
been commandeered by the Nazis. She was now living in the Russian sector
of Germany. It had been very difficult for her to obtain permission from
the Russian authorities to come to Zurich for her master-classes. She
was obliged to return within a fixed period. She preferred not to talk
about the war. Conversation, as I have said, was not easy. But there are
things which do not require saying. My sympathies were aroused. The
great, strong personality could never be quite erased, nor could the
fine mind be utterly stultified.

I watched and remembered a great lady and a goodly artist. It is
gratifying to me to know that she is now resident in the American zone
of Berlin, and able to continue her classes.




4. Sextette


_A. A SPANISH GYPSY_

Such was the influence of The Swan on my approach to dance that,
although she was no longer in our midst, I found myself being guided
subconsciously by her direction. There were arrangements for a tour of
Pavlova and a small company, for the season 1931-1932, not under my
management. Death liquidated these arrangements. Had the tour been made,
Pavlova was to have numbered among her company the famous Spanish gypsy
dancer of the 1930’s, Vicente Escudero, one of the greatest Iberian
dancers of all time.

Pavlova had championed Duncan and Wigman. I had brought them. I
determined to bring Escudero to help round out the catholicity of my
dance presentations. Spanish dancing had always intrigued me, and I had
a soft spot for gypsies of all nationalities.

Escudero, who had been the partner of the ineffable Argentina, had
earned a reputation which, to understate, bordered on the picturesque.
Small, wiry, dark-skinned, with an aquiline nose, he wore his kinky,
glossy black hair long to cover a lack-lustre bald spot. He, like most
Spanish gypsies, claimed descent from the Moors, and there was about him
more of the Arab than the Indian. As I watched him I could understand
how he must have borne within him the stigma of the treatment Spain had
meted out to his people; for it was not until the nineteenth century
that the gypsies in Spain had any freedom at all. Until then, they were
pariahs, hounded by the people, hounded by the law. Only within the last
fifty-or-so years has the Spanish gypsy come into his own with the
universal acknowledgment of being a creative artist, the originator of a
highly individual and beautiful art.

Escudero was a Granada gypsy, a “_gitano_” from the white caves hollowed
out in the Sacred Mountain. I point this out in order to distinguish him
from his Sevillian cousins, the “_flamenco_.” His repertoire ranged
through the _Zapateado_, the _Soleares_, the _Alegrias_, the _Bulerias_,
the _Tango_, the _Zamba_. His special triumph was the _Farruca_.

It was on the 17th January, 1932, that I introduced Vicente Escudero to
New York audiences at the 46th Street Theatre, where Wigman had had her
triumph. A number of New York performances were given, followed by a
brief tour, which, in turn, was succeeded by a longer coast-to-coast
tour the following year. His company consisted of four besides himself:
a pianist, a guitarist; the fiery, shrewish Carmita, his favorite; and
the shy, gentle-voiced Carmela.

But it was Escudero’s sinister, communicative personality that drew and
held audiences. His gypsy arrogance shone in his eyes, in the audacious
tilt of his flat-brimmed hat, in his complete assurance; above all it
stood out in his strutting masculinity. Eschewing castanets, for gypsy
men consider their use effeminate, he moved sinuously but majestically,
with the clean heel rhythm and crackling fingers that marked him as the
outstanding gypsy dancer of his day and, quite possibly, of all time.
For accompaniment there was no symphony orchestra, only the hoarse
syncopation of a single guitar. Through half-parted lips shone the
gleaming ivory of small, perfectly matched teeth.

For two successful seasons I toured Escudero across America, spreading a
new and thrilling concept of the dance of Spain to excited audiences,
audiences that reached a tremendous crescendo of fervor at the climax of
his _Farruca_. No theatrical _Farruca_ this, but a feline, animal dance
straight from the ancient Spanish gypsy camp.

I had been forewarned to be on my guard. However, though his arrival in
America had been preceded by tall tales of his completely unmanageable
nature, Escudero proved to be one of the simplest, most tractable
artists I ever have handled. There was on his part an utter freedom from
the all too usual fits of “temperament,” a complete absence of the
hysterics sometimes indulged in--and all too often--by artists of lesser
talents. I happen to know, from other sources than Escudero, that he
took a dim view of American food, hotels, and the railway train
accommodations in the remoter parts of this great land. He never
complained to me. Escudero had his troubles with Carmita and Carmela, as
they vied with each other for position and his favors. But these
troubles never were brought to my official attention. Like the head of a
gypsy camp, he was the master. He ruled his little troupe and
distributed both favors and discipline.

In 1935, Escudero made his last American appearance, when I presented
the Continental Revue at the Little Theatre, now the New York Times
Hall. Among those appearing with Escudero in this typical European
entertainment were the French _chanteuse_, Lucienne Boyer, Mrs. Hurok,
Lydia Chaliapine, Rafael, together with that comic genius, Nikita
Balieff, as master of ceremonies.

Other and younger dancers of Spain continue to spread the gospel of the
Iberian dance. I venture to believe that, highly talented though many of
them are, I may say with incontrovertible truth, there has been only one
Escudero.


_B. A SWISS COMEDIAN_

In 1931, a slight, short Swiss girl named Trudi Schoop with the dual
talents of a dancer and a comedienne--a combination not too
common--organized a company in her native Switzerland. She named it the
Trudi Schoop Comic Ballet.

The Paris _Archives Internationales de la Danse_, formed in 1931 by Rolf
de Maré, the Swedish dance patron who was responsible for the Swedish
Ballet in the early ’twenties, in 1932 sponsored the first International
Choreographic Competition in Paris. The prize-winning work in this
initial competition was won by Kurt Joos for his now famous _The Green
Table_. The second prize went to this hitherto almost unknown Trudi
Schoop, for her comic creation, _Fridolin_.

In 1936, I brought her with her company for their first tour. Here again
was a fresh and new form of dance entertainment. Tiny, with a shock of
boyishly cut blonde hair, Trudi Schoop had the body of a young lad, and
a schoolboy’s face alternating impishness with the benign innocence of
the lad caught with sticky fingers and mouth streaked with jam.

Her repertoire consisted of theatre pieces rather than ballets in the
accepted sense of the term. Trudi herself was a clown in the sense
Charles Chaplin is a clown. Her range was tremendous. With a company
trained by her in her own medium of gentle satire, she was an immediate
success. Her productions had no décor, and there was a minimum of
costume. But there was a maximum of effective mime, of wit, of satire.
Her brother, Paul Schoop, was her composer, conductor, accompanist.

Trudi Schoop’s outstanding success was the prize-winning work,
_Fridolin_. Schoop was Fridolin; Fridolin was Schoop. Fridolin was an
innocent boy in a black Sunday suit and hat who stumbled and bumbled
through a world not necessarily the best of all possible, wringing peals
of laughter out of one catastrophe after another.

Other almost equally happy and successful works in her repertoire
included _Hurray for Love_; _The Blonde Marie_, the tale of a servant
girl who eventually becomes an operatic diva; and _Want Ads_, giving the
background behind those particularly humorous items that still appear
regularly in the “Agony Column” of _The Times_ (London); you know, the
sort of announcement that reads: “Honourable Lady (middle fifties) seeks
acquaintance: object matrimony.”

The critical fraternity dubbed her the “funniest girl in the world”; the
public adored her, and theatre folk made her their darling. Prior to the
outbreak of the war, I sent Trudi and her Swiss Comedians across
America. When, at last, war broke in all its fury, Schoop retired to her
native Switzerland and disbanded her company. She did not reassemble it
until 1946; and in 1947 I brought them over again for a long tour of the
United States and Canada. On this most recent of her tours, in addition
to her familiar repertoire, we made a departure by presenting an
evening-long work, in three acts, called _Barbara_. This was, so far as
I know, the first full-length work to be presented in dance form in many
cities and towns of the North American continent. Full length, of
course, in the sense that one work occupied a full evening for the
telling of its story. This is another form of dance pioneering in which
I am happy to have played a part.

Today Trudi Schoop, who has retired from the stage, lives with her
sister in Hollywood.


_C. A HINDU DEITY_

Back in 1924, in London, I had watched a young Hindu dancer with Pavlova
in her ballet, _Hindu Wedding_. I was struck by the quality of his
movement and by the simple beauty of the dance of India.

His name was Uday Shan-Kar. From Pavlova I learned that he was the son
of a Hindu producer of plays, that he had been trained by his father,
and had worked so successfully in collaboration with him in the
production of native Hindu mimed dramas that Pavlova had persuaded
Shan-Kar to return to London to assist her in the production of an
Indian ballet she had in mind, based on the Radna-Krishna legend.
Pavlova succeeded in persuading him to dance in the work as well.

Later I saw him at the Paris Colonial Exposition, where, with his
company which he had organized in India, he made a tremendous
impression, subsequently achieving equal triumphs in England,
Austria-Hungary, Germany and Switzerland. At the Paris Exposition I saw
long Hindu dramas, running for hours, beautifully and sumptuously
produced, but played with the greatest leisure. Since I am committed to
candor in this account of my life in the dance, I must admit that I saw
only parts of these danced dramas, took them in relays, for I must
confess mine is a nature that cannot remain immobile for long stretches
at a time before a theatre form as unfamiliar as the Indian was to me
then.

Gradually I came to know it, and I realized that in India formal mime
and dance are much more a part of the life of the people than they are
with us. With the Indian, dance is not only an entertainment, but a
highly stylised stage art; it plays an important part in religious
ritual; it is a genuinely communal experience.

As night after night I watched parts of these symbolic dance dramas of
Hindu mythology, fascinated by them, I searched for a formula whereby
they might be made palatable and understandable to American audiences. I
was certain that, as they were being danced in Paris, to music strange
and unfamiliar to Western ears, going on for hours on end, the American
public was not ready for them, and would not accept them.

I put the matter straight to Shan-Kar. I told him I wanted to bring him
and his art to America. He told me he wanted to come. Possessed of a
fine scholarship, a magnificent three-fold talent as producer,
choreographer, and dancer-musician, he also possessed to a remarkable
degree a sense of theatre showmanship and an intuition that enabled him
to grasp and quickly understand the space and time limitations of the
non-oriental theatre.

Shan-Kar’s association with Pavlova, together with his own fine
intelligence, made his transition from the dance theatre of the Orient
to an adaptation of it acceptable to the West a comparatively simple
task for him.

His success in America exceeded my most optimistic predictions. Until
the arrival of Shan-Kar, America had not been exposed to very much of
the dance of India. Twenty years before, the English woman known as
Roshanara had had a vogue in esoteric circles with her adaptations of
the dances of India and the East. On the other hand, the male dancing of
India was virtually unknown. As presented by Shan-Kar, this was revealed
in an expressive mime, with an emphasis on the enigmatic face, the flat
hand, using the upper part of the body as the chief medium of
expression, together with the unique use of the neck and shoulders, not
only for expression, but for accentuation of rhythm. New, also, to our
audiences were the spread knees, a type of movement exclusive to the
male Indian dancer.

Here was an art and an artist that seemingly had none of the
conventional elements of a popular success. About him and his
presentations there was nothing spectacular, nothing stunning, nothing
exciting. Colour was there, to be sure; but the dancing and the general
tone of the entertainment was all of a piece, on a single level,
soothing, and with that elusive, almost indefinable quality: the
serenity of the East.

Our associations, save for a brief period of mistrust on my part, have
always been pleasant. In addition to the original tour of 1932, I
brought him back in the season 1936-1937, and again in 1938-1939. The
war, of course, intervened, and I was unable to bring him again until
the season 1949-1950.

At the outbreak of the war, through the benefaction of the Elmhirst
Foundation of Dartington Hall, England, an activity organized by the
former Dorothy Straight, Shan-Kar was enabled to found a school for the
dance and a center for research into Hindu lore, which he set up in
Benares. One outcome of this research center was the production of a
motion picture film dealing with this lore.

After seeing many of the Eastern dances and dancers who have been
brought to Western Europe and the United States, I am convinced Uday
Shan-Kar is still the outstanding exponent. I hope to bring him again
for further tours, for I feel the more the American people are exposed
to his performances, the better we shall understand the fine and
delicate art of the East, and the East itself.


_D. A SPANISH LADY_

Although my taste for the dances of Spain had been whetted by my
association with Escudero, I had long wished to present to America the
artist whom I knew was the finest exponent of the feminine dance of the
Iberian peninsula. The task was by no means an easy one, for her first
American venture had been a fiasco. The lady from Spain was anything but
eager to risk another North American venture.

Her name was Encarnacion Lopez. But it was as Argentinita that she was
known to and loved by all lovers of the dance of Spain, and recognized
by them as its outstanding interpreter of our time. Her story will bear
re-telling. My enthusiasm, my utmost admiration for the Spanish dance,
and for the great art of Argentinita is something that is not easy for
me to express. Diaghileff is known to have said with that unequivocation
for which he was noted: “There are two schools of dancing: the Classic
Ballet, which is the foundation of all ballet; and the Spanish school.”

I would have put it differently by saying that Classic Ballet and the
Spanish school are the two types of dancing closest to my heart.

My first view of Argentinita was at New York’s Majestic Theatre, in
1931, when she made her American _début_ in Lew Leslie’s ill-fated
_International Revue_. This performance, coincidentally enough, also
brought forth for his first American appearance, the British dancer,
Anton Dolin, who later also came under my management and who, like
Argentinita, was to become a close personal friend. For Dolin, the
opening night of the _International Revue_ was certainly no very
conspicuous beginning; for Argentinita, however, it was definitely a sad
one. This charming, quiet-voiced lady of Spain knew that she was a great
artist. Thrust into the hurly-burly of an ineptly produced Broadway
revue, where all was shouting and screaming, Argentinita continued her
quiet way and, artist that she was, avoided shouting and screaming her
demands.

I was present at the opening performance. Although she was outwardly
calm, collected, restrained, I could sense the ordeal through which
Argentinita was going. In order to insure proper rhythmic support, she
had brought her own orchestra conductor from Spain. This gentleman was
able to speak little, if any, English. From where I sat I could see the
musicians poring over their parts and could hear them commenting to each
other about the music. Obviously the parts were in bad order and,
equally obviously, there had been little or no rehearsal; and, moreover,
it appeared the music was difficult to read at short notice.

It was one of those strange ironies of fate that ruined something that,
properly handled, should and would have been a triumph. Yet it was not
only the orchestra and the music that were at fault. Argentinita herself
was shockingly presented, if she can honestly be said to have been
presented at all. She made her entrance as a Spanish peasant, in a
Spanish peasant costume which, though correct in every detail, was
devoid of any effect of what the average audience thinks is Spanish. She
was asked to dance in a peasant scene against a fantastic set purporting
to be Spanish, surrounded by a bevy of Broadway showgirls in marvellous
exotic costumes, also purporting to be Iberian, with trains yards in
length, which were no more authentically Spanish, or meant to be, than
were those of the tango danced by that well-known ball-room dancing team
of Moss and Fontana, who came on later in the same scene.

Under such circumstances, success for Argentinita was out of the
question. So bitter was her disappointment that she left the cast and
the company two weeks after the opening. Later she gave a Sunday night
recital in her own repertoire, and although I set to work immediately to
persuade her that there was an audience for her in America, a great,
enthusiastic audience, such were her doubts that it took me six years to
do it. I knew she was a born star, for I recognized, shining in the
tawdry setting of this revue, a vivacious theatre personality.

When Argentinita finally returned to America, in 1938, under my
management, and made her appearance on 13th November of that year, at
the Majestic Theatre, on the same stage where, seven years before, she
had so utterly and tragically failed, this time to enthusiastic cheers
and a highly approving press, she admitted I had been correct in my
judgment and in my insistence that she return.

There is little point in recounting at this time her subsequent triumphs
all over America, for her hold on the public increased with each
appearance, and she is all too close to the memories of contemporary
dance lovers. I have said that Argentinita was a great artist. That will
bear repeating over and over again. Every gesture she made was feminine
and beautiful and, to my mind, she portrayed everything that was lovely
and most desirable. While her castanets may not actually have sung, they
spoke of many lovely things. Argentinita was a symbol of the womanhood
of Spain, warm, rich-blooded, wholesome, and I always felt certain there
were not enough hats in the world, least of all in Spain, to throw at
her feet to pay her the homage that was her due.

Argentinita was born of Spanish parents in Buenos Aires, in 1898, and
taken back to Spain by them when she was four years old. At that early
age she commenced her training in the Spanish dance in all its varied
forms and styles, for she was equally at home in the Spanish Classic
dance as she was in the Gypsy or Flamenco dances. Those who saw the poem
she could make from _las Soleares_ of Andulasia, the basic rhythm of all
Spanish gypsy dances, know how she gave them the magic of a magic land;
or the gay _Alegrias_, performed in the sinuous manner, rich with
contrasts of slow, soft, and energetic movements, with the
characteristic stamping, stomping, sole-tapping, clapping, and
finger-snapping. It was in the _Alegrias_ that Argentinita let her fancy
roam with the slow tempo of the music. The European dance analysts had
noted that here, as also at other times and places, Argentinita danced
to please herself. When the tempo quickened, her mood changed to one of
gaiety and abandon.

It is a difficult matter for me to pin down my memories of this splendid
artist and her work: _las Sevillianas_, the national dance of Seville,
danced by all classes and conditions of people, the Queen of Flamenco
dances; or the _Bulerias_, the most typical of all gypsy dances, light
and gay, the dance of the fiesta.

Argentinita was not only a dancer. She was an actress of the first
order. She had been a member of Martinez Sierra’s interesting and vital
creative theatre in Madrid. She sang _Chansons Populaires_ in a
curiously throaty, plaintive little voice that could, nevertheless, fill
the largest theatre, despite the cameo-like quality of her art, fill
even the Metropolitan Opera House, with the sound, the color, the
atmosphere of Spain.

Dancer of Spain that she was, her repertoire was not by any means
confined to the dance and music and life of the peoples of the Iberian
peninsula. She traveled far afield for her material, through the towns
and villages of South and Central America. Yet she was no mere copyist.
Works and ideas she found were transmuted into terms of the theatre by
means of a subtle alchemy. She had a deep knowledge of the entire
Spanish dance tradition, and knew it all, understood its wide historical
and regional changes. In her regional works, from Spanish folk to the
heart of the Andes, she kept the flavor of the original, but
personalized the dances. About them all was a fundamental honesty;
nothing was done for show. There were no heroics; no athleticism. In
addition to the _Alegrias_, _Sevillianas_, _Fandangos_, _Jotas_ of
Spain, the folk dances and folk songs of Brazil, Argentina, Peru, and
the remote places of Latin America and of its Indian villages were hers.
None who ever saw her do it can ever quite obliterate the memory of _El
Huayno_, implicit as it was with the stark dignity and nobility of the
Inca woman, and called by one critic, “the greatest dance of our
generation.”

I have a particularly fond memory of _On the Route to Seville_, in which
a smoothie from the city outwitted and outdid the gypsies in larceny;
and also I remember fondly that nostalgic picture of the Madrid of 1900,
which she called, simply enough, _In Old Madrid_.

As our association developed and continued, I was happy to be able to
extend the scope of her work and bring her from the solitary and
non-theatrical dance recital platform on which, one after the other,
from coast to coast, her journeys were a succession of triumphs, to the
stage of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. Here, with her own
ensemble, chief among which was her exceptionally talented sister, Pilar
Lopez, I placed them as guests with one ballet company or another--with
Leonide Massine in Manuel de Falla’s _The Three-Cornered Hat_ and in
_Capriccio Espangnol_, by Rimsky-Korsakoff, on the choreography of which
she collaborated with Massine.

In addition to these theatre adaptations of the dances of Spain, she
danced in her own dances, both solo and with Pilar Lopez. She trained
and developed excellent men, notably José Greco and Manolo Vargas. I am
especially happy in having been instrumental in bringing to the stage
two of her most interesting theatrical creations. One was the ballet she
staged to de Falla’s _El Amor Brujo_, which I produced for her. The
other was the Garcia Lorca _El Café de Chinitas_. Argentinita had been a
devoted friend of the martyred Loyalist poet, and to bring his work to
the American stage was a project close to her heart and a real labor of
love. Argentinita belonged to a close little circle of scholars, poets,
and composers, which included Martinez Sierra, Jacinto Benavente, and
the extraordinarily brilliant, genius-touched Garcia Lorca.

The production of _El Café de Chinitas_ was made possible during a
Spanish festival I gave, one spring, at the Metropolitan Opera House.
For this festival I engaged José Iturbi to conduct a large orchestra
composed of members of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Argentinita
had succeeded in interesting the Marquis de Cuevas in the project. For
_El Café de Chinitas_ the Marquis commissioned settings and costumes
from Salvador Dali. The result was one of the most effective and best
considered works for the theatre emanating from Dali’s brush. Dali, like
Argentinita, had been a friend of the martyred patriot-poet-composer.
His profounder emotions touched, Dali designed as effective a setting as
the Metropolitan Opera House has seen. The first of the two scenes was a
tremendously high wall on which hung literally hundreds of guitars, a
“graveyard of guitars,” as Dali phrased it; while the second scene, the
_Café de Chinitas_ itself, revealed the heroic torso of a female dancer
with her arms upstretched in what could be interpreted as an attitude of
the dance, or, if one chose, as a crucifixion. From where the hands held
the castanets there dripped blood, as though the hands had been pierced.
In terms of symbols, this was Dali’s representation of the crucifixion
of his country by hideous civil war. This was Argentinita’s last
production, and one of her happiest creations.

A victim of cancer, Argentinita died in New York on 24th September,
1945. I was at the hospital at the end, together with my friend and
hers, Anton Dolin. Her doctors had long prescribed complete rest for her
and special care. But her life was the dance, and stop she could not.
Heroically she ignored her illness. If there was one thing about her
more conspicuous than another, it was her tiny, dainty, slippered feet.
No longer will they dart delicately into the lovely positions on the
floor.

In Argentinita there was never either bitterness or unkindness to any
one. I have seen, at first hand, Argentinita’s encouragement and
unstinted help to others, and to lesser dancers. The success of others,
whether it was the artists in her own programmes, or elsewhere, was a
joy to her; nothing but the best was good enough. Her sister, Pilar
Lopez, who survives her and who today dances with great success in
Europe, carrying on her sister’s work, is a magnificent dancer. When
the two sisters danced together, everything that could be done to make
Pilar shine more brilliantly was done; and that, too, was the work of
Argentinita. Her loyalty to me was something of which I am very proud.

Above all, it was the dignity and charm of the woman that played a great
part in the superb image of the artist who was known as Argentinita.


_E. A TERPSICHOREAN ANTHROPOLOGIST_

The mixture of dance and song and anthropology, with a firm accent on
sex, that struck a new note in the dance theatre, hailed from Chicago.
Her name is Katherine Dunham. She is a dynamo of energy; she is elusive;
she is unpredictable. She is a quite superb combination of exoticism and
intellectuality.

Daughter of a French-Canadian and an American Negro, Katherine was born
in Joliet, Illinois, in 1914. Her theatrical experience has ranged from
art museums to night clubs, from Broadway to London’s West End, to the
_Théâtre des Champs Elysées_ in Paris, to European triumphs. Her early
life was spent and her first dancing was done in Chicago. She flashed
across the American entertainment world comet-like. More recently she
has confined her activities almost exclusively to England and Europe.

I had no part in her beginnings. By the time I undertook to manage her,
she had assembled her own company of Negro dancers and had oscillated
between the rarefied atmosphere of women’s clubs and concert halls, on
the one hand, to night clubs and road houses, on the other. The
atmosphere of the latter was both smoky and rowdy. Katherine Dunham, I
suspect, is something of a split personality, so far as her art is
concerned. Possessor of a fine mind, it would seem to have been one
frequently in turmoil. On the one side, there is a keen intellectual
side to it, evidenced by both a Bachelor of Philosophy and a Master of
Arts degree from the University of Chicago, two Rosenwald Fellowships,
and a Rockefeller Fellowship. Her Masters degree is in anthropology.
These studies she pursued, as I have said, on the one hand. On the
other, she studied and practiced the dance with an equal fierceness.

Her intellectual pursuits have been concerned, for the most part, with
anthropological researches into the Negro dance. Her first choreographic
venture was her collaboration with Ruth Page, in Chicago, in _La
Guiablesse_, a ballet on a Martinique theme, with a score based on
Martinique folk melodies by the American composer, William Grant Still,
a work with an all-Negro cast, seen both at the Century of Progress
Exhibition and the Chicago Opera House, in 1933. Dunham became active in
the Federal Dance Theatre, and its Chicago director. It was when she was
doing the dances for the International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union
depression-time revue, _Pins and Needles_, that she tried a Sunday dance
concert in New York at the Forty-eighth Street Theatre. So successful
was it that it was repeated every Sunday for three months.

Turning to the theatre, she added acting and singing to dancing and
choreography, both on the stage and in films, appearing as both actress
and singer in _Cabin in the Sky_. She intrigued me, both by the quality
of her work, her exoticism, and her loyalty to her little troupe, for
the members of which she felt herself responsible. I first met her while
she was appearing at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, in San Francisco. She was
closing her engagement. She was down and out, trying to keep her group
together. I arranged for an audition and, after seeing her with her
group, undertook to see what could be done. Present with me at this
audition were Agnes de Mille, then in San Francisco rehearsing with the
Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo what was to become her first choreographic
triumph, _Rodeo_, together with Alexandra Danilova and Frederick
Franklin.

My idea in taking over her management was to try to help her transform
her concert pieces into revue material, suitable not only to the
country’s concert halls, but also to the theatre of Broadway and those
road theatres that were becoming increasingly unoccupied because of the
paucity of productions to keep them open. Certain purely theatrical
elements were added, including some singers, one of them being a Cuban
tenor; and, to supplement her native percussion players, a jazz group,
recruited from veterans of the famous “Dixieland Band.”

We called the entertainment the _Tropical Revue_. The _Tropical Revue_
was an immediate success at the Martin Beck Theatre in New York and,
thanks to some quick work, I was able to secure additional time at the
theatre and to extend the run to six weeks. This set up some sort of
record for an entertainment of the kind. As an entertainment form it
rested somewhere between revue and recital. Miss Dunham herself had
three outstanding numbers. These were her own impressions of what she
called different “hot” styles. These were responsible for some of the
heat that brought on the sizzling of the scenery to which the critics
referred. The first of her numbers was _Bahiana_, a limpid and languid
impression of Brazil; then _Shore Excursion_, a contrasting piece, fast,
hot, tough, and Cuban. The third was _Barrelhouse_, an old stand-by of
hers, straight out of Chicago’s Jungletown.

_Tropical Revue_, during its two years under my management, was in an
almost perpetual state of flux. It was revised and revised, and revised
again. As the tours proceeded, Dunham did less and less dancing and more
and more impersonation. But while her “bumps” grew more discreet, there
was no lessening of the heat. Dunham’s choreography was best in
theatricalized West Indian and Latin American folk dances, some of which
approached full-scale ballets. The best of these, in my opinion, was
_L’Ag’ya_, a three-scened work, Martinique at core, the high light of
which was the “_ag’ya_,” a kicking dance. Here she was able to put to
excellent use authentic Afro-Caribbean steps, and in the overall
choreographic style, I would not feel it unfair to say that Dunham’s
style had been considerably influenced by the Chicago choreographer and
dancer, Ruth Page, with whom Dunham had collaborated early in her
career.

It did not take me long to discover the public was more interested in
sizzling scenery than it was in anthropology, at least in the theatre.
Since the _Tropical Revue_ was fairly highly budgeted, it was necessary
for us, in order to attract the public, to emphasize sex over
anthropology. Dunham, with a shrewd eye to publicity, oscillated between
emphasis first on one and then on the other; her fingers were in
everything. In addition to running the company, dancing, singing,
revising, she lectured, carried on an unending correspondence by letter
and by wire, entertained lavishly, and added considerably, I am sure, to
the profits of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company. Columns
were written about her, and fulsome essays, a good deal of which was
balderdash.

The handling of this tour presented its own special set of problems. Not
the least of these was the constantly recurring one of housing. We have
come a long way in the United States in disposing of Jim Crow; but there
is still a great deal to be done. Hotel accommodations for the artists
of the _Tropical Revue_ were a continual source of worry. One Pacific
Coast city was impossible. When, after days of fruitless searching, our
representative thought he had been able to install them in a neighboring
town, the Chinese owner of the hotel, on learning his guests were not
white, canceled the reservations.

A certain midwestern city was another trouble spot, where, in one of the
city’s leading hostelries, the employees threatened to strike because of
the presence there of some of the principal artists. This was averted by
some quick work on the part of our staff. It should be noted, too, that
these unfortunate difficulties were all in cities north of what we hoped
was the non-existent Mason and Dixon Line.

Miss Dunham, quite naturally, was disturbed and exercised by this
discrimination. In order to avoid this kind of unpleasantness, I had
tried to restrict the bookings to northern cities. However, it became
necessary to play an engagement in a southern border city. The results
were not happy. At the time of making the booking, I did not realize
that in this border state segregation was practiced in its Municipal
Auditorium.

The house was sold out on the opening night. Owing to wartime
transportation difficulties, the company was late in arriving. Just
before the delayed curtain’s rise, Miss Dunham requested four seats for
some of her local friends. She was asked by the manager of the
Auditorium if they were colored. Miss Dunham replied that they were;
whereupon the manager offered to place chairs for them in the balcony,
since colored persons were not permitted in the orchestra stalls. Miss
Dunham protested, and objected to her friends being seated other than in
the orchestra. The fact was there were no seats available in the stalls,
since the house was sold out. However, had it not been for the
segregation rule, four extra chairs could have been placed in the boxes.

The performance was enthusiastically received, with repeated curtain
calls at its close. Miss Dunham responded with a speech. She thanked the
audience for its appreciation and its warm response. Then, smarting
under the accumulated pressures of discrimination throughout the tour,
climaxed by the incident involving her friends, she paused, and added:
“This is good-bye. I shall not appear here again until people like me
can sit with people like you. Good-bye, and God bless you--and you may
need it.”

While there was no overt hostile demonstration in the theatre, there
were those who felt Miss Dunham’s closing words implied a threat. The
press, ever alert to scent a scandal, demanded a statement about my
attitude on segregation in theatres, and to know if I approved of
artists under my management threatening audiences. It was one of those
rare times when, for some reason, I could not be reached by telephone.
Faced with the necessity of making some sort of statement, my
representative issued one to the effect that Mr. Hurok deplored and was
unalterably opposed to discrimination of any kind anywhere; but that, as
a law-abiding citizen, however much he deplored such regulations, he was
bound to conform to the laws and regulations obtaining in those
communities and theatres where he was contractually obliged to have his
attractions appear. But I have taken care never again to submit artists
to any possible indignities, if there is any way of avoiding it.

I shall relate a last example of the sort of difficulties that arose on
this tour and, to my mind, it is the most stupid of them all, if there
can be said to be degrees of stupidity in such matters.

In addition to the large orchestra of conventional instruments we
carried, Miss Dunham had four Guatemalan percussionists who dramatically
beat out the Caribbean rhythms on a wide assortment of gourds, tam-tams,
and other native drums, both with the orchestra and in several scenes on
the stage.

It happened in a northern city. The head of the musicians’ union local
demanded to know if there were any “niggers” in our orchestra. My
representative, who feels very strongly about such matters and who
resents the term used by the local union president, replied that he did
not understand the question. All members of the orchestra, he said, were
members of the American Federation of Musicians, and had played as a
unit across the entire country, and such a question had never arisen.
The local union official thereupon tersely informed him the colored
players would not be permitted to play with the other musicians in the
orchestra pit in that city; if they attempted to do so, he would forbid
the white players to play. My representative, refusing to bow to such an
ukase, appealed to the head office of the Musicians’ Union, in
Chicago--only to be informed by them that, however much headquarters
disapproved of and deplored the situation, each union local was
autonomous in its local rulings and there was nothing they could do.

Now comes the irony of the situation. My representative, on visiting the
theatre, saw that the stage boxes abutted the orchestra pit on the same
level with it “Why not place the percussionists there?” he thought. He
proposed this to the union official, and was informed that this would be
permitted, “so long as there is a railing between the white players and
the black.”

It was only later, on thumbing through the local telephone directory, my
representative discovered there were two musicians’ locals there. One
of them was listed with the word “colored” after it, in parenthesis.

Yes, we still have a long road ahead in the matter of fair employment
practices and equal opportunities for all.

Having had a satisfying taste of the theatre, Miss Dunham eventually
turned to it as her exclusive medium of expression, and branched out
into a full-fledged theatre piece, with plot and all, called _Carib
Song_, which, transmuted into _Caribbean Rhapsody_, proved more
successful on the other side of the Atlantic than it did in the States.

My association with Katherine Dunham seemed to satisfy, at least for the
moment, my taste for the exotic. I cannot say it added much to my
knowledge of anthropology, but it broadened my experience of human
nature.

I presented Katherine Dunham and her company in Buenos Aires and
throughout South America during the season 1949-1950 when our
association came to an end. In her artistic career Katherine Dunham has
been greatly aided by the advice and by the practical help, in scenic
and costume design, of her husband, the talented American painter and
designer, John Pratt.

While the scope of Katherine Dunham’s dancing and choreography may be
limited by her anthropological bias, she has a first-rate quality of
showmanship. She has studied, revived, rearranged for the theatre
primitive dances and creole dances, which are in that borderland that is
somewhere at the meeting point of African and Western culture.
Anthropology aside and for the moment forgotten, she is a striking
entertainer.


F. _AN AMERICAN GENIUS_

It may well be that, considered as an individual, the American Martha
Graham is one of the greatest dance celebrities in the United States.
There are those who contend she is the greatest. She is certainly the
most controversial. There seems to be no middle school of thought
concerning her. One of them bursts forth with an enthusiasm amounting
almost to idolatry. The other shouts its negatives quite as forcibly.

My first love and my greatest interest is ballet. However, that love and
that interest do not obscure for me all other forms of dance, as my
managerial career shows. Having presented prophets and disciples of
what, for want of a more accurate term, is called the “free” dance, in
the persons of Isadora Duncan and her “children” and Mary Wigman, I
welcomed the opportunity to present the American High Priestess of the
contemporary dance.

This product of a long line of New England forbears was a woman past
fifty when she came under my management. Yet she was at the height of
her powers, in the full bloom of the immense artistic accomplishment
that is hers, a dancer of amazing skill, a choreographer of striking
originality, an actress of tremendous power.

The first and by far the most important prophet of the contemporary
dance, Martha Graham was originally trained in the Ruth St. Denis-Ted
Shawn tradition. A quarter of a century ago, however, she broke away
from that tradition and introduced into her works a quality of social
significance and protest. As I think over her choreographic product, it
seems to me that, in general--and this is a case where I must
generalize--her work has exhibited what may be described as two major
trends. One has been in the direction of fundamental social conflicts;
the other, towards psychological abstraction and a vague mysticism.

About all her work is an austerity, stark and lean; yet this cold
austerity in her creations is always presented by means of a brilliant
technique and with an intense dramatic power. I made it a point for
years to see as many of her recital programmes as I could, and I was
never sure what I was going to see. Each time there seemed to me to be a
new style and a new technique. She was constantly experimenting and
while, often, the experiments did not quite come off, she always excited
me, if I did not always understand what she was trying to say.

I have the greatest admiration for Martha Graham and for what she has
done. She has championed the cause of the American composer by having
works commissioned, while she has, at the same time, championed the
cause of free movement and originality in the dance. Yet, so violent, so
distorted, so obscure, and sometimes so oppressive do I find some of her
works that I am baffled. It is these qualities, coupled with the
complete introspection in which her works are steeped, that make it so
extremely difficult to attract the public in sufficient numbers to make
touring worthwhile or New York seasons financially possible without some
sort of subsidy. I shall have something to say, later on in this book,
on this whole question of subsidy of the arts. Meanwhile, Martha Graham
has chosen a lonely road, and the introspectiveness of her work does not
make it any less so. The more’s the pity, for here is a great artist of
the first rank.

Martha Graham completed my triptych of modern dancers, commencing with
Isadora Duncan and continuing with Mary Wigman as its center piece. In
many respects, Martha Graham is by far the greatest of the three; yet,
to me, she is lacking in a quality that made the dances of Isadora
Duncan so compelling. It is difficult to define that quality.
Negatively, it may be that it is this very introspection. Perhaps it is
that Martha Graham is no modernist at all.

Modernism in dance, I feel, has become very provincial, for it would
seem that every one and her sister is a modernist. Isadora was a
modernist. Fokine was a modernist. Mary Wigman was a modernist. Today,
we have Balanchine and Robbins, modernists. Scratch a choreographer,
scrape a dancer ever so lightly, and you will find a modernist. It is
all very, very provincial.

Much of what is to me the real beauty of the dance--the lyric line, the
unbroken phrase, the sequential pattern of the dance itself--has, in the
name of modernism, been chopped up and broken.

Martha Graham, of all the practitioners of the “free” dance, troubles me
least in this respect. Many of her works look like ballets. Yet, at the
same time, she disturbs me; never soothes me; and, since I have
dedicated myself in this book to candor, I shall admit I can take my
dance without too much over-intellectualization. Yet, in retrospect, I
find there are few ballets that have so much concentrated excitement as
Martha Graham’s _Deaths and Entrances_.

The choreography, the dancing, the art of Martha Graham are greatly
appreciated by a devoted but limited public. The lamentable thing about
it to me is that it so limited. She has chosen the road of the solitary
and lonely experimenter. Martha Graham, of all the dancers I have known,
is, I believe, the most single-purposed, the most fanatical in her
devotion to an idea and an ideal. About her and everything she does is
an extraordinary integrity, a consummate honesty. Generous to a fault,
Martha Graham always has something good to say about the work of others,
and she possesses a keen appreciation of all forms of the dance. The
high position she so indisputably holds has been attained, as I happen
to know, only through great privation and hardship, often in the face of
cruel and harsh ridicule. Her remarkable technique could only have been
acquired at the expense of sheer physical exhaustion. In the history of
the dance her name will ever remain at the head of the pioneers.




5. Three Ladies of the Maryinsky--And
Others


Up to now I have dealt with those artists of the dance whose forms of
dance expression were either modern, free, or exotic. All had been, at
one time or another, under my management. The rest of this candid avowal
will be devoted to that form of theatrical dance known as ballet. Since
I regard ballet as the most satisfactory and satisfying form of
civilized entertainment, ballet will occupy the major portion of the
book. Nearly two full decades of my career as impresario have been
devoted to it.

For a long time I have been alternately irritated and bored by an almost
endless stream of gossip about ballet, and by that outpouring of
frequently cheap and sometimes incredible nonsense that has been
published about ballet and its artists. Surprisingly, perhaps,
comparatively little of this has come from press agents; the press
agents have, in the main--exceptions only going to prove the rule, in
this case--been ladies and gentlemen of taste and discretion, and they
have publicized ballet legitimately as the great art it is, and, at the
same time, have given of their talents to help make it the highly
popular art it is.

But there has been a plethora of tripe in the public prints about
ballet, supplied by hacks, blind hero-worshippers, self-abasing
sycophants, and producers. The last are quite as vocal as any of the
others. They are not, of course, “producers.” They call themselves
either “managers” or “managing-directors.” I shall have something to
say, later on, about this phase of their work. They talk, give
interviews, often of quite incredible stupidity; and, instead of being
managers, are masters of mismanagement. All are, in one degree or
another, would-be Diaghileffs. They all suffer from a serious disease: a
sort of chronic Diaghileffitis, which is spasmodically acute. If
anything I can say or point out in this book can help, as it were, to
add a third dimension to the rather flat pictures of ballet companies
and ballet personalities, creative, interpretive, executive, that have
been offered to the public, I shall be glad. For ballet is a great art,
and my last thought would be to wish to denigrate, debunk, or disparage
any one.

While “the whole truth” cannot always be told for reasons that should be
obvious, I shall try to tell “nothing but the truth.”

The ballet we have today, however far afield it may wander in its
experimentation, in its “novelties,” stems from a profoundly classical
base. That base, emerging from Italy and France, found its full
flowering in the Imperial Theatres of Russia.

I cannot go on with my story of my experiences with ballet on the
American continent without paying a passing tribute to the Ladies of the
Maryinsky (and some of the Gentlemen, as well), who exemplified the
Russian School of Ballet at its best; many of them are carrying on in
their own schools, and passing on their great knowledge to the youth of
the second half of the twentieth century, in whose hands the future of
ballet lies.

I should like to do honor to many ladies of the Maryinsky. To do so
would mean an overly long list of names, many of which would mean little
to a generation whose knowledge of dancers does not go back much further
than Danilova. It would mean a considerable portion of the graduating
classes of the Russian Imperial School of the Ballet: that School,
dating from 1738, whose code was monastic, whose discipline was strict,
whose training the finest imaginable. Through this school and from it
came the ladies and gentlemen of the Maryinsky, those figures that gave
ballet its finest flowering on the stages of the Maryinsky Theatre in
Petrograd and the Grand Theatre in Moscow.

Anna Pavlova, Mathilde Kchessinska, Olga Preobrajenska, Lubov Egorova,
Tamara Karsavina, Lydia Kyasht, Lydia Lopokova. There were men, too:
Michel Fokine, Mikhail Mordkin, Vaslav Nijinsky, Adolph Bolm, Theodore
Kosloff, Alexandre Volinine, Laurent Novikoff. The catalogue would be
too long, if continued. No slight is intended. The turn of the century,
or thereabouts, saw most of the above named in the full flush of their
performing abilities.

What has become of them? Six of the seven ladies are still very much
alive, each making a valued contribution to ballet today. The mortality
rate among the men has been heavier; only three of the seven men are now
alive; yet these three are actively engaged in that most necessary and
fundamental department of ballet: teaching.

Because the present has its basic roots in the past, and because the
future must emerge from the present, let me, in honoring those
outstanding representatives of the recent past, pause for a moment to
sketch their achievements and contributions.


_MATHILDE KCHESSINSKA_

In the early twentieth century hierarchy of Russian Ballet, Mathilde
Kchessinska was the undisputed queen, a tsarina whose slightest wish
commanded compliance. She was a symbol of a period.

Mathilde Kchessinska was born in 1872, the daughter of a famous Polish
character dancer, Felix Kchessinsky. A superb technician, according to
all to whom I have talked about her, and to the historians of the time,
she is credited with having been the first Russian to learn the highly
applauded (by audiences) trick of those dazzling multiple turns called
_fouettés_, guaranteed to bring the house down and, sometimes today,
even when poorly done. In addition to a supreme technique, she is said
to have been a magnificent actress, both “on” and “off.”

Hers was an exalted position in Russia. Her personal social life gave
her a power she was able to exercise in high places and a personal
fortune which permitted her to give rein to a waywardness and wilfulness
that did not always coincide with the strict disciplinarian standards of
the Imperial Ballet.

Although she was able to control the destinies of the Maryinsky Theatre,
to hold undisputed sway there, to have everything her own way, all that
most people today know about her is that she was fond of gambling, that
the Grand Dukes built her a Palace in Petrograd, and that Lenin made
speeches to the mob from its balcony during the Revolution.

More rot has been told and written about her by those with more
imagination than love of accuracy, than about almost any other person
connected with ballet, not excepting Serge Diaghileff. In yarn upon yarn
she has been identified with one sensational escapade and affair after
another. None of these, so far as I know, she has ever troubled to
contradict.

Mathilde Kchessinska was the first Russian dancer to win supremacy for
the native Russian artist over their Italian guests. An artist in life
as well as on the stage, today, at eighty, the Princess
Krassinska-Romanovska, the morganatic wife of Grand Duke André of
Russia, she still teaches daily at her studio in Paris, contributing to
ballet from the fund of her vast experience and knowledge. Many fine
dancers have emerged from her hands, but perhaps the pupil of whom she
is the proudest is Tatiana Riabouchinska.


_OLGA PREOBRAJENSKA_

Sharing the rank of _ballerina assoluta_ with Kchessinska at the
Maryinsky Theatre was Olga Preobrajenska. Preobrajenska’s career
paralleled that of the Princess Krassinska-Romanovska; she was born in
1871, and graduated from the Imperial School in the class ahead of the
Princess. Yet, in many respects, they were as unlike as it is possible
for two females to differ.

Kchessinka was always _chic_, noted for her striking beauty, expressive
arms and wrists, a beautifully poised head, an indescribably infectious
smile. She was a social queen who used her gifts and her powers for all
they were worth. It was a question in the minds of many whether
Kchessinska’s private life was more important than her professional
career. The gods had not seen fit to smile too graciously on
Preobrajenska in the matter of face and figure. Her tremendous success
in a theatre where, at the time, beauty of form was regarded nearly as
highly as technique, may be said to have been a triumph of mind over
matter. Despite these handicaps or, perhaps, because of them, she
succeeded in working out her own distinctive style and bearing.

Free from any Court intriguing, Olga Preobrajenska was a serious-minded
and noble person, a figure that reflected her own nobility of mind on
ballet itself. Whereas Kchessinska’s career was, for the most part, a
rose-strewn path, Preobrajenska’s road was rocky. Her climb from a
_corps de ballet_ dancer to the heights was no overnight journey. It
was one that took a good deal of courage, an exhibition of fortitude
that happily led to a richly deserved victory. Blessed with a dogged
perseverance, a divine thirst for knowledge, coupled with a desire ever
to improve, she forced herself ahead. She danced not only in every
ballet, but in nearly every opera in the repertoire that had dances. In
her quarter of a century on the Imperial stage she appeared more than
seven hundred times. It was close on to midnight when her professional
work was done for the day; then she went to the great teacher, Maestro
Enrico Cecchetti, for a private lesson, which lasted far into the early
hours of the morning. Hers was a life devoted to work. For the social
whirl she had neither time nor interest.

These qualities, linked with her fine personal courage and gentleness,
undoubtedly account for that unbounded admiration and respect in which
she is held by her colleagues.

Preobrajenska remained in Russia after the revolution, teaching at the
Soviet State School of Ballet from 1917 through 1921. In 1922, she
relinquished her post, left Russia and settled in Paris. Today, she
maintains one of the world’s most noteworthy ballet schools, still
teaching daily, passing on to the present generation of dancers
something of herself so that, though dancers die, dancing may live.

It was during her teaching tenure at the Soviet State School of Ballet,
the continuing successor in unbroken line and tradition to the Imperial
Ballet School from the eighteenth century, that a young man named Georgi
Balanchivadze came into her ken. Georgi Balanchivadze is better known
throughout the world of the dance today as George Balanchine. In the
long line of pupils who have passed through Preobrajenska’s famous Paris
school, there is space only to mention two of whom she is very proud:
Irina Baronova and Tamara Toumanova.

Frequently, I have had great pleasure in attending some of
Preobrajenska’s classes in Paris, and I am proud to know her. It was
during my European visit in the summer of 1950 that I happened to be at
La Scala, Milan, when Preobrajenska was watching a class being given
there by the Austrian ballet-mistress, Margaret Wallman. This was at the
time of the visit to Milan of Galina Ulanova, the greatest lyric
ballerina of the Soviet Union. The meeting of Ulanova and Preobrajenska,
two great figures of Russian ballet, forty-one years apart in age, but
with the great common bond of the classical dance, each the recipient
of the highest honors a government can pay an artist, was, in its way,
historic.

I arranged to have photographs taken of the event, a meeting that was
very touching. Ulanova had come to see a class as well. The two great
artists embraced. Ulanova was deeply moved. Their conversation was
general. Unfortunately, there was little time, for the Soviet Consular
officials who accompanied Ulanova were not eager for her to have too
long a conversation.

At eighty-two, Preobrajenska has no superior as a teacher. At her prime,
she was a dancer of wit and elegance, excelling in mimicry and the
humorous. With her colleagues of that epoch, as with Ulanova, she
nevertheless had one outstanding quality in common: a sound classicism.


_LUBOV EGOROVA_

Less exalted in the hierarchy of the Russian Imperial Ballet, since she
never attained the _assoluta_ distinction there, but, nevertheless, a
very important figure in ballet, is Lubov Egorova (Princess
Troubetzkoy).

Born some nine years later than Preobrajenska and eight later than
Kchessinska, Egorova, who was merely a _ballerina_ at the Maryinsky, was
one of the first great Russian dancers to leave Russia; she was a member
of the exploring group that made a Western European tour during a summer
holiday from the Maryinsky, in 1908--perhaps the first time that Russian
Ballet was seen outside the country.

In 1917, Egorova left Russia for good and, joining the Diaghileff
Ballet, appeared in London, in 1921, dancing the role of Princess Aurora
in the lavish, if ill-starred, revival of Tchaikowsky’s _The Sleeping
Beauty_, or, as Diaghileff called his Benois production, _The Sleeping
Princess_. As a matter of fact, she was one of three Auroras,
alternating the role with two other great ladies of the ballet, Olga
Spessivtseva and Vera Trefilova.

In 1923, Egorova founded her own school in Paris, and has been teaching
there continuously since that time. Many famous dancers have emerged
from that school, dancers of all nationalities, carrying the gospel to
their own lands.

The basic method of ballet training has altered little. Since the last
war, there have been some new developments in teaching methods. Although
the individual methods of these three ladies from the Maryinsky may
have differed in detail, they have all had the same solid base, and from
these schools have come not only the dancers of today, but the teachers
of the future.


_TAMARA KARSAVINA_

The Russian _emigré_ dancers would seem to have distributed themselves
fairly equally between Paris and London, (excluding, of course, those
who have made the States their permanent home). While the three
Maryinsky ladies I have discussed became Parisian fixtures, another trio
made London their abiding place.

Most important of the London trio was Tamara Karsavina, who combined in
her own person the attributes of a great dancer, a great beauty, a great
actress, a great artist, and a great woman. John van Druten, the noted
playwright, sums her up thus: “I can tell you that Tamara Karsavina was
the greatest actress and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, the
incarnation of Shakespeare’s ‘wightly wanton with a velvet brow, with
two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes,’ and that I wrote sonnets to
her when I was twenty.”

Born in 1885, the daughter of a famous Russian dancer and teacher,
Platon Karsavin, Karsavina, unlike the Ladies of the Maryinsky who have
made Paris their home, was ready for change: that change in ballet that
is sometimes called the Romantic Revolution. She was receptive to new
ideas, and became identified with Fokine and Diaghileff and their
reforms in ballet style.

Diaghileff had to have a _ballerina_ for his company, and it soon became
obvious to both Fokine and Diaghileff that Pavlova would not fit into
their conception of things balletic. The modest, unassuming, charming,
gracious, beautiful and enchanting Karsavina took over the _ballerina_
roles of the Diaghileff Company. It was in 1910 that Karsavina came into
her own with the creation of the title role in _The Firebird_, and a
revival of _Giselle_. Her success was tremendous. The shy, modest Tamara
Karsavina became _La Karsavina_; without the guarantee of her presence
in the cast, Diaghileff was for many years unable to secure a contract
in numerous cities, including London.

All through her career, a career that brought her unheard of success,
adulation, worship, Karsavina remained a sweet, simple, unspoiled lady.

She was not only the toast of Europe for her work with the Diaghileff
Company, but she returned frequently to the Maryinsky, dashing back and
forth between Petrograd and Western Europe. An aversion to sea travel in
wartime prevented her visiting America with the Diaghileff Company on
either of its American tours. She did, however, make a brief American
concert tour in 1925, partnered by Pierre Vladimiroff. Neither the
conditions nor the circumstances of this visit were to her advantage,
and Americans were thus prevented from seeing Karsavina at anything like
her best.

Karsavina has painted her own picture more strikingly than anyone else
can; and has painted it in a book that is a splendid work of art. It is
called _Theatre Street_. Tamara Karsavina’s _Theatre Street_ is a book
and a portrait, a picture of a person and of an era that is, at the same
time, a shining classic of the theatrical dance. But not only does it
tell the story of her own career so strikingly that it would be
presumptuous of me to expand on her career in these pages, but she shows
us pictures of Russian life, of childhood in Russia that take rank with
any ever written.

After the dissolution of a previous Russian marriage, Karsavina, in
1917, married a British diplomat, Henry Bruce, who died in 1950. Her
son, by this marriage, is an actor and director in the British theatre.
Karsavina herself lives quietly and graciously in London, but by no
means inactively. She is a rock of strength to British ballet, through
her interest and inspiration. A great lady as well as a great artist, it
would give me great pleasure to be able to present her across the
American continent in a lecture tour, in the course of which
illuminating dissertation she would elucidate, as no one I have ever
seen or heard, the important and expressive art of mime.


_LYDIA KYASHT_

Classmate of Karsavina at the Imperial School, and born in the same
year, is Lydia Kyasht, who was the first Russian _ballerina_ to become a
permanent fixture in London.

Kyasht’s arrival in the British capital dates back to 1908, the year she
became a leading soloist at the Maryinsky Theatre. There were mixed
motives for her emigration to England. There were, it appears, intrigues
of some sort at the Maryinsky; there was also a substantial monetary
offer from the London music hall, the Empire, where, for years, ballet
was juxtaposed with the rough-and-tumble of music hall comedians, and
where Adeline Genée had reigned as queen of English ballet for a decade.
Kyasht’s Russian salary was approximately thirty-five dollars a month.
The London offer was for approximately two hundred dollars a week.

Her first appearance at the Empire, in Leicester Square, long the home
of such ballet as London had at that time, was under her own name as
Lydia Kyaksht. When the Empire’s manager in dismay inquired: “How _can_
one pronounce a name like that?” he welcomed the suggestion that the
pronunciation would be made easier for British tongues if the second “k”
were dropped. So it became Kyasht, and Kyasht it has remained.

Kyasht was the first Russian dancer to win a following in London, and in
her first appearances there she was partnered by Adolph Bolm, later to
be identified with Diaghileff and still later with ballet development in
the United States.

The Empire ballets were, for the most part, of a very special type of
corn. Kyasht appeared in, among others, a little something called _The
Water Nymph_ and in another something charmingly titled _First Love_,
with my old friend and Anna Pavlova’s long-time partner, Alexandre
Volinine, as her chief support. There was also a whimsy called _The
Reaper’s Dream_, in which Kyasht appeared as the “Spirit of the
Wheatsheaf,” seen and pursued in his dream by a reaper, the while the
_corps de ballet_, costumed as an autumn wheatfield, watched and
wondered.

Most important, however, was Kyasht’s appearance in the first English
presentation, on 18th May, 1911, of Delibes’ _Sylvia_. _Sylvia_, one of
the happiest of French ballets, had had to wait thirty-five years to
reach London, although the music had long been familiar there. Even
then, London saw a version of a full-length, three-act work, which, for
the occasion, had been cut and compressed into a single act. It took
forty-one more years for the uncut, full-length work to be done in
London, with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet production, staged by Frederick
Ashton, at Covent Garden, in the Royal Opera House, on 3rd of September,
1952. The original British Sylvia, Lydia Kyasht, was, by this date, a
member of the teaching staff at the famous Sadler’s Wells School.

Lydia Kyasht remained at the Empire for five years. At the conclusion of
her long engagement, she sailed for New York to appear as the Blue Bird
in a Shubert Winter Garden show, _The Whirl of the World_, with Serge
Litavkin as her partner; Litavkin later committed suicide in London, as
the result of an unhappy love affair (not with Lydia Kyasht).

Kyasht’s American venture brought her neither fame nor glory. In the
first place, a Shubert Winter Garden spectacle, in 1913, was not a
setting for the classical technique of Ballet; then, for better or
worse, Kyasht was stricken ill with typhoid fever, a mischance that
automatically terminated her contract. But before she became ill, still
on the unhappier side, was the Shubertian insistence that Kyasht should
be taught and that she should perfect herself in the 1913 edition of
“swing,” the “Turkey Trot.” Such was the uninformed and uncaring mind of
your average Broadway manager, that he wanted to combine the delicacy of
the “Turkey Trot,” of unhallowed memory, with what he elegantly
characterized as “acrobatic novelties.”

But Kyasht was saved from this humiliation by the serious fever attack
and returned to London, where she made her permanent home and where, for
the most part, she devoted herself to teaching. As a teacher able to
impart that finish and refinement that is so essential a part of a
dancer’s equipment, she has had a marked success.

Today, she is, as I have said, active in the teaching of ballet
department at that splendid academy, the Sadler’s Wells School, about
which I shall have something to say later on.


_LYDIA LOPOKOVA_

The third of the Maryinsky ladies to settle in England, to whom I cannot
fail to pay tribute, is Lydia Lopokova.

Lopokova is the youngest of the three, having been born in 1891. Her
graduation from the Imperial School was so close to the great changes
that took place in Russian ballet, that she had been at the Maryinsky
Theatre only a few months when, as a pupil of Fokine, she was invited to
join the Diaghileff Ballet, at that time at the height of its success in
its second Paris season.

Writing of Lopokova’s early days at the Imperial School, Karsavina says
in _Theatre Street_: “Out of the group of small pupils given now into my
care was little Lopokova. The extreme emphasis she put into her
movements was comic to watch in the tiny child with the face of an
earnest cherub. Whether she danced or talked, her whole frame quivered
with excitement; she bubbled all over. Her personality was manifest from
the first, and very lovable.”

Of her arrival to join the Diaghileff Company in Paris, Karsavina says:
“Young Lopokova danced this season; it was altogether her first season
abroad. As she was stepping out of the railway carriage, emotion
overcame her. She fainted right away on the piles of luggage. It had
been her dream to be in Paris, she told the alarmed Bakst who rendered
first aid; the lovely sight (of the Gare du Nord) was too much for her.
A mere child, she reminded me again of the tiny earnest pupil when, in
the demure costume of _Sylphides_, she ecstatically and swiftly ran on
her toes.”

Lopokova’s rise to high position with the Diaghileff Ballet in England
and Europe was rapid. But she was bored by success. There were new
fields to be conquered, and off she went to New York, in the summer of
1911, to join the first “Russian Ballet” to be seen on Broadway. A
commercial venture hastily rushed into the ill-suited Winter Garden,
with the obvious purpose of getting ahead of the impending Diaghileff
invasion of America, due at a later date. The popular American
vaudeville performer, Gertrude Hoffman, temporarily turned manager,
sparked this “Saison de Ballets Russes.”

Hoffman, in conjunction with a Broadway management, imported nearly a
hundred dancers, with Lydia Lopokova as the foremost; others included
the brothers Kosloff, Theodore and Alexis, who remained permanently in
the United States; my friend, Alexandre Volinine; and Alexander
Bulgakoff. A word about the 1911 “Saison de Ballets Russes” may not be
amiss. The ethics of the entire venture were, to say the least, open to
question. Among the works presented were _Schéhérazade_, _Cléopâtre_,
and _Sylphides_--all taken without permission from the Diaghileff
repertoire, and with no credit (and certainly no cash) given to Michel
Fokine, their creator. All works were restaged from memory by Theodore
Kosloff, and with interpolations by Gertrude Hoffman. The outstanding
success of the whole affair was Lydia Lopokova.

When, after an unsuccessful financial tour outside New York, Lopokova
and Volinine left the company, the “Saison de Ballets Russes” fell to
pieces.

Venturing still farther afield, Lopokova joined Mikhail Mordkin’s
company briefly; then, remaining in America for five years, she toyed
seriously with the legitimate theatre, and made her first appearance as
an actress (in English) with that pioneer group, the Washington Square
Players (from which evolved The Theatre Guild), at the Bandbox Theatre,
in East 57th Street, in New York, and later in a Percy Mackaye piece
called _The Antic_, under the direction of Harrison Grey Fiske.

Then the Diaghileff Ballet came to America; came, moreover, badly in
need of Lopokova; came without Karsavina, without any woman star; came
badly crippled. In New York, and free, was Lydia Lopokova. It was Lydia
Lopokova who was the _ballerina_ of the company through the two American
tours. It was Lydia Lopokova who was the company’s bright and shining
individual success.

She returned to Europe with Diaghileff and was his _ballerina_ from 1917
to 1919, earning for herself in London a popularity second to none. But,
bored again by success, she was suddenly off again to America. This
time, the venture was even less noteworthy, for it was a Shubert musical
comedy--and a rather dismal failure. “I was a flop,” was Lopokova’s
comment, “and thoroughly deserved it.” In 1921, she returned to
Diaghileff, and danced the Lilac Fairy in his tremendous revival of _The
Sleeping Princess_. During the following years, up to the Diaghileff
Ballet’s final season, Lopokova was in and out of the company, appearing
as a guest artist in the later days.

After a short and unhappy marriage with one of Diaghileff’s secretaries
had been dissolved, Lopokova became Mrs. J. Maynard Keynes, the wife of
the brilliant and distinguished English economist, art patron, friend of
ballet and inspirer of the British Arts Council. On Keynes’s elevation
to the peerage, Lopokova, of course, became Lady Keynes.

Invariably quick in wit, impulsive, possessor of a genuine sense of
humor, Lady Keynes remains eager, keen for experiment, restless, impish,
and still puckish, always ready to lend her enthusiastic support to
ventures and ideas in which she believes.


_MARIE RAMBERT_

One of the most potent forces in the development of ballet in England is
Marie Rambert. She was a pioneer in British ballet. She still has much
to give.

Marie Rambert--unlike her London colleagues: Karsavina, Kyasht, and
Lopokova--was not a Maryinsky lady. Born Miriam Rambach, in Poland, she
was a disciple of Emile Jacques Dalcroze, and was recommended to
Diaghileff by her teacher as an instructor in the Dalcroze type of
rhythmic movement. The Russians who made up the Diaghileff Company were
not impressed either by the Dalcroze method or its youthful teacher.
They rebelled against her, taunted her, called her “Rhythmitchika,” and
left her alone. There was one exception, however. That exception was
Vaslav Nijinsky, who was considerably influenced by his studies with
Rambert, an influence that was made apparent in three of his
choreographic works: _Sacre du Printemps_, _Afternoon of a Faun_ (this,
incidentally, the first to show the influence), and _Jeux_.

Despite the attitude of the Russian dancers, it was her contacts with
the Diaghileff Ballet that aroused Rambert’s interest in ballet. She had
had early dancing lessons in the Russian State School in Warsaw; now she
became a pupil of Enrico Cecchetti. In 1920, she established her own
ballet school in the Notting Hill Gate section of London, and it was not
long after that the Ballet Club, a combination of ballet company with
the school, was founded, an organization that became England’s first
permanent ballet company.

Rambert’s influence on ballet in England has been widespread. When,
after the death of Diaghileff, the Camargo Society was formed in London,
along with Ninette de Valois, Lydia Lopokova, J. Maynard Keynes, and
Arnold L. Haskell, Rambert was a prime mover.

In her school and at the Ballet Club, she set herself the task of
developing English dancers for English ballet. From her school have come
very many of the young dancers and, even more important, many of the
young choreographers who are making ballet history today. To mention but
a few: Frederick Ashton, Harold Turner, Antony Tudor, Hugh Laing, Walter
Gore, Frank Staff, William Chappell, among the men; Peggy van Praagh,
Pearl Argyle, Andrée Howard, Diana Could, Sally Gilmour, among the
women.

Rambert is married to that poet of the English theatre, Ashley Dukes.
Twenty-odd years ago they pooled their individual passions--hers for
building dancers, his for building theatres and class-rooms--and built
and remodelled a hall into a simple, little theatre, which they
christened the Mercury, in Ladbroke Road. Its auditorium is as tiny as
its stage. Two leaps will suffice to cross it. The orchestra consisted
of a single pianist. On occasion a gramophone assisted. Everything had
to be simple. Everything had to be inexpensive. The financial
difficulties were enormous. Here the early masterpieces of Ashton and
Tudor were created. Here great work was done, and ballets brought to
life in collaboration between artists in ferment.

I cannot do better than to quote the splendid tribute of my friend,
“Freddy” Ashton, when he says: “Hers is a deeply etched character, a
potent bitter-sweet mixture; she can sting the lazy into activity, make
the rigid mobile and energise the most lethargic.... She has the unique
gift of awakening creative ability in artists. Not only myself, but
Andrée Howard, Antony Tudor, Walter Gore and Frank Staff felt our
impulse for choreography strengthen and become irresistible under her
wise and patient guidance. Even those who were not her pupils or
directly in her care--the designers who worked with her, William
Chappell, Sophie Fedorovitch, Nadia Benois, Hugh Stevenson, to name only
a few--all felt the impact of her singular personality.”

The work Marie Rambert did with the Ballet Club and the Ballet Rambert
in their days at the Mercury Theatre was of incalculable value. The
company continues today but its function is somewhat different.
Originally the Ballet Rambert was a place where young choreographers
could try out their ideas, could make brave and bold experiments. During
my most recent visit to London, in the summer of 1953, I was able to see
some of her more recent work on the larger stage of the Sadler’s Wells
Theatre. I was profoundly impressed. Outstanding among the works I saw
were an unusually fine performance of Fokine’s immortal _Les Sylphides_,
which has been continuously in her repertoire since 1930; _Movimientos_,
a work out of the London Ballet Workshop in 1952, with choreography and
music by the young Michael Charnley, with scenery by Douglas Smith and
costumes by Tom Lingwood; Frederick Ashton’s exquisite _Les Masques_, an
old tale set to a delicate score by Francis Poulenc, with scenery and
costumes by the late and lamented Sophie Fedorovitch; and Walter Gore’s
fine _Winter Night_, to a Rachmaninoff score, with scenery and costumes
by Kenneth Rowell. There was also an unusually excellent production of
_Giselle_, which first entered her repertoire in its full-length form in
1946, with Hugh Stevenson settings and costumes.

While there was a period when Rambert seemed to be less interested in
ballets than in dancers, and the present organization would appear to be
best described as one where young dancers may be tested and proven, yet
Rambert alumnae and alumni are to be found in all the leading British
ballet companies.

In the Coronation Honours List in 1953, Marie Rambert was awarded the
distinction of Companion of the British Empire.


_MIKHAIL MORDKIN_

Although he was under my management for only a brief time, I must, I
feel, make passing reference to Mikhail Mordkin as one of the Russian
_emigré_ artists who have been identified with ballet in America. His
contributions were neither profound nor considerable; but they should be
assessed and evaluated.

Mordkin, born in Russia, in 1881, was a product of the Moscow School,
and eventually became a leading figure and one-time ballet-master of the
Bolshoi Theatre.

So far as America is concerned, I sometimes like to think his greatest
contribution was his masculinity. Before he first arrived here in
support of Anna Pavlova in her initial American appearance, the average
native was inclined to take a very dim view indeed of a male dancer.
Mordkin’s athleticism and obvious virility were noted on every side.

Strange combination of classical dancer, athlete, and clown, Mordkin’s
temperament was such that he experienced difficulty throughout his
career in adjusting himself to conditions and to people. He broke with
the Imperial Ballet; broke with Diaghileff; split with Pavlova. These
make-and-break associations could be extended almost indefinitely.

For the record, I should mention that, following upon his split with
Pavlova, he had a brief American tour with his own company, calling it
the “All Star Imperial Russian Ballet,” and brought as its _ballerina_,
the doyenne of Russian _ballerinas_, Ekaterina Geltzer. Again, in 1928,
he returned to the States, under the management of Simeon Gest, with a
company that included Vera Nemtchinova, Xenia Macletzova, and the
English Hilda Butsova, along with Pierre Vladimiroff.

Mordkin’s successes in Moscow had been considerable, but outside Russia
he always lagged behind the creative procession, largely, I suspect,
because of a stubborn refusal on Mordkin’s part to face up to the fact
that, although the root of ballet is classicism, styles change, the
world moves forward. Ballet is no exception. Mordkin clung too
tenaciously to the faults of the past, as well as to its virtues.

From the ballet school he founded in New York has come a number of
first-rate dancing talents. The later Mordkin Ballet, in 1937-1938, and
1938-1939, left scarcely a mark on the American ballet picture. It
lacked many things, not the least of which was a _ballerina_ equal to
the great classical roles. Its policy, if any, was as dated as Mordkin
himself.

If there was a contribution to ballet in America made by Mordkin, it was
a fortuitous one. Choreographically he composed nothing that will be
remembered. But there was a Mordkin company of sorts, and some of its
members formed the nucleus of what eventually became Ballet Theatre.

On 15th July, 1944, Mikhail Mordkin died at Millbrook, New Jersey.


_VASLAV NIJINSKY_

Nijinsky has become a literature and a legend. The story of his tragic
life has been told and re-told. His feats as a dancer, his experiments
as a choreographer, became a legend, even while he lived.

I regret I never knew him. Those who did know him and with whom I have
discussed him, are, for the large part, idolators. That he was a genius
they are all agreed. They insist he could leap higher, could remain
longer in the air--but there is little point in dwelling on the legend.
It is well-known; and legends are the angel’s food on which we thrive.

Nijinsky’s triumphs came at a time when there were great figures
bursting over the horizon; at a time when there was so little basis for
comparison; at a time when it was extremely difficult for the public to
appraise, because the public had so little basis for comparison.

How separate fact from fiction? It is difficult, if not quite
impossible. It was the time of the “greatests”: Kubelik, the “greatest”
violinist; Mansfield, the “greatest” actor; Irving, the “greatest”
actor; Modjeska, the “greatest” actress; Bernhardt, the “greatest”
actress; Ellen Terry, the “greatest” actress; Duse, the “greatest”
actress.

It is such an easy matter when, prompted by the nostalgic urge, to
contemplate longingly a by-gone “Golden Age.” In music, it is equally
simple: Anton Rubinstein, Franz Liszt, de Pachmann, Geraldine Farrar,
Enrico Caruso ... and so it goes. Each was the “greatest.” Nijinsky has
become a part and parcel of the “greatest” legend.

Jan Kubelik, one of the greatest violinists of his generation, is an
example. When I brought Kubelik for his last American appearance in
1923, I remember a gathering in the foyer of the Brooklyn’s Academy of
Music at one of the concerts he gave there. The younger generation of
violinists were out in force, and a number of them were in earnest
conversation during the interval in the concert.

Their general opinion was that Kubelik had remained away from America
too long; that he was, in fact, slipping. Sol Elman, the father of
Mischa, listened attentively. When the barrage had expended itself, he
spoke.

“My dear friends,” he said, “Kubelik played the Paganini concerto
tonight as splendidly as ever he did. Today you have a different
standard. You have Elman, Heifetz, and the rest. All of you have
developed and grown in artistry, technique, and, above all, in knowledge
and appreciation. The point is: you know more; not that Kubelik plays
less well.”

It is all largely a matter of first impressions and their vividness. It
is the first impressions that color our memories and often form the
basis of our judgments. As time passes, I sometimes wonder how reliable
the first impressions may be.

I am unable to state dogmatically that Nijinsky was the “greatest”
dancer of our time or of all time. On the other hand, there cannot be
the slightest question that he was a very great personality. The quality
of personality is the one that really matters.

Today there are, I suppose, between five and six hundred first-class
pianists, for example. These pianists are, in many cases, considerably
more than competent. But to find the great personality in these five to
six hundred talents is something quite different.

The truly great are those who, through something that can only be
described as personality, electrify the public. The public, once
electrified, will come to see them again and again and again. There are,
perhaps, too many good talents. There never can be enough great artists.

Vaslav Nijinsky was one of the great ones--a great artist, a great
personality. There are those who can argue long and in nostalgic detail
about his technique, its virtues and its defects. Artistry and
personality transcend technique; for mere technique, however flawless,
is not enough.

It must be borne in mind that Nijinsky’s public career in the Western
World was hardly more than seven years long. The legend of Nijinsky
commenced with his first appearance in Paris in _Le Spectre de la Rose_,
in 1912. It may have been started, fostered, and developed by
Diaghileff, continued by Nijinsky’s wife. It is quite possible this is
true; but true or not, it does not affect the validity of the legend.

The story of Nijinsky’s peculiarly romantic marriage, his subsequent
madness, his alleged partial recovery, his recent death have all been
set down for posterity by his wife. I am by no means an all-out admirer
of these books; and I am not able to accept or agree with many of the
statements and implications in them. Yet the loyalty and devotion she
exhibited towards him can only be regarded as admirable.

The merit of her ministrations to the sick man, on the one hand, hardly
condones her literary efforts, on the other. Frequently, I detect a
quality in the books that reveals itself more strongly as the predatory
female than as the protective wife-mother. I cannot accept Romola
Nijinsky’s reiterated portraits of Diaghileff as the avenging monster
any more than I can the following statement in her latest book, _The
Last Days of Nijinsky_, published in 1952:

“Undoubtedly, the news that Vaslav was recuperating became more and more
known; therefore it was not surprising that one day he received a cable
with an offer from Mr. Hurok, the theatrical impresario, asking him to
come over to New York and appear. My son-in-law, who had just arrived to
spend the week-end with us, advised me to cable back accepting the
offer, for then we automatically could have escaped from Europe and
would have been able to depart at once. But I felt I could not accept a
contract for Vaslav and commit him. There was no question at the time
that Vaslav should appear in public. Nevertheless, I hoped that the
impresario, who was a Russian himself and who had made his name and
fortune in America managing Russian dancers in the past, would have
vision enough and a humanitarian spirit in helping to get the greatest
Russian dancer out of the European inferno. What I did not know at the
time was that there was quite a group of dancers who had got together
and who worked in silence to keep Nijinsky out of the United States and
from public life. Illness had removed the artist with whom they could
not compete. They dreaded his coming back.”

While the entire paragraph tends to give a distorted picture of the
situation, the last three sentences are as far from the truth as they
possibly can be. The implied charge is almost too stupid to contradict
or refute. Were it not for the stigma it imputes to many fine artists
living in this country, I should ignore it completely. However, the
facts are quite simple. It is by no means an easy matter to bring into
the United States any person in ill health, either physical or mental.
So far as the regulations were concerned, Nijinsky was but another
alien. It was impossible to secure a visa or an entry permit. It was
equally impossible to secure the proper sort of doctors’ certificates
that could have been of material aid in helping secure such papers.

I have a vivid memory of a meeting of dancers at the St. Regis Hotel in
New York to discuss what could be done. Anton Dolin was a prime mover in
the plan to give assistance. There was a genuine enthusiasm on the part
of the dancers present. Unfortunately, the economics of the dance are
such that dancers are quite incapable of undertaking long-term financial
commitments. But a substantial number of pledges were offered.

It certainly was not a question of “quite a group of dancers who had got
together and who worked in silence to keep Nijinsky out of the United
States and from public life.” There was no question or suggestion that
he should appear in public, incidentally. There was only the sheer
inability to get him into the country. If there was any “dread” of “his
coming back,” it could only have been the dread that their former
colleague, ill in mind and body, might be in danger of being exploited
by the romantic author.

Nijinsky, the legend, will endure as long as ballet, because the legend
has its roots in genius. Legend apart, no one from the Maryinsky stable,
no one in the fairly long history of ballet, as a matter of fact, has
given ballet a more complete service. And it should be remembered that
this service was rendered in a career that actually covered less than a
decade.


_A QUARTET OF IMPERIALISTS_

There is left for consideration a Russian male quartet, three of them
still living, who, in one degree or another, have made contributions to
ballet in our time, either in the United States or Europe. Their
contributions vary in quality and degree, exactly as the four gentlemen
differ in temperament and approach. I shall first deal briefly with the
three living members of the quartet, two of whom are American citizens
of long standing.


_THEODORE KOSLOFF_

I commence with one whose contributions to ballet have been the least. I
mention him at all only because, historically speaking, he has been
identified with dance in America a long time. With perhaps a single
notable exception, Theodore Kosloff’s contributions in all forms have
been slight.

The best has been through teaching, for it is as a teacher that he is
likely to be remembered longest. Spectacular in his teaching methods as
he is in person, it has been from his school that has come a substantial
number of artists of the dance who have made a distinctive place for
themselves in the dance world of America.

Outstanding among these are Agnes de Mille, who has made an ineradicable
mark with her highly personal choreographic style, and Nana Gollner,
American _ballerina_ of fine if somewhat uncontrolled talents, the
latter having received almost all her training at Kosloff’s hands and
cane.

Theodore Kosloff was born in 1883. A pupil of the Moscow rather than the
Petersburg school, he eventually became a minor soloist at the Bolshoi
Theatre in Moscow, appearing in, among others, _The Sleeping Beauty_ and
_Daughter of Pharaoh_. When Diaghileff recruited his company, Kosloff
and his wife, Maria Baldina, were among the Muscovites engaged. Kosloff
was little more than a _corps de ballet_ member with Diaghileff, with an
occasional small solo. But he had a roving and retentive eye.

When Gertrude Hoffman and Morris Gest decided to jump the Russian Ballet
gun on Broadway, and to present their _Saison de Ballets Russes_ at the
Winter Garden in advance of Diaghileff’s first American visit, it was
Theodore Kosloff who restaged the Fokine works for Hoffman, without so
much as tilt of the hat or a by-your-leave either to the creator or the
owner.

Remaining in the States after the demise of the venture, Kosloff for a
time appeared in vaudeville with his wife, Baldina, and his younger
brother, Alexis, also a product of the Moscow School. One of these tours
took them to California, where Theodore settled in Hollywood. Here,
almost simultaneously, he opened his school and associated himself with
Cecil B. de Mille as an actor in silent film “epics.” He was equally
successful at both.

Kosloff’s purely balletic activities thereafter included numerous
movie-house “presentations”--the unlamented spectacles that preceded the
feature film in the silent picture days, in palaces like Grauman’s
Egyptian and Grauman’s Chinese; a brief term as ballet-master of the San
Francisco Opera Ballet; and colossal and pepped-up versions of
_Petroushka_ and _Schéhérazade_, the former in Los Angeles, the latter
at the Hollywood Bowl.

Today, at seventy, Kosloff pounds his long staff at classes in the
shadow of the Hollywood hills, directing all his activity at perspiring
and aspiring young Americans, who in increasing numbers are looking
towards the future through the medium of ballet.


_LAURENT NOVIKOFF_

The three living members of this male quartet were all Muscovites, which
is to say, products of the Imperial School of Moscow and dancers of the
Bolshoi Theatre, rather than products of the Maryinsky. In Russian
ballet this was a sharp distinction and a fine one, with the
Maryinskians inclined to glance down the nose a bit at their Moscow
colleagues. And possibly with reason.

Laurent Novikoff was born five years later than Theodore Kosloff; he
graduated from the Moscow School an equal number of years later. He
remained at the Bolshoi Theatre for only a year before joining the
Diaghileff Ballet in Paris for an equal length of time. On his return to
Moscow at the close of the Diaghileff season, he became a first dancer
at the Bolshoi, only to leave to become Anna Pavlova’s partner the next
year. As a matter of fact, the three remaining members of the quartet
were all, at one time or another, partners of Pavlova.

With Pavlova, Novikoff toured the United States in 1913 and in 1914.
Returning once again to Moscow, he staged ballets for opera, and
remained there until the revolution, when he went to London and rejoined
the Diaghileff Company, only to leave and join forces once again with
Pavlova, remaining with her this time for seven years, and eventually
opening a ballet school in London. In 1929, Novikoff accepted an
invitation from the Chicago Civic Opera Company to become its
ballet-master; and later, for a period of five years, he was
ballet-master of the Metropolitan Opera Company.

As a dancer, Novikoff had a number of distinguished qualities, including
a fine virility, a genuinely romantic manner, imagination and authority.
As a choreographer, he can hardly be classified as a progressive. While
he staged a number of works for Pavlova, including, among others,
_Russian Folk Lore_ and _Don Quixote_, most of his choreographic work
was with one opera company or another. In nearly all cases, ballet was,
as it still is, merely a poor step-sister in the opera houses and with
the opera companies, often regarded by opera directors merely as a
necessary nuisance, and only on rare occasions is an opera choreographer
ever given his head.

A charming, cultured, and quite delightful gentleman, Laurent Novikoff
now lives quietly with his wife Elizabeth in the American middle west.


_ALEXANDRE VOLININE_

Alexandre Volinine was Anna Pavlova’s partner for a longer time than any
of the others. Born in 1883, he was a member of the same Moscow Imperial
class as Theodore Kosloff, attained the rank of first dancer at the
Bolshoi Theatre, and remained there for nine years.

In 1910, he left Russia to become Pavlova’s partner, a position he held
intermittently for many years. Apart from being Pavlova’s chief support,
he made numerous American appearances. He was a member of Gertrude
Hoffman’s _Saison Russe_, at the Winter Garden, in 1911; and in the same
year supported the great Danish _ballerina_, Adeline Genée, at the
Metropolitan Opera House, in _La Danse_, “an authentic record by Mlle.
Genée of Dancing and Dancers between the years 1710 and 1845.”

Volinine returned to the United States in 1912-1913, when, after the
historical break between Pavlova and Mordkin, the latter formed his
“All-Star Imperial Russian Ballet,” with Ekaterina Geltzer, Julia
Sedova, Lydia Lopokova, and Volinine. This was an ill-starred venture
from the start for no sooner had they opened at the Metropolitan Opera
House than Mordkin and Sedova quarrelled with Geltzer and, so
characteristic of Russian Ballet, the factions, in this case Polish and
English _versus_ Russian, took violent sides. Volinine was on the side
of the former. As a result of the company split, the English-Polish
section went off on a tour across the country with Volinine, who
augmented their tiny salaries by five dollars weekly from his private
purse. After they had worked their way through the Deep South and
arrived at Creole New Orleans, the manager decamped for a time, and a
tremulous curtain descended on the first act of _Coppélia_, not to rise.

By one means or another, and with some help from the British Consul in
New Orleans, they managed to return to New York by way of a stuffy
journey in a vile-smelling freighter plying along the coast. By quick
thinking, and even quicker acting, including mass-sitting on the
manager’s doorstep, they forced that individual to arrange for the
passage back to England, which was accomplished with its share of
excitement; once back in England, Volinine returned to his place as
Pavlova’s first dancer.

Volinine was the featured dancer with Pavlova in 1916, when I first met
her at the Hippodrome, and often accompanied us to supper. As the years
wore on, I learned to know and admire him.

As a dancer, Volinine was a supreme technician, and, I believe, one of
the most perfect romantic dancers of his time. In his Paris school today
he is passing on his rare knowledge to the men of today’s generation of
_premières danseurs_. His teaching, combined with his quite superb
understanding of the scientific principles involved, are of great
service to ballet. Michael Somes, the first dancer of the Sadler’s Wells
Ballet, is among those who go to Volinine’s Paris studio for those
refining corrections obtainable only from a great teacher who has been a
great dancer.

“Sasha” Volinine has, perhaps, spent as much or more of his professional
life in England, Australia, and other English-speaking countries, as any
Russian dancer. On the other hand, he speaks and understands less
English, perhaps, than any of the others.

Often in America and London we have gone out to dine, to sup, often with
a group. “Sasha” invariably would be the first to ask the headwaiter or
_maître d’hôtel_ for a copy of the menu. Immediately he would
concentrate on it, poring over it, giving it seemingly careful scrutiny
and study.

All the others in the party would have ordered, and then, after long
cogitation, “Sasha” would summon the waiter and, pointing to something
in the menu utterly irrelevant, would solemnly demand: “Ham and eggs.”

I am happy to count “Sasha” Volinine among my old friends, and it is
always a pleasure to foregather with him when I am in Paris.


_ADOLPH BOLM_

If my old friend, Adolph Bolm, were here to read this, he probably would
be the first to object to being classified with this quartet of
“Imperialists.” He would have pointed out to me in his emphatic manner
that by far the greater part of his career had been spent in the United
States, working for ballet in America. He would have insisted that he
neither thought nor acted like an “Imperialist”: that he was a
progressive, not a reactionary; and he would, at considerable length,
have advanced his theory that all “Imperialists” were reactionaries. He
would have repeated to me that even when he was at the Maryinsky, he was
a rebel and a leader in the revolt against what he felt were the
stultifying influences of its inbred conservatism. This would have gone
on for some time, for Bolm was intelligent, literate, articulate, and
ready to make a speech at the drop of a ballet shoe, or no shoe at all.

I have placed Bolm in this book among the “Imperialists” because he had
his roots in the Imperial Russian Ballet, where he was conditioned as
child and youth; he was a product of the School in Theatre Street and a
Maryinsky soloist for seven years; he was a contemporary and one-time
colleague of the three other members of this quartet, either in Russia
or with the Diaghileff Ballet Russe.

Born in St. Petersburg in 1884, the son of the concert-master and
associate conductor of the French operatic theatre, the Mikhailovsky,
Bolm entered the School at ten, was a first-prize graduate in 1904. He
was never a great classical dancer; but he had a first-rate sense of the
theatre, was a brilliant character dancer, a superlative mime.

Bolm was the first to take Anna Pavlova out of Russia, as manager and
first dancer of a Scandinavian and Central European tour that made
ballet history. He was, I happen to know, largely responsible in
influencing Pavlova temporarily to postpone the idea of a company of her
own and to abandon their own tour, because he believed the future of
Russian Ballet lay with Diaghileff. Although the Nijinsky legend
commences when Nijinsky first leapt through the window of the virginal
bedroom of _Le Spectre de la Rose_, in Paris in 1911, it was _Prince
Igor_ and Bolm’s virile, barbaric warrior chieftain that provided the
greater impact and produced the outstanding revelation of male dancing
such as the Western World had not hitherto known.

Bolm was intimately associated with the Diaghileff invasion of the
United States, when Diaghileff, a displaced and dispirited person
sitting out the war in Switzerland, was invited to bring his company to
America by Otto H. Kahn. But, owing to the war and the disbanding of his
company, it was impossible for Diaghileff to reassemble the original
personnel. It was a grave problem. Neither Nijinsky, Fokine, nor
Karsavina was available. It was then that Bolm took on the tremendous
dual role of first dancer and choreographer, engaging and rehearsing
what was to all intents and purposes a new company in a repertoire of
twenty-odd ballets. The Diaghileff American tours were due in no small
degree to Bolm’s efforts in achieving what seemed to be the impossible.

After the second Diaghileff American tour, during which Bolm was
injured, he remained in New York. Unlike many of his colleagues, his
quick intelligence grasped American ideas and points of view. This was
evidenced throughout his career by his interest in our native subjects,
composers, painters.

With his own Ballet Intime, his motion picture theatre presentations of
ballet, his Chicago Allied Arts, his tenure with the Chicago Opera
Company, the San Francisco Opera Ballet, his production of _Le Coq d’Or_
and two productions of _Petroushka_ at the Metropolitan Opera House, he
helped sow the seeds of real ballet appreciation across the country.

My acquaintance and friendship with Adolph Bolm extended over a long
time. His experimental mind, his eagerness, his enthusiasm, his deep
culture, his capacity for friendship, his hospitality--all these
qualities endeared him to me. If one did not always agree with him (and
I, for one, did not), one could not fail to appreciate and respect his
honesty and sincerity. During a period when Ballet Theatre was under my
management, I was instrumental in placing him as the _régisseur general_
(general stage director to those unfamiliar with ballet’s term for this
important functionary) of the company, feeling that his discipline,
knowledge, taste, and ability would be helpful to the young company in
maintaining a high performing standard. Unhappily, much of the good he
did and could do was negated by an unfortunate attitude on the part of
some of our younger American dancers, who have little or no respect for
tradition, reputation, or style, and who seem actively to resent
achievement--in an art that has its roots in the past although its
branches stretch out to the future--rather than respect and admire it.

A striking example of this sort of thing took place when I had been
instrumental, later on, in having Bolm stage a new version of
Stravinsky’s _Firebird_, for Ballet Theatre, in 1945, with Alicia
Markova and Anton Dolin.

My last meeting with Bolm took place at the opening performance of the
Sadler’s Wells production of _The Sleeping Beauty_, in Los Angeles. I
shall not soon forget his genuine enthusiasm and how he embraced Ninette
de Valois as he expressed his happiness that the great full-length
ballets in all their splendor had at last been brought to Los Angeles.

In his later years, Bolm lived on a hilltop in Hollywood; in Hollywood,
but not of it, with Igor Stravinsky and Nicholas Remisoff as two of his
closest and most intimate friends. One night, in the spring of 1951,
Bolm went to sleep and did not wake again in this world.

His life had been filled with an intense activity, a remarkable
productivity in his chosen field--thirty-five years of it in the United
States, in the triple role of teacher, dancer, choreographer. As I have
intimated before, Bolm’s understanding of the things that are at the
root of the American character was, in my opinion, deeper and more
profound than that of any of his colleagues. His achievements will live
after him.

My last contacts with Bolm revealed to me a man still vital, still
eager; but a little soured, a shade bitter, because he was conscious the
world was moving on and felt that the ballet was shutting him out.

Before that bitterness could take too deep a root in the heart and soul
of a gentle artist, a Divine Providence closed his eyes in the sleep
everlasting.




6. Tristan and Isolde:
Michel and Vera Fokine


If ever there were two people who seemingly were inseparable, they were
Michel and Vera Fokine. Theirs was a modern love story that could rank
with those of Abélard and Heloïse, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde.
The romance of the Fokines continued, unabated, till death did them
part.

The story of Michel Fokine’s revolution in modern ballet has become an
important part of ballet’s history. The casual ballet-goer, to whom one
name sounds very much like another, recognizes the name of Fokine. He
may not realize the full importance of the man, but he has been unable
to escape the knowledge that some of the ballets he knows and loves best
are Fokine works.

The literature that has grown up around Michel Fokine and his work is
fairly voluminous, as was his due. Yet, for those of today’s generation,
who are prone to forget too easily, it cannot be repeated too often that
had it not been for Michel Fokine, there might not have been any such
thing as modern ballet. For ballet, wherein he worked his necessary and
epoch-making revolution, was in grave danger of becoming moribund and
static, and might well, by this time, have become extinct.

He was a profound admirer of Isadora Duncan, although he denied he had
been influenced by her ideas. Fokine felt Duncan, in her concern for
movement, had brought dancing back to its beginnings. He was filled with
a divine disgust for the routine and the artificial practices of ballet
at the turn of the century. He was termed a heretic when he insisted
that each ballet demands a new technique appropriate to its style,
because he fought against the eternal stereotype.

Fokine threw in his lot with Diaghileff and his group. With Diaghileff
his greatest masterpieces were created. Both Fokine and Diaghileff were
complicated human beings; both were artists. Problems were never simple
with either of them. There is no reason here to go into the causes for
the rupture between them. That there was a rupture and that it was never
completely healed is regrettable. It was tantamount to a divorce between
the parents of modern ballet. It was, as is so often the case in
divorce, the child that suffered.

For a time following the break, the Fokines returned to Russia; and
then, in 1918, together with their son Vitale, spent some time in and
out of Finland, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Conditions were not ideal
for creation, and nothing was added to the impressive list of Fokine
masterpieces.

In 1919, Morris Gest was immersed in the production of a gargantuan
musical show destined for the Century Theatre: _Aphrodite_, based on an
English translation of Pierre Louys’ novel. Gest made Fokine an offer to
come to America to stage a Bacchanal for the work. Fokine accepted.
_Aphrodite_ was not a very good musical, nor was it, as I remember it, a
very exciting Bacchanal; but it was a great success. Fokine himself was
far from happy with it.

For a number of reasons, the Fokines decided to make New York their
home. They eventually bought a large house, where Riverside Drive joins
Seventy-second Street; converted part of the house into a dancing
studio, and lived in the rest of the house in an atmosphere of nostalgic
gloom, a sort of Chopinesque twilight. Ballet in America was at a very
low ebb when Fokine settled here. There was a magnificent opportunity to
hand for the father of modern ballet, had he but taken it. For some
reason he muffed the big chance. Perhaps he was embittered by a series
of unhappy experiences, not the least of which was the changed political
scene in his beloved Russia, to which he was never, during the rest of
his life, able to make adjustment. He was content, as an artist, for the
most part to rest on his considerable laurels. There was always
_Schéhérazade_. More importantly, there was always _Sylphides_.

Fokine’s creative life, in the true sense, was something he left behind
in Europe. He never seemed to sense or to try to understand the American
impulse, rhythm, or those things which lie at the root of our native
culture. In the bleak Riverside Drive mansion, he taught rather
half-heartedly at classes, but gave much of his time and energy in
well-paid private lessons to the untalented daughters of the rich.

From the choreographic point of view, he was satisfied, for the most
part, to reproduce his early masterpieces with inferior organizations,
or to stage lesser pieces for the Hippodrome or the Ziegfeld Follies.
One of the latter will suffice as an example. It was called _Frolicking
Gods_, a whimsy about a couple of statues of Greek Gods who came to
life, became frightened at a noise, and returned to their marble
immobility. And it may be of interest to note that these goings-on were
all accomplished to, of all things, Tchaikowsky’s _Nutcracker Suite_.
There was also a pseudo-Aztec affair, devised, so far as tale was
concerned, by Vera Fokine, and called _The Thunder Bird_. The Aztec
quality was emphasized by the use of a pastiche of music culled from the
assorted works of Tchaikowsky, Glinka, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Balakirev, and
Borodine.

It was during the winter of 1920, not long after the Fokines, with their
son Vitale, had arrived here, that we came together professionally. I
arranged to present them jointly in a series of programmes at the
Metropolitan Opera House, with Arnold Volpe and his Symphony Orchestra.

Fokine came with me to see the Metropolitan stage. He arrived at what
might have been a ticklish moment. Fokine was extremely sensitive to
what he called “pirated” versions of his works. There was, of course, no
copyright protection for them, since choreography had no protection
under American copyright law. Fokine was equally certain that he,
Fokine, was the only person who could possibly reproduce his works. As
we entered the Metropolitan, Adolph Bolm was appearing in an
opera-ballet version of Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _Le Coq d’Or_. The
performance had commenced.

As I have intimated, after he broke with Diaghileff, Fokine was so
depressed that for some time he could not work at all. Then he received
an invitation from Anna Pavlova to come to Berlin, where she was about
to produce some new ballets. Fokine accepted the invitation, and when
Pavlova asked him to suggest a subject, Fokine proposed a ballet based
on the opera, _Le Coq d’Or_. Pavlova, however, considered the plot of
the Rimsky-Korsakoff work to be too political, and also felt it unwise
of her to offer a subject burlesquing the Tsar.

It was not until after Fokine temporarily returned to the Diaghileff
fold that _Le Coq d’Or_ achieved production. Diaghileff agreed with
Fokine on the subject, and Fokine was anxious that it should be mounted
in as modern a manner as possible. The story of the opera, based on
Pushkin’s well-known poem, as adapted to the stage by V. Bielsky,
requires no comment. Fokine’s opera-ballet production was, in its way,
quite unique. There were two casts, which is to say, singers and
dancers. While one character danced and acted, the words in the libretto
were spoken or sung by the dancing character’s counterpart.

As a result of the Metropolitan Opera Company’s wartime ban on anything
German, in 1917, Pierre Monteux, the former Diaghileff conductor, was
imported by the Metropolitan for the expanded French list. One of the
results of Monteux’s influence on the Metropolitan repertoire was _Le
Coq d’Or_. Adolph Bolm, by that time resident in New York, having
remained here after the last Diaghileff American season, was engaged by
Otto H. Kahn to stage the work in the style of the Diaghileff
production. Bolm, who had his own ideas, nevertheless based his work on
Fokine’s basic plan, and that of the Fokine-Diaghileff production. Bolm
was meticulous, however, in insisting that credit be given to Fokine for
the original idea, and it was always billed as “after Michel Fokine.”
The Metropolitan production, as designed by the Hungarian artist, Willy
Pogany, whose sets were among the best the Metropolitan ever has seen,
resulted in one of the most attractive and exciting productions the
Metropolitan has achieved. Aside from the production itself, the singing
of the Spanish coloratura, Maria Barrientos, as the Queen, the
conducting of Monteux, and the dancing of Bolm as King Dodon, set a new
standard for the Metropolitan.

On the occasion I have mentioned, we entered the front of the house, and
Fokine watched a bit of the performance with me, standing in the back of
the auditorium. He had no comment, which was unusual for him.

After watching for a time, I asked Fokine if he would care to meet his
old colleague. He said he would. Together we felt our way back stage in
the dimly lighted passages. The pass-door to back-stage was even darker.
I stood aside to let Fokine precede me. Then my heart nearly stopped.
Fokine stumbled and nearly fell prostrate on the iron-concrete steps. He
picked himself up, brushed himself off. “Mikhail Mikhailovitch,” I said,
half frightened to death, “you must be careful.”

“It is nothing,” he replied, “but why in hell isn’t the place properly
lighted?”

The meeting with Bolm, who had made Fokine’s favorite ballet even more
exciting than it actually was, was cordial enough, cool, and uneventful.
Bolm was by far the more demonstrative. Their conversation was general
rather than particular. Fokine and I looked over the stage, its size and
its equipment. Fokine thanked Bolm, apologized for the interruption, and
took his leave. As we felt our way out to the street, Fokine’s only
comment on _Le Coq d’Or_ was, “The women’s shawls should be farther back
on the head. They are quite impossible when worn like that. And when
they weep, they should weep.”

Fokine was a stickler for detail. In conversation about dancing, over
and over again he would use two Russian words, “_Naslajdaites_” and
“_laska_.” Freely translated, those Russian words suggest “do it as
though you enjoyed yourself” and “caressingly.”

The programme for the appearances at the Metropolitan had been carefully
worked out, balanced with joint performances, solos for each, with
symphony orchestra interludes while Michel and Vera were changing
costumes. For the opening performance it was decided that Michel and
Vera would jointly do the lovely waltz from _Les Sylphides_; a group of
Caucasian dances to music arranged by Asafieff; the Mazurka from
Delibes’ _Coppélia_; and a group of five Russian dances by Liadov.
Fokine himself would do the male solo, the Mazurka from _Les Sylphides_,
and a Liadov _Berceuse_; while Vera’s solo contributions would be _The
Dying Swan_, and the arrangement Fokine made for her of Beethoven’s
“_Moonlight Sonata_.”

The advertising campaign was under full steam ahead, and rehearsals were
well under way. So well were things going, in fact, that I relaxed my
habitual pre-opening tension for a moment at my home, which was, in
those days, in Brooklyn. I even missed a rehearsal, since Fokine was at
his very best, keen and interested, and the music was in the able hands
of Arnold Volpe, a musician who worked passionately for the highest
artistic aims, a Russian-born American

[Illustration:

     _Baron_

S. Hurok]

[Illustration:

_Lucas-Pritchard_

Mrs. Hurok]

[Illustration: _Lido_

Lubov Egorova and Solange Schwartz]

[Illustration: Marie Rambert]

[Illustration: _Lido_

Olga Preobrajenska in her Paris school]

[Illustration: Lydia Lopokova

_Hoppé_]

[Illustration: Tamara Karsavina]

[Illustration: Mathilde Kchessinska

_Lido_
]

[Illustration: _Maurice Goldberg_

Michel Fokine]

[Illustration: Adolph Bolm

_Maurice Seymour_]

[Illustration: _Acme_

Anna Pavlova]

[Illustration:

     Alexandre Volinine in his Paris studio, with Colette Marchand

_Lido_]

[Illustration:

_Baker_

     Ballet Pioneering in America: “Sasha” Philipoff, Irving Deakin,
     Olga Morosova, “Colonel” W. de Basil, Sono Osato
]

[Illustration:

     S. Hurok, “Colonel” W. de Basil and leading members of the de Basil
     Ballet Russe, 1933. Back row: David Lichine, Vania Psota, Sasha
     Alexandroff, S. Hurok; Center row: Leonide Massine, Tatiana
     Riabouchinska, Col. W. de Basil, Nina Verchinina, Yurek
     Shabalevsky; Front row: Edward Borovansky, Tamara Toumanova

_Nikoff_
]

pioneer in music. Volpe devoted his entire life, from the time of his
arrival in this country until his death, to the cause of young American
musicians. He was an ideal collaborator for the Fokines. There was a
fine understanding between Fokine and Volpe, and the performances,
therefore, were splendid. I felt content.

But not for long. My peace of mind was shattered by a telephone call. It
was Mrs. Volpe. The news was bad. Fokine had suffered an injury during
rehearsal. He had pulled a leg tendon. The pain was severe. The
rehearsal had been abandoned.

I rushed to Manhattan and up to the old Marie Antoinette Hotel, famous
as the long-time home of that wizard of the American theatre, David
Belasco. Here the Fokines had made their temporary home, while searching
for a house. Michel was in bed, with Vera in solicitous attendance. To
understate, the news was very bad. The doctor, who had just left, had
said it would be at least six weeks before he could permit Fokine to
dance.

But the performance _had_ to be given Tuesday night. It was now Sunday.
There was all the publicity, all the advertising, and the rent of the
Metropolitan Opera House had to be paid. This was not all. A tour had
been booked to follow the Metropolitan appearance, including
Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and Richmond. Apart from my own
expenses, there were the responsibilities to the various local managers
and managements concerned. Something had to be done, and at once. The
newspapers had to be informed.

The silence of the hotel bedroom, hitherto broken only by Vera’s cooing
ministrations, deepened. It was I who spoke. An idea flashed through my
mind.

“Mikhail Mikhailovitch,” I said, “could Vera Petrovna do a full
programme on Tuesday night on her own?”

Michel and Vera exchanged glances. There was something telepathic in the
communication between their eyes.

Fokine turned his head in my direction.

“Yes,” he said.

Quickly the programme was rearranged. Fokine suggested adding a Chopin
group, which he called _Poland--Three Moods: Happiness, Revolt,
Sadness_.

We went into action. The orchestra seat prices were five dollars, and a
five-dollar top was high in those days. Announcements were rushed out,
informing the public in big type that Vera Fokina, _Prima Ballerina
Russian Ballet_, would appear, together with the adjusted programme,
which we agreed upon as follows: Arnold Volpe and his Symphony Orchestra
would play Weber’s _Oberon_ Overture; Saint-Saens’ Symphonic Poem,
_Rouet d’Omphale_; Beethoven’s _Egmont Overture_; Rimsky-Korsakoff’s
_Capriccio Espagnol_; Ippolitoff-Ivanoff’s _Caucasian Sketches_; and the
_Wedding Procession_ from Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _Le Coq d’Or_. Fokina had
an evening cut out for her: the three Polish moods I have mentioned;
_The Dying Swan_; _The “Moonlight” Sonata_; the _Danses Tziganes_, by
Nachez; _Sapeteado_, a Gitano Dance, by Hartmann; two _Caucasian
Dances_, to folk music arranged by Asafief; and four of Liadov’s
_Russian Folk Dances_.

A large sign to the same effect was installed in the lobby of the
Metropolitan Opera House. The news spread quickly. But the public did
not seem to mind. In this eleventh-hour shifting of arrangements, I was
happy to have the whole-hearted cooperation of John Brown and Edward
Ziegler, the administrative heads of the Metropolitan Opera Company.

The first performance was sold out; the audience was enthusiastic.
Moreover, while in those days there were no dance critics, the press
comment, largely a matter of straight reporting, was highly favorable. I
should like to quote _The New York Times_ account in full as an example
of the sort of attention given then to such an important event, some
thirty-odd years ago: _“FOKINA’S ART DELIGHTS METROPOLITAN AUDIENCE--Her
Husband and Partner Ill, Russian Dancers Interest Throng Alone, with
Volpe’s Aid: Vera Fokina, the noted Russian dancer performed an unusual
feat on February 11, when she kept a great audience in the Metropolitan
keenly interested in her art for almost three hours. When it was
announced that Mr. Fokine, her husband, was ill and therefore not able
to carry out his part of the program, a murmur of dissatisfaction was
audible. But the auditors soon forgot their disappointment and wondered
at Mme. Fokina’s graceful and vivid interpretations_.

“_Among the best liked of her offerings was the ‘Dying Swan,’ with
Saint-Saens’s music. Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ Sonata, well played by an
invisible pianist, Izia Seligman, and the Russian and Gipsy pieces. She
was compelled to give many encores._

“_Arnold Volpe and his orchestra took a vital part in the program,
playing the music with a fine instinct for the interpretative ideas of
the dancer. He conducted his forces through some of the compositions
intended as the vehicles for the absent Mr. Fokine, and thus won an
honest share in the success of the entertainment._”

So much for ballet criticism in New York in 1920.

The tour had to go on with Fokina alone, although Fokine had recovered
sufficiently to hobble about and to supervise and direct and oversee. A
certain Mr. K. had associated himself as a sort of local representative.
Mr. K. was not much of a local manager; but he did have an unholy talent
for cheque-bouncing. It was not a matter of one or two, due to some
error; they bounded and bounced all over the country in droves, and
daily. If the gods that be had seen fit to give me a less sound nervous
system than, happily, they have, K.’s financial antics could have
brought on a nervous breakdown.

At the same time, Fokine, with his tremendous insistence on perfection,
hobbled about, giving orders to all and sundry in a mixture of
languages--Russian, French, German, Swedish, and Danish--that no one,
but no one, was able to understand. Even up to the time of his death,
English was difficult for Mikhail Mikhailovitch, and he spoke it, at all
times, with an unreproducible accent. His voice, unless excited, was
softly guttural. In typically Russian fashion, he interchanged the
letters “g” and “h.” Always there was an almost limitless range of
facial expressions.

On this tour, Fokine, being unable to dance, had more time on his hands
to worry about everything else. His lighting rehearsals were long and
chaotic, since provincial electricians were not conspicuous either for
their ability, their interest, or their patience. During the lighting
rehearsals, since he was immobilised by his injury, Fokine and Vera
would sit side by side. He knew what he wanted; but, before he would
finally approve anything, he would turn to her for her commendation; and
there would pass between them that telepathic communication I often saw,
and about which I have remarked before. Occasionally, if something
amused them, they would laugh together; but, more often than not, their
faces revealed no more than would a skilled poker-player’s.

Fokine could manage to keep his temper on an even keel for a
considerable time, if he put his mind to it. There was no affectation
about Fokine, either artistically or personally. In appearance there was
not a single one of those artificial eccentricities so often associated
with the “artistic temperament.” To the man in the street he would have
passed for a solidly successful business man. At work he was a
taskmaster unrelenting, implacable, fanatical frequently to the point of
downright cruelty. At rest, he was a gentleman of great charm and
simplicity, with a sense of humor and a certain capacity for enjoyment.
Unfortunately, his sense of humor had a way of deserting him at critical
moments. This, coupled with a lack of tact, made him many enemies among
those who were once his closest friends. These occasional flashes of
geniality came only when things were going his way; but, if things did
not go as he wanted, his rages could be and were devastating,
all-consuming.

One such incident occurred in Philadelphia. As a matter of fact,
Philadelphia was marked by incidents. The first was one I had with
Edward Lobe, then manager of Philadelphia’s Metropolitan Opera House,
then at Broad and Poplar Streets. It had to do with some of the bouncing
K.’s bouncing paper. This straightened out, I returned to the stage to
find turmoil rampant. There was another crisis.

The crisis had been precipitated by the man whose job it was to operate
the curtain. Fokine had shouted and screamed “_Zanovess! Zanovess!_” at
the unfortunate individual. Now “_Zanovess_” is the Russian word for
curtain. The curtain had not fallen. Fokine could not say “curtain.” The
operator did not have the vaguest idea of the meaning of “_zanovess_.”
Moreover, the stage-hand suspected, from the tone of Fokine’s voice, his
barked order, and the fierce expression of his face that he was being
called names. When, finally, Fokine screamed “_Idyot!_” at him, the
curtain-man knew for sure he had been insulted. The argument and
hostility spread through his colleagues.

Eventually, I got them calmed down. Fokine insisted they were all
idiots; they were all ignorant. This idea leaked through to the
stage-hands, and that did not help matters. I finally suggested that,
since neither of them could understand the other, the best procedure
would be not to scream and shout and stomp--uttering strange mixed
French and Russian oaths--but to be quiet and to show by gesture and
pantomime, rather than to give unintelligible verbal orders. So, with
only minor subsequent scenes, the rehearsal got itself finished.

Also, in Philadelphia, we had substituted _Salome’s Dance of the Seven
Veils_, done to Glazounov’s score of the same name, in place of the
_“Moonlight” Sonata._ It is hardly necessary to point out that the
veils, all seven of them, are vastly important. Because of their
importance, these had been entrusted to the keeping of Clavia, Vera’s
Russian maid, instead of being packed with the other costumes. But, come
performance time, Clavia could not be found. Hue and cry were raised;
her hotel alerted; restaurants searched; but still no Clavia. She simply
had to be found. I pressed Marie Volpe, Arnold Volpe’s singer-wife, into
the breach to act as maid for Vera, and to help her dress. But only
Clavia knew where Salome’s veils had been secreted. The performance
started. The search continued.

Suddenly, there came a series of piercing screams emanating from an
upper floor dressing-room. Haunted by visions of the Phantom of the
Opera, I rushed up the stairs to find Clavia lying on the floor,
obviously in pain. We managed to get her down to Fokina’s room and
placed her on the couch in what was known in Philadelphia as “Caruso’s
Room,” the star dressing-room Fokina was using. As we entered, Fokina
stood ready to go on stage, costumed for _The Dying Swan_. The situation
was obvious. Clavia was about to give birth to a child. The labor pains
had commenced. I pushed Vera on to the stage and Marie Volpe into the
room--in the nick of time. Mrs. Volpe, a concert singer, pinch-hitting
as a maid for Vera, now turned midwife for the first time in her life.
By the time the ambulance and the doctor arrived, mother and infant were
doing as well as could be expected.

Next morning Mrs. Volpe found herself a new role. A lady of high moral
scruples, herself a mother, she had realized that no one had mentioned a
father for the child. Mrs. Volpe had assumed the role of detective (a
dangerous one, I assure the reader, in ballet), and was determined to
run down the child’s father. The newspaper stories, with the headline:
“_CHILD BORN IN CARUSO’S DRESSING ROOM_,” had not been too reassuring to
Mrs. Volpe. I counselled her that she would be well advised to let the
matter drop.

On our arrival in Baltimore, I was greeted by the news that my
rubber-wizard of a local manager, the bouncing Mr. K., had decamped with
the box-office sale, leaving behind only some rubber cheques. This, in
itself, I felt was enough for one day. But it was not to be. Vera, as
curtain time approached, once again was up to her usual business of
exhibiting “temperament,” spoiling her life, as she so often did in this
respect, throughout her dancing career.

“What is it now?” I asked.

She waxed wroth with great volubility and at considerable length, with
profound indignation that the stage floor-cloth was, as she said,
“impossible.” Nothing I could say was of any avail. Vera refused,
absolutely, irrevocably, unconditionally, to dance. Mrs. Volpe was to
help her into her street clothes, and at once. She would return to her
hotel. She would return to New York. I must cancel the engagement, the
tour, all because of the stage-cloth. And the audience was already
filling the theatre.

I thought quickly and went into action. Calling the head carpenter and
the property man together, I got them to turn the floor-cloth round.
Then, going back to the dressing-room, where Vera was preparing to
leave, I succeeded in convincing her by showing her that it was an
entirely new doth that we had just got for her happiness.

Vera Fokina never danced better than that night in Baltimore.

Our farewell performance, with both Fokines dancing, took place at
Charles Dillingham’s Hippodrome, on Sunday evening, 29th May, 1920. For
this occasion, the Fokines appeared together, by popular request, in the
Harlequin and Columbine variation from his own masterpiece, _Carnaval_;
Fokine alone danced the _Dagestanskaja Lezginka_, and staged a work he
called _Amoun and Berenis_, actually scenes from his _Une Nuit
d’Egypte_, which Diaghileff called _Cléopâtre_, adapted, musically, from
Anton Arensky’s score for the ballet. I quote Fokine’s own libretto for
the work:

     Amoun and Berenis are engaged in the sport of hunting. She
     represents Gazelle, and he the hunter who wounds her in the breast.
     The engaged couple plight each other to everlasting love. But soon
     Amoun betrays his bride. He falls in love with Queen Cleopatra. Not
     having the opportunity of coming near his beloved queen, he sends
     an arrow with a note professing his love and readiness to sacrifice
     his life for her. Notwithstanding the tears and prayers of Berenis,
     he throws himself into the arms of Cleopatra, and, lured by her
     tenderness, he accepts from her hands a cup of poison, drinks it
     and dies. Berenis finds the corpse of her lover, forgives him and
     mourns his death.

The Hippodrome version consisted of “The Meeting of Amoun and Berenis”
“The Entrance of Cleopatra,” by the orchestra; “The Dance Before
Cleopatra”; “The Betrayal of Amoun and the Jealousy of Berenis”; “The
Hebrew Dance,” by the orchestra; “The Death of Amoun and the Mourning of
Berenis.”

In 1927, I presented the Fokines with their “American Ballet,” composed
of their pupils, at the Masonic Auditorium, in Detroit, and on
subsequent tours. Prominent professional dancers were added to the pupil
roster.

That summer, with the Fokines and their company, I introduced ballet to
the Lewisohn Stadium Concerts in New York, for three performances, to a
record audience of forty-eight thousand people. I also presented them
for four performances at the Century Theatre in Central Park West. The
Stadium programmes included _Les Elves_, arranged to Mendelssohn’s
_Overture to a Midsummer Night’s Dream_, with the addition of the same
composer’s Andante and Allegro from the _Violin Concerto_. Also
_Medusa_, a tragedy set to Tchaikowsky’s _Symphonie Pathétique_, a work
for four characters, the title role being danced by Vera Fokina, and the
sea god Poseidon, who fell in love with the beautiful Medusa, danced by
Fokine.

It was during one of the Stadium performances, I remember, I had
occasion to go to the Fokines’ dressing-room on some errand. I knocked,
and believing I heard an invitation to enter, opened the door to
discover the two Fokines dissolved in tears of happiness. So moved was
Michel by Vera’s performance of the title role in _Medusa_, that they
were sobbing in each other’s arms.

“Wonderful, wonderful, my darling!” Fokine was murmuring. “Such a
beautiful performance; and to think you did it all in such a short
period, with so very few rehearsals; and the really amazing thing is
that you portrayed the character of the creature precisely as it is in
my mind!”

In the love, the adoration, the romance of Michel and Vera Fokine, there
was the greatest continuous devotion between man and wife that it has
been my privilege to know.

Fokine’s American ballet creations have been lost. Perhaps it is as
well. For the closing chapter of the life of a truly great artist they
were sadly inferior. Towards the end of his career, however, he staged
some fresh, new works in France for René Blum’s Ballet Russe de Monte
Carlo, including _Les Elements_, _Don Juan_, and _L’Epreuve d’Amour_.
Then, for de Basil’s Original Ballet Russe, _Cinderella_, or since he
used the French, _Cendrillon_, to a commissioned score by Baron Frederic
d’Erlanger, which might have been better. But choreographically
_Cendrillon_ was a return to the triumphant Fokine. There was also his
triumphant re-staging of _Le Coq d’Or_. Perhaps his last really great
triumph was his collaboration with Serge Rachmaninoff on _Paganini_, a
work that takes rank with Fokine’s finest.

Fokine restaged _Les Sylphides_ and _Carnaval_ for Ballet Theatre’s
initial season. When Ballet Theatre was under my management, he created
_Bluebeard_, in 1941, for Anton Dolin. In 1942, I was instrumental in
having German Sevastianov engage Fokine to stage the nostalgic tragedy,
_Russian Soldier_, to the music of Prokofieff.

While in Mexico, in the summer of 1942, working on _Helen of Troy_, for
Ballet Theatre, Fokine contracted pleurisy, which developed into
pneumonia on his return to New York, where he died, on 22nd August. For
a dancer, he was on the youthful side. He was born in Mannheim-am-Rhine,
Germany, 26th April, 1880, the son of Ekaterina Gindt. According to the
official records of the St. Petersburg Imperial School, his father was
unknown. He was adopted by a merchant, Mikhail Feodorovitch Fokine, who
gave him his name. In 1898, he graduated from the St. Petersburg
Imperial School. In 1905, he married Vera Petrovna Antonova, the
daughter of a master of the wig-maker’s Guild, who had graduated from
the School the year before.

At the funeral service at the Russian Orthodox Cathedral, in New York,
were assembled all of the dance world in New York in mid-summer, to do
him honor.

Some of his works will live on, but they suffer with each passing year
because, in most cases, they are not properly done. The Sadler’s Wells
and Royal Danish Ballet productions of the Fokine works are the
exceptions. But all his works suffered continually during his lifetime,
because Fokine had a faulty memory, and his restaging of the works was,
all too often, the product of unhappy afterthoughts. Towards the end of
his life he became more and more embittered. He, the one-time great
revolutionary, resented the new developments in ballet, perhaps because
they had not been developed by Fokine.

This bitterness was quite unnecessary, for Fokine remains the greatest
creator of modern ballet. His works, properly staged, will always
provide a solid base for all ballet programmes. Despite the hue and cry,
despite the lavish praise heaped upon each new experiment by modern
choreographers, and upon the choreographers themselves, in all
contemporary ballet there is no one to take his place.

Other ballet-masters, other choreographers, working with the same basic
materials, in the same spirit, in the same language, often require
detailed synopses and explanations for their works, in spite of which
the meaning of them often remains lost in the murk of darkest obscurity.
I remember once asking Fokine to supply a synopsis of one of his new
works for programme purposes. I shall not forget his reply: “No synopsis
is needed for my ballets. My ballets unfold their stories on the stage.
There is never any doubt as to what they say.”

I have visited Vera Petrovna Fokine in the castle on the Hudson where
she lives in lonely nostalgia. But it is not quite true that she lives
alone; for she lives with the precious memory of a great love, a
tremendous reputation, the memory of a great artist, the artist who
created _Les Sylphides_, _Prince Igor_, and _Petroushka_.




7. Ballet Reborn In America:
W. De Basil and His
Ballets Russes De Monte Carlo


The last of the two American tours of Serge de Diaghileff’s Ballets
Russes was during the season 1916-1917.

The last American tour of Anna Pavlova and her company was during the
season 1925-1926.

Serge Diaghileff died at Venice, on 19th August, 1929.

Anna Pavlova died at The Hague, on 23rd January, 1931.

W. de Basil’s Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo gave their first American
performances at the St. James Theatre, New York, on 21st December, 1933.

Such ballet as America saw between Pavlova’s last performance in 1926
and the first de Basil performance in 1933, may be briefly stated.

From 1924 to 1927, in Chicago, there was the Chicago Allied Arts,
sometimes described as the first “ballet theatre” in the United States,
sparked by Adolph Bolm.

In 1926 and 1927, there were a few sporadic performances by Mikhail
Mordkin and his Russian Ballet Company, which included Xenia Macletzova,
Vera Nemtchinova, Hilda Butsova, and Pierre Vladimiroff.

From 1928 to 1931, Leonide Massine staged weekly ballet productions at
the Roxy Theatre, in New York, including a full-length _Schéhérazade_,
with four performances daily, Massine acting both as choreographer and
leading dancer. In 1930, he staged Stravinsky’s _Le Sacre du Printemps_,
for four performances in Philadelphia and two at the Metropolitan Opera
House, in New York, with the collaboration of Leopold Stokowski and the
Philadelphia Orchestra, and with Martha Graham making one of her rare
appearances in ballet, in the leading role.

That is the story. Hardly a well-tilled ground in which to sow balletic
seed with the hope of a bumper crop. It is not surprising that all my
friends and all my rival colleagues in the field of management
prophesied dire things for me (presumably with different motives) when I
determined on the rebirth of ballet in America in the autumn of 1933.
Their predictions were as mournful as those of Macbeth’s witches.

The ballet situation in the Western World, after the deaths of
Diaghileff and Pavlova, save for the subsidized ballets at the Paris
Opera and La Scala in Milan, was not vastly different. If you will look
through the files of the European newspapers of the period, you will
find an equally depressing note: “The Swan passes, and ballet with her”
... “The puppet-master is gone; the puppets must be returned to their
boxes” ... and a bit later: “Former Diaghileff dancers booked to appear
in revues and cabaret turns.” ...

In England, J. Maynard Keynes, Lydia Lopokova, Ninette de Valois, Marie
Rambert, Constant Lambert, and Arnold L. Haskell had formed the Camargo
Society for Sunday night ballet performances, which organization gave
birth to Marie Rambert’s Ballet Club and the Vic Wells Ballet. In 1933,
the glories of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet were hardly dreams, not yet a
glimmer in Ninette de Valois’ eye.

In Europe there remained only the Diaghileff remains and a vacant
Diaghileff contract at Monte Carlo. This latter deserves a word of
explanation. Diaghileff had acquired the name--the Ballets Russes de
Monte Carlo--thanks to the Prince of Monaco, himself a ballet lover, who
had offered Diaghileff and his company a home and a place to work.

René Blum, an intellectual French gentleman of deep culture and fine
taste, took over the unexpired Diaghileff Monte Carlo contract. Blum was
at hand for, at the time of Diaghileff’s death, he was at the head of
the dramatic theatre at Monte Carlo. In fulfilment of the Diaghileff
contract, for a time Blum booked such itinerant ballet groups as he
could. Then, in 1931, he organized his own Ballets Russes de Monte
Carlo. George Balanchine, who had staged some of the last of the
Diaghileff works, became the first choreographer for the new company.
For the Monte Carlo repertoire, he created three works. To it, from
Paris, he brought two of the soon-to-become-famous “baby ballerinas,”
Irina Baronova and Tamara Toumanova, both from the classroom of Olga
Preobrajenska.

Early in 1932, René Blum joined forces with one of the most curious
personalities that modern ballet has turned up, in the person of a
gentleman who wished to be known as Col. W. de Basil.

De Basil had had a ballet company of sorts for some time. I first ran
into him in Paris, shortly after Diaghileff’s death, where he had allied
himself with Prince Zeretelli’s Russian Opera Company; and again in
London, where the Lionel Powell management, in association with the
Imperial League of Opera, had given them a season of combined opera and
ballet at the old Lyceum Theatre. With ballets by Boris Romanoff and
Bronislava Nijinska, de Basil had toured his little troupe around Europe
in buses, living from hand to mouth; had turned up for a season at Monte
Carlo, at René Blum’s invitation. That did it. De Basil worked out a
deal with Blum, whereby de Basil became a joint managing director of the
combined companies, now under the title of Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo.
A season was given in the summer of 1932, in Paris, at the _Théâtre des
Champs Elysées_.

It was there I first saw the new company. It was then I took the plunge.
I negotiated. I signed them for a visit to the American continent. A
book could be devoted to these negotiations alone. It would not be
believable; it would fail to pass every test of credibility ever
devised.

I feel that this is the point at which to digress for a moment, in order
to sketch in a line drawing of de Basil, with some of the shadows and
some of the substance. Unless I do, no reader will be able to understand
why I once contemplated a book to be called _To Hell With Ballet_!

To begin with, de Basil was a Cossack and a Caucasian. Neither term
carries with it any connotation of gentleness or sensitivity. De Basil
was one of the last persons in the world you would expect to find at the
head of an organization devoted to the development of the gentle, lyric
art of the ballet. Two more dissimilar partners in an artistic venture
than de Basil and Blum could not be found.

René Blum, the gentle, cultured intellectual, was a genuine artist:
amiable, courteous, and fully deserving of the often misused phrase--a
man of the world. His alliance with de Basil was foredoomed to failure;
for one of René Blum’s outstanding characteristics was a passion to
avoid arguments, discussions, scandals, troubles of any sort. Blum
commanded the highest respect from his artists and associates; but they
never feared him. To them he was the kind, understanding friend to whom
they might run with their troubles and problems. Blum’s sensitivity was
such that he would run from de Basil as one would try to escape a
plague. René Blum, you would say, was, perhaps, the ivory-tower
dilettante. You would be wrong. René Blum gave the lie to this during
the war by revealing himself a man of heroic stature. On the occupation
of France, he was in grave danger, since he was a Jew, and the brother
of Léon Blum, the Socialist leader, great French patriot and one-time
Premier. René, however, was safely and securely out of the country. But
he, too, was a passionate lover of France. France, he felt, needed him.
Tossing aside his own safety, he returned to his beloved country, to
share its fate. His son, who was the apple of his father’s eye, joined
the Maquis; was killed fighting the Nazis. René Blum was the victim of
Nazi persecution.

Let us look for a moment at the background of Blum’s ballet
collaborator. The “Colonel” was born Vassily Grigorievitch Voskresensky.
In his native _milieu_ he had some sort of police-military career.
Although he insisted on the title “Colonel,” he certainly never attained
that rank in the Tsar’s army. He was a lieutenant in the _Gendarmes_.
After the revolution, in 1918, he turned up as a captain with
Bicherakoff’s Cossacks. Later on he turned naval and operated in the
Black Sea.

There is an interval in de Basil’s life that has never been entirely
filled in with complete accuracy: the period immediately following his
flight and escape from Russia. The most credible of the legends
surrounding this period is that he sold motor-cars in Italy. Eventually,
he turned up in Paris, where my trail picked him up at a concert agency
called _Zerbaseff_, which concerned itself with finding jobs for refugee
artists. It was then he called himself de Basil.

At the time I met him, he had a Caucasian partner, the Prince Zeretelli
whom I have mentioned, and who was a one-time manager of the People’s
Theatre, in St. Petersburg. It was this partnership that brought forth
the _Ballet and Opéra Russe de Paris_, which gave seasons at the
_Théâtre des Champs Elysées_, in Paris, and, as I have mentioned, at the
Lyceum Theatre, in London.

Let me first set down the man’s virtues. De Basil had great charm. By
that I do not necessarily mean he was charming. His charm was something
he could turn on at will, like a tap, usually when he was in a tight
spot. More than once it helped him out of deep holes, and sticky ones.
He had an inexhaustible fount of energy, could drive himself and others;
never seemed to need sleep; and, aiming at a highly desired personal
goal, had unending patience. With true oriental passivity, he could
wait. He had undaunted courage; needless, reckless courage, in my
opinion; a stupid courage compounded often out of equal parts of
stubbornness and sheer bravado. He was a born organizer. He intuitively
possessed a flair for the theatre: a flair without knowledge. He could
be an excellent host; he was a _cordon bleu_ cook. He was generous, he
was simple in his tastes.

Yet, with all these virtues, de Basil was, at the same time, one of the
most difficult human beings I have ever encountered in a lifetime of
management. This tall, gaunt, cadaver of a man had a powerful physique,
a dead-pan face, and a pair of cold, astigmatic eyes, before which
rested thick-lensed spectacles. He had all the makings of a dictator.
Like his countryman, Joseph Stalin, he was completely impossible as a
collaborator. He was a born intriguer, and delighted in surrounding
himself with scheming characters. During my career I have met scheming
characters who, nevertheless, have had certain positive virtues: they
succeeded in getting things done. De Basil’s scheming characters
consisted of lawyers, hacks, amateur managers, brokers, without
exception third-rate people who damaged and destroyed.

It would be an act of great injustice to call de Basil stupid. He was as
shrewd an article as one could expect to meet amongst all the lads who
have tried to sell the unwary stranger the Brooklyn Bridge, the Capitol
at Washington, or the Houses of Parliament.

De Basil deliberately engaged this motley crew of hangers-on, since his
Caucasian Machiavellism was such that he loved to pit them one against
the other, to use them to build up an operetta atmosphere of cheap
intrigue that I felt sure had not hitherto existed save in the Graustark
type of fiction. De Basil used them to irritate and annoy. He would
dispatch them abroad in his company simply to stir up trouble, to form
cliques: for purposes of _chantage_; he would order them into whispered
colloquies in corners, alternately wearing knowing looks and glum
visages. De Basil and his entire entourage lived in a world of intrigue
of their own deliberate making. His fussy, busy little cohorts cost him
money he did not have, and raised such continuous hell that the wonder
is the company held together as long as it did.

De Basil’s unholy joy would come from creating, through these henchmen,
a nasty situation and then stepping in to pull a string here, jerk a
cord there, he would save the situation, thus becoming the hero of the
moment.

I shall have more to say on the subject of the “Colonel” before this
tale is told.

Now, with the contracts signed for the first American visit, we were on
our honeymoon. Meanwhile, however, the picture of what I had agreed to
bring was changing. Leonide Massine, his stint at the Roxy Theatre in
New York completed, had met a former Broadway manager, E. Ray Goetz.
Together they had succeeded in raising some money and planned with it to
buy the entire Diaghileff properties. With this stock in hand, Massine
caught up with de Basil, who was barnstorming through the Low Countries
with his company in trucks and buses; and the two of them pooled
resources. Although Massine’s purchase plan did not go through entirely,
because much of the Diaghileff material had disappeared through lawsuits
and other claims, nevertheless Massine was able to deliver a sizable
portion of it.

As the direct result of Massine’s appointment as artistic director, a
number of things happened. First of all, Balanchine quit, and formed a
short-lived company in France, _Les Ballets 1933_, the history of which
is not germane to this story. Before he left, however, Balanchine had
created three works for the de Basil-Blum Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo:
_La Concurrence_, _Le Cotillon_, and _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_.
Massine, as his first task, staged _Jeux d’Enfants_ and _Les Plages_;
restaged three of his earlier works, _The Three-Cornered Hat_, _Le Beau
Danube_ and _Scuola di Ballo_; and the first of his epoch-making
symphonic ballets, _Les Présages_, to Tchaikowsky’s Fifth Symphony.
These were combined with a number of older works from the Diaghileff
repertoire, including the three Fokine masterpieces: _Les Sylphides_,
_Prince Igor_, and _Petroushka_.

Massine had strengthened the company. There were the former Diaghileff
_régisseur general_, Serge Grigorieff, of long memory, as stage
director; his wife, Lubov Tchernicheva, a leading Diaghileff figure, for
dramatic roles; the last Diaghileff _ballerina_, Alexandra Danilova, to
give stability to the three “baby ballerinas”: Baronova, Toumanova, and
Tatiana Riabouchinska, the last from Kchessinska’s private studio, by
way of Nikita Balieff’s _Chauve Souris_, where she had been dancing.
There was the intriguing Nina Verchinina, a “different” type of dancer.
There were talented lesser ladies: Eugenia Delarova, Lubov Rostova; a
group of English girls masquerading under Russian names. Among the men,
in addition to Massine, there were Leon Woizikovsky, David Lichine,
Roman Jasinsky, Paul Petroff, Yurek Shabalevsky, and André Eglevsky.

A successful breaking-in season was given at the Alhambra Theatre, in
London’s Leicester Square. While this was in progress, we set about at
the most necessary and vastly important business of trying to build a
public for ballet in America, for this is a ballet impresario’s first
job. That original publicity campaign was, in its way, history-making.
It took a considerable bit of organizing. No field was overlooked. In
addition to spreading the gospel of ballet, there was a Sponsors’
Committee, headed by the Grand Duchess Marie and Otto H. Kahn. Prince
Serge Obolensky was an ever-present source of help.

It was a chilly and fairly raw December morning in 1933 when I clambered
aboard the cutter at the Battery, to go down the Bay to board the ship
at Quarantine. It is a morning I shall not soon forget. I was in ballet
up to my neck; and I loved it. There have been days and nights in the
succeeding two decades when I have seriously played with the notion of
what life might have been like if I had not gone aboard (and overboard)
that December morning.

I took with me the traditional Russian welcome: a tray of bread, wrapped
in a white linen serviette, a little bowl of salt, which I offered to de
Basil. I was careful to see that the reporters and camera men were in
place when I did it. De Basil’s poker-face actually smiled as I handed
him the tray, uncovered the bread, poured the salt. But only for a
moment. A Russian word in greeting, and then there was an immediate
demand from him to see the theatre. We were on our way. Driving uptown
to the St. James Theatre, the arguments commenced. There was the matter
of the programme. There was the matter of the size of de Basil’s name;
the question of the relative size of the artists’ names; the type-face;
the order in which they should be listed; what was to become the
everlasting arguments over repertoire and casting. But I was in it, now.

I believed in the “star” system--not because I believe the system to be
a perfect one, by any means, but because the American public, which had
been without any major ballet company for eight years, and which had had
practically no ballet activity, had to be attracted and arrested by
something more than an unknown and heretofore unheard-of company and the
photograph of a not particularly photogenic ex-Cossack.

The pre-Christmas _première_ at the St. James Theatre, on the night of
21st December, marked the beginning of a new epoch in ballet, and in my
career. It was going to be a long pull, an uphill struggle. I knew that.
The opening night audience was brilliant; the house was packed,
enthusiastic. But the advance sale at the box-office was anything but
encouraging. Diaghileff had failed in America. The losses of his two
seasons, paid for by Otto H. Kahn, ran close to a half-million dollars.
I was on my own. Since readers are as human as I am, perhaps they will
forgive my pardonable pride, the pride I felt sixteen years later, on
reading the historian George Amberg’s comment: “If it had not been for
Mr. Hurok’s resourceful management and promotion, de Basil would
certainly not have succeeded where Diaghileff failed.”

But I am anticipating. The opening programme consisted of _La
Concurrence_, _Les Présages_, and _Le Beau Danube_. Toumanova in the
first; Baronova and Lichine in the second; Massine, Danilova, and
Riabouchinska in the third. It was a night. The next day’s press was
excellent. It was John Martin, with what I felt was an anti-Diaghileff
bias, who offered some reservations.

Following the opening performance, I gave the first of my many ballet
suppers, this one at the Savoy-Plaza. It was very gala. The Sponsors’
Committee turned up _en masse_. White-gloved waiters served, among other
things, super hot dogs, as a native gesture to the visitors from
overseas. The “baby ballerinas” looked as if they should have been in
bed. That is, two of them did. One of them was missing, and there was
some concern as to what could have happened to Tamara Toumanova.
However, there was no necessity for concern for Tamara, since she, with
her sense of the theatre, the theatrical, and the main chance, made a
late and quite theatrical entry, with Paul D. Cravath on one arm and
Otto H. Kahn on the other. The new era in ballet was inaugurated by
these two distinguished gentlemen and patrons of the arts sipping
champagne from a ballet slipper especially made for the occasion by a
leading Fifth Avenue bootmaker.

The opening a matter of history, the publicity department went into
action at double the record-breaking pace at which they had been
functioning for weeks. The resulting press coverage was overwhelming and
national.

But, however gratifying all this may have been, I had my troubles, and
they increased daily. The publicity simply could not please all the
people all the time. I mean the ballet people, of course. There was
always the eternally dissatisfied de Basil. In addition, there were
three fathers, nineteen mothers, and one sister-in-law to be satisfied.
Then there were daily casting problems. The publicity department was
giving the press what it wanted: feature stories on ballet, on artists,
on the daily life of the dancer. It was then de Basil determined that
all publicity must be centered on his own august person. He had a point
of view, I must admit. Dancers were here today, gone tomorrow. De Basil
and his ballet remained. But no newspaper is interested in running
repeated photographs of a dour, bespectacled male. They wanted “leg
art.” When de Basil insisted that he be photographed, the camera men
would “shoot” him with a filmless or plateless camera.

In addition to having to contend with what threatened to become a
chronic and incurable case of Basildiaghileffitis, I was losing a potful
of money. The St. James Theatre is no better than any other Broadway
house as a home for ballet. The stage is far too small either to display
the décor or to permit dancers to move freely. The auditorium, even if
filled to capacity, cannot meet ballet expenses. We were not playing to
anything like capacity. There was a tour booked; but, thanks to a “stop
clause” in the theatre contract--a figure above which the attraction
must continue at the theatre--we could not leave. We had made the “stop
clause” too low. There was only one thing to do in order to protect the
tour. I decided to divide the company into two companies.

Forced to fulfil two sets of obligations at the end of the first month
at the St. James Theatre, I opened a tour in Reading, Pennsylvania, with
Massine, Danilova, Toumanova, the larger part of the _corps de ballet_,
Efrem Kurtz conducting the orchestra, and all of the ballets in the
repertoire except three.

The company remaining at the St. James had Baronova, Riabouchinska,
Lichine, and Woizikovsky, with the corps augmented by New York dancers,
and Antal Dorati as conductor. This company gave eight performances
weekly of the Fokine masterpieces, _Les Sylphides_, _Petroushka_, and
_Prince Igor_. The steadily increasing public did not seem to mind.

The response on the road and in New York was surprisingly good. When we
finally left New York, the two groups merged, and we played a second
Chicago engagement, at the marvellous old Auditorium Theatre. All were
there, save for Grigorieff, Alexandra Danilova, and Dorati, who returned
to Monte Carlo to fulfil de Basil’s contract with Blum for a spring
season in Monaco.

There was a brief spring season in New York, preceded by a week at the
Forrest Theatre in Philadelphia, where Massine’s first “American” ballet
had its dress rehearsals and first performances. This was _Union
Pacific_, a four-scened work in which Massine had the collaboration of
the distinguished American poet, Archibald MacLeish, on the story;
Albert Johnson, on the settings; Irene Sharaff, with costumes; and a
score, based on American folk-tunes, by Nicholas Nabokoff. It was the
first Russian ballet attempt to deal with the native American scene and
material, treating the theme of the building of the first
transcontinental railway.

We gave its first performance on the night of April 6, 1934, and the
cast included Massine himself, his wife Eugenia Delarova, Irina
Baronova, Sono Osato, David Lichine, and André Eglevsky, in the central
roles.

It was Massine’s prodigious Barman’s dance that proved to be the
highlight of the work.

The balance of the company eventually returned to Europe for their
summer seasons in London and Paris, and to stage new productions. Back
they came in the autumn for another tour. The problem of a proper
theatre for ballet in New York had not been solved; so I took the
company from Europe to Mexico City for an engagement at the newly
remodeled Palacio des Bellas Artes. There were problems galore. Once
again I fell back on my right-hand-bower, Mae Frohman, rushed her to
Mexico to clear them. Back from Mexico by boat to New York, with a
hurried transfer for trains to Toronto, and a long coast-to-coast tour.
The New York engagement that season was brief: five performances only.
The only theatre available was the Majestic, whose stage is no less
cramped, and whose auditorium provides no illusion. During this brief
season a new work by Massine was presented: _Jardin Public_ (_Public
Garden_). It was based on a fragment from André Gide’s _The
Counterfeiters_, in a scenario by Massine and Vladimir Dukelsky (Vernon
Duke) who supplied the music. It was not one of Massine’s most
successful works by any means. But the _première_ did provide an amusing
incident. Danilova was cast as a wealthy woman; Massine and Toumanova as
The Poor Couple. On the opening night, Danilova, who showed her wealthy
status by dancing a particularly lively rhumba, lost her underpants
while dancing in the center of the stage. The contretemps she carried
off with great aplomb. But, on her exit, she did not carry off the
underwear, which remained in the center of the stage as a large colored
blob. Danilova’s exit was followed by the entrance of Toumanova and
Massine, clad in rags as befitted The Poor Couple. Toumanova, fixing her
eyes on the offending lingerie, picked it up, examined it critically,
and then, as if it were something from the nether world and quite
unspeakable, dramatically hurled it off-stage in an attitude of utter
disgust, as if it were a symbol of the thing she most detested: wealth.

Although the five performances were sold out, we could not cover our
expenses. In the autumn of 1935, when the company returned for its third
season, we were able to bring Ballet to the Metropolitan Opera House
and, for the first time since its rebirth in America, the public really
saw it at its best.

During this time we had made substantial additions to the repertoire:
Massine’s second and third symphonic ballets, the Brahms _Choreartium_,
and the Berlioz _Symphonie Fantastique_; Nijinska’s _The Hundred
Kisses_. In addition to Fokine’s new non-operatic version of _Le Coq
d’Or_, which I have mentioned, there were added Fokine’s _Schéhérazade_,
_The Afternoon of a Faun_, and Nijinsky’s _Le Spectre de la Rose_.

The gross takings of the fourth American season of the de Basil company
reached round a million dollars.

By this time matters were coming to a head. All was not, by any means,
well in ballet. Massine, by this time, was at swords’ points with de
Basil. I was irritated, bored, fatigued, worn out with him and his
entourage. Since de Basil had lost his Monte Carlo connection, he had
also lost touch with the artistic thought that had served as a stimulus
to creation.

It is necessary for me to make another digression at this point. The
opening chapter of the New Testament is, as the reader will remember, a
geneological one, with a formidable list of “begats.” It seems to me the
course of wisdom to try to clear up, if I can, the “begats” of Russian
Ballet since the day on which I first allied myself with it. I shall try
to disentangle them for the sake of the reader’s better understanding.
There were so many similar names, artists moving from one company to
another, ballets appearing in the repertoires of more than one
organization.

In this saga, I have called this chapter “W. de Basil and his Ballets
Russes de Monte Carlo.” It is a convenient handle. The confusion that
was so characteristic of the man de Basil, was intensified by the fact
that the “Colonel” changed the name of the company at least a half-dozen
times during our association. To attempt to go into all the involved
reasons for these chameleon-like changes would simply add to the
confusion, and would, I feel, be boring. Let me, for the sake of
conciseness and, I hope, the reader’s illumination, list the six
changes:

In 1932, it was _Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo_.

From 1933 to 1936, it was _Monte Carlo Ballet Russe_.

In 1937, it was _Colonel W. de Basil’s Ballet Russe_.

In 1938, it was _Covent Garden Ballet Russe_.

In 1939, it was _Educational Ballets_, Ltd.

From 1940 until its demise, it was _Original Ballet Russe_.

I have said earlier that the alliance between René Blum and de Basil was
foredoomed to failure. The split between them came in 1936, both as a
result of incompatibility and of de Basil’s preoccupation with the
United States to the exclusion of any Monte Carlo interest. Blum had a
greater interest in Monte Carlo, with which, to be sure, he had a
contract. So it was not surprising that René Blum organized a new Ballet
Russe de Monte Carlo, with Michel Fokine as choreographer.

De Basil and his methods became increasingly aggravating. His chicanery,
his eternal battling, above all, his overweening obsession about the
size of his name in the display advertising, were sometimes almost
unbearable. He carried a pocket-rule with him and would go about cities
measuring the words “Col. W. de Basil.” Now electric light letters vary
in size in the various cities, and there is no way of changing them
without having new letters made or purchased at considerable expense and
trouble. I remember a scene in Detroit, where de Basil became so
obnoxious that the company manager and I climbed to the roof of the
theatre and took down the sign with our own hands, in order to save us
from further annoyance that day.

All of this accumulated irritation added up to an increasing conviction
that life was too short to continue this sort of thing indefinitely,
despite my love for and my interest and faith in ballet both as an art
and as a popular form of entertainment.

As I have said, Leonide Massine’s difficulties and relations with de
Basil were becoming so strained that each performance became an ordeal.
I never knew when an explosion might occur. There were many points of
difference between Massine and de Basil. The chief bone of contention
was the matter of artistic direction. Massine’s contract with de Basil
was approaching its expiration date. De Basil was badgering him to sign
a new one. Massine steadfastly refused to negotiate unless de Basil
would assure him, in the contract, the title and powers of Artistic
Director. De Basil as steadfastly refused, and insisted on retaining the
powers of artistic direction for himself.

There was, as is always the case in Russian Ballet, a good deal of
side-taking. Granted that, for his purposes, de Basil’s insistence on
keeping all controls over his company in his own hands, had a point. But
let us also regard the issue from the point of view of ability and
knowledge, the prime qualifications for the post. From the portrait I
have given, the reader will gather the extent of the “Colonel’s”
qualifications. This would seem to be the time and place for a sketch of
Leonide Massine, as I know him.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day there must be a book written about Massine. Not that there is
not already a considerable literature dealing with him; but there is yet
to appear a work that has done him anything like justice. For me to
attempt more than a line drawing would be presumptuous and manifestly
unjust; but a sketch is demanded.

Leonide Massine was born in Moscow in 1894. He graduated from the Moscow
Imperial School in 1912. It was a year later that Diaghileff, visiting
Moscow, was taken by Poliakov, the famous Moscow dramatic critic, to see
a play at the Ostrovsky Theatre. It happened that Massine was appearing
in the play in the role of a servant. There is no record as to what
Diaghileff thought of the play or the performance. The one fact that
emerges from this chance evening Diaghileff spent at a theatre is that
he was impressed by the manner in which the unknown boy, Massine,
carried a tray. Diaghileff asked Poliakov to take him back-stage and
introduce him to the talented young mime.

Artistically, Diaghileff was in the process of moving onward from the
exclusively Russian tradition that was represented by Benois, Bakst,
Stravinsky, and Fokine. He was moving towards a greater
internationalism, a broader cosmopolitanism. He was in need of a
creative personality who would carry forward this wider concept.
Diaghileff’s intuition told him this seventeen-year-old boy with the
enormous brown eyes was the person. Diaghileff took Massine from Moscow
into his company and fashioned him into a present-day Pygmalion.
Diaghileff took over the boy’s artistic education. As part of a
deliberate plan, Diaghileff pushed a willing pupil into close contact
with the world of modern painting and music, with the finest minds of
the period. Picasso, Larionov, Stravinsky, and de Falla became his
mentors; libraries, museums, concert halls, his classrooms. The result
was a great cosmopolitan choreographer, perhaps the greatest living
today.

An American citizen, he will always have strong Russian roots. Some of
his best works are Russian ballets; but he is no slavish nationalist. He
is as much at home in the cultures of Italy, Scotland, or Spain. His was
a precocious genius, discovered by Diaghileff’s intuition. Massine began
at the top, and has remained there.

Massine is difficult to know, for he is shy, and he has a great wall of
natural reserve that takes a long time to penetrate. Once penetrated, it
is possible to experience one of life’s greater satisfactions in the
conversation, the intelligence, the knowledge of the mature Massine.
Massine’s poise and sense of order never leave him. There is a
meticulousness about him and a neatness that indicate the possession of
an orderly mind. Everything he reads which he feels may be of even the
slightest value to him at some future time, he preserves in large
clipping-books. About him is a calm that is exceptional in a Russian--a
calm that is exceptional in any one associated with the dance, where the
habit is to shout as loudly as possible at the slightest provocation, or
no provocation at all, and to become violently excited and agitated over
the most unimportant things. There is about him none of the superficial
“temperament” too often assumed to be the prerogative of artists. He has
a sharp sense of humor; but it is a sense of humor that is keen and dry.
His wit can be sharp and extremely cutting. He has not always been
loved by his associates; but very few of them have ever really known
him.

Filled with fire, energy, enthusiasm, his constant desire is to build
something better.

As a dancer, he still dances, as no one else, the Miller in _The
Three-Cornered Hat_ and the Can Can Dancer in _La Boutique Fantasque_.
Personally, I prefer only Massine in the roles he has created for
himself. No other dancer can approach him in these.

I have mentioned his long sojourn at the Roxy Theatre, in New York.
Under the conditions imposed--a new work to be staged weekly, to dance
four times a day--masterpieces were obviously impossible; but the work
he did was of vast importance in building a dance public in New York.

There are those today who chide Massine for his all too frequent
re-creations of his old pieces, and lay it to Massine’s obsession with
money. It is true, Massine does have a concern for money. But, after
all, he has a wife, two growing children, and other responsibilities.
However, I do not believe finance is the sole reason, and I, for one,
wish he would not be eternally reproducing his old works. _Le Beau
Danube_ will live forever as one of the finest _genre_ works of all
time. But it must be properly done. I remember, to my sorrow, seeing a
recent production of the _Danube_ Massine staged in Paris, with Roland
Petit--with a company of only fourteen dancers. Further comment is not
required.

I have a deep and abiding affection for Leonide Massine as a person--an
affection that is very deep and real. As an artist, I believe he is
still the greatest individual personality in ballet today--a
choreographer of deep knowledge, imagination, and ability.

The composer of some sixty-odd ballets, it is the most imposing record
in modern ballet’s history, perfectly amazing productivity. No one but
himself is capable of restoring them. When produced or restaged without
his fine hand, they are a shambles.

I should like to offer my friend, Leonide Massine, a hope that springs
from my heart. I can only urge him, for his own good and for the good of
ballet which needs him, to rest for a time on his beautiful island in
the Mediterranean and to spend the time there in study and reflection,
crystallizing his ideas. Then he will bring to us new and striking
creations that will come like a refreshing breeze clearing the murky
atmosphere of much of our contemporary ballet scene. If Massine would
only relax his constant drive and follow my suggestion, the real Massine
would emerge.

After a summer on his island, he gave us one of his most recent
creations (1952), an Umbrian Passion Play, _Laudes Evangelli_, to
religious music of the Middle Ages. An interesting side-light on it is
that the very first ballet he had in mind at the beginning of the
Diaghileff association was based on the same idea.

At the height of his maturity, there is no indication of age in Massine.
Age, after all, is merely a question of how old one feels. I remember,
in the later days of his ballet, shortly before his death, Diaghileff
was planning a special gala performance. At a conference of his staff,
he suggested inviting Pavlova to appear. Some of his advisers countered
the proposal with the suggestion that Pavlova was too old. My reply was
brief and to the point.

“Pavlova will never age,” I said. “Some people are old at twenty. But
Pavlova, never; for genius never looks at the calendar.”

What was true of Pavlova, is equally true of Leonide Massine.

       *       *       *       *       *

The growth, the development, and the appreciation of ballet in America
are the result of a number of things, both individually and in
combination. There may exist a variety of opinions on the subject, but
one thing, I know, is certain: the present state of ballet in America is
not the result of chance. In 1933 I had signed a contract with de Basil
to bring ballet to America; yet there was an element of chance involved
in that my publicity director, vacationing in Europe, saw a performance
of the de Basil company, and spontaneously cabled me an expression of
his enthusiasm. Since this employee was not a balletomane in any sense
of the word, his message served to intensify my conviction that then was
the time to go forward with my determination to follow my intuition.
Here ends any element of chance.

The basic repertoire of the first years was an extension of the
Diaghileff artistic policies. The repertoire included not only revivals
from the Diaghileff repertoire, but also new, forward-looking creations.
I was certain that a sound and orthodox repertoire was an essential for
establishing a genuine ballet audience in this country.

In 1933, there was no ballet audience. It was something that had to be
created and developed through every medium possible. I had a two-fold
responsibility--because I loved ballet with a love that amounted to a
passion, and because I had a tremendous financial burden which I carried
single-handed, without the aid of any Maecenas; I had to make ballet
successful; in doing so, willy-nilly I had the responsibility of forming
a taste where no aesthetic existed.

For two decades I have had criticism levelled at me from certain places,
criticism directed chiefly at my policies in ballet; I have been
criticized for my insistence on certain types of ballets in the
repertoires of the companies I have managed, and for my belief in
adaptations and varying applications of what is known as the “star”
system. The only possible answer is that I have been proven right. No
other system has succeeded in bringing people to ballet or in bringing
ballet to the people.

It will not be out of place at this time to note the repertoire of the
de Basil company at the time of the breakdown of the relations between
Massine and de Basil, which may be said to be the period of the Massine
artistic direction and influence on the de Basil companies, from 1933 to
1937.

There were, if my computation is correct, and I have checked the matter
with some care, a total of forty works, with thirty-four of them
actively in the repertoire. Of these, there were two sound classics
stemming from the Imperial Russian Ballet, creations by Marius Petipa
and Lev Ivanoff: _Swan Lake_, in the one-act abbreviation; and _Aurora’s
Wedding_, the last _divertissement_ act of _The Sleeping Beauty_ or _The
Sleeping Princess_, both, of course, to the music of Tchaikowsky. There
were three Russian works, i.e., ballets on Russian subjects:
Stravinsky’s _Petroushka_; the _Polovtsian Dances from Prince Igor_; and
_Le Coq d’Or_, a purely balletic and entertaining spectacle, with the
Rimsky-Korsakoff music rearranged for ballet by Tcherepnine. All of the
foregoing were by Michel Fokine. Eight other Fokine works were included,
all originally produced by him for Diaghileff: three, which might be
called exotic works--_Cléopâtre_, to the music of Arensky and others;
_Thamar_, to the music of Balakireff; and _Schéhérazade_, to the
Rimsky-Korsakoff tone-poem. Five ballets typifying the Romantic
Revolution: Stravinsky’s _Firebird_; _Carnaval_ and _Papillons_, both by
Robert Schumann; _Le Spectre de la Rose_, to the familiar Weber score;
that greatest of all romantic works, _Les Sylphides_, the Chopin
“romantic reverie.”

There were two works by George Balanchine: _Le Cotillon_ and _La
Concurrence_, the former to music by Chabrier, the latter to music by
Auric. A third Balanchine work, _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_, was
necessarily dropped from the repertoire because the costumes were
destroyed by fire.

The largest contributor by far to the de Basil repertoire was Massine
himself. No less than seventeen of the thirty-four works regularly
presented, that is, fifty per-cent, were by this prodigious creator.
Eight of these were originally staged by Massine for Diaghileff; two
were revivals of works he produced for Count Etienne de Beaumont, in
Paris, in 1932. Seven were original creations for the de Basil company.
The Diaghileff creations, in revival--in the order of their first
making--were: _The Midnight Sun_, to music from Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _The
Snow Maiden_; _Russian Folk Tales_, music by Liadov; The _Good-Humored
Ladies_, to the Scarlatti-Tommasini score; Manuel de Falla’s _The
Three-Cornered Hat_; _The Fantastic Toyshop_, to Rossini melodies;
George Auric’s _Les Matelots: Cimarosiana_; Vittorio Rieti’s _The Ball_.

The two Beaumont works: _Le Beau Danube_, and the Boccherini _Scuola di
Ballo_.

The creations for the de Basil company: the three symphonic
ballets--_Les Présages_, (Tchaikowsky’s Fifth); _Choreartium_, (Brahms’s
Fourth); _La Symphonie Fantastique_, (Berlioz). Also _Children’s Games_
(Bizet); _Beach_ (Jean Francaix); _Union Pacific_ (Nicholas Nabokoff);
and _Jardin Public_ (Dukelsky).

Two other choreographers round out the list. The young David Lichine
contributed four; Bronislava Nijinska, two. The Lichine works:
Tchaikowsky’s _Francesca da Rimini_ and _La Pavillon_, to Borodin’s
music for strings, arranged by Antal Dorati. The others, produced in
Europe, were so unsuccessful I could not bring them to America:
_Nocturne_, a slight work utilising some of Mendelssohn’s _Midsummer
Night’s Dream_ music, and _Les Imaginaires_, to a score by George Auric.

The Nijinska works: _The Hundred Kisses_, to a commissioned score by
Baron Frederic d’Erlanger; the _Danses Slaves et Tsiganes_, from the
Dargomijhky opera _Roussalka_; and a revival of that great
Stravinsky-Nijinska work, _Les Noces_, which, for practical reasons, I
was able to give only at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York.

The following painters and designers collaborated on the scenery and
costumes: Oliver Messel, Cecil Beaton, Etienne de Beaumont, Nathalie
Gontcharova, Korovin, Pierre Hugo, Jean Lurçat, Albert Johnson, Irene
Sharaff, Eugene Lourie, Raoul Dufy, André Masson, Joan Miro, Polunin,
Chirico, José Maria Sert, Pruna, André Derain, Picasso, Bakst,
Larionoff, Alexandre Benois, Nicholas Roerich, Mstislav Doboujinsky.

For the sake of the record, as the company recedes into the mists of
time, let me list its chief personnel during this period: Leonide
Massine, ballet-master and chief male dancer; Alexandra Danilova, Irina
Baronova, Tamara Toumanova, Tatiana Riabouchinska, _ballerinas_; Lubov
Tchernicheva, Olga Morosova, Nina Verchinina, Lubov Rostova, Tamara
Grigorieva, Eugenia Delarova, Vera Zorina, Sono Osato, Leon Woizikovsky,
David Lichine, Yurek Shabalevsky, Paul Petroff, André Eglevsky, and
Roman Jasinsky, soloists; Serge Grigorieff, _régisseur_.

In our spreading of the gospel of ballet, emphasis was laid on the
following: Ballet, repertoire, personnel. Since there were no “stars”
whose names at the time carried any box-office weight or had any
recognizable association, the concentration was on the “baby
ballerinas,” Baronova, Toumanova, Riabouchinska, all of whom were young
dancers of fine training and exceptional talents. They grew as artists
before our eyes. They also grew up. They had an unparalleled success.
They also had their imperfections, but it was a satisfaction to watch
their progress.

Ballet was by way of being established in America’s cultural and
entertainment life by the end of the fourth de Basil season. On the
financial side, that fourth season’s gross business passed the million
dollar mark; artistically, deterioration had set in. With the feud
between Massine and de Basil irreconcilable, there was no sound artistic
policy possible, no authoritative direction. The situation was as if two
rival directors would have stood on either side of the proscenium arch,
one countermanding every order given by the other. The personnel of the
company was lining up in support of one or the other; factionism was
rampant. Performances suffered.

Massine, meanwhile realizing the hopelessness of the situation so far as
he was concerned, cast about for possible interested backers in a
balletic venture of his own, where he could exercise his own talents and
authority. He succeeded in interesting a number of highly solvent ballet
lovers, chief among whom was Julius Fleischmann, of Cincinnati.

Just what Fleischmann’s interest in ballet may have been, or what
prompted it, I have not been able to determine. At any rate, it was a
fresh, new interest. A man of culture and sensitivity, he was something
of a dilettante and a cosmopolitan. When he was at home, it was on his
estate in Cincinnati. His business interests, i.e., the sources that
provided him with the means to pursue his artistic occupations, required
no attention on his part.

Together with other persons of means and leisure, a corporation was
formed under the name Universal Art. The corporation turned over the
artistic direction, both in name and fact, to Massine, and he was on his
own to choose the policy, the repertoire, and the personnel for a new
company.

Ballet in America was on the horns of a dilemma. And so was I.




8. Revolution and Counter-revolution:
Leonide Massine and the New
Ballet Russe De Monte Carlo


In order that the reader may have a sense of continuity, I feel he
should be supplied with a bit of the background and a brief fill-in on
what had been happening meanwhile at Monte Carlo.

I have pointed out that de Basil’s preoccupation with London and America
had soon left his collaborator, René Blum, without a ballet company with
which to fulfil his contractual obligations to the Principality of
Monaco. The break between the two came in 1936, when Blum formed a new
company that he called simply Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo.

Blum had the great wisdom and fine taste to engage Michel Fokine as
choreographer. A company, substantial in size, had been engaged, the
leading personnel numbering among its principals some fine dancers known
to American audiences. Nana Gollner, the American _ballerina_, was one
of the leading figures. Others included Vera Nemtchinova, Natalie
Krassovska, Anatole Ouboukhoff, Anatole Vilzak, Jean Yasvinsky, André
Eglevsky, and Michel Panaieff. A repertoire, sparked by Fokine
creations, was in the making.

Back in America, the prime mover in the financial organization of the
new Massine company was Sergei I. Denham. It is hardly necessary to add
that Denham and de Basil had little in common or that they were, in
fact, arch-enemies.

Denham had no more previous knowledge of or association with ballet than
de Basil; actually much less. I have been unable to discover the real
source of Denham’s interest in ballet. Born Sergei Ivanovich
Dokouchaieff, in Russia, the son of a merchant, he had escaped the
Revolution by way of China. His career in the United States, before
ballet in the persons of Leonide Massine and Julius Fleischmann swam
into his ken, had been of a mercantile nature, in one business venture
or another, including a stint as an automobile salesman, and another as
a sort of bank manager, none of them connected with the arts, but all of
them bringing him into fringe relations with the substantially solvent.

No sooner did he find himself in the atmosphere of ballet than he, too,
became infected with Diaghileffitis, a disease that, apparently, attacks
them all, sooner or later.

It is one of the strange phenomena of ballet I have never been able to
understand. Why is it, I ask myself, that a former merchant, an
ex-policeman, or an heir to carpet factory fortunes, for some reason all
gravitate to ballet, to create and perpetuate “hobby” businesses? I have
not yet discovered the answer. As in the case of Denham, so with the
others. Lacking knowledge or trained taste, people like these no sooner
find themselves in ballet than down they come with the Diaghileffitis
attack.

Russian intrigue quickened its tempo, increased its intensity. Denham,
with the smooth, soft suavity of a born organizer, drove about the
country in his battered little car, often accompanied by his niece,
Tatiana Orlova, who was later to become the fourth Mrs. Massine,
ostensibly to try to attract more backers, more money. More often than
not, he followed the exact itinerary of the de Basil tour. Then he would
insinuate himself back-stage, place a chair for himself in the wings
during the performances of the de Basil company, and there negotiate
with dancers in an effort to get them to leave de Basil and join the new
company. At the same time, he would exhibit what can only be described
as a deplorable rudeness to de Basil, whose company it was.

On the other hand, de Basil increased and intensified his machinations
to try to induce me to again sign with him. Not only did he step up his
own personal barrage, but the intrigues of his associates were deepened.
These associates were now three in number. Russian intrigue was having
an extended field day. On the one hand, there was Denham intriguing for
all he was worth against de Basil. On the other, de Basil’s three
henchmen were intriguing against Denham, against me, against each other,
and, I suspect, against de Basil. It was a sorry spectacle.

It was the sort of thing you come upon in tales of Balkan intrigue. The
cast of this one included a smooth and suave Russian ex-merchant, bland
and crafty, easy of smile, oozing “culture,” with an attractive
dancer-niece as part-time assistant, and a former Diaghileff _corps de
ballet_ dancer, a member of de Basil’s company, as his spy and
henchwoman-at-large. Arrayed against this trio was the de Basil quartet:
the “Colonel” himself, and his three henchmen. The first was Ignat Zon,
a slightly obese organizer and theatre promoter from Moscow and
Petrograd, who, after the Revolution, had turned up in Paris, where he
allied himself with Prince Zeretelli, de Basil’s former Caucasian
partner. Zon was not interested in ballet; he was a commission merchant,
nothing more. The other two were a comic conspiratorial pair. One was a
Bulgarian lawyer, who had lived for some time in Paris, Jacques Lidji,
by name. The other was an undersized, tubby little hanger-on, Alexander
Philipoff, a fantastic little man with no experience of theatre or
ballet, who neither spoke nor understood a word of anything save
Russian. Philipoff certainly was not more than five feet tall, chubby,
tubby, rotund, with a beaming face and an eternally suspicious eye. The
contrast between him and the tall, gaunt de Basil was ludicrous.
Privately they were invariably referred to as Mutt and Jeff. Philipoff
constantly sought for motives (bad) behind every word uttered, behind
every facial expression, every gesture.

Both men were overbearing, and rather pathetic, at that. Neither of the
pair could be called theatre people by any stretch of the imagination.
Lidji, the lawyer, was quite as futile in his own way as Philipoff. As a
pair of characters they might have been mildly amusing in _The Spring
Maid_ type of operetta. As collaborators on behalf of ballet, they were
a trial and a bloody bore. Lidji, incidentally, was but one of de
Basil’s lawyers; others came and went in swift procession. But Lidji
lasted longer than some, and, for a time, acted as a sort of
under-director, as did Philipoff. Since Lidji was not, at the time, an
American citizen, he was unable to engage in the practice of law in the
States. When he was not otherwise engaged in exercises of intrigue,
Lidji would busy himself writing voluminous reports and setting down
mountains of notes.

I am convinced that the reason de Basil had so many legal advisers was
that he never paid them. Soon one or another would quit, and yet another
would turn up. I have a theory that, no matter how poor one may be, one
should always pay one’s doctor and one’s lawyer; each can help one out
of trouble.

My personal problem was relatively simple. With the Massine group
raiding de Basil’s company, which of the dancers would remain with the
“Colonel”? This was problem number one. The other was, with de Basil
dropping Massine, who was the creator and the creative force behind the
de Basil company and who would, moreover, be likely to take a number of
important artists from de Basil to his own company, what would de Basil
have in the way of playable repertoire, artists, new creations?

To annoyance and aggravation, now were added perplexity, puzzlement.

It was at about this time, on one of my European visits, I had had
extended discussions with René Blum regarding my bringing him and his
new company to America. I had seen numerous performances given by his
company during their London season, and I had been impressed by their
quality.

During this period of puzzlement on my part, Sergei Denham came to me to
try to interest me in the new Fleischmann venture. Denham assured me he
had ample financial backing for the new company. My chief concern at
this time was the question of the artistic direction of the new
organization. I told Denham that if he would secure by contract the
services of Leonide Massine in that capacity, I would be interested in
taking over the management of the company, and signed a letter to that
effect.

Subsequently, the late Halsey Malone, acting as counsel for Universal
Art, the corporate title of the Fleischmann group, secured Massine’s
signature and a detailed contract was drawn up.

As matters stood, I had one more season to go with my contractual
arrangements with de Basil, and Massine had the better part of another
season with the former’s company.

Massine’s contract with de Basil expired while the company was playing
in San Francisco, and the two parted company, with Massine, Danilova,
and others leaving for Monte Carlo.

That repertoire consisted of five Fokine-Diaghileff revivals:
_Carnaval_, _Le Spectre de la Rose_, _Les Sylphides_, _Prince Igor_, and
_Schéhérazade_.

[Illustration: _Valente_

Anton Dolin in _Fair at Sorotchinsk_]

[Illustration:

     Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo: Alexandra Danilova as the Glove Seller
     and Leonide Massine as the Peruvian in _Gaîté Parisienne_

_Valente_]

[Illustration:

_Maurice Seymour_

Tamara Toumanova]

[Illustration:

     _Maurice Seymour_

Alicia Markova]

[Illustration:

_Valente_

     Scene from Antony Tudor’s _Romeo and Juliet_: Hugh Laing, Antony
     Tudor, Dmitri Romanoff, Lucia Chase, Alicia Markova
]

[Illustration:

     Ballet Theatre: Jerome Robbins and Janet Reed in _Fancy Free_

_Valente_]

[Illustration:

     _Gordon Anthony_

Ninette de Valois]

[Illustration: _Angus McBean_

David Webster]

[Illustration: Constant Lambert

_Baron_]

[Illustration:

     _Magnum_

S. Hurok, Margot Fonteyn, Robert Helpmann]

[Illustration: Irina Baronova and Children

     _Star Photo_
]

[Illustration: _Felix Fonteyn_

     Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Following the premiere of
     _Sylvia_--Frederick Ashton, Margot Fonteyn, S. Hurok
]

[Illustration: S. Hurok and Margot Fonteyn

_Felix Fonteyn_]

There was a production of Delibes’s _Coppélia_, staged by Nicholas
Zvereff; the _Swan Lake_ second act; a version of _The Nutcracker_, by
Boris Romanoff; and _Aubade_, to the music of Francis Poulenc, staged by
George Balanchine.

Importantly, there were several new Fokine creations: _L’Epreuve
d’Amour_, a charming “_chinoiserie_,” to the music of Mozart; _Don
Juan_, a balletic retelling of the romantic tale to a discovered score
by Gluck; _Les Eléments_, to the music of Bach; _Jota Argonesa_, a work
first done by Fokine in Petrograd, in 1916; _Igroushki_, originally
staged by Fokine for the Ziegfeld Roof in New York, in 1921; _Les
Elfes_, the Mendelssohn work originally done in New York, in 1924. The
two other Fokine works were yet another version of _The Nutcracker_, and
de Falla’s _Love, the Sorcerer_, both of which were later re-done by
Boris Romanoff.

Painters and designers included André Derain, Mariano Andreu, Nathalie
Gontcharova, Dmitri Bouchene, Mstislav Doboujinsky, and Cassandre.

Massine’s preparations went ahead apace. In Boston there were intensive
researches and concentrated work on the score for what was destined to
be one of the most popular works in modern ballet, _Gaîté Parisienne_.
In a large room in the Copley Plaza Hotel were assembled all the extant
scores of Offenbach operettas, procured from the Boston Public Library
and the Harvard Library. There were two pianists, Massine, Efrem Kurtz,
the conductor, copyists. The basic musical material for the ballet was
selected there, under Massine’s supervision. Later, in Paris, it was put
together and re-orchestrated by Manuel Rosenthal.

The de Basil company finished its American season and sailed for Europe.
Meanwhile the deal was consummated between Fleischmann, Massine, Denham
and Blum, and Universal Art became the proprietor of the Ballet Russe de
Monte Carlo. Before the deal was finally settled, however, Fokine had
left Blum and had sold his services to de Basil, whose company was
playing a European tour. Massine was the new artistic director of the
new Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, while Fokine had switched to de Basil.

Massine was now busily engaged in building up the dancing personnel of
his new organization. On the distaff side, he had Alexandra Danilova,
Eugenia Delarova, Tamara Toumanova, Lubov Rostova, from the de Basil
company. From the Blum company he took Natalie Krassovska, Jeanette
Lauret, Milada Mladova, Mia Slavenska, Michel Panieff, Roland Guerard,
Marc Platoff, Simon Semenoff, Jean Yasvinsky, George Zoritch, and Igor
Youskevitch, as principals. Of the group, it is of interest to note that
three--Mladova, Guerard, and Platoff--were American. In addition,
Massine engaged the English _ballerina_, Alicia Markova, then quite
unknown to American audiences, although a first lady of British Ballet;
Nini Theilade of plastic grace; and the English Frederick Franklin, yet
another Massine discovery. Serge Lifar, the last Diaghileff dancing
discovery and the leading dancer and spirit of the ballet at the Paris
Opera, was added.

The new company was potentially a strong one. I was pleased. But I was
anything but pleased at the prospect of the two companies becoming
engaged in what must be the inevitable: a cut-throat competition between
them. The split, to be sure, had weakened the de Basil organization; the
new Monte Carlo company had an infinitely better balance in personnel.
In some respects, the Massine company was superior; but de Basil had a
repertoire that required only careful rehearsing, correcting, and some
refurbishing of settings and costumes. With Massine’s departure, David
Lichine had stepped into the first dancer roles. Irina Baronova had
elected to remain with de Basil, in direct competition with Toumanova;
others choosing to remain with the old company included Riabouchinska,
Grigorieva, Morosova, Verchinina, Tchernicheva, Osato, Shabalevsky,
Petroff, Lazovsky, and Jasinsky.

I envisaged, for the good of ballet and its future, one big ballet
company, embracing the talents and the repertoires of both. I genuinely
feared the co-existence of the two companies, being certain that the
United States and Canada were not yet ready to support two companies
simultaneously. I pleaded with both to merge their interests, bury their
differences. I devoted all my time and energy in a concentrated effort
to bring about this desired end. The problems were complicated; but I
was certain that if there was a genuine desire on both sides, and good
will, a deal would be worked out. It blew hot. It blew cold. As time
went on, with no tangible results visible, my hopes diminished. It was
not only the financial arrangements between the two companies that
presented grave obstacles; there were formidable personality
differences. The negotiations continued and were long drawn-out. Then,
one day, the clouds suddenly thinned and, to my complete surprise, we
appeared to be making progress. Almost miraculously, so it seemed, the
attorneys for Universal Art and de Basil sat down to draw up the
preliminary papers for the agreement to agree to merge. Through all this
trying period there was helpful assistance from Prince Serge Obolensky
and Baron “Nikki” Guinsberg.

At last the day arrived when the agreement was ready for joint approval,
clause by clause, by both parties to the merger, with myself holding a
watching brief as the prospective manager of the eagerly awaited Big
Ballet. This meeting went on for hours and hours. It opened in the
offices of Washburn, Malone and Perkins, the Universal Art attorneys, in
West Forty-fourth Street, early in the afternoon. By nine o’clock at
night endless haggling, ravelled tempers, recurring deadlocks had, I
thought reached their limit.

Food saved that situation. Prince Obolensky and my attorney, Elias
Lieberman, fetched hamburgers. But, before they could be consumed, we
were evicted from the offices of the attorneys by the last departing
elevator man, who announced the building was being closed for the night,
and the conference, hamburgers and all, was transferred to the St. Regis
Hotel. At four o’clock the next morning, a verbal agreement was reached.
The deed was done. I felt sure that now we had, with this combination of
all the finest balletic forces extant in the Western World, the best as
well as the biggest.

The “Colonel” departed for Berlin to join his company which was playing
an engagement there. He was to have signed the agreement before sailing,
but, procrastinator that he was, he slipped away without affixing his
signature. Nor had he authorized his attorney to sign for him, and it
took a flock of wireless messages and cables to extract from him the
authority the attorney required. At last it came.

I had never been happier. Mrs. Hurok and I got ourselves aboard the
_Normandie_ for our annual summer solstice in Europe. On board we found
the Julius Fleischmanns. At dinner the first night out, our joint toast
was in thanks for the merger and to the Biggest and Best of all Ballets.

Although Fleischmann showed me one mildly disturbing wireless message, I
had five days of peace. It was not destined to continue. When I stepped
down from the boat train at London’s Waterloo Station, I was greeted by
the news that the merger was off.

The “Colonel” had changed his mind. Massine also had become resentful at
a division of authority. Confusion reigned. As an immediate result,
almost overnight de Basil lost control and the authoritative voice in
his own company. Altogether, it was a complicated business.

A new holding company, calling itself Educational Ballets, Ltd., headed
by Baron “Freddy” d’Erlanger, banker and composer, whose bank had a
large interest in the de Basil company, had taken over the operation of
the company, and had placed a new pair of managing directors in charge:
Victor Dandré, Anna Pavlova’s husband and manager, jointly with “Gerry”
Sevastianov, the husband of Irina Baronova. The Royal Opera House,
Covent Garden, which was to have been the scene of the debut of the Big
Merged Company, had been taken for the original organization.

It was all a bad dream, I felt. This impression was intensified a
hundred fold when I sat in the High Court in London’s Temple Bar, as
be-wigged counsel and robed judge performed an autopsy on my dream
ballet. Here, with all the trappings of legality, but no genuine
understanding, a little tragicomedy was being played out. Educational
Ballets, Ltd., announced the performance of all the Massine ballets in
the de Basil repertoire. This spurred Massine into immediate legal
action.

Massine went into court, not for damages, not for money, but for a
declaratory judgment to determine, once for all, his own rights in his
own creations. The court’s decision, after days of forensic argument,
conducted with that understatement and soft but biting insult that is
the prerogative of British learned counsel, was a piece of legalistic
hair-splitting. Under British law, unlike the American, choreographic
rights are protected. Would that the choreographic artist had a like
protection under our system! By virtue of having presented the works in
public performance, the court decided that de Basil had the right to
continue such presentation: any works Massine had created as an employee
of de Basil, while receiving a salary from him, Massine could not
reproduce for a period of five years. Only the three works he had
originally created for Diaghileff: _The Three-Cornered Hat_, _The
Fantastic Toy-Shop_, and _Le Beau Danube_, could be reproduced by him
for himself or for any other company.

The court action was a fortnight’s news-making wonder in London. Ballet
was not helped by it. Ballet belongs on the stage, not in the musty
atmosphere of the court room. De Basil and his lawyers, Massine and his
lawyers, Universal Art and their lawyers. It is a silly business. _X_
brings an action against _Y_ over an alleged breach of a theatrical
employment contract. Let us assume that _X_ represents the employer, _Y_
the artist-employee. Let us assume further that _X_ wins the action. _Y_
must continue in the employment of _X_. What, I ask you, is less
satisfactory than an artist who is compelled by a court judgment to
fulfil a contract? In ballet, the only persons who benefit in ballet
lawsuits are the learned counsel. Differences of opinion, personality
clashes are not healed by legal action; they are accentuated. Legal
actions of this sort are instituted usually in anger and bitterness.
When the legal decision is made, the final settlement adjudicated, the
bitterness remains.

The merger off, my contract with Universal Art came into force. I was
committed to the management of a London season. Since the traditional
home of ballet, the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, had been preempted
by the old company, I took Old Drury, the historic Drury Lane Theatre,
whose history is as long, whose beauty is equally famous, whose seating
capacity is enormous.

The two houses are two short blocks apart. The seasons were
simultaneous. Both were remarkably successful; both companies played to
packed houses nightly. Nightly I had my usual table at the Savoy Grill,
that famed London rendezvous of theatrical, musical, balletic, and
literary life. Nightly my table was crowded with the ebb and flow of
departing and arriving guests. The London summer, despite my
forebodings, was halcyon.

De Basil, at this period, was not a part of this cosmopolitanism and
gaiety. Having been forced out of the control of his own company, at
least for the moment, he became a recluse in a tiny house in Shepherd’s
Market, typically biding his time in his true-to-form Caucasian manner,
reflecting on his victory, although it had been more Pyrrhic than
triumphant. We met for dinner in his band-box house, most of which time
I devoted to a final effort to effect a merger of the two companies. It
was a case of love’s labour lost, for the opposing groups were poles
apart.

The summer wore on into the late English midsummer heat, when all London
takes itself hence. The original company’s season at Covent Carden
slowed down, came to a stop; and a fortnight later, we rang down our
final curtain at Drury Lane.

Before leaving for Paris, en route home to New York, there was a bit of
straightening out to be done in London. The merger having failed to
jell, a bit of additional adjustment was necessary. In other words,
because of the changed situation, my contract with Universal Art had to
be renegotiated. As in all matters balletic, it would seem, numerous
conferences were required; but the new contract was eventually
negotiated agreeably.

Back in New York, the day of the new Monte Carlo Ballet Russe opening
approached. There were the usual alarums and excursions, and others not
so usual. Markova, of course, was English. Moreover, she danced the
coveted role, the title part in _Giselle_. She had already made this
part quite personally something of her own. Her success in the role
during the Drury Lane season, where she had alternated the part with
Tamara Toumanova, had been conspicuous. Although the role was shared
between three _ballerinas_, Markova, Toumanova, and Slavenska, Massine
and I agreed that, since the opening performance in New York was so
important and because Markova was new to the country, it would provide
her with a magnificent opportunity for a debut; she should dance Giselle
that night.

Factionism was rampant. Pressures of almost every sort were put upon
Massine to switch the opening night casting.

A threat of possible violence caused me to take the precaution to have
detectives, disguised as stage-hands standing by; I eliminated the
trap-door and understage elevator used in this production as Giselle’s
grave, and gave instructions to have everything loose on the stage
fastened down. So literally were these orders carried out that even the
lilies Giselle has to pluck in the second act and toss to her Albrecht
while dancing as a ghost, were securely nailed to the stage floor. This
nearly caused a minor contretemps and what might have turned out to be a
ludicrous situation, when Markova had to rip them up by main force
before she could toss them to Serge Lifar, who was making his first New
York appearance with the company as Albrecht.

Lifar’s brief association with the new Monte Carlo Ballet Russe was not
a happy one for any of us, least of all for himself. He certainly did
not behave well. In my earlier book, _Impresario_, I dwelt quite fully
on certain aspects of his weird fantasies. There is no point in
repeating them. Always excitable, here in New York at that time Lifar
was unable to understand and realize he was not at the Paris Opera,
where his every word is law.

Lifar’s fantastic behavior in New York before we shipped him back to
Paris was but an example of his lack of tact and his overwhelming
egoism. He proved to be a colossal headache; but I believe much of it
was due to a streak of self-dramatization in his nature, and a positive
delight he takes in being the central character, the focus of an
“incident.”

Under the influence of a genuine creative urge, Massine’s directions of
the new Monte Carlo Ballet Russe for two seasons richly fulfilled the
promise it held at the company’s inception. The public grew larger each
season. At the same time, slowly, but none the less surely, that public
became, I believe, more understanding. The ballet public of America was
cutting its eye-teeth.

It was during the early seasons that Massine added three more symphonic
ballets to the repertoire, with Beethoven’s _Seventh Symphony_; _Rouge
et Noir_, to the brilliant First Symphony of Dmitri Shostakovich; and
_Labyrinth_, a surrealist treatment of the Seventh Symphony of Franz
Schubert. Christian Bérard provided scenery and costumes for the first
of them; Henri Matisse, for the second; Salvador Dali, for the last. The
Shostakovich work was the most successful of the three. Regrettably, all
these symphonic ballets are lost to present-day audiences.

The outstanding comedy success was _Gaîté Parisienne_, the Offenbach
romp, originally started in Boston before the company as such existed.
The most sensational work was Massine’s first surrealist ballet,
_Bacchanale_, to the Venusberg music from Wagner’s _Tannhauser_. A quite
fantastic spectacle, from every point of view, it was a Massine-Dali
joke, one that was less successful when the same combination tried to
repeat it in _Labyrinth_.

There were lesser Massine works, produced under frantic pressure;
examples: _Saratoga_, an unhappy attempt to capture the American spirit
of the up-state New York spa, to a commissioned score by Jaromir
Weinberger; _The New Yorker_, which was certainly no American _Gaîté
Parisienne_, being Massine’s attempt to try to bring to balletic life
the characters, the atmosphere, and the perky humors of the popular
weekly magazine, all to a pastiche of George Gershwin’s music. A third
work was one of his last Monte Carlo Ballet Russe creations,
_Vienna--1814_, an evocation of the spirit of the Congress of Vienna, to
music by Carl Maria von Weber, orchestrated by Robert Russell Bennett.

_Bogatyri_, a colorful Russian spectacle, designed as a sort of
successor to Fokine’s _Le Coq d’Or_, had spectacular scenery and
costumes by Nathalie Gontcharova, and was a long and detailed work
utilising a movement of a Borodin string quartet and his Second
Symphony. In cooperation with Argentinita, Massine staged a quite
successful Spanish _divertissement_ to Rimsky-Korsakoff’s _Capriccio
Espagnol_, using for it the set and costumes Mariano Andreu had designed
for Fokine’s _Jota Argonesa_.

In summing up Massine’s creations for the new company, I have left his
most important contribution until the last. It was _St. Francis_,
originally done in our first season at London’s Drury Lane, where it was
known as _Noblissima Visione_. A collaboration between the composer,
Paul Hindemith, and Massine, it may be called one of Massine’s greatest
triumphs and one of his very finest works. The ballet, unfortunately,
was not popular with mass audiences; but it was work of deep and moving
beauty, with a ravishing musical score, magnificent scenery and costumes
by Pavel Tchelitcheff, and two great performances by Massine himself in
the title role, and Nini Theilade, as Poverty, the bride of St. Francis.

For the record, let me note the other works that made up the Ballet
Russe de Monte Carlo repertoire under my management: Massine’s
productions of _The Three-Cornered Hat_, _The Fantastic Toy Shop_, and
_Le Beau Danube_. George Balanchine staged a revival of _Le Baiser de La
Fée_ (_The Fairy’s Kiss_) and _Jeu de Cartes_ (_Card Game_), both
Stravinsky works he had done before, and all borrowed from the American
Ballet. There was a new production of Delibes’s _Coppélia_, in a setting
by Pierre Roy; and the Fokine-Blum works I have mentioned before.

I accepted as a new production a revival of Tchaikowsky’s _The
Nutcracker_, staged by Alexandra Fedorova, and a re-working of parts of
Tchaikowsky’s _Swan Lake_, also staged by Fedorova, under the title of
_The Magic Swan_.

Three productions remain to be mentioned. One was _Icare_, staged only
at the Metropolitan Opera House in the first season, a graphic and
moving re-enactment of the Icarus legend, by Serge Lifar, to percussive
rhythms only. The second was Richard Rodgers’s first and only
exclusively ballet score, _Ghost Town_, a _genre_ work dealing with the
California Gold Rush. It was the first choreographic job of a talented
young American character dancer, Marc Platoff, born Marcel Le Plat, in
Seattle. Not a work out of the top drawer, it was nevertheless a good
try for a young choreographer.

The third work in this group is one I felt should have been given a
better chance. It was _Devil’s Holiday_, by Frederick Ashton, the
leading choreographer of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, and his first
all-balletic work to be seen on this side of the Atlantic. Done at the
opening of our 1939-1940 season, at the Metropolitan Opera House, under
the stress and strain of a hectic departure, and a hurried one, from
Europe after the outbreak of the war, it suffered as a consequence. In
settings and costumes by Eugene Berman, its score was a Tommasini
arrangement of Paganini works. Ashton had been able only partially to
rehearse the piece in Paris before the company made its getaway,
eventually to reach New York on the day of the Metropolitan opening,
after a difficult and circuitous crossing to avoid submarines. On
arrival, a number of the company were taken off to Ellis Island until we
could straighten out faulty visas and clarify papers. I am certain
_Devil’s Holiday_ was one of Ashton’s most interesting creations; it
suffered because the creator was unable to complete it and, as a
consequence, America was never able to see it as its creator intended,
or at anything like its best.

With the 1940-1941 season, deterioration had set in at the vitals of the
Monte Carlo Ballet Russe, Massine had exerted tremendous efforts. The
company he had created was a splendid one. But, as both leading dancer
and chief choreographer, he had no time to rest, no time to think. The
same sloughing off that took place with the de Basil company was now
becoming apparent in this one. There was a creaking in the vessel
proper, an obvious straining at the seams. The non-Massine productions
lacked freshness or any distinctive quality. There were defections among
some of the best artists. Massine was coming up against a repetition of
his de Basil association. Friction between Massine and Denham increased,
as the latter became more difficult.

I could not be other than sad, for Massine had given of his best to
create and maintain a fine organization. He had been a shining example
to the others. The company had started on a high plane of
accomplishment; but it was impossible for Massine to continue under the
conditions that daily became less and less bearable. Heaven knows, the
“Colonel” had been difficult. But he had an instinct for the theatre, a
serious love for ballet, a broad experience, was a first-class
organizer, and an untiring, never ceasing, dynamic worker.

Sergei Denham, by comparison, was a mere tyro at ballet direction, and
an amateur at that. But, amateur or not, he was convinced he had
inherited the talent, the knowledge, the taste of the late Serge
Diaghileff.

I had not devoted twenty-eight years of hard, slogging work to the
building of good ballet in America to allow it to deteriorate into a
shambles because of the arbitrariness of another would-be Diaghileff.

It was time for a change.




9. What Price Originality?
The Original Ballet Russe


The condition of the Monte Carlo Ballet Russe in 1941 being as I have
described it, it became imperative for me to try to improve the
situation as best I could. It was a period of perplexity.

The “Colonel,” once more installed in the driver’s seat of his company,
with its name now changed from Educational Ballets, Ltd., to the
Original Ballet Russe, had been enjoying an extended sojourn in
Australia and New Zealand, under the management of E. J. Tait.

Although I knew deterioration had set in with the old de Basil
company--so much so that it had been one of the salient reasons for the
formation of the new Monte Carlo Ballet Russe, quite apart from the
recurring personality clashes--I was now faced with a deterioration in
the latter company, one that had occurred earlier in its history and
that was moving more swiftly: a galloping deterioration. As I watched
the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo company performances, I was acutely
conscious not only of this, but I saw disruption actively at work. The
dancers themselves were no longer interested. They day-dreamed of
Broadway musicals; they night-dreamed of the hills of Hollywood and film
contracts. Some were wistfully thinking in terms of their own little
concert groups. The structure was, to say the least, shaky.

From the reports that reached me of the Original company’s success and
re-establishment in Australia, I sensed the possibility (and the hope)
that a rejuvenation had taken place. Apart from that, there had been new
works added to the repertoire, works I was eager to see and which I felt
would give the American ballet-goer a fresh interest, for that important
individual had every right to be a bit jaded with things as they were.

Since I had taken the precaution to have the “exclusivity” clause
removed from my Universal Art contract, I was free to experiment. I
therefore arranged to bring de Basil and his Original Ballet Russe to
America from Australia. They arrived on the Pacific Coast, and we played
an engagement in Los Angeles, another in Chicago, yet another in Canada.
Then I brought them to New York.

This was a season when the Metropolitan Opera House was not available
for ballet performances. Therefore, I took the Hollywood Theatre, on
Broadway, today rechristened the Mark Hellinger.

I opened the season with a four weeks’ engagement of the Ballet Russe de
Monte Carlo, followed immediately by the Original Ballet Russe, making a
consecutive period of about fifteen weeks of ballet at one house,
setting up a record of some sort for continuous ballet performances on
Broadway.

Christmas intervened, and, following my usual custom, I gave a large
party at Sherry’s in honor of Mrs. Hurok’s birthday, which occurs on the
25th December, at which were gathered the entire personnel of the
company, together with Katherine Dunham, Argentinita, and other
distinguished guests.

If I should be asked why I again allied myself with the “Colonel,” I
already have given a partial answer. There was a sentimental reason,
too. It was a case of “first love.” I wanted to go back to that early
love, to try to recapture some of the old feeling, the former rapture. I
should have realized that one does not go back, that one of the near
impossibilities of life is to recapture the old thrill. Those who can
are among the earth’s most fortunate.

This ten-week season was expensive. The pleasure of trying to recapture
cost me $70,000 in losses.

There were, however, compensations: there was the unending circus of
“Mutt and Jeff,” the four-feet-seven “Sasha” Philipoff and the
six-feet-two “Colonel.”

There was a repertoire that interested me. It was a pleasure once again
to luxuriate in the splendors of _Le Coq d’Or_, although the investiture
had become a shade or two tarnished from too much travel and too little
touching-up. It was refreshing to see Baronova and Toumanova in brisk
competition again in the same company, for the latter had already become
one of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo defections.

It is difficult for me to realize that Irina Baronova no longer dances.
She was the youngest of the “baby ballerinas.” Gentle, shy, with
honey-colored hair, Irina was born in Leningrad, and eventually reached
Paris, with her family, by way of the Orient. About her was a simple,
classical beauty, despite the fact that she always found it necessary to
disguise (on the stage) her rather impudent little nose in a variety of
ways by the use of make-up putty. It was so when she started in as a
tiny child to study with the great lady of the Maryinsky, Olga
Preobrajenska, whose nose also has a tilt.

To George Balanchine must go the credit for discovering Baronova in
Preobrajenska’s School in Paris, when he was on the search for new
talents at the time of the formation of the de Basil-Blum Les Ballets
Russes de Monte Carlo. About her work there was always something joyful
and yet, at the same time, something that was at once wistful and
tender.

As a classical dancer there was something so subtle about her art that
its true value and her true value came only slowly upon one. There was
no flash; everything about her, every movement, every gesture, flowed
one into another--as in swimming. But not only was she a great classical
dancer, she was the younger generation’s most accomplished mime.

I like to remember her as the Lady Gay, that red-haired trollop of the
construction camps, in _Union Pacific_, with her persuasive,
characteristic “come-up-and-see-me-sometime” interpretation; to remember
her in the minor role of the First Hand in _Le Beau Danube_, carefree,
innocent, flirting at the side of the stage with a park artist. I like
to remember her in _Jeux d’Enfants_, as she ran through the gamut of
jealousy, petulance, anger, and triumph; in _Les Présages_, as the
passionate woman loving with her whole being, fighting off the evil that
threatens love; in the mazurka in _Les Sylphides_; in _The Hundred
Kisses_, imperious, sulky, stubborn, humorously sly; and as the
Ballerina in _Petroushka_, drawing that line of demarcation between
heartless doll and equally heartless flirting woman.

Performance over, and away from the theatre, another transformation took
place; for Irina was never off-stage the _grande artiste_, the
_ballerina_, but a healthy, normal girl, with a keen sense of humor.

After a turn or two as a “legitimate” actress and a previous marriage,
Baronova now lives in London’s Mayfair, the wife of a London theatrical
manager, with her two children. The triumph of domesticity is ballet’s
loss.

I should like to set down from my memory the additions to the repertoire
of the Original Ballet Russe while they had been absent from our shores.

There were some definitely refreshing works. Chief among these were two
Fokine creations, _Paganini_ and _Cendrillon_.

The former had been worked out by Fokine with Sergei Rachmaninoff,
utilizing for music a slightly re-worked version of the latter’s
_Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini_. Serge Soudeikine had designed a
production that ranked at the top of that Russian designer’s list of
theatre creations. The entire ballet had a fine theatrical
effectiveness. Perhaps the whole may not have been equal to the sum of
its parts, but the second scene, wherein Paganini hypnotized a young
girl by his playing of the guitar and the force of his striking
personality, thereby forcing her into a dance of magnificent frenzy, was
a striking example of the greatness of Fokine. Tatiana Riabouchinska
rose to tremendous heights in the part. I remember Victor Dandré, so
long Pavlova’s life-partner and manager, telling me how, in this part,
Riabouchinska reminded him of Pavlova. Dandré did not often toss about
bouquets of this type.

_Cendrillon_ was Fokine’s retelling of the Cinderella tale. The score,
by Baron “Freddy” d’Erlanger, was certainly no great shakes, but Fokine
illuminated the entire work with the sort of inventiveness that was so
characteristic of him at his best. It would be unjust to compare this
production with the later Frederick Ashton _Cinderella_, to the
Prokofieff score, which he staged for the Sadler’s Wells Ballet; the
approach was quite different. The de Basil-Fokine production
nevertheless had a distinct charm of its own, enhanced by a genuine
fairy-tale setting by Nathalie Gontcharova.

A lesser contribution to the repertoire was a symbolic piece, _The
Eternal Struggle_, staged by Igor Schwezoff, in Australia, to Robert
Schumann piano music, orchestrated by Antal Dorati. It served the
purpose of introducing two Australian designers to America: the Misses
Kathleen and Florence Martin.

There was a duo of works by David Lichine, one serious and unsuccessful,
the other a comedy that had a substantial audience success and which,
since then, has moved from company to company. The former, _Protée_, was
arranged to Debussy’s _Danses Sacré et Profane_, in a Chirico setting
and costumes. The latter, _Graduation Ball_, Lichine had staged during
the long Australian stay. Its music was an admirable selection and
arrangement of Johann Strauss tunes by Antal Dorati. Its setting and
costumes were by Alexandre Benois. Much of its humor was sheer horseplay
and on the obvious side; but it was completely high-spirited, and was
the season’s comedy success.

A third work, credited to Lichine, was _The Prodigal Son_, a ballet that
was the outstanding creation of the last Diaghileff season, in 1929. Set
to a memorable commissioned score by Serge Prokofieff, by George
Balanchine, with Serge Lifar, Leon Woizikovsky, Anton Dolin and Felia
Dubrowska in the central roles, it had striking and evocative settings
and costumes by Georges Rouault. De Basil had secured these properties,
and had had the work re-done in Australia by Lichine. Lichine insisted
he had never seen the Balanchine original and thus approached the
subject with a fresh mind. However, Serge Grigorieff was the general
stage director for both companies. It is not beyond possibility that
Grigorieff, with his sensitive-plate retentive mind for balletic detail,
might have transferred much of the spirit and style of the original to
the de Basil-Lichine presentation. However it may have been, the result
was a moving theatrical experience. My strongest memory of it is the
exciting performance given by Sono Osato as the exotic siren who seduces
the Prodigal during his expensive excursion among the flesh-pots.

During this Hollywood Theatre season we also had _Le Cotillon_, that had
served originally to introduce Riabouchinska to American audiences. We
also, I am happy to remember, had Fokine’s Firebird, in the original
choreography, and the uncut Stravinsky score, together with the
remarkable settings and costumes of Gontcharova. Its opening performance
provided a few breath-taking moments when Baronova’s costume gave way,
and she fought bravely to prevent an embarrassing exposure.

During their tenure of the Hollywood Theatre, we managed one creation.
It was _Balustrade_. Its choreography was by George Balanchine. Its
music was Igor Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto, played in the orchestra pit
by Samuel Dushkin, for whom it was written. Stravinsky himself came on
from California to conduct the work. As is so often the case with
Balanchine, it had neither story nor theme nor idea; it was simply an
abstraction in which Balanchine set out to exploit to the fullest the
brittle technical prowess of Tamara Toumanova. The only reason I could
determine for the title was that the setting, by Pavel Tchelitcheff,
consisted of a long balustrade. Unfortunately, despite all the costs,
which I paid, it had, all told, one consecutive performance.

The close of the season at the Hollywood Theatre found me, once again,
in a perplexed mood. The de Basil organization, riddled by intrigue and
quite out of focus, was not the answer. Its finances were in a parlous
state. I disengaged my emotions and surveyed both the negligible
artistic accomplishments and the substantial financial losses. I turned
a deaf ear to de Basil’s importunings to have me undertake another
American tour, although I did sponsor engagements in Boston and
Philadelphia, and undertook to send the company to Mexico and South
America.

As matters stood, neither the company nor the repertoire was good
enough. I still had one more season tied to the Ballet Russe de Monte
Carlo, and that, for the moment, was enough of trouble. I argued with
myself that the Denham difficulties were sufficient unto one day,
without deliberately and gratuitously adding those of the “Colonel.”

Fresh troubles arose in Philadelphia, from which point the company was
to depart for Mexico City. Tamara Toumanova’s presence with the company
was one of the conditions of the Mexican contract.

It will not be difficult, I think, for the reader to imagine my feelings
when, on my arrival in Philadelphia, I was greeted by Toumanova with the
news that she was leaving the company, that her contract with de Basil
had expired, and that nothing in her life had given her greater
happiness than to be able to quit.

De Basil was not to be found. He had gone into hiding. I went into
action. I approached “Gerry” Sevastianov and his wife, Irina Baronova,
to help out the situation by agreeing to have Baronova go to Mexico in
place of the departing Toumanova. She consented, and this cost me an
additional considerable sum.

Having succeeded in this, de Basil emerged from his hiding place to hold
me up once again by demanding money under duress. He had no money and
had to have cash in advance before he would move the company to Mexico.
Once there, he raised objections to the Baronova arrangements, did not
want her to dance or as a member of the company; and there was a general
air of sabotage, egged on, I have no doubt, by a domestic situation,
wherein his wife wanted to dance leading roles.

Somehow we managed to get through the Mexico City engagement and to get
them to Cuba. There matters came to a head with a vengeance. Because of
de Basil’s inability to pay salaries, he started cutting salaries, with
a strike that has become a part of ballet history ensuing.

Once more I dispatched my trusty right hand, Mae Frohman, to foreign
parts to try to straighten matters out. There was nothing she could do.
The mess was too involved, too complicated, and the only possible course
was for me to drop the whole thing.

De Basil, looking for new worlds to conquer, started for South America.
His adventures in the Southern Hemisphere have no important place in
this book, since the company was not then under my management. They
would, moreover, fill another book. The de Basil South American venture,
however, enters this story chronologically at a later point. Let it be
said that the “Colonel’s” adventures there were as fantastic as the man
himself. They included, among many other things, defection after
defection, sometimes necessitating a recruiting of dancers almost from
the streets; the performances of ballets with girls who had never heard
of the works, much less seen them, having to rehearse them sketchily
while the curtain was waiting to rise; the coincidence of performance
with the outbreak of a local revolution; flying his little company in
shifts, since only one jalopy plane, in a dubious state of repair, was
available. I shall not go into his fantastic financing, this being one
of the few times when, as I suggested at the beginning of this book, the
curtain might be lowered for a few discreet moments, in order to spare
the feelings of others rather than my own.

In the quiet of the small hours of the morning, I would lie awake and
compare the personalities of the two “organizers,” de Basil and Denham,
reviewing their likenesses and their differences. As I dozed off, I came
to the conclusion that most generalizations about personality are wrong.
When you have spent hours, days, months, years in close association and
have been bored and irritated by a flamboyant individual, you are apt to
think that restraint and reticence are the only virtues. Until you meet
a quiet fellow, who is quiet either because he has nothing to say or
nothing to make a noise about, and then discover his stillness is merely
a convenient mask for deceit.

Massine, unable to continue any longer with the Monte Carlo Ballet Russe
management, severed his connection with the company he had made, in
1942. Save for a few undistinguished creations, de Basil was skating
along as best he could on his Diaghileff heritage; classicism was being
neglected in the frantic search for “novelties.” Both companies were
making productions, not on any basis of policy, but simply for
expediency and as cheaply as possible. Existing productions in both
companies were increasingly slipshod. While it is true that a good
ballet is a good ballet, it is something less than good when it receives
niggardly treatment or when it is given one less iota than the strictest
attention to detail.

That is exactly what happened when the companies split, and split again:
the works suffered; this, together with the recurring internal crises,
boded ill for the future of ballet. There was the ever-present need for
money for new productions. Diaghileff had one Maecenas after another. By
the beginning of the third decade of the twentieth century, a Maecenas
was becoming a rare bird indeed. Today he is as dead as the proverbial
Dodo.

I had certain definite convictions about ballet, I still have them. One
of them is that the sound cornerstone of any ballet company must be
formed of genuine classics. But these must never take the form of
“modern” versions, nor additionally suffer from anything less than
painstaking productions, top-drawer performances, and an infinite
respect for the works themselves. Ballet may depart from the classical
base as far as it wishes to experiment, but the base should always be
kept in sight; and psychological excursions, explorations into the
subconscious, should never be permitted to obscure the fact that the
basic function of ballet is to entertain. By that I do not mean to
suggest ballet should stand still, should chain itself to reaction and
the conservatism of a dead past. It should look forward, move forward;
but it must take its bearings from those virtues of a living past, which
is its heritage: all of which can be summed up in one brief phrase--the
classical tradition.

There are increasingly frequent attempts to create ballets crammed with
symbols dealing with various aspects of sex, perversion, physical and
psychological tensions. In one of the world’s great ballet centers there
have been attempts to use ballet as a means to promulgate and
propagandize political ideologies. I am glad to say the latter have been
completely unsuccessful and they have returned to the classics.

I should be the last person to wish to limit the choreographer’s choice
of subject material. That is ready to his hand and mind. The fact
remains that, in my opinion, ballet cannot (and will not) be tied down
to any one style, aesthetic, religion, ideology, or philosophy.
Therefore, it seems to me, the function of the choreographer is to
express balletic ideas, thought, and emotion in a way that first and
foremost pleases him. But, at the same time, I should like to remind
every choreographer of a distinguished authority, when he said,
“Pleasure, and pleasure alone, is the purpose of art.” But pleasure
differs in kind according to the way that individuals and groups of
individuals differ in mental and emotional make-up. Thus ballet provides
pleasure for the intellectual and the sensualist, the idealist and the
realist, the Catholic, the Protestant, the Atheist. And it will remain
the function of the choreographer to provide this infinite variety of
pleasure until such time that all men think, feel, and act alike.

Ballet was at a cross-road. I was at a cross-road in my career in
ballet. It was at this indecisive point there emerged a new light on the
balletic horizon. It called itself Ballet Theatre. It interested me very
much.




10. The Best of Plans ...
Ballet Theatre


During the very late ’thirties, Mikhail Mordkin had had a ballet
company, giving sporadic performances on Sunday nights, occasionally on
week-day evenings, and, now and then, some out-of-town performances. It
was a small company, largely made up of Mordkin’s pupils, of which one,
Lucia Chase, was _prima ballerina_. Miss Chase was seen in, among other
parts, the title role of _Giselle_, in which she was later replaced by
Patricia Bowman.

This little company is credited with having given the first performance
on this continent of the full-length Tchaikowsky _Sleeping Beauty_. In
order that the record may be quite clear on this point, the production
was not that of the Petipa masterpiece, but rather Mordkin’s own
version. It was presented at Waterbury, Connecticut, in 1937. Waterbury
is the home town of Lucia Chase. Lucia Chase was the Princess Aurora of
the production. So far as the records reveal, there was a single
performance.

The season of 1938-1939 was the Mordkin company’s last. It was, as a
company, foredoomed to failure from the very start, in my opinion. Its
repertoire was meagre, unbalanced; it had no dancers who were known; it
lacked someone of _ballerina_ stature.

Towards the end of the company’s existence, Mordkin had an associate,
Richard Pleasant, whose interest in ballet had, in earlier days, caused
him to act as a supernumerary in de Basil company productions, and who
had an idea: an idea that has lurked in the minds of a number of young
men I know, to wit: to form a ballet company. It is one thing to want to
form a ballet company, another to do it. In addition to having the idea,
one must have money--and a great deal of it.

In this case, idea and money came together simultaneously, for the
Mordkin school and company had Lucia Chase, with ambitions and interest
as well. Lucia Chase had money--a great deal of it--and she wanted to
dance. She had substantially financed the Mordkin company. Pleasant went
ahead with his plan for a grandiose organization--with his ideas and
Chase’s money. The Mordkin company was closed up; and a new company, on
a magnificent scale, calling itself Ballet Theatre, was formed.

The Mordkin venture had been too small, too limited in its scope, too
reactionary in thought, so Mordkin himself was pushed into the
background, soon to be ousted altogether, and the tremendous undertaking
went forward on a scale the like of which this country had never seen.
In a Utopia such a pretentious scheme would have a permanent place in
the cultural pattern, for the company’s avowed policy, at the outset,
was to act as a repository for genuine masterpieces of all periods and
styles of the dance; it would be to the dance what a great museum is to
the arts of sculpture and painting. The classical, the romantic, the
modern, all would find a home in the new organization. The company was
to be so organized that it could compete with the world’s best. It
should be large. It should have ample backing.

The company’s debut at the Center Theatre, in New York’s Rockefeller
Center, on 11th January, 1940, was preceded by a ballyhoo of circus
proportions. The rehearsal period preceding this date was long and
arduous. The company’s slogans included one announcing that the works
were “staged by the greatest collaboration in ballet history.” It was a
“super” organization--imposing, diverse and diffuse. But it was a big
idea, albeit an impractical one. Its impracticability, however, did not
lessen the impact of its initial impression. More than thirteen years
have elapsed since Ballet Theatre made its bow, and one can hardly
regard its initial roster of contributors even now without an astonished
blink of the eyes. There were twenty principal dancers, fifteen
soloists, a _corps de ballet_ of fifty-six. In addition, there was a
Negro group numbering fourteen. There was an additional Spanish group of
nineteen. The choreographers numbered eleven; an equal number of scene
and costume designers; three orchestra conductors. Eighteen composers,
living and dead, contributed to the initial repertoire of as many works.

Although the founders were American, as was the backing, there was no
slavish chauvinism in its repertoire, which was cosmopolitan and
catholic. Only two of its eleven choreographers were natives: Eugene
Loring and Agnes de Mille. The company was international. Three of the
choreographers were English: Anton Dolin, Andrée Howard, and Antony
Tudor. Four were Russian: Michel Fokine, Adolph Bolm, Mikhail Mordkin,
Bronislava Nijinska.

Only five of the eighteen works that made up the repertoire of the
introductory season of Ballet Theatre remain in existence: _Giselle_,
originally staged, after the traditional production, by Anton Dolin, who
had joined the venture after an Australian stint with de Basil’s
Original Ballet Russe; _Swan Lake_, in the one-act version, also staged
by Dolin; Fokine’s masterpiece, _Les Sylphides_; the oldest ballet
extant, _La Fille Mal Gardée_, staged by Bronislava Nijinska; and Adolph
Bolm’s production of the children’s fairy tale, _Peter and the Wolf_, to
the popular Prokofieff orchestral work, with narrator.

It was significant to me that the outstanding successes of that first
season were the classics. First, there was _Les Sylphides_, restored by
the master himself. This, coupled with Dolin’s _Swan Lake_, and
_Giselle_, constituted the backbone of the standard repertoire.

The first four weeks’ season was, perhaps, as expensive a balletic
venture as New York has known, with the possible exception of the Ballet
International of the Marquis de Cuevas, some four years later.

Following Ballet Theatre’s introductory burst of activity, there was a
hiatus, during which the company gave sporadic performances in
Philadelphia, some appearances at the Lewisohn Stadium in New York, and
appeared in Chicago in conjunction with the Chicago Opera Company.

Before Ballet Theatre embarked on its second season, trouble was
cooking. There were indications Lucia Chase and Pleasant were not seeing
exactly eye to eye. The second New York season was announced to open at
the Majestic Theatre, on 11th February, 1941. Now the Majestic Theatre
is a far cry from the wide open spaces of the Center Theatre. It is the
house where I had given a brief and costly season with de Basil’s
Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in the early days, on a stage so small that
no justice can be done to dance or dancers, and where the capacity does
not admit of meeting expenses even when sold out.

Pleasant’s newest idea, announced before the season opened, was to
present a “company.” There were to be no distinctions or classifications
of dancers. One of the time-honored institutions of ballet was also
abolished; there was no general stage director, or _régisseur-general_,
as he is known in the French terminology of ballet. Instead, the company
was divided, like all Gaul, into three parts, to be known as “Wings,”
with Anton Dolin in charge of the “Classic Wing”; Antony Tudor, of the
“English Wing”; Eugene Loring, of the “American Wing.” Five new works
were added to the repertoire, of which only two remain: Eugene Loring’s
_Billy the Kid_, to one of Aaron Copland’s finest scores, and Agnes de
Mille’s _Three Virgins and a Devil_, to Ottorino Respighi’s _Antiche
Danze ed Arie_. Dolin’s _Pas de Quatre_, produced at this time, has been
replaced in the company’s repertoire by another version.

The differences between Pleasant and Chase came to a head, and the
former was forced to resign at the end of the four weeks’ season, which
resulted in more substantial losses.

It was at this time that I was approached on behalf of the organization
by Charles Payne, seeking advice as to how to proceed. We lunched
together in Rockefeller Plaza, and while I am unable to state that the
final decision was wholly mine or that the terminal action was taken
exclusively on my advice, I counselled Payne that, in my opinion, the
only course for them to follow would be to close down the company
completely, place everything they owned into storage, and start afresh
after reorganization. Receipts at the box-office having fallen as low as
$319 a performance, there was no other choice. In any event, my advice
was followed.

Reorganization was under way. In an organization of this magnitude and
complexity, reorganization was something that took a great deal of both
thought and time. It was by no means a simple matter. While the
reorganization was in its early, indecisive stages, with protracted
debates going on within the circle as to whether it should continue in
any form or fold its wings in the sleep everlasting, Anton Dolin came to
me to ask me to take over the management of the venture.

This was not a thing to be regarded lightly. The situation in ballet in
general, and with the Monte Carlo Ballet Russe in particular, being as I
have described it, I was interested in and attracted by the potential
value of the company, if the proper sort of reorganization could be
effected. Their Chicago season had been a complete fiasco at the
box-office. There is a legend to the effect that, in an effort to
attract a few people into the Chicago Opera House, members of the
company stood outside the building as the office-workers from the
surrounding buildings wended their way homeward to the suburban trains,
passing out free tickets. The legend also has it that they managed to
get some of these free tickets into the hands of a local critic who was
one of the crowd.

I do not wish to bore the reader with the details of all the debates
that highlighted those days. Sufficient is it to say that they were
crowded and that the nights were often sleepless.

Anton Dolin was responsible for having German (“Gerry”) Sevastianov, no
longer associated with de Basil, appointed as managing director, in
succession to the resigned Pleasant.

The negotiations commenced and were both long and involved between all
parties concerned which included discussion with Lucia Chase and her
attorney, Harry M. Zuckert. Matters were reaching a point where I felt a
glimmer of light could be detected, when a honeymoon intervened, due to
the marriage of Zuckert. Ballet waited for romance. Throughout the long
drawn-out discussions and negotiations, Zuckert was always pleasant,
cooperative, diplomatic, and evidenced a sincere desire to avoid any
friction.

Among the first acts of Sevastianov, after taking over the directorship,
was to engage his wife, Irina Baronova, as a leading ballerina, together
with Antal Dorati, former musical director of the de Basil company, and
today the musical director of the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, to
direct and supervise the music of Ballet Theatre. Later, through the
good offices of Anton Dolin, Alicia Markova, whose contract with the
Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo had terminated, became one of the two
_ballerine_ of the company.

The negotiations dragged on during the summer. Meanwhile, with the
company and its artists inactive, Markova and Dolin, on their own,
leased Jacob’s Pillow, the Ted Shawn farm and summer theatre in the
Berkshires, and gave a number of performances under the collective title
of International Dance Festival. This was a quite independent venture,
but Markova and Dolin peopled their season and school with the personnel
of Ballet Theatre.

This summer in the Berkshires had a two-fold effect on the company:
first, the members were thus able to work together as a unit; second,
with three choreographers in residence, it was possible for them to lay
out and develop the early groundwork of three works, subsequently to be
added to the Ballet Theatre repertoire: _Slavonika_, by Vania Psota;
_Princess Aurora_, by Anton Dolin; and _Pillar of Fire_, by Antony
Tudor.

Two of these were major contributions; one was pretty hopeless. Dolin’s
_Princess Aurora_ was a reworking of the last act of Tchaikowsky’s _The
Sleeping Beauty_, a sort of _Aurora’s Wedding_, with the addition of the
_Rose Adagio_, giving the company another classic work that remains in
the company’s repertoire today, with some “innovations.” _Pillar of
Fire_, set to Arnold Schönberg’s _Verklärte Nacht_, revealed a new type
of dramatic ballet which, in many respects, may be said to be Tudor’s
masterpiece. _Slavonika_ was set by the Czech Psota to a number of
Dvorak’s _Slavonic Dances_, and was an almost total loss, from every
point of view. The original version, as first produced, ran fifty-five
minutes. I thought it would never end. But, as the tour proceeded, it
was cut, and cut again. The last time I saw it was when I visited the
company in Toronto. Then it was blessedly cut down to six minutes. After
that, no further reduction seemed possible, and it was sent to the limbo
of the storehouse, never to be seen again.

The deal between Ballet Theatre and myself was closed during the time
the company was working at Jacob’s Pillow, and I took over the company
in November, 1941. It might be of interest to note some of the chief
personnel of the company at that time. Among the women were: Alicia
Markova, Irina Baronova, Lucia Chase, Karen Conrad, Rosella Hightower,
Nora Kaye, Maria Karnilova, Jeanette Lauret, Annabelle Lyon, Sono Osato,
Nina Popova, and Roszika Sabo; among the men were: Anton Dolin, Ian
Gibson, Frank Hobi, John Kriza, Hugh Laing, Yurek Lasovsky, Nicolas
Orloff, Richard Reed, Jerome Robbins, Dmitri Romanoff, Borislav Runanin,
Donald Saddler, Simon Semenoff, George Skibine, and Antony Tudor, to
list them alphabetically, for the most part. Later, Alicia Alonso
returned to the organization. A considerable number had been brought as
a strengthening measure by Sevastianov.

One of the company’s weaknesses was in its classical and romantic
departments. While there were Fokine’s _Les Sylphides_ and _Carnaval_, I
felt more Fokine ballets were necessary to a balanced repertoire.
Sevastianov engaged Fokine to re-stage _Le Spectre de la Rose_ and
_Petroushka_, and to create a new work for Anton Dolin and Irina
Baronova. Fokine started work on _Bluebeard_, to an Offenbach score,
arranged and orchestrated by Antal Dorati, with scenery and costumes by
Marcel Vertes.

Meanwhile, I lived up to my contract with the Ballet Russe de Monte
Carlo, and presented them, in the autumn of 1941, at the Metropolitan
Opera House, and subsequently on tour.

In order to prepare the new works, Ballet Theatre went to Mexico City,
returning to New York to open at the Forty-fourth Street Theatre, on
12th November, 1941. In addition to the existing Ballet Theatre
repertoire, four works were added and had their first New York
performances: Psota’s _Slavonika_, and Dolin’s re-creation of _Princess
Aurora_, which I have mentioned, together with _Le Spectre de la Rose_,
and Bronislava Nijinska’s _The Beloved One_. The last was a revival of a
work originally done to a Schubert-Liszt score, arranged by Darius
Milhaud, for the Markova-Dolin Ballet in London. In the New York
production it had scenery and costumes by Nicolas de Molas. It was not a
success.

The season was an uphill affair. Business was not good, but matters were
improving slightly, when we reached that fatal Sunday, the seventh of
December. Pearl Harbor night had less than $400 in receipts. The world
was at war. The battle to establish a new ballet company was paltry by
comparison. Nevertheless, our plans had been made; responsibilities had
been undertaken; there were human obligations to the artists, who
depended upon us for their livelihood; there were responsibilities to
local managers, who had booked us. There was a responsibility to the
public; for, in such times, I can conceive no reason why the cultural
entertainment world should stand still. It is a duty, I believe, to see
that it does not. In Russia, during the war, the work of the ballet was
intensified; in Britain, the Sadler’s Wells organization carried on,
giving performances throughout the country, in camps, in factories, in
fit-ups, as an aid to the morale both civilian and military. There could
be no question of our not going forward.

Leaving New York, we played Boston, Philadelphia, a group of Canadian
cities, Chicago. With such a cast and repertoire, it was reasonable to
expect there would be large audiences. The expectation was not
fulfilled. The stumbling-block was the title: Ballet Theatre. The use of
the two terms--“ballet” and “theatre”--as a means of identifying the
combination of the balletic and theatrical elements involved in the
organization, is quite understandable, in theory. As a practical name
for an individual ballet company, it is utterly confusing and
frustrating. I am not usually given to harboring thoughts of
assassination, but I could murder the person who invented that title and
used it as the name for a ballet company. Ballet in America does not
exist exclusively on the support of the initiated ballet enthusiast, the
“balletomane”--to use a term common in ballet circles to describe the
ballet “fan.” The word “balletomane” itself is of Russian origin, a
coined word for which there is no literal translation. Ballet, in order
to exist, must draw its chief support from the mass of theatregoers,
from the general amusement-loving public, those who like to go to a
“show.” The casual theatregoer, when confronted with posters and a
marquee sign reading “Ballet Theatre,” finds himself confused, more
likely than not believing it to be the name of the theatre building
itself. My own experience and a careful survey has demonstrated this
conclusively.

My losses in these days of Ballet Theatre were prodigious. Both Chase
and Sevastianov were aware of them. Other managements, in view of such
losses, might well have dropped the entire venture. In view of the heavy
deficits I was incurring and bearing single-handed, I felt some
assistance should be given.

An understanding was reached whereby I agreed to reduce the number of
new productions to be furnished for the next season, in order that their
expenses might be minimized. In consideration of this a certain amount
was refunded. At that moment it was a help; but not a sufficient help to
reduce my losses to less than $60,000. As a matter of fact, the
agreement was beneficial to both sides. In my case, it temporarily eased
the burden of meeting a heavy weekly payroll at a time when there were
practically no receipts; as for Ballet Theatre, it substantially reduced
their investment in new productions.

The continuing war presented additional problems. Personnel changes were
frequent on the male side of the company owing to the war-time draft.
There was an increasing demand for ballet; but a new uninformed,
uninitiated public was not in the market for ballet companies, but for
ballets--works about which they had somehow heard. I had two companies,
Ballet Theatre and the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, and I presented
them, one after the other, at the Metropolitan Opera House. In my
opinion, many of the problems could have been solved by a merger of the
two groups, had such a thing been possible, thus preserving, I believe,
the best properties and qualities of each of them.

During the spring of 1942, two new works were presented: Tudor’s _Pillar
of Fire_, on which he had been working for a long time, and Fokine’s
_Russian Soldier_. The latter was done at a time when we were all
thrilled by the tremendous effort the Russians were making in their
battles, their heroic battles, against the Nazi invader. In discussing
the idea with Fokine, himself Russian to the core, we emphasized the
symbolic intent of the tragedy, that of the simple Russian peasant who
sacrifices his life for his homeland. Although we of course did not
realize it at the time, this was to be the last work Fokine was to
complete in his long list of balletic creations. _Russian Soldier_ had
some of the best settings and costumes ever designed by the Russian
painter, Mstislav Doboujinsky. For music, Fokine utilized the orchestral
suite devised by Serge Prokofieff from his score for the satirical film,
_Lieutenant Kije_, which was extremely effective as music, but with
which I was never entirely happy, since Prokofieff, the musical
satirist, had packed it with his own very personal brand of satire for
the satiric film for which the music was originally composed. At the
same time, I doubt that any substantial portion of the audience knew the
source of the music and detected the satire; the great majority found
the work a moving experience.

Aside from being perhaps Tudor’s most important contribution to ballet,
_Pillar of Fire_--with its settings and costumes by Jo Mielziner, his
first contribution as a noted American designer to the ballet
stage--served to raise Nora Kaye from the rank and file of the original
company to an important position as a new type of dramatic _ballerina_.

Leonide Massine, parting with the company he had built, joined Ballet
Theatre as dancer and choreographer before the company’s departure for a
second summer season at the Palacio des Bellas Artes in Mexico City, as
guests of the Mexican Government.

In addition to performances there, the company used the Mexican period
as one of creation and rehearsal. Massine was in the midst of a creative
frenzy, working on two new ballets. One was _Don Domingo_, which had
some stunning scenery and costumes by the Mexican artist, Julio
Castellanos; an intriguing score by Sylvestre Revueltas; a Mexican
subject by Alfonso Reyes; _Don Domingo_ was prompted by the sincere
desire to pay a tribute to the country south of the border which had
played host to the company. That was Massine’s intention. Unfortunately,
the work did not jell, and was soon dropped from the repertoire.

The other work was _Aleko_, which takes rank with some of the best of
Massine’s creations. It was a subject close to his heart and to mine,
the poetic Pushkin tale of the lad from the city and his tragic love for
the daughter of a gypsy chieftain, a love that brings him to two murders
and a banishment. As a musical base, Massine took the Trio for piano,
violin, and violoncello which Tchaikowsky dedicated “to the memory of a
great artist,” Nicholas Rubinstein, in an orchestration by Erno Rapee.
The whole thing was a fine piece of collaboration between Massine and
the surrealist painter, Marc Chagall; and the work was deeply moving,
finely etched, with a strong feeling for character.

I have particularly happy memories of watching Chagall and his late wife
working in happy collaboration on the _Aleko_ production in Mexico City.
While he busied himself with the scenery, she occupied herself with the
costumes. The result of this fine collaboration on the part of all the
artists concerned resulted in a great Russian work.

The Ballet Theatre management was, to put it mildly, not in favour of
_Aleko_. It was a production on which I may be said to have insisted.
Fortunately, I was proved correct. Although it was dropped from the
repertoire not long after Ballet Theatre and I came to a parting of the
ways, it has now, ten years after its production, been crowned with
success in London. Presented at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, by
Ballet Theatre, in the summer of 1953, it has proved to be the
outstanding hit of their London season, both with press and public. I
cannot remember the unemotional and objective _Times_ (London) waxing
more enthusiastic over a balletic work.

During the Mexican hegira the company re-staged the Eugene Loring-Aaron
Copland _Billy the Kid_, still one of the finest American ballets,
although originally created in 1938. Certainly it is one of Copland’s
most successful theatre scores. Simon Semenoff also brought forth a
condensed and truncated version of Delibes’s _Coppélia_, as a vehicle
for Irina Baronova, with settings and costumes by Robert Montenegro. It
was not a success. It was a case of tampering with a classic; and I hold
firmly to the opinion that classics should not be subjected to tampering
or maltreatment. There is a special hades reserved for those
choreographers who have the temerity to draw mustaches on portraits of
lovely ladies.

Yet another Mexican creation that failed to meet the test of the stage
was _Romantic Age_, a ballet by Anton Dolin, to assorted music by
Vincenzo Bellini, in a setting and with costumes by Carlos Merida. An
attempt to capture some of the balletic atmosphere of the “romantic age”
in ballet, it was freely adapted from the idea of _Aglae, or The Pupil
of Love_, a work by Philippe Taglioni, dating back to 1841, originally a
vehicle of Marie Taglioni.

Michel Fokine and his wife Vera were also with the company in Mexico
City, re-staging his masterpiece, _Petroushka_, and commencing a new
work, _Helen of Troy_, based on the Offenbach _opéra bouffe_, _La Belle
Hélene_. Unfortunately, Fokine was stricken with pleurisy and returned
to New York, only to die from pneumonia shortly after.

_Helen of Troy_, however, promised well and a substantial investment had
already been made in it. David Lichine was called in and worked with
Antal Dorati on the book, as Dorati worked on the Offenbach music, with
Lichine staging the work on tour after the Metropolitan Opera House
season in New York. Still later, when Vera Zorina appeared with the
company, George Balanchine restaged it for his wife. The final result
was presumably a long way from Fokine, but a version of it still remains
in the Ballet Theatre repertoire today.

André Eglevsky joined the company during this season. Later on, Irina
Baronova, under doctor’s orders, left. Because there was no sound
artistic direction and no firm discipline in the company, I urged
Sevastianov to engage an experienced and able ballet-master and
_régisseur-general_ in the person of Adolph Bolm, to be responsible for
the general stage direction, deportment, and the exercise of an artistic
discipline over the company’s dancers, particularly the dissident
elements in it, which made working with them exceedingly difficult at
times. Sevastianov discussed the matter with Miss Chase, who agreed.
Before accepting, Bolm telephoned me from California seeking my advice
and I could but urge him to accept because I felt this would go a long
way toward stabilizing the company artistically.

It was at the close of the autumn season of 1942, at the Metropolitan
Opera House, that I bade good-bye to the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and
Universal Art. There was a brief ceremony back-stage at the end of the
last performance. Denham and I both made farewell speeches. It is
always a sad moment for me to leave a company for whose success I have
given so much of my time, my energy, and money. I felt this sadness
keenly as I took leave of the nice kids.

The subsequent Ballet Theatre tour developed recurring headaches. They
were cumulative, piling up into one big headache, and it will be less
trying both to the reader and to myself to recount it later in one
place, at one time.

With the spring of 1943, back we came to the Metropolitan for our spring
season. There was a managerial change. German Sevastianov went off to
war as a member of the United States Army, and J. Alden Talbot became
managing director in his stead. This began the period of the wisest
direction Ballet Theatre has known. Janet Reed joined the company as a
soloist, and Vera Zorina appeared as guest artist in _Helen of Troy_,
and in a revival of George Balanchine’s _Errante_. This was a work set
to the music of Schubert-Liszt, originally done for Tilly Losch for _Les
Ballets 1933_, in London, when Balanchine left de Basil, and one which
the American Ballet revived at the Adelphi Theatre, in New York, two
years later, with Tamara Geva. Balanchine also revived Stravinsky’s
_Apollon Musagète_, with André Eglevsky, Zorina, Nora Kaye, and Rosella
Hightower, to one of Stravinsky’s most moving scores.

The other work was history-making. It was Antony Tudor’s _Romeo and
Juliet_. It was a work of great seriousness and fine theatrical
invention. On the opening night Tudor had not finished the ballet,
although he had been at it for months. It was too late to postpone the
_première_, so, after a good deal of persuading, it was agreed to
present it in its unfinished state. The curtain on the first performance
fell some twelve minutes before the end. I have told this tale in detail
in _Impresario_. The matter is historic. There is no point in laboring
it. Tudor is an outstanding creator in the field of modern ballet.
_Romeo and Juliet_ is a monument to his creative gifts. The pity is that
it no longer can be given by Ballet Theatre, no longer seen by the
public, with its sharp characterization, its inviolate sense of period,
the tenseness of its drama sustained in the medium of the dance.

Tudor’s original idea with _Romeo and Juliet_ was to utilize the Serge
Prokofieff score for the successful Soviet ballet of the same title.
However, he found the Prokofieff score was unsuitable for his
choreographic ideas. He eventually decided on various works by the
English composer, Frederick Delius. Because of the war, it was found
impossible to secure this musical material from England. Consequently,
Antal Dorati, the musical director, orchestrated the entire work from
listening to gramophone recordings of the Delius pieces. How good a job
it was is testified by Sir Thomas Beecham, the long-time friend of
Delius and the redoubtable champion of the composer’s music. I engaged
Sir Thomas to conduct a number of performances of _Romeo and Juliet_ at
the Metropolitan Opera House, and he was amazed by the orchestration,
commenting, “Astounding! Perfectly astounding! It is precisely as
written by my late friend.”

The list of Beechamiana is long; but here is one more item which I
believe has the virtue of freshness. I should like to record an incident
of Sir Thomas’s first orchestral rehearsal of _Romeo and Juliet_. As I
recall it, this rehearsal had to be sandwiched in between a broadcast
concert rehearsal Sir Thomas had to make and the actual orchestral
broadcast to which he was committed. There was no time to spare. Our
orchestra was awaiting him at their places in the Metropolitan pit. The
rehearsal was concise, to the point, with few stoppings or corrections
on Sir Thomas’s part. At the conclusion, Sir Thomas looked the men over
with a pontifical eye. Then he addressed them as follows: “Ladies and
gentlemen. I happen to be one of those who believes music speaks its own
language, and that words about it are usually a waste of time and
effort. However, a word or two at this juncture may not be amiss.... I
happened to know the late composer, Mr. Delius, intimately. I am also
intimately acquainted with his music. I have only one suggestion,
gentlemen. Tonight, when we play this music for this alleged ballet, if
you will be so good as to confine yourselves to the notes as written by
my late friend, Mr. Delius, and not _improvise_ as you have done this
afternoon, I assure you the results will be much more satisfactory....
Thank you very much.” And off he went.

That night the orchestra played like angels. The ballet was in its
second season when I invited Sir Thomas to take over the performances.
It was a joy to have him in command of the forces. Too little attention
is accorded the quality of the orchestra and the conductor in ballet.
Quite apart from the musical excellence itself, few people realize of
what tremendous value a good conductor and a good orchestra can be to
ballet as a whole. _Romeo and Juliet_ never had such stage performances
as those when Sir Thomas was in charge. And this is not said in
disparagement of other conductors. Not only was the Beecham orchestral
tone beautifully transparent, but Sir Thomas blended stage action and
music so completely that the results were absolutely unique. The
company responded nobly to the inspiration. It was during this season,
endeavoring to utilize every legitimate means to stimulate interest on
the part of the public that, in addition to Sir Thomas and various guest
dancing stars, I also brought Igor Stravinsky from California to conduct
his own works during the Metropolitan Opera House engagement.

For the sake of the record, let me briefly cite the chronological
tabulation of Ballet Theatre through the period of my management. In the
autumn of 1943, at the Metropolitan Opera House, there were three new
productions, one each by Massine, Tudor, and David Lichine:
_Mademoiselle Angot_, _Dim Lustre_, and _Fair at Sorotchinsk_.

Massine took the famous operetta by Charles Lecocq, _La Fille de Mme.
Angot_, and in a series of striking sets by Mstislav Doboujinsky, turned
it into a ballet, which, for some reason, failed to strike fire. It is
interesting to note that when, some years later, Massine produced the
work for Sadler’s Wells at Covent Garden, it was a considerable success.
Tudor’s _Dim Lustre_, despite the presence of Nora Kaye, Rosella
Hightower, Hugh Laing, and Tudor himself in the cast, was definitely
second-rate Tudor. Called by its creator a “psychological episode,” this
sophisticated Edwardian story made use of Richard Strauss’s _Burleske_,
an early piano concerto of the composer’s, with a set and costumes by
the Motley sisters. Lichine’s _Fair at Sorotchinsk_ was a ballet on a
Ukrainian folk tale straight out of Gogol, with Moussorgsky music,
including a witches’ sabbath to the _Night on a Bald Mountain_, with
settings and costumes by Nicolas Remisoff. It was an addition to the
repertoire, if only for the performance of Dolin as Red Coat, the Devil
of the Ukraine, who danced typically Russian Cossack toe-steps and made
toe-pirouettes. Had the Cossack “Colonel” de Basil seen this, he would,
I am sure, have envied Dolin for once in his life. While _Fair at
Sorotchinsk_ did not have a unanimously favorable reception at the hands
of the press, it was generally liked by the public, as evidenced by the
response at the box-office.

After the 1943-1944 tour, two more works were added during the spring
season at the Metropolitan Opera House, two sharply contrasted works by
American choreographers: Jerome Robbins and Agnes de Mille. Robbins’s
_Fancy Free_ was a smash hit, a remarkable comedy piece of American
character in a peculiarly native idiom. As a result of this work,
Robbins leapt into fame exactly as Agnes de Mille had done a couple of
years before as the result of her delightful _Rodeo_. _Fancy Free_ was
a collaborative work between Robbins and the brilliant young composer
and conductor, Leonard Bernstein, whose score was as much of a hit as
was the ballet itself. Bernstein’s conducting of the orchestra was also
a telling factor, for his dynamism and buoyancy was transmitted to the
dancers.

Agnes de Mille’s work, _Tally-Ho_, was in a much different mood from her
_Rodeo_. From present-day America, she leapt backwards to the France of
Louis XVI, for a period farce-comedy, set to Gluck melodies,
re-orchestrated by Paul Nordoff. The settings and costumes, in the style
of Watteau, were by the Motleys, who had decorated her earlier _Three
Virgins and a Devil_. Combining old world elegance with bawdy humor,
_Tally-Ho_ had both charm and fun, and although the company worked its
hardest and at its very best for Agnes, and although she put her very
soul into it, it was not the success that had been hoped.

Only one _première_ marked the autumn season at the Metropolitan. It was
one done by Balanchine, called _Waltz Academy_, the first work he had
created for Ballet Theatre, in contrast to numerous revivals I have
mentioned. It was not a very good ballet, static in effect, although
classical in style. Its setting was a reproduction of the ballet room at
the Paris Opera, by Oliver Smith. The music was a dry orchestration of
dance melodies, largely waltzes, by Vittorio Rieti, who composed a pair
of latter-day Diaghileff works. A ballet that could have been
entertaining and lively, just missed being either.

The lack of new works and the necessity to stimulate public interest
made it necessary to add guest stars, particularly since Markova and
Dolin had left the company to appear in Billy Rose’s revue, _The Seven
Lively Arts_. Consequently, Tamara Toumanova, Tatiana Riabouchinska,
David Lichine, and André Eglevsky made guest appearances.

The subsequent tour compounded internal complications until the only
ameliorating feature of my association was the wise and understanding
cooperation of J. Alden Talbot, who was, I knew, on the verge of
resigning his post, for reasons not entirely different from my own in
considering writing a book to be called _To Hell with Ballet!_

On tour, during 1944-1945, Tudor rehearsed the only new work to be
offered during the 1945 spring season at the Metropolitan. It was
_Undertow_, the story of an adolescent’s neurosis, suggested to Tudor by
the well-known playwright, John van Druten. It was packed with symbols,
Freudian and otherwise; and my own reaction to its murky tale dealing
with an Oedipus complex, a bloody bitch, a lecherous old man’s affair
with a whore, a mad wedding, a group of drunken charwomen, a rape of a
nasty little girl by four naughty little boys, and a shocking murder,
was one of revulsion. The score was specially commissioned from the
present head of the Juilliard School, the American William Schuman. The
settings and costumes, as depressing as the work itself, were by the
Chicago painter, Raymond Breinin.

The rigors of war-time ballet travel were considerable, a constant
battle to arrive on time, to be able to leave in time to arrive in time
at the next city. Each day presented a new problem. But it had its comic
side as well. We had played the Pacific Northwest and, after an
engagement in Portland, there followed the most important engagement of
the west thus far, that at the War Memorial Opera House, in San
Francisco.

There was immense difficulty in getting the company and its properties
out of Portland at all. It should be remembered, and there is no harm
pointing out that the entire railway transportation system of our
country from Portland, Oregon, in the far Northwest, to New Orleans, in
the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, is in the hands of a single railway,
thousands of miles of it single-track line, with no competition, and
thus a law unto itself. For a long time, during this particular tour,
this railway insisted, because of military commitments, it could not
handle the company and its baggage cars from Portland to San Francisco
in time for the first performance there.

The reader should know that there are no reduced fares or concessions
for theatrical or ballet companies. First-class fares are paid, and full
rates for Pullmans and food. My representative, with a broad experience
in these matters, continued to battle, and it was eventually arranged
that the company would be attached in “tourist” coaches to a troop train
bound for the south, but with no dining facilities for civilians and no
provision for food or drink. At least, it would get them to San
Francisco in time for the opening performance.

So, the rickety tourist cars were attached to the troop train and the
journey commenced. The artists were carefully warned by my
representative that this was a troop train, that no food would be
available, and that each member of the company should provide himself
enough food and beverage for the journey.

At daybreak of the next morning, cold and dismal, the train stopped at a
junction point in the Cascades to add a locomotive for the long haul
over the “divide.” Opposite the station was a “diner.” Twelve members of
the company, including four principal artists, in nightclothes--pyjamas,
nightgowns, kimonos, bed-slippers, with lightweight coats wrapped round
them--insisted on getting down from the train and crossing to the little
“diner” for “breakfast.”

Our company manager warned them not to leave the train; told them that
there would be no warning, no signal, since this was not a passenger
train but a troop train, and that they risked missing the train
altogether. He begged, pleaded, ordered--to no avail. Off they went in
the cold of the dawn, in the scantiest of nightclothes.

Silently and without warning, as the manager had foretold, the train
pulled out, leaving a dozen, including four leading artists, behind in
an Oregon tank town without clothes or tickets.

By dint of a dozen telephone calls and as many telegrams, the
nightgown-clad D.P.’s were picked up by a later train. After fourteen
hours in day coaches, crowded with regular passengers, they arrived at
the San Francisco Ferry, still in their nightclothes, thirty minutes
before curtain time; they were whisked in taxis to the War Memorial
Opera House. The curtain rose on time. The evening was saved.

It had its amusing side. It was one of the many hardships of wartime
touring, merely one of the continuous headaches, although a shade on the
unusual side. It was also yet another example of the utter lack of
discipline and consideration in the company, and of the stubborn refusal
of some of its members to cooperate in the cause of a fine art.

Another of the many incidents having to do with the difficulties of
war-time touring was one in Augusta, Georgia, where no hotel or other
housing accommodations could be found, due to the war-time overcrowding.

Most of the company slept, as best they could, in the railway station or
in the public park. It is recorded that Alicia Markova spent the night
sleeping on the sidewalk in the entrance-way to a grocer’s shop, wrapped
in newspapers and a cloak by the company manager, while that guardian
angel spent the night sitting on the edge of an adjoining
vegetable-stand, watching over her, smoking an endless chain of
cigarettes.

This attitude was but an indication of the good sportsmanship the
youngsters evidenced on more than one occasion, proving that, _au fond_,
they were, on the whole, good “troupers.”

While I had been prepared for the departure from the company of J. Alden
Talbot, I was saddened, nevertheless, when he left. Lucia Chase and the
scene designer, Oliver Smith, became joint managing directors, with the
result that there was precious little management and even less
direction. We played a summer season in California, at the War Memorial
Opera House in San Francisco, in conjunction with the City’s Art
Commission, and at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles. In Hollywood we
rehearsed some of the new works to be given in New York in the autumn.
They were five in number, and unequal both in quality and appeal. Only
one was a real success. The five works were by an equal number of
choreographers: Simon Semenoff, Michael Kidd, John Taras, Jerome
Robbins, and Adolph Bolm.

Semenoff’s work, _Gift of the Magi_, was an attempt to make a ballet out
of O. Henry’s little short story of the same title, a touching tale of
the pathos of a young married couple with taste and no money. For the
ballet, young Lukas Foss wrote a workmanlike score, and Raoul Péne du
Bois supplied a great deal of scenery, difficult to manipulate. Nora
Kaye and John Kriza, as the young lovers, gave it a sweetness of
characterization. But, despite scenery, costumes, properties, and sweet
characterization, there was no real choreography, and the work soon left
the repertoire.

Michael Kidd’s first choreographic attempt for Ballet Theatre, and his
first full-scale work as a matter of fact, was a theatre piece. A
musical comedy type of work, it never seemed really to belong in a
ballet repertoire. Kidd called it _On Stage!_ For it Norman dello Joio
provided a workable and efficient score, and Oliver Smith designed a
back-stage scene that looked like back-stage. The costumes were designed
by Alvin Colt.

Another first choreographic effort was young John Taras’s _Graziana_,
for which I paid the costs. Here was no attempt to ape the Broadway
musical comedy theatre. It was a straightforward, fresh, classical
piece. Taras had set the work to a Violin Concerto by Mozart. He used a
concise group of dancers, seventeen all told, four of whom were
soloists. There was no story, simply dancing with no excuses, no
apologies, no straining for “novelty,” tricks, stunts, or gags. It was,
in effect, ballet, and the public liked it. Just what the title meant I
never knew. My guess is that Taras had to call it something, and
_Graziana_ was better than Number One.

The Robbins work came directly from Broadway, or the Avenue of the
Americas, to be precise. It was called _Interplay_, and had originally
been done for a variety show at the Ziegfeld Theatre. It was Robbins’s
second work. It was merely a piece of athletic fun. It was a genuine
hit. For music it had Morton Gould’s _Interplay Between Piano and
Orchestra_, which he had originally written for a commercial radio
programme as a brief concert piece for José Iturbi, with orchestra. The
“interplay” in the dance was that between classical dance and “jive.”
Actually what emerged was a group of kids having a lot of fun. For once,
in a long while, I could relax and smile when I saw it, for this was a
period when I had little time for relaxation and even less cause to
smile.

The production of Stravinsky’s _Firebird_ is something with which I
shall deal separately. There was still another season to tour and a
spring season at the Metropolitan Opera House, in 1946. In outlining the
productions and chronology of Ballet Theatre during this period, I have
tried to be as objective as possible so that the organization’s public
history may be a matter of record. Its private history, in so far as my
relations are concerned, is quite another matter.

The troubles, the differences, the discussions, the intrigues of de
Basil and his group, of Universal Art were, for the most part, all of a
piece. I cannot say I ever got used to them, but I was prepared for
them. I knew pretty much the pattern they would follow, pretty much what
to expect. Being forewarned, I was forearmed. With Ballet Theatre I had
expected something different. Here I was not dealing with the
involutions and convolutions of the Cossack and the Slavic mind. Here, I
felt, would be an American approach. If, as a long-time American, I felt
I knew anything about the American people, one of their most distinctive
and noteworthy characteristics was their honesty of approach, their
straightforwardness, directness, frankness. Alas, I was filled with
disillusionment on this point. Ballet Theatre, in its approach to any
problem where I was concerned, had a style very much its own: full of
queer tricks, evasions, omissions, and unexpected twists of mind and
character, as each day disclosed them.

There were two chief bones of contention. One was the billing. I have
pointed out the lack of public interest in Ballet Theatre when I took it
over and how the very title worked to its disadvantage. If ballet is to
remain a great, universal entertainment in this country, and is, by the
purchase of tickets at the box-office, to help pay its own way, at
least in part, we must have a great mass audience as well as “devotees.”

The other bone of contention, and the one which eventually caused the
rupture of our association, was the matter of guest artists. The
opposition to guest artists was maintained on an almost hysterical
level. There were, as in every discussion, two sides to the question.
Reasonably stated, Lucia Chase’s argument could have been that Ballet
Theatre was an organic whole; that it was an instrument with the
sensitivity of a symphony orchestra, and “stars” damaged such a
conception. As a matter of fact, it was her basic argument. The
argument, plausible enough on the surface, does not, however, stand up
under examination, for the comparison with a symphony orchestra does not
hold.

Lacking the foresight and wisdom to keep the members of her company
under contract, each season there were presented to Miss Chase a flock
of new faces, new talents, unfamiliar with the repertoire, trained in a
variety of schools with a corresponding variety of styles; it took them
months to become a fully functioning and completely integrated part of
Miss Chase’s “organic whole.” Great symphony orchestras hold their
players together jealously year after year. Great symphony orchestras
manage to reduce their colossal deficits to some extent by the
engagement of distinguished soloists to appear with their “organic
wholes.” Such is the present state of musical appreciation in this
country that it is an open secret that in many cities the way to sell
out, or nearly sell out the house, is to engage soloists with box-office
appeal. I do not here refer to such great symphonic bodies as the Boston
Symphony Orchestra, the Philadelphia Orchestra, the New York
Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra, but I do refer to those symphonic
bodies in those many cities that are something less than metropolitan
centers. Nor do I mean to suggest that this situation is one to be
commended or applauded, or that it represents the ultimate desired
_raison d’être_ for the existence of a symphony orchestra. But I do
suggest it is the only system feasible in the perilous situation today
in which our symphonic bodies are compelled to operate.

The analogy between ballet and symphony in this view is not apposite.
Again there was no attempt on Miss Chase’s part to understand the
situation; there was merely stubborn, unrelenting opposition after
recrimination. It should be recorded that J. Alden Talbot during his
tenure as general manager of Ballet Theatre fully realized and
understood the situation and shared my feelings. I remember one day in
Montreal when I had a conference with Lucia Chase to go over the entire
matter of guest artists. I listened patiently to her mounting hysteria.
I pointed out that, as the company became better known throughout the
country, as the quality of public ballet appreciation improved, the
company of youngsters might be able to stand on their own _pointes_; but
that, since the company and its personnel were as yet unknown, it would
require infinite time, patience, and money to build them up in the
consciousness of the public; and that, meanwhile, at this point in the
company’s existence, the guest stars gave a much needed fillip to the
organization, and that, to put it bluntly, they were a great relief to
some of the public, at any rate; for the great public has always liked
guest stars and some local managements have insisted on them; of that
the box-office had the proof. It was my contention that the guest star
principle had been responsible for American interest in ballet. I hope
the reader will pardon me if I link that system, coupled with my own
love, enthusiasm, and faith in ballet, with the popularity that ballet
has in this country today. There is such a thing as an unbecoming
modesty, and I dislike wearing anything that is unbecoming.


_TAMARA TOUMANOVA_

It was during the 1945-1946 season, for example, that I engaged Tamara
Toumanova as a guest artist. In addition to appearing in _Swan Lake_,
_Les Sylphides_, and various classical _pas de deux_, I had Bronislava
Nijinska stage a short work she called _Harvest Time_, to the music of
Henri Wieniawski, orchestrated by Antal Dorati, in which Toumanova
appeared with John Kriza, supported by a small _corps de ballet_. The
association, I fear, was not too happy for any of us, including the
“Black Pearl.” There was a resentment towards her on the part of some of
the artists, and Toumanova, over-anxious to please, almost literally
danced her head off; but the atmosphere was not conducive to her best
work.

Having watched Toumanova from childhood, knowing her as I do, it is not
easy, nor is it a simple matter for me to draw an objective portrait of
her, as she is today. One thing I shall _not_ do, and that is to go very
deeply into biographical background. That she was born in a box-car in
Siberia, while her parents were escaping into China from the Russian
Revolution, is a tale too often told--as are the stories of her
beginnings as a dancer in Paris with Olga Preobrajenska, and an
appearance at the Paris Trocadero on a Pavlova programme, at the age of
five or so.

It was her father, Vadim Boretszky-Kasadevich, who called a temporary
halt to the child prodigy business, by insisting that dance be suspended
for a year until she could do some school work.

Discovered at Preobrajenska’s school by George Balanchine, he placed her
with the de Basil company, and for a half-dozen years she remained
there, save for a brief interlude with Balanchine’s short-lived _Les
Ballets 1933_.

It was that same year that I brought the de Basil company to America the
first time, where she joined the trinity of “baby ballerinas”--Baronova
and Riabouchinska, of course, being the other two. It is a matter of
history how Toumanova became the American rotogravure editors’ delight;
how America became Toumanova-conscious.

Strong, remarkably strong though her technique was even in those days,
her performances were frequently uneven. Toumanova was a temperamental
dancer then, as now, and to those who know only her svelte, slender,
mature beauty of today, there may be some wonder that in those days she
had to fight a recurring tendency towards _embonpoint_, and excessive
_embonpoint_. But there were always startling brilliancies. In _Jeux
d’Enfants_ and _Cotillon_, I remember the dazzling _fouetées_. It is one
of Toumanova’s boasts that she was the first dancer to do thirty-two
double _fouetées_ and sixteen triples in actual performance. I am not an
authority on these technical matters and can, therefore, merely record
the statement.

Her unsuccessful Broadway appearance (a musical called _Stars in Your
Eyes_) was followed by a reunion with the de Basil Company in Australia
and a short season with him at the Hollywood Theatre, in New York; and
there was a later sojourn with the Massine Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo.
Then Hollywood beckoned. There was one film in which she played an
acting part, _Days of Glory_. The picture was certainly not much to talk
about, but she married the producer-writer, Casey Robinson.

Since then, she has turned up as guest-artist with one organization
after another: the Paris Opera Ballet, the Marquis de Cuevas company,
Anton Dolin’s Festival Ballet in London, the San Francisco Civic Ballet;
a nomadic balletic existence, interrupted by another Hollywood film
appearance, this time in the role of Pavlova in _Tonight We Sing_, based
on my earlier book, _Impresario_.

As a person there is something about her that is at once naive and
ingenuous and, at the same time, deep and grave and tragic. She cries
still when she is happy, and is also able to cry when she is sad. She
adores to be praised; but, unlike some other dancers I know, she is also
anxious for criticism. She solicits it. And when she feels the
criticism is sound, she does her best to correct--at least for the
moment--the faults that have prompted it. Her devotion to her
mother--“Mamochka”--herself an attractive, voluble, and highly emotional
woman, is touching and sometimes a shade pathetic. Toumanova’s whole
life, career, and story have been, for the most part, the
thrice-familiar tale of the White Russian _émigré_. Like all _émigré_
stories, hers is extremely sentimental. Sentiment and sentimentality
play a big part in Tamara’s life.

She is, I feel, unbreakable, unquenchable. She is, in her maturity, even
more beautiful than she was as a “baby ballerina.” She is, I suppose,
precisely the popular conception of what a glamorous _ballerina_ is, or
at least should be. Her personality is that of a complete theatrical
extrovert. The last row of the gallery is her theatre target. Hers is
not a subtle personality. It is a sort of motion picture idea of a
_ballerina assoluta_, a sort of reincarnation of the fascinating
creatures from whose carriages adoring balletomanes unhitched the horses
and hauled them to Maxim’s for supper, dining the course of which the
creatures were toasted in vintage champagne drunk from slippers. It
doesn’t really matter that her conception is a bit dated. With Toumanova
it is effective.

Tamara’s conception of the ballerina in these terms is deliberate. She
admits her desire is to smash the audience as hard as she can. With her
a straight line is veritably the shortest distance between two points,
and no _ballerina_ makes the distance between herself and her audience
so brief. This conception has been known to lead to overacting and to
the ignoring of the colleagues with whom she is dancing at the time.

There is with her, as ever, great charm, an eager enthusiasm, and I am
happy to say, a fine sense of loyalty. This is a quality I particularly
appreciate. It has been shown to me on more than one occasion. When I
brought the Paris Opera Ballet for the New York City Festival, Tamara
was not nor had she been at that time a member of the Paris Opera
Company. She barely knew Lifar, yet it was she who became his champion
in New York. It was a calculated risk to her career which she took,
because she respected Lifar as an artist, did not believe the stories
about him, and was interested in fair play.

As I watch Toumanova today, I see but an extension in time, space and
years of the “baby ballerina” in her adult personality; there is still
an extravagant and dazzling glamor; there is still steely technique;
there is still a childlike naivete about her, even when she tries to be
ever so sophisticated; everything about her is still dramatic and
dramatized. And there is still “Mamochka,” in constant attendance,
helping, criticizing, urging; and although Tamara has been happily
married for a decade or so, “Mamochka” is still the watchdog. Many
ballet “mamas” are not only difficult, but some of them are overtly
disliked. Toumanova’s mother is another category. She has been at all
times a fine and constructive help to Tamara, both with practical
assistance and theoretical advice.

Tamara’s approach to the dance is beautiful to observe. Her devotion to
ballet amounts almost to a religion. Nothing under the sun is more
important to her than her work, her attendance at lessons. Nothing ever
is permitted to interfere with these.

I firmly believe that such is her concentration and devotion to her work
that, if a fire were to break out back-stage during a performance while
Tamara was in the midst of her fabulous _fouetées_, she would continue
with them, completely unperturbed, more intent on _fouetées_ than on
fire.

The Montreal discussions with the Ballet Theatre direction on the
subject of guest stars produced no understanding of the situation; only
the tiresomely reiterated, “It’s a sacrilege! It’s a crime!”

What was a “crime” then, was a sheer necessity. Let us look, for a
moment, at the Ballet Theatre situation today, after it is no longer
under my management, but entirely on its own, responsible for its own
destiny. During the last year of our association, following the
resignation of J. Alden Talbot as managing director, as I have pointed
out, Lucia Chase, who pays the bills, and Oliver Smith became joint
managing directors. They were running the company when we came to a
parting of the ways. It was they who protested most bitterly over the
guest-star system. Now, with the company, after thirteen years of
existence, presumably established, Miss Chase is firmly perpetrating the
same “crime” herself. I certainly do not object to it. But surely what
was a “sacrilege,” what was a “crime” at the time I was responsible for
their perpetration, must, now that the Ballet Theatre is on its own, no
longer be either sacrilegious or criminal.

Another recurring trouble source and the cause of many a contentious
discussion was the question of new productions. The arguments and
conferences over them were seemingly endless. Now the question of new
productions is one of the most vital and important in ballet management,
and one of the most pressing. All ballet management contracts call for a
ballet company to supply a certain number of new works each year. The
reason for this is that there must be a constant flow of new ballets in
a repertoire in order to attract the attention of both the critics and
the public. Standard works form the core of any repertoire and at least
one is necessary on every programme. But ballet itself, in order to keep
from becoming stagnant, must refresh itself by constantly expanding its
repertoire. Frequently, in contrast to the undying classics, nothing can
be deader than last years “novelty.” My contractual arrangement provides
that the management shall have the right either to accept or reject new
work as being acceptable or otherwise.

As time went on, many of the new works produced, some of which were
accepted by me against my sounder judgment, proved, as I feared, to be
unacceptable to the general public throughout the country. It should be
clearly understood that ballet cannot live on New York alone. America is
a large continent, and the hinterland audiences, while lacking, perhaps,
some of the quality of sophistication of metropolitan audiences, are
highly selective and quite as critical today as are their New York
counterparts. A New York success is by no means an assurance of a like
reception in Kalamazoo or Santa Barbara. Ballet needs both Santa Barbara
and Kalamazoo, as it needs New York. The building of repertoire should
be the joint task of the company direction and the management--since
their desired ends are the same, viz., the successful continuation of
the organization. Repertoire is a responsible and exceedingly demanding
task.

It certainly required no clairvoyance on my part to discern a very
definite antagonism toward any repertoire suggestions I offered. Certain
types of ballets were badly needed and were not forthcoming. Perhaps I
can most clearly illustrate my point by recapitulating the Ballet
Theatre repertoire at the time we parted company.

There were: Fokine’s heritage--_Les Sylphides_, _Carnaval_, (no longer
in repertoire), _Petroushka_ (no longer in repertoire), _Spectre de la
Rose_ (no longer in repertoire), plus two creations, _Bluebeard_, and
_Russian Soldier_ (no longer in repertoire). Andrée Howard had staged
_Death and the Maiden_ and _Lady Into Fox_ (both dropped before I took
over the company). Bronislava Nijinska had revived _La Fille Mal
Gardée_ and _The Beloved One_ (no longer in the repertoire). Anton Dolin
had revived _Swan Lake_, _Giselle_ (now performed in a Balanchine
version), _Princess Aurora_ (now touched up by Balanchine), and had
created _Quintet_ (dropped after the first season), _Capriccioso_
(dropped in the second season), _Pas de Quatre_ (now done in a version
by Keith Lester), and _Romantic Age_ (no longer in the repertoire).
Leonide Massine had revived _The Fantastic Toy Shop_, _Capriccio
Espagnol_, and _The Three-Cornered Hat_ (all out of repertoire). He had
produced three new works, _Don Domingo_, _Aleko_, and _Mlle. Angot_,
none of which was retained in the repertoire. Antony Tudor had revived
_The Lilac Garden_, _Judgment of Paris_, _Dark Elegies_, _Gala
Performance_, and had produced _Pillar of Fire_, _Romeo and Juliet_,
_Dim Lustre_, and _Undertow_, none of which remain. Agnes de Mille had
produced _Black Ritual_, _Three Virgins and a Devil_, and _Tally-Ho_,
none of which is actively in the repertoire. José Fernandez had produced
a Spanish work, _Goyescas_, which lasted only the first season. David
Lichine had revived _Graduation Ball_, and had produced _Helen of Troy_
and _Fair at Sorotchinsk_ (the latter no longer in repertoire). Adolph
Bolm had revived his _Ballet Mecanique_ (first season life only),
produced _Peter and the Wolf_, a perennial stand-by, and the short-lived
version of _Firebird_. John Taras had contributed _Graziana_, and Simon
Semenoff a version of _Coppélia_ and _Gift of the Magi_, neither of the
three existing today. Jerome Robbins’s _Fancy Free_ and _Interplay_
remain while his _Facsimile_ has been forgotten. Balanchine had revived
_Apollo_, _Errante_, and had produced _Waltz Academy_, all of which have
disappeared.

In order to save the curious reader the trouble of any computation, this
represents a total of fifty-one ballets either produced during my
association with Ballet Theatre or else available at the time we joined
hands. From this total of fifty-one, a round dozen are performed, more
or less, today. A cursory glance will reveal that the repertoire was
always deficient in classical works. They are the backbone of ballet. It
is to be regretted that the Tudor ballets, which were the particular
glory of Ballet Theatre, have been lost to the public.

I shall not labor the point of our differences, save to cite one work as
an example. That is the production of _Firebird_. This was the first
Stravinsky ballet for Diaghileff, and was first revealed in Fokine’s
original production at the Paris Opera in the Diaghileff season of 1910,
with Tamara Karsavina in the title role, Fokine himself as the handsome
Tsarevich, Enrico Cecchetti as the fearsome Kastchei, and Vera Fokina
as the beautiful Tsarevna whom the Tsarevich marries at the end. In
later productions Adolph Bolm took Fokine’s place as the Tsarevich. The
original settings and costumes were by Golovine. For a later Diaghileff
revival the immensely effective production by Nathalie Gontcharova was
created. This was the production revealed here by the de Basil company,
a quite glorious spectacle.

_Firebird_ had always been a popular work when well done. From a musical
point of view it has been one of the most popular works in the
Stravinsky catalogue, both in orchestral programmes and over the radio.
One of the surest ways to attract the public to ballet is through
musical works of established popularity. This does not mean works that
are cheap or vulgar, for vulgarity and popularity are by no stretch of
the imagination synonymous: it means _Swan Lake_, _The Nutcracker_, _The
Sleeping Beauty_, _Schéhérazade_, _Coppélia_, _Petroushka_,
_Firebird_--I mention only a few--the music of which has become
familiar, well-known, and loved through the medium of radio and
gramophone recordings. This is the music that brings people to ballets
of which it is a part.

Miss Chase was flatly opposed to _Firebird_. Her co-director had no
choice but to follow her lead. I was insistent that _Firebird_ be given
as one of the new productions required under our contract for the season
1945-1946; and then the trouble began in earnest.

There were various dissident elements in the Ballet Theatre
organization, as there are in all ballet companies. These elements had
no very clear idea of what they wanted, or for what they stood. Their
vision was cloudy, their aims vague, their force puny. The company
lacked not only any artistic policy, but also a managing director
capable of formulating one, and able to mould these various dissident
elements into what Miss Chase liked to call her “organic whole.”

With the exception of J. Alden Talbot and German Sevastianov, there had
never been a managing director or manager worthy of the title or the
post. During the Talbot regime, my relations with the Ballet Theatre
were at their highest level. I always found Talbot helpful,
understanding towards our mutual problems, cooperative, of assistance in
many ways. Because of his belief in the organization and his genuine
love for ballet, Talbot gave his services as general manager without fee
or compensation of any sort other than the pleasure of helping the
company. It is almost entirely thanks to Talbot that _Fancy Free_
achieved production. Talbot was also instrumental in founding and
maintaining an organization known as _Ballet Associates_, later to
become _Ballet Associates in America_, since the function of the society
is to cultivate ballet in general in America in the field of
understanding, and, more specifically and particularly, to encourage,
promote and foster those creative workers whose artistic collaboration
makes ballet possible, viz., choreographers, composers, and designers.
The practical function of the society is very practical indeed, for it
means finding that most necessary fuel: money. The organization, through
the actively moving spirit of J. Alden Talbot, sponsored by substantial
contributions no less than four Ballet Theatre productions: Tudor’s
_Pillar of Fire_ and _Romeo and Juliet_, Agnes de Mille’s _Tally-Ho_,
and Dolin’s _Romantic Age_. It was entirely responsible for Michael
Kidd’s _On Stage!_

A cultured, able gentleman of charm, taste, and sensitivity, J. Alden
Talbot was the only person associated with Ballet Theatre direction able
to give it a sound direction, since he was able not only to shape a
definite policy, which is vastly important, but also to give it a sound
business management.

Following Talbot’s departure, there came frequent changes in management,
changes seemingly made largely for purely personal reasons. At the time
of the stresses and strains over the inclusion of _Firebird_ into the
repertoire, although Lucia Chase and Oliver Smith were the titular
managing directors, there was no head to the organization and no
director or direction, in fact. Actually, caprice was at the helm and
Ballet Theatre had a flapping rudder, a faulty compass, with Chase and
Smith taking turns at the wheel trying to keep the badly listing ship
into the wind. Acting as manager was a former stage-manager, without
previous experience or any knowledge whatever of the intricate problems
of business management. With the enthusiasm of an earnest Boy Scout, he
commenced a barrage of bulletins and directives, and ludicrously
introduced calisthenics classes for the dancers, complete with
dumb-bells, down to the institution of his own conception of the
“Stanislavsky” method of dramatic expression, the latter taking the form
of setting the company to acting out charades on the trains while on
tour.

Coincidental with this was increased intrigue and the outward expression
of his theme song, which he chanted to all within earshot, the burden of
which was: “How can we get rid of Hurok? How can we get rid of Hurok?
Who needs him?”

The question of the _Firebird_ production was, as I have suggested, the
most contentious and controversial of any that arose in my relationships
with Ballet Theatre.

_Firebird_ was hounded by troubles of almost every description, as each
day upturned them. Its production was marked by disputes, aggravations,
and untold difficulties from first to last. If history is to be
believed, that sort of thing has been its lot from its inception in the
Diaghileff days of 1910.

The Adolph Bolm production eventually reached the stage of the
Metropolitan Opera House, after a series of vicissitudes, on the night
of the 24th October, 1945, with Alicia Markova in the title role, and
Anton Dolin in the role of Ivan Tsarevich, originally danced in the
Diaghileff production by Michel Fokine.

The _Firebird_ is an expensive work to produce; there are numerous
scenes, each requiring its own setting and a large complement of
costumes. In order to help overcome some of the financial problems
involved, I agreed with Ballet Theatre to contribute a certain sum to
the cost of production. I shall have something more to say about this a
bit later.

As for the work itself, I can only say that the conception and the
performance were infinitely superior to that which, in these latter
days, is given by the New York City Ballet, to which organization, as a
gesture, I gave the entire production for a mere token payment so far as
the original costs to me were concerned.

Under my contractual arrangements with Ballet Theatre, the organization
was obligated to provide a new second ballet for the season. I felt
_Firebird_ had great audience-drawing possibilities. Ballet Theatre
insisted _Firebird_ was too expensive to produce and countered with the
suggestion that Antony Tudor would stage a work on the musical base of
Bartok’s _Concerto for Orchestra_. While this work would have been
acceptable to me, I could discover no evidence that it was in
preparation.

Pursuing the matter of _Firebird_, Ballet Theatre informed me they were
not in a position to expend more than $15,000 in any production. I
suggested they prepare careful estimates on the cost of _Firebird_. This
was done--at least, they showed me what purported to be estimates--and
these indicated the costs would be something between $17,000 and
$20,000. Therefore, in order to ease their financial burden, I offered
to pay the costs of the production in excess of $15,000, but not to
exceed $5,000. And so it was, at last, settled.

We had all agreed on a distinguished Russian painter, resident in
Hollywood, a designer of reputation, who not only had prepared a work
for Ballet Theatre, but whose contributions to ballet and opera with
other organizations had been considerable.

Despite these arrangements, as time went on, there were definite
indications that _Firebird_ would not be ready for the opening date at
the Metropolitan Opera House, which had been agreed upon. No activity
concerning it was apparent, and Adolph Bolm, its choreographer, was
still in Hollywood. On the 15th September, I addressed an official
letter to Ballet Theatre concerning the delay.

While no reply to this was forthcoming, I subsequently learned that,
without informing the original designer who had been engaged and
contracted to design the scenery and costumes, and who had finished his
task and had turned his designs over to the scene painters, without
informing the choreographer, without informing me, Ballet Theatre had
surreptitiously engaged another designer, who also was at work on the
same subject. We were now faced with two productions of the same work
which would, of course, require payment.

A telephone call from Ballet Theatre to one of my staff, however, added
the interesting information that _Firebird_ (in any production) would
not be presented until I paid them certain moneys. The member of my
staff who received this message, quite rightly refused to accept the
message, and insisted it should be in writing.

It was not until the 23rd October, the day before the work was scheduled
to be produced, that Oliver Smith, of the Ballet Theatre direction,
threatened officially to delay the production of _Firebird_ until I paid
them the sum they demanded. In other words, Ballet Theatre would not
present the Stravinsky work, and it would not open, unless I paid them
$11,824.87 towards its costs. These unsubstantiated costs included those
of _both_ productions, all in the face of my definite limitation of
$5,000 to be paid on _one_ production, since it was impossible to
imagine that there would be _two_ of them.

Here was an ultimatum. The Metropolitan Opera House was already sold out
to an audience expecting to see the new _Firebird_. All-out advertising
and promotion had been directed towards that event. The ultimatum was,
in effect, no money, no production.

It was, in short, a demand for money under duress, for which there is a
very ugly word. At any rate, here was a _bona fide_ dispute, a matter to
be discussed; and I suggested that Ballet Theatre submit the matter to
arbitration, both disputants agreeing, of course, to be bound by the
arbiter’s decision.

Lucia Chase, Oliver Smith, and Ballet Theatre’s new general manager
refused to submit the matter to arbitration. The ultimatum remained: no
money, no performance. The sold-out house had been promised _Firebird_.
The public was entitled to see it.

I paid them $11,824.87, the sum they demanded, under protest, noting
this money was demanded and paid under duress. _Firebird_ had its first
performance the next night, as scheduled. Meanwhile, the dress-rehearsal
that afternoon had been marked by a succession of scenes that can only
be characterized as disgraceful, the whole affair being conducted in an
atmosphere of tensity, ill-feeling, carping, with every possible
obstacle being placed in the way of a satisfactory performance and
devoid of any spirit of cooperation.

It soon became apparent to me that the troubles attendant upon the
_Firebird_ production were merely symptomatic of something much larger,
something much more sinister; something that was, in effect, a
conspiracy to break the contract between us, a contract which was to
continue for yet another season.

I learned through reliable sources that Ballet Theatre was
surreptitiously attempting to secure bookings on their own with some of
the local managers with whom I had booked them in the past, and with
whom I was endeavoring to make arrangeents for them for the ensuing
season. On the 28th February, I served official notice on the
directorate of Ballet Theatre calling upon them to cease this illegal
and unethical practice, and, at the same time, notified all managers of
my contract with the organization.

It was early in our 1946 spring engagement at the Metropolitan Opera
House, and I was working alone one evening in my office. It was late,
the staff having long since left, and I continued at my desk until it
was time for me to leave for the Metropolitan Opera House. I had not
dined, intending to have a bite in Sherry’s Bar during one of the
intervals. As I was crossing the by now deserted and partly darkened
lower lobby of my office building, a stranger lunged forward from the
shadows and thrust a sheaf of papers into my hand, then hurried into the
street. Surprised, astonished, puzzled, I returned to my office to
examine them.

The papers were a summons and complaint from Ballet Theatre. Although
my contract with the organization had another year still to run, Lucia
Chase and Oliver Smith were attempting to cancel the contract in
mid-season. The grounds on which the action was based, as were
subsequently proved, had no basis in fact.

But the company was slipping. It had no policy, no one capable of
formulating or maintaining one. It was losing valuable members of its
personnel, some of whom could no longer tolerate the whims and
capriciousness of “Dearie,” as Chase was dubbed by many in the company.
Jerome Robbins had gone his way. Dorati, who gave the organization the
only musical integrity and authority it had, had departed. Others, I
knew, were soon to be on their way. Dry rot was setting in. As matters
stood, with the direction as it was, I had no assurance of any permanent
survival for it. The company continued from day to day subject to the
whims of Lucia Chase. The result was insecurity for the dancers, with
all of them working with a weather-eye peeled for another job. One more
season of this company, I felt, and I would be responsible for dragging
a corpse about the country, unless, of course, I should myself become a
corpse.

Ballet Theatre’s lawyers and my trusted counsel of many years’ standing,
Elias Lieberman, arranged a settlement of our contract. Among its
clauses was a proviso that the properties for _Firebird_ remained my
property, together with a cash payment to me of $12,000.

When the final papers were signed, we all shook hands. The parting
between us may be described as “friendly.”

       *       *       *       *       *

What the future of Ballet Theatre may be, I have no way of knowing. I am
not a prophet; I am a manager. Ballet Theatre’s subsequent career has
not been particularly eloquent; not especially fortunate. There has been
a period when there was no ballet season, with the decision to spend a
“sabbatical” coming so late that many artists were left with no
employment at a time of the year when all other possibilities for work
with other companies had been exhausted. My own feeling, while wishing
them well, is that, so long as Ballet Theatre continues to have no
categorical policy or practice, and so long as it attempts to continue
with expediency dictating its equivocal programme, its future is
circumscribed. It is an axiom that a ballet company’s character is
determined by the personality of its director.

However many collaborators Miss Chase may have on paper, Ballet Theatre
is and will remain her baby. Co-directors, advisory boards, even the
tax-exempt, non-profit organization called Ballet Theatre Foundation,
formed in 1947, as a “sponsoring” group, do not alter the fact that Miss
Chase is its sponsor. She pays the piper and the organization will dance
to his melody. Sponsoring groups of the type I have mentioned have
little value or meaning today. Ballet will not achieve health by
dripping economic security down from the top. The theory that propping
can be done by this method of dripping props from the top, does not mean
from the top of ballet, but, hopefully, from the top of the social and
financial worlds.

Healthy ballet cannot come, in my opinion, from being treated as an
outlet or excuse for parties, nor from parties as an adjunct to ballet.
The patronage of the social world in such organizations is practically
meaningless today. It was useful, in bygone days, to have a list of
fancy names out of the Blue Book as patrons. The large paying audience
which ballet must have, and which I have developed through the years,
certainly pays no attention to social patronage today. As a matter of
fact, I suspect they resent it. The only people conceivably impressed by
such a list of names would be a handful of social climbers and society
columnists. The only patrons worth the ink to print their names are
those who pay for tickets at the box-office, average citizens, even as
you and I.

Ballet cannot pay for itself, for new productions, for commissioned
works, by its box-office takings, any more than can opera or symphony
orchestras. The only future I can see is some form of Government subsidy
for ballet and the other arts. Some of our leading spirits in the fields
of art are opposed to this idea. This is difficult for me to understand.
I cannot conceive how there could be any hesitancy on that score. We
know that in Great Britain and in most countries of Europe the arts,
including ballet, are subsidized by the Government. These countries are
not Communist-dominated. Here in the United States many big businesses
are subsidized by the Government in one form or another, at one time or
another. There are the railways, the airlines, the shipping companies,
the mine subsidies, the oil subsidies--and the something like
twenty-seven-and-one-half percent deduction allowed annually on new
buildings erected is also a form of subsidy.

In the United States only the arts and the artists are taboo when it
comes to Government help. I do not suggest that any of the arts should
be dependent upon charity, either by individuals or foundations. I feel
it is the plain duty of Government and of the lawmakers to finance and
subsidize the arts: ballet, orchestras, opera, painters, sculptors,
writers, composers.

A country with the tremendous wealth we have should not have to depend
on charity or hobbyists for the advancement of culture and cultural
activities.

Since we still lack what I feel is the only proper form of cultural
subsidy, we needs must get on as best we can with the private hobbyist
support. In this respect, Lucia Chase has been an extremely generous
sponsor of Ballet Theatre. I have said that a ballet company’s character
is determined by the personality of its director. I should like to add,
by the personality of its sponsor as well. Let us look at the
personality of Lucia Chase.

With a fortune compounded in unequal parts of Yonkers Axminster and
Waterbury Brass, her largess has been tossed with what has seemed akin
to reckless abandon. A lady of “middle years,” she was born in
Waterbury, Connecticut, one of several children of a member of the Chase
Brass Company clan. A cultured lady, she went to the “right” finishing
school, did the “right” things, and, it is said, early evinced an
interest in singing and in the theatre. She married Thomas Ewing, to
whom the sobriquet, “the Axminster carpet tycoon,” has been applied. On
his death, Miss Chase was left with a fortune and two sons. Her
distraction over the loss of her husband, so it is said, drove her to an
early love as a possible means of assuaging her grief, viz., the dance.
She took ballet lessons from Mikhail Mordkin; financed the newly formed
Mordkin Ballet; in 1937, became its _prima ballerina_. So far as the
record reveals, her debut was made in the Brass City of her birth, in no
less a role than the Princess Aurora in _The Sleeping Beauty_.

As a dancer, she is an excellent comedienne; yet for years she fancied
herself as a classical _ballerina_. Her insistence on dancing in such
ballets as _The Sleeping Beauty_, _Giselle_, _Pas de Quatre_,
_Petroushka_, _Princess Aurora_, and most of all, _Les Sylphides_, was
so regrettable that it raises the question that, if she is so
unconscious of her own limitations as a dancer, what are her
qualifications for the directorship of a ballet company?

At the beginning of every venture, at the inception of every new idea,
Lucia Chase bursts with a remarkable, pulsating enthusiasm. Then, after
a time, turning a deaf ear to the voice of experience, and discovering
to her astonishment that things have not worked out as she expected, she
sulks, tosses all ideas of policy aside, and then turns impatiently and
impulsively to something that is in the way of a new adventure. Off she
goes on a new tack. Eagerly and rashly she grasps frantically at the
next idea or suggestion forthcoming from any one who is, at that moment,
in favor. So, she thinks, this time I have got it!... The pattern
repeats itself endlessly and expensively.

It started thus, with her financing of the Mordkin Ballet, before the
days of Ballet Theatre. With the Mordkin Ballet, aside from financing
it, she danced; danced the roles of only the greatest _ballerinas_. This
pleasure she had. So far as operating a ballet company is concerned, she
still leaps about without a policy, and each time the result seems
unhappily to follow the same disappointing pattern.

Above all, Lucia Chase has what amounts to sheer genius for taking the
wrong advice and for surrounding herself with, for the most part,
inexperienced, unqualified, and mediocre advisers. Her most successful
years were those when, by happy chance rather than by any design, the
organization was managed and directed by the able J. Alden Talbot,
informed gentleman of taste and business ability. It was during the
Talbot regime that Miss Chase had her smallest deficits and Ballet
Theatre attained its period of highest achievement.

When left to her own devices, Miss Chase is, so far as policy is
concerned, uncertain, undetermined, irresolute, and meandering. The
future of Ballet Theatre as a serious institution in our cultural life
is questionable, in my opinion, because Miss Chase, after all these
years, has not yet learned how to conduct or discipline a ballet
company; has not learned that important policy decisions are not made
because of whims. Because of these things, the organization as it
stands, possesses no real and firm basis for sound artistic achievement,
progress, or permanence. There is no indication of personality, or
color, or any real authority in the company’s conduct. More and more
there are indications or intimations of some sort of middle-of-the-road
policy--if it really is policy and not a temporary whim; even so there
is no indication whatsoever of the destination towards which the vehicle
is bound.

With lavish generosity, Lucia Chase has spent fantastic sums of money on
Ballet Theatre and on its predecessor, the Mordkin Ballet. Since Ballet
Theatre is a non-profit organization and corporation, a substantial part
of this money may be said to be the taxpayer’s money, since it is
tax-exempt. Since the ultimate aim of the organization has not been
attained, since it has not assumed aesthetic responsibility, or
respected vital tradition, or preserved significant masterpieces of
every style, period, and origin, as does an art museum, and as was
announced and avowed to be its intention; since it has not succeeded in
educating the masses for ballet; it must be borne in mind that the
remission of taxes in such cases is largely predicated upon the
educational facets of such an organization whose taxes are remitted.

I would be the last person to deny that Miss Chase has made a
contribution to ballet in our time. To do so would be ridiculous. But I
do insist that, whatever good she has done, almost invariably she has
negated it and contradicted it by an impulsive capriciousness.




11. Indecisive Interlude:
De Basil’s Farewell and
A Pair of Classical Britons


With Ballet Theatre gone its own way, I was placed in a serious
predicament. According to a long established and necessary custom,
bookings throughout the country are made at least a season in advance.
This is imperative in order that theatres, halls, auditoriums may be
properly engaged and so that the local managers may arrange their
series, develop their promotional campaigns, sell their tickets, thus
reducing to as great an extent as possible the element of risk and
chance involved.

Since my contract with Ballet Theatre had had one more year to run, the
transcontinental bookings for the Ballet Theatre company had been made
for the entire season. It was necessary for me to keep faith with the
local managers who had built their seasons around ballet and, since
local managers have faith both in me and in the quality of the ballet I
present, I was on a spot. The question was: what to do?

Something had to be done to fulfil my obligations. I had no regrets
about the departure of Ballet Theatre, other than that personal wrench I
always feel at parting company with something to which I have given so
much of myself. The last weeks with Ballet Theatre added nothing but
trouble. There was a ludicrous contretemps in the nation’s capital.
Jascha Horenstein, for some reason known only to himself, put down his
baton before the beginning of the long coda at the end of _Swan Lake_,
and walked out of the pit. As he departed, he left both the dancers and
the National Symphony Orchestra players suspended in mid-air, with
another five minutes left for the climax of the ballet. As a
consequence, the performance ended in a debacle.

Matters balletic were in a bad way. It is times such as these that
present me with a challenge. There is no easy solution; and frequently,
almost usually, such solutions as there are, are reached by trial and
error. This was no exception.

I began the trial and error period by building up, as an experiment, the
Markova-Dolin company, with a group of dancers, including André Eglevsky
and soloists, together with a _corps de ballet_ largely composed of
Ballet Theatre personnel that had broken away because of dissatisfaction
of one sort or another. In addition to Markova, Dolin, and Eglevsky, the
company included Margaret Banks, a Sadler’s Wells trained dancer from
Vancouver, Roszika Sabo, Wallace Siebert, and others, with young John
Taras as choreographer and ballet-master. The reader who has come this
far will realize some of the problems involved in building up a
repertoire. Here we were, starting from scratch.

The two basic works were a _Giselle_, staged by Dolin, with Markova in
her best role, and _Swan Lake_. In staging the second act of _Swan
Lake_, Dolin used a setting designed by the Marquessa de Cuevas for the
International Ballet. Dolin also mounted the last act of _The
Nutcracker_. John Taras staged a suite of dances from Tchaikowsy’s
_Eugene Onegin_; and the balance of the repertoire was made up from
various classical excerpts.

Milwaukee, Chicago, and Detroit were selected as try-out towns in the
spring of 1946. The celestial stars that hung over the experiment cannot
be called benign. The well-worn adage that it never rains but it pours,
was hardly ever better instanced than in this case. It was the spring of
the nation-wide railway strike, and the dates of our performances
coincided with it. By grace of the calendar we managed to get the
company to Milwaukee, where the company’s first performances were given
at the old Pabst Theatre. By interurban street-car and trucks we got the
company to the Chicago Opera House. There the difficulties multiplied.
Owing to the firm restrictions placed upon the use of electricity in
public places, in order to conserve the dwindling coal supply, it was
impossible to light the Opera House auditorium or foyers, which were
swathed in gloom, broken only by faint spots of dull glow emanating from
a few oil lanterns. The current for the stage lighting was supplied from
a United States Coast Guard vessel, which we had, with great difficulty,
persuaded to move along the river side of the Opera House, to the
engine-room of which vessel we ran cables from the stage. The ship could
generate just enough “juice” for stage purposes only. That “just enough”
might have been precisely that in computed wattage; but it was direct
current. Our lighting equipment operated on alternating current, and, by
the time the “juice” was converted, the actual power was limited to the
point that, try as the technical staff did, the best we were able to
obtain was a sort of passable low visibility on the stage.

To add to the general fun, the Coast Guard vessel broke loose from its
moorings, floated across the Chicago River, destroyed some pilasters of
the _Chicago Daily News_ and jammed the Randolph Street drawbridge of
the City of Chicago, adding to the general confusion, to say nothing of
the costs.

When it came time for the company to move to Detroit, no trains were
running, and buses and trucks would not cross state lines. It took some
master-minding on the part of our staff to arrange to have the company,
baggage cars and all, attached to a freight train, which was carrying
permitted perishable fruits and vegetables. In Detroit, the slump had
set in. The feeling of depression engendered by the darkened buildings
and streets, the dimly-lighted theatres, the murk of stygian
restaurants, together with the fact that the Detroit engagement had to
be played at one of the “legitimate” theatres rather than at the Masonic
Temple which, for years, had been the local home for ballet, played
havoc with the engagement; people, bewildered by the situation, one
which was as darkness is to light, were discouraged and daunted. They
remained away from the theatre in droves and the losses were fantastic.

Using the word in the best theatrical sense and tradition, it was a
catastrophe. Perhaps it was as well that it was; somehow I cannot
entirely reject the conviction that things more often than not work out
for the best, for as the company and the repertoire stood, it would not
fill the bill. Nor was there anything like sufficient time to build
either a company or a repertoire.

The projected Markova-Dolin company was placed in mothballs. The
problems, so far as the ensuing season was concerned, remained critical.

The Markova-Dolin combination was to emerge later in a different form.
For the present it marked time, while I pondered the situation, with no
solution in sight.

At this crucial moment an old friend, Nicholas Koudriavtzeff, entered
the picture. An American citizen of long standing, by birth he was a
member of an old aristocratic Russian family. His manner, his life, his
thinking are Continental. A man of fine culture, he is an idealistic
business man of the theatre and concert worlds; a gentle, kind, able
person, with an irresistible penchant for getting himself involved, for
swimming in waters far beyond his depth, largely because of his
idealism, together with his warmheartedness and his gentleness. It is
this very gentleness, coupled with a certain softness, that makes it
almost impossible for him to say “no” to anyone.

He is married to a former Diaghileff dancer and de Basil soloist,
Tatiana Lipkovska. They divide their homes between New York and Canada,
where he is one of the leading figures in Montreal’s musical-balletic
life, and where, on a gracious farm, he raises glorious flowers, fruits,
and vegetables for the Montreal market. His wife, in her ballet school,
passes on to aspiring pupils the sound tradition of the classical dance.
Koudriavtzeff had been mixed up in ballet, in one capacity or another,
for years. There was a time when he suffered from that contagious and
deplorable infliction: ballet gossip, in which he was a practiced
practitioner; but there are indications that he is well on his way to
recovery. He is a warm friend and a good colleague.

Koudriavtzeff and I have something, I suspect, in common. Attracted and
attached to something early in life, a concept is formed, and we become
a part of that idea. From this springs a sort of congenital optimism,
and we are inclined to feel that, whatever the tribulations, all will
somehow work out successfully and to the happiness of all concerned. In
this respect, I put myself into the same category. I strongly suspect I
am infected with the same virus as Koudriavtzeff.

One of my real pleasures is to linger over dinner at home. It is no
particular secret that I am something of a gourmet and I know of no
finer or more appropriate place to enjoy good food than at home. So, it
is with something of the sense of a rite that I try, as often as the
affairs of an active life permit, sometime between half-past six and
seven in the evening to have a quiet dinner at home with Mrs. Hurok.

The telephone bell, that prime twentieth century annoyance, interrupted,
as it so often does, the evening’s peace.

“Won’t they let you alone?” was Mrs. Hurok’s only comment.

It was Koudriavtzeff.

“Call me back in half an hour.” I said.

He did.

“I should like to talk with you, Mr. Hurok,” he said in the rather
breathless approach that is a Koudriavtzeff conversational
characteristic.

Since he was already talking, I suggested he continue--over the
telephone. But no, this was not possible, he said. He must talk to me
privately; something very secret. Could he come to my home, there and
then? Was it a matter of business? I inquired. It was. I demurred. I had
had enough of business for one day.

However, there was such urgency in Koudriavtzeff’s voice, after making
due allowance for an almost perpetual urgency with Koudriavtzeff, even
in discussing the weather, that I agreed. He must have telephoned from a
booth round the corner, for Koudriavtzeff arrived, breathless, almost as
soon as I had put down the instrument.

We sat down over a glass of tea. For a few minutes the conversation
concerned itself with generalities. Since I did not feel especially
social, I brought the talk around to particularities.

“Well, what can I do for you?” I inquired.

The story came pouring out like water from a burst dam. It developed, as
I pieced it together, that Koudriavtzeff was trying to make certain
bookings for de Basil’s Original Ballet Russe on the way back from South
America. Although there were some bookings, he had not been able to
secure sufficient dates and, under the arrangement he had made with the
“Colonel,” Koudriavtzeff was obliged to deliver. That was not all. Not
only was he short with dates; he did not have the means with which to
make the necessary campaign, even if he had obtained the dates.

I pondered the situation.

“Is de Basil in South America?” I asked.

“No,” replied Koudriavtzeff. “He is here in New York.”

Somehow, I could not regard this as good news.

I pondered the matter again.

After all I had gone through with this man, I asked myself, why should I
continue to listen to Koudriavtzeff? If ever there was a time when I
should have said, firmly, unequivocally “to hell with ballet,” it was at
this moment. But I continued to listen.

With one ear I was listening to the insistent refrain: “To hell with
ballet.” With the other, I was harking to my responsibilities to the
local managers, to my lease with the Metropolitan Opera House.

Koudriavtzeff proceeded with his rapid-fire chatter. From it one
sentence came sharp and dear:

“Will you please be so kind, Mr. Hurok? Will you, please, see de Basil?”

It could have been that I was not thinking as clearly and objectively as
I should have been at that moment.

I agreed.

The next evening, de Basil, Koudriavtzeff, and I met.

Mrs. Hurok sounded the warning.

“I don’t object to your seeing him,” she said, “but you’re not going in
with him again?”

The meetings were something I kept from the knowledge of my office for
several days.

As I have pointed out before, de Basil was a Caucasian. The Caucasians
and the Georgians have several qualities in common, not the least of
which is the love of and desire for intrigue, coupled with infinite
patience, never-flagging energy, and nerves of steel. It was perfectly
possible for de Basil to sit for days and nights on end, occasionally
uttering a few words, silent for long, long periods, but waiting,
patiently waiting. It is these alleged virtues that make the Caucasians
the most efficient and successful members of those bodies whose job it
is to practice the delicate art of the third-degree: the O.G.P.U., the
N.K.V.D.

I had agreed to meet de Basil, and now I was in for it. There was one
protracted meeting after another, with each seeming to merge, without
perceptible break, into the next. The “Colonel” had a “heart,” which he
coddled; he brought with him his hypochondriacal collection of “pills,”
some of which were for his “heart,” some for other uses. With their
help, he managed to keep wide awake but impassive through night after
night. Discussion, argument; argument, discussion. As the conferences
proceeded, de Basil reinforced his “pills” with his lawyers, this time
the omnipresent Lidji and Asa Sokoloff.

No one could be more aware of the “Colonel’s” inherent avoidance of
honesty or any understandable code of ethics than I, yet he invariably
commenced every conversation with: “Now if you will only be sincere and
serious with me....”

Always it was the other fellow who was insincere.

Nearly all these meetings took place in the upper Fifth Avenue home of a
friend of de Basil’s, a former _Time_ magazine associate editor, where
he was a house-guest. I cannot imagine what sort of home life he and his
wife could have had during this period when, what with the long sessions
and the constant comings and goings, the place bore a stronger
resemblance to a committee room adjacent to an American political
convention than a quiet, conservative Fifth Avenue home. Not only was
the place crowded with antiques, for de Basil’s host was a “collector,”
but the “Colonel” had piled these pieces one on the top of another to
turn the place into a warehouse. It was during the after-war shortage of
food in Europe, whither the “Colonel” was repairing as soon as he could.

Here, in his host’s home, the “Colonel” had opened his own package and
shipping department. Box upon box, crate upon crate of bulky foods:
mostly spaghetti. All sorts of foods: cost cheap, bulk large.

This was the first time in my ballet career that I had written down a
repertoire on cases of spaghetti. As these meetings continued, and
took the toll of human patience and endurance, we were joined
by my loyal adjutant, Mae Frohman, who was served a sumptuous
dish of not particularly tasty but certainly very filling
Russo-Caucasian-Georgian-Bulgarian negotiations.

It is not to be supposed that this period was brief. It went on for
nearly three weeks, day and night.

One night progress was made; but before morning we were back where we
started. Miss Frohman begged me to call off the entire business, to get
out of it while the getting was good. The more she saw and heard, the
more certain she was that her intuition was right; this was something to
be given a wide berth. But I was in it now. There was no going back.

Time, however, was running out. I had booked passage to fly to Europe.
The date approached, as dates have a way of doing, until we reached the
day before my scheduled departure. Mrs. Hurok remonstrated with me over
the whole business.

“What good can come from this?” she protested. “Are you mad?”

Perhaps I was.

“What are you trying to do?” she went on. “Trying to kill yourself?”

Perhaps I was.

It was not a matter of trying; but it could be.

While de Basil was working his way back from South America with his
little band, he managed to secure another engagement in Mexico City. It
was there that that interesting figure of the world of ballet and its
allied arts, the Marquis de Cuevas, saw the de Basil organization. The
Marquis, a colorful gentleman of taste and culture, is, perhaps, the
outstanding example we have today of the sincere and talented amateur in
and patron of the arts. He is a European-American, despite his South
American birth. He had a disastrous season of ballet in New York, in
1944, with his Ballet International, for which he bought a theatre, and
lost nigh on to a million dollars in a two-months’ season--which may, to
date, be the most expensive lesson in how not to make a ballet. Today
the Marquis’s company functions as a part of the European scene. During
his initial season in New York, he had created a reasonably substantial
repertoire, including four works of quality I felt could be added to the
de Basil repertoire in combination, in the event I succeeded in coming
to terms with the “Colonel.” These works were _Sebastian_, _The Mute
Wife_, _Constantia_, and _Pictures at an Exhibition_.

After viewing the de Basil company in Mexico City, the Marquis had an
idea that it might be wise for him to join up with the “Colonel.”
Returning to New York, the Marquis came to me to discuss the matter. I
succeeded in dissuading him from investing and buying the worn-out
scenery, costumes, and properties, which were, to all intents and
purposes, valueless.

The Marquis departed for France. As the protracted negotiations with de
Basil continued, I cabled the Marquis, informing him that I had parted
with Ballet Theatre, and that I was negotiating with de Basil. Pointing
out my obligations to the local managers, and to the Metropolitan Opera
House, I asked the Marquis if he would participate, or contribute a
certain amount of money, and add his repertoire to that of the
“Colonel.”

The final de Basil conference before my scheduled departure for Europe
commenced early. The night wore on. We were again on the verge of
reaching an agreement. By two o’clock in the morning the possibility had
diminished and receded into the same vague, seemingly unattainable
distance where it had so long rested. Then, shortly after four o’clock,
the pieces suddenly all fell into place, with all of us, including Mae
Frohman, in a state of complete exhaustion, as the verbal agreement was
reached. The bland, imperturbable, expressionless de Basil was the sole
exception, at least to outward appearances.

Since my Europe-bound plane was departing within a few hours, it was
necessary that all the voluminous documents be drawn up and signed
before my departure. The lawyers, Lidji, Sokoloff, and my own legal
adviser and friend, Elias Lieberman, worked on these as we sipped hot,
black coffee, for the millionth time.

The sun was bright when we gathered round a table in the Fifth Avenue
apartment where de Basil was a guest, and affixed our signatures.

It was six o’clock in the morning.

At twelve o’clock my plane rose over La Guardia and headed for Paris.

It was the first commercial plane to make the flight to Paris after the
War. Mrs. Hurok, Mae Frohman, and Mr. and Mrs. Artur Rubinstein were at
the field to wish me “bon voyage.”

In Paris I met the Marquis and Marquessa de Cuevas, the latter a
gracious lady of charm and taste. Food was short in Paris, hard to find,
and of dubious quality. Somehow, the Marquessa had been able to secure a
chicken from her farm outside Paris, and we managed a dinner. I
explained the settlement I had made with de Basil to the Marquis, and
urged his cooperation joining de Basil as Artistic Director, hoping
that, as a result, something fine could be built, given time and
patience. Such an arrangement would also permit at least some of the
Marquis’s repertoire from deteriorating in the store-house, and bring
the works before a new and larger public.

Carerras, the manager for the Marquis at the time, was flatly opposed to
de Cuevas cooperating in any way with the “Colonel,” but eventually de
Cuevas decided to do what, once again, proved to be the impossible,
viz., to collaborate with the Caucasian de Basil.

This much having been settled, I went on to London, where I saw the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet at Covent Garden for the first time; shortly
afterwards I left for California, to spend a little time at my Beverly
Hills home which I had maintained during the war.

On my arrival in California, there were messages from my office awaiting
me. They were disturbing. Already troubles were brewing. The de Basil
repertoire was in dubious condition. Something must be done, and at
once. Moreover, despite de Basil’s assurances, the repertoire was too
small in size and was inadequately rehearsed. I left for New York by the
first available plane.

On my arrival in New York, I quickly made arrangements to send John
Taras, the young American who had been the choreographer and
ballet-master for the Markova-Dolin experiment, to South America to whip
the company into shape. With him went a group of American dancers to
augment the personnel.

Meanwhile, as the days sped on, every conceivable difficulty arose over
getting the de Basil company and its repertoire out of South America.
There were financial troubles. As was so often the case, de Basil had no
money. But he did have debts and other liabilities that had to be
liquidated before the company could be permitted to move. One thing
piled on another. When these matters had been straightened out, the
climax came in the form of a general strike in Rio de Janeiro, with the
situation out of hand and shooting in the streets. This prevented the
company from embarking for New York; not only was it impossible for
passengers to board the ship, but neither scenery, properties, nor
luggage could be loaded. Further delay meant that they could not arrive
in New York in time for the mid-October opening at the Metropolitan
Opera House, which I had had engaged for months, and for which season
the advertising was in full swing, the promotional work done.

Once again, fast action was necessary to save the situation. In New York
we had the de Cuevas repertoire, but no company. By long distance
telephone I got John Taras to leave Rio de Janeiro for New York by
plane. I engaged yet another group of artists here in New York, and
Taras, immediately upon his arrival, commenced rehearsals with this
third group on the de Cuevas repertoire, in order to have something in
readiness to fulfil my obligations in the event that the de Basil
company was unable to reach New York in time for the opening. It was, at
best, makeshift, but at least something would be ready. The season could
open on time, and faith would be kept.

While these difficulties and problems were compounding, the “Colonel”
was far from the South American battlefield. He was safely in New York,
stirring up the already quite sufficiently troubled waters.

I was more firmly convinced than ever before that to have two
closely-linked members of the same family in the same field of endeavor
is bad. Two singers in one family, I submit, is very bad. Two dancers in
one family is very, very bad. But when a manager or director of a ballet
company has a wife who is a dancer in his own company--that is the worst
of all.

These profound observations are prompted by the marital complications
that provided the chief contentious bone of this period of stress. These
marital arrangements were two in number. De Basil’s first wife, who had
divorced him, had married the company’s choreographer, Vania Psota, the
creator of the late and unlamented _Slavonika_, of early Ballet Theatre
days, and both Psota and his wife were with the company, soon, I prayed,
to arrive in New York. De Basil, already in town, had married Olga
Morosova, one of the company’s artists. This was an additional
complication, for, although Morosova was only a soloist, upon her
marriage she had immediately been promoted to the role of the company’s
_prima ballerina_. All leading roles, de Basil insisted, must now be
danced by her.

The arguments were almost continuous, and only a Caucasian could have
endured them, unscarred. The battle raged.

To sum up, I should like to offer a word of caution. If you who read
these lines are a dancer, do not marry the manager. It cuts both ways:
if you are a manager, do not marry a dancer. If, by chance these lines
are read by one who has ambitions to become a ballet manager, do not
allow yourself any romantic connection with a dancer in the company. It
simply does not work, and it is not good for ballet, or for you.

All of these continuing, persisting discussions served merely to speed
the days. Opening night was drawing perilously near, coming closer and
closer, while de Basil’s company and repertoire were still being held in
Rio de Janeiro by the general strike. The “Colonel” again needed money.
Unless the money he required was forthcoming, strike or no strike, the
company would not embark. Once again I was being held up, with the gun
at my back; on legal advice and out of sheer necessity, the money was
forthcoming.

This type of blackmail, the demand for money under duress, was
threatening to become a habit in ballet, I felt. But, after all, if I
sought to allocate blame for the situation, there was no one to whom it
could be charged except myself. It was my own fault for having consented
to listen to the siren voice of Koudriavtzeff in the first place. No one
can make greater trouble for one, I believe, than one’s own self. I had
agreed to the whole unhappy business against the considered advice of
all those in whom I had confidence and faith. There was nothing to be
done but to see it through with as much grace as I could muster. I
determined, however, to take stock. This time I was certain. I was, at
last, satisfied that when this season finished, I was finished with
ballet. No more. Never again.

       *       *       *       *       *

The de Basil crowd eventually arrived at a South Brooklyn pier, barely
in time, on a holiday afternoon before the Metropolitan opening. The
rush, the drive, the complicated business of clearing through customs
promised more headaches, more heartaches, and yet more unforeseen
expense. We now had two companies merged for the Metropolitan Opera
House engagement. In this respect we had been fortunate, for the de
Basil scenery and costumes were in a pitiable state of disrepair. Since
there was neither sufficient time nor money for their rehabilitation, we
provided both, and, meanwhile, had the advantage of the de Cuevas works.

De Basil had been able to make but few additions to his repertoire
during the lean and long South American hegira. These were _Yara_ and
_Cain and Abel_. _Yara_ had been choreographed by Psota, to a score by
Francisco Mignone. It was a lengthy attempt to bring to the stage a
Brazilian legend. It had striking sets and costumes by Candido
Portinari, and little else. _Cain and Abel_ was a juicy tid-bit in which
David Lichine perpetrated a “treatment” of the Genesis tale to, of all
things, cuttings and snippets from Wagner’s _Die Götter-Dammerung_. It
was a silly business.

The four works from the Marquis de Cuevas repertoire were given a wider
public, and helped a bad situation. _Sebastian_, with an excitingly
dramatic score by Gian-Carlo Menotti, his first for ballet, had been
staged by Edward Caton, in a setting by Oliver Smith. It made for a
striking piece of theatre. _The Mute Wife_ was a light but amusing
comedy, adapted by the American dancer-choreographer, Antonia Cobos,
from the familiar tale by Anatole France, _The Man Who Married a Dumb
Wife_, to Paganini melodies, principally his _Perpetual Motion_,
orchestrated by Vittorio Rieti. The third work, _Constantia_, was a
classical ballet by William Dollar, done to Chopin’s _Piano Concerto in
F Minor_, enlisting the services of Rosella Hightower, André Eglevsky,
and Yvonne Patterson. Its title, confusing to some, referred to Chopin’s
“Ideal Woman,” Constantia Gladowska, to whom the composer dedicated the
musical work.

Thanks to Ballet Associates in America, there was one new work. It was
_Camille_, staged by John Taras, in quite unique settings by Cecil
Beaton, for Alicia Markova and Anton Dolin. It was a balletic attempt to
tell the familiar Dumas tale. In this case, the music, instead of being
out of Traviata by Verdi to use stud-book terminology, consisted of
Franz Schubert melodies, orchestrated by Vittorio Rieti. It was not the
success one hoped and, after seeing a later one by Tudor, to say nothing
of one by Dolin, I am more and more persuaded that _Camille_ belongs to
Dumas and Verdi, to Rachel and Sarah Bernhardt, not to ballet. There was
also an unimportant but fairly amusing little _Pas de Trois_, for
Markova, Dolin, and Eglevsky, set by Jerome Robbins to the _Minuet of
the Will o’ the Wisps_, and the _Dance of the Sylphs_, from Berlioz’
_The Damnation of Faust_. It was a burlesque, highlighted by the use of
a bit of the _Rákoczy March_ as an overture, loud enough and big enough
to suggest that a ballet company of gargantuan proportions was to be
revealed by the rising curtain.

The trans-continental tour compounded troubles and annoyances with heavy
financial losses. The Original Ballet Russe carried with it the heavy
liability of a legend to a vast new audience. This audience had heard of
the symphonic ballets; there were nostalgic tales told them by their
elders about the “baby ballerinas,” Toumanova, Baronova, Riabouchinska.
There were no symphonic ballets. The “baby ballerinas” had grown up and
were in other pastures. The repertoire and the interpretations revealed
the ravages of time. Perhaps the truth was that legends have an unhappy
trick of falling short of reality.

While the long tour was in progress, the Marquis de Cuevas was making
arrangements with the Principality of Monaco for a season at Monte Carlo
with his own company. Immediately on getting wind of this, the “Colonel”
did his best to try to doublecross the Marquis. This time, the “Colonel”
did not succeed. For several seasons, the de Cuevas company, under the
title Grand Ballet de Monte Carlo, largely peopled with American
dancers, including Rosella Hightower, Marjorie Tallchief, Jocelyn
Vollmar, Ana Ricarda, and others, and under the choreographic direction
of John Taras, functioned there. When his Monte Carlo contract was at
an end, the name of the company was changed to the Grand Ballet du
Marquis de Cuevas.

In 1951, the Marquis brought his company to New York for a season at the
Century Theatre. It was completely unsuccessful, and while the losses
were less than the initial American season, when it was called Ballet
International, since there were no production costs to be met, much less
a theatre to be bought, it was indeed an unfortunate occasion. The
debacle, I believe, was not entirely the fault of the Marquis, since the
entire season was mismanaged and mishandled from every point of view.

The long, unhappy tour of the Original Ballet Russe dragged its weary
way to a close. Nothing I could imagine would be more welcome than that
desired event. When it was all over, I was happy to see them push off to
Europe. The losses I incurred were so considerable that it still is a
painful subject on which to ponder, even from this distance of time.
Suffice it to say they were very considerable.

The Original Ballet Russe had been living on its capital far too long.
In London, in 1947, the “Colonel” made an attempt to reorganize his
company. Clutching at straws, the shrewd “Colonel,” I am sure, realized
that if he had any chance for survival, it would be on the basis of a
successful London season, scene of his first triumphs. For this purpose,
he formed a new company, since almost none of the original organization
survived. It was a failure.

Nothing daunted, in 1951, he was preparing to try again. Death
intervened, and Vassily Grigorievitch Voskresensky, better known to the
world of ballet as Colonel W. de Basil, was gathered to his fathers. I
was shocked but not surprised when the news reached me. He had, I knew,
been living a devil-may-care existence. We had quarrelled, argued,
fought. We had, on the other hand, worked together for a common end and
with a common belief and purpose.

He was truly an incredible man.

I was enjoying a brief holiday at Evian when the news came to me,
through mutual friends, that de Basil was seriously ill.

“I am going to Paris to see him and to do what I can,” I told them.

The next day I was at lunch when there came a telephone call from Paris.
It was his one-time agent, Mme. Bouchenet, to tell me, to my great
regret, that de Basil had just died.

We had had our continuing differences, but his had been a labor of
love; he had loved ballet passionately. He had been a truly magnificent
organizer. May he rest in peace.

De Basil was, I suppose, technically an amateur in the arts; but he
managed to do a great service to ballet. By one means or another, he
formed a great ballet company. He had the vision to sponsor one of the
most revolutionary steps in ballet history since the “romantic
revolution”: Massine’s symphonic ballets. In the face of seemingly
insurmountable obstacles, he succeeded in keeping a company of warring
personalities together for years. On the financial side, still an
amateur, without the benefit of many guarantees from social celebrities
or industrial magnates, he managed to keep going. His methods were, to
say the least, unorthodox; he was amazing, fantastic, and, as I have
said, incredible. He was no Diaghileff. He was de Basil. Diaghileff was
a man of deep culture, vast erudition, an inspirer of all with whom he
came into contact. De Basil was a sharp business man, a shrewd
negotiator, an adroit manager. He was a personality. In the history of
ballet, I venture to suggest, he will be remembered as the man who was
the instrument by which and through which new life was instilled in the
art of the ballet at a time when it was in dire danger of becoming
moribund. Why and how he came to be that instrument is of little
importance. The important thing is that he _was_.

At the time of de Basil’s death little remained save a memory. For four
seasons, at least, by reason of his instinct, his drive, his
collaborators, he presented to ballet something as close to perfection
as is possible to imagine. For that, all who genuinely love ballet
should be grateful.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although I heaved a sigh of relief when the “Colonel” and his
ragtag-bobtail band clambered aboard the ship bound for Europe, there
were still serious problems to be considered. The uppermost questions
that troubled me were merely two parts of the same query: “Why should I
go on with this ballet business?” I asked myself. “Haven’t I done
enough?”

Against any affirmative answer I could give myself, were arranged two
facts: one, the magnetic “pull” ballet exerted upon me; two, the
existence of a contract with the Metropolitan Opera House, which had to
be fulfilled.

So it was that, in the autumn of 1947, that I gave a short season of
ballet there. It was not a season of great ballets, but of great
artists. The programmes centered about Alicia Markova, Anton Dolin,
André Eglevsky.

From this emerged a dance-group company, compact, flexible, the
Markova-Dolin Company, which toured the country from coast to coast with
a considerable measure of success. This was not, of course, ballet in
the grand manner. It was chamber ballet; a dozen dancers, a small,
well-chosen group of artists, together with a small orchestra and
musical director. In addition to the two stars, the company included
Oleg Tupine, Bettina Rosay, Rozsika Sabo, Natalia Condon, Kirsten
Valbor, Wallace Siebert, Royes Fernandez, George Reich, with Robert
Zeller, young American conductor, protegé of Serge Koussevitsky and
Pierre Monteux, as Musical Director.

The repertoire included three new works: _Fantasia_, a ballet to a
Schubert-Liszt score, with choreography by Bronislava Nijinska; _Henry
VIII_, a ballet by Rosella Hightower, to music of Rossini, arranged by
Robert Zeller, and costumes by the San Francisco designer, Russell
Hartley; _Lady of the Camellias_, another balletic version of the Dumas
tale, choreographed by Anton Dolin to portions of Verdi’s _La Traviata_,
arranged and orchestrated by Zeller; the Jerome Robbins _Pas de Trois_,
to the _Damnation of Faust_ excerpts, in costumes by the American John
Pratt; and two classical works, viz., _Famous Dances from Tchaikowsky’s
The Nutcracker_, staged jointly by Markova and Dolin, with costumes by
Alvin Colt; and _Suite de Danse_, a romantic group, including some of
_Les Sylphides_, in the Fokine choreography; a Johann Strauss _Polka_,
staged by Vincenzo Celli; _Pas Espagnole_, to music by Ravina, by Ana
Ricarda; _Vestris Solo_, to music by Rossini, choreographed by Celli;
and Dolin’s delicious _Pas de Quatre_.

_Henry VIII_, Rosella Hightower’s first full work as a choreographer,
was no balletic masterpiece, but it provided Dolin with a part wherein,
as the portly, bearded, greatly married monarch of Britain, he was able
to dance and act in the great tradition of Red Coat, Devil of the
Ukraine, Bluebeard, Gil Blas, Tyl Eulenspiegel, Sganarelle,
Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford, and all the other picaresque heroes of
ballet, theatre, and literature. While Dolin, of course, confined
himself to the choreographer’s patterning, I should not have been
surprised if he had resorted to falling over sofas, squirting
Elizabethan soda water syphons in the face of Katherine Parr, or being
carried off to the royal bedchamber in a complete state of
intoxication.

While such an organization is far from ideal for the presentation of
spectacular ballet, which must have a large company, eye-filling stage
settings, and all the appurtenances of the modern theatre, since ballet
is essentially a theatre art, it nevertheless permitted us to take a
form of ballet to cities and towns where, because of physical
conditions, the full panoply of ballet at its most glamorous cannot be
given.

The highlight of this tour occurred at the War Memorial Opera House, in
San Francisco, where, because of an unusual combination of
circumstances, an extremely interesting collaboration was made possible.
The San Francisco Civic Ballet, an organization that promised much in
the way of a civic supported ballet company of national proportions, had
just been formed, and with the cooperation of the San Francisco Art
Commission, and with the full San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, was
undertaking its first season. At its invitation, it was possible for us
to combine its first productions with those of the Markova-Dolin
company, and, in addition to the San Francisco Civic Ballet creations, a
splendid production of _Giselle_ was made, staged by Dolin, with
Markova, according to all reports, including that of the informed
critic, Alfred Frankenstein, giving one of the most remarkable
interpretations of her long career in the title role. This tribute is
the more remarkable, since _Giselle_ is one of Frankenstein’s “blind
spots” in ballet. No critic is entirely free from bias or prejudice, and
since even I admit that--countless examples to the contrary
notwithstanding--the critic is also a human being, why should he be
utterly free from those very human qualities or defects, as the case may
be?

The artists of the Markova-Dolin company supplemented the San Francisco
company, with the local company supplying the production, the two groups
merging for substantial joint rehearsal. I have said the San Francisco
Civic Ballet promised much. It is to be regretted that means could not
be forthcoming to insure its permanence. Its closing was the result of
the lack of that most vital element, proper subsidy. These things shock
me.

The Markova-Dolin company was no more the ultimate answer to my balletic
problem than was the Original Ballet Russe. It was, however, something
more than a satisfactory stop-gap; it was also a very pleasant
association.

Markova and Dolin are a quite remarkable pair. For years their stars
were congruent. Until recently there were indications that they had
become one, a fixed constellation, supreme, serene, sparkling. Those
gods in whose hands lie the celestial disposition have seen fit to shift
their orbits so that now each goes his or her separate course. I, for
one, cannot other than express my personal regret that this is so. One
complemented the other. I would go so far as to say that one benefited
the other. Both as individual artists and in partnership, the
distinguished pair of Britons are an ornament to their art and to their
native land.


_ALICIA MARKOVA_

Alicia Markova, _née_ Lilian Alicia Marks, was born in London, 1st
December, 1910. Her life has been celebrated in perhaps as many volumes
and articles as any other _ballerina_, if for no other reason than that
the English seem to burst into print about ballet and to encase their
words between solid covers more extensively than any other people I
know, not excluding the French. It is almost a case of scratch an
Englishman and you will find a ballet author. Because of this extensive
bibliography, the details of Markova’s career need not concern me here,
save to establish the highlights in a public life that has been
extraordinarily successful.

When Markova arrived in this country to join the Massine Ballet Russe de
Monte Carlo, she already had behind her a high position in British
ballet; yet she was, in a sense, shy and naive. Her father had died when
Alicia was thirteen. There were three other sisters, and an Irish
mother, who had adopted orthodox Judaism on her marriage to Alicia’s
father, all in need of support. Alicia became the head of and
bread-winner for the family. The mother worked hard at the business of
being a mother, but kept away from the theatre’s back-stage. The story
of the family life of the mother and the four daughters sounds like a
Louisa M. Alcott novel, with theatre innovations and variations.

Before she became a pupil at the Chelsea studio of Seraphina Astafieva,
late of the Imperial and Diaghileff Ballets, little Alicia had been a
principal in a London Christmas pantomime and had already been labeled
“the miniature Pavlova.” It was in this studio that her path crossed
that of one Sydney Francis Patrick Chippendall Healey-Kay, soon to have
his name truncated and changed to Anton Dolin by Serge Diaghileff. It
was Dolin who brought Alicia Marks to Diaghileff’s attention, not,
however, without some difficulty. Dolin’s conversations with Diaghileff
about “the miniature Pavlova” brought only disgust from the great
founder of modern ballet. The pretentiousness and presumptuousness of
such a title roused only repugnance in the great man.

Eventually, Dolin succeeded in bringing Diaghileff to a party at the
King’s Road studio of Astafieva, where little Miss Marks, at fourteen,
danced. As a result, Diaghileff changed Marks to Markova, dropped the
Lilian, and took her, with governess, into his company, detailing one of
his current soloists, Ninette de Valois by name, to keep a weather-eye
out for the child. Markova was on her way rapidly up the ladder, with
two Balanchine creations under her _pointes_, _The Song of the
Nightingale_ and _La Chatte_, when Diaghileff died.

This meant a complete change of focus for Markova, in 1929. She earned a
living for herself and her family for a time dancing in the English
music halls, dancing for Marie Rambert’s Ballet Club and the Camargo
Society for buttons. After two years at Marie Rambert’s Ballet Club,
where Frederick Ashton took her in hand, as coach and teacher, adviser,
and mentor extraordinary, she became the leading _ballerina_ of the
Vic-Wells Ballet, the predecessor of Sadler’s Wells, where, under the
overall guidance of Ashton and de Valois, she danced the first English
_Giselle_, the full-length _Swan Lake_, and _The Nutcracker_. Dolin was
a guest star of the Vic-Wells in those days; their stellar paths again
intertwined as they had at Astafieva’s studio, and in the Diaghileff
Ballet.

In the fall of 1935, Dolin and Markova formed the Markova-Dolin Ballet,
with a full repertoire of classical works, playing London and touring
throughout Great Britain.

Markova, if she is honest, and I have no reason to believe she is not,
should be the first to admit her profound debt to three persons in
ballet: Anton Dolin, who has projected her, protected her, and
occasionally pestered her; Frederick Ashton and Marie Rambert who,
jointly and severally, encouraged, advised, and guided her.

In 1938, I was instrumental in having Markova join the Ballet Russe de
Monte Carlo, where she competed with Danilova, Toumanova, and Slavenska.
Her London triumph in our season at Drury Lane was not entirely
unexpected. After all, she was dancing on her home stage. Her
performance in _Giselle_, on 12th October, 1938, at the Metropolitan
Opera House, made history.

There was an element in the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo direction, of
which Leonide Massine was not one, that was not at all pleased with the
idea of having Markova with the company. Despite her great London
success, Alicia decided she would be wise not to come to America.

Alicia and her mother, I remember, came to the Savoy to see me about
this. Mrs. Hurok and I urged her to reconsider her decision. She was
determined to resign from the company. She did not feel “at home” in the
organization. Although “Freddy” Franklin, who had been a member of the
Markova-Dolin Company, had joined the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo,
Alicia felt alone, and she would be without Anton Dolin, and would miss
her family.

Mrs. Hurok and I finally succeeded in dissuading her from her avowed
intention, and in convincing her that a great future for her lay in the
United States.

From the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo she came to Ballet Theatre, where,
under my management, she co-starred with Dolin. Her roles with that
company as guest star which I arranged and paid for, together with
almost one-half of her salary at other times, for Lucia Chase did not
take kindly to Alicia Markova as a member of Ballet Theatre, and the
American tour of the Markova-Dolin company, all of these I have dealt
with at length.

During one of the seasons of the London Festival Ballet, which was
organized by Dolin for the two of them, the team came to a parting of
the ways. Like so many associations of this kind, the break could have
been the result of any one or more of a combination of causes. One who
is sincerely interested in both of them, expresses the hope that it may
be only a passing difference. Yet, pursuing a course I follow in the
domestic lives of my personal friends, I apply it to the artistic lives
of these two, and leave it to them to work out their joint and several
destinies. There are limits beyond which even a loyal and fond manager
may not go with impunity.

One of the greatest _ballerinas_ of our own or any other time, I cannot
say that Markova’s triumphs have not altered her. To be sure, although
she still has a manner that is sometimes reserved, outwardly timid, I
nevertheless happen to know that behind it all lurks a determined,
stubborn, and sometimes downright blind willfulness, coupled with a good
deal of unreasonability. It was not for nothing that she earned from
Leonide Massine the sobriquet of “Chinese Torture”--as Massine used to
put it, “like small drops of water constantly falling on the head.”

As a dancer, Markova is in the straight and direct classical line, as
Michel Fokine once observed to me, while watching her Giselle.

Bearing these things in mind, including the fact that the gods have been
less than generous to her in matters of face and figure, I am deeply
moved by her expertness, her ethereality, her precision, her simplicity.
Yet, on the other hand, I can only deplore the stylization and mannered
quality she brings to her latter-day performances. When she is at her
best, Markova has something above and beyond technique: a certain
evanescent, purely luminous detachment. All these things reinforce my
conviction that Markova should confine herself to the great classical
interpretations, and recognize her own physical limitations, even within
this field. Her Giselle is in a class by itself. She has made the role
her own. Personally, however, I do not find she gives me the same
satisfaction as the Swan Queen, nor in Fokine’s _Les Sylphides_. To my
way of thinking, her Swan Queen, while technically precise, lacks both
that deep plumbing of the emotions and the grand, regal manner that the
role requires. Her Prelude in _Sylphides_ is spoiled, in my opinion, by
excessive mannerisms.

It is in _Giselle_ and _The Nutcracker_ that Markova can bring joy and
pleasure to an immense public, that joy the public always receives,
whether they know the intricate details of ballet or not, by seeing a
great classical _ballerina_ at her best. One of Markova’s best
characterizations was that of Taglioni in Dolin’s _Pas de Quatre_, a
delightful cameo, yet today, or, at least, the last time I saw it, it,
like her Prelude in _Sylphides_, suffered from an accretion of manner,
until it bordered on the grotesque.

One of the qualities Markova has in common with Pavlova, some of whose
qualities she has, is her agelessness. As I said of Pavlova, “genius
knows no age,” so might it be said of Diaghileff’s “little English girl”
now grown up. The great Russian painter and co-founder of the Diaghileff
Ballet, Alexandre Benois, the most noted designer of _Giselle_, once
asserted that Pavlova’s ability to transmute rather ordinary and
sometimes banal material into unalloyed gold was a theatrical miracle.
It is in roles for which she is peculiarly and individually almost
uniquely fitted that Markova, too, is able to work a theatrical miracle.

Under the proper direction, under which she will not be left to her own
devices, and will not be required to make her own decisions, but will
have them made for her by a wise and intelligent director conscious of
her limitations, Markova will be able the better to fulfil her destiny.
It is to that desired end that I have been deeply interested in the fact
that she had secured an invitation from the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, at
the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, for her to become, once again, a
member of the company, with certain freedoms of action outside the
company when her services are not required. The initial step has been
taken. It is in such a setting that she belongs.

I hope she will continue in this setting.

Always I have been her devoted friend from the beginning of her American
successes, and shall continue to be.

It is _ballerinas_ of the type of Alicia Markova who help make ballet
the great art it is. There are all too few of them.

Often I have told Anton Dolin that the two of them, Markova and Dolin,
individually and collectively, have been of immeasurable service and
have done great honor to ballet both in England and throughout the
world.


_ANTON DOLIN_

The erstwhile Sydney Patrick Chippendall Healey-Kay, metamorphosed into
Anton Dolin whose star has so often paralleled and traversed that of
Markova, was born at Slinfold, Sussex, 20th July, 1904. A principal
dancer of the Diaghileff Ballet at an early age, he was unique as the
only non-Russian _premier danseur_ ever to achieve that position.

Leaving Diaghileff in 1926, he organized the Nemtchinova-Dolin Ballet,
with which they toured England and Europe. Alternating ballet with the
dramatic and musical theatre, he turned up in New York in Lew Leslie’s
unhappy _International Revue_, along with Gertrude Lawrence, Harry
Richman, and the unforgettable Argentinita. On his return to London,
Dolin became the first guest-star of the Vic-Wells Ballet before it
exchanged the Vic for Sadler’s.

In 1935, with the valued help of the late Mrs. Laura Henderson, he was
indefatigable in the formation of the Markova-Dolin Ballet, one of the
results of which was the laying of the foundation stones of ballet’s
popularity in Great Britain. A period with the de Basil company in
Australia was followed by his extended American sojourn, with Ballet
Theatre, the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, as guest artist, _The Seven
Lively Arts_, the Original Ballet Russe, and again under my management
with the Markova-Dolin company.

Without making too detailed a research, I should say that the Dolin
literature is nearly as extensive as that about Markova, making due
allowance for the fact that the glamorous _ballerina_ always lends
herself to the printed page more attractively than her male _vis-a-vis_.
However, Dolin, often as busy with his pen as with his feet, has added
four volumes of his own authorship to the list. _Divertissement_,
published in 1931, and _Ballet-Go-Round_, published in 1938, were
sprightly volumes of autobiographical reminiscence and highly personal
commentary and observation. There has also been a slender volume on the
art of partnering and, more recently, a biographical study of Markova
entitled _Alicia Markova: Her Life and Art_.

My acquaintance and friendship with Dolin dates back to the Diaghileff
season of 1925. It is an acquaintance and friendship I value. There is
an old bromide to the effect that dancers’ brains are in their legs. As
in all generalizations of this sort, it contains something more than a
grain of truth. Dolin is one of the shining exceptions to this role.
Shrewd, cultured, with a fine background, he is the possessor of a
poised manner, and something else, which is, I regret to say, rare in
the dancer: a concern for ethics.

There is a weird opinion held in many parts of this country and on the
continent of Europe, to the effect that the Englishman is a dull and
humorless sort of fellow. This stupid charge is quite beyond the
understanding of any one who has thought twice about the matter. I have
had the pleasure and privilege of knowing England and the English for a
great many years and, as a consequence, I venture to assume the pleasing
privilege of informing a deluded world that, whatever else there may or
may not be in England, there is more fun and laughter to the square acre
than there is to the square mile of any other known quarter. My
observation has been that even if an Englishman does achieve a gravity
alien to the common spirit about him, he is not able to keep it up for
long. Dolin is the possessor of a brilliant sense of humour and much
wit, both often biting; but he has a quality which invites visitations
of the twin spirits of high and low comedy.

A firm believer in the classical ballet, in Russian ballet, if you will,
Dolin, like his kinsmen in British ballet, gets about his business with,
on the whole, a minimum of fuss. Socially, and I speak from a profound
experience and a personal knowledge drawn from my own Russian roots, the
Russians are unlike any other European people, having a large measure of
the Asiatic disregard for the meaning and use of the clock, the watch,
the sun-dial, or even the primitive hourglass. Slow movement and time
without limit for reflection and conversation are vital to them, and
unless they can pass a substantial portion of the day in discussions,
they become ill at ease and unhappy. But, although deliberate enough in
most things, they have a way of blazing out almost volcanically if
annoyed or affronted or thwarted. In this latter respect only, the
English-Irish Anton Dolin may be said to be Russian.

When Dolin’s dancing days are finished, there will always be a job for
“Pat” as an actor--at times, to be sure, with a touch of ham, but always
theatrically effective. He is one of the few dancers who could ever be
at home on the speaking stage.

In the early founding days of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, I was
very anxious that he join Massine as one of the leading figures of the
company. Dolin shared my desire, and was eager to become a member, but
there did not appear to be any room for him; and, moreover, with Lifar
and Massine in the company, matters were difficult in the extreme, and
plagued by the winds of complexity.

Dolin’s lovely mother, to whom he is devoted, lived with him in New York
during the period of his residence here. Now that he is back in England,
at the head of his own company, the London Festival Ballet, she is with
him there. It was she, a shrewd pilot of his career, who begged me to
take “Pat” under my wing. A gracious, generous lady, I am as fond of her
as I am of “Pat.” When he was offered a leading dancing and
choreographic post at the inception of Ballet Theatre, he sought my
advice. I was instrumental in his joining the company; he helped me to
take over the management of the company later on.

His “Russianness” that I have mentioned, releases itself in devastating
flares and flashes of “temperament.” These outbursts express themselves
very often in rapid-fire iteration of a single phrase: “I shan’t dance!
I shan’t dance! I shan’t dance!” Yet I always know that, when the time
comes for his appearance, “Pat” will be on hand. Neither illness nor
accident prevents him from doing his job. There was an occasion on tour,
in the far north and in the midst of an icy blizzard, when he insisted
on dancing with a fever of one hundred three degrees. He may not have
danced with perfection, but he danced.

Today, and in the past as well, there are and have been some who have
not cared for his dancing. Certain sections of the press have the habit
of developing a pronouncedly captious tone in dealing with Dolin the
dancer. I would remind those persons of the perfectly amazing theatrical
sense Dolin always exhibits. I would remind them that, in my opinion
and in the opinion of others more finely attuned to the niceties of the
classical dance, Dolin is one of the finest supporting partners it is
possible for a _ballerina_ to have. Markova is never shown to her best
advantage with any other male dancer than Anton Dolin. My opinion, on
which I make no concessions to any one, is that Dolin is one of the
finest Albrechts in the world today. Without Dolin, _Giselle_ remains
but half a ballet.

As a _re_-creator, he has few peers and no superiors. I can think of no
one better qualified to recreate a masterpiece of another era, with
regard to the creator’s true intent and meaning, nor do I know of any
choreographer who has a greater feeling, a finer sense, or a more humble
respect for “period and tradition.”

As a dancer, there are still roles which require a minimum of dancing
and a maximum of acting. These roles are preeminently Dolin’s, and in
these he cannot be equaled.

As for Anton Dolin, the person, as opposed to Anton Dolin, the artist,
he is that rare bird in ballet: a loyal friend, blessedly free from that
besetting balletic sin--envy; generous, kindly, human, always helpful,
ever the good comrade. Would that dance had more men of his character,
his liberality, his broadmindedness, his ever-present readiness to be of
service to his colleagues.

Although “Pat” is not above certain meannesses, certain capriciousness,
he has an uncanny gift of penetrating to the heart of a matter, and his
ability to hit the nail on the very centre of the head often gains for
him the advantage over people who have the reputation of being experts
in their particular callings.

On the very top of all is his ability to open the charm tap at will. On
occasion, I have been of a mind to choke him, so annoyed have I been at
him. We have parted in a cloud of aggravation and exacerbation. Yet, on
meeting him an hour later, there was only an Irish smile with twinkling
eyes, all radiating good will and genuine affection.

This is the Anton Dolin I know, the Dolin I like best.

As these lines are written, all concerned are working on a budget to
determine if it is not possible to bring Dolin and his company to
America for a visit. It is my hope that satisfactory arrangements can be
made, for it would give me great pleasure to present “Pat” at the head
of his fine organization. I can only say to Dolin that if we succeed in
completing mutually agreeable conditions: “What a job we will do for
you!”




12. Ballet Climax--
Sadler’s Wells And After....


Sadler’s Wells--a name with which to conjure--had been a part of my
balletic consciousness for a long time. I had observed its early
beginnings, its growth from the Old Vic to Sadler’s Wells to the Royal
Opera House, Covent Garden, with the detached interest of a ballet lover
from another land. I had read about it, heard about it from many people,
but I had not had any first hand experience of it since the Covent
Garden Opera Trust had invited the Sadler’s Wells Ballet to move to
Covent Garden from their famous ballet center, Sadler’s Wells. This they
did, early in 1946, leaving behind yet another company called the
Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet.

I arrived in London in April, 1946, at a time when I was very definitely
under the impression that I would give up any active participation in
ballet in any other form than as an interested member of the audience.

The London to which I returned was, in a sense, a strange London--a
London just after the war, a city devastated by bombs, a city that had
suffered grave wounds both physical and spiritual, a city of austerity.

It was also a London wherein I found, wherever I went, a people whose
spirits were, nevertheless, high; human beings whose chins were up. The
typical Cockney taxi-driver who brought me from Waterloo to my long-time
headquarters, the Savoy, summed it all up on my arrival, when he said:
“We’ll come out of this orlrite. We weren’t born in the good old English
climate for nothin’. It’s all a bit of a disappointment; but we’re used
to disappointments, we are. Why when ah was a kid as we ’ad a nice
little picnic all arranged for Saturday afternoon, as sure as fate it
rained and the bleedin’ picnic was put orf again.... We’re goin’ to ’ave
our picnic one day; this ’ere picnic’s just been put orf, that’s
all....”

As the porters were disposing of my luggage, the genial commissionaire
at the Savoy, Joe Hanson, added his bit to the general optimism. After
greeting me, he asked me if I had heard about the shipwreck in the
Thames, opposite the Savoy. I had not, and wondered how I had missed the
news of such a catastrophe.

“Well, it was like this, guv’nor,” he said. “Churchill, Eden, Atlee and
Ernie Bevin went out on the river in a small boat to look the place
over. Just as they were a-passin’ the ’otel ’ere, a sudden squall blew
up and the boat was capsized.”

He paused and blew his nose vociferously into a capacious kerchief. “Who
do you think was saved?”

“Churchill?” I enquired.

He shook his head in the negative.

“Eden?”

He shook his head.

“Atlee?”

Again he shook his head.

“Bevin?”

Once more the negative.

“No one saved?” I could hardly believe my ears.

“Ah, there’s where you’re wrong, sir.... _England_ was saved!”

The commissionaire’s big frame shook with prideful laughter.

I freshened myself in my room and went down to my favorite haunt, my
London H. Q., as I like to call it, the Savoy Grill, that gathering
place of the theatrical, musical, literary, and balletic worlds of
London. One of the Savoy Grill’s chief fixtures, and for me one of its
most potent attractions, was the always intriguing buffet, with my
favorite Scottish salmon. This time the buffet, while putting up a brave
decorative front, was a little disappointing and, to tell the truth, a
shade depressing.

But a glance at the entertainment advertisements in _The Times_ (the
“Thunderer,” I noted, was now a four-page sheet) showed me that the
entertainment world was in full swing, and there was excitement in the
air.

I dined alone in the Grill, then returned to my room and changed to
black tie and all, for it was to be a festive evening, and walked the
short distance between the Savoy Hotel and the Royal Opera House, Covent
Garden. I was going to the ballet in a completely non-professional
capacity, as a member of the audience, going for the sheer fun of going,
with nary a balletic problem on my mind.

I was to be the guest of David Webster, the Administrator of Covent
Garden, who met me at the door and, after a brief chat, escorted me to
my seat. My eyes traveled around the famous and historic Opera House,
only recently saved from the ignominy of becoming a public dance hall.
Here it was, shining and dignified in fresh paint, in damask, and in the
new warm red plush _fauteuils_; poor though Britain was, the house had
just been remodelled, redecorated, reseated, with a new and most
attractive “crush bar” installed.

The depression I had felt earlier in the day vanished completely. Now
that evening had come, there was a different aspect, a changed
atmosphere. I looked at the audience that made up the sold-out house.
From the top to the bottom of the great old Opera House they were a
happy, relaxed, anticipatory people, ready to be entertained and
stimulated. In the stalls, the audience was well-dressed and some of the
evening frocks were, I felt, of marked splendor. But the less expensive
portions of the house were filled, too, and I remembered something that
great director, Ninette de Valois, who had made all this possible, had
said way back in 1937: “The gallery, the pit [American readers should
understand that the “pit” in the British theatre is usually that part of
the house behind the “stalls” or orchestra seats, and is not, as in the
States, the orchestra pit where the musicians are placed] and the
amphitheatre are the basis and backbone of the people s theatre.... That
they are the most loyal supporters will be maintained with deep
appreciation by those who control the future of the ballet.”

There was, as I have said, an anticipatory atmosphere on the part of the
audience, as if the temper of the people had become graver, simpler, and
more concentrated; as if, during the war, when the opportunities for
recreation and amusement were more restricted, transport more limited,
the intelligence craved and sought those antidotes to a troubled
consciousness of which ballet and its allied arts are the most potent.

While I relaxed and waited for the rising curtain with that same
anticipatory glow that I always feel, yet, somehow, intensified tonight,
I reflected, too, on the miracle that had been wrought. I remembered
David Webster had told me how, only the year before, the company was
preparing for a good-will tour to South America, and how the sudden end
of the war had made that trip impracticable and unnecessary. It had
become more urgent to have the company at home. Negotiations had been
initiated between the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, the British Arts Council,
and Boosey and Hawkes, who had taken over the Covent Garden lease, for
the Sadler’s Wells Ballet to make its headquarters at Covent Garden,
where it would be presented by the Covent Carden Opera Trust. Having
been turned into a cheap dance hall before the war, Covent Garden’s
restoration as a theatre devoted to the finest in opera and ballet
required very careful planning.

All of this whetted my appetite. My eyes traveled to the Royal Box, to
the Royal Crest on the great curtains, to the be-wigged footmen....
Slowly the lights came down to a dull glow, went out. A sound of
applause greeted the entry into the orchestra pit of the conductor, the
greatly talented musical director of the Sadler’s Wells organization,
Constant Lambert. In a moment, the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, was
filled with the magnificent sound of the overture to Tchaikowsky’s _The
Sleeping Beauty_, played as only Lambert could play it.

Then the curtain rose, revealing Oliver Messel’s perfectly wonderful
setting for the first act of this magnificent full-length ballet. Over
all, about all, was the great music of Tchaikowsky. My eyes, my ears, my
heart were being filled to overflowing.

The biggest moment of all came with the entrance of Margot Fonteyn as
the Princess. I was overwhelmed by her entire performance; but I think
it was her first entrance that made the greatest impact on me, with the
fresh youthfulness of the young Princess, the radiant gaiety of all the
fairy tale heroines of the world’s literature compressed into one.

I was so enchanted as I followed the stage and the music that I forgot
all else but the miraculous unfolding of this Perrault-Tchaikowsky fairy
story.

Here, at last, was great ballet. The art of pantomime, so long dormant
in ballet in America, had been restored in all its clarity and
simplicity of meaning. The high quality of the dancing by the
principals, soloists, and _corps de ballet_, the settings, the costumes,
the lighting, all literally transported me to another world. I knew
then, in a great revelation, that great ballet was here to stay.

“This is Ballet!” I said, almost half aloud.

After the performance, back at the Savoy Grill once more, at supper I
met, once again, Ninette de Valois, whose taste and drive and
determination and abilities have made Sadler’s Wells the magnificent
institution it is.

“Madame,” I said to her, “I think you’re ready to go to the States.”

“Are we?”

“Yes,” I replied, “you are ready.”

The supper was gay and charming and animated. I was filled with
enthusiasm and was a long time falling asleep that night.

After that evening, there was no longer any attitude of “to hell with
ballet” on my part. Ballet, I realized, with a fresh conviction
solidifying the revelation I had had the night before, was here to stay.
“To hell with ballet” had given way to “three cheers for ballet!”

After breakfast, the next morning, I telephoned David Webster to invite
him to luncheon so that I might discuss details of the proposed American
venture with him. During the course of the luncheon we went into all the
major points and problems. Webster, I found, shared my enthusiasm for
the idea and agreed in principle.

But, in accordance with the traditionally British manner, the thought
and care and consideration that is given to every phase and every
department, every suggestion, every idea, such matters do not move as
swiftly as they do in the States. Before I started out for my usual
London “constitutional” backwards and forwards across Waterloo Bridge,
from where one looks up the Thames towards the Houses of Parliament and
Big Ben, mother of all our freedoms, I sent flowers to Margot Fonteyn
with a note of appreciation for her magnificent performance of the night
before and for the great pleasure she had given me.

There followed extended discussions with Ninette de Valois, the Director
of whom, perhaps, the outstanding characteristic is that her outlook is
such that her greatest ambition is to see the Sadler’s Wells Ballet
become such an institution in its own right that, as she puts it, “no
one will know the name of the director.” However, before any decisions
could be reached, it became necessary for me to get home. So, with the
whole business still very much up in the air, I returned to New York.

No sooner was I back in my office than there came an invitation from
Mayor William O’Dwyer and Grover Whalen for me to take over the
direction of the dance activities for the Festival for the One Hundred
Fiftieth Anniversary Celebration of the City of New York. I accepted the
honor in the hope that I might be able to organize a completely
international and representative Dance Festival, wherein the leading
exponents of ballet and other forms of dance would have an opportunity
to demonstrate their varied repertoires and techniques. To that end, I
sent invitations in the name of the City of New York to all the leading
dance organizations in the world, seeking their participation in the
Festival. The response was unanimously immediate and enthusiastic; but,
unfortunately, many of the organizations, possessing interesting
repertoires and styles, were not in a position to undertake the costs of
travel from far distant points, together with the heavy expenses for the
transportation of scenery, equipment, and costumes. Among these was the
newly-organized San Francisco Civic Ballet.

The Sadler’s Wells organization accepted the invitation in principle, as
did the Paris Opera Ballet, through its director, Monsieur Georges
Hirsch. Ram Gopal, brilliant exponent of the dance of India, accepted
through his manager Julian Braunsweg; and, in this case, I was able to
assist him in his financial problems, by bringing him at my own expense.
Representing our native American dance were Doris Humphrey and Charles
Weidman, together with their company. I happen to feel this group is one
of the most representative of all our native practitioners of the “free”
dance, in works that often come to grips with the problems and conflicts
of life, and which eschew, at least for the time, pure abstraction. Most
notable of these works, works in this form, is their trilogy: _New
Dance_--_Theatre Piece_--_With My Red Fires_ American dance groups were
invited but for one reason or another were not able to accept.

As preparations for the Festival moved ahead, David Webster arrived from
London to investigate the physical possibilities for the participation
of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet as the national ballet of Great Britain.

The logical place for a Dance Festival of such proportions and such
significance, and one of such avowedly international and civic nature,
would have been the Metropolitan Opera House. Unfortunately, the
Metropolitan had commitments with another ballet company. My friend and
colleague, Edward Johnson, the then General Manager of the Metropolitan
Opera Company, regretted the situation and did everything in his power
to remedy the position and free our first lyric theatre for such an
important civic event. However, the other dance organization insisted on
its contractual rights and refused to give way, or to divide the time in
any way.

The only other place left, therefore, was the New York City Center, in
West Fifty-fifth Street. Webster made a thorough inspection of this
former Masonic Temple from front to back, but found the place entirely
inadequate, with a stage and an orchestra pit infinitely too small, and
the theatre itself quite unsatisfactory for a company the size of the
Covent Garden organization and productions. As a matter of fact, it
would be hard to find a less satisfactory theatre for ballet production.

As Webster and I went over the premises together, I sensed his feeling
about the building, which I shared. Nevertheless, I tried to hide my
disappointment when, at last, he turned to me and said: “It’s no go. We
can’t play here. Let us postpone the visit till we can come to be seen
on your only appropriate stage, the Metropolitan.”

We had had preliminary meetings with the British Consul General and his
staff; plans and promotion were rapidly crystallizing, and my
disappointment was none the less keen simply because I knew the reasons
for the postponement were sound, and that it could not be otherwise.

The Dance Festival itself, without Sadler’s Wells, had its successes and
left a mark on the local dance scene. The City Center was no more
satisfactory, I am afraid, for the Ballet of the Opera of Paris,
presented by the French National Lyric Theatre, under the auspices of
the Cultural Relations Department of the French Foreign Ministry, than
it would have been for the Covent Garden company. It was necessary to
trim the scenery, omit much of it, and use only part of the personnel of
the company at a time. But, on the other hand, it was a genuine pleasure
to welcome them on their first visit to the United States and Canada. In
addition to the Dance Festival Season in New York, we played highly
successful engagements in Montreal, Toronto, and Chicago.

The company was headed by a distinguished French _ballerina_ in the true
French style, Yvette Chauviré. Other principal members of the company,
all from the higher echelons of the Paris Opera, included Roger Ritz,
Christiane Vaussard, Michel Renault, Alexandre Kalioujny, Micheline
Bardin, and Max Bozzini, with Robert Blot and Richard Blareau as
conductors. The repertoire included _Ports of Call_, Serge Lifar’s
ballet to Jacques Ibert’s _Escales_; _Salad_, a Lifar work to a Darius
Milhaud creation; Lifar’s setting of Ravel’s _Pavane_; _The Wise
Animals_, based on the Jean de la Fontaine fables, by Lifar, to music by
Francis Poulenc; _Suite in White_, from Eduardo Lalo’s _Naouma_; _Punch
and the Policeman_, staged by Lifar to a score by Jolivet;
_Divertissement_, cuttings from Tchaikowsky’s _The Sleeping Beauty_;
_The Peri_, Lifar’s staging of the well-known ballet score by Paul
Dukas; _The Crystal Palace_, Balanchine’s ballet to Bizet’s symphony,
known here as _Symphony in C_; Vincent d’Indy’s _Istar_, in the Lifar
choreography; _Gala Evening_, taken from Delibes’ _La Source_, by Leo
Staats; Albert Aveline’s _Elvira_, to Scarlatti melodies orchestrated by
Roland Manuel; André Messager’s _The Two Pigeons_, choreographed by
Albert Aveline; the Rameau _Castor and Pollux_, staged by Nicola Guerra;
_The Knight and the Maiden_, a two-act romantic ballet, staged by Lifar
to a score by Philippe Gaubert; and _Les Mirages_, a classical work by
Lifar, to music by Henri Sauguet.

Serge Lifar returned to America, not to dance, but as the choreographer
of the company of which he is the head.

I happen to know certain facts about Lifar’s behavior during the
Occupation of France, facts I did not know at the time of the
publication of my earlier book, _Impresario_. Certain statements I made
in that book concerning Serge Lifar were made on the basis of such
information as I had at the time, which I believed was reliable. I have
subsequently learned that it was not correct, and I have also
subsequently had additional, quite different, and reliably documented
information which makes me wish to acknowledge that an error of judgment
was expressed on the basis of inconclusive evidence. Lifar may not have
been a hero; very possibly, and quite probably, he may have been
indiscreet; but it is now obvious to any fair-minded person that there
has been a good deal of malicious gossip spread about him.

Lifar was restored to his post at the head of the Paris Opera Ballet by
M. Georges Hirsch, Administrator, Director of the French National Lyric
Theatres, himself a war-hero with a distinguished record. The dancers
of the Paris Opera Ballet threatened to strike unless Lifar was so
restored; the stage-hands, with definite indications of Communist
inspiration, to strike if he was. Hirsch had the courage of his
convictions. I have found that Lifar did not take the Paris Opera Ballet
to Berlin during the Occupation, as has been alleged in this country,
although the Germans wanted it badly; and I happen to know numerous
other French companies did go. I also have learned that it was Serge
Lifar who prevented the Paris Opera Ballet from going. I happen to know
that Lifar did fly in a German plane to Kieff, his birthplace; as I
happen to know that he did not show Hitler through the Paris Opera
itself, as one widely-spread rumor has had it. As a matter of fact,
stories to the effect that he did both these things have been widely
circulated. I happen to have learned that Lifar made a tremendous effort
to save that splendid gentleman, René Blum, but was unable to prevail
against Blum’s patriotic but unfortunately stupid determination to
remain in Paris. I also happen to know that Lifar was personally active
in saving many Jews and also other liberals from deportation. Moreover,
I know that, as has always been characteristic of Lifar, because he was
one who had, he helped from his own pocket those who had not.

The performances of the Ballet of the Paris Opera at the City Center
were not the slightest proof of the quality of its productions or its
performance. The shocking limitations of the playhouse made necessary a
vast reduction of its personnel, its scenery, its essential quality. The
Paris Opera Ballet is, of course, a State Ballet in the fullest sense of
the term. It is an aristocratic organization, conscious of the great
tradition that hangs over it. The air is thick with it. Its dancers are
civil servants of the Republic of France and their promotion in rank
follows upon a strict examination pattern. It would be interesting one
day to see the company at the Metropolitan Opera House, where its
original setting could be approximated, although I fear the Metropolitan
has nothing comparable with the _foyer de la dance_ of the Paris Opera.

Here is ballet on a big scale and in the grand manner, with all the
scenic and costume panoply of the art at its most grandiose. It is the
sort of fine ballet that succeeds in giving the art an immense
popularity with the masses.

As a matter of fact, I am negotiating with the very able Maurice
Lehmann, the successor to Georges Hirsch as Director-General of the
Opera, and I can think of no happier result than to be able to bring
this rich example of the balletic art of France to America under the
proper circumstances and conditions, if for no other reason than to
compensate the organization for their previous visit.

       *       *       *       *       *

The International Dance Festival over, my chief desire was to bring
Sadler’s Wells to this continent.

Perhaps it would be as well, for the sake of the reader who may be
unfamiliar with its background and thus disposed to regard this as
merely another ballet company, to shed a bit of light on the Sadler’s
Wells organization.

Following the death of Diaghileff, in 1929, we knew that ballet in
Britain was in a sad state of decline, from which it might well never
have emerged had it not been for two groups, the Ballet Club of Marie
Rambert and the Camargo Society. Each was to be of vital importance to
the ballet picture in Britain and, indirectly, in the world. The
offspring of the Ballet Club was the Rambert Ballet; that of the Camargo
Society, the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. As a matter of fact, the Camargo
Society, a Sunday night producing club, utilized the Ballet Club dancers
and another studio group headed by the lady now known as Dame Ninette de
Valois, D.B.E., D. Litt.

Back in 1931, at the time of the formation of the Camargo Society, the
little acorn from which grew a mighty British oak, Dame Ninette,
“Madame” as she is known to all who know her, was plain Ninette de
Valois, who was born Edris Stannus, in Ireland, in 1898. She had joined
the Diaghileff Ballet as a dancer in 1923, had risen to the rank of
soloist (a rare accomplishment for a non-Russian), and left the great
man, daring to differ with him on the direction he was taking, something
amounting to _lese majesté_. She had produced plays, in the meantime, at
Dublin’s famous Abbey Theatre and at Cambridge University’s Festival
Theatre; and had also formed a choreographic group of her own which she
brought along to the Camargo Society to cooperate. When she did so, she
was far from famous. As a matter of fact, she was, to all intents and
purposes, unknown.

One Sunday night in 1931, two things happened to Ninette de Valois: she
became famous overnight, which, knowing her as I do, was of much less
importance to her than the fact that, quite unwittingly, she laid the
foundation for a British National Ballet under her own direction.

The work she produced for the Camargo Society on this Sunday night in
1931 did it. It was not a ballet in the strictest or accepted sense of
the word. Its composer called it _A Masque for Dancing_. The work was
_Job_, a danced and mimed interpretation of the Biblical story, in the
spirit of the painter and poet Blake, to one of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s
noblest scores.

From Biblical inspiration she turned to the primitive, in a production
of Darius Milhaud’s _Creation du Monde_, a noble subject dealing with
the primitive gods of Easter Island, set to the 1923 jazz of the French
composer.

Coincidental with the Camargo Society activities, Ninette de Valois was
making arrangements with another great Englishwoman, Lilian Baylis, who
had brought opera and drama to the masses at two theatres in the less
fashionable parts of London, the Old Vic, in the Waterloo Road, and
Sadler’s Wells, in Islington’s Rosebery Avenue. Lilian Baylis wanted a
ballet company. Armed with only her own determination and
high-mindedness, she had established a real theatre for the masses.

Ninette de Valois, for a penny, started in with her group to do the
opera ballets at the Old Vic: those interludes in _Carmen_ and _Faust_
and _Samson and Delilah_ that exist primarily to keep the dull
businessman in his seat with his wife instead of at the bar. However,
Lilian Baylis gave Ninette de Valois a ballet school, and it was in the
theatre, where a ballet school belonged, a part of and an adjunct to the
theatre. The Vic-Wells Ballet, soon to become the Sadler’s Wells Ballet,
was the result.

It was not nearly as easy and as simple as it sounds as I write it. It
is beyond me fully to convey to the reader those qualities of tenacity
of purpose, of driving energy, of fearless courage that this remarkable
woman was forced to draw upon in the early years. There was no money;
and before a single penny could be separated from her, it had to be
melted from the glue with which she stuck every penny to the inside of
her purse.

Alicia Markova joined the company. Anton Dolin was a frequent guest
artist. It was, in a sense, a Markova company, with the three most
popular works: _Swan Lake_, _The Nutcracker_, and _Giselle_.

But, most importantly, Ninette de Valois had that vital requisite
without which, no matter how solvent the financial backing, no ballet
company is worth the price of its toe-shoes, viz., a policy. Ninette de
Valois’ policy for repertoire is codified into a simple formula:

     1) Traditional-classical and romantic works.

     2) Modern works of future classic importance.

     3) Current work of more topical interest.

     4) Works encouraging a strictly national tendency in their creation
     generally.

     The first constitutes the foundation-stone, technical standard, and
     historical knowledge that is demanded as a “means test” by which
     the abilities of the young dancers are both developed and inspired.

     The second, those works which both musically and otherwise have a
     future that may be regarded as the major works of this generation.

     The third, the topical and sometimes experimental, of merely
     ephemeral interest and value, yet important as a means of balancing
     an otherwise ambitious programme.

     The fourth is important to the national significance of the ballet.
     Such works constitute the nation’s own contribution to the theatre,
     and are in need perhaps of the most careful guidance of the groups.

It was the classics which had, from the beginning, the place of
priority: _Swan Lake (Act II)_, _Les Sylphides_, _Carnaval_, _Coppélia_,
_The Nutcracker_, _Giselle_, and the full-length _Swan Lake_.

In 1935, Markova left Sadler’s Wells to form her own company with Dolin.
With Markova’s departure, the whole character of the Sadler’s Wells
company changed. The Company became the Star. The company got along
without a _ballerina_ and concentrated on its own personality, on
developing dancers from its school, and on its direction. Creation and
development continued.

However, during this time, there was emerging not precisely a “star,”
but a great _ballerina_. _Ballerina_ is a term greatly misused in the
United States, where any little dancer is much too often referred to
both in the press and in general conversation in this way. _Ballerina_
is a title, not a term. The title is one earned only through long, hard
experience. It is attained _only_ in the highly skilled interpretation
of the great standard classical parts. Russia, France, Italy, Denmark,
countries where there are state ballets, know these things. We in the
United States, I fear, do not understand. A “star” is not one merely by
virtue of billing. A _ballerina_ is, of course, a “star,” even in a
company that has no “stars” in its billing and advertising. A true
_ballerina_ is a rare bird indeed. In an entire generation, it should be
remembered, the Russian Imperial Ballet produced only enough for the
fingers of two hands.

The great _ballerina_ I have mentioned as having come up through the
Sadler’s Wells Company, as the product of that company, is more than a
_ballerina_. She is a _prima ballerina assoluta_, a product of Sadler’s
Wells training, of the Sadler’s Wells system, a member of that all-round
team that is Sadler’s Wells. Her name is Margot Fonteyn. I shall have
something to say about her later on.

I have pointed out that the backbone of the Sadler’s Wells repertoire is
the classics. Therein, in my opinion, lies one of the chief reasons for
its great success. There is a second reason, I believe. That is that,
along with Ninette de Valois’ sound production policy, keeping step with
it, sometimes leading it, is an equally sound musical policy. Sitting in
with de Valois and Frederick Ashton, as the third of the directorial
triumvirate, was the brilliant musician, critic, and wit, Constant
Lambert, who exerted a powerful influence in the building of the
repertoire, and who, with the sympathetic cooperation of his two
colleagues, made the musical standards of Sadler’s Wells the highest of
any ballet company in my knowledge and experience.

The company grew and prospered. The war merely served to intensify its
efforts--and its accomplishments. Its war record is a brilliant, albeit
a difficult one; a record of unremitting hard work and dogged
perseverance against terrible odds. The company performed unceasingly
throughout the course of the war, with bombs falling. Once the dancing
was stopped, while the dancers fought a fire ignited by an incendiary
bomb and thus saved the theatre. The company was on a good-will tour of
Holland, under the auspices of the British Council, in the spring of
1940. They were at Arnheim when Hitler invaded. Packed into buses, they
raced ahead of the Panzers, reached the last boat to leave, left minus
everything, but everything: productions, scenery, costumes, properties,
musical material, and every scrap of personal clothing.

Once back in Britain, there was no cessation. The lost productions and
costumes were replaced; the musical material renewed, some of it, since
it was manuscript, by reorchestrating it from gramophone recordings. As
the Battle of Britain was being fought, the company toured the entire
country, with two pianos in lieu of orchestra, with Constant Lambert
playing the first piano. They played in halls, in theatres, in camps, in
factories; brought ballet to soldiers and sailors, to airmen, and to
factory workers, often by candlelight. They managed to create new works.
Back to London, to a West End theatre, with orchestra, and then, because
of the crowds, to a larger West End playhouse.

It was at the end of the war, as I have mentioned earlier, that the
music publishing house of Boosey and Hawkes, with a splendid
generosity, saved the historic Royal Opera House, at Covent Garden, from
being turned into a popular dance hall. A common error on the part of
Americans is to believe that because it was called the Royal Opera
House, it was a State-supported theatre, as, for example, are the Royal
Opera House of Denmark, at Copenhagen, and the Paris Opéra. Among those
Maecenases who had made opera possible in the old days in London was Sir
Thomas Beecham, who made great personal sacrifices to keep it open.

When Boosey and Hawkes took over Covent Garden, it was on a term lease.
On taking possession they immediately turned over the historic edifice
to a committee known as the Covent Garden Opera Trust, of which the
chairman was Lord Keynes, the distinguished economist and art patron
who, as plain Mr. John Maynard Keynes, had been instrumental in the
formation of the Camargo Society, and who had married the one-time
Diaghileff _ballerina_, Lydia Lopokova; this committee had acted as
god-parents to the Sadler’s Wells company in its infancy. The Arts
Council supported the venture, and David Webster was appointed
Administrator.

       *       *       *       *       *

A word or two about the Arts Council and its support of the arts in
Britain is necessary for two reasons: one, because it is germane to the
story of Sadler’s Wells, and, two, germane to some things I wish to
point out in connection with subsidy of the arts in these troubled
times, since I believe a parallel can be drawn with our own hit-and-miss
financing.

Under the British system, there is no attempt to interfere with
aesthetics. The late Sir Stafford Cripps pointed out that the Government
should interfere as little as possible in the free development of art.
The British Government’s attitude has, perhaps, been best stated by
Clement Atlee, as Prime Minister, when he said: “I think that we are all
of one mind in desiring that art should be free.” He added that he
thought the essential purpose of an organized society was to set free
the creative energies of the individual, while safeguarding the
well-being of all. The Government, he continued, must try to provide
conditions in which art might flourish.

There is no “Ministry of Fine Arts” as in most continental and South
American countries. The Government’s interest in making art better known
and more within the reach of all is expressed through three bodies: the
Arts Council, the British Film Institute, and the British Council.

The Arts Council was originally known by the rather unwieldy handle of
C. E. M. A. (The Council for the Encouragement of Music and the Arts),
originally founded by a gift from an American and Lord De La Warr, then
President of the Board of Education. In 1945, the Government decided to
continue the work, changed the name from C. E. M. A. to the Arts Council
of Great Britain, gave it Parliamentary financial support, and granted
it, on 9 August, 1946, a Royal Charter to develop “a greater knowledge,
understanding and practice of fine arts exclusively, and in particular
to increase the availability of the fine arts to the public ... to
improve the standard of the execution of the fine arts and to advise and
cooperate with ... Government departments, local authorities and other
bodies on matters concerned directly or indirectly with those objects.”

Now, the Arts Council, while sponsored by the Government, is not a
Government department. Its chairman and governors (called members of the
Council) are appointed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer after
consultation with the Minister of Education and the Secretary of State
for Scotland. The Chancellor answers for the Council in the House of
Commons. While the Council is supported by a Government grant, its
employees are in no sense civil servants, and the Council enjoys an
independence that would not be possible were it a Government department.

The first chairman of the Arts Council, and also a former chairman of C.
E. M. A., was Lord Keynes. His influence on the policy and direction of
the organization was invaluable. There are advisory boards, known as
panels, appointed for three years, experts chosen by the Council because
of their standing in and knowledge of their fields. Among many others,
the following well-known artists have served, without payment: Sir
Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Noel Coward, Peggy Ashcroft, J. B.
Priestley, Dame Myra Hess, Benjamin Britten, Tyrone Guthrie, Dame
Ninette de Valois, and Henry Moore.

While statistics can be dull, a couple are necessary to the picture to
show how the Arts Council operates. For example, the Arts Council’s
annual grant from the British Treasury has risen each year: in
1945-1946, the sum was £235,000 ($658,000); in 1950-1951, £675,000
($1,890,000).

Treasury control is maintained through a Treasury Assessor to the Arts
Council; on his advice, the Chancellor of the Exchequer recommends to
Parliament a sum to be granted. The Assessor is in a position to judge
whether the money is being properly distributed, but he does not
interfere with the complete autonomy of the Council.

The Council, in its turn, supports the arts of the country by giving
financial assistance or guarantees to organizations, companies, and
societies; by directly providing concerts and exhibitions; or by
directly managing and operating a company or theatre. The recipient
organizations, for their part, must be non-profit or charitable trusts
capable of helping carry out the Council’s purpose of bringing to the
British people entertainment of a high standard. Such organizations must
have been accepted as non-profit companies by H. M. Commissioners of
Customs and Excise, and exempted by them from liability to pay
Entertainments Duty.

An example of the help tendered may be gathered from the fact that in
1950, eight festivals, ten symphony orchestras, five theatres,
twenty-five theatre companies, seven opera and ballet companies, one
society for poetry and music, two art societies, four arts centers, and
sixty-three clubs were being helped. In addition, two theatres, three
theatre companies, and one arts center were entirely and exclusively
managed by the Arts Council. Some of the best-known British orchestras,
theatres, and companies devoted to opera, ballet, and the drama are
linked to the Arts Council: The Hallé Orchestra, the London Philharmonic
Orchestra, the London Symphony Orchestra, Covent Garden Opera Trust,
Covent Garden Opera Company, and the Sadler’s Wells Companies are among
them. Also the Old Vic, Tennent Productions, Ltd., and the Young Vic
Theatre companies.

Government assistance to opera in twentieth century Britain did not
begin with the Arts Council. In the early ’thirties Parliament granted a
small subsidy to the Covent Garden Opera Syndicate for some two years to
help present grand opera in Covent Garden and the provinces at popular
prices. A total of £40,000 ($112,000) had been paid when the grant was
withdrawn after the financial crisis of 1931, and it was more than ten
years before national opera became a reality.

In the meantime, some ballet companies and an opera company began to
receive C. E. M. A. support. The Sadler’s Wells Opera Company and
Sadler’s Wells Ballet Company, for instance, began their association
with C. E. M. A. in 1943. C. E. M. A. was also interested in plans
stirring in 1944 and 1945 to reclaim the Royal Opera House, Covent
Garden, as a national center for ballet and opera. I have pointed out
how this great theatre in London, with a history dating back to the
eighteenth century, was leased in 1944 by the international music firm
of Boosey and Hawkes, who, in turn, rented it to the newly formed Covent
Garden Opera Trust. The Trust, an autonomous body whose original
chairman was Lord Keynes, is a non-profit body which devotes any profits
it may make to Trust projects. Late in 1949, H. M. Ministry of Works
succeeded Boosey and Hawkes as lessees, with a forty-two-year lease.

The Arts Council, in taking over from C. E. M. A., inherited C. E. M.
A.’s interest in using Covent Garden for national ballet and opera. The
Council granted Covent Garden £25,000 ($70,000) for the year ended 31
March, 1946, and £55,000 ($154,000) for the following year. At the same
time, it was granting Sadler’s Wells Foundation £10,000 ($28,000) and
£15,000 ($42,000) in those years.

The Covent Garden Opera Trust, in the meantime, had invited the Sadler’s
Wells Ballet to move to Covent Garden from their famous ballet center,
Sadler’s Wells. This it did, early in 1946, leaving behind another
company called the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet. Ninette de Valois
continued to direct both groups.

It was a year later the Covent Garden Opera Company gave its first
presentation under the Covent Garden Opera Trust, and the two chief
Covent Carden companies, opera and ballet, were solidly settled in their
new home.

The Trust continues to receive a grant from the Arts Council (£145,000
[$406,000] in 1949-1950), and it pays the rent for the Opera House and
the salaries and expenses of the companies. So far as the ballet company
is concerned, the Sadler’s Wells Ballet pretty well pays its own way,
except for that all-besetting expense in ballet, the cost of new
productions. The opera company requires relatively more support from the
Trust grant, as it has re-staged and produced every opera afresh, not
using any old productions. Moreover, the attendance for ballet is
greater than that for opera.

The aim of Covent Garden and its Administrator, David Webster, is to
create a steady audience, and to appeal to groups that have not hitherto
attended ballet and opera, or have attended only when the most brilliant
stars were appearing. Seats sell for as little as 2s 6d (35¢), rising to
26s 3d ($3.67) and the ballet-and-opera-going habit has grown noticeably
in recent years. It is interesting to note the audience for opera
averaged eighty-three per cent capacity, and for the ballet ninety-two
per cent.

The two British companies alternately presenting ballet and opera
provide most of the entertainment at Covent Garden, but foreign
companies such as the Vienna State Opera with the Vienna Philharmonic
Orchestra, La Scala Opera, the Paris Opéra Comique, the Ballet Theatre
from New York, the New York City Ballet Company, the Grand Ballet of the
Marquis de Cuevas, and Colonel de Basil’s Original Ballets Russes have
had short seasons there.

The Arts Council is in association with the two permanent companies
coincidentally operating at Sadler’s Wells--the Sadler’s Wells Theatre
Ballet and the Sadler’s Wells Opera Company. Other opera and ballet
companies associated with the Arts Council are the English Opera Group,
Ltd., and the Ballet Rambert, while the Arts Council manages the St.
James Ballet Company.

All these companies tour in Britain, and some of them make extended
tours abroad. The Ballet Rambert, for instance, has made a tour of
Australia and New Zealand, which lasted a year and a half, a record for
that area.

The Sadler’s Wells Ballet has made long and highly successful tours of
the European continent. Its first visit to America occurred in the
autumn of 1949, when the Covent Garden Opera Trust, in association with
the Arts Council and the British Council, presented the group at the
Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, and in various other centres
in the United States and Canada, under my management. A second and much
longer visit took place in 1950-1951, with which visits this chapter is
primarily concerned.

Sadler’s Wells has a ballet school of something more than two hundred
students, including the general education of boys and girls from ten to
sixteen. Scholarships are increasing in number; some of these are
offered by various County Councils and other local authorities, and a
number by the Royal Academy of Dancing.

In addition to the Arts Council, I have mentioned the British Council,
and no account of Britain’s cultural activities could make any
pretensions to being intelligible without something more than a mention
of it. It should be pointed out that the major part of the British
Council’s work is done abroad.

Established in 1934, the British Council is Britain’s chief agent for
strengthening cultural relations with the rest of the British
Commonwealth, Europe, the Middle East, the Far East, the United States,
and Latin America. It is responsible for helping to make British
cultural achievements known and understood abroad, and for bringing to
the British, in turn, a closer knowledge of foreign countries.

Like many other British cultural bodies, the British Council derives its
main financial support from the Government (through grants from the
Foreign Office, plus certain sums on the Colonial and Commonwealth
votes), and is a body corporate, not a Government organization. Its
staff are not civil servants and its work is entirely divorced from
politics, though the Council has a certain amount of State control
because nine of the Executive Committee (fifteen to thirty in number)
are nominated by Government departments.

The British Council’s chief activities concern educational exchanges
with foreign countries of students, teachers, and technicians, including
arranging facilities for these visitors in Britain; they include
supporting libraries and information services abroad where British books
and other reading materials are readily available, and further include
the financing of tours of British lecturers and exhibitions, and of
theatrical, musical, and ballet troupes abroad. Sadler’s Wells Ballet
has toured to Brussels, Prague, Warsaw, Poznau, Malmö, Oslo, Lisbon,
Berlin, and the United States and Canada under British Council auspices
with great success. The Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet has toured the
United States and Canada, under my management, with equal success, and
is soon to visit Africa, including Kenya Colony. The Old Vic Company,
the Boyd Neel String Orchestra, and the Ballet Rambert toured Australia
and New Zealand, and the Old Vic has toured Canada. John Gielgud’s
theatre company has visited Canada. In addition, the British Council has
sponsored visits abroad of such distinguished musicians as Sir Adrian
Boult, Sir John Barbirolli, Sir Malcolm Sargent, and Maggie Teyte.

One of the British Council’s important trusts is the responsibility for
the special gramophone recordings of distinguished musical works and of
the spoken word. This promotion is adding notably to record libraries,
and is helping to make the best music available to listeners all over
the world. It is also the Government’s principal agent for carrying out
the cultural conventions agreed upon with other members of the United
Nations. These provide, in general, for encouraging mutual knowledge and
appreciation of each other’s culture through interchanging teachers,
offering student scholarships, and exchanging books, films, lectures,
concerts, plays, exhibitions, and musical scores.

The relationship between the British Council and the Arts Council is
necessarily one of careful collaboration. In the time of C. E. M. A.
many tasks were accomplished in common, such as looking after foreign
residents in Great Britain. Now the division of labor of the two
Councils is well defined, with clear-cut agreement on their respective
responsibilities for the various entertainment groups that come to or go
from Britain. The British Council helps British artists and works of art
to go ahead; the Arts Council assists artistic activities in Britain,
including any that may come from abroad. Both bodies have a number of
committee members in common, and the feeling between the groups is close
and friendly.

It is, I feel, characteristic of the British that, without a definite,
planned, long-term programme for expanding its patronage of the arts,
the British Government has nevertheless come to give financial aid to
almost every branch of the art world. This has developed over a period
of years, with accumulated speed in the last twelve because of the war,
because the days of wide patronage from large private incomes are
disappearing if not altogether disappeared, and also perhaps because of
an increasing general realization of the people’s greater need for
leisure-time occupation.

In all of this I must point out quite emphatically that it is the
British Government’s policy to encourage and support existing and
valuable institutions. Thus the great symphony orchestras, Sadler’s
Wells Ballet, Covent Garden Opera, and various theatre companies are not
run by the Government, but given grants by the Arts Council, a
corporation supported by Government money.

What is more, there is no one central body in Britain in charge of the
fine arts, but a number of organizations, with the Arts Council covering
the widest territory. Government patronage of the arts in Britain, as
has frequently been true of other British institutions, has grown with
the needs of the times, and the organization of the operating bodies has
been flexible and adaptable.

The bodies that receive Government money, such as the Arts Council, the
British Broadcasting Corporation, and the British Council are relatively
independent of the Government, their employees not being civil servants
and their day-to-day business being conducted autonomously.

There is no attempt on the part of the Government to interfere with the
presentations of the companies receiving State aid, though often the
Government encourages experimentation. A very happy combination of arts
sponsorship is now permissible under a comparatively recent Act of
Parliament that allows local government authorities to assist theatrical
and musical groups fully. Now, for instance, an orchestra based
anywhere in Britain may have the financial backing of the town
authorities, as well as of the Arts Council and private patrons.

While accurate predictions about the future course of relations between
Government and the arts in Britain are not, of course, possible, it
seems likely, however, that all of mankind will be found with more,
rather than less, leisure in the years to come. In the days of the
industrial revolution in Britain a hundred-odd years ago, the people, by
which I mean the working classes, had little opportunity for cultivating
a taste for the arts.

Now, with the average number of hours worked by British men, thanks to
trade unionism and a more genuinely progressive and humanitarian point
of view, standing at something under forty-seven weekly, there is
obviously less time devoted to earning a living, leaving more for
learning the art of living. It may well be that the next hundred years
will see even more intensive efforts made to help people to use their
leisure hours pleasantly and profitably. As long ago as the early
1930’s, at a time when he was so instrumental in encouraging ballet
through the founding of the Camargo Society, Lord (then J. Maynard)
Keynes wrote that he hoped and believed the day would come when the
problem of earning one’s daily bread might not be the most important one
of our lives, and that “the arena of the heart and head will be
occupied, or reoccupied, by our real problems--the problems of life and
of human relations, of creation and behavior and religion.” Then, “for
the first time since his creation,” Lord Keynes continued, “man will be
faced with his real, his permanent problem--how to use his freedom from
pressing economic cares, how to occupy the leisure science and compound
interest will have won for him to live wisely and agreeably and well.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Stripped to the simplest explanation possible, Sadler’s Wells leased its
company to Covent Garden for a period of years. The move must have
entailed a prodigious amount of work for all concerned and for Ninette
de Valois in particular. Quite apart from all the physical detail
involved: new scenery, new musical material, new costumes, more dancers,
there was, most importantly, a change of point of view, even of
direction. With a large theatre and orchestra, and large
responsibilities, experimental works for the moment had to be postponed.
New thinking had to be employed, because the company’s direction was now
in the terms of the Maryinsky Theatre, the Bolshoi, the Paris Opéra.

The keystone of the arch that is Sadler’s Wells’s policy is the
full-length productions of classical ballets. The prime example is _The
Sleeping Beauty_, my own reactions to which, when I first saw it, I have
already recounted. In the production of this work, the company was
preeminent, with Margot Fonteyn as a bright, particular star; but the
“star” system, if one cares to call it that, was utilized to the full,
since each night there was a change of cast; and it must be remembered
that in London it is possible to present a full-length work every night
for a month or more without changing the bill, whereas in this country,
almost daily changes are required. This, it should be pointed out,
required a good deal of audience training.

The magnificent production of _The Sleeping Beauty_ cost more than
£10,000, at British costs. What the costs for such a production as that
would have been on this side of the Atlantic I dislike to contemplate.
The point is that it was a complete financial success. Another point I
should like to make is that while _The Sleeping Beauty_ was presented
nightly, week after week, there was no slighting of the other classical
works such as the full-length _Swan Lake_, _Coppélia_, _Les Sylphides_,
and _Giselle_; nor was there any diminution of new works or revivals of
works from their own repertoire.

It was in 1948 I returned to London further to pursue the matter of
their invasion of America. It was my very dear friend, the late Ralph
Hawkes of the music publishing firm of Boosey and Hawkes, the
leaseholders of Covent Garden, who helped materially in arranging
matters and in persuading the Sadler’s Wells direction and the British
Arts Council that they were ready for America and that, since Hawkes was
closely identified with America’s musical life, that this country was
ready for them.

Meanwhile, Ninette de Valois grew increasingly dubious about
full-length, full-evening ballets, such as _The Sleeping Beauty_ and
_Swan Lake_, in the States, and was convinced in her own mind that the
United States and Canadian audiences not only would not accept them,
much less sit still before a single work lasting three and one-half
hours. Much, of course, was at stake for all concerned and it was,
indeed, a serious problem about which to make a final, inevitable
decision.

The conferences were long and many. Conferences are a natural
concomitant of ballet. But there was a vast difference between these
conferences and the hundreds I had had with the Russians, the
Caucasians, the Bulgarians, and the Axminsters. Here were neither
intrigues nor whims, neither suspicion nor stupidity. On the contrary,
here was reasonableness, logic, frankness, fundamental British honesty.
George Borodin, a Russian-born Englishman and a great ballet-lover, once
pointed out that ballet is a medium that transcends words, adding “the
tongue is a virtuoso that can make an almost inexhaustible series of
noises of all kinds.” In my countless earlier conferences with other
ballet directorates, really few of those noises, alas, really meant
anything.

At last, the affirmative decision was made and we arrived at an
agreement on the repertoire for the American season, to include the
full-length works, along with a representative cross-section,
historically speaking, of the Sadler’s Wells repertoire of their shorter
works. The matter settled, I left for home.

On my return to New York, still other problems awaited me. The
Metropolitan Opera House, the only possible New York stage on which
Sadler’s Wells could appear, was faced with difficulties and
perplexities, with other commitments for the period when the British
visitors would be here.

However, thanks to the invaluable cooperation and assistance of Edward
Johnson, Alfred P. Sloan, and Mrs. August Belmont, it was decided that a
part of the season should be given to Sadler’s Wells. Had it not been
for their friendly, intelligent, and influential offices, New York might
not have had the pleasure and privilege of the Sadler’s Wells visit.

The road at last having been cleared, our promotional campaign was
started and was limited to four weeks. The response is a matter of
theatrical history.

Here, for the first time in the United States, was a company carrying on
the great tradition in classical ballet, with timely and contemporary
additions. Here was a company with a broad repertoire based on and
imbedded in the full-length classics, but also bolstered with modern
works that strike deep into human experience. Here were choreographers
who strove to broaden the scope of their art and to bring into their
works some of the richness of modern psychology and drama, always
balletic in idiom, with freedom of style, who permitted their dramatic
imaginations to guide them in creating movement and in the use of music.

By boat came the splendid productions, the costumes, the properties,
loads and loads of them. By special chartered planes came the company,
and the technical staff, the entire contingent headed by the famous
directorial trio, Ninette de Valois, Frederick Ashton, and Constant
Lambert, with the executive side in the capable hands of David Webster,
General Administrator. The technical department was magnificently
presided over by Herbert Hughes, General Manager of the Sadler’s Wells
Ballet, and the late Louis Yudkin, General Stage Director.

It was an American _ballerina_, Nora Kaye, who hustled Margot Fonteyn
from the airport to let her have her first peek at the Metropolitan
Opera House. The curtain was up when they arrived, revealing the old
gold and red auditorium. Margot’s perceptive eyes took it all in at a
glance. She took a deep breath, clasped her hands in front of her.
“Thank goodness,” she said, “it’s old and comfortable and warm and rich,
as an opera house should be.” She paused for a reflective moment and
added, “I was so afraid it would be slick and modern like everything
else here, all steel and chromium, and spit and polish. I’m glad it’s
old!”.

On an afternoon before the opening, my very good friend, Hans Juda,
publisher of Britain’s international textile journal, _Ambassador_,
together with his charming wife, gave a large and delightful cocktail
party at Sherry’s in the Metropolitan Opera House for a large list of
invited guests from the worlds of art, business, and diplomacy. Hans
Juda is a very helpful and influential figure in the world of British
textiles and wearing apparel. It was he, together with the amiable James
Cleveland Belle of the famous Bond Street house of Horrocks, who
arranged with British designers, dressmakers, textile manufacturers, and
tailors to see that each member of the Sadler’s Wells company was
outfitted with complete wardrobes for both day and evening wear; the
distaff side with hats, suits, frocks, shoes, and accessories; the male
side with lounge suits, dinner jackets, shoes, gloves, etc. The men were
also furnished with, shall I say, necessaries for the well-dressed man,
which were soon packed away, viz., bowler hats (“derbies” to the
American native) and “brollies” (umbrellas to Broadway).

The next night was, in more senses than one, the _BIG_ night: a
completely fabulous _première_. The Metropolitan was sold out weeks in
advance, with standees up to, and who knows, perhaps beyond, the normal
capacity. Hundreds of ballet lovers had stood in queue for hours to
obtain a place in the coveted sardine space, reaching in double line
completely round the square block the historic old house occupies on
Broadway, Seventh Avenue, Thirty-ninth and Fortieth Streets. The
orchestra stalls and boxes were filled with the great in all walks of
life. The central boxes of the “Golden Horseshoe,” draped in the Stars
and Stripes and the Union Jack, housed the leading figures of the
diplomatic and municipal worlds.

Although the date was 9 October, it was the hottest night of the summer,
as luck would have it. The Metropolitan Opera House is denied the
benefit of modern air-conditioning; the temperature within its hallowed
walls, thanks to the mass of humanity and the lights, was many degrees
above that of the humid blanket outside.

Despite all this, so long as I shall live, I shall never forget the
stirring round of applause that greeted that distinguished figure,
Constant Lambert, as he entered the orchestra pit to lead the orchestra
in the two anthems, the Star Spangled Banner and God Save the King. The
audience resumed their seats; there was a bated pause, and then from the
pit came the first notes of the overture to _The Sleeping Beauty_, under
the sympathetic baton of that finest of ballet conductors. So long as I
shall live I shall never forget the deafening applause as the curtains
opened on the first of Oliver Messel’s sets and costumes. That applause,
which was repeated and repeated--for Fonteyn’s entrance, increasing in
its roar until, at the end, Dame Ninette had to make a little speech,
against her will--still rings in my ears.

I have had the privilege of handling the world’s greatest artists and
most distinguished attractions; my career has been punctuated with
stirring opening performances of my own, and I have been at others quite
as memorable. However, so far as the quality of the demonstrations and
the manifestations of enthusiasm are concerned, the _première_ of the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet at the Metropolitan Opera House, on 9 October,
1949, was the most outstanding of my entire experience.

Dame Ninette de Valois, outwardly as calm as ever, but, I suspect,
inwardly a mass of conflicting emotions, was seated in the box with
Mayor O’Dwyer. As the curtains closed on the first act of _The Sleeping
Beauty_, and the tremendous roar of cheers and applause rose from the
packed house, the Mayor laid his hand on “Madame’s” arm and said, “Lady,
you’re _in_!”

Crisply and a shade perplexed, “Madame” replied:

“In?... Really?”

Genuinely puzzled now, she tried unsuccessfully to translate to herself
what this could mean. “Strange language,” she thought, “I’m _in_?... In
what?... What on earth does that mean?”

We met in the interval. I grasped her hand in sincere congratulation.
She patted me absently as she smiled. Then she turned and spoke.

“Look here,” she said, “could you translate for me, please, something
His Lordship just said to me as the curtain fell? Put it into English, I
mean?”

It was my turn to be puzzled. “Madame” was, I thought, seated with Mayor
O’Dwyer. Had she wandered about, moved to another box?

“His Lordship?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Your Lord Mayor, with whom I am sitting.”

I hadn’t thought of O’Dwyer in terms of a peer.

“Yes, yes,” she continued, “as the applause, that very surprising
applause rang out at the end, the Lord Mayor turned to me and said,
‘Lady, you’re _in_!’ Just like that. Now will you please translate for
me what it is? Tell me, is that good or bad?”

Laughingly I replied, “What do you think?”

“I really don’t know” was her serious and sincere response.

The simple fact was that Dame Ninette de Valois, D.B.E., D. Litt., to
whose untiring efforts Sadler’s Wells owes its success, its existence,
its very being, honestly thought the company was failing in New York.

This most gala of gala nights was crowned by a large and extremely gay
supper party given by Mayor O’Dwyer, at Gracie Mansion, the official
residence of the Mayor of the City of New York. It was a warm and balmy
night, with an Indian Summer moon--one of those halcyon nights all too
rare. Because of this, it was possible to stage the supper in that most
idyllic of settings, on the spacious lawn overlooking the moon-drenched
East River, with the silhouettes of the great bridges etched in silver
lights against the glow from the hundreds of colored lights strung over
the lawn. Beneath all this gleamed the white linen of the many tables,
the sparkle of crystal, the gloss of the silver.

Two orchestras provided continuous dance music, the food and the
champagne were ineffable. It was a party given by the Mayor: to honor
the Sadler’s Wells Ballet and to cement those cultural ties between the
two great world centers, London and New York. What better means are
there for mutual understanding and admiration?

There was, however, a delay on the part of the company in leaving the
Metropolitan Opera House, a quite extended delay. Three large buses
waited at the stage door, manned by Police Department Inspectors in
dress uniforms, with gold badges. But this was the first time the
company had worn the new evening creations I have mentioned. It took
longer to array themselves in these than it did for them to prepare for
the performance. As a matter of fact, Margot Fonteyn and Moira Shearer
were the last to be ready, each of them ravishing and stunning, the
dark, flashing brunette beauty of Fonteyn in striking contrast to the
soft, pinkish loveliness of Shearer.

Then it was necessary for our staff and the police to form a flying
wedge to clear a path from the stage door to the waiting buses through
the tightly-packed crowd that waited in Fortieth Street for a glimpse of
the triumphant stars.

Safe aboard at last, off the cavalcade started, headed by a Police
Department squad car, with siren tied down, red lights flashing,
together with two motorcycle police officers fifteen feet in advance and
the same complement, squad car and outriders, bringing up the rear of
the procession, through the red traffic lights, thus providing the
company with yet another American thrill.

There was a tense instant as the procession left the Metropolitan and
the police sirens commenced their wail. The last time the company had
heard a siren was in the days of the blitz in London, when, no matter
how inured one became, the siren’s first tintinnabulation brought on
that sudden shock that no familiarity can entirely eradicate. It was
Constant Lambert’s dry wit that eased the situation. “It’s all right,
girls,” he called out, “that’s the ‘all clear.’”.

Heading the receiving line at Gracie Mansion, as the company descended
the wide stairs into the festive garden, were the Mayor and Grover
Whalen, Sir Oliver and Lady Franks, Sir Alexander Cadogan, the Honorable
Trygve Lie, President Romulo. There was a twinkle in Mayor O’Dwyer’s
eye, as some of the _corps de ballet_ girls curtsied with a
“Good-evening, your Lordship.”

Toasts were drunk to the President of the United States, the King of
England, Dame Ninette de Valois, to the Mayor, to Margot Fonteyn, Moira
Shearer, and the other principals. The party waxed even gayer. Dancers
seem never to tire of dancing. It was three in the morning when the
Mayor made a short speech to say “good-night,” explaining that he was
under doctor’s orders to go to bed, but that the party was to continue
unabated, and all were to enjoy themselves.

It was past four o’clock when it finally broke up, and the buses, with
their police escorts, started the journey back through a sleeping
Manhattan to deposit the company at their various hotels. Constant
Lambert, the lone wolf, lived apart from the rest at an East Side hotel.
All the rest of the company had been dropped, when three buses, six
inspectors, two squad cars, four motorcycle officers, halted before the
sedate hostelry after five in the morning, and Constant Lambert, the
sole passenger in the imposing cavalcade, slowly and with a grave,
seventeenth-century dignity, solemnly shook hands with drivers, motor
police, and all the inspectors, thanked them for the extremely
interesting, and, as he put it, “highly informative” journey, saluted
them with his sturdy blackthorn stick, and disappeared within the chaste
portals of the hotel, while the police stood at salute, and two
bewildered milk-men looked on in wonder.

The New York season was limited only by the availability of the
Metropolitan Opera House. We could have played for months. Also, the
company was due back at Covent Garden to fulfil its obligations to the
British taxpayer. Following the Metropolitan engagement, there was a
brief tour, involving a special train of six baggage cars, diner, and
seven Pullmans, visiting, with equal success and greeted by capacity and
turn-away houses, Washington, Richmond, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh,
Chicago, and Michigan State College at East Lansing; thence across the
border into Canada, for engagements at Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal, to
honor the Commonwealth.

Before David Webster returned to London, we discussed the matter of an
early return for a longer stay. I pointed out that, with such an evident
success, Sadler’s Wells could not afford to delay its return for still
further and greater triumphs. Now, I emphasized, was the time to take
advantage of the momentum of success; now, if ever, was the time, since
the promotion, the publicity, the press notices, all were cumulative in
effect.

Webster, I knew, was impressed. I waited for his answer. But he shook
his head slowly.

“Sol,” he said, “it’s doubtful. Frankly, I do not think it is possible.”

Meanwhile, I discussed the entire matter of the return with leading
members of the company. All were of a single opinion, all of one mind.
They were anxious and eager to return.

Such are the workings of the Sadler’s Wells organization, however, that
it was necessary to delay a decision as to a return visit until at least
the 3rd or 4th of January, 1950, in order that the matter could be
properly put before the British Arts Council and the British Council for
their final approval.

It should not be difficult for the reader to understand the anxiety and
eagerness with which I anticipated that date.

       *       *       *       *       *

It seems to me that during this period of suspense it might be well for
me to sum up my impression of the repertoire that made up the initial
season.

The Sadler’s Wells Ballet repertoire for the first American season
consisted of the following works: _The Sleeping Beauty_; _Le Lac des
Cygnes_ (_Swan Lake_) in full; _Cinderella_, in three acts; _Job_;
_Façade_; _Apparitions_; _The Rake’s Progress_; _Miracle in the
Gorbals_; _Hamlet_; _Symphonic Variations_; _A Wedding Bouquet_; and
_Checkmate_. The order is neither alphabetical nor necessarily in the
order of importance. Actually, irrespective of varying degrees of
success on this side of the Atlantic, they are all important, for they
represent, in a sense, a cross-section of the repertoire history of the
company.

_The Sleeping Beauty_, in its Sadler’s Wells form, is a ballet in a
Prologue and three acts. The story is a collaboration by Marius Petipa
and I. A. Vsevolojsky, (the Director of the Russian Imperial Theatres at
the time of its creation), after the Charles Perrault fairy tale. The
music, of course, is Tchaikowsky’s immortal score. The scenery and
costumes are by Oliver Messel. The original Petipa choreography was
reproduced by Nicholas Serguëeff.

It was the work which so brilliantly inaugurated the company’s
occupation of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, on 20th February,
1946. Sadler’s Wells had previously revived the work in 1939, on a
smaller scale, under the title _The Sleeping Princess_.

My unforgettable memories of the present production are topped by the
inspired interpretation of the title role by Margot Fonteyn, who
alternated moods of subtlety and childlike simplicity with brilliant
fireworks, always within the ballet’s frame. There is the shining memory
of Beryl Grey’s magnificent Lilac Fairy, the memory of the alternating
casts, one headed by Moira Shearer, entirely different in its way. There
is, as a matter of fact, little difference between the casts. Always
there were such ensemble performances as the States had never before
seen. Over all shone the magnificence of Oliver Messel’s scenery and
costumes.

The full-length _Swan Lake_ (_Le Lac des Cygnes_), actually in four
acts, was a revelation to audiences for years accustomed to the
truncated second act version. Its libretto, or book, is a Russian
compilation by Begitschev and Geltser. It was first presented by
Sadler’s Wells in the present settings and costumes by Leslie Hurry,
with the original choreography by Marius Petipa and Lev Ivanov,
reproduced by Nicholas Serguëeff, on 7th September, 1943.

This production replaced an earlier one, first done at the Sadler’s
Wells Theatre, on 20th November, 1934, with Alicia Markova as the Swan
Queen, and the scenery and costumes by Hugh Stevenson.

On the 13th April, 1947, it came to Covent Garden, with an increased
_corps de ballet_, utilizing the entire Covent Garden stage, as it does
at the Metropolitan Opera House.

As always, Margot Fonteyn is brilliant in the dual role of Odette-Odile.
In all my wide experience of Swan Queens, Fonteyn today is unequaled.
With the Sadler’s Wells company, there is no dearth of first-rate Swan
Queens: Margot Fonteyn, Moira Shearer, Beryl Grey, Violetta Elvin.
Altogether, in case the reader has not already suspected it, _Swan Lake_
is, I think, my favorite ballet. It is not only a classical ballet; it
is a classic. The haunting Tchaikowsky score, its sheer romanticism, its
dramatic impact, all these things individually and together, give it its
pride of place with the public of America as well as with myself. Here
my vote is with the majority.

The third full-length work, so splendid in its settings and so bulky
that its performances had to be limited by its physical proportions only
to the largest stages, was _Cinderella_, which took up every inch on the
great stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. _Cinderella_ was the first
full evening ballet in the modern repertoire of Sadler’s Wells. A
three-act work, with choreography by Frederick Ashton, to the score by
Serge Prokofieff, its scenery and costumes are by the French painter,
Jean-Denis Malclès.

Here was an instance where the chief choreographer of Sadler’s Wells,
Frederick Ashton, had the courage to tackle a full-length fairy story,
the veritable stuff from which true ballets are made in the grand
tradition of classical ballet: a formidable task. The measure of his
success is that he managed to do it by telling a beautiful and
thrice-familiar fairy tale in a direct and straightforward manner, never
dragging in spectacle for the sake of spectacle. Moreover, he was
eminently successful in avoiding, on the one hand, those sterilities of
classicism that lead only to boredom, and the grotesqueries of
modernism, on the other.

For music, Ashton took the score Prokofieff composed for the Soviet
ballet of the same name, but created an entirely new work to the music.
The settings and costumes by Malclès could not have been more right,
filled as they are with the glamor of the fairy tale spirit and utterly
free from any trace of vulgarity.

I shall always remember the Ugly Sisters of Ashton and Robert Helpmann,
in the best tradition of English pantomime. Moreover, the production was
blessed with three alternating Cinderellas, each individual in approach
and interpretation: Fonteyn, Shearer, and Elvin.

_Job_, the reader will remember, is not called a ballet but “A Masque
for Dancing.” The adaptation of the Biblical legend in the spirit of the
William Blake drawings is the work of a distinguished British surgeon
and Blake authority, Geoffrey Keynes. It was the first important
choreographic work of Ninette de Valois. Its scenery and costumes were
the product of John Piper; its music is one of the really great scores
of that dean of living British composers, Ralph Vaughan Williams.

In the music, completely modern in idiom, Vaughan Williams has followed
the overall pattern of the sixteenth and seventeenth century “Masques,”
using period rhythms (but not melodies) such as the _Pavane_, the
_Minuet_, the _Saraband_, and the _Gaillard_.

The production itself is on two levels, in which all the earthly,
material characters remain on the stage level, while the spiritual
characters are on a higher level, the two levels being joined by a large
flight of steps.

One character stands out in domination of the work. That is Satan,
created by Anton Dolin, and danced here by Robert Helpmann. The climax
of _Job_ occurs when Satan is hurled down from heaven. The whole thing
is a work of deep and moving beauty--a serious, thoughtful work that
ranks as one of Ninette de Valois’ masterpieces.

_Façade_ represented the opposite extreme in the Sadler’s Wells
repertoire. There was considerable doubt on the part of the company’s
directorate that it would be acceptable on this side of the Atlantic,
because of its essential British humor; it was also feared that it might
be dated. As matters turned out, it was one of the most substantial
successes among the shorter works.

_Façade_ was originally staged by Ashton for the Camargo Society in
1931, came to the Sadler’s Wells Ballet in 1935, was lost in the German
invasion of Holland, and was restored in the present settings and
costumes of John Armstrong in 1940. It is, of course, freely adapted
from the Edith Sitwell poems, with the popular score by Sir William
Walton.

Fresh, witty, and humorous throughout, there is no suggestion of either
provincialism or of being dated. Its highlights for me were the Tango,
superbly danced by Frederick Ashton and Moira Shearer, who alternated
with Pamela May, and the Yodelling Song with its bucolic milkmaid.

_Apparitions_ perhaps bore too close a resemblance in plot to Massine’s
treatment of the Berlioz _Symphonie Fantastique_, although the former is
a much earlier work, having been staged by Ashton in 1933. Its story is
by Constant Lambert; its music, a Lambert selection of the later music
of Franz Liszt, re-orchestrated by Gordon Jacob. Cecil Beaton designed
the extremely effective scenery and costumes. It was taken into the
Sadler’s Wells repertoire in 1936.

It provided immensely effective roles for Margot Fonteyn and Robert
Helpmann.

Strikingly successful was Ninette de Valois’ _The Rake’s Progress_. This
is a six-scene work, based on William Hogarth’s famous series of
paintings of the same name. Its story, like its music, is by Gavin
Gordon. Its setting, a permanent closed box, subject to minor changes
during the action, scene to scene, with an act-drop of a London street,
is by the late Rex Whistler, as are the costumes, Hogarthian in style.

It is a highly dramatic work, in reality a sort of morality play,
perhaps, more than it is a ballet in the accepted sense of the term, but
a tremendously important work in the evolution of the repertoire that is
so peculiarly Sadler’s Wells.

_Miracle in the Gorbals_ is another of the theatre pieces in the
repertoire. The choreographic work of Robert Helpmann, it is based on a
story by Michael Benthall, to a specially commissioned score by Sir
Arthur Bliss. Its setting and costumes are by the British artist, Edward
Burra. It was a wartime addition to the repertoire in the fall of 1944.

Like _The Rake’s Progress_, _Miracle in the Gorbals_ is also a sort of
morality play, with strong overtones of a sociological tract. Bearing
plot and theme resemblances to Jerome K. Jerome’s _The Passing of the
Third Floor Back_, it puts the question: “What sort of treatment would
God receive if he returned to earth and visited the slums of a twentieth
century city?”

A realistic work, it deals with low-life in a strictly down-to-earth
manner. As a spectacle of crowded tenement life, it mingles such
theatrical elements as the raising of the dead, murder, suicide,
prostitution. The Bliss music splendidly underlines the action.

With all of its drama and melodrama, it was not, nevertheless, one of my
favorite works.

The other Helpmann creation was _Hamlet_, staged by him two years before
_Miracle in the Gorbals_, in 1942. Utilizing the Tchaikowsky
fantasy-overture, its tremendously effective scenery and costumes are by
Leslie Hurry.

_Hamlet_ was not an attempt to tell the Shakespeare story in ballet
form. Rather is it a work that attempts to portray the dying thoughts of
Hamlet as his life passes before him in review. Drama rather than dance,
it is a spectacle, linked from picture to picture by dances, a work in
which mime plays an important part.

_Symphonic Variations_, set to César Franck’s work for piano and
orchestra of the same title, was Ashton’s first purely dance work in
abstract form.

A work without plot, it employed only six dancers, three couples, on an
immense stage in an immensely effective setting of great simplicity by
Sophie Fedorovich. The six dancers were: Margot Fonteyn, Moira Shearer,
and Pamela May; Michael Somes, Henry Danton, and Brian Shaw. There is no
virtuoso role. It is a lyric work, calm, ordered, in which the classical
spirit is exalted in a mood of all for one, one for all.

_A Wedding Bouquet_ is certainly the most genuinely witty work in all
modern ballet repertoire. The work of that genuine wit and gentleman of
impeccable taste in music, literature, and painting, the late Lord
Berners, it was staged by Ashton in 1937. Utilizing a text by Gertrude
Stein, spoken by a narrator seated at a table at the side of the stage,
its music, its scenery, its costumes, all are by Lord Berners. At the
Metropolitan Opera House, the narrator was the inimitable Constant
Lambert. In later performances, the role was taken over by Robert
Irving, the chief conductor.

The work, a collaboration between Ashton, Berners, and Gertrude Stein,
is the most completely sophisticated ballet I know. The amazing thing
about it to me is that with its utterly integrated Stein text, it goes
as well in large theatres as it does in the smaller ones. The text is as
important as the dancing or the music.

For me, aside from the hilarity of the work itself, was the pleasure I
derived from the performance of Moira Shearer as the thwarted spinster
who loved her dog, and June Brae, who danced the role of Josephine, who
was certainly not fitted to go to a wedding, as Gertrude Stein averred.
As the Bridegroom, Robert Helpmann provided a comic masterpiece.

_Checkmate_ was the first British ballet to have its _première_ outside
the country, having been first presented as a part of the Dance Festival
at the International Exposition in Paris, in the summer of 1937. Both
music and book are by Sir Arthur Bliss, with scenery and costumes by the
Anglo-American artist, E. McKnight Kauffer.

The concerns of the ballet are with a game of chess, with the dancers
pawns in the game. It appeals to me strongly, and I feel it is one of
Ninette de Valois’ finest choreographic achievements. It is highly
dramatic, leading to a grim tragedy. Its music is tremendously fine and
McKnight Kauffer’s settings and costumes are striking, effective, and
revolutionary. This is a work of first importance in all ballet
repertoire.

I embarked upon a continuing bombardment of Ninette de Valois and David
Webster by cables and long-distance telephone calls. I never for a
instant let the matter out of my mind.

As I counted off the days until a decision was due, the old year ran
out. It was on New Year’s Eve, while working in my office, that I was
taken ill. I had not been feeling entirely myself for several days, but
illness is something so foreign to me that I laughed it off as something
presumably due to some irregularity of living.

Suddenly, late in the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, I found myself
doubled up with pain. I was rushed to hospital. A hasty blood-count
revealed the necessity for an immediate appendectomy. Before the old
year was greeted by the new, I had submitted to surgery. The doctors
said it was just in time--a case of “touch and go.” A good many things
in my life have been that.

A minimum of a week’s hospitalization was imperative, the doctors said,
and after that another fortnight of quiet recuperation. I remained in
hospital the required week.

Very soon after, against the united wishes of Mrs. Hurok and my office,
I was on a plane bound for London.

At the London airport I was met by David Webster, who took me as quickly
and as smoothly as possible to my old stamping-ground, the Savoy Hotel,
where, on Webster’s firm insistence, I spent the next twelve hours in
bed. There followed extended consultations with Ninette de Valois and
Webster; but neither was able to give a definite answer on the
all-important matter of the second American tour.

I pointed out to them that, in order to protect all concerned, bookings
were already being made across the United States and Canada: bookings
involving in many instances, definite guarantees. As I waited for a
decision, my office was daily badgering me. I was at a loss what to
reply to them. There were daily inconclusive trans-Atlantic telephone
conversations with my office and daily inconclusive conversations with
the Sadler’s Wells directorate.

At last there came a glimmer. Webster announced that he believed a final
decision could be reached at or about 16th February. He required, he
said, that much further time in order to be able to figure out the
precise costs of the venture and to determine what, if anything, might
be left after the payment of all the terrific costs. In other words, he
had to determine and calculate the precise nature of the risk....
Figures, figures, and still more figures.... Cables backwards and
forwards across the Atlantic, with my New York office checking and
rechecking on the capacities of the auditoriums, theatres, opera houses,
and halls in which the bookings had been made.

The 16th February passed and still no decision was forthcoming. On 19th
February, all that could be elicited from Webster was: “I simply can’t
say at this juncture.” He added that he appreciated my position and
regretted the daily disappointments to which I was being subjected.

There came the 22nd of February, in the United States the anniversary of
the birth of George Washington. This year in London, the 22nd of
February was the eve of the General Election. Most of the afternoon I
spent with Webster at his flat, going over papers. We dined together
and, as we parted, Webster’s only remark was: “See you at the
performance.”

Meanwhile the pressure on me from New York increased.

“What _is_ going to happen?” became the reiterated burden of the daily
messages from my office.

Other matters in New York were requiring my attention, and it had become
necessary to inform Webster that it would be impossible for me to remain
any longer in London and that I was sailing in the _Queen Mary_ on
Friday.

Election Eve I went to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, to watch
another Sadler’s Wells performance. In the main foyer I ran into
Webster.

“Can you guarantee us our expenses _and_ a profit?” he asked.

“I can.”

“It’s a deal.”

It was eight-thirty in the evening of the 22nd February that the verbal
deal was made. Five hours difference in time made it three-thirty in the
afternoon in New York. I hurried back to the Savoy and called Mae
Frohman.

“What’s going to happen?”

“It’s all set,” I replied.

Back to Covent Garden I went. In the Crush Bar, Webster and I toasted
our deal with a bottle of champagne.

During Election Day, Webster, “Madame,” and I worked on repertoire and
final details; but, for the most part, we gave our attention to the
early returns from the General Election. After the performance that
night at the Garden, David Webster and his friend James Cleveland Belle,
joined me at the Savoy and remained until four in the morning, with one
eye and one ear on the returns.

The next day I sailed in the good _Queen Mary_ and had a lovely
crossing, with my good friend, Greer Garson, on board to make the trip
even more pleasant.

Mrs. Hurok, my daughter Ruth, Mae Frohman, and my office staff met me at
the Cunard pier; and I told the whole story, in all its intricate
detail, to them.

But there were still loose ends to be caught up, and April found me
again back in London. The night following my arrival, I gave a big party
at the Savoy, with Ninette de Valois, Margot Fonteyn, Moira Shearer and
David Webster as the guests of honor. We toasted the success of the
first American season; drank another to the success of the forthcoming
and much more extended tour.

While in London, we clarified and agreed upon many details, including
the final repertoire for the second American venture--which was to
reach, not only from coast to coast, but to dip into the far south as
well as far to the north.

Back in New York for a brief stay and then, in June, Mrs. Hurok and I
left for our annual sojourn in Europe. This time we went direct to
London, where we revelled in the performances at Covent Garden.

I have always loved London and always have been a great admirer of
London, the place, and of those things for which it stands as a symbol.
I love suddenly coming upon the fascinating little squares, with their
stately old houses, as often as not adorned with a fifteenth-century
church. Although modernism sometimes almost encroaches, they still
retain an old-fashioned dreaminess.

About all is the atmosphere of history, tradition, and the aura of a
genuinely free people. The Royal Opera House itself has a particular
fascination for me. So far as I am concerned, there is not the slightest
incongruity in the fact that its façade looks out on a police station
and police court and that it is almost otherwise surrounded by a garden
market. A patina of associations seems to cover the fabric, both inside
and out--whether it is the bare boards and iron rails of the high
old-fashioned gallery, or the gilt and red plush and cream-painted
woodwork, the thin pillars of the boxes, the rather awkward staircases,
the “Crush” bar and the other bars, the red curtain bearing the coat of
arms of the reigning Monarch. Then, lights down, the great curtain
sweeps up, and once again, for the hundredth time, the tense magic holds
everyone in thrall.

I love the true ballet lovers who are not to be found in the boxes alone
or in the stalls exclusively. Many of them sit in the lower-priced seats
in the upper circle, the amphitheatre, and in the gallery. The night
before an opening or an important revival or cast change, a long queue,
equipped with camp-chairs and sandwiches, waits patiently to be admitted
to the gallery seats the following evening.

There is one figure I miss now at Covent Carden, one that seemed to me
to be a part of its very fabric. For years, going back stage to see Anna
Pavlova, Chaliapine, others of my artists, and in the days of the de
Basil Ballet, it was he who always had a cheery greeting. In 1948, Tom
Jackson closed his eyes in the sleep everlasting, to open them, one
hopes, at some Great Stage Door. He was the legendary stage door-keeper,
was Tom Jackson, and certainly one of the most important persons in
Covent Garden. He was a gentleman in the best sense of the word. Many
were the celebrated artists he saw come and go during his long regime.
Everybody spoke to him in their own tongue, although Jackson invariably
replied in English. He was, I remember, in charge of the artists’ mail,
and knew everyone, and remembered every name and every face. Jackson was
not only interested in his stage door, but took deep interest in the
artistic aspect of Covent Garden. Immediately after a performance of
either ballet or opera, he made up his mind whether it had been good or
bad.

Sometimes it fell to Jackson’s lot to regulate matters outside the
Garden. The gallery queues, as is the London custom, attract all sorts
of itinerant musicians and entertainers to the Floral Street side where
they display and reveal their art to the patiently waiting galleryites.
If the hurdy-gurdies and public acclamations grew so loud that they
might disturb any in the offices above, Jackson, with infallible tact,
stopped the disturbance without offending the queuers or the
entertainers by his interference.

Jackson guarded the Garden inexorably and was relentless on questions of
admission. With unerring instinct, he distinguished between friend and
foe, and was renowned for his treatment of the yellow press and its
columnists, with its nose for gossip and scandal. He is said once to
have unceremoniously deposited an over-enthusiastic columnist in the
street, after having refused a considerable sum of money for permission
to photograph a fainting _ballerina_. He was once seen chasing a large
woman who was brandishing a heavy umbrella around the outside of the
building. The large woman, in turn, was chasing Leonide Massine running
at full tilt. The woman, obviously a crackpot, had accused Massine of
stealing her idea for a ballet. Jackson caught the woman and disarmed
her.

The London stage doorkeeper is really a breed unto himself.

I love opening nights at Covent Garden, when it becomes, quite apart
from the stage, a unique social function in the display of dresses and
jewels, despite the austerity. It is always a curious mixture of private
elegance and public excitement. The excitement extends to all streets of
the district, right down to the Strand, making a strange contrast with
the cabbage stalls, stray potatoes, and the odor of vegetables lingering
on from the early market. The impeccable and always polite London police
are in control of all approaches, directing the endless stream of cars
without delay as they draw up in the famous covered way under the
portico. Ceremoniously they take care of all arriving pedestrians, and
surprisingly hold up even the most pretentious and important traffic to
let the pedestrian seat-holder through. The richly uniformed porters
keep chattering socialites from impeding traffic with a stern ritual all
their own, and announcing waiting cars in stentorian tones.... Ever in
my mind Covent Garden is associated with that sacred hour back stage
before a ballet performance, the company in training-kits, practising
relentlessly. Only those who know this hour can form any idea of the
overwhelming cost of the dancers’ brief glamorous hour before the
public.

Particularizing from the general, from the very beginning, in all
contacts with the British and with Sadler’s Wells, the relations between
all concerned have been like those prevailing in a kind and
understanding family, and they remain so today.

And now at the Savoy is the best smoked salmon in the world--Scottish
salmon. When I am there, a special large tray of it is always ready for
me. It is a passion I share with Ninette de Valois, who insists it is
her favorite dish. The question I am about to ask is purely rhetorical:
Is there anything finer than smoked Scottish salmon, with either a cold,
dry champagne or Scotch whiskey?

The repertoire for the second American-Canadian tour of the Sadler’s
Wells Ballet included, in addition to _The Sleeping Beauty_, the
four-act _Le Lac des Cygnes_ (_Swan Lake_), _Façade_, _A Wedding
Bouquet_, _The Rake’s Progress_ and _Checkmate_, the following works new
to America: their own production of _Giselle_, _Les Patineurs_, _Don
Quixote_, and _Dante Sonata_.

_Giselle_, in the Sadler’s Wells version, with its Adam score, has
scenery and costumes by James Bailey, and was produced by Nicholas
Serguëeff, after the choreography of Coralli and Perrot.

The original Wells production was at the Old Vic, in 1934, with Alicia
Markova in the title role. The production for Covent Garden dates from
1946, with Margot Fonteyn as Giselle.

It requires no comment from me save to point out that Fonteyn is one of
the most interesting and effective interpreters of the role in my
experience, and I have seen a considerable number of Giselles.

_Les Patineurs_ had been seen in America in a version danced by Ballet
Theatre. The Sadler’s Wells version is so much better that there is no
real basis for comparison. This version, by Frederick Ashton, dates back
to 1937. It has an interesting history. It is my understanding that the
original idea was that Ninette de Valois would stage it. The story has
it that, one night at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre, Ashton, whose
dressing-room adjoined that of Constant Lambert, heard the latter
working out dance rhythms from two Meyerbeer operas, _Star of the North_
and _The Prophet_. The story goes on that Ashton was moved by the
melodies and that because “Madame” was so occupied with executive and
administrative duties, the choreographic job was given to him. Ashton
states that he composed this ballet, which is exclusively concerned with
skating, without ever having seen an ice-rink.

I find it one of the most charming ballets in the repertoire, with
something in it for everyone. In these days of so-called “ice-ballets,”
which have little or no relation to ballet, however much they may have
to do with ice, I find here an academic ballet, which is very close to
skating.

_Don Quixote_ was seen in but a few cities. It was the most recent work,
at that time, to be shown. Choreographed by Ninette de Valois, it was a
ballet in five scenes with both its scenario and its music by Robert
Gerhard, with scenery and costumes by Edward Burra.

The story, of course, was the Cervantes tale. It was not a “dancing”
ballet, in the sense that it had no virtuoso passages. But it told its
story, nevertheless, through the medium of dance rather than by mime and
acting. My outstanding impressions of it are the splendid score, Margot
Fonteyn’s outstanding characterization of a dual role, and the shrewdly
observed Sancho Panza of the young Alexander Grant.

_Dante Sonata_ was, in a sense, a collaborative work by Frederick Ashton
and Constant Lambert. Its date is 1940. Its scenery and costumes are by
Sophie Fedorovich. The music is the long piano sonata by Franz Liszt,
_D’après une lecture de Dante_, utilizing the poem by Victor Hugo. The
orchestration of the piano work by Lambert, with its use of Chinese
tam-tam and gong, is singularly effective.

At the time of its production, there was a story in general circulation
to the effect that Ashton found his inspiration for the work in the
sufferings of the Polish people at the hands of the Nazi invaders. This
appears not to have been the case. The truth of the matter seems to have
been that at about the time he was planning the work, Ashton was deeply
moved by the death of a close and dear relative. The chief influence
would, therefore, seem to be this, and thus to account for the
choreographer’s savagery against the inevitability and immutability of
death.

It is not, in any sense, a classical work, for Ashton, in order to
portray the contorted and writhing spirits, went to the “free” or
“modern” dance for appropriate movements. While, in the wide open spaces
of America, it did not fulfil the provincial audiences’ ideas of what
they expected from ballet, nevertheless it had some twenty-nine
performances in the United States and Canada.

The second American season opened at the Metropolitan Opera House, on
Sunday evening, 10th September, 1950. Again it was hot. The full-length
_Le Lac des Cygnes_ (_Swan Lake_) was the opening programme. The evening
was a repetition of the previous year: capacity, cheering houses, with
special cheers for Fonteyn.

The demand for seats on the part of the New York public was even greater
than the year before, with a larger number consequently disappointed and
unable to get into the Metropolitan at all.

From the company’s point of view, aside from hard work--daily classes,
rehearsals, and eight performances a week--there was a round of
entertainment for them, the most outstanding, perhaps, being the day
they spent as the guests of J. Alden Talbot at Smoke Rise, his New
Jersey estate.

The last night’s programme at the Metropolitan season was _The Sleeping
Beauty_. The final night’s reception matched that of the first. Ninette
de Valois’ charming curtain speech, in which she announced another visit
on the part of the company to New York--“but not for some
time”--couldn’t keep the curtain down, and the calls continued until it
was necessary to turn up the house lights.

Following the New York engagement, Sadler’s Wells embarked on the
longest tour of its history, and the most successful tour in the history
of ballet.

The New York season extended from 10th September to 1st October. The
company appeared in the following cities: Philadelphia, Pittsburgh,
Atlanta, Birmingham, New Orleans, Houston, Los Angeles, San Francisco,
Sacramento, Denver, Lincoln, Des Moines, Omaha, Tulsa, Dallas, Oklahoma
City, Memphis, St. Louis, Bloomington, Lafayette, Detroit, Cleveland,
Cincinnati, Chicago, Winnipeg, Boston, White Plains, Toronto, Ottawa,
Montreal, and Quebec.

Starting on the 10th September, in New York, the tour closed in Quebec
City on 28th January, 1951.

In thirty-two cities, during a period of five months, the people of this
continent had paid more than two million and one-half dollars to see the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet. On Election Eve in London, David Webster had
asked me if I could guarantee them their expenses and a profit.

On the first tour the company covered some ten thousand miles. On the
second tour, this was extended to some twenty-one thousand.

The box-office records that were broken by the company could only add to
the burden of statistics. Suffice it to say, they were many. History
was made: the sort of history that can be made again only by the next
Sadler’s Wells tour.

Some idea of the magnitude of the transportation and railroading
problems involved in an extended tour of this sort may be gathered from
the fact that the “Sadler’s Wells Special” consisted of six Pullman
sleeping cars, six baggage cars, and two dining cars, together with a
club-bar-lounge car on long journeys.

I made it a point to be with the company at all the larger cities. I
left them at Philadelphia, and awaited their arrival in Los Angeles.
Neither I nor Los Angeles has ever seen anything like the opening night
of their engagement at the enormous Shrine Auditorium, or like the
entire engagement, as a matter of fact.

Because of a company rule that, on opening nights and in the case of
parties of official or semi-official greeting nature, the entire
personnel of the company and staff should attend in a body, an
unfortunate situation arose in Los Angeles. A Beverly Hills group had
announced a large party to which some of the company had been invited,
without having cleared the matter in advance. The resultant situation
was such that the advertised and publicized party was cancelled.

The sudden cancellation left the company without a party with which to
relieve the strain of the long trek to the Pacific Coast, and the tense
excitement of the first performance in the world’s film capital. As a
consequence, I arranged to give a large party to the entire company and
staff, in conjunction with Edwin Lester, the Director of the Los Angeles
Civic Light Opera Association, and the local sponsor of the engagement.
The party took place at the Ambassador Hotel, where the entire company
was housed during the engagement, with its city within a city, its
palm-shaded swimming-pool.

As master of ceremonies and guest of honor, we invited Charles Chaplin,
distinguished artist and famous Briton. Among the distinguished guests
from the film world were, among many others, Ezio Pinza, Edward G.
Robinson, Greer Garson, Barry Fitzgerald, Gene Tierney, Cyd Charisse,
Joseph Cotton, Louis Hayward.

Chaplin was a unique master of ceremonies, urbane, gentle, witty. As
judge of a ballroom dancing contest, Chaplin awarded the prize to
Herbert Hughes, non-dancer and the company’s general manager.

At the end of this phenomenal engagement, the company bade _au revoir_
to Los Angeles and the many friends they had made in the film colony,
and entrained for San Francisco for an engagement at that finest of all
American opera houses, the War Memorial. I have an especial fondness for
San Francisco, its atmosphere, its spirit, its people, its food. Yet a
curious fact remains: of all the larger American cities, it is coolest
in its outward reception of all forms of art. Even with Sadler’s Wells,
San Francisco followed its formal pattern. It was the more startling in
contrast with its sister city in the south. The demonstrations there
were such that they had to be cut off in order to permit the
performances to continue and thus end before the small hours; the Los
Angeles audiences seemed determined not to let the company go. By
contrast, the San Francisco audiences were perfunctorily polite in their
applause. I have never been able quite to understand it.

In the case of the Sadler’s Wells _première_ at the War Memorial Opera
House, San Francisco, the company was enchanted with the building: a
real opera house, a good stage, a place in which to work in comfort. The
opening night audience had been attracted not only by interest in the
company, but as charity contributors to a home for unmarried mothers.
The bulk of the stalls and boxes were socially minded. They arrived
late, from dinners and parties. _The Sleeping Beauty_ must start at the
advertised time because of its length. It cannot wait for late-comers.
There was an unconscionable confusion in the darkened opera house as the
audience rattled down the aisles, chattering, greeting friends, and
shattering the spell of the Prologue, disturbing those who had taken the
trouble to arrive on time as much as they did the artists on the stage.
My concern on this point is as much for the audience as for the dancers.
A ballet, being a work of art, is conceived as an entity, from beginning
to end, from the first notes of the overture, till the last one of the
coda. The whole is the sum of its parts. The noisy and inconsiderate
late-comers, by destroying parts, greatly damage the whole.

The War Memorial Opera House in San Francisco, although a municipal
property, has a divided executive in that its physical control is in the
hands of the local chapter of the American Legion, which make the rules
and regulations for its operation. I do not know of any theatre with
more locked doors, more red tape and more annoying, hampering
regulations.

There is, to be sure, a certain positive virtue in the rule that forbids
any unauthorized person to be permitted to pass from the auditorium to
the stage by ways of the pass-door between the two. But, like any rule,
it must be administered with discretion. The keeper of the pass-door at
the War Memorial Opera House is a gentleman known as the “Colonel,” to
whom, I feel, “orders is orders,” without the leavening of either
discretion or plain “horse sense.”

On the opening night of Sadler’s Wells, a list of names of the persons
authorized to pass had been given to this functionary by checking the
names on the theatre programme. When Dame Ninette de Valois, D.B.E., D.
Litt., Director of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, attempted to go back stage
after the first act of _The Sleeping Beauty_, she was stopped at the
pass-door by the guardian “Colonel.”

Very simply she told him, “I am Ninette de Valois.”

That meant nothing to the “Colonel.”

“Madame’s” name, he pointed out, was not checked off. It was not even
printed on the “official” staff. In another part of the programme, there
it was in small type. But the “Colonel” was adamant. Horatio at the
bridge could not have been more formidable. He was a composite of St.
Peter at the gate and St. Michael with his flaming sword.

While all this was going on, I was in the imposing, marble-sheathed
front lobby of the Opera House, in conversation with critics and San
Francisco friends, sharing their enthusiasm, when I suddenly felt my
coat tails being sharply pulled. The first tug I was sure was some
mistake, and I pretended not to notice it. Then my coat tails were
tugged at again, unmistakably yanked.

“What is it?” I thought. “_Who_ is it?”

I turned quickly, and found a tense, white-faced “Madame” looking at me,
as she might transfix either a dancer who had fallen on his face, or a
Cabinet Minister with whom she had taken issue.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The man,” she said, pointing in the direction of the pass-door,
“wouldn’t let me through.” Crisply she added, “He didn’t know who I was.
This is disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful. Unforgivable, I _must_
say.”

She turned quickly on her heel and disappeared.

I was greatly upset, and immediately took steps to have the oversight
corrected. I was miserable.

I sent for “Bertie” Hughes, the able general manager of the Sadler’s
Wells Ballet company, told him what had happened, explained how
distressed I was over the stupid incident.

Hughes smiled his quiet smile.

“Come on, have a drink and forget it,” he said. “‘Madame’ will have
forgotten all about it within five minutes of watching the performance.”

As we sipped our drink, I was filled with mortification that “Madame,”
of all people, should have run afoul of a too literal interpreter of the
regulations.

“Look here,” said Hughes, “cheer up, don’t be disturbed.”

But the evening had been spoiled for me.

A really splendid party followed, given by H. M. Consul General in honor
of the company, at San Francisco’s Bohemian Club. The Bohemian Club is
one of San Francisco’s genuine landmarks, a famous organization of
artists, writers, professional and business men, whose “High Jinks” and
“Low Jinks” in midsummer are among the cultural highlights of the area.

Dispirited, I went only from a sense of duty. It turned out to be one of
the fine parties of the entire tour; but I was fatigued, distraught, and
the de Valois contretemps still oppressed me. I helped myself to some
food, and hid away in a corner. I was, to put it bluntly, in a vile
mood.

Again I felt my coat tails being tugged. “Who is it this time?” I
thought. It was not my favorite manner of being greeted, I decided,
there and then.

Cautiously I turned. Again it was “Madame.”

“What’s the trouble?” she asked, now all solicitude. “Why are you hiding
in a corner? You don’t look well. Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“Surely, something is wrong with you. You look pale, and it’s not the
very least bit like you to be off sulking in a corner. What’s the
trouble?”

“The insult to you,” I said.

I remembered what Hughes had said, when “Madame” replied: “Insult?
Insult?... What insult? Did you insult me?... What on earth _are_ you
talking about?”

There was no point, I felt, in reminding her of the incident.

“When you want to speak to me,” I said, “must you pull my coat off my
back?”

“The next time I shall do it harder,” she said with her very individual
little laugh. “Don’t you think we have been here long enough?... Come
along now, take us home.”

This is Ninette de Valois.

       *       *       *       *       *

Following the San Francisco engagement, the company turned east to the
Rocky Mountain area, the South and Middle West, to arrive in Chicago for
Christmas.

The Chicago engagement was but a repetition of every city where the
company appeared: sold-out houses, almost incredible enthusiasm. _The
Sleeping Beauty_ was the opening programme. Because of the magnitude of
the production, it was impossible to present it except in New York, Los
Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, and Boston. Both public and press were
loud in their praises of the company, the production, the music.

Another delightful piece of hospitality was the party given at the
Racquet Club in Chicago, following the first performance by Ruth Page,
the well-known American dancer and choreographer, and her husband,
Thomas Hart Fisher. Not only was there a wonderful champagne supper in
the Club’s Refectory, at which the members of the company were the first
to be served; but this was followed by a cabaret, the climax of which
came when Margot, in a striking Dior gown of green, stepped down to
essay the intricate steps of a new and unknown (to her) South American
ball-room rhythm. She had never before seen or heard of the dance, but
it was a joy to watch the musicality she brought to it.

It is not my custom to visit artists in the theatre before a
performance, unless there has been some complaint, some annoyance, some
trouble of some sort, something to straighten out. However, on this
opening night in Chicago, I happened to be back stage in the Opera House
on some errand. Since I was so close, I felt I wanted to wish the
artists good-luck for their first Chicago performance, and, passing,
knocked at Margot’s dressing-room door.

No reply.

I waited.

I knocked again.

No answer.

Puzzled, I walked away to return ten minutes later.

I knocked again.

Again no answer.

Worried, I opened the door.

“Don’t you hear me, Margot?” I asked.

Without glancing up, there came two words, no more. Two words, bitten
off, crisp and sharp:

“G-e-t O--u--t!”

It was utterly unlike her. What had happened? I could not imagine. We
had dined together the night before, together with “Freddy” Ashton,
“Bobby” Helpmann and Moira Shearer. It had been a gay dinner, jolly.
Margot had been her witty, amusing self. She had, I knew, been eagerly
awaiting a letter from Paris, a letter from a particular friend. Perhaps
it had not come. Perhaps it had. Whatever it was, I reasoned, at least
it was not my fault. I was not to blame.

We met after the performance at the party. I was puzzled.

“Are you angry at me?” I asked her.

“I?” She smiled an uncomprehending smile. “Why on earth should I be
angry at you?”

“You didn’t answer when I knocked at your door several times, and then,
when I spoke, you told me, in no uncertain fashion, to get out.”

“Don’t you know that, before a performance, I won’t talk to anyone?” she
said sternly.

Then she kissed me.

“Don’t take me too seriously,” she smiled, patting me on the shoulder,
“but, remember, I don’t want to see _anyone_ before I go on.”


_MARGOT FONTEYN_

In Margot Fonteyn we have, in my opinion, the greatest _ballerina_ of
the western world, the greatest _ballerina_ of the world of ballet as we
know it. Born Margaret Hookham, in Surrey, in 1919, the daughter of an
English businessman father and a dark-skinned, dark-haired mother of
Irish and Brazilian ancestry, who is sometimes known as the Black Queen
in the company, a reference to one of the leading characters in
_Checkmate_. Margot was taken to China as a small child, where the
family home was in Shanghai. There was also an interim period when she
was a pupil in a school in such a characteristically American city as
Louisville, Kentucky.

Margot tells a story to the effect that she was taken as a child to see
a performance by Pavlova, and that she was not particularly impressed.
It would be much better “copy,” infinitely better for publicity
purposes, to have her say that visit changed the whole course of her
life and that, from that moment, she determined not only to be a dancer,
but to become Pavlova’s successor. But Margot Fonteyn is an honest
person.

Her first dancing lessons came in Shanghai, at the hands of the Russian
dancer and teacher, Goncharov. Back in London, she studied with
Seraphina Astafieva, in the same Chelsea studio that had produced
Markova and Dolin. At the age of fourteen, her mother took her,
apparently not with too much willingness on Margot’s part, up to the
Wells in Islington, to the Sadler’s Wells School. Ninette de Valois is
said to have announced after her first class, in the decisive manner of
“Madame,” a manner which brooks no dissent: “That child has talent.”

Fonteyn, in the early days, harbored no ideas of becoming a _ballerina_.
Her idealization of that remote peak of accomplishment was Karsavina,
the one-time bright, shining star of the Diaghileff Ballet. All of which
is not to say that Margot did not work hard, did not enjoy dancing. In
class, in rehearsal, in performance, Fonteyn developed her own
individuality, her own personality, without copying or imitating,
consciously or unconsciously, any other artist.

It was after Markova left Sadler’s Wells to form her own company in
association with Dolin that Fonteyn began to come into her own. Ninette
de Valois had a plan, to which, like all her plans, she adhered. She had
been grooming Fonteyn to take Markova’s place. The fact that she has
done so is a matter of history, record, and fact. This is not the place
for a catalogue of Fonteyn’s roles, or a list of her individual
triumphs. Margot Fonteyn is very much with us, before us, among us, at
the height of her powers. She speaks for herself. I merely want to give
the reader enough background so that he may know the basic elements
which have gone into the making of Margot Fonteyn, _prima ballerina
assoluta_.

As a dancer, I find her appeal to me is two-fold: first as a pure
classical dancer; second as an actress-dancer, by which I mean a dancer
with a fine ability to characterize. This is important, for it implies
few, if any, limitations. Pavlova, as I have pointed out, was free from
limitations in the same way and, I think, to a similar degree. Anna
Pavlova had a wide variety: she was a superb dramatic dancer in
_Giselle_; she was equally at home in the brittle, glamorous _Fairy
Doll_; as the light-hearted protagonist of the _Rondino_; as the
bright-colored flirt of the Tchaikowsky _Christmas_. Tamara Karsavina
ranged the gamut from _Carnaval_, _Les Sylphides_, and _Pavillon
d’Armide_, on the one hand, to _Schéhérazade_, _Thamar_, and the
Miller’s Wife in _The Three-Cornered Hat_, on the other, doing all with
equal skill and artistry. In the same way, Fonteyn ranges, with equal
perfection from the Princess Aurora of _The Sleeping Beauty_, the title
role of _Cinderella_, and _Mam’zelle Angot_, the Millers wife in _The
Three-Cornered Hat_, the tragic Giselle, Swanilda in _Coppélia_, the
peasant Dulcinia in _Don Quixote_, on the one hand, to the pure,
abstract dancing appeal of her lyrical roles in ballets such as
_Symphonic Variations_, _Scènes de Ballet_, _Ballet Imperial_, and
_Dante Sonata_, on the other.

As a dancer, Fonteyn is freer of mannerisms than any other _ballerina_ I
have known, devoid of tricks and those stunts sometimes called
“showmanship” that are so often mere vulgar lapses from taste. About
everything she does there is a strange combination of purity of style
with a striking individuality that I can only identify and explain by
that overworked term, “personality.” She has a superb carriage, the taut
back of the perfect dancer, the faultless line and the ankles of the
true _ballerina_. Over all is a great suppleness: the sort of suppleness
that can make even an unexpected fall a thing of beauty. For
_ballerinas_ sometimes fall, even as ordinary mortals. One such fall
occurred on Fonteyn’s first entrance in the nation’s capital, before a
gala audience at the Washington _première_ of Sadler’s Wells, with an
audience that included President Truman, Sir Oliver Franks, and the
entire diplomatic corps.

The cramped, ill-suited platform of Constitution Hall, was an
inadequate, makeshift excuse for a stage. As Fonteyn entered to the
resounding applause of thousands, she slipped on a loose board and fell,
but gracefully and with such beauty that those in the audience who did
not know might easily have thought it was a part of the choreographer’s
design.

On the company’s return to London, at the close of the tour, the entire
personnel were the guests at a formal dinner tendered to them by H. M.
Government. The late Sir Stafford Cripps, then Chancellor of the
Exchequer, gave the first toast to Fonteyn. Turning to her, Sir
Stafford, in proposing the toast, said: “My dear lady, it has been
brought to my attention that, in making your first entry into the
American capital, you fell flat on your face.”

The Chancellor paused for an instant as he eyed her in mock severity,
then added: “I beg you not to take it too much to heart. It is not the
first time, nor, I feel sure, will it be the last, when your countrymen
will be obliged to assume that same prostrate position on entering that
city.”

To sum up my impressions of Fonteyn, the dancer, I should be

[Illustration:

_Angus McBean_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Frederick Ashton, Ninette de Valois, Leonide
Massine]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Beryl Grey as the Princess
Aurora]

[Illustration: _Baron_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Nadia Nerina in _Façade_]

[Illustration: Roland Petit

_Germaine Kanova_]

[Illustration:

     _Roger Wood_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Margot Fonteyn and Alexander Grant in
_Tiresias_]

[Illustration:

_Magnum_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: John Field and Violetta Elvin]

[Illustration:

     _Baron_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: _Le Lac des Cygnes_--John Field and Beryl Grey]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Last Act of _Le Lac des Cygnes_

     _Baron_
]

[Illustration:

_Magnum_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: _Giselle_--Robert Helpmann and Margot Fonteyn]

[Illustration:

_Baron_

Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet: Elaine Fifield as Swanilda in _Coppélia_]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet: David Blair and Svetlana
Beriosova in _Coppélia_

_Roger Wood_
]

[Illustration:

_Baron_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: _A Wedding Bouquet_]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Act I. _The Sleeping Beauty_--The
Princess falls beneath the spell of Carabosse

_Baron_
]

[Illustration: Agnes de Mille]

[Illustration: John Lanchbery, Conductor, Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet

     _Denis de Marney_
]

[Illustration: John Hollingsworth, Conductor, Sadler’s Wells Ballet

_Maurice Seymour_
]

[Illustration: Robert Irving, Musical Director, Sadler’s Wells Ballet

     _Baron_
]

[Illustration: The Sadler’s Wells production of _The Sleeping Beauty_:
Puss-in-Boots]

[Illustration: Robert Helpmann as the Rake in _The Rake’s Progress_

_Baron_
]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Rowena Jackson as Odile in _Le Lac
des Cygnes_

     _Derek Allen_
]

[Illustration: Colette Marchand

_Lido_]

[Illustration:

     _Baron_

Moira Shearer]

[Illustration: Moira Shearer and Daughter

_Central Press Photo_
]

[Illustration:

_Baron_

Sadler’s Wells Ballet: _Symphonic Variations_--Moira Shearer, Margot
Fonteyn, Michael Somes, Pamela May

_Baron_
]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Ballet: America is closer: loading at Port
of London]

[Illustration: Sadler’s Wells Ballet: Scenery and costumes start the
trek for America

     _Acme-PA_
]

[Illustration: _Gyenes_

Antonio Spanish Ballet: Antonio]

[Illustration: Antonio Spanish Ballet: _Serenada_

_Gyenes_]

doing her something less than justice if I failed to call attention to a
supreme quality in her work, viz., that quality of implied ease in all
she does, bringing unstrained pleasure to the onlooker; coupled as it is
with a spiritual quality with which her performances seem to shimmer.
All these things, so far as I am concerned, add up to a _ballerina_
absolutely unique in my experience.

Margot Fonteyn is, to me, the true artist, because a great dancer must
be a human being before she is an artist; her art must, in the last
resort, be the expression of her personal attitude to life. She is
many-sided; and the wonder is that she is able to have this breadth of
cultural outlook when so much of her time has had to be spent in
acquiring technique, dealing with its problems and the means of
expression.

No amount of technique, no amount of technical brilliance or recondite
knowledge will hide the paucity of emotion or intellect in an artist’s
make-up. Technique, after all, is no more than the alphabet and the
words of an art, and it is only the difficulty of acquiring a
superlative technique that has led so many astray. But along what a
fatal path they have been led! How often are we told that the true
artist must devote her whole energies to her art, without the
realization that art is the highest expression of mankind and has value
only in so far as it is enriched with the blood of life.

As for Fonteyn, the person, whom I love and admire, I have no gossip to
offer, few anecdotes, no whisperings. About her there is not the
slightest trace of pose, pretentiousness, or pettiness. While she is
conscious she is a great _ballerina_, one of the top-ranking artists in
any art in the world today, she is equally conscious she is a human
being. Basically, she is shy and quite humble. Splendidly poised,
immaculately and impeccably groomed, chic in an international rather
than in a Parisian sense, she is definitely an elegant person. The
elegance of her private appearance she carries over into her appearance
as a _ballerina_. Anna Pavlova, of all other dancers I have known, had
this same quality.

Usually Margot dresses in colors that are on the dark side, like her own
personal coloring. Small-featured, small-boned, her clothes, exquisite
in cut, are strikingly simple. She is not given to jewelry, save for
earrings without which I cannot remember ever having seen her. She is
remarkably beautiful, but not in the G.I. pin-up type sense. Again there
is the similarity to Anna Pavlova, who would look elegant and _chic_
today in any _salon_ or drawing-room, because her elegance was
timeless. By all this, I do not mean to suggest that Fonteyn’s Christian
Dior evening frocks and day dresses are not modish, but nothing she
wears suggests the “latest word.”

One more word about her actions. I have mentioned her complete lack of
pretentiousness. I should like to emphasize her equal lack of apparent
awareness of her exalted position in her chosen calling. With the
company, she makes no demands, puts on no airs. There is no false
grandeur and none of the so-called “temperament” that many lesser
_ballerinas_ feel called upon to display upon the slightest provocation,
and often upon no provocation at all. She is one who submits to the
discipline of a great and continuous and uninterrupted and secure
company. Fonteyn works as hard, with daily classes and rehearsals,
mayhap harder, as any other of the large personnel. Her relations with
the company are on the same plane. When the company travels in buses,
Margot piles into the buses with them, joins in with the company at all
times, is a member of it and an inspiration to it. The company,
individually and collectively, love her and have the highest respect for
her.

Margot’s warning to me not to try to disturb her before a performance
had nothing to do with pose or “temperament.” It is simply that in order
to live up to her reputation she has a duty, exactly as she has a duty
to the role she is to enact, and because of these things, she has the
artist’s natural nervousness increased before the rise of the curtain.
She must be alone and silent with her thoughts in order to have herself
under complete control and be at her best.

In all ballet I have never known a finer colleague, or one possessed of
a greater amount of genuine good-heartedness. The examples of this sort
of thing are endless, but one incident pointing it up stands out in my
mind.

A certain American _ballerina_ was on a visit to London. Margot invited
this American girl to go to Paris with her. “Freddy” Ashton was also
coming along, she said, and it would be fun.

“I can’t go,” replied the American _ballerina_. “I’ve nothing to wear
that’s fit to be seen in Paris.”

“Come, come, don’t be silly,” replied Margot. “Here, take this suit of
mine. I’ve never worn it.”

And she handed over a new Christian Dior creation.

Now Margot at that time was by no means too blessed with the world’s
goods, and could not afford a new Dior outfit too often.

On their arrival in Paris, the group telephoned me at the Meurice and
came to see me. Turning to the American _ballerina_, a long-time friend
of mine, I could not help admiring her appearance.

“Where _did_ you get that beautiful suit?” I enquired.

“Margot gave it to me, isn’t she sweet?” she replied, quite simply.

This is Margot Fonteyn: always ready to share with others; always
thinking of others, least of all, of herself.

The following incident sums up the Margot Fonteyn I know and love. On
the final night of the second American tour, after the last performance,
I gave a farewell supper for the entire company at the Chateau
Frontenac, in Quebec City. There were speeches, of which more later.
When they were over, a _corps de ballet_ member spontaneously rose to
propose a toast to Margot Fonteyn, on her great personal triumph in
North America. The rounds of applause that followed the toast reminded
me of the opening night at the Metropolitan in New York. That applause
had come from an audience of paying customers, who had just witnessed a
new dancer scoring a triumph in an exciting performance. The applause
that went on for minutes and minutes, came from her own colleagues, many
of whom had grown up with her from the School. My eyes were moist. After
a long time, Fonteyn rose to thank them. In doing so, she reminded them
that a _ballerina_ was only as good as her surroundings and that it was
impossible for a _ballerina_ to exist without the perfect setting, which
they provided.

Here was a great artist, the greatest living _ballerina_ we of the
western world know, with all her triumphs, all her successes about her,
at the apex of her career; very much of the present, here was the true
artist, the loyal comrade, the humble, grateful human being.

From Chicago, a long journey to Winnipeg for a four-day engagement to be
filled at the request of the British Council and David Webster,
following a suggestion from H. M. the King. Winnipeg had suffered
shocking damage from floods, and His Majesty had promised Winnipeg a
visit from the Ballet while it was in America as a gala to lift the
spirits of the people.

Here the company had its first taste of real cold, for the thermometer
dropped to thirty-two degrees below zero. The result was that when it
came time to entrain for the journey half-way across the continent to
Boston, the next point on the itinerary, the baggage car doors were so
frozen that they had to be opened with blowtorches and charges of
explosives.

It was a four-day and three-night journey from Winnipeg to Boston, in
sub-zero, stormy weather. The intense cold slowed the locomotives and
froze the storage batteries, with the result that save for the
lounge-bar car, the cars were in complete darkness and were dimly
lighted at bed-time by a few spluttering candles. The severe cold had
also caused the steam lines in the train to freeze, so that the
temperature inside the cars was such that all made the journey wrapped
in overcoats and blankets, wearing the heterogeneous collection of
ear-lapped caps which they had purchased, even to North-west Canadian
wool and fur shakos that blossomed in Winnipeg. Somewhere east of
Chicago the “Sadler’s Wells Special” got itself behind the wreck of a
freight train which had blocked the tracks, necessitating a long detour
over the tracks of another railway, causing still further delays. Nine
hours late, the ice-covered train bearing a company that had gone
through the most gruelling train adventure of the tour, limped into
Boston’s South Station.

There followed a tense period, for the minimum time required to set and
light _The Sleeping Beauty_ is twelve hours. It was another case of
“touch and go.” Two hours were required to get the train broken up and
all the scenery cars placed for unloading; then the procession of great
trucks from the cars to the Opera House commenced; there followed the
unloading, the taking-in, the hanging, the setting, the installation of
all the heavy and complicated lighting equipment, for the theatres of
America, for the most part, are either poorly equipped or not at all,
and the Boston Opera House is in the latter category. Hundreds of
costumes had to be unpacked, pressed, and distributed. But such is the
efficiency of the Sadler’s Wells organization, its general stage
director, the late Louis Yudkin, and our own American staff, together
with the valued assistance of the Boston local manager, Aaron Richmond,
that the curtain rose at the appointed minute.

I had gone to Boston for the duration of the engagement there. Bearing
in mind the extensive travelling the company had had, climaxed by the
harrowing journey from Winnipeg, I was concerned about their fatigue and
also how it might affect the quality of the performance. My memory of
the Boston _première_ of _The Sleeping Beauty_ is that it was one of the
very best I had seen anywhere. Sir Oliver Franks, the British
Ambassador, and Lady Franks, together with Lord Wakehurst, head of the
English-Speaking Union, one of the Governors of the Covent Garden Opera
Trust, and now Governor-General of Northern Ireland, came to Boston for
the opening, and greeted the company at a delightful supper and
reception following the performance. Lord Wakehurst has been a veritable
tower of strength in the development of international cultural relations
during the Sadler’s Wells tours; together with Lady Wakehurst, he is a
charming host whose hospitality I have enjoyed in their London home.

The interest of Sir Oliver Franks, Lord Wakehurst, and the British
Council as evidenced throughout the entire tour, together with the
splendid cooperation of the English-Speaking Union, all helped in one of
the main reasons for the tour, quite apart from any dollars the company
might be able to garner. That was the extension of cultural relations
between the two great English-speaking nations.

Cultural relations are basically a matter of links between individuals
rather than links between governments, and such a tour as Sadler’s Wells
made, bringing the richness of British ballet to hundreds of thousands
of individuals, helps develop those private relationships; and the sum
of them presents a comprehensive picture of Britain to the world. In our
struggle for peace in the world, nothing is more essential than cultural
understanding. It should be pointed out that the British Council does
not send overseas companies primarily for financial gain, and its policy
in these matters is not dictated by financial considerations.

The charter of UNESCO states that since wars begin in the minds of men,
it is in the minds of men that the defenses of peace must be
constructed. Personally, I am inclined to doubt if wars ever begin in
the minds of men, but I should be the last to dispute that it is in the
minds of men that the defenses of peace must be constructed.

It was on the 28th January, 1951, that the greatest ballet tour in North
American history came to an end in Quebec City. It was a night of mixed
feelings. The company was, of course, eager to get home to London, and
also had a longing to continue here. There were the tugs of parting on
the part of our American staff. Our American Sadler’s Wells Orchestra,
forty-odd strong, the largest orchestra to tour with a ballet company in
America, adored the company and the curtain had to be held on the last
ballet on the programme, for the entire orchestra lined up to collect
autographed photographs of their favorites, and refused to heed the
orchestra personnel manager’s frantic pleas to enter the pit before each
musician had his treasured picture. It was quite unusual, I assure you,
for musicians are not noted for their interest in a _ballerina_. A
sentimental, romantic interest between a musician and a dancer is
something quite different, and is not at all unusual.

Although it was Sunday night, when the “blue laws” of Quebec frown upon
music, gaiety, and alcohol, we managed, nevertheless, to have a genuine
farewell celebration, which took the form of an after-performance dinner
at the Chateau Frontenac. The company got into their evening-clothes for
the last time on this side of the Atlantic, piled into buses at the
theatre and returned to the hotel, while the “Sadler’s Wells Special”
that was to take them back to Montreal, waited at the station. It waited
a long time, for the night’s celebration at the Chateau lasted until
four-thirty in the morning. It was a festive affair, with as fine a
dinner as could be prepared, and the wines and champagne were both
excellent and ample. We had set up a pre-dinner cocktail room in one of
the Chateau’s private rooms, and had taken the main restaurant, the
great hall of the Chateau, for the dinner. Before the dancing
commenced--yes, despite the long tour, despite the two days the company
had spent skiing and tobogganing in Quebec, with three performances in
an inadequate theatre, they danced--the dessert was served. I should
like to list the entire menu, but the dessert will give an indication of
its nature. The lights in the great dining room were extinguished, the
orchestra struck a chord, and a long line of waiters entered each
bearing flaming platters of _Omelette Norvegienne Flambée des
Mignardires_.

The guests included the Premier of Quebec and officials of the Quebec
Government. The only note that dimmed the gaiety of the occasion was the
absence of Dame Ninette de Valois and David Webster, both in London
preparing for the new season. It was not an occasion for long speeches;
our hearts and our stomachs were too full. However, I expressed my
sincere thanks to the entire organization and, in the absence of
“Madame” and Webster, Herbert Hughes, the general manager of the Ballet,
replied, and announced to the company the figures for the tour, amidst
cheers. Then followed the touching incident of the toast to Fonteyn I
have mentioned.

Before the dancing began, a sudden mania for autographs started, with
everybody collecting every other person’s autograph on the large,
specially printed menus, which I had previously autographed. Apparently
all wanted a menu as a souvenir of a venture that had gone down in the
annals of ballet and entertainment as the greatest success of all time.

From then on the dancing was general, the gaiety waxed higher. I was
doing a _schottische_ with the two-hundred-fifty pound Cockney Chief
Carpenter, Horace Fox, when one of my staff who was responsible for
transportation slid up to the orchestra leader and whispered “The King!”
We all stood silently at attention for the last time. It was well past
four in the morning, and it was to be yet another case of “touch and go”
if the “Sadler’s Wells Special” could make Montreal in time for the
departure of the special BOAC planes which were to take the company back
to London.

The company changed into traveling clothes as quickly as possible, and
buses slithered down the steep slopes of Quebec to the Station, where
harried railroad officials were holding the train. There was yet another
delay for one person who was left behind on urgent business, finally to
be seen coming, with two porters carrying his open bags and yet another
bellboy with unpacked clothes and toilet articles. As the last of the
retinue was pushed aboard, the train started. But it was long before
sleep came, and for another two hours the party continued up and down
the length of the train, in compartments, bedrooms, washrooms, as staff,
orchestra, stage-hands broke all unwritten laws of fraternization.

All were asleep, however, when the train swayed violently and with
groaning and bumping came to a sudden stop. It was the last journey and
it, of course, simply had to happen. The flanges on the wheels of two of
the baggage cars that had made the 21,000-mile journey gave way just as
the train started the long crossing of the Three Rivers Bridge between
Quebec and Montreal. Fortunately, we were moving slowly at the approach
to the bridge, slowing down for the crossing, or else--I shudder to
think what might have occurred if we had been trying to make up
time--the greatest tour of history would have ended in a ghastly
tragedy.

As a result of the derailment taking place on the bridge, we were hours
late arriving in Montreal. But the tour was over!

Here was a tour where every record of every sort had been broken. It had
reached the point where, if there was a pair of unoccupied seats in any
auditorium from coast to coast and back again, we were all likely to
feel as if the end of the world was at hand. I have mentioned the
mundane matter of the financial returns. From a critical point of view,
I cannot attempt to summarize the spate of eulogy that greeted the
company in every city. Cynics may have something to say about this, to
the effect that the critics had been overpowered by size and glamor.
But a careful consideration of it all, a sober analysis, disproves any
suggestion that this was the result of any uncritical rush of blood to
the head. On the contrary, it reveals that the critical faculty was
carefully exercised and that the collective testimony to the excellence
of Sadler’s Wells was based on sound appreciation.

It is impossible for me to bring to a close this phase of the concise
history of the association in ballet of which I am the proudest in my
life without sketching an outline of the quartet that makes Sadler’s
Wells the great institution it is, together with a few of the
outstanding personalities that give it color and are such an important
part of it.

The list is long, and lack of space limits my consideration to a few.
First of all, let me pay tribute to that directorial triumvirate to
whom, collectively and individually, Sadler’s Wells owes its existence
and its superior place in the world of ballet in our time: Ninette de
Valois, Frederick Ashton, and Constant Lambert. Lamentably, the
triumvirate is now a duo, owing to the recent untimely passing of the
third member.


_NINETTE DE VALOIS_

I have more than once indicated my own deep admiration for Ninette de
Valois and have sketched, as best I can, her tremendous contribution. In
all my experience of artists, I have never known a harder worker, a more
single-purposed practical idealist, a more concentrated and devoted
human being. In addition to being the chief executive of Sadler’s Wells,
burdened with the responsibility for two ballet companies and a school,
she is a striking creator.

Living with her husband-physician down in Surrey, she does her marketing
before she leaves home in the morning for the Garden; travels up on the
suburban train; spends long hours at her work; goes back to Surrey,
often late at night, sometimes to prepare dinner, since the servant
problem in Britain is acute; and has been known to tidy up her husband’s
surgery for the next morning, before herself calling it a day. All this,
day in and day out, is done with zest and vigor.

An idealist she is and yet, at the same time, completely realistic.
Without wishing to cast the remotest reflection on the feminine sex, I
would say that Ninette de Valois has a masculine mind in her approach to
problems artistic or business, and to life itself. She feels things
passionately, and these qualities are apparent in everything she does.
When her mind is made up, there is no budging her. In a less intelligent
person this might be labelled stubbornness.

Like the majority of English dancers, prior to her establishment of a
British national ballet, she was brought up in the traditions of Russian
ballet. But it should be remembered that she was the first one to break
up the foundation of the Russian tradition, utilizing its richness to
create an English national school. At Sadler’s Wells, in collaboration
with Constant Lambert, she has devoted a great deal of attention to the
music of our time, although this has never taken the form of any denial
or repudiation of the tradition of the old Russian school--on the
contrary, her work at Sadler’s Wells has been a continuation and
development of that school, using the new to enrich the old.

As a person with whom to work, I find her completely fascinating. I have
never known any one even faintly like her. Her magnificent sense of
organization is but one aspect of what I have called her “masculinity”
of mind. Figures as well as _fouettés_ are a part of her life. She is
adept at handling both situations and individuals. Her dancers obey the
slightest lifting of her eyebrows, for she is a masterful person,
although quite impersonal in her mastery. She possesses the art of the
single withering sentence. Her superb organizing ability has enabled her
to surround herself with a highly able staff; but the sycophantic
“yes-man” is something for which she has no time. Hers is a
rapid-working mind, often being several leaps ahead of all others in a
conference. Sincere, honest criticism she welcomes; anything other, she
detests. I remember an occasion when a certain critic made a comment
based on nothing more than personal bias and a twisted, highly personal
approach. Her response was acid, biting, withering, and I was glad I was
not on the receiving end.

I am sure that Ninette de Valois was convinced of her mission early in
her career. That mission--to found a truly national British ballet--she
has richly fulfilled. Much of the work involved in this fulfilment has
been the exercise of great organizing and executive ability: in the
formulation of policy and plans as well as carrying them out; in the
employment of a large number of talented and efficient people; in
determining the scale on which the venture should be conducted.

I have spoken of “Madame’s” ability to handle people. This has earned
her, in some quarters, an undeserved reputation for being a forbidding
and austere person. The fact that she is, as she must be, a strict
disciplinarian with her company, does not mean that she cannot be a
genuinely gay and amusing person. In certain respects, despite her Irish
birth as Edris Stannus, she is a veritable English lady, in the best
sense of the term, with an English lady’s virtues (and they are
numerous). These virtues include, among others, a very definite,
forceful, but quiet efficiency; more than average common sense; a
passion for being fair; the inbred necessity for being economical.
Against all this is set that quality of idealism that turned a dancing
school into a great national ballet. Idealism dreamed it, practicality
brought it to fruition.

In those far-off days before the second world war, when I used to visit
the ballet in Russia, it was one of my delights to go to the classes of
the late Agrippina Vaganova, one of the greatest of ballet teachers of
all time, and to watch this wise and highly talented ballet-mistress at
work.

I noted that it was Vaganova’s invariable custom to open her classes
with a two or three minute talk, in which she would compliment the
company, and individuals in particular, on their work in the ballet
performance the night before, closing with:

“I am proud of you. Thank you very much.”

Then they would go to work in the class, subjected to the strictest
discipline, and, sometimes, to the sharpest and most caustic sort of
criticism imaginable. Then, at the end of the class, again came
individual approbation and encouragement.

This is the sort of little thing I have never observed at Sadler’s
Wells. It may, of course, be there; and again, it may not.

The Sadler’s Wells personnel love “Madame”; regard it as a high
privilege to be a part of the Wells organization; do not look on their
association merely as a “job.”

It might be that “Madame” could advantageously employ Vaganova’s method
in this regard, use her example in her own relations with her company.
Certainly, it could do no harm, as I see it. It may well be that she
does. The point is that I have never seen it in practice.

In the better part of a lifetime spent in the midst of the dance, I can
remember no one with a greater devotion to ballet, or one willing to
make more sacrifices for it, and for the spreading of its gospel.

Let me cite just one example of this devotion. It was during the second
North American tour of the Sadler’s Wells company that, despite all the
demands made upon her time and energy, she was impelled to undertake a
long lecture tour of Canada and the Northwest to spread the gospel of
ballet and the British Council.

Herbert Hughes, the general manager, came to me to point out that since
“Madame” had to do this, he felt we should send some one to accompany
her, because she was unfamiliar with the country, and with the train and
air schedules.

I fully concurred, in view of all he had said, and the possibility of
inclement weather at that time of the year.

Together we approached “Madame” with the idea. It did not meet with her
approval. It was quite unnecessary. She was quite able to take care of
herself. She did not want any one “making a fuss” over her.

Of course, she would require funds for her expenses. Hughes prevailed
upon her to accept $300 as petty cash. “Madame” stuffed the money into
her capacious reticule.

When “Madame” rejoined the company, she brought back $137 of the $300.
“This is the balance,” she said to Hughes, “I didn’t spend it.”

This entire lecture tour, in which she covered thousands of miles, was
but another example of her tirelessness and Ninette de Valois’
single-track mind.

She was due to rejoin the company at the Ambassador Hotel, in Los
Angeles, on the morning of the Los Angeles _première_ of the Sadler’s
Wells Ballet, at which time we had arranged a large breakfast
press-conference, over which “Madame” was to preside.

“Madame” was due by airplane from Vancouver early the previous evening.
Hughes suggested that he should go to the airport to greet her, or that
some one should be sent; but I vetoed the idea, remembering that
“Madame” did not want a “fuss” made over her. Although the plane was due
round about nine o’clock in the evening, midnight had produced no
“Madame.” A telephonic check with the Terminal assured us the plane had
arrived safely and on time. Hughes and I sat up until three-thirty in
the morning waiting, but in vain.

I was greatly disturbed and exercised when, at nine the next morning,
she had not put in an appearance. The press-conference was set for ten
o’clock, and “Madame” was its most important feature. Moreover, I was
concerned for her safety.

A few minutes before the start of the breakfast conference, unperturbed,
unruffled, neat and calm as always, “Madame” entered the Ambassador
foyer with her customary spirit and swift, sure gait.

We gathered round her. What had happened? Was she all right? Had
anything gone wrong?

“Don’t be silly. What _could_ go wrong?”

But what had happened? We pressed for an explanation.

“The strangest thing, my dears,” she said. “When I arrived last night, I
looked in my bag for the piece of paper on which I had noted the name of
this hotel. I couldn’t find it; nor could I, for the life of me,
remember it.”

“What did you do?”

“Do? I went to sleep at the airport.”

“And--?”

“And this morning I said to myself, ‘Come, pull yourself together.’ I
tried an old law of association of ideas. I managed to remember
the name of this hotel had something to do with diplomacy.
‘Diplomacy--Diplomacy,’ I said to myself.... ‘Embassy?... No, that’s not
it.’ I tried again.... ‘Ambassador?’ ... There, you have it. And here I
am.... Let us go, or we shall be late. Where is this press conference?”

That is Ninette de Valois.

Ninette de Valois’ work as a choreographer speaks for itself. Her
approach to any work is always professional, always intellectual, never
amateur, never sentimental. Some of her works may be more successful
than others, whether they are academic or highly original, but each
bears the imprint of one of the most distinctive, able, and agile minds
in the history of ballet.

So far as I have been able to observe, Ninette de Valois _is_ Sadler’s
Wells. Sadler’s Wells _is_ the national ballet of Britain. In looking
objectively at the organization, with its two fine companies, its
splendid school, I pray that Ninette de Valois may long be spared, for,
with all its splendid organization, Sadler’s Wells and British national
ballet are synonyms, and unless the dear lady has someone up her sleeve,
I cannot, for the life of me, see a successor in the offing.


_FREDERICK ASHTON_

Frederick Ashton, the chief choreographer of the company, is the
complete antithesis of his colleague. Where de Valois is realistic,
“Freddy” is sentimental. Where “Madame” may sometimes be rigid, Ashton
is adaptable. Some of his work is “slick” and smooth. He is a romantic,
but by that I do not necessarily mean a “neo-romantic.”

Ashton was born in Ecuador, in 1909, which does not make him Ecuadorian,
any more than the fact that he spent his childhood in Peru, makes him
Peruvian. His British parents happened to be living there at the time.
It is said that his interest in dance was first aroused upon seeing Anna
Pavlova dance in far-off Peru.

Moving to London with his parents, “Freddy” had the privilege of being
exposed to performances of the Diaghileff Company, and he had his first
ballet lessons from Leonide Massine. Massine turned him over to Marie
Rambert when he left London. It was for Rambert that he staged his first
work, _The Tragedy of Fashion_, for the Nigel Playfair revue,
_Hammersmith Nights_, in 1926. An interim in Paris with Ida Rubenstein,
Nijinska, and Massine, was followed by a long time with Marie Rambert
and her Ballet Club. The Paris interlude with Nijinska and Massine
affected him profoundly. He was a moving figure in the life of the
Camargo Society, and in 1935 he joined the Vic-Wells (later to be known
as the Sadler’s Wells Ballet), as resident choreographer.

During the years between, Ashton has become England’s great creator. He
is also a character dancer of wide variety, as witness his Carabosse in
_The Sleeping Beauty_, his shy and wistful Ugly Sister in _Cinderella_.
His contribution to ballet in England is tremendous. Nigh on to a dozen
ballets for the Ballet Rambert; something between twenty-five and thirty
for the Sadler’s Wells organization; _Devil’s Holiday_ for the Ballet
Russe de Monte Carlo, a work which, because of the outbreak of the war,
he was unable to complete, and which was never seen in this country with
its creator’s full intentions; two works in New York for the New York
City Ballet; and the original production of the Gertrude Stein-Virgil
Thomson _Four Saints in Three Acts_, in New York.

It is interesting to note the wide variety of his creative work by
listing some of his many works, which, in addition to those mentioned
above, include, among others, the following: For the Ballet Club of
Marie Rambert: _Les Petits Riens_, _Leda and the Swan_, _Capriol Suite_,
_The Lady of Shalott_, _La Peri_, _Foyer de Danse_, _Les Masques_,
_Mephisto Valse_, and several others.

For that founding society of contemporary British ballet, which I have
mentioned before, the Camargo Society: _Pomona_, _Façade_, _The Lord of
Burleigh_, _Rio Grande_ (originally known as _A Day In a Southern
Port_), and other works.

I have already mentioned some of his outstanding works for the Sadler’s
Wells Ballet. Others include _Nocturne_, to Delius’s _Paris_;
_Apparitions_, to a Liszt-Lambert score; _Les Rendez-vous_, to a
Constant Lambert score based on melodies by Auber, seen in America in
the repertoire of the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet; the delicious _A
Wedding Bouquet_, to an original score by Lord Berners and a Gertrude
Stein text; _Les Patineurs_, to melodies by Meyerbeer; Constant
Lambert’s _Horoscope_; _Dante Sonata_, to Liszt works arranged by
Lambert; _The Wise Virgins_, to Bach arranged by Sir William Walton;
_The Wanderer_, to Schubert; Walton’s _The Quest_; _Les Sirènes_, by
Lord Berners; the César Franck _Symphonic Variations_; the Coronation
ballet of 1953--_Homage to the Queen_; and, in a sense, most
importantly, the full length _Cinderella_, utilizing the Prokofieff
score; and the full length production of Delibes’ _Sylvia_.

Actually, I like to think of Ashton as a dance-composer, moving freely
with dramatic or symbolic characters.

In all my experience of ballet and of choreographers, I do not believe
there is any one more conscientious, more hard-working, more painstaking
at rehearsals. While his eye misses nothing, he never raises his voice,
never loses his temper. Corrections are made firmly, but quietly, almost
in seeming confidence. Always he has a good word for something well
done. On occasion, I have noticed something to be adjusted and have
mentioned it to him.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he would say.

“Aren’t you going to tell them?”

“You tell them,” Ashton would smile. “I can’t tell them. Go on, you tell
them.”

This was in connection with a musical matter. The conductor in question
was taking a portion of the work at a too rapid tempo. It involved
“Freddy” telling the conductor the passage was being played too fast.

“No,” repeated “Freddy,” “it will work out. He will see it and feel it
for himself. I don’t want to upset him.”

An extraordinarily conscientious worker, he is equally self-deprecating.
Some of this self-deprecation can be found in his work, for there is
almost always a high degree of subtlety about all of it. Among all the
choreographers I know, there is none his superior or his equal in
designing sheer poetry of movement. Ashton is able, in my opinion, to
bring to ballet some of that quality of enchantment that, in the old
days, we found only with the Russians.

This self-deprecating quality of “Freddy’s” is at its strongest on
opening nights of his works. It is very real and sincere.

“Everything I do is always a flop here in England, you know,” he will
say. “They don’t like me.... I’ve done the best I can.... There you
are.”

Despite this self-deprecation, Ashton, once his imagination is stirred,
his inspiration stimulated, throws off a certain indolence that is one
of his characteristics, knows exactly what he wants, how to get it, and
goes about it. Like all creative artists, during the actual period of
creation, he can be alternately confident and despairing, determined and
resigned. Despite the reluctance to exercise his authority, he can, if
occasion demands, put his foot down firmly, and does.

Yet, in doing so, I am certain that never in his life has he hurt any
one, for “Freddy” Ashton is essentially a kind person.

Three British _ballerinas_ owe Ashton an immense debt: Margot Fonteyn,
Moira Shearer, and Alicia Markova. It is due in large measure to
Ashton’s tuition, his help, his sound advice, and his plastic sense that
these fine artists have matured.

Every choreographer worthy of the name stamps his works with his own
personality. Ashton’s signature is always apparent in his work. No
matter how characteristic of him his works may be choreographically,
they are equally dissimilar and varied in mood.

One of my great pleasures is to watch him at rehearsal, giving, giving,
giving of himself to dancers. Before the curtain rises, that final
expectant moment before the screen between dancer and audience is
withdrawn, Ashton is always on the stage, moving from dancer to dancer:
“Cheer up”.... “Back straight, duckie”.... “Present yourself”.... “Chin
up, always chin up, darling.” ...

Personally, “Freddy” is an unending delight. Shy, shy, always shy, shy
like the shy sister he plays in _Cinderella_, he is always the good
colleague, evincing the same painstaking interest in the ballets of
others as he does in his own, something which I assure the reader is
rare. I have yet to see “Freddy” ruffled, yet to see him outwardly
upset. In his personal appearance he is always neat, carefully dressed.
Even in the midst of hectic dress-rehearsals and their attendant
excitements and alarums, I have never seen him anything but cool, neat,
and well-groomed. There is never a fantastic “rehearsal costume” with
“Freddy.”

The picture of “Freddy” that is uppermost in my mind is of him standing
in the “Crush Bar” at Covent Garden, relaxed, at ease, listening more
than talking, laughing in his self-deprecatory way, always alert, always
amusing.

Ashton lives in London in a house in a little street quaintly called
Yeoman’s Row, on the edge of Knightsbridge and Kensington. Here he often
does his own cooking and here he works out his ideas. It is a tiny
house, the work-center being a second-floor study, crowded with
gramophone records, books, photographs and statuettes, all of which
nearly obscure the red wall-paper. The statuettes are three in number:
Anna Pavlova, Fanny Ellsler, and Marie Taglioni. The photographs range
from good Queen Alexandra, through bull-fighters, to dancers.

The Sadler’s Wells hierarchy seems to travel in groups. One such group
that seemed inseparable included Ashton, “Bobby” Helpmann, Margot
Fonteyn, and Pamela May. Occasionally Constant Lambert would join in, to
eat, to drink, to have fun. For “Freddy” is by no means averse to the
good things of life.

“Freddy” Ashton is another of those figures of the dance who should
never regard the calendar as a measure for determining his age. I
believe the youthful spirit of Ashton is such that he will live to be a
hundred-and-fifty; that, in 2075, he will be the last survivor of the
founding of Sadler’s Wells, and will then be the recipient of a grand
gala benefit at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, where, that night,
he will share the Royal Box with the then reigning monarch.


_CONSTANT LAMBERT_

It is difficult for me to write without emotion of the third of the
trio, Constant Lambert, whose loss is deeply mourned by all who knew
him, and by many who did not.

A picturesque figure, Lambert was a great conductor, a great musician, a
composer of superior talents, a critic of perception, a writer of
brilliance and incisiveness, a life-long student of the ballet.
Lambert’s contribution to the making of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet has, I
suspect, been given less credit than it deserves. I have said that, in
my three decades-and-more of ballet management, I have never known a
ballet company with such high musical standards. These standards were
imposed by Constant Lambert. Not only did he compose ballets for the
company, but when music of other composers was used, it was Lambert who
provided the strikingly brilliant orchestral arrangements--witness, as a
few examples: _Les Patineurs_, _Dante Sonata_, _The Faery Queen_,
_Comus_, _Apparitions_, _Les Rendez-vous_, _Balabile_, in which he made
alive for ballet purposes the assorted music of Meyerbeer, Liszt,
Purcell, Auber, Chabrier, respectively.

Born in London, in 1905, the son of a painter, brother of a well-known
sculptor, he spent a substantial part of his childhood in Russia, where
his grandfather supplied the Trans-Siberian Railway with its
locomotives. He was a living proof of the fact that it was possible for
an Englishman to be a musician without being suspected of not being a
gentleman. His was an incisive mind, capable of quick reactions, with a
widely ranging emotional experience.

With the Camargo Society, Constant Lambert established himself not only
as a conductor, but as the musical mind behind British ballet. However,
it was not an Englishman who discovered him as a composer. That honor
goes to a Russian, Serge Diaghileff, who, when Lambert was bordering on
twenty-one, commissioned him to write a ballet for his company. No other
English composer shared that honor before Diaghileff died, although
Diaghileff did produce, but did not commission, Lord Berners’ _The
Triumph of Neptune_. And so Lambert stands isolated, with his _Romeo and
Juliet_, which was first produced at Monte Carlo, in 1926, with Lifar
and Karsavina as the protagonists; and his second ballet, _Pomona_,
which Bronislava Nijinska staged at the Colon Theatre, Buenos Aires, in
1927.

Constant Lambert’s English education was at Christ’s Hospital. Early in
his school days he underwent a leg operation that compelled him always
to walk with a stick. All his life he was never entirely free from pain.
At the Royal College of Music he was a pupil of Ralph Vaughan Williams.
Ballet came into his life at an early date, and remained there until his
untimely passing. To it he gave the best years of his life in acting as
a sort of hair-spring to Ninette de Valois’ mainspring in the
development of Sadler’s Wells. On his sound musical foundation Sadler’s
Wells rests.

It is not within my province to discuss Lambert as a composer; but his
accomplishments and achievements in this field were considerable. It is,
of course, as a musician he will be remembered. But I could not regard
Lambert as a musician pure and simple. He had a wide variety of
interests, not the least of which was painting. Both painting and
sculpture were in his family, and, from conversations with him I
frequently got the notion that, had his technical accomplishments been
other than they were, he would have preferred to have been a painter to
a musician. Much of his music had a pictorial quality, witness his
ballets, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Pomona_, _Horoscope_, and _Tiresias_;
observe his _Piano Concerto_, _Rio Grande_ (“By the Rio Grande, they
dance no Sarabande”), _Music for the Orchestra_, _Elegiac Blues_ (a
tribute to the American Florence Mills), the _Merchant Navy Suite_,
_Summer’s Last Will and Testament_, Hogarthian in color and treatment;
and the work I shall always remember him conducting as a musical
interlude in the first season in New York, the _Aubade Heroique_, the
reproduction in sound of a Dutch landscape, a remembrance of that dawn
in Holland when Lambert, a visiting conductor with Sadler’s Wells,
witnessed the invasion of The Hague by Nazi paratroopers.

It was as a conductor of Tchaikowsky that I feel he excelled. He was a
masterly Tchaikowsky interpreter. I should have loved to hear him play
the symphonies. I content myself, however, with his _Swan Lake_ and _The
Sleeping Beauty_, and the realization of how much these two Sadler’s
Wells productions owe to him. Never was the music for an instant dull,
for Lambert always conducted it with a fine ear for contrasts of brisk
with languid, happiness with _toska_.

Composer that he was, he devoted a large part of his life to conducting.
His recordings are to be treasured. Conducting to him was not merely a
source of livelihood, but a very definite form of self-expression, an
important part of him. In my experience, I have found that composers
are, as a rule, bad conductors, and conductors bad composers. Two
exceptions I can name. Both British. Lambert was well nigh unique in his
superlative capacity in both directions, as is Benjamin Britten today.
Lambert, I feel, was not only one of the most gifted composers of his
time, but also one of its finest interpretative artists. He had the
unique quality of being able to enter wholeheartedly into the innermost
essence of forms of art diametrically opposed to his own, even
positively unsympathetic to him personally, and giving superlative
performances of them.

Lambert was no calm liver, no philosophic hermit; a good deal of a
hedonist, he met life considerably more than half way, and went out to
explore life’s possibilities to the fullest. Moreover, he richly
succeeded in doing so. He was a brilliant wit, both in writing and in
conversation. His book, _Music, Ho!_, remains one of the most
stimulating books of musical commentary and criticism of our time. He
was the collector and creator of an innumerable number of magnificent
but unprintable limericks, in the creation of which he was a distinct
poet. He had composed a series of fifty on one subject--double bishops,
i.e., bishops having more than one diocese, like Bath and Wells. A
friend of mine who has heard Lambert recite them with that gusto of
which only he was capable, tells me that they are, without doubt, one of
the most brilliant achievements in this popular form.

Wit is one thing; stout-hearted, robust humor is another. Lambert had
both. There was also a shyness of an odd kind, when a roaring laugh
would give way to a fit of wanting to be by himself, wrapped in
melancholy. His was a delicately poised combination of the introvert and
the extravert, the latter expressing itself in the love of male company
over pots of ale and even headier beverages. He had a keen appreciation
of the good things of life.

This duality of personality was apparent in his physical make-up. There
was something about his appearance that, in a sense, fitted in with the
conventional portrait of John Bull. A figure of a good deal of masculine
strength, he was big, inclined to be burly; his complexion was pink. He
exhibited in himself a disconcerting blend of the most opposite extremes
imaginable. On the one hand, a certain morbidity; on the other, a bluff
and hearty roast-beef-and-Yorkshire Britishness. I have said that he
resembled, physically, the typical drawing of John Bull. As a matter of
fact, he bore an uncanny physical resemblance to Winston Churchill, and
had elements in common with G. K. Chesterton. And a Hollywood casting
director might have engaged him to play the role of the Emperor Nero, on
strict type casting. He had an alert face on which humor often played
good tunes, but on which, now and then, there used to settle a kind of
stern gloom, not to be dispersed by any insensitive back-slapping.

He was as much at home in France as he was in England. His late
adolescence and early manhood were spent in the hectic, feverish,
restless ’twenties, with the Diaghileff Ballet and the French school of
musical composition as the preponderant influences. As he grew older,
his Englishness, if I may call it that, grew as well. The amazing thing
to me was his ability to maintain such an even balance between the two.

Lambert had a passion for enigmas. He adored cats, and had a strange
attraction to aquariums, zoos, and their fascinatingly enigmatic
inhabitants. He was President of the Kensington Kittens’ and Neuter
Cats’ Club, Incorporated. An important club, a club with a President who
knew quite a lot about cats. There is a story to the effect that there
was once a most handsome cat at London’s Albert Hall who was a close
friend of Lambert’s, a cat called Tiddleywinks, a discriminating cat,
and a cat with a certain amount of musical taste. Lambert, the
President, would never proceed with the job he had to do at the Albert
Hall without a preliminary chat with Tiddleywinks. And all would be
well.

Constant Lambert was working on, among other things, an autobiography,
concerning which he one day inquired about completely inaccessible
places left in our shrinking world, particularly since the last war and
James Norman Hall have pretty well exposed the South Pacific islands.
What he actually wanted to know was an inaccessible place to which to
hie after its publication, “because,” he said, “I’m telling the truth
about everyone I know, including myself, and I shall have to flee the
wrath of my ‘friends,’ and find a safe place where the laws of libel
cannot reach me. You know, in my country at least, ‘the greater the
truth, the greater the libel.’”

There was an infinite variety in his “drive.” He conducted ballet at
Covent Garden; radio concerts at the British Broadcasting Corporation;
symphony concerts, with special emphasis on Liszt and Sibelius, with the
London Philharmonic Orchestra; made magnificent, definitive recordings;
recited the Sitwell poems in _Façade_ at every opportunity; composed
fresh, vital works; made striking musical arrangements. He was at once
composer, conductor, critic, journalist, an authority on railroad
systems, trains, and locomotives, a student of the atom bomb, and a
talker. There are those who insist he was not easy to get to know. It
could be. He was, as I have said, shy. He was a highly concentrated
individual, living a lot on his nerves. Despite this, to those who knew
him, he was the friendliest of good companions, a perpetual stimulus to
those who delighted in knowing him.

One had to be prepared, to be sure, to discover, in the middle of one of
one’s own sentences (and, frequently, one of his own) that he was--gone.
He would tilt his chin in the air, stare suddenly into far distant
spaces, turn on his heel with the help of his stick, as swiftly as a
ballet-dancer in a _pirouette_, and silently vanish. He was a good
listener--if one had anything to say. He did not suffer fools gladly,
and to bores--that increasing affliction of our times--he presented an
inflexible deafness akin to the switching-off of a hearing-aid, and a
truly magnificent cast-iron rigidity of inattention. The bore fled. So
did Lambert.

I have given some indication of the width of his interests. It was
amazing. His gusto for life was unquenchable, and with it was a wise,
shrewd appraisement of the human comedy--and tragedy. He was able to get
through an enormous amount of work without ever seeming to do anything.
Best of all, perhaps, he was able to enjoy a joke against himself. In
this world of the arts and artists, where morbid egotisms and too
exposed nerves victimize and vitiate the artist, it was a boon to him
and an extraordinarily attractive characteristic.

Above all, he had an undying belief in British Ballet.

The last performance I saw Lambert conduct was the first performance of
his last ballet, _Tiresias_, which was the occasion of a Gala in aid of
the Ballet Benevolent Fund in the presence of H.M. the Queen and
Princess Elizabeth, on the 9th July, 1951. _Tiresias_ was a work on
which Lambert had gone back to his collaboration with Frederick Ashton.
The story he had made himself; it was a sort of composite of the myths
about Tiresias; reduced to as much of a capsule as I can, it deals with
the duality of Tiresias--as man and woman--and how he was struck blind
by Hera, when Tiresias proves her wrong when she argues with Zeus that
man’s lot is happier than woman’s. It was, this ballet, a sort of family
affair in a sense; for Lambert’s wife, Isabel, designed scenery and
costumes, setting the three-scened work on the Island of Crete.

After the first performance, we met at a large party to which I had gone
with David Webster. Lambert and his wife, along with Ninette de Valois
and Lady Keynes (Lydia Lopokova), joined us at supper. The ballet had
been a long one, running quite a bit more than an hour, and there was
general agreement among us that the work would benefit from judicious
cutting. Lambert thoughtfully considered all the suggestions that were
proffered; agreed that, conceivably, a cut or two might improve it, but
the question was where and how, without damaging what he felt was the
basic structure of the whole.

Not long after this, Lambert and I met at the door of Covent Garden,
having arrived simultaneously. We had a brief chat, and he was his usual
vastly courteous and amusing self.

A few days later, at the Savoy, my telephone rang quite early in the
morning. “Madame’s” secretary, Jane Edgeworth, at the other end,
informed me Constant Lambert had just died. I was stunned.

It appeared that Lambert had been taken ill while at a party and had
been rushed to London Clinic, one of London’s most exclusive and finest
nursing-homes, on Sunday evening, the 19th August. It was on Tuesday
morning, the 21st August, that I received the news of his death. The
funeral was quite private, since the entire Sadler’s Wells company was
away from London performing at the Edinburgh Festival. Lambert was
buried from the Church of St. Bartholomew the Great, at Smithfield, in
the City of London. So private was the service that almost no one was
there, and there were no Pallbearers.

I was present at the Memorial Service, held at the famous Church of St.
Martin’s-in-the-Fields, at Charing Cross, overlooking the National
Gallery. There were gathered his sorrowing company, now returned from
Edinburgh, headed by Ninette de Valois, Frederick Ashton, and David
Webster. The address was given by the Reverend C. B. Mortlock. Robert
Helpmann, an old colleague, read the Lesson. The chorus of the Royal
Opera House, Covent Garden, sang Bach’s _Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring_.
At the close, John Churchill, one of Britain’s greatest organists and an
old friend of Lambert’s, played on the organ that elegiac work Lambert
had composed at the rape of Holland, and which he had conducted so
magnificently at the Metropolitan Opera House--his _Aubade Heroique_.

Here at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields his colleagues paid him honor. I was
deeply moved. At the little funeral, I had been equally stirred. Here
before me was all that remained of the great man who never took his
greatness seriously; the man who would go to any trouble on behalf of
those who tried, but who, for those who were lazy, or cynical, or
thought themselves superior, and without justification, he had no use
whatever. Here was a man about whom there was nothing of the academic
recluse, but a man who loved life as he loved music, ballet, fully,
strongly, with ever-growing zest and with ever-deepening understanding;
the man who had done so much for ballet, its music, its standards; who
had been of such vital importance in the fashioning of Sadler’s Wells.
My thoughts went back to his creations, his arrangements. I was actually
conscious of his imprint on all ballet. Memories of his wit, his
brilliance, crowded into my mind.

I expected, I think, that with the sudden passing of a man of such fame,
there would be an outpouring of thousands for his funeral, to pay their
last, grateful respects. I was surprised. This was not the case, as I
have explained. A few close distinguished friends and colleagues
gathered beside the coffin in the Church of St. Bartholomew the Great,
in the City: Sir William Walton, Osbert and Sacheverell Sitwell, Sir
Arthur Bliss, Edmund Rubbra, Alan Rawsthorne, Ninette de Valois,
Frederick Ashton, and Robert Helpmann who had hurried down from
Edinburgh.

The service was brief and hushed. I was indeed very sad, and my thoughts
traveled out to the little chapel in Golder’s Green, not so far as an
angel flies, where lay all that was mortal of another genius of the
dance and another friend, in the urn marked: “East Wall--No. 3711--Anna
Pavlova.”

As Lambert’s body was borne from St. Bartholomew the Great’s gothic
pile, I bowed my head low as a great man passed, a very lovable man.


_DAVID WEBSTER_

I have dwelt at some length on my impressions of the artistic
directorate of Sadler’s Wells. Beyond and apart from the artistic
direction of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, but very much responsible for
its financial well-being, is David Lumsden Webster, the General
Administrator of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.

David Webster is not a head-line hunter. He is certainly not the
press-agent’s delight. He does not court publicity. He permits his work
to speak for itself.

On more than one occasion I have been appropriately chilled by a reading
of the impersonal factual coldness of the entries in that otherwise
useful volume, _Who’s Who_. The following quotation from it is no
exception:

     _Webster, David Lumsden, B.A.--General Administrator Royal Opera
     House 1946--Born 3rd July, 1903--Educated Holt School, Liverpool
     University, Oxford University--President Liverpool Guild of
     Undergraduates, 1924-25--General Manager Bon Marché, Liverpool,
     Ltd., 1932-40--General Manager Lewis’s Ltd., Liverpool,
     1940-41--Ministry of Supply Ordnance Factories, engaged on special
     methods of developing production, 1942-44--Chairman Liverpool
     Philharmonic Society, June 1940-October 1945._

To be sure, the facts are there. Not only is it possible to elaborate on
these facts, but to add some which may be implicit in the above
summary, but not apparent. For example, I can add that David Webster is
a cultured gentleman of taste, courage, and splendid business
perspicacity. His early background of business administration, as may be
gathered, was acquired in the fields of textiles and wearing apparel,
and was continued, during the war, in the highly important field of
expediting ordnance production.

Things that are not implicit or even suggested in _Who’s Who_ are the
depth and breadth of his culture, his knowledge of literature and drama
and poetry and music--his love for the last making him a genuine musical
amateur in the best sense of the term. It was the last that was of
immense value to him as Chairman of the Liverpool Philharmonic Society
in building it into one of Britain’s outstanding symphonic bodies. It is
understandable that there was a certain amount of pardonable pride in
the accomplishment, since Webster is himself a Liverpudlian.

At the end of the war, in a shell-shocked, bomb-blasted London, Webster
was invited to take over the post of General Administrator at Covent
Garden when the Covent Garden Opera Trust was formed at the time of the
Boosey and Hawkes leasehold. Since 1946, David Webster has been
responsible for the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden: for the Opera
entirely, and for the Ballet, in conjunction with Ninette de Valois.

During this time, he has restored the historic house to its rightful
place among the leading lyric theatres of the world; where private
enterprise and the private Maecenas failed, Webster has succeeded. By
his policies, the famous house has been saved from the ignominy of a
public dance-hall in off-seasons, for now there are no longer any
“off-seasons.”

David Webster is uniquely responsible for a number of things at Covent
Garden. Let me try to enumerate them. He has succeeded in establishing
and maintaining the Royal Opera House, Covent Carden, as a truly
national opera house, restoring this great theatre and reclaiming it as
a national center for ballet and opera, on a year-round basis. He has
succeeded in shaking off many of the hidebound traditions and
conventions of opera production. While the great standard works of opera
are an essential part of the operatic repertoire, he initiated a broad
policy of experimentation both in the production of standard works and
in new, untried operas. He has succeeded, through his invitation to the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet, in making ballet an integral and important part
of the Opera House and has helped it to become a truly national ballet.
In addition to striking national operas by Bliss and Vaughan Williams,
it was Webster’s courage that has provided a home for three unique
operas, _Peter Grimes_, _Billy Budd_ and _Gloriana_, great works by that
brilliant young British composer, Benjamin Britten. While it is true the
original commission for the former work came from the Natalie
Koussevitsky Foundation in America, it was Webster who had the vision
and courage to mount both great modern operas grandly. It was Webster
who had the courage to mount the latter, based on Herman Melville’s
immortal story, with Britten as conductor; and a magnificent one he
turned out to be.

Britten is indisputably at the very top among the figures of
contemporary music. He is a young man of exceptional gifts, and it is
Webster and the permanent Covent Garden organization that have provided
the composer with exceptional opportunities for the expression of them.
This is only possible through the existence of a national opera house
with a permanent roof over its head.

As is the case with all innovators, it has not been all clear sailing
for Webster; there were sections of the press that railed against his
policy. But Webster won, because at the root of the policy was a very
genuine desire to break away from stale conventions, to combat some of
the stock objections and prejudices that keep many people away from
opera. For Webster’s aim is to create a steady audience and to appeal to
groups that have not hitherto attended opera and ballet, or have
attended only when the most brilliant stars were appearing.

In London, as in every center, every country, there are critics and
critics. Some are captious; others are not. One of the latter variety in
London once tackled me, pointing out his dislike for most of the things
that were going on at Covent Garden, his disagreement with others. I
listened for a time, until he asked me if I agreed with him.

My answer was simple and short.

“Look here,” I said. “A few years ago this beautiful house had what?
Shilling dances. Who peopled it? Drunken sailors, among others. Bow
Street and the streets adjoining were places you either avoided like the
plague; or else you worried and hurried through them, if you must.

“Today, you have a great opera house restored to its proper uses. Now
you have something to criticize. Before you didn’t.”

It has been thanks to David Webster’s sympathetic guidance that ballet
has grown in popularity until its audiences are larger than are those
for opera.

A man of firm purpose, few words, eclectic taste, and great personal
charm, David Webster is a master of diplomatic skill. I can honestly say
that some of the happiest days of my life have been spent working
closely with him. Had it not been for his warm cooperation, his
unquenchable enthusiasm, America might easily have been denied the
pleasure and profit of Sadler’s Wells, and our lives would have been the
poorer.

The last time I was in Webster’s office, I remarked, “We must prepare
the papers for the next tour.”

Webster looked up quickly.

“No papers are necessary,” he said.

For the reader who has come this far, it should not be necessary for me
to underline the difference between negotiations with the British and
the years of wrangling through the intrigues and dissimulations of the
Russo-Caucasian-Eastern European-New England mazes of indecision.

My respect for and my confidence in David Webster are unlimited. He is a
credit to his country; and to him, also, must go much of the credit for
the creation of a genuine national opera and for the solid position of
the Sadler’s Wells Ballet.


_ROBERT HELPMANN_

It was towards the end of the San Francisco engagement of the Sadler’s
Wells Ballet that there occurred a performance, gala so far as the
audience was concerned, but which was not without its sadness to the
company, to me, and to all those who had watched the growth and
development, the rise to a position of pre-eminence on the part of
British ballet. The public was, of course, completely unaware of the
event. It is not the sort of thing one publicizes.

Robert Helpmann, long the principal male dancer, a co-builder, and an
important choreographer of the company, resigned. His last performance
as a regular member of the organization took place in the War Memorial
Opera House. The vehicle for his last appearance was the grand
_pas-de-deux_ from the third act of _The Sleeping Beauty_, with Margot
Fonteyn. It was eminently fitting that Helpmann’s final appearance as a
regular member of the company was with Margot. Their association, as
first artists with the company, encompassed the major portion of its
history, some fifteen years.

During this period, Helpmann had served in two capacities
simultaneously: as principal dancer and as choreographer. An Australian
by birth in 1909, his first ballet training came from the Anna Pavlova
company when Pavlova was on one of her Australian tours. For four years
he danced “down under,” and came to Britain in 1933, studying with the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet School, while dancing in the _corps de ballet_.
His first important role was in succession to Anton Dolin as Satan, in
the de Valois-Vaughan Williams _Job_. From 1934, he was the first male
dancer of the Sadler’s Wells organization. Helpmann often took leaves of
absence to appear in various plays and films, for he is an actor of
ability and distinction. As a choreographer, his _Hamlet_ and _Miracle
in the Gorbals_ are distinctive additions to any repertoire.

“Bobby” Helpmann has not given up ballet entirely. When he can spare the
time from his theatrical and film commitments, he is bound to turn up as
a guest artist, and I hope to see him again partnering great
_ballerinas_. Always a good colleague, he has been blessed by the gods
with a delicious sense of humor. This serves him admirably in such roles
as one of the Ugly Sisters in _Cinderella_--I never can distinguish
which one by name, and only know “Bobby” was the sister which “Freddy”
Ashton was not. Both _Hamlet_ and _Miracle in the Gorbals_ revealed his
serious acting qualities.

Man of the theatre, he is resourceful. On the first night of _The
Sleeping Beauty_, at the Metropolitan Opera House, there were a few
ticklish moments at the beginning of the Transformation Scene, due to
technical difficulties. The orchestra under Lambert went straight on.
But the stage wait was covered by Helpmann’s entrance, his sure hand,
his manner, his style, his “line,” his graciousness.

I have mentioned some of Helpmann’s warm personal qualities. He is one
of those associated with Sadler’s Wells who has helped to number my
Sadler’s Wells’ associations among my happiest experiences. Helpmann is
one of those who, like the others when I am with them, compel me to
forget my business interests and concerns and all their associated
problems: just another proof that, with people of this sort, there is
something else in life besides business.

There has been, perhaps, undue emphasis placed upon Helpmann, the actor,
with a corresponding tendency to overlook his dancing abilities. From
the point of view of sheer technical virtuosity, there are others who
surpass him. But technical virtuosity is not by any means all of a
dancer’s story. I happen to know of dancers who, in my opinion, have
excelled Nijinsky and Pavlova in these departments, but they were much
lesser artists. It is the overall quality in a dancer that matters.
Helpmann, I feel, is a dancer of really exceptional fluency, superb
lightness, genuine musicality, and admirable control. He is one of the
rare examples among male dancers to be seen about us today of what is
known in ballet terminology as the _danseur noble_. It is the _danseur
noble_ who is the hero, the prince, of classical ballet. As a mime and
an actor in ballet he may be compared with Leonide Massine, but the
quality I have mentioned Helpmann as having is something that has been
denied Massine, who is best in modern character ballets.

Sir Arthur Bliss, one of Britain’s most distinguished composers, and the
creator of the scores to, among others, _Checkmate_ and _Miracle in the
Gorbals_, has said: “Robert Helpmann breathes the dust of the theatre
like hydrogen. His quickness to seize on the dramatic possibilities of
music is mercurial. I was not at all surprised to hear him sing in _Les
Sirènes_. It would seem quite natural to see him walk on to the Albert
Hall platform one day to play a violin concerto.”

It is always a pleasure to me to observe him in his varied roles and to
watch him prepare for them. He leaves absolutely nothing to chance. His
approach is always the product of his fine intelligence. He experiments
with expression, with gesture, with make-up, coupling his reading, his
study of paintings, with his own keen sense of observation.

“Bobby” Helpmann and I have one great bond in common: our mutual
adoration of Pavlova. Pavlova has, I know, strongly influenced him, and
this influence is apparent in the genuine aristocracy of his bearing and
his movement, in the purity of his style.

There is a pretty well authenticated story about the first meeting
between Helpmann and Ninette de Valois, after the former had arrived in
London from Australia, and was looking for work at Sadler’s Wells. It
was an audition. The choreographer at such times is personally concerned
with the body of the aspirant, the extremities, the quality of movement,
the technical equipment of the applicant, some revelation of his
training and his style, if any. It is characteristic of Ninette de
Valois’ tendency to do the unexpected that, in Helpmann’s case, she
found herself regarding the “wrong end” of her subject. Her comment on
this occasion has become historic.

“I can do something with that face,” she said.

She did.

It has been a source of regret to me that on the 1953 American visit of
the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, “Bobby” Helpmann is not a regular member of
the company. It is not the same without him.

I have said that perhaps undue emphasis has been put on Helpmann, the
actor. If this is true, it is only because of “Bobby’s” amazing
versatility: as dancer, as choreographer, as actor, as stage-director.
He can turn at will from one medium to the other. As actor, it should
not be forgotten that he has appeared with equal success in revues (as a
mimic); in Shakespeare (both on stage and screen); in plays ranging from
Webster and Bernard Shaw to the Russian Andreyev.

Most recently, he has acted with the American Katherine Hepburn, and has
scored perhaps his most outstanding directorial success to date in his
superlatively fine mounting of T. S. Eliot’s _Murder in the Cathedral_,
at the Old Vic.

I am looking forward to bringing “Bobby” to America in the not too far
distant future in a great production of a Shakespeare work which I am
confident will make theatrical history.

“Bobby” Helpmann, as I have pointed out, is more than a dancer: he is a
splendid actor, a fine creator, a distinguished choreographer, an
intelligent human being.

His is a friendship I value; he is alive and eager, keen and shrewd,
with a ready smile and a glint in his eye. For “Bobby” has a happy way
with him, and whether you are having a meal with him or discussing a
point, you cannot help reacting to his boyish enthusiasm, his zeal for
his job, his flair for doing it. My memories of dinners and suppers with
the “inseparables,” to which I have often been invited, are treasured.
The “inseparables” were that closely-linked little group: Fonteyn,
Ashton, Helpmann, with de Valois along, when she was in town and free.
The bond between the members of the group is very close.

It was in Chicago. It was mid-tour, with rehearsals and conferences and
meetings for future planning. We were at breakfast. “Madame” suddenly
turned to Helpmann.

“Bobby,” she said, with that crisp tone that immediately commands
attention. “Bobby, I want you to be sure to be at the Drake Hotel to
give a talk to the ladies at one o’clock _sharp_. Now, be sure to come,
and be sure to be there on time.”

“How, in heaven’s name,” replied Helpmann, “can I possibly be in two
places at one time? You told me I shall have to be at the Public Library
at one sharp.”

De Valois regarded him for a long moment.

“You astound me, Bobby,” she finally said. “Did I tell you that? Very
well, then, let it be the Public Library. I shall take the Drake Hotel.
But watch out, make sure you are there on time.”

Ninette de Valois not only did something with “that face.” She also made
good use of that intelligence.

I last saw “Bobby” Helpmann dance at the Royal Opera House, Covent
Garden, on Coronation Night, when he returned as a guest artist with the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet, to appear with Margot Fonteyn in _Le Lac des
Cygnes_, Act Two.

What a pleasure it was to see him dancing once more, the true cavalier,
with his perfect style and the same submerging of technique in the ebb
and flow of the dance. I am looking forward to seeing him again, and, I
hope, again and again.


_ARNOLD L. HASKELL_

Among my cherished associations with this fine organization, I cannot
fail to acknowledge the contribution to ballet and the popularity of it,
made through the media of books, articles, lectures, by the one-time
ballet critic and now Director and Principal of the Sadler’s Wells
School, Arnold L. Haskell.

Haskell, the complete _balletomane_ himself, has done as much, if not
more, to develop the cult of the _balletomane_ in the western
Anglo-Saxon world as any one else I know. Devoted to the cause of the
dance, for years he gave unsparingly of his time and means to spread the
gospel of ballet.

In the early days of the renaissance of ballet, Haskell came to the
United States on the first visit of the de Basil company and was of
immense assistance in helping to create an interest in and a desire to
find out about ballet on the part of the American people. He helped to
organize an audience. Later, he toured Australia with the de Basil
company, preaching “down under” the gospel of the true art with the zeal
of a passionate, proselyting, non-conformist missionary.

From his untiring pen has come a long procession of books and articles
on ballet appreciation in general, and on certain phases of ballet in
particular--books of illumination to the lay public, of sound advice to
dancers.

Arnold Haskell’s balletic activities can be divided into five
departments: organizer, author, lecturer, critic, and educator. In the
first category, he, with Philip J. S. Richardson, long-time editor and
publisher of the _Dancing Times_ (London), was instrumental in forming
and founding the Camargo Society, after the death of Diaghileff. As
lecturer, he delivered more than fifteen hundred lectures on ballet for
the British Ministry of Information, the Arts Council, the Council for
the Education of His Majesty’s Forces. As critic, he has written
innumerable critical articles for magazines and periodicals, and, from
1934 to 1938, was the ballet critic of the _Daily Telegraph_ (London).

As critic, Haskell has rendered a valuable service to ballet. His
approach is invariably intelligent. He has a sound knowledge of the
dancer as dancer and, so far as dancers and dancing are concerned, he
has exhibited a fine intuition and a good deal of prophetic insight.

The fifth department of Arnold Haskell’s activities, educator, is the
one on which he is today most successfully and conspicuously engaged. As
the active head of the Sadler’s Wells School, established in its own
building in Colet Gardens, Kensington, Arnold Haskell is in his element,
continuing his sound advice directly; he is acting as wise and
discerning mentor to a rising generation of dancers, who live together
in the same atmosphere for at least eight years.

I have a feeling of warm friendship for Arnold Haskell, an infinite
respect for him as a person, and for his knowledge.

The School of which he is the head, like all other Sadler’s Wells
activities, is carried on in association with the British Arts Council,
thus carrying forward the Council’s avowed axiom that the art of a
people is one of its signs of good health. So it has always been in the
world’s history from Ancient Greece to France at the time of the
Crusades, to Renaissance Italy and Elizabethan England. Each one of
those earlier manifestations, whatever its excellence, was confined to a
limited number of people, to the privileged and the elect. The new
renaissance will inevitably be the emergence of the common man into the
audience of art. He has always been a part of that audience when he has
had the opportunity. Now the opportunity must come in such a way that
none is overlooked and the result will be fresh vigour and
self-confidence in the people as a whole.

The Sadler’s Wells School is, of course, under the direct supervision of
Dame Ninette de Valois, D.B.E. Its Board of Governors, which is active
and not merely a list of names, numbers distinguished figures from the
world of art, music and letters.

The School was founded by the Governors of the Sadler’s Wells
Foundation, in association with the Arts Council, in 1947, to train
dancers who will be fitted to carry on the high tradition of Sadler’s
Wells and generally to maintain and enhance the prestige of British
Ballet. Over eighty-five per cent of the members of the ballet companies
at both the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, and at the Sadler’s Wells
Theatre are graduates of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet School. The School
combines a full secondary education and a highly specialized vocational
training. Boys and girls are taken from the age of nine. Pupils are
prepared for what is the equivalent on this side of the Atlantic of a
complete High School education; in Britain, the General Certificate of
Education, and the curriculum includes the usual school subjects of
English language and literature, French, Latin (for boys only), history,
geography, Scripture, mathematics, science, handicraft, music, and art
work. The dance training consists of classical ballet, character dances,
mime. Importance is attached to character formation and to the
self-discipline essential for success on the stage.

There is also an Upper School, which is open to boys and girls above
school-leaving age. After taking the General Certificate of Education,
the American equivalent of graduation from high school, students from
the Lower School pass into the Upper School if they have reached a
standard which qualifies them for further training in the senior ballet
classes. The Upper School is also open to students from other schools.
Entry is by interview, and applicants are judged on general
intelligence, physical aptitude, and standard attained. Entrants are
accepted on one term’s trial. Here the curriculum includes, in
post-education: classes in English and French language and literature,
history, art, music, lecture courses, and Dalcroze Eurhythmics. In
ballet--the classical ballet, character dances, mime, tuition in the
roles of the classical ballets and modern works in the repertoire of the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet Companies. It is important to note that all ballet
classes for boys are taken by male teachers.

The School is inspected by Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Schools, and is
licensed as a first-class educational institution. The pupils number
about one hundred ten in the Lower School, with about thirty in the
Upper School.

So splendidly has the School developed that now a substantial physical
addition is being made to the premises in Colet Gardens, in the form of
a new building, to provide dormitories and living quarters so that it
may become a full-time boarding school, as well as a day-school; and
thus obviate the necessity for many students to live outside the school,
either at home or, as so often the case if the students come from
distant places, in the proverbial London “digs.”

One of the most interesting and significant things about the School to
me is the number of boys enrolled and their backgrounds. Such is the
feeling about male dancing in our Anglo-Saxon civilization that many of
the boys have had to be offered scholarship inducements to enroll. The
bulk of the boys come out of working-class families in the North of
England and the Midlands. They are tough and manly. It is from boys such
as these that the prejudice against male dancing will gradually die out,
and the effeminate dancer will become, as he should, a thing of the
past.


_MOIRA SHEARER_

Although, to my regret, due to personal, family, and artistic reasons,
Moira Shearer is not present with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet on its
1953-1954 North American tour, I know her devotion to the Sadler’s Wells
institution remains unchanged.

The simple fact is that Moira Shearer is preparing to enter a new and
different aspect of the theatre, a development with which I hope I shall
have something to do in the near future.

Among the personalities of the company during the first two Sadler’s
Wells tours, American interest and curiosity were at their highest, for
obvious reasons, in Moira Shearer. The film, _Red Shoes_, had stimulated
an interest in ballet on the part of yet another new public, and its
_ballerina_ star had acquired the questionable halo of a movie star.
This was something that was anything but pleasing to the gentle,
intelligent Moira Shearer; and was, moreover, something she deplored.

Born in Dunfermline, Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1926, Moira Shearer came to
ballet at an early age, having had dance lessons in Rhodesia as a child
at the hands of a former Diaghileff dancer. It was on her return to
England, when she was about eleven, that her serious studies began with
Madame Nadine Nicolaeva-Legat. In 1940 she joined the Sadler’s Wells
Ballet School, remaining briefly, however, because of the blitz. But,
early in 1941, she turned up with the International Ballet, another
British ballet organization, dancing leading roles at the age of
fourteen, another example of the “baby” _ballerina_. In 1942, she left
that company to rejoin Sadler’s Wells School.

In 1943, Shearer became a member of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, achieving
an almost instant success and a marked popularity with audiences. What
impresses me most about Moira Shearer, the dancer, is a fluidity of
movement that has about it a definite Russian quality; she has a fine
polish in her style, coupled with great spontaneity and a gentle, easy
grace.

Distinctive not only for her Titian-coloring and her famed auburn-haired
beauty and her slender grace, Shearer is equally noteworthy for her
poise and an almost incredible lightness; for her assurance and
classical dignity; for her ability to dominate the stage. The “Russian”
quality about her dancing I have mentioned, I suspect stems from her
early indoctrination and her training at the hands of Madame Legat;
there is something Russian about her entrances, when she immediately
commands the stage and becomes the focus of all eyes. All of these
qualities are particularly apparent in _Cinderella_.

Moira Shearer’s reputation had preceded her across the United States and
Canada, as I have pointed out, because of the exhibition of spontaneity,
beauty and charm that had been revealed to thousands in the motion
picture, _Red Shoes_. There is no denying this film was highly
successful. I suppose it can be argued successfully that _Red Shoes_
brought ballet to a new audience, and thus, in that sense, was good for
ballet. Whatever it may have been, it was not a true, or good, or honest
picture of ballet. I happen to know how Moira Shearer feels about it,
and I share her feelings. Although she dislikes to talk or hear very
much about _Red Shoes_, and was not very happy with it or about it, she
was, I fancy, less disturbed by her role in _The Tales of Hoffman_, with
“Freddy” Ashton, “Bobby” Helpmann, and Leonide Massine. Best of all her
film excursions, Moira feels, was her sequence in _My Three Loves_,
which Ashton directed for her in Hollywood.

Once, on introducing her to one of those characteristic, monumental
California salads, her comment was: “My, but it’s delicious; yet it
looks like that Technicolor mess I should like to forget.” Shearer feels
_Red Shoes_ was rather a sad mess, a complete travesty of the ballet
life which it posed as portraying; that it was false and phoney
throughout, and that, perhaps, the phoniest thing about it was its
alleged glamor. On the other hand, she does not regard the time she
spent making it wasted, for, as she says, she was able to sit at the
feet of Leonide Massine and watch and learn and observe the
concentration with which he worked, the intelligence he brought to every
gesture, and the vast ingenuity and originality he applied to everything
he did.

I happen to know Shearer has no illusions about the film publicity
campaign that made her a movie star overnight. She was amused by it, but
never taken in, and was hurt only when the crowds mobbed for autographs
and Americans hailed her as “_the_ star” of Sadler’s Wells.

Cultured and highly intelligent, Moira Shearer is intensely musical,
both in life and in the dance. This musicality is particularly apparent
in her portrayal of the Princess Aurora in _The Sleeping Beauty_, and in
the dual role of Odette-Odile in _Swan Lake_. Again it is markedly
noticeable in a quite non-classical work, for of all the dancers I have
seen dance the Tango in _Façade_, she is by far the most satiric and
brilliant. She is well-nigh indispensable to _Wedding Bouquet_.

Aside from the qualities I have mentioned, there is also a fine
romanticism about her work. Intelligence in a dancer is something that
is rare. There are those who argue that it is not necessarily a virtue
in a dancer. They could not be more wrong. It is, I think, Moira
Shearer’s superior intelligence that gives her, among other things, that
power of pitiless self-criticism that is the hallmark of the first-class
artist.

Moira Shearer has been as fortunate in her private life as in her
professional activities. She lives happily in a lovely London home with
her attractive and talented writer-husband, Ludovic Kennedy. During the
second Sadler’s Wells American tour, her husband drove across the
continent from New York to Los Angeles to join Moira for the California
engagement, discovering, by means of a tiny Austin, that there were
still a great many of the wide-open spaces left in the land Columbus
discovered.

In her charming London flat, with her husband, her books, her pictures,
and her music, she carries out one of her most serious ambitions: to be
a good mother; for the center of the household is her young daughter,
born in midsummer, 1952.

The depth of Moira Shearer’s sincerity I happen to know not only from
others, but from personal experience. It is a genuine and real sincerity
that applies to every aspect of her life, and not only in art and the
theatre.

A loyal colleague, she has a highly developed sense of honor. As Ninette
de Valois once remarked to me: “Anything that Moira has ever said or
promised is a bond with her, and nothing of a confirming nature in
writing is required.”

A splendid artist, _ballerina_, and film star, it is my profound hope
that Moira may meet with the same degree of success in her new venture
into the legitimate theatre.

There seems little doubt of this, since I am persuaded that she will
make good in anything she undertakes.


_BERYL GREY_

Another full-fledged _ballerina_ of the company, is Beryl Grey, who
alternates all _ballerina_ roles today with Fonteyn, Violetta Elvin,
Nadia Nerina and Rowena Jackson. Beryl Grey’s American success was
assured on the opening night of the first season at the Metropolitan
Opera House, with her gracious and commandingly sympathetic performance
of the Lilac Fairy in _The Sleeping Beauty_.

In a sense, Grey’s and Shearer’s careers have followed a similar
pattern, in that they were both “baby ballerinas.” Born Beryl Groom, at
Muswell Hill, in London’s Highgate section, in 1927, the daughter of a
government technical expert and his wife, Beryl Grey’s dancing studies
began very early in life in Manchester, and at the age of nine, she won
a scholarship at the Sadler’s Wells Ballet School. In 1941, she joined
the company, and so rapid was her growth as an artist that she danced
leading roles in some half-dozen of the one-act ballets in the
repertoire, in place of Margot Fonteyn who had been taken ill. Even more
remarkable is the fact that she danced the full-length _Swan Lake_ in
London on her fifteenth birthday.

The term, “baby ballerina,” has become a part of ballet’s language, due
to its association with the careers of Baronova and Toumanova in the
early ’thirties. In Grey’s case, however, she was privileged to have a
much wider experience in classical ballets than her _émigré_ Russian
predecessors. She was only seventeen when she danced the greatest of all
classical roles in the repertoire of the true _ballerina_, Giselle.

My feeling about Beryl Grey, the dancer, is that she possesses
strikingly individual qualities, both of style and technique. She has
been greatly helped along the path to stardom by Frederick Ashton who,
as I have pointed out, likes nothing better than to discover and exploit
a dancer’s talents. It was he who gave Grey her first big dramatic
parts.

Beryl Grey is married to a distinguished Swedish osteopath, Dr. Sven
Svenson, and they live in a charming Mayfair flat in London. Here again
one finds that characteristic of fine intelligence coupled with an
intense musicality. Also rare among dancers, Grey is an omnivorous
reader of history, biography, and the arts. She feels, I know, that,
apart from “Madame” and Ashton, who have been so keenly instrumental in
shaping her career, a sense of deep gratitude to Constant Lambert for
his kindness and help to her from her very early days; for his readiness
to discuss with her any aspect of music; and she gratefully remembers
how nothing was too inconsequential for his interest, his advice and
help; how no conductor understood what the dancer required from music
more than he did. She is also mindful of the inspiration she had from
Leonide Massine, of his limitless energy, his indefatigable enthusiasm,
his creative fire; she learned that no detail was too small to be
corrected and worked over and over. As she says: “He was so swift and
light, able to draw with immediate ease a complete and clear picture.”
Also, she points out, “He was quiet and of few words, but had a fine
sense of humor which was often reflected in his penetrating brown eyes.
His rare praise meant a great deal.”

Beryl Grey is the star in the first three-dimensional ballet film ever
to be made, based on the famous Black Swan _pas de deux_ from _Le Lac
des Cygnes_.

From the point of view of a dancer, Beryl Grey had one misfortune over
which she had to triumph: she is above average height. This she has been
able to turn into a thing of beauty, with a beautifully flowing length
of “line.” Personally, she is a gentle person, with a genuine humility
and a simple unaffected kindliness, and a fresh, completely unspoiled
charm. Her success in all the great roles has been such as to make her
one of the most popular figures with the public.

I find great pleasure in her precision and strength as a dancer, in her
poised, statuesque grace, in her clean technique; and in her special
sort of technical accomplishment, wherein nothing ever seems to present
her any problems.

During the American tours of Sadler’s Wells, she is almost invariably
greeted with flowers at the station. She seems to have friends in every
city. How she manages to do this, I am not sure; but I feel it must be a
tribute to her genuine warmth and friendliness.


_VIOLETTA ELVIN_

Violetta Elvin, another of the talented _ballerinas_ of the “fabulous”
Sadler’s Wells company, is in the direct line of Russian ballet, for she
is a product of the contemporary ballet of Russia.

The daughter of a pioneer of Russian aviation, Vassili Prokhoroff, and
his wife, Irina Grimousinkaya, a Polish artist and an early experimenter
with action photography, Violetta Prokhorova became a pupil at the
Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow, at the age of nine. It is interesting to note
that she was one of a class of fifty accepted out of five hundred
applicants; it is still more interesting, and an example of the rigorous
Russian training, that, when she finished the course nine years later,
out of the original fifty there were only nine left: three girls and six
boys. Of the three girls, Prokhorova was the only one who attained
ballet’s coveted rank of _etoile_.

Violetta finished her training at the time Moscow was being evacuated
against the Nazi invasion, and was sent on a three-thousand mile journey
to be a _ballerina_ at the ballet at Tashkent, Russian Turkestan. Here,
at the age of eighteen, she danced the leading roles in two works, _The
Fountain of Bakchissarai_, based on Pushkin’s famous poem, and _Don
Quixote_, the Minkus work of which contemporary American balletgoers
know only the famous _pas de deux_, but which I presented in America,
during the season 1925-1926, staged by Laurent Novikoff, with settings
and costumes by the great Russian painter, Korovin.

Another point of interest about Elvin is that she was never a member of
the _corps de ballet_, for she was transferred from Tashkent to the
Bolshoi Ballet, which had been moved, for safety reasons, to Kuibyshev,
some five hundred miles from Moscow. In the early autumn of 1943, when
the Nazi horde had been driven back in defeat, the Ballet returned to
the Bolshoi, and Prokhorova danced important roles there.

It was in Moscow, in 1945, that Violetta Prokhorova married Harold
Elvin, an architect associated with the British Embassy, and came with
him to London. On her arrival in London she became a member of the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet, first as a soloist, and later as _ballerina_.

My own impressions are of a vibrant personality and a great beauty. Her
feet are extraordinarily beautiful, and, if I am any judge of the female
figure, I would say her body approximates the perfect classical
proportions. In her dancing, her Russian training is at all times
evident, for there is a charm of manner, a broad lyricism, coupled with
a splendid poise that are not the common heritage of all western
dancers.

It begins to sound like an overworked cliché, but again we have that
rare quality in a dancer: intelligence. Once again, intelligence coupled
with striking beauty. Elvin’s interests include all the classics in
literature, the history of art, philosophy, museums, and good Russian
food.

Already Elvin has had a film career, two motion pictures to date: _Twice
Upon a Time_, by the makers of _Red Shoes_, and the latest, the story of
the great British soprano, Nellie Melba, the title role of which is
played by Patrice Munsel.

While engaged on the second American tour of the Sadler’s Wells company,
Violetta met an American, whom she has recently married.

Talented far beyond average measure, Elvin is a true _ballerina_ in the
tradition of the Russian school and is ever alert to improve her art and
to give audiences something better than her best.


_NADIA NERINA_

I cannot fail to pay my respects to the young Nadia Nerina, today
another of the alternating _ballerinas_ of the company, with full
_ballerina_ standing, whom I particularly remember as one of the most
delightful and ebullient soloists of the company on its two American
visits.

An example of the wide British Commonwealth base of the personnel of the
Sadler’s Wells company, Nadia Nerina is from South Africa, where she was
born in 1927. It was in Cape Town that she commenced her ballet studies
and had her early career; for she was a winner of the _South African
Dancing Times_ Gold Medal and, when she was fifteen, was awarded the
Avril Kentridge Shield in the Dance Festival at Durban. Moreover, she
toured the Union of South Africa and, when nineteen, went to London to
study at the Sadler’s Wells School. Very soon after her arrival, she
was dancing leading roles and was one of the _ballerinas_ of the
Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet.

Such was her success in Rosebery Avenue, and such the wisdom of Ninette
de Valois, that, within the year, Nerina was transferred to Covent
Carden. Today, as I have pointed out, she has been promoted to full
_ballerina_ status.

It is a well-deserved promotion, for Nerina’s development has been as
sure as it has been steady. I have seen her in _Le Lac des Cygnes_ since
her ascendancy to full _ballerina_ rank, and have rejoiced in her fine
technical performance, as I have in the quality of her miming--something
that is equally true in Delibes’ _Sylvia_.

It is characteristic of Ninette de Valois that she gives all her
_ballerinas_ great freedom within the organization. One is permitted to
go to Denmark, Norway, Sweden. Another to La Scala, Milan. Yet another
to films. An example of this desire on “Madame’s” part to encourage her
leading personnel to extend their experience and to prevent any spirit
of isolation, is the tour Nerina recently made through her native South
Africa, in company with her Sadler’s Wells partner, Alexis Rassine,
himself a South African.

The outstanding quality in Nerina’s dancing for me is the sheer joy she
brings to it, a sort of love for dancing for its own sake. In everything
she does, there is the imprint of her own strong personality, her
vitality, and the genuine elegance she brings to the use of her sound
technique.


_ROWENA JACKSON_

During the first two American tours of the Sadler’s Wells Ballet, a
young dancer who attracted an unusual amount of attention, particularly
in the Ashton-Lambert _Les Patineurs_, for her remarkable virtuosic
performance and her multiple turns, was Rowena Jackson.

Today, Rowena Jackson is the newest addition to the Sadler’s Wells list
of _ballerinas_.

Rowena Jackson is still another example of the width of the British
Commonwealth base of the Sadler’s Wells organization, having been born
in Invercargil, New Zealand, on the 24th March, 1926, where her father
was postmaster. Her first ballet training was at the Lawson-Powell
School, in New Zealand. It was in 1947 that the young dancer joined the
Sadler’s Wells Ballet.

This rise of the British dancer more than fulfils the prophecy of The
Swan. It was thirty years ago that Pavlova said: “English women have
fine faces, graceful figures, and a real sense of poetry of dancing.
They only lack training to provide the best dancers of the world.” She
went on: “If only more real encouragement were given in England to
ballet dancers the day would not be far distant when the English dancer
would prove a formidable rival to the Russians.”

Now that the British dancer has been given the encouragement, the truth
of Anna Pavlova’s prophecy is the more striking.

As I have said, Rowena Jackson attracted attention throughout North
America in _Les Patineurs_, gaining a reputation for a surpassing
technical brilliance in turns. These turns, known as _fouetées_, I have
mentioned more than once. Legend has it that Jackson can do in excess of
one hundred-fifty of them, non-stop. It is quite incredible.

Brilliance is one thing. Interpretation is another. When I saw Jackson
in _Le Lac des Cygnes_, my admiration for her and for Ninette de Valois
soared. Jackson’s Swan Queen proved to me that at Sadler’s Wells another
_ballerina_ had been born. (I nearly wrote “created”; but _ballerinas_
are born, not made). As the Swan Queen she was all pathos and softness
and tenderness and protectiveness; to the evil Black Swan, Odile, she
brought the hard brittleness the role demands.

Rowena Jackson’s future among the illustrious of the world of ballet
seems assured, and I shall watch her with interest, as I am sure will
audiences.


_SADLER’S WELLS THEATRE BALLET_

While I was in London after the close of the first American tour of the
Sadler’s Wells Covent Garden Ballet, I paid a visit to the Sadler’s
Wells Theatre, the cradle of the organization.

The Sadler’s Wells Theatre is in Rosebery Avenue, in the Borough of
Islington, now a middle-class residential section of London, but once a
county borough. For nearly three hundred years, the site of the Sadler’s
Wells Theatre has been used for entertainment purposes. Several theatres
have stood on the site, and while the dance has always been prominent in
its history, everything from tight-rope and wire-walking exhibitions to
performing dogs and dance troupes has been seen there.

It was in 1683 that a certain Thomas Sadler, who was, apparently, a
Highway Surveyor, lived there in what was then Clerkenwell, and found a
well, actually a spring, having medicinal properties, in his garden. It
soon was regarded as a holy well, with healing powers attributed to it.
Hither came the halt, the blind and the sick to be cured, and Mr. Sadler
determined to commercialize his property. On his lawn he built his Musik
House, a long room with a stage, orchestra and seats for those partakers
of the waters who desired refreshments as well during their
imbibing--and he also provided entertainment. The well is still there
today, preserved under the present theatre, but is no longer used, and
the theatre’s water supply is from the municipal mains.

Rebuilt, largely by public subscription, the present theatre was opened
in 1931, alternating opera and Shakespeare with the Old Vic, but
eventually it became the exclusive home and base of the Sadler’s Wells
Opera Company and the Sadler’s Wells Ballet Company. In 1946, when
Ninette de Valois accepted the invitation of the Covent Garden Opera
Trust to move the Sadler’s Wells Ballet company to the Royal Opera
House, Covent Garden, another company (actually the revival of another
idea, the Sadler’s Wells Opera Ballet) was established at the Sadler’s
Wells Theatre, and called the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet.

Here, in a fine, comfortable, modern theatre, I saw a fresh young
company, with seasoned artists, first-class productions, and some
first-rate dancing: a company I felt America should know.

There was an extensive repertoire of modern works by Frederick Ashton,
Ninette de Valois, and the rising young John Cranko, and others. The
Ashton works include _Façade_, the Ravel _Valses Nobles et
Sentimentales_; _Les Rendez-Vous_, to Auber music arranged by Constant
Lambert; and the charming _Capriol Suite_, to the music by Philip
Heseltine (Peter Warlock), inspired by Arbeau’s _Orchesographie_. There
were three works by Andrée Howard: _Assembly Ball_, to the Bizet
Symphony in C; _Mardi Gras_; and _La Fête Etrange_. Celia Franka had an
interesting work, _Khadra_, to a Sibelius score, with charming Persian
miniature setting and costumes by Honor Frost. The young South African
John Cranko, who had been a member of the Covent Garden company in the
first New York season, had a number of extremely interesting works,
including _Sea Change_; and Ninette de Valois had revived her _The
Haunted Ballroom_, to a Geoffrey Toye score, and the Lambert-Boyce _The
Prospect Before Us_. There were also sound classics, including _Swan
Lake_, in the second act version.

The company, under the direction of Ninette de Valois, had a fine
dancer, Peggy van Praagh, as ballet mistress.

It occurred to me that, by adding new elements and reviving full length
works, it would be an excellent thing to bring the company to the United
States and Canada for a tour following upon that of the Covent Garden
company.

I discussed the matter with Ninette de Valois and David Webster, both of
whom were favorable to the idea; and, since it was impossible for the
Covent Garden company to come over for a third tour at that time, they
urged me to give further consideration to the possibility.

On my next visit to London, I went over matters in detail with George
Chamberlain, Clerk to the Governors of Sadler’s Wells, and himself the
opposite number at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre to David Webster at Covent
Garden. I found Chamberlain equally cooperative and helpful, despite the
fact he has a wide variety of interests and responsibilities, including
the Sadler’s Wells Opera Company, the Old Vic, and the Sadler’s Wells
School. We have become close friends. Following our initial conferences,
we went into a series of them, in conjunction with Ursula Moreton, at
the time “Madame’s” assistant at Sadler’s Wells, and Peggy van Praagh,
the company’s ballet mistress.

As a result of these discussions, it was agreed to increase the size of
the dancing personnel of the company from thirty-two to thirty-six, and
to bring to North America a repertoire of fourteen ballets, including
one full-length work, and to add to the roster one or two more principal
dancers.

Handshakes all round sealed the bargain, and a contract was signed for a
twenty-two week season for 1951-52.

It was on my return to London, in March, 1951, that I saw the _première_
of the first of their new productions, _Pineapple Poll_, a ballet freely
adapted from the Bab Ballad, “The Bumbeat Woman’s Story,” by W. S.
Gilbert, with music by Arthur Sullivan, arranged by a young Australian,
Charles Mackerras, a conductor at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre. The
scenery and costumes were by Osbert Lancaster, noted architectural
historian and cartoonist, and the choreography by John Cranko, who had
worked in collaboration with Lancaster and Mackerras.

The work had its first performance at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre on the
13th March, 1951. The entire programme I saw that night was made up of
Cranko works, and I found myself seated before a quartet of works,
highly varied in content and style, all of which interested me, some, to
be sure, more than others. The evening commenced with Cranko’s _Sea
Change_. A tragic work in a free style, a character ballet whose story
was moving, but a ballet in which I never felt music and movement quite
came together. The score was the orchestral piece, _En Saga_, by Jan
Sibelius.

The new work, _Pineapple Poll_, was the second ballet of the evening. I
was enchanted with it. I had always been a Sullivan admirer, and here
were pieces from nigh on to a dozen of the Sullivan operas, woven
together with great skill and brilliant orchestration into a marvelous
integral whole by Charles Mackerras, a complete score in itself, as if
it might have been directly composed for the ballet. I watched the
dancers closely, and it was impossible for me to imagine a finer
interpretation. Elaine Fifield, in the title role, was something more
than piquant; she was a genuine _ballerina_, with a fascinating sense of
character, her whole performance highly intelligent. There was no
“mugging,” no “cuteness”; on the contrary, there were both humor and
wit, and I noted she was a beautifully “clean” dancer. David Blair was a
compelling officer, and his “hornpipe” almost on points literally
brought the house down. Three other dancers impressed me: Sheillah
O’Reilly, Stella Claire and David Poole. Osbert Lancaster’s sets were
masterful, both as sets and as architecture. This, I decided, was a
Cranko masterpiece, and it impressed me in much the same way as some of
Massine’s gay ballets.

_Pineapple Poll_ was followed by a delicate fantasy by Cranko, _Beauty
and the Beast_, an extended _pas de deux_, set to some of Ravel’s
_Mother Goose Suite_, and beautifully danced by Patricia Miller and
David Poole, who were, I learned, a pair of South Africans from the
Sadler’s Wells School.

The closing piece on the programme was another new ballet by Cranko,
_Pastorale_, which had been given its first performance earlier in the
season, just before Christmas. It was the complete antithesis of the
Sullivan ballet. This was a Mozart work, his _Divertimento No. 2_, and
choreography was Mozartian in feeling. It was a work of genuine charm,
delicacy and real humor that revealed to me the excellence of a
half-dozen of the principals of the company: Elaine Fifield and Patricia
Miller, whom I have already mentioned, and young Svetlana Beriosova,
the daughter of Nicholas Beriosoff, a former member of the Ballet Russe
de Monte Carlo. Svetlana was born in Lithuania in 1932, and had been
brought to America by her parents in 1940, when, off and on, she toured
with them in the days of my management of the Massine company, and
frequently appeared as the little child, Clara, in _The Nutcracker_. Now
rapidly maturing, she had been seen by Ninette de Valois in a small
English ballet company, and had been taken into the Sadler’s Wells
organization. The three ballerinas had an equal number of impressive
partners in _Pastorale_: Pirmin Trecu, David Poole and David Blair.

I decided that _Pineapple Poll_, _Pastorale_ and _Beauty and the Beast_
must be included in the repertoire for America, and that the first of
these could be a tremendous American success, a sort of British _Gaîté
Parisienne_.

In further conversations and conferences, I pressed the matter of a
full-length, full-evening ballet. The work I wanted was Delibes’
_Sylvia_. This is the famous ballet first given in Paris in 1876. I
recognised there would be problems to be solved over the story, but the
Delibes score is enchanting, delicate, essentially French; and is it not
the score which Tchaikowsky himself both admired and appreciated?
Moreover, a lot of the music is very well-known and loved.

We agreed upon _Sylvia_ in principle, but “Freddy” Ashton, who was to
stage it, was too occupied with other work, and it was at last agreed to
substitute a new production of Delibes’ _Coppélia_, in a full-length,
uncut version, never seen in North America except in a truncated form.
It was, however, difficult indeed to achieve any progress, since every
one was occupied with work of one kind or another, and continuously
busy. Moreover, Dame Ninette was away from London in Turkey and
Jugoslavia, lecturing, teaching, and checking on the national ballet
schools she has organized in each of those countries, at the request of
their respective governments, with the cooperation of the British
Council.

It was not until three o’clock one morning several weeks later that we
all managed to get together at one time and place to have a conference
on repertoire. The following day I saw another performance at the Wells,
and was a bit distressed. It was clear to me that it was going to be
necessary to increase the size of the company still further, and also to
be more selective in the choice and arrangement of the repertoire.

There followed a period of intense preparation on the part of the
entire organization, with all of its attendant helter-skelter, and with
day and night rehearsals. Meanwhile, I discussed and arranged for the
production of a two-act production or version of _The Nutcracker_. The
opening scene of this Tchaikowsky classic has always bothered me,
chiefly because I felt it was dull and felt that, during its course,
nothing really happened. There is, if the reader remembers, a rather
banal Christmas party at which little Clara receives a nutcracker as a
present, goes to bed without it, comes downstairs to retrieve it, and is
forthwith transported to fairyland. I felt we would be better off to
start with fairyland, and to omit the trying prologue. Moreover, I felt
certain the inclusion of the work in this form would give added weight
to the repertoire for the North American tour, since _The Nutcracker_
and Tchaikowsky are always well-liked and popular, as the box-office
returns have proven.

On this visit I spent three weeks in London, flying back to New York
only to return to London three weeks later, to watch the company and to
do what I could to speed up the preparations so that the company might
be ready for the Canadian opening of the tour, the date of which was
coming closer and closer with that inevitability such matters display.

The Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet and its entire organization showed
really tremendous energy and application, and did everything possible to
prepare themselves to follow the great American success of their sister
company, something that was, admittedly, a very difficult thing to do.

Just before the company’s departure for the North American continent, it
gave a four-week “American Festival Season” at Sadler’s Wells,
consisting of the entire repertoire to be seen on this side of the
Atlantic. This season included another Cranko work I have not before
mentioned. It is _Harlequin in April_, a ballet commissioned for the
Festival of Britain by the Arts Council. While I cannot say that it is
the sort of piece that appeals to audiences by reason of its clarity,
there is no gainsaying that it is a major creation and a greatly to be
commended experiment, and, withal, a successful one. The choreographic
work of John Cranko, in collaboration with the composer, Richard Arnell,
and the artist-designer, John Piper, it was that much desired thing in
ballet: a genuine collaboration between those individuals responsible
for each aspect of it.

Although there was no attempt to use it as a plot idea, for it is in no
sense a “literary” work, the idea for _Harlequin in April_ presumably
stemmed from the following lines from T. S. Eliot’s _The Waste Land_:

    April is the cruellest month, breeding
    Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
    Memory and desire, stirring
    Dull roots with spring rain....

I could not attempt to explain the work which, to me, consists solely of
atmosphere. I liked Richard Arnell’s score; but the ballet, as a ballet,
is one I found myself unable to watch very many times. Perhaps the
simplest answer is that it is not my favorite type of ballet.
Nevertheless, the fact remains it is a work of genuine distinction and
was warmly praised by discriminating critics.

The first nights of the two classical works came a week apart.
_Coppélia_ was the first, on the night of the 4th September. It was,
indeed, a fine addition to the repertoire. There were, in the Sadler’s
Wells tradition, several casts; the first performance had Elaine
Fifield, as Swanilda; David Blair, as Frantz; and David Poole, as
Coppelius.

I was not too happy with the three settings designed by Loudon
Sainthill, the Australian designer who had a great success at the
Shakespeare Festival Theatre, always feeling they were not sufficiently
strong either in color or design. However, as the first full-length,
uncut version of the Delibes classic, it was notable, as it also was
notable for the liveliness of its entire production and the zest and joy
the entire company brought to it. Elaine Fifield was miraculously right
as Swanilda, in her own special piquant style; David Blair was a most
attractive Frantz; and David Poole was the first dignified Coppelius I
had ever seen, with a highly original approach to the character.
Alternate casts for _Coppélia_ included Svetlana Beriosova as a quite
different and very effective Swanilda, and Maryon Lane, another South
African dancer of fine talent, with a personality quite different from
the other two, as were Donald Britton’s Frantz and Stanley Holden’s
Coppelius.

The 11th of September revealed the new _Nutcracker_ I have mentioned.
Actually, without the Prologue, it became a series of Tchaikowsky
_divertissements_, staged with skill and taste under, as it happened,
great pressure, by Frederick Ashton. It was a two-scene work, utilizing
the Snow Flake and the Kingdom of Sweets scenes. Outstanding, to my way
of thinking, were Beriosova as the Snow Queen; Fifield and Blair in the
grand _pas de deux_; Maryon Lane in the Waltz of the Flowers. The most
original divertissement was the _Danse Arabe_.

Following the first performance of _The Nutcracker_, I gave a large
party in honor of both companies: the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden
Company and that from the Sadler’s Wells Theatre, at Victory Hall.

In this godspeed to the sister company, Margot Fonteyn was, as usual,
very much on the job, always the good colleague, wishing Fifield and
Beriosova the same success in the States and Canada as she and her
colleagues of the Covent Garden company had enjoyed. From Covent Garden
also came David Webster, Louis Yudkin, and Herbert Hughes, “Freddy”
Ashton, and Robert Irving, the genial and able musical director of the
Ballet at Covent Garden, all to speed the sister company on its way, to
give them tips on what to see, what to do, and also on what _not_ to do.

The reader will, I am sure, realize what a difficult thing it was for
the sister company to follow in the footsteps and the triumphant
successes of the company from Covent Garden. A standard of excellence
and grandeur had been set by them eclipsing any previously established
standards that had existed for ballet on the North American continent.

It is a moot question just what the public and the press of America
expected from the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet. For more than a year,
in all publicity and promotion, with all the means at our command, we
emphasized the differences between the two companies: in personnel, in
principal artists, in repertoire. We also carefully pointed out the
likenesses between them: the same base of operations, the same school,
the same direction, the same moving spirit, the same ideals, the same
purpose.

The success of the company throughout the entire breadth of the United
States and Canada magnificently proved the wisdom of their coming. The
list of cities played is formidable: Quebec, Ottawa, Montreal, Toronto,
Buffalo, Rochester, Cleveland, Detroit, East Lansing, Grand Rapids,
Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Omaha, Des Moines, Denver, Salt Lake City,
Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, B.C., San Francisco, San José, Sacramento,
Fresno, Bakersfield, Los Angeles, San Antonio, Waco, Houston, Dallas,
Shreveport, Little Rock, Springfield, Mo., Kansas City, Chicago, St.
Louis, Nashville, Knoxville, Atlanta, Birmingham, Montgomery, New
Orleans, Daytona Beach, Orlando, Miami, and Miami Beach, Columbia,
Greensboro, Durham, Raleigh, Norfolk, Richmond, Washington--where for
the first time ballet played in a proper theatre--Philadelphia,
Pittsburgh, Columbus, Toledo, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Syracuse, Troy,
White Plains, Providence, Hartford, Boston, and New York City. Perhaps
the most characteristic tribute to the company came from Alfred
Frankenstein, the distinguished critic of the _San Francisco Chronicle_,
who wrote: “This may not be the largest ballet company in the world, but
it is certainly the most endearing.” There is no question that the
mounting demand for the quick return of the company on the part of local
managers and sponsoring organizations and groups throughout the country
is another proof of the warmth of their welcome when they next come.

The musical side of the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet revealed the same
high standards of the organization, under the direction of that splendid
young British conductor, John Lanchbery. Lanchbery, a thorough and
distinguished musician, not only was a fine conductor, but an extremely
sensitive ballet conductor, which is not necessarily the same thing. So
admired was he by the orchestra that, in San Francisco, the players
presented him with a lovely gift in a token of appreciation.

During the entire association with the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet
there was always the warm cooperation of George Chamberlain, and the
fine executive ability and personal charm of their tour manager, Douglas
Morris.

It is my sincere hope that, following the season 1953-54, they will be
able to make an even more extended tour of this continent. By that time,
some of the company’s younger members will have become more mature, and
the repertoire will have been strengthened and increased by the
accretion of two years.

There is the seemingly eternal charge against ballet dancers. They are
either “too young” or else “too old.” The question I am forced to ask in
this connection is: What is the appropriate age for the personnel of a
ballet company, for a dancer? My answer is one the reader may anticipate
from previous references to the subject in this book: Artistry knows and
recognizes no age on the stage. Spiritually the same is true in life
itself.

It is, of course, possible that, by that time, there may be some who
will refrain from referring to the members of the company as “juniors,”
and will realize that they are aware of the facts of life. Three years
will have elapsed since their first visit. During all this time they
will have been dancing regularly five or six times a week; will have
behind them not only London successes, but their Edinburgh Festival and
African triumphs as well.

At the close of the American Festival Season in Rosebery Avenue, the
company entrained for Liverpool, there to embark in the _Empress of
France_. It was a gay crossing, but less gay than had been anticipated.
Originally, the _Empress_ was to have carried H.R.H. Princess Elizabeth,
and her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, on their Royal Visit to the
Dominion of Canada. The ship’s owners, the Canadian Pacific Steamship
Company, had constructed a specially equipped theatre on the top deck,
where the company was to have given two performances for the Royal
couple. H.R.H., Princess Margaret is the Honorary President of the
Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet, and there is considerable royal interest
in ballet. Unfortunately, the serious illness of the King, and his
operation, necessitated a last moment change of plans on the part of
Princess Elizabeth and her husband, who made their crossing by plane. At
the last moment before sailing, the theatre was dismantled and removed.

Two members of my staff made a long journey down the St. Lawrence, to
clamber aboard the _Empress_ at daybreak and to travel up the river with
the company to Quebec, the opening point of the tour. I had gone on to
Quebec to greet them, as had our American staff and orchestra from New
York. This was the same orchestra, the “American Sadler’s Wells
Orchestra,” that had constituted the splendid musical side of the Covent
Garden company’s two American seasons. There was no cutting of corners,
no sparing of expense to maintain the same high standards of production.
For those with an interest in figures, it might be noted that the
orchestra alone cost in excess of $10,000 weekly.

Heading the company, and remaining with it until it was well on its way,
were Dame Ninette de Valois and George Chamberlain, with Peggy van
Praagh as “Madame’s” assistant, and ballet-mistress for the entire tour.

There were three days of concentrated rehearsal and preparation before
the first performance in Quebec. Some difficulties had to be overcome,
for Quebec City is not the ideal place for ballet production. Lacking a
real theatre or opera house, a cinema had to be utilized, a house with a
stage far from adequate for a theatre spectacle, an orchestra pit far
too small for an orchestra the size of ours, and cramped quarters all
around. Nevertheless, a genuine success was scored.

Following the Quebec engagement, the company moved to Ottawa by special
train--this time the “Sadler’s Wells Theatre Special.” The night journey
to Ottawa provided many of the company with their first experience of
sleeping-car travel of the American-type Pullman. Passing through one of
the cars on the way to my drawing-room before the train pulled out, I
overheard one of the _corps de ballet_ girls behind her green curtains,
obviously snuggling down for the night, sigh and say: “Oh, isn’t it just
lovely!... Just like in the films!”

Ottawa was in its gayest attire, preparing for the Royal visit. The
atmosphere was festive. The Governor General and the Viscountess
Alexander of Tunis entertained the entire company at a reception at
Government House, flew afterwards to Montreal officially to welcome the
Royal couple, and flew back to attend the opening performance, as the
official representative of H.M. the King. Hundreds were turned away from
the Ottawa performances, and a particularly gay supper was given the
company after the final performance by the High Commissioner to Canada
for Great Britain, Sir Hugh and Lady Clutterbuck.

Montreal, with its mixed French and English population, gave the company
a wholehearted acceptance and warm enthusiasm, by no means second to
that accorded the sister company.

So the tour went, breaking box-office records for ballet in many cities,
including Buffalo, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Seattle, Portland, Vancouver
(where, for the eight performances, there was not a seat to be had four
weeks before the company’s arrival), Los Angeles, the entire state of
Florida, and Washington, where, as I have said, I had been successful in
securing a genuine theatre, Loew’s Capitol, and where, for the first
time ballet was seen by the inhabitants of our national capital with all
the theatrical appurtenances that ballet requires: scenery, lights,
atmosphere, instead of the mausoleum-like Constitution Hall, with its
bare platform backed only by a tapestry of the Founding Fathers.

So the tour went for twenty-two weeks in a long, transcontinental
procession of cumulative success, with the finale in New York City.
Here, because of the unavailability of the Metropolitan Opera House,
since the current opera season had not been completed, it was necessary
to go to a film house, the Warner Theatre, the former Strand, where
Fokine and Anatole Bourman had, in the early days of movie house
“presentations,” staged weekly ballet performances, sowing the seeds for
present-day ballet appreciation.

The Warner Theatre was far from ideal for ballet presentation, being
much too long for its width, giving from the rear the effect of looking
at the stage through reversed opera glasses or binoculars. Also, from an
acoustical point of view, the house left something to be desired as it
affected the sound of the exceptionally large orchestra. But it was the
only nearly suitable house available, and Ninette de Valois, who had
returned to the States for the Boston engagement, and had remained
through the early New York performances, found no fault with the house.

Among the many problems in connection with the presentation of ballet,
none is more ticklish than that of determining on an opening night
programme in any metropolitan center, particularly New York. Many
elements have to be weighed one against the other. Should the choice be
one of a selection of one-act ballets, there is the necessity for
balancing classical and modern and the order in which they should be
given, after they have actually been decided on. In the case of the
Sadler’s Wells companies, featuring, as they do, full-length works
occupying an entire evening in performance, there is the eternal
question: which one?

The importance of the first impression created cannot be overrated. More
often than not, in arriving at a decision of this kind, we listen to the
advice of everyone in the organization. All suggestions are carefully
considered, and hours are spent in discussion and the exchange of ideas,
and the reasons supporting those ideas.

What was good in London may quite well be fatal in New York. What New
York would find an ideal opening programme might be utterly wrong for
Chicago. San Francisco’s highly successful and popular opening night
programme well might turn out to be Los Angeles’ poison.

Whatever the decision may be, it is always arrived at after long and
careful thought; and, when reached, it is the best product of many
minds. It usually turns out to be wrong.

If, as is often the case, the second night’s programme turns out to be
another story, there is the almost inevitable query on the part of the
critics: “Why didn’t you do this last night?” Many of them seem to be
certain that there must have been personal reasons involved in the
decision, some sort of private and individually colored favoritism being
exercised....

I smile and agree.

The only possible answer is: “You’re right.... I’m wrong.”




Epilogue: Unborn Tomorrow


In the minds of many I am almost always associated with ballet more
frequently than I am with any other activity in the world of
entertainment.

This simply is not true.

While it is true that more than thirty years of my life have been
intensely occupied with the presentation of dance on the North American
continent, these thirty-odd years of preoccupation with the dance have
neither narrowed my horizon nor limited my interests. I have
simultaneously carried on my avowed determination, arrived at and
clarified soon after I landed as an immigrant lad from Pogar: to bring
music to the masses. As an impresario I am devoted to my concert
artists.

The greatest spiritual satisfaction I have had has always sprung from
great music, and it has been and is my joy to present great violinists,
pianists, vocalists; to extend the careers of conductors; to give
artists of the theatre a wider public. All these have been and are
leaders in their various fields. My eyes and ears are ever open to
discover fresh new talents in this garden for nurturing and development.
At no time in the history of so-called civilization and civilized man
have they been more necessary.

Throughout my career my interests have embraced the lyric and
“legitimate” theatres: witness the Russian Opera Company, the German
Opera Company, American operetta seasons, _revues_ such as the Spanish
_Cablagata_, and Katherine Dunham’s Caribbean compilations, as but two
of many; the Habima Theatre, in 1926, the Moscow Art Players, under
Michael Tchekhoff, in 1935, as representative of the latter.

These activities have been extended, with increasing interest towards a
widening of cultural exchanges with the rest of the world: witness the
most recent highly successful season of the Madeleine Renault-Jean Louis
Barrault repertory company from Paris. For two seasons, the
distinguished British actor, director, and playwright, Emlyn Williams,
under my management, has brought to life, from coast to coast, the
incomparable prose of Charles Dickens in theatrical presentations that
have fascinated both ear and eye, performances that stemmed from a rare
combination of talent, dexterity, love, and intelligence.

I am able to say, very frankly, that I am one impresario who has managed
artists in all fields.

All these things, and more, have been done. For what they are worth,
they have been written in the pages of the history of the arts in our
time. They have become a part of the record.

So it will be seen that only one part of my life has been concerned with
ballet. To list all the fine concert artists and companies I have
managed and manage would take up too much space.

It is quite within the bounds of possibility that I shall do a third
book, devoted to life among the concert artists I have managed. It
could, I am sure, make interesting reading.

If art is to grow and prosper, if the eternal verities are to be
preserved in these our times and into that unborn tomorrow which springs
eternally from dead yesterdays, there must be no cessation of effort, no
diminution of our energies. Thirty-odd years of dead yesterdays have
served only to whet my appetite, to stimulate my eagerness for what lies
round the corner and my desire to increase my contribution to those
things that matter in the cultural and spiritual life of that unborn
tomorrow wherein lies our future.

I shall try to outline some of the plans and hopes I have in mind.
Before I do so, however, I should like to make what must be, however
heartfelt, inadequate acknowledgement to those who have so generously
helped along the way. If I were to list all of them, this chapter would
become a catalogue of names. To all of those who are not mentioned, my
gratitude is none the less sincere and genuine. Above all, no slight is
intended. Space permits only the singling out of a few.

The year in which these lines are written has been singularly rich,
rewarding, and happy: climaxed as it was by the production and release
of the motion-picture film, _Tonight We Sing_, based on some experiences
and aspects of my life. If the film does nothing else, I hope it
succeeds in underlining the difference, in explaining the vast gulf that
separates the mere booker or agent from what, for want of a better term,
must be called an impresario, since it is a word that has been fully
embraced into the English language. Impresario stems from the Italian
_impresa_: an undertaking; indirectly it gave birth to that now archaic
English word “emprise,” literally a chivalrous enterprise. I can only
regard the discovery, promotion, presentation of talent, the financing
of it, the risk-taking, as the “emprise” of an “impresario.”

The presentation of this film has been accompanied by tributes and
honors for which I am deeply and humbly grateful and which I cherish and
respect beyond my ability to express.

None of these heights could have been scaled, none of these successes
attained, without the help, encouragement, and personal sacrifice of my
beloved wife, Emma. Her wise counsel in music, literature, theatre, and
the dance all stem from her deep knowledge as a lady of culture, an
artist and a musician, and from her studies at the Leningrad
Conservatory, her rich experience in the world’s cultural activities.
Her sacrifices are those great ones of the patient, understanding wife,
who, through the years, has had to endure, and has endured without
complaint, the loneliness of days and nights on end alone, when my
activities have taken me on frequent long trips about the world at a
moment’s notice, to the complete disruption of any normal family life.

To my wife also goes my grateful thanks for restraining me from
undertakings doomed in advance to failure, as well as for encouraging me
in my determination to venture into pastures new and untried.

At the head of that staff of loyal associates which carries on the
multifarious details of the organization on which depends the
fulfillment of much of what has been recited in these pages, is one to
whom my deepest thanks are due. She is that faithful and indispensable
companion of failures and successes, Mae Frohman.

She is known intimately to all in this world of music and dance.
Without her aid I could not have been what I am today. It is impossible
for me to give the reader any real idea of the sacrifices she has made
for the success of the enterprises this book records: the sleepless
nights and days; the readiness, at an instant’s notice, to depart for
any part of the world to “trouble-shoot,” to make arrangements, to
settle disputes, to keep the wheels in motion when matters have come to
a dead center.

The devoted staff I have mentioned, and on whom I rely much more than
they realize, receives, as is its due, my deep gratitude and
appreciation. I cannot fail to thank my daughter Ruth for her
understanding, her sympathy, her spiritual support. With all the changes
in her personal life and with her own problems, there has never been a
word of complaint. Never has she added her hardships to mine. It has
been her invariable custom to present her happiest side to me: to
comfort, to understand. In her and my two lovely grandchildren, I find a
comfort not awarded every traveller through this tortuous vale, and I
want to extend my sincere gratitude to her.

It would not be possible for any one to have attained these successes
without the very great help of others. In rendering my gratitude to my
staff, I must point out that this applies not only to those who are a
part of my organization as these lines are written, but to those who
have been associated with me in the past, in the long, upward struggle.
We are still friends, and my gratitude to them and my admiration for
them is unbounded.

During the many years covered in this account, my old friend and
colleague, Marks Levine, and I have shared one roof businesswise, and
one world spiritually and artistically. Without his warm friendship, his
subtle understanding, his wholehearted cooperation, and his rare sense
of humor, together with the help of his colleagues, and that of O. O.
Bottorf and his colleagues, many of the successes of a lifetime might
not have been accomplished.

At this point in my life, I look with amazement at the record of an
immigrant lad from Pogar, arriving here practically penniless, and ask
myself: where in the world could this have happened save here? My
profoundest thanks go to this adopted country which has done so much for
me. Daily I breathe the prayer: “God bless this country!”

In all that has been done and accomplished, and with special reference
to all of these wide-flung ballet tours, none of it could have been done
singlehanded. In nearly every country and in nearly every important
city there is a person who is materially responsible for the success of
the local engagement. Local engagements cumulatively make or break a
tour.

This person is the local manager: that local resident who is often the
cultural mentor of the community of which he is an important member. It
is he who makes it possible for the members of his community to hear the
leading concert artists and musical organizations and to see and enjoy
ballet at its best. In these days of increasing encroachment on the part
of mechanical, push-button entertainment, it is the local manager to
whom the public must look for the preservation of the “live” culture:
the singer, the instrumentalist, the actor, the dancer, the painter, the
orchestra.

In the early days of my managerial activities, when I did not have an
office of my own, merely desk space in the corner of a room in the
Chandler Building, in West Forty-Second Street, I shall never forget the
“daddy” of all the local managers, the late L. H. Behymer, of Los
Angeles, who traveled three thousand miles just to see what sort of
creature it was, this youngster who was bringing music to the masses at
the old New York Hippodrome. A life-long bond was formed between us, and
“Bee” and his hard-working wife, throughout their long and honorable
careers as purveyors of the finest in musical and dance art to the
Southwest, remained my loyal and devoted friends.

This applies equally to all those workers in the vineyard, from East to
West, from North to South, in Europe and South America. It is the
friendly, personal cooperation of the local managers that helps make it
possible to present so successfully artists and companies across the
continent and the world we know. It is my very great pleasure each year,
at the close of their annual meetings in New York, to meet them, rub
shoulders, clasp hands, and discuss mutual problems.

The music and ballet lovers of the United States and Canada owe these
people a debt; and when readers across the breadth of this great
continent watch these folk--men and women, often helped out by their
wives, their husbands, their children, striving to provide the finest
available in the music and dance arts for their respective
communities--do not imagine that they are necessarily accumulating
wealth by their activities. More often than not, they work late and long
for an idea and an ideal for very little material gain.

Remember, if you will, that it is the industrious and enlightened local
manager, the college dean, the theatre manager, the public-spirited
women’s clubs and philanthropic organizations that make your music and
dance possible.

In the arts as in life, amidst the blaze of noon there are watchers for
the dawn, awaiting the unborn tomorrow. I am of them. This book may,
conceivably, have something of historical value in portraying events and
persons, things and colleagues who have been, at one and the same time,
motivating factors in the development and growth and appreciation of the
dance in our sector of the western world. Though it has dealt, for the
most part, with an era that is receding, I have tried not to look back
either with nostalgia or regret. At the same time, I have tried not to
view the era through rosy spectacles. As for tomorrow, I am optimistic.
Without an ingrained and deeply rooted optimism much of what this book
records could not have come to pass. Despite the lucubrations of certain
Cassandras, I find myself unable to share their pessimism for the fate
of culture in our troubled times. We shall have our ups and downs, as we
have had throughout the history of man.

I hold stubbornly to the tenet that man cannot live by bread alone, and
that those things of the spirit, those joys that delight the heart and
mind and soul of man, are indestructible. On the other hand, it is by no
means an easy trick to preserve them. While I agree with Ecclesiastes
that “the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart
of fools is in the house of mirth,” I nevertheless insist that it is the
supreme task of those who would profess or attain unto wisdom to exert
their last ounce of strength to foster, preserve, and encourage the
widest possible dissemination of the cultural heritage we possess.

As these closing pages are written, the Sadler’s Wells Ballet from the
Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, is poised on the threshold of its
third North American visit, with a larger company and a more varied
repertoire than ever before. The latter, in addition to works I have
noted in these pages, includes the new Coronation ballet, _Homage to the
Queen_, staged by Frederick Ashton, to a specially commissioned score by
the young English composer, Malcolm Arnold, with setting and costumes by
Oliver Messel; _The Shadow_, with choreography by John Cranko, scenery
and costumes by John Piper, and the music is Erno von Dohnanyi’s _Suite
in F Sharp Minor_, which had its first performance at the Royal Opera
House, Covent Garden, on 3rd March, 1953. Included, of course, is the
new full-length production of _Le Lac des Cygnes_, with an entirely new
production by Leslie Hurry; _The Sleeping Beauty_; _Sylvia_; _Giselle_,
in an entirely new setting by James Bailey; _Les Patineurs_; a revival
of Ashton’s _Don Juan_; and Ravel’s _Daphnis and Chloe_, staged by
Ashton, making use of the full choral score for the first time in ballet
in America.

Yet another impending dance venture and yet an additional aspect of
dance pioneering will be the first trans-continental tour of the Agnes
de Mille Dance Theatre. This is a project that has been in my mind for
more than a decade: the creation of an American dance theatre, with this
country’s most outstanding dance director at its head. For years I have
been an admirer of Agnes de Mille and the work she has done for ballet
in America, and for the native dance and dancer. In this, as in all my
activities, I have not solicited funds nor sought investors.

It is the first major organization to be established completely under my
aegis, for which I have taken sole responsibility, financially and
productionwise. It has long been my dream to form a veritable American
dance company, one which could exhibit the qualities which make our
native dancers unique: joy in sheer movement, wit, exuberance, a sharp
sense of drama.

It was in 1948 that Agnes and I began the long series of discussions
directed toward the creation of a completely new and “different”
company, one that would place equal accents on “Dance” and “Theatre.”

For the new company Agnes has devised a repertoire ranging from the
story of an Eighteenth-Century philanderer through Degas-inspired
comments on the Romantic Era, to scenes from _Paint Your Wagon_, and
_Brigadoon_. Utilizing spoken dialogue and song, the whole venture moves
towards something new under the sun--both in Dance and in Theatre.

The settings and costumes have been designed and created by Peggy Clark
and Motley; with the orchestrations and musical arrangements by Trudi
Rittman.

With the new organization, Agnes will have freedom to experiment in what
may well turn out to be a new form of dance entertainment, setting a
group of theatre dances both balletic and otherwise, with her own
personalized type of dance movement, and a group of ballad singers, all
in a distinctly native idiom.

In New York City, on the 15th January, 1954, I plan to inaugurate a
trans-continental tour of the Roland Petit Ballet Company, from Paris,
with new creations, and the quite extraordinary Colette Marchand, as his
chief _ballerina_.

In February, 1954, I shall extend my international dance activities to
Japan, when I shall bring that nation’s leading dance organization, the
Japanese Dancers and Musicians, for their first American tour. With this
fine group of artists, I shall be able to present America for the first
time with a native art product of the late Seventeenth century that is
the theatre of the commoner, stemming from Kabuki, meaning
“song-dance-skill.”

The autumn of 1954 will see a still further extension of my activities,
with the introduction of the first full Spanish ballet to be seen on the
North American continent.

We have long been accustomed to the Spanish dancer and the dance
concerts of distinguished Iberian artists; but never before have
Americans been exposed to Spanish ballet in its full panoply, with a
large and numerous company, complete with scenery, costumes, and a large
orchestra. It has long been my dream to present such an organization.

At last it has been realized, when I shall send from coast to coast the
Antonio Ballet Espagnol, which I saw and greatly admired on my visit to
Granada in the summer of 1953.

On the purely musical side, there is a truly remarkable chamber ensemble
from Italy, which will also highlight the season of 1954. It is I
Musici, an ensemble of twelve players, ranging through the string
family, including the ancient _viola di gamba_, and sustained by the
_cymbalon_; and specializing in early Italian music, for the greater
part. This organization has the high and warm recommendation of Arturo
Toscanini, who vastly admires them and their work.

I have reserved, in the manner of the host holding back the most
delectable items of a feast until the last, two announcements as
climactic.

I have concluded arrangements with England’s Old Vic to present on the
North American continent their superlative new production of
Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, staged by Michael Benthall,
with really magnificent settings and costumes by James Bailey.

The cast will include Robert Helpmann, as Oberon, and Moira Shearer, as
Titania, with outstanding and distinguished British actors in the other
roles; and, utilizing the full Mendelssohn score, the production will
have a ballet of forty, choreographed by Robert Helpmann.

The production will be seen at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York,
in mid-September, 1954, for a season, to be followed by a short tour of
the leading cities of the United States and Canada.

This will, I feel, be one of the most significant artistic productions
to be revealed across the continent since the days of Max Reinhardt’s
_The Miracle_. It gives me great personal satisfaction to be able to
offer this first of the new productions of London’s famous Old Vic.

The other choice tid-bit to which I feel American dance lovers will look
forward with keen anticipation is the coast-to-coast tour of London’s
Festival Ballet with Toumanova as guest star.

The Festival Ballet was founded by Anton Dolin for the British Festival,
under the immediate patronage of H.H. Princess Marie Louise. Dr. Julian
Braunsweg is its managing director.

It has grown steadily in stature and is today one of Europe’s best known
ballet companies. Under the artistic direction of Anton Dolin it has
appeared with marked success for several seasons at the Royal Festival
Hall, London; has toured Britain, all western Europe; and, in the spring
of 1953, gave a highly successful two weeks’ season in Montreal and
Toronto, where it received as high critical approval as ever accorded
any ballet company in Canada.

There is a company of eighty, and a repertoire of evenly balanced
classics and modern creations, including, among others, the following: a
full-length _Nutcracker_, _Giselle_, _Petrouchka_, _Swan Lake_, (_Act
I_), _Le Beau Danube_, _Schéhérazade_, _Symphonic Impressions_, _Pas de
Quatre_, _Bolero_, _Black Swan_, _Vision of Marguerite_, _Symphony for
Fun_, _Pantomime Harlequinade_, _Don Quixote_, _Les Sylphides_, _Le
Spectre de la Rose_, _Prince Igor_, _Concerto Grosso_.

This international exchange of ballet companies is one of the bulwarks
of mutual understanding and sympathy. It is a source of deep
gratification to me that I have been instrumental in bringing the
companies of the Sadler’s Wells organization, the Ballet of the Paris
Opera, and others to North America, as it is that I have been able to be
of service in arranging for the two visits of the New York City Ballet
to London. It is through the medium of such exchanges, presenting no
language barriers, but offering beauty as a common bond, that we are
able to bridge those hideous chasms so often caused by misunderstood
and, too often, unwise and thoughtlessly chosen words.

In unborn tomorrows I hope to extend these exchanges to include not only
Europe, but our sister republics to the South, and the Far East, with
whom now, more than ever, cultural rapport is necessary. We are now
reaching a time in America when artistic achievement has become
something more than casual entertainment, although, in my opinion,
artistic endeavor must never lose sight of the fact that entertainment
there must be if that public so necessary to the well-being of any art
is not to be alienated. The role of art and the artist is, through
entertainment, to stimulate and, through the creative spirit, to help
the audience renew its faith and courage in beauty, in universal ideals,
in love, in a richer and fuller imaginative life. Then, and only then,
can the audience rise above the mundane, the mediocre, the monotonous.

During the thirty-odd years I have labored on the American musical and
balletic scene, I have seen a growth of interest and appreciation that
has been little short of phenomenal. Yet I note, with deep regret, that
today the insecurities of living for art and the artist have by no means
lessened. Truth hinges solely on the harvest, and how may that harvest
be garnered with no security and no roof?

More than once in the pages of this book I have underlined and lamented
the passing of the great, generous Maecenas, the disappearance, through
causes that require no reiteration, of such figures as Otto H. Kahn,
whose open-hearted and open-pursed generosity contributed so inestimably
to the lyric and balletic art of dead yesterday. I have detailed at some
length the government support provided for the arts by our financially
less fortunate cousins of Great Britain, South America, and Europe. The
list of European countries favoring the arts could be extended into a
lengthy catalogue of nations ranging from Scandinavia to the
Mediterranean, on both sides of that unhappy screen, the “Iron Curtain.”

Here in the United States, the situation becomes steadily grimmer.
Almost every artistic enterprise worth its salt and scene painter, its
bread and choreographer, its meat and conductor, is in the perpetual
necessity of sitting on the pavement against the wall, hat in hand,
chanting the pitiful wail: “Alms, for the love of Art.” Vast quantities
of words are uttered, copious tears of regret are shed about and over
this condition at art forums, expensive cocktail parties, and on the
high stools of soda fountains. A great deal is said, but very little is
done.

The answer, in my opinion, will not be found until the little voices of
the soda fountain, the forums, the cocktail parties, unite into one
superbly unanimous chorus and demand a government subsidy for the arts.
I am not so foolish as to insist that government subsidy is the complete
and final cure for all the ills to which the delicate body is heir; but
it can provide, in a great national theatre, a roof for the creative and
performing artists of ballet, opera, theatre, and music. More than
anything else, the American ballet artist needs a roof, under which to
live, to create, and hold his being in security. Such a step would be
the only positive one in the right direction.

It is only through governmentally subsidized theatres, or one type of
subsidy or another, that ballet, opera, music, the legitimate theatre
may become a living and vital force in the everyday life of the American
people, may belong to the masses, instead of being merely a place of
entertainment for a relatively small section of our population. We have
before us the example of the success of government subsidy in the
British Arts Council and in the subsidized theatres of other European
countries. How can we profit by these examples?

A national opera house is the first step. Such a house should not, in my
opinion, be in New York. It should, because of the size of the country,
be much more centrally situated than in our Eastern metropolis. Since
the area of Great Britain is so much smaller than the United States, our
planning of government subsidy would, of necessity, be on a much larger
scale. In many of the countries where ballet and music have the benefit
of government subsidy, government ownership of industry is an accepted
practice. Yet the government theatre subsidy is managed without stifling
private enterprise.

I am quite aware that securing a national subsidy for the arts in this
country will be a long, difficult and painful process. It will require,
before all else, a campaign of education. We must have an increasing
world-consciousness, a better understanding of our fellow humans. We
must develop a nation of well-educated and, above all, thinking people,
who will do everything in their power to make a full-rounded life
available to every man and woman in the nation.

Only during the days of the WPA, in the ’30’s, has the United States
government ever evinced any particular interest in the arts. I cannot
hope that the present materialistic attitude of our lawmakers will
cause them to look with much favor on things of the spirit. The attitude
of our government towards the arts is noteworthy only for its complete
lack of interest in them or care for them. In the arts, and notably in
the ballet, it has the most formidable means and potential material for
cultural propaganda. The stubbornness with which it insists upon
ignoring the only aspect of American cultural life that would really
impress and influence Europe is something that is, to me, incredible. It
is a rather sad picture. How long will it take us in our educational
process to understand that in the unborn tomorrow we, as a nation, will
be remembered only through our art rather than through our materialism
and our gadgets?

Meanwhile, excellent and highly valuable assistance is being given by
such Foundations as the Ford Foundation and the Rockefeller Foundation.
The latter’s contribution to the New York City Center has been of
inestimable help to that organization.

Certain municipalities, through such groups as the San Francisco Art
Commission, financed on the basis of four mills on the dollar from the
city tax revenues, the Art Commission of the County of Los Angeles, the
City of Philadelphia, among others, are making generous and valuable
contributions to the musical and artistic life of their communities.

There are still to be mentioned those loyal and generous friends of the
arts who have contributed so splendidly to the appeals of orchestras
throughout the country, of the Metropolitan Opera Company, and the New
York City Center.

But this, I fear, is not enough. The genuinely unfortunate aspect of the
overall situation is that we are so pitifully unable to supply an outlet
for our own extraordinary talent. For example, at an audition I attended
in Milan, out of the twenty-eight singers heard, sixteen of them were
Americans. This is but further evidence that our American talent is
still forced to go to Europe to expand, to develop, and to exhibit their
talents; in short, to get a hearing.

In Italy today, with a population of approximately 48,000,000, there are
now some seventy-two full-fledged opera companies.

In pre-war Germany with an approximate population of 70,000,000, there
were one hundred forty-two opera houses, all either municipally or
nationally subsidized.

Any plan for government subsidy of the arts must be a carefully thought
out and extensive one. It should start with a roof, beginning slowly
and expanding gradually, until, from beneath that roof-tree, companies
and organizations would deploy throughout the entire country and,
eventually, the world. Eventually, in addition to ballet, music, opera,
and theatre, it should embrace all the creative arts. Education in the
arts must be included in the subsidization, so that the teacher, the
instructor, the professor may be regarded as equal in importance to
doctors, lawyers, engineers, and politicians, instead of being regarded
as failures, as they so often regrettably are.

Until the unborn tomorrow dawns when we can find leaders whose
understanding of these things is not drowned out by the thunder of
material prosperity and the noise of jostling humanity, leaders with the
vision and the foresight to see the benefit to the country and the world
from this kind of thing, and who, in addition to understanding and
knowing these things, possess the necessary courage and the
indispensable stamina to see things through, we shall have to continue
to fight the fight, to grasp any friendly hand, and, I fear, continue to
watch the sorry spectacle of the arts squatting in the market-place,
basket in lap, begging for alms for beauty.

So long as I am spared, I shall never cease to present the best in all
the arts, so that the great public may have them to enjoy and cherish;
so that the artists may be helped to attain some degree of that security
they so richly deserve, against that day when an enlightened nation can
provide them a home and the security that goes with it.

With all those who are of it, and all those whose lives are made a
little less onerous, a little more tolerable, to whom it brings glimpses
of a brighter unborn tomorrow, I repeat my united hurrah: Three Cheers
for Good Ballet!




INDEX


Abbey Theatre (Dublin), 217

Academy of Music (Brooklyn), 81

Adam, Adolphe, 246

Adelphi Theatre (New York), 158

_Aglae or The Pupil of Love_, 157

Aldrich, Richard, 23

_Alegrias_, 48, 55, 56

_Aleko_, 156, 172

Alexander of Tunis, Viscount and Viscountess, 307

Alhambra Theatre (London), 111

_Alice in Wonderland_, 318

_Alicia Markova, Her Life and Art_, 205

All Star Imperial Russian Ballet, 80, 87

Alonso, Alicia, 152

_Ambassador_ (a publication), 231

Ambassador Hotel (Los Angeles), 249

Amberg, George, 112

American Ballet, 136, 158

American Federation of Musicians, 62

_Amoun and Berenice_, 102

André, Grand Duke of Russia, 69

Andreu, Mariano, 129, 135

Andreyev, Leonide, 285

_Antic, The_, 76

_Antiche Danze ed Arie_, 150

Antonio Ballet Espagnol, 317

_Aphrodite_, 93

_Apollon Musagète_, 158, 172

_Apparitions_, 236, 239, 270, 273

_Apres-Midi d’un Faune, L’_ (_Afternoon of a Faun_), 78, 115

Arbeau, Thoinot, 298

Archives Internationales de la Danse, 49

Arensky, Anton, 102, 121

Argentina, 47

Argentinita (Encarnacion Lopez), 53-58, 135, 139, 204

Argyle, Pearl, 78

Armstrong, John, 239

Arnell, Richard, 302, 303

Arnold, Malcolm, 315

Art Commission of the County of Los Angeles, 321

Asafieff, Boris, 96, 98

Ashcroft, Peggy, 222

Ashton, Frederick, 74, 78, 79, 136, 137, 141, 201, 220, 230, 237, 238,
239, 240, 246, 247, 254, 258, 264, 268-272, 277, 278, 279, 283, 285,
290, 292, 296, 298, 301, 303, 304, 315, 316

Astafieva, Seraphine, 200, 201, 255

Atlee, Clement, 221

_Aubade_, 129

_Aubade Heroique_, 274, 278

_Assembly Ball_, 298

Auber, Francois, 270, 273, 298

Auditorium Theatre (Chicago), 114

Auric, Georges, 121, 122

_Aurora’s Wedding_, 121, 152

Avril Kentridge Medal, 295

Aveline, Albert, 215

_Azayae_, 19


_Bacchanale_, 135

Bach, Johann Sebastian, 129, 270, 278

_Bahiana_, 60

Bailey, James, 246, 316, 317

_Baiser de la Fée_ (_The Fairy’s Kiss_), 136

Bakst, Leon, 76, 118, 123

_Bal, Le_ (_The Ball_), 122

_Balabile_, 273

Balakireff, Mily, 94, 121

Balanchine, George (Georgi Balanchivadze), 65, 70, 107, 110, 121, 129,
136, 140, 142, 143, 157, 158, 161, 168, 172, 201, 215

Baldina, Maria, 85

Balieff, Nikita, 49, 111

Ballet and Opera Russe de Paris, 108, 109

Ballet Associates in America, 174, 195

Ballet Benevolent Fund, 277

Ballet Club (London), 78, 79, 106, 201, 217, 269

_Ballet Go-Round_, 205

_Ballet Imperial_, 256

Ballet Intime, 90

_Ballet Mecanique_, 172

Ballet Rambert, 79, 217, 225, 226, 269

Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, 59, 103, 107, 110, 125, 129, 130, 134,
135, 136, 137, 139, 140, 143, 145, 150, 151, 153, 154, 157, 168, 200,
201, 202, 204, 206, 269, 301

Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo (special reference; de Basil), 105, 106, 116

Ballets 1933, Les, 110, 158, 168

Ballet Theatre Foundation, 179

Ballet Theatre (known in Europe as “American National Ballet Theatre”),
81, 90, 103, 146, 147-182, 183, 184, 190, 193, 202, 204, 206, 225, 246

_Balustrade_, 142

Bandbox Theatre (New York), 76

Banks, Margaret, 184

_Barbara_, 50

Barbiroli, Sir John, 226

Bardin, Micheline, 215

Baronova, Irina, 70, 107, 111, 112, 114, 123, 130, 132, 140, 142, 143,
144, 151, 152, 153, 156, 157, 168, 195

Barrault, Jean Louis, 311

_Barrelhouse_, 60

Barrientos, Maria, 95

Bartok, Bela, 175

Baylis, Lilian, 218

Beaton, Cecil, 122, 195, 239

_Beau Danube, Le_, 110, 112, 119, 122, 132, 136, 140, 318

Beaumont, Count Etienne de, 122

_Beauty and the Beast_, 300, 301

Beecham, Sir Thomas, 159, 160, 221

Beethoven, Ludwig von, 29, 30, 96, 98, 135

Begitchev, 237

Behymer, Mr. and Mrs. L. H., 314

Belasco, David, 97

_Belle Hélene, La_, 157

Belle, James Cleveland, 231, 243

Bellini, Vincenzo, 157

Belmont, Mrs. August, 230

_Beloved One, The_, 153, 172

Benavente, Jacinto, 57

Bennett, Robert Russell, 135

Benois, Alexandre, 71, 118, 123, 142, 203

Benois, Nadia, 79

Benthall, Michael, 239, 317

Bérard, Christian, 135

Berlioz, Hector, 115, 122, 195, 239

Beriosoff, Nicholas, 301

Beriosova, Svetlana, 301, 303, 304

Berman, Eugene, 137

Berners, Lord, 240, 270, 273

Bernhardt, Sarah, 81, 195

Bernstein, Leonard, 161

Bielsky, V., 95

_Billy Budd_, 281

_Billy the Kid_, 150, 156

Bizet, Georges, 122, 215, 298

_Black Ritual_, 172

_Black Swan_, 318

Blair, David, 300, 301, 303, 304

Blake, William, 218, 238

Blareau, Richard, 215

Bliss, Sir Arthur, 239, 240, 241, 279, 281, 284

Bloch, Mrs. (Manager Loie Fuller), 37, 38, 39

_Blonde Marie_, The, 50

Blot, Robert, 215

_Bluebeard_, 103, 153, 171

Blum, Léon, 108

Blum, René, 103, 106, 107, 108, 110, 114, 116, 125, 128, 129, 136, 140,
216

Boccherini, Luigi, 122

_Bogatyri_, 135

_Bolero_, 318

Bolm, Adolph, 74, 88-91, 94, 95, 96, 105, 149, 157, 164, 172, 173, 175,
176

Bolshoi Theatre (Moscow), 67, 80, 85, 87, 228, 294

Boosey and Hawkes, 211, 220, 221, 224, 229, 280

Boretzky-Kasadevich, Vadim, 168

Borodin, Alexander, 94, 122

Borodin, George, 230

Boston Opera House, 260

Boston Public Library, 129

Boston Symphony Orchestra, 166

Bottord, O. O., 313

Bouchene, Dmitri, 129

Bouchenet, Mme., 196

Boult, Sir Adrian, 226

_Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Le_, 110, 121

Bourman, Anatole, 308

_Boutique Fantasque, La_, 119, 122, 132, 136, 172

Bowman, Patricia, 147

Boyce, William, 298

Boyd Neel String Orchestra, 226

Boyer, Lucienne, 49

Bozzini, Max, 215

Brae, June, 241

Brahms, Johannes, 115, 122

Braunsweg, Julian, 213, 318

Breinin, Raymond, 162

_Brigadoon_, 316

British Arts Council, 77, 211, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228,
229, 236, 287, 288, 302, 320

British Broadcasting Corporation, 227, 276

British Council, 220, 221, 225, 226, 227, 236, 259, 261, 267, 301

British Film Institute, 221

British Ministry of Information, 287

Britten, Benjamin, 222, 274, 281

Britton, Donald, 303

Brown, John, 98

Bruce, Henry, 73

_Bulerias_, 48, 55

Bulgakoff, Alexander, 76

_Burleske_, 160

Burra, Edward, 239, 247

Butsova, Hilda, 80, 105


_Cabin in the Sky_, 59

_Cablagata_, 311

Cadogan, Sir Alexander, 234

_Cain and Abel_, 194

_Cachucha_, 18

_Camille_, 195

_Carib Song_ (_Caribbean Rhapsody_), 63

Carmela, 48, 49

_Carmen_, 218

Carmita, 48, 49

_Carnaval_, 102, 103, 121, 128, 152, 171, 219, 255

Camargo Society (London), 78, 106, 201, 217, 218, 221, 228, 238, 269,
273, 287

_Capriccio Espagnol_, 56, 98, 135, 172

_Capriccioso_, 172

_Capriol Suite_, 269, 298

Carnegie Hall (New York), 33

Caruso, Enrico, 18, 81, 101

Cassandre, 129

Castellanos, Julio, 155

Chagall, Marc, 156

Castle Garden (New York), 16

_Castor and Pollux_, 215

Caton, Edward, 194

_Caucasian Dances_, 98

_Caucasian Sketches_, 98

Cecchetti, Enrico, 70, 78, 172

Celli, Vincenzo, 198

C. E. M. A., 222, 223, 224, 226

_Cendrillon_, 103, 141

Center Theater (New York), 148, 149

Century of Progress Exhibition, 59

Century Theatre (New York), 32, 93, 102, 196

Chabrier, Emanuel, 121, 273

Chaliapine, Feodor, 17, 25, 26, 27, 242

Chaliapine, Lydia, 49

Chaliapine, “Masha,” 26, 27

Chamberlain, George, 299, 305, 306

_Chansons Populaires_, 55

Chaplin, Charles, 50, 249

Chappell, William, 78, 79

Charisse, Cyd, 249

_Chauve Souris_, 211

Chase, Lucia, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 154, 157, 164, 166, 167,
170, 173, 174, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 202

Chase, William (“Bill”), 44, 45

_Cimarosiana_, 122

Charnley, Michael, 79

Chateau Frontenac (Quebec), 259, 262

_Chatte, La_, 201

Chauviré, Yvette, 215

_Checkmate_, 241, 246, 254, 284

Chesterton, G. K., 275

Chicago Allied Arts, 90, 105

Chicago Civic Opera Company, 86

Chicago _Daily News_, 185

Chicago Opera Company, 90, 149

Chicago Opera House, 59, 151, 184, 185, 253

Chicago Public Library, 286

Chirico, 122, 142

Chopin, Frederic, 97, 121, 195

_Choreartium_, 115, 122

Christ’s Hospital (London), 273

_Christmas_, 255

Church of St. Bartholomew the Great (London), 278, 279

Church of St. Martin’s in-the-Fields (London), 278

Churchill, John, 278

Churchill, Sir Winston, 275

_Cinderella_, 141, 236, 237, 256, 269, 270, 271, 283, 290

City of Philadelphia, 321

Claire, Stella, 300

Clark, Peggy, 316

Clustine, Ivan, 21, 24

Clutterbuck, Sir Hugh and Lady, 307

_Cléopatre_ 76, 102, 121

Cleveland Institute, 33

Cobos, Antonio, 194

Colon Theatre (Buenos Aires), 273

Colonel de Basil’s Ballet Russe, 116

Colt, Alvin, 164, 198

_Comus_, 273

_Concerto for Orchestra_, 175

_Concerto Grosso_, 318

_Concurrence, La_, 110, 112, 121

Condon, Natalia, 198

Conrad, Karen, 152

_Constantia_, 190, 194

Constitution Hall (Washington, D.C.), 256, 307

Continental Revue, 49

Copeland, George, 32

Copland, Aaron, 150, 156

Copley, Richard, 44

Copley-Plaza Hotel (Boston), 129

_Coppélia_, 19, 87, 96, 129, 136, 156, 172, 173, 219, 229, 256, 301, 303

_Coq d’Or, Le_, 90, 94, 95, 96, 98, 103, 115, 121, 135, 140

Coralli, Jean, 246

_Cotillon, Le_, 110, 121, 142, 168

_Counterfeiters, The_, 115

Council for the Education of H. M. Forces, 287

Cotten, Joseph, 249

Covent Garden Ballet Russe, 116

Covent Garden Opera Company, 223, 224, 227

Covent Garden Opera Syndicate, 223

Covent Garden Opera Trust, 208, 211, 223, 224, 225, 261, 280, 298

Coward, Noel, 222

_Cracovienne, La_, 18

Craig, Gordon, 31, 36

Cranko, John, 298, 299, 300, 302, 315

Cravath, Paul D., 112

_Creation du Monde, La_, 218

Cripps, Sir Stafford, 221, 256

Crowninshield, Frank, 33

_Crystal Palace_, The, 215


_Dagestanskaya Lesginka_, 102

_Daily Telegraph_ (London), 287

Dalcroze, Jacques, 39, 77, 288

Dali, Salvador, 57, 135

_Damnation of Faust, The_, 195, 198

Damrosch, Walter, 31

_Dancing Times_ (London), 287

Dandré, Victor, 24, 132, 141

Danilova, Alexandra, 59, 67, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 122, 128, 129, 201

_Dance of the Sylphs_, 195

_Danse de Feu_, 38

_Danse, La_, 87

_Danses Sacré et Profane_, 142

_Danses Slaves et Tsiganes_, 122

_Danses Tziganes_, 98

_Dante Sonata_, 246, 247, 256, 270, 273

Danton, Henry, 240

_Daphnis and Chloe_, 316

_D’après une lecture de Dante_, 247

Dargomijsky, Alexander, 122

_Dark Elegies_, 172

Darrington Hall, 52

_Daughter of Pharaoh_, 85

_Day in a Southern Port, A_, 270

_Days of Glory_, 168

_Death and the Maiden_, 171

_Deaths and Entrances_, 65

de Basil, Colonel W., 103, 105, 107, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115,
116, 117, 120, 121, 122, 123, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132,
133, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 148, 151, 158, 160,
165, 168, 173, 183, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195,
196, 197, 204, 244, 289

Debussy, Claude, 142

de Cuevas, Marquessa, 184, 191

de Cuevas, Marquis Georges, 57, 149, 168, 190, 191, 192, 194, 195, 196

Degas, 316

de la Fontaine, Jean, 215

Delarova, Eugenia, 111, 114, 123, 129

De La Warr, Lord, 222

Delibes, Léo, 19, 74, 96, 129, 136, 156, 215, 220, 296, 301, 303

Delius, Frederick, 158, 159, 270

dello Joio, Norman, 164

de Maré, Rolf, 49

de Mille, Agnes, 59, 85, 149, 150, 160, 161, 172, 174, 316

de Mille, Cecil B., 85

de Mille Dance Theatre, Agnes, 316

de Molas, Nicolas, 153

Denham, Sergei I., 125, 126, 127, 128

129, 137,143, 144, 157

de Pachmann, Vladimir, 81

Derain, André, 123, 129

de Valois, Ninette, 78, 90, 106, 201, 210, 212, 217, 218, 220, 222,
224, 228, 229, 230, 232, 233, 234, 238, 239, 241, 243, 246, 247, 248,
251, 252, 253, 255, 262, 264, 268, 269, 273, 277, 278, 279, 280, 283,
284, 285, 286, 287, 292, 293, 296, 297, 298, 299, 301, 306, 308

_Devil’s Holiday_, 136, 137, 269

Diaghileff Ballets Russes, 40, 43, 71, 72, 73, 75, 76, 77, 78, 86, 89,
105, 200, 201, 203, 204, 217, 255, 269

Diaghileff, Serge, 23, 40, 53, 67, 69, 71, 72, 74, 76, 77, 78, 80, 82,
85, 89, 90, 93, 94, 95, 102, 105, 106, 107, 110, 111, 112, 117, 118,
120, 121, 122, 127, 128, 130, 132, 137, 142, 145, 161, 172, 173, 175,
186, 197, 200, 201, 203, 204, 205, 217, 221, 273, 275, 287, 289

Dickens, Charles, 311

d’Indy, Vincent, 215

Dior, Christian, 258

Dillingham, Charles B., 12, 19, 20, 102

_Dim Lustre_, 160, 172

_Divertissement_, 205

_Divertissement_ (Tchaikowsky), 215

Dixieland Band, 59

Doboujinsky, Mstislav, 122, 129, 155, 160

Dohnanyi, Erno von, 315

Dolin, Anton, 53, 57, 84, 90, 103, 142, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 157,
160, 161, 168, 172, 174, 175, 184, 195, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203,
204-207, 218, 219, 238, 255, 283, 318

Dollar, William, 194

_Don Domingo_, 155, 172

_Don Juan_, 103, 129, 316

_Don Quixote_, 86, 294, 318

_Don Quixote_ (Gerhard), 246, 247

Dorati, Antal, 114, 122, 141, 142, 151, 153, 157, 159, 167, 178

Dostoevsky, 36

Drake Hotel (Chicago), 285, 286

Drury Lane Theatre (Royal) (London), 133, 134, 136, 201

Dubrowska, Felia, 142

Dufy, Raoul, 122

Dukas, Paul, 215

Dukelsky, Vladimir (Vernon Duke), 115, 122

Dukes, Ashley, 78

Dumas, Alexandre, 195, 198

Duncan, Augustin, 29, 32

Duncan, Elizabeth, 29

Duncan, Isadora, 28-36, 37, 40, 45, 47, 64, 65, 93

Duncan, Raymond, 29

Dunham, Katherine, 58-63, 139, 311

Duse, Eleanora, 81

Dushkin, Samuel, 142

Dvorak, Antonin, 152


Edgeworth, Jane, 278

Edinburgh Festival, 278, 306

Educational Ballets, Ltd., 116, 132, 138

Eglevsky, André, 111, 114, 123, 125, 157, 158, 161, 184, 195, 198

_Egmont_, 98

Egorova, Lubov, 67, 71-72

_El Amor Brujo_, 56, 129

_El Café de Chinitas_, 56, 57

_Elegiac Blues_, 274

_Elements, Les_, 103, 129

_El Huayno_, 56

Eliot, T. S., 285, 303

Ellsler, Fanny, 18, 272

Elman, Misha, 17, 82

Elman, Sol, 81

Elmhirst Foundation, 52

_Elves, Les_, 103, 129

Elvin, Harold, 294

Elvin, Violetta, 237, 238, 292, 294-295

_Elvira_, 215

Empire Theatre (London), 73, 74

English Opera Group, Ltd., 225

English-Speaking Union, 260, 261

_En Saga_, 300

_Epreuve d’Amour, L’_, 103, 129

Erlanger, Baron Frederic d’, 103, 122, 132, 141

_Errante_, 158, 172

_Escales_, 215

Escudero, Vicente, 47-49, 53

Essenin, Serge, 31, 34

_Eternal Struggle, The_, 141

_Eugene Onegin_, 184

Ewing, Thomas, 180


_Façade_, 236, 238, 246, 269, 276, 291, 298

_Facsimile_, 172

_Faery Queen, The_, 273

_Fair at Sorotchinsk_, 160, 172

_Fairy Doll_, 255

Falla, Manuel de, 56, 118, 122

_Fancy Free_, 160, 161, 172, 174

_Fandango_, 56

_Fantasia_, 198

Farrar, Geraldine, 81

_Farruca_, 48

_Faust_, 218

Federal Dance Theatre, 59

Fedorova, Alexandra, 136

Fedorovitch, Sophie, 79, 240, 247

Fernandez, José, 172

Fernandez, Royes, 198

Festival Ballet (London), 158, 202, 206, 318

Festival Theatre (Cambridge University), 217

_Fête Etrange, La_, 298

Field, Marshall, 32

Fifield, Elaine, 200, 202, 304

_Fille de Madame Angot, La_, 150

_Fille Mal Gardée, La_, 149, 172

_Firebird_ (_L’Oiseau de Feu_), 72, 90, 121, 142, 165, 172, 173, 174,
175, 176, 177, 178

_First Love_, 74

Fisher, Thomas Hart, 253

Fiske, Harrison Grey, 76

Fitzgerald, Barry, 249

Fleischmann, Julius, 123, 124, 126, 128, 129, 131

Fokine American Ballet, 102

Fokine, Michel, 19, 31, 40, 65, 68, 72, 76, 79, 89, 92-104, 110, 114,
115, 116, 118, 121, 125, 128, 129, 135, 136, 141, 142, 149, 152, 153,
155, 157, 171, 172, 173, 175, 198, 202, 203, 308

Fokina, Vera, 92, 104, 157, 173

Fokine, Vitale, 93, 94

Fonteyn, Margot, 211, 212, 229, 231, 232, 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240,
243, 246, 248, 253, 254-259, 271, 272, 282, 285, 286, 292, 304

Ford Foundation, 321

Forrest Theatre (Philadelphia), 114

Forty-eighth Street Theatre (New York), 59

Forty-fourth Street Theatre (New York), 153

Forty-sixth Street Theatre (New York), 42, 43, 48

Foss, Lukas, 184

_Fountains of Bakchisserai, The_, 294

_Four Saints in Three Acts_, 269

Fox, Horace, 263

_Foyer de Danse_, 269

Franca, Celia, 298

Francaix, Jean, 122

France, Anatole, 194

_Francesca da Rimini_, 122

Franck, César, 29, 240, 270

Frankenstein, Alfred, 199, 305

Franklin, Benjamin, 16

Franklin, Frederick, 59, 130, 202

Franks, Sir Oliver and Lady, 234, 256, 260, 261

French National Lyric Theatre, 214, 215

_Fridolin_, 49

Frohman, Mae, 46, 114, 144, 189, 191, 243, 312, 313

_Frolicking Gods_, 94

Frost, Honor, 298

Fuller, Loie, 37-39


_Gaîté Parisienne_, 129, 135, 301

_Gala Evening_, 215

_Gala Performance_, 172

Galli, Rosina, 18

Garson, Greer, 243, 249

Gatti-Cazzaza, Giulio, 18, 19

Gaubert, Phillipe, 215

Geltser, 237

Geltzer, Ekaterina, 80, 87

Genée, Adeline, 73, 87

Genthe, Dr. Arnold, 33

Gerhard, Robert, 247

German Opera Company, 311

Gershwin, George, 135

Gest, Morris, 85, 93

Gest, Simeon, 80

Geva, Tamara, 158

_Ghost Town_, 136

Gibson, Ian, 152

Gide, André, 115

Gielgud, John, 222, 226

_Gift of the Magi_, 164, 172

Gilbert, W. S., 299

Gilmour, Sally, 78

Gindt, Ekaterina, 104

_Giselle_, 19, 72, 79, 134, 147, 149, 172, 180, 184, 199, 201, 203,
207, 218, 219, 229, 246, 255, 256, 292, 315, 318

Gladowska, Constantia, 195

Glazounow, Alexandre, 19, 100

Glinka, Mikhail, 94

_Gloriana_, 281

Gluck, Christopher Willibald von, 129, 161

Goetz, E. Ray, 110

Gogol, Nikolai, 150

Gollner, Nana, 85, 125

Golovine, 173

Gontcharova, Nathalie, 122, 129, 135, 141, 173

Goode, Gerald, 42

_Good-Humoured Ladies, The_, 122

Gopal, Ram, 213

Gordon, Gavin, 239

Gore, Walter, 78, 79

Gorky, Maxim, 15, 16, 26

_Götter-dammerung, Die_, 194

Gould, Diana, 78

Gould, Morton, 165

_Goyescas_, 172

_Graduation Ball_, 142, 172

Graham, Martha, 42, 63-65, 106, 213

Grand Ballet de Monte Carlo, 195

Grand Ballet du Marquis de Cuevas, 196, 225

Grant, Alexander, 247

Grauman’s Chinese Theatre (Hollywood), 85

Grauman’s Egyptian Theatre (Hollywood), 85

_Graziana_, 164, 172

Greco, José, 56

_Green Table, The_, 49

Grey, Beryl, 236, 237, 292-294

Grigorieva, Tamara, 123, 130

Grigorieff, Serge, 111, 114, 123, 142

Grimousinkaya, Irina, 294

Gross, Alexander, 29

Guerard, Roland, 130

Guerra, Nicola, 215

_Guiablesse, La_, 58

Guinsberg, Naron “Nikki,” 131

Guthrie, Tyrone, 222


Habima Theatre, 311

Hall, James Norman, 276

Hallé Orchestra, The, 223

_Hamlet_, 236, 240, 283

_Hammersmith Nights_, 269

Hanson, Joe, 209

_Harlequin in April_, 302, 303

Hartley, Russell, 198

Hartmann, Emil, 98

Harvard Library, 129

_Harvest Time_, 167

Heseltine, Philip (Peter Warlock), 298

Haskell, Arnold L., 78, 106, 286-289

Hastings, Hanns, 41

_Haunted Ballroom, The_, 298

Hawkes, Ralph, 229

Hayward, Louis, 249

Heifetz, Jascha, 82

_Helen of Troy_, 103, 157, 158, 172

Helpmann, Robert, 238, 239, 240, 241, 254, 272, 278, 279, 282-286, 290,
317, 318

Henderson, Mrs. Laura, 204

Henderson, W. J., 23

_Henry VIII._, 198

Henry, O., 164

Hepburn, Katherine, 285

Hess, Dame Myra, 222

Hightower, Rosella, 152, 158, 160, 195, 198

Hindemith, Paul, 136

_Hindu Wedding_, 51

Hippodrome (New York), 12, 19, 20, 21, 88, 94, 102, 314

Hirsch, Georges, 213, 215, 216

H. M. Ministry of Works, 224

Hobi, Frank, 152

Hoffman, Gertrude, 76, 85, 87

Hogarth, William, 239, 274

Holden, Stanley, 303

Hollywood Bowl, 85, 164

Hollywood Theatre (New York), 139, 142, 143, 168

_Homage to the Queen_, 270, 315

_Hooray for Love_, 50

Horenstein, Jascha, 184

_Horoscope_, 270, 274

Horrocks, 231

Hotel Meurice (Paris), 39, 259

Howard, Andrée, 78, 79, 149, 171, 298

Hughes, Herbert, 239, 249, 251, 252, 262, 267, 304

Hugo, Pierre, 122

Hugo, Victor, 247

Humphrey, Doris, 42, 213

_Hundred Kisses, The_, 115, 122, 140

_Hungary_, 19

Hurok, Mrs. (Emma), 46, 49, 131, 139, 187, 188, 190, 191, 202, 241,
243, 312

Hurry, Leslie, 237, 240, 315

Hyams, Ruth, 243, 313


Ibert, Jacques, 215

_Icare_, 136

_Igroushki_, 129

_Imaginaires, Les_, 122

Imperial League of Opera (London), 107

Imperial School of Ballet (Moscow), 80, 85, 86, 87, 117

_Impresario_, 33, 134, 158, 168, 215

_I Musici_, 317

_In Old Madrid_, 56

International Ballet (London), 290

International Ballet, 149, 184, 190, 196

International Choreographic Competition (Paris), 49

International Dance Festival, 151

International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, 59

International Revue, 53, 204

_Interplay_, 165, 172

Ippolitov-Ivanov, Mikhail, 98

Irving, Robert, 240, 304

Irving, Sir Henry, 81

“Isadorables” (Anna, Lysel, Gretl, Thérése, Erica, Irma), 32, 33, 34

_Istar_, 215

Iturbi, José, 57

Ivanoff, Lev, 121, 237

Ivy House (London), 21, 25, 26


Jackson, Tom, 224

Jackson, Rowena, 292, 296-297

Jacob, Gordon, 239

Jacob’s Pillow, 151, 152

Japanese Dancers and Musicians, 317

_Jardin aux Lilas_ (_Lilac Garden_), 172

_Jardin Public_ (_Public Garden_), 115, 122

Jasinsky, Roman, 111, 123, 130

Jerome, Jerome K., 239

_Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring_, 278

_Jeux_, 78

_Jeux d’Enfants_ (_Children’s Games_), 110, 122, 140, 168

_Jeux des Cartes_ (_Card Game_, _Poker Game_), 136

_Job_, 218, 236, 238, 283

Johnson, Albert, 114, 122

Johnson, Edward, 214, 230

Jolivet, André, 215

Joos, Kurt, 49

_Jota_, 56

_Jota Argonese_, 129, 135

Juda, Hans, 231

_Judgment of Paris_, 172


Kahn, Otto H., 18, 32, 89, 95, 111, 112, 319

Kaloujny, Alexandre, 215

Karnilova, Maria, 152

Karsavina, Tamara, 67, 72-73, 75, 77, 89, 172, 255, 273

Karsavin, Platon, 72

Kauffer, E. McKnight, 241

Kaye, Nora, 152, 155, 158, 160, 164, 231

Kchessinsky, Felix, 68

Kchessinska, Mathilde, 67-69, 71, 111

Kennedy, Ludovic, 291

Keynes, Geoffrey, 238

Keynes, J. Maynard (Lord Keynes), 78, 106, 221, 222, 224, 228

_Khadra_, 298

Kidd, Michael, 164, 174

_Knight and the Maiden, The_, 215

Korovin, 122, 294

Kosloff, Alexis, 76, 85

Kosloff, Theodore, 68, 76, 84-85, 86, 87

Koudriavtzeff, Nicholas, 186, 187, 188, 194

Koussevitsky, Serge, 198

Krassovska, Natalie (Leslie), 125, 129

Kreutzberg, Harald, 46

Kriza, John, 152, 164, 167

Kubelik, Jan, 81, 82

Kurtz, Efrem, 113, 129

Kyasht, Lydia (Kyaksht), 67, 73-75, 77


Laban, Rudolf von, 40

_Labyrinth_, 135

_Lac des Cygnes_ (Full length), 201, 219, 229, 236, 246, 248, 291, 292,
293, 296, 297, 315

_Lady Into Fox_, 171

_Lady of the Camellias_, 198

_Lady of Shalot_, 269

_L’Ag’ya_, 60

Laing, Hugh, 78, 152, 160

Lalo, Eduardo, 215

Lambert, Constant, 106, 211, 220, 231, 232, 234, 235, 239, 240, 246,
247, 264, 265, 270, 272-279, 283, 293, 296, 298

Lancaster, Osbert, 299, 300

Lanchbery, John, 305

Lane, Maryon, 303, 304

Larianov, Michel, 118, 123

_Last Days of Nijinsky, The_, 83

_Laudes Evangelli_, 120

Lauret, Jeanette, 129, 152

Lawrence, Gertrude, 204

Lawson-Powell School (New Zealand), 296

Lazovsky, Yurek, 130, 152

Lecocq, Charles, 160

_Leda and the Swan_, 269

Lehmann, Maurice, 216

Lenin, Nicolai, 68

Leningrad Conservatory, 312

Leslie, Lew, 53, 204

Lester, Edwin, 249

Lester, Keith, 172

Levine, Marks, 313

Lewisohn Stadium (New York), 102, 103, 149

Liadoff, Anatole, 96, 98, 122

Lichine, David, 111, 112, 114, 122, 123, 130, 142, 157, 160, 161, 172,
194

Lidji, Jacques, 127, 189, 191

Lieberman, Elias, 131, 178, 191

Lie, Honorable Trygve, 234

_Lieutenant Kije_, 155

Lifar, Serge, 130, 134, 136, 142, 169, 206, 215, 216, 273

Lingwood, Tom, 79

Lipkovska, Tatiana, 186

Litavkin, Serge, 74

Little Theatre (New York Times Hall), 49

Liszt, Franz, 81, 153, 158, 198, 239, 247, 270, 273, 276

Liverpool Philharmonic Society, 280

Lobe, Edward, 100

Local managers, 314-315

Loew’s Theatre (Washington, D.C.), 307

London Ballet Workshop, 79

London Philharmonic Orchestra, 223, 276

London Symphony Orchestra, 223

Lopez, Pilar, 56, 57, 58

Lopokova, Lydia (Lady Keynes), 67

75-77, 78, 87, 106, 221, 277

Lorca, Garcia, 56, 57

_Lord of Burleigh, The_, 270

Loring, Eugene, 149, 150, 156

Los Angeles Civic Light Opera Association, 249

Losch, Tilly, 158

Lourie, Eugene, 122

Louys, Pierre, 93

Lurçat, Jean, 122

Lyon, Annabelle, 152

Lyceum Theatre (London), 107, 109


Mackaye, Percy, 76

MacLeish, Archibald, 114

Macletzova, Xenia, 80, 105

_Mlle. Angot_, 160, 172, 256

_Magic Swan, The_, 136

Maclès, Jean-Denis, 237, 258

Malone, Halsey, 128

Majestic Theatre (New York), 53, 54, 114, 149

Manhattan Opera House (New York), 24

Mansfield, Richard, 81

Manuel, Roland, 215

_Man Who Married a Dumb Wife, The_, 194

_Mardi Gras_, 298

Marie Antoinette Hotel (New York), 97

Maria Thérésa, 33

Marie, Grand Duchess of Russia, 111

Marie, Queen of Rumania, 37, 38

Mark Hopkins Hotel (San Francisco), 59

Markova, Alicia, 90, 130, 134, 151, 152, 161, 163, 175, 184, 195, 198,
199, 200-204, 207, 218, 219, 237, 246, 255, 271

Markova-Dolin Ballet Company, 163, 184, 186, 192, 198, 199, 201, 202

Martin Beck Theatre (New York), 59

Martin, Florence and Kathleen, 141

Martin, John, 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 112

Maryinsky Theatre (Russia), 67, 68, 71, 72, 73, 77, 84, 86, 89, 140,
228, 236

_Masques, Les_, 79, 269

Masonic Auditorium (Detroit), 102, 185

Massenet, Jules, 19

Massine, Leonide, 44, 56, 106, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 117, 118,
119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 128, 129, 130, 132, 134, 135,
136, 137, 145, 155, 156, 160, 172, 197, 200, 201, 202, 206, 245, 269,
284, 290, 291, 300, 301

Masson, André, 122

_Matelots, Les_, 122

Matisse, Henri, 135

May, Pamela, 239, 240, 272

_Medusa_, 103

Melba, Dame Nellie, 295

Melville, Herman, 281

Mendelssohn, Felix von, 103, 122, 129, 317

Menotti, Gian-Carlo, 194

Mens, Meta, 40

_Mephisto Valse_, 269

_Merchant Navy Suite_, 274

Mercury Theatre (London), 78, 79

Merida, Carlos, 157

Messager, André, 215

Messel, Oliver, 122, 211, 232, 236, 315

Metropolitan Opera Company, 20, 86, 95, 98, 214, 321

Metropolitan Opera House (New York), 18, 19, 30, 31, 32, 33, 55, 56,
57, 87, 90, 94, 96, 97, 98, 106, 115, 122, 136, 139, 153, 154, 157,
158, 159, 160, 161, 165, 175, 176, 177, 188, 190, 192, 194, 197, 201,
214, 216, 225, 230, 231, 232, 233, 235, 237, 240, 247, 248, 259, 278,
283, 292, 293, 307, 318

Metropolitan Opera House (Philadelphia), 100

Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 246, 270, 273

_Midnight Sun, The_, 122

_Midsummer Night’s Dream, A_, 103, 122, 317

Mielziner, Jo, 155

Mignone, Francisco, 194

Mikhailovsky Theatre (St. Petersburg), 89

Miller, Patricia, 300

Milhaud, Darius, 153, 215, 218

Mills, Florence, 274

Minkus, Leon, 294

Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, 151

_Minuet of the Will o’ the Wisps_, 195

_Miracle, The_, 318

_Miracle in the Gorbals_, 236, 239, 240, 283, 284

_Mirages, Les_, 215

Miro, Joan, 122

Mladova, Milada, 129

Modjeska, Helena, 81

_Monotonie_, 42

Montenegro, Robert, 156

Monteux, Pierre, 95, 198

Monte Carlo Ballet Russe, 116

“_Moonlight Sonata_,” 96, 98, 100

Moore, Henry, 222

Mordkin Ballet, 80, 180, 181

Mordkin, Mikhail, 19, 22, 68, 76, 79-81, 87, 105, 147, 148, 149, 180

_Morning Telegraph, The_ (New York), 17

Morosova, Olga, 123, 130, 193

Morris, Douglas, 305

_Mort du Cygne, La_ (_The Dying Swan_), 19, 96, 98, 101

Mortlock, Rev. C. B., 278

Moreton, Ursula, 299

Moscow Art Players, 311

Moss and Fontana, 54

_Mother Goose Suite_, 300

Motley, 160, 161, 316

Moussorgsky, Modeste, 160

_Movimientos_, 79

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 129, 164

Munsel, Patrice, 295

_Murder in the Cathedral_, 285

Music for the Masses, 17

_Music for the Orchestra_, 274

Music Ho!, 274

_Mute Wife, The_, 190, 194

_My Three Loves_, 290


Nabokoff, Nicholas, 114, 122

Nachez, Twadar, 98

Natalie Koussevitsky Foundation, 281

National Gallery (London), 278

National Symphony Orchestra (Washington, D.C.), 184

Nation, Carrie, 37

_Naouma_, 215

Nemtchinova-Dolin Ballet, 204

Nemtchinova, Vera, 80, 105, 125

Nerina, Nadia, 292, 295-296

New Dance--Theatre Piece--With My Red Fires (trilogy), 213

New York City Ballet, 175, 225, 269, 318

New York City Center, 214, 321

New York City Festival, 169, 213, 214, 217

_New York Herald-Tribune_, 44

New York Philharmonic Orchestra, 57, 166

New York Symphony Orchestra, 31

_New York Times, The_, 17, 23, 31, 40, 43, 44, 98

_New Yorker, The_, 135

Nicolaeva-Legat, Nadine, 289, 290

_Night on a Bald Mountain_, 160

Nijinska, Bronislava, 107, 115, 122, 149, 153, 167, 171, 198, 269, 273

Nijinska, Romola, 82, 83

Nijinsky, Vaslav, 77, 81-84, 89, 115, 284

_Noces, Les_, 122

_Nocturne_, 122, 270

Nordoff, Paul, 161

Novikoff, Elizabeth, 87

Novikoff, Laurent, 22, 68, 86, 87, 294

_Nuit d’Egypte, Une_, 102

_Nutcracker, The_, 129, 136, 173, 184, 201, 203, 218, 219, 301, 302,
303, 304, 318

_Nutcracker Suite_, 94, 198


_Oberon_, 98

Obolensky, Prince Serge, 111, 131

Oboukhoff, Anatole, 125

O’Dwyer, William, 213, 232, 233, 234

Offenbach, Jacques, 129, 135, 153, 157

Old Vic Theatre (London), 208, 218, 223, 226, 246, 298, 299, 317, 318

Olivier, Sir Laurence, 222

_On Stage!_, 164, 174

_On the Route to Seville_, 56

_Orchesographie_, 298

O’Reilley, Sheilah, 300

Original Ballet Russe, 103, 116, 138-146, 149, 187, 195, 196, 199, 204,
225

Orloff, Nicolas, 152

Orlova, Tatiana ( Mrs. Leonide Massine), 126

Osato, Sono, 114, 123, 130, 142, 162

Ostrovsky Theatre (Moscow), 117


Pabst Theatre (Milwaukee), 184

_Paganini_, 103, 140

Paganini, Niccolo, 82, 137, 141, 194

Page, Ruth, 58, 60, 253

_Paint Your Wagon_, 316

Palacio des Bellas Artes (Mexico City), 114, 155

Palisades Amusement Park (New York), 20, 21

Panaieff, Michel, 125, 130

_Pantomime Harlequinade_, 318

_Papillons, Les_, 121

_Paris_, 270

Paris Colonial Exposition, 51

Paris Opéra, 106, 130, 134, 151, 172, 216, 228

Paris Opera Ballet, 168, 169, 213, 214, 215, 216, 318

Paris Opéra Comique, 225

Paris Opéra Company, 169

_Pas de Quatre_, 150, 172, 180, 198, 203, 318

_Pas des Espagnole_, 198

_Pas de Trois_, 195, 198

_Passing of the Third Floor Back, The_, 239

_Pastorale_, 200, 201

_Patineurs, Les_, 246, 270, 273, 296, 297, 316

Patterson, Yvonne, 195

_Pavane_, 215

_Pavillon, La_, 122

_Pavillon d’Armide_, 255

Pavlova, Anna, 11, 12, 12-27, 28, 32, 41, 43, 47, 51, 52, 67, 72, 74,
80, 86, 87, 88, 89, 94, 95, 105, 106, 120, 132, 141, 168, 203, 243,
254, 255, 257, 269, 272, 283, 284, 297

Payne, Charles, 150

Péne du Bois, Raoul, 164

People’s Theatre (St. Petersburg), 109

_Peri, La_, 215, 269

_Perpetual Motion_, 194

Perrault, Charles, 211, 236

Perrot, Jules, 246

Peter and the Wolf, 149, 172

_Peter Grimes_, 281

Petipa, Marius, 121, 236, 237

Petit, Roland, 119

Petit, Roland, Ballet Company, 317

_Petits Riens, Les_, 269

Petroff, Paul, 111, 123, 130

_Petroushka_, 85, 90, 104, 110, 114, 121, 140, 153, 157, 171, 173, 180,
318

Philadelphia Orchestra, 106, 166

Philipoff, Alexander (“Sasha”), 127, 139

_Piano Concerto_ (Lambert), 274

_Piano Concerto in F Minor_ (Chopin), 195

Picasso, Pablo, 118, 123

_Pictures at an Exhibition_, 190

_Pillar of Fire_, 152, 155, 172, 174

_Pineapple Poll_, 299, 300, 301

_Pins and Needles_, 59

Pinza, Ezio, 249

Piper, John, 238, 302, 315

_Plages, Le_, (_Beach_), 110, 122

Platoff, Mark, 130, 136

Playfair, Nigel, 269

Pleasant, Richard, 148, 149, 150, 151

Podesta, 19

Pogany, Willy, 95

_Poland--Three Moods: Happiness, Revolt, Sadness_, 97

Poliakov, 117, 118

_Polka_, 198

Polunin, Vladimir, 122

_Pomona_, 269, 273, 274

Poole, David, 300, 301, 303

_Poor Richard’s Almanack_, 16

Popova, Nina, 152

Portinari, Candido, 194

_Ports of Call_, 215

Poulenc, Francis, 79, 129, 215

Powell, Lionel, 107

Pratt, John, 63, 198

Preobrajenska, Olga, 67, 69-71, 107, 140, 167, 168

_Présages, Les_, 110, 112, 140

_Princess Aurora_, 152, 153, 172, 180

_Prince Igor_, 89, 104, 110, 114, 121, 128, 318

H.H. Prince of Monaco, 106

_Prodigal Son, The_ (_Le Fils Prodigue_), 142

Prokhoroff, Vassili, 294

Prokofieff, Sergei, 103, 141, 142, 149, 155, 158, 237, 238, 270

_Prophet, The_, 246

_Prospect Before Us, The_, 298

_Protée_, 142

Pruna, 122

Psota, Vania, 152, 153, 193, 194

_Punch and the Policeman_, 215

Purcell, Henry, 273

Pushkin, Alexander, 95, 156, 294


_Quest, The_, 270

_Quintet_, 172


Rachel, 195

Rachmaninoff, Sergei, 79, 103, 141

Rafael, 49

_Rakoczy March_, 195

_Rake’s Progress, The_, 236, 239, 246

Rambert, Marie, 77-79, 106, 201, 217, 269

Rameau, 215

Rapee, Erno, 156

Rassine, Alexis, 269

Rawsthorne, Alan, 279

Ravel, Maurice, 215, 298, 300, 316

Ravina, Jean, 198

_Reaper’s Dream, The_, 74

_Red Shoes_, 289, 290, 295

Reed, Janet, 158

Reed, Richard, 152

Reich, George, 198

Reinhardt, Max, 318

Remisoff, Nicholas, 91, 160

Renault, Madeline, 311

Renault, Michel, 215

_Rendez-vous, Les_, 270, 273, 298

Respighi, Ottorino, 150

Revueltas, Sylvestre, 155

Reyes, Alfonso, 155

_Rhapsody on the Theme of Paganini_, 141

Riaboushinska, Tatiana, 69, 111, 112, 114, 123, 130, 141, 161, 168, 195

Ricarda, Ana, 195, 198

Richardson, Philip, J. S., 287

Richman, Harry, 204

Richmond, Aaron, 260

Rieti, Vittorio, 122, 161, 194, 195

Rimsky-Korsakoff, Nicolas, 56, 94, 95, 98, 121, 122, 135

_Rio Grande_, 270, 274

Rittman, Trudi, 316

Ritz, Roger, 215

Robbins, Jerome, 65, 152, 160, 161, 164, 165, 172, 178, 195, 198

Robinson, Casey, 168

Robinson, Edward, G., 249

Rockefeller Foundation, 321

_Rodeo_, 59, 161

Roerich, Nicholas, 123

Rogers, Richard, 136

Romanoff, Boris, 107, 129

Romanoff, Dmitri, 152

_Romantic Age_, 157, 172, 174

_Romeo and Juliet_, 158, 159, 172, 174, 273, 274

Romulo, 234

_Rondino_, 255

Rosay, Berrina, 198

Roshanara, 52

Rose, Billy, 161

Rosenthal, Manuel, 129

Rossini, Gioacchino, 122, 198

Rostova, Lubov, 11, 123, 129

Rothapfel, Samuel, 44

Rouault, Georges, 142

_Rouet d’Omphale_, 98

_Rouge et Noir_, 135

_Roussalka_, 122

Rowell, Kenneth, 79

Roxy Theatre (New York), 44, 106, 110, 119

Roy, Pierre, 136

Royal Academy of Dancing (London), 225

Royal College of Music, 273

Royal Danish Ballet, 104

Royal Festival Hall (London), 318

Royal Opera House (Copenhagen), 221

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, 74, 132, 133, 156, 160, 191, 204,
208, 210, 211, 221, 223, 224, 228, 229, 235, 236, 237, 242, 243, 244,
245, 246, 272, 276, 277, 278, 279, 280, 281, 286, 298, 304, 315

Rubbra, Edward, 279

Rubenstein, Ida, 269

Rubinstein, Anton, 81

Rubinstein, Mr. & Mrs. Arthur, 191

Rubinstein, Beryl, 33

Rubinstein, Nicholas, 156

Ruffo, Tito, 17

Runanin, Borislav, 152

_Russian Folk Dances_, 98

_Russian Folk Lore_, 86

_Russian Folk Tales_, 122

Russian Imperial Ballet, 13, 68, 71, 80, 121, 200, 219

Russian Imperial School of the Ballet (St. Petersburg), 67, 69, 70, 73,
75, 85, 89, 104

Russian Opera Company, 310

_Russian Soldier_, 103, 155, 171

Russian State School (Warsaw), 78

Sabo, Roszika, 152, 184, 198

_Sacre du Printemps, Le_ (_Rite of Spring_), 78, 106

Saddler, Donald, 152

Sadler, Thomas, 298

Sadler’s Wells Ballet, 74, 88, 90, 104, 106, 136, 141, 153, 160, 191,
201, 203, 204, 208, 211, 212, 213, 214, 217, 218, 219, 221, 223, 224,
225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 232, 233, 235, 236, 237, 238, 242, 246,
248, 249, 250, 251, 255, 256, 261, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270,
272, 273, 278, 279, 280, 282, 283, 284, 285, 288, 290, 291, 294, 295,
296, 297, 298, 315, 318

Sadler’s Wells Foundation, 288

Sadler’s Wells Opera Company, 223, 225, 298, 299

Sadler’s Wells School, 74, 75, 184, 220, 225, 255, 259, 283, 286, 287,
288, 289, 290, 292, 296, 299, 300

Sadler’s Wells Theatre, 79, 208, 218, 237, 246, 288, 297, 298, 299

Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet, 208, 223, 224, 225, 226, 270, 296, 297,
309, 318

St. Denis, Ruth, 64

_St. Francis_ (_Noblissima Visione_), 136

St. James Ballet Company, 225

St. James Theatre (New York), 105, 111, 112, 113, 114

Sainthill, Loudon, 303

St. Regis Hotel (New York), 83, 84, 131

Saint-Saens, Charles Camille, 98

“Saison des Ballets Russes,” 76, 85, 87

_Salad_, 215

_Salome’s Dance of the Seven Veils_, 100

_Samson and Delilah_, 218

San Francisco Art Commission, 164, 199, 321

_San Francisco Chronicle_, 305

San Francisco Civic Ballet, 168, 199, 213

San Francisco Opera Ballet, 85, 90

San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, 199

_Sapeteado_, 98

_Saratoga_, 135

Sargent, Sir Malcolm, 226

Sauguet, Henri, 215

Savoy Hotel (London), 133, 202, 209, 210, 212, 241, 243, 246, 277

Savoy-Plaza Hotel (New York), 112

Scala, La (Milan), 70, 106, 225, 296

Scarlatti, Domenico, 122, 215

Scènes de Ballet, 256

Schönberg, Arnold, 152

Schoop, Paul, 50

Schoop, Trudi, 49-50

_Schéhérazade_, 76, 85, 94, 106, 115, 121, 128, 173, 255, 318

Schubert, Franz, 30, 130, 153, 158, 195, 198, 270

Schumann-Heink, Ernestine, 17

Schumann, Robert, 121, 141

Schuman, William, 162

_Scuola di Ballo_, 110, 122

Schwezoff, Igor, 141

_Sea Change_, 298, 300

_Seasons, The_, 19

_Sebastian_, 190, 194

Sedova, Julia, 87

Selfridge, Gordon, 32

Seligman, Izia, 98

Semenoff, Simon, 130, 152, 156, 164, 172

Serguëef, Nicholas, 236, 237, 246

_Serpentine Dance_, 37, 38

Sert, José Maria, 122

Sevastianoff, German, 103, 132, 143, 151, 152, 153, 157, 158, 173

_Seven Dances of Life_, 40

_Seven Lively Arts, The_, 161, 204

_Seventh Symphony_, 135

_Sevillianas_, 55, 56

Shabalevsky, Yurek, 111, 123, 130

_Shadow, The_, 315

Shakespeare Festival Theatre (Stratford), 303

Shakespeare, William, 285, 298, 317

Shan-Kar, Uday, 51-53

Sharaff, Irene, 114, 122

Shaw, Bernard, 282

Shaw, Brian, 240

Shawn, Ted, 64, 151

Shearer, Moira, 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 243, 254, 271, 289-292,
317

Shostakovich, Dmitri, 135

_Shore Excursion_, 60

Shrine Auditorium (Los Angeles), 249

Sibelius, Jan, 276, 298, 300

Siebert, Wallace, 184, 198

Sierra, Martinez, 55, 57

_Sirènes, Les_, 270, 284

Sitwell, Edith, 239, 276

Sitwell, Sir Osbert, 279

Sitwell, Sacheverell, 279

Skibine, George, 152

Slavenska, Mia, 130, 134, 201

_Slavonic Dances_, 152

_Slavonika_, 152, 153, 193

_Sleeping Beauty, The_ (_Sleeping Princess, The_), 71, 77, 85, 90, 121,
147

152, 173, 180, 211, 215, 220, 232, 236, 246, 248, 250, 251, 253, 256,
260, 269, 274, 283, 291, 292, 315

Sloan, Alfred P., 230

Smith, Douglas, 79

Smith, Oliver, 161, 164, 170, 173, 174, 176, 177, 178, 194

_Snow Maiden, The_, 122

Sokoloff, Asa, 189, 191

_Soleares_, 48, 55

Somes, Michael, 88, 240

_Song of the Nightingale, The_, 201

Soudeikine, Serge, 141

_Source, La_, 215

_South African Dancing Times_, 295

Soviet State School of Ballet, 70

_Spectre de la Rose, Le_, 82, 89, 115, 121, 128, 152, 153, 171, 318

Spessivtseva, Olga, 71

Staats, Leo, 215

Staff, Frank, 78, 79

_Star of the North_, 246

_Stars in Your Eyes_, 168

Stalin, Joseph, 109

Stein, Gertrude, 240, 241, 269, 270

Stevenson, Hugh, 79, 237

Still, William Grant, 59

Stokowski, Leopold, 106

Straight, Dorothy (Mrs. Elmhirst), 52

Strauss, Johann, 142, 198

Strauss, Richard, 160

Stravinsky, Igor, 90, 91, 106, 118, 121, 122, 136, 142, 158, 160, 165,
172, 173, 176

_Suite de Danse_, 198

_Suite in F Sharp Minor_ (Dohnanyi), 315

_Suite in White_, 215

Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 299, 300

_Summer’s Last Will and Testament_, 274

_Sun, The_ (New York), 23, 44

Svenson, Sven, Dr., 293

_Swan Lake_ (One act version), 121, 129, 136, 149, 167, 172, 173, 184,
218, 219, 286, 299, 318

_Sylphides, Les_, 76, 79, 94, 96, 103, 104, 110, 114, 121, 128, 140,
149, 152, 167, 171, 180, 198, 203, 219, 229, 255, 318

_Sylvia_, 74, 270, 296, 301, 315

_Symphonic Impressions_, 318

_Symphonic Variations_, 236, 240, 256, 270

_Symphonie Fantastique_, 115, 122, 239

_Symphonie Pathétique_, 103

_Symphony for Fun_, 318

_Symphony in C_, 215, 298


Taglioni, Marie, 23, 157, 203, 272

Taglioni, Philippe, 157

Tait, E. J., 138

Talbot, J. Alden, 158, 161, 164, 166, 170, 173, 174, 181, 248

_Tales of Hoffman_, 290

Tallchief, Marjorie, 195

_Tally-Ho_, 161, 172, 174

_Tango_, 48

_Tannhauser_, 135

_Tarantule, La_, 18

Taras, John, 164, 172, 184, 192, 195

Taylor, Deems, 23

Tchaikowsky, Peter Ilytch, 71, 94, 103, 110, 121, 122, 136, 147, 152,
156, 184, 211, 215, 236, 237, 240, 255, 274, 301, 302, 303

Tchekhoff, Michael, 311

Tchelitcheff, Pavel, 136, 143

Tcherepnine, Nicholas, 121

Tchernicheva, Lubov, 111, 123, 130

Tennent Productions, Ltd., 223

Terry, Ellen, 31, 81

Tetrazzini, Eva, 17

Teyte, Maggie, 226

_Thamar_, 121, 255

Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, 58, 107, 109

Théâtre Mogador, 34

_Theatre Street_, 73, 75

Theilade, Nini, 130, 136

Thomson, Virgil, 269

_Three-Cornered Hat, The_ (_Le Tricorne_), 56, 110, 119, 122, 132, 136,
172, 255, 256

_Three Virgins and a Devil_, 150, 161, 172

_Thunder Bird, The_, 94

Tierney, Gene, 249

_Times, The_ (London), 156, 209

_Tiresias_, 274, 277

Tommasini, Vincenzo, 122, 137

_Tonight We Sing_, 168, 312

Toscanini, Arturo, 317

Toumanova, Tamara, 70, 107, 111, 112, 113, 115, 123, 129, 130, 134,
140, 143, 161, 167-170, 195, 201, 318

Toye, Geoffrey, 98

_Tragedy of Fashion, The_, 269

_Traviata, La_, 195, 198

Trecu, Pirmin, 301

Trefilova, Vera, 71

_Triumph of Neptune, The_, 273

Trocadero (Paris), 168

_Tropical Revue_, 59, 60

Trudi Schoop Comic Ballet, 49

Truman, Harry S., 256

Tudor, Antony, 78, 79, 149, 150, 152, 155, 158, 160, 161, 172, 174,
175, 195

Tupine, Oleg, 198

Turner, Jarold, 78

_Twice Upon a Time_, 295

_Two Pigeons, The_, 215


Ulanova, Galina, 70, 71

_Undertow_, 161-162, 172

U.N.E.S.C.O., 261

_Union Pacific_, 114, 122, 140

Universal Art, Inc., 124, 128, 129, 131, 132, 133, 134, 139, 157, 165

University of Chicago, 58


Vaganova, Agrippina, 266

Valbor, Kirsten, 198

_Valses Nobles et Sentimentales_, 298

Van Buren, Martin (President of U.S.A.), 18

Vanderlip, Frank, 32

Van Druten, John, 24, 72, 161

Van Praagh, Peggy, 78, 299, 306

Van Vechten, Carl, 23, 31

Vargas, Manolo, 56

Vaudoyer, J. L., 21

Vaussard, Christiane, 215

Verchinina, Nina, 111, 123, 130

Verdi, Giuseppi, 195, 198

_Verklärte Nacht_, 152

Vertes, Marcel, 153

_Vestris Solo_, 198

Victory Hall (London), 304

Vic-Wells Ballet, 106, 201, 204, 218, 269

_Vienna 1814_, 135

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, 225

Vienna State Opera, 225

Vilzak, Anatole, 125

_Vision of Marguerite_, 318

Vladimiroff, Pierre, 22, 73, 80, 105

Volinine, Alexandre, 20, 21, 22, 68, 74, 76, 87, 88

Vollmar, Jocelyn, 195

Volpe, Arnold, 94, 96, 97, 98, 100

Volpe, Mrs. Arnold, 97, 100, 101

Vsevolojsky, I. A., 236


Wagner, Richard, 29, 135, 194

Wakehurst, Lord & Lady, 260, 261

Wallman, Margaret, 70

Walton, Sir William, 239, 270, 279

_Waltz Academy_, 161, 172

_Wanderer, The_, 270

_Want-Ads_, 50

War Memorial Opera House (San Francisco), 162, 163, 164, 199, 250, 251,
282

Warner Theatre (New York), 308

Washburn, Malone & Perkins, 131

Washington Square Players (The Theatre Guild), 76

_Waste Land, The_, 303

_Water Nymph, The_, 74

Watkins, Mary, 44

Watteau, 161

Weber, Carl Maria von, 98, 121, 135

Webster, David, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 221, 224, 231, 235, 241, 242,
243, 248, 259, 262, 277, 278, 279-282, 299, 304

_Wedding Bouquet, A_, 236, 240, 246, 270, 291

Weidman, Charles, 42, 213

Weinberger, Jaromir, 135

_Werther_, 19

Whalen, Grover, 213, 234

Whistler, Rex, 239

_Whirl of the World, The_, 74

Wigman, Mary, 39-46, 47, 48, 64, 65

Wieniawsky, Henry, 167

Williams, Emlyn, 311

Williams, Ralf Vaughan, 218, 238, 273, 281, 283

Winter Garden (New York), 74, 75, 76, 85, 87

_Winter Night_, 79

_Wise Animals, The_, 215

_Wise Virgins, The_, 270

Woizikowsky, Leon, 11, 114, 123, 142

Works Progress Administration, 320


_Yara_, 194

Yazvinsky, Jean (Ivan), 125, 130

Young Vic Theatre Co., 223

Youskevitch, Igor, 130

Ysaye, Eugene, 17

Yudkin, Louis, 231, 260, 304


_Zamba_, 48

_Zapateado_, 48

Zeller, Robert, 198

_Zerbaseff_, 108

Zeretelli, Prince, 107, 108, 127

Ziegfeld Follies, 94

Ziegfeld Roof (New York), 129

Ziegfeld Theatre, 165

Ziegler, Edward, 98

Zimbalist, Efrem, 17

Zon, Ignat, 127

Zorich, George, 130

Zorina, Vera, 123, 157, 158

Zuckert, Harry M., 151

Zvereff, Nicholas, 129

       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

This was, so far is I know=> This was, so far as I know {pg 50}

necessary and funadmental=> necessary and fundamental {pg 68}

heirarchy of the Russian=> hierarchy of the Russian {pg 71}

there continously since=> there continuously since {pg 71}

The pre-Chrismas=> The pre-Christmas {pg 112}

organizer and threatre promoter=> organizer and theatre promoter {pg
127}

others chosing to remain=> others choosing to remain {pg 130}

dissident elements in its=> dissident elements in it {pg 157}

existing today. Jerome Robbin’s=> existing today. Jerome Robbins’s {pg
172}

to make arrangments=> to make arrangements {pg 177}

engagment at the Metropolitan=> engagement at the Metropolitan {pg 177}

a temporay whim=> a temporary whim {pg 181}

the Diaghleff Ballet=> the Diaghileff Ballet {pg 204}

the times comes for his appearance=> the time comes for his appearance
{pg 206}

the spirt of the painter=> the spirit of the painter {pg 218}

A Beverley Hills group=> A Beverly Hills group {pg 249}

the threatre programme=> the theatre programme {pg 251}

make him Ecuardorian=> make him Ecuadorian {pg 269}

edge of Knightbridge and Kensington=> edge of Knightsbridge and
Kensington {pg 272}

Elegaic Blues=> Elegiac Blues {pg 274}

early indocrination=> early indoctrination {pg 290}

considearble royal interest=> considerable royal interest {pg 306}