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.