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.