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.