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.