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.
The arguments were almost continuous, and only a Caucasian could have 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.
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