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.”