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Passport to Paris
PASSPORT TO PARIS
by
Vernon Duke
BOSTON Little, Brown and Company TORONTO
COPYRIGHT 1955, BY VERNON DUKE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK IN EXCESS OF FIVE
HUNDRED WORDS MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT
PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO. 54-83!!
FIRST EDITION
The quotations from the article "Gershwin, Schillinger, and Dukelsky: Some Remi
niscences" are reprinted by permission from The Musical Quarterly for January, 1947.
Copyright, 1947, by G. Schirmer, Inc.
Published simultaneously in Canada
by Little, Brown & Company (Canada) Limited
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To the memory of my mother
Contents
I I Emerge 3
II To Music 18
III Kiev Conservatory 33
IV Came the Revolution 42
V Odessa 58
VI Turkish Delight 67
VII The Bad Old Days 81
VIII Passport to Paris 106
IX Fame Did Not Delay 133
X Bright Young People 155
XI After the Ballet Is Over 180
XII Back to the New Country 219
XIII Settling Down 250
XIV The Good Years 281
XV In My Thirties in the Thirties 3 1 8
XVI The Fiery Forties Part One 368
XVII The Fiery Forties Part Two 395
XVIII Paris Interlude 430
XIX Californian Coda 458
Index 485
Illustrations
All illustrations will be found between pages 246 and 247.
Anna Alexeevna Dukelsky
Vladimir Alexandrovitch Dukelsky (Vernon Duke) in 1921,
1924 and 1928
Serge Prokofiev
Sergei Diaghilev
Paul Kochanski and Serge Prokofiev
George Gershwin
Ira Gershwin and Vernon Duke
Vernon Duke and Admiral R. Waesche, USCG
George Balanchine, Vernon Duke and friend
Alexis, Mona and Natasha Dukelski
Serge and Natalya Koussevitzky
Jack Robbins, Ogden Nash, Vernon Duke and friends
Lehman Engel, Vernon Duke, Mimi Cabanne and prospective
backers
Vernon Duke in 1936 and 1945
Passport to Paris
CHAPTER I
I EMERGE
A CCORDING .to Who's Who, I have spent my "entire career"
jtV(come, come, I'm still spending it) writing two kinds of music:
the serious or unrewarding kind as Vladimir Dukelsky and the un-
serious but lucrative variety as Vernon Duke. Almost every inter
view I've ever had has brought forth some tired references to "the
Jekyll and Hyde of Music," "the Two-Headed Janus of Music," etc.
There have been quite a few cases of composers who successfully
managed to write in both the high- and low-brow genre, but I am
entirely unique in one respect. Gershwin always remained Gershwin
whether he wrote Porgy or "I Got Rhythm"; Weill was easily recog
nizable as Weill whether he tackled Mahagonny or One Touch of
Venus; and even Lennie Bernstein is his ingratiating self whether he
tears into Jeremiah or On the Town; but Dukelsky in no way resem
bles Duke.
There isn't a note of jazz in my serious music, and there are no
symphonic overtones to my musical-comedy output. I don't think
that's anything to be proud of, and as a matter of fact, the wide
gulf between the two styles has proven entirely too wide for most
people's comfort, particularly for critics and fellow composers. It has
often been said of George Gershwin that his Broadway enemies
thought he belonged in Carnegie Hall, and his high-brow detractors
kept repeating in print that he should never have left Broadway.
This same attempt at pigeonholing has been applied even more se
verely in my case.
My versatility, far from being a boon, has in reality been infuri
ating to most musical people. Just why that is I have no way of
knowing, but the critical boys seem to think there is something mon
strous and unnatural about a composer writing two different kinds
4 PASSPORT TO PARIS
of music under two different names. It annoys them not to be able
to say that I go slumming when writing jazz, and it annoys them still
more not to be able to classify me as an ambitious peasant, gazing at
the musical Olympus behind a Lindy's herring.
It is a matter of record that I have never been a critics' darling.
In 1927, the era of "bright young people" and Oxford bags (trou
sers, not frumpy women), I, the slave of fashion, was never without
a pair. Accordingly, when the late Serge Koussevitsky asked me to
play a short and not very good piece of mine with his orchestra in
Paris, I eagerly accepted, and crossed the Channel armed with the
orchestra parts and my prize pair of striped trousers neatly tucked
away in the week-end bag. The concert was to be on Saturday after
noon, and a morning jacket plus striped trousers were de rigueur.
Following two rehearsals came the concert. At the appointed time
I made my appearance, mincing to the piano in the center of the
stage as gracefully as I could. My entrance was greeted by an audi
ble gasp and some spotty applause; the French never really took to
Oxford bags and I presented a strange spectacle, clad as I was in a
tight-fitting morning coat (I was very slim in those days) terminating
in balloon-shaped trousers which, although cut by Anderson & Shep-
pard, would have been an excellent fit for the then-popular Fatty
Arbuckle.
The piano part of my piece (it was called, somewhat preten
tiously, a "sonata for piano and orchestra") was not spectacular and
was very easy to play, as I, no virtuoso, took good care not to over
burden myself with technical difficulties. We did finish together, Dr.
Koussevitsky, the orchestra, and I The applause was even spottier
than at my entrance, and a few days later (the French critics never
review anything the next day, bless 'em) the leading music critic
wrote: "Mr. Dukelsky's music was barely visible behind his sumptu
ous trousers."
In the same year Poulenc, Auric, Rieti, and myself played the
four pianos in the London premiere of Stravinsky's Les Noces by the
Diaghilev ballet at His Majesty's Theatre. Ernest Newman lost no
opportunity to tell his Sunday Times readers that; "There was a
quarter of a composer at each piano."
At about the same time I began to function as Vemon Duke (a
name invented by the late George Gershwin, whose* quarters I then
shared in London) and wrote my first musical comedy, for Daly's
/ EMERGE 5
Theatre; this opus was entitled Yvonne, and promptly retitled "Ivan
the Terrible" by Noel Coward.
In 1935 the above-cited Ernest Newman, on reviewing a ballet of
mine given by the de Basil Ballets Russes (it was called Jardin Public
and had a scenario by Andre Gide) confessed that my music irri
tated him so profoundly that he couldn't make himself look at the
stage because of the horrible sounds emanating from the pit. To this
day it isn't clear to me just where Mr. Newman was looking, but I
know darned well that he was listening and, after all, what more can
a composer ask?
I was often overly fond of stinging letters, ill-timed righteous ges
tures, and experienced an exaggerated delight at putting a man in
his place. These things do not make for popularity, and since quarrels
are everyday fare in musical and theatrical circles, I have had more
than my share of them. I never hesitated about speaking my mind
when it would have been far wiser to remain blandly noncommittal.
The not-so-green pastures of Broadway, 57th Street, and Hollywood
are peopled with professional villains of all hues who go about their
villainies with an air of such innocence that to remind them of their
true nature is a rude, and to them undeserved, shock. These iniqui
tous souls, instead of becoming penitent, denounce their victims as
trouble makers if they dare yell when kicked. It is a golden rule on
Broadway never to sue a producer and never to argue with a critic
I've done both.
Prior to embarking on this job, I read a great many autobiogra
phies, particularly those of my contemporaries. I have discovered
that autobiographies can roughly be divided into two groups, those
with emphasis on facts and those preoccupied with literary style. Sir
Osbert Sitwell is a good sample of the second type, and Tallulah
Bankhead and Agnes de Mille are typical of the first school. That
doesn't mean that the two women don't go in for much editorializing
and Marie Corellizing, although their lives seem hectic enough with
out such additional veneer. At least there is a minimum in their
books of the "rich, beautiful prose" which makes Sir Osbert's pretty
tough going.
As for me, I thought a great deal about a tongue-in-the-cheek ap
proach, the poker-face approach, the Dali or sensational-at-all-costs
approach, the Freud or turn-over-a-new-fig-leaf approach, and finally
6 PASSPORT TO PARIS
decided to stick to the facts and the hell with it. Just to record
the facts is quite a job without indulging in the luxury of stylistic
orgies.
I envy people pregnant with fruity memories of their childhood.
Tolstoi did a wonderful job on his early youth, and it would seem
that the older he got the further back he went and the more he re
membered. A Russian composer now in his eighties writes about his
childhood as if he were still in the first one. Facts, sights, smells fol
low one another in precise chronological order, whereas I have diffi
culty remembering what happened last year unless I go through files
and files of letters and income-tax returns. Fortunately the really im
portant incidents never desert my memory, and more fortunately
still, I have recently found a touching and artless biographical essay
written about my early years by my mother. This copybook, along
with her personal belongings, was forwarded to me from New York,
and for these recollections, as for everything she did for me, I must
bless her. I will try to reconstruct my early days with the help of
this little document written in July, 1930, in Arrochar, Staten Island.
There is something indicative of my subsequent dual role in music
in the very manner in which I was born. Four months before this
event took place, Mother went to see a famous St. Petersburg spe
cialist significantly named Professor Phenomenov. While crossing the
river Neva on a small Finnish ferryboat, she had a frightening ex
perience: she unwittingly sat down under the siren, which suddenly
sounded with such force that Mother instinctively seized her left ear
and twisted it. On recovering from the shock, her first thought was a
fleeting superstition that the left ear of her unborn child would be
marked. This fear was substantiated when, on examining me at my
first appearance, Mother perceived the irregularity of my left ear;
the lobe was cleft. Possibly my left ear has never heard what the
right ear heareth, and there you have the whole mystery of Duke
and Dukelsky in an earshell. The question is, which of the two ears
is attuned to jazz?
I emerged into being, irregular ears and all, on October 10, 1903,
in an obscure railroad station called Parafianovo, in the government
of Minsk. Mother gave birth to me in the railroad station because
she happened to be traveling by train and I imagine the station facili
ties were superior to those of a railway carriage. There is some con-
/ EMERGE 1
siderable irregularity, too, not only in the fact that I was born by
accident as it were, but also because my citizenship papers and my
passport would indicate that I was born in the historic town of
Pskoff. The reason for this discrepancy lies in the fact that an Eng
lish immigration officer back in 1925, on filling in the required
data concerning my birth and nationality, began writing out Parafi-
anovo and, not finding enough room in the allotted space, stopped at
"Paraf." This was subsequently interpreted by various officials as
Pskoff, and thereby that ancient city was elected as my birthplace.
Another factor that might have contributed to the warring influ
ences in my musical nature lies in my mongrel-like antecedents. Al
though I am technically speaking a native Russian, there is exactly
one quarter of Russian blood in my veins. That was supplied by my
mother's father, Alexis Kopylov, a self-made man of, I believe, peas
ant origin. He made his money in sugar, as he was general manager
for the famous Count Bobrinsky Refineries. Kopylov married a pretty
and rather social young girl who was half Viennese and half Spanish
and whose name was von Koestel. On my father's side I am half
Lithuanian and half Georgian (Caucasian); my grandfather, Vladi
mir Apollonovitch Dukelsky, was a highly placed official in Tiflis,
where he occupied the post of general administrator under the Grand
Duke Michael, the lord lieutenant of Caucasus. Grandfather married
the beauteous Georgian Princess Daria Toumanov, nicknamed Da-
riko and noted for her lavish parties, eccentricity of dress, and some
what Catherine-the-Great-like self-assertiveness. Both grandmothers
were extremely musical and played the piano quite well; the maternal
one, according to the family legend, was Anton Rubinstein's favorite
pupil and appeared in public playing her teacher's D-minor concerto
with a provincial orchestra. Princess Toumanov was an amateur of
conservative tendencies and I remember distinctly her taking me to a
symphony concert in Pavlovsk (just before the First World War) and
telling me to put my fingers in my ears while an "abomination by
that scoundrel Debussy" was being performed by the orchestra. The
conductor on that occasion was the very able Aslanov, who later set
tled in New York and made a reputation for himself as a vocal
teacher.
Both grandfathers were more or less unmusical and would have
probably been happier with Duke than with Dukelsky. Grandfather
8 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Kopylov, having settled in Kiev, became partial to Ukrainian folk
songs, but I suspect it was because of the strapping girls who inter
preted them rather than for the music.
Father and Mother were addicted to music in the customary man
ner of Russian dilettantes in comfortable circumstances. Father, a
handsome man of medium height, with brilliant black hair and a
resplendent mustache, was a civil engineer specializing in railroad
building and occasionally given to singing gypsy songs in a pleasant
baritone. Mother studied the piano diligently while an inmate of the
Institute for Maidens of Gentle Birth (the equivalent of an Ameri
can finishing school) in Kiev, and her two great passions, which I
never shared, were Beethoven and Wagner.
According to Mother's testimony, I was something of a sickeningly
romantic child. Not only was my head adorned with curling brown
locks, but my face perpetually wore a serious, not to say profound,
expression, and of usual childish pranks I would have nothing. I
cried only on the rarest occasions and then almost inaudibly, which
perturbed the whole household, brought up in the belief that healthy
children are also healthy vocalists. At the age of eleven months I ap
parently had quite a vocabulary of Russian and French and soon
got used to being exhibited to the politely enthusiastic friends of the
family. A few months later (Ah, here it comes now!) I developed a
habit of getting under Mother's feet when she played the fine Bech-
stein concert grand, which was a wedding gift my grandmother
brought from Vienna. I was even more fascinated by a huge Gramo
phone with an imposing metal horn which was made to play an
eclectic assortment of musical bits and pieces ranging from Italian
operas sung by Battistini, Anselmi, Caruso, and the Russian gallery
gods Sobinov and Smirnov (tenors both), to gypsy songs. A ritual
was established of lulling me to sleep each night with florid Italian
airs,
My brother Alexis was bora a year and a half after my advent,
and we soon moved to Nikolaiev in the government of Kherson,
where my father was engaged in laying out the Kherson-Nikolaiev
Railroad. We remained in this colorful southern town for nearly
three years. In Nikolaiev, I manifested considerable signs of preco-
ciousness. When taught the usual childish games by my parents, I
reneged on the rules and insisted on inventing my own. I detested
mechanical toys, anything machinelike in fact, but had a passion for
/ EMERGE 9
stuffed animals, especially dogs and elephants. This penchant grew
into a grandiose game (in which my brother shared enthusiastically)
of an imaginary dog kingdom where certain dogs were assigned the
roles of composers, novelists, and painters and sculptors. The crown
prince of this kingdom was, for no particular reason, a small tin frog
beloved by me because of its bright-green color. On learning to read
and write between the ages of two and three, I began to cover page
after page of fat copybooks with accounts of life in the dog kingdom
(the name I coined for the kingdom, Sobatchania, meaning Dog-
land, stuck with my family for many years), hieroglyphics signifi
cant only to myself, and eventually dots and dashes that I imagined
to be musical notes. All this was natural enough, but when I
switched to writing reams of completely meaningless poetry, which I
recited eloquently to the uncomprehending butler and cook, Mother
and Grandmother called a halt and, greatly alarmed, took me to the
local psychiatrist. On viewing some particularly fruity samples of my
handiwork, that worthy proceeded to ask me searching questions
which I answered not only satisfactorily, but so nonchalantly as to
disconcert the man. He let me off easy, but recommended some
more suitable sports and recreations (I was four at the time) rather
than the pedantic pursuits in which I took such unseasonable pleas
ure.
My brother, one of the quietest and gentlest of men, was an insuf
ferable brat in his early life. He didn't have much hair on his head
until he was about five, but he certainly could scream that head off
and did so with uncommon relish. None of my precocious nonsense
for him; physical exploits and bodily harm inflicted on whoever
came within his reach were his special delights. Of linguistic prowess
he showed but little, and to make matters worse he seemed to be
afflicted with various impediments of speech which I strongly sus
pected were imaginary- His attitude towards me was one of awe
mingled with contempt and acute and ever-present jealousy. Fully
realizing that I was a self-appointed genius, demanding and receiv
ing rapturous attention at all times, he never failed to kick or bite
me when least expected to do so. His jealousy, provoked by my cul
tural attainments, manifested itself in grudging but slavish imitation
of my creative activities; for instance, he was furious at the speed
with which I filled my diary with the daily trivia of our lives and in
sisted on being given a similar diary, although he could hardly write
10 PASSPORT TO PARIS
at all. He would then proceed to scribble at great speed and would
ask me every few minutes how many pages I had completed. On
hearing that I had completed my fourth, Alex would say that he had
just finished his fifth, and if I registered some skepticism, would re
ward me with an extra-vicious kick accompanied by copious tears of
rage.
Our collection of stuffed animals was soon augmented by the live
addition of a large, sad-looking poodle, Caro by name. This ordinar
ily gentle dog developed a dislike for the assorted citizens of Sobat-
chartia and took large chunks out of them when we were not pres
ent. By way of retaliation, I, abetted by my grudgingly admiring
brother, fed the poor dog all sorts of unsavory concoctions liberally
seasoned with pepper and mustard which I cooked up on a toy stove
given me by my grandmother. Caro would obediently swallow
the multicolored messes and then have fits of sneezing and cough
ing which ended in an unholy whine. This usually resulted in the
stove's being locked up for a day or two. In spite of these poisonous
experiments, Caro lived to be eighteen and died in Kiev at the
height of the Bolshevik revolution. Outside of the psychiatrist, Sobat-
chania, Caro's banquets, and the epic diaries, my only other recol
lection of Nikolaiev is an outing with Father to a country fair where
he regaled himself with pickled watermelon, which I insisted on tast
ing and found so vile that I maliciously passed a piece of it to my
brother, who swallowed it heroically, delighted at the thought of
sharing his elders' pleasures.
The next event recorded by Mother was our removal to the
small city of Kungur in the Ural Mountains. Father, who reveled in
this nomadic existence, was now heavily involved in the building
of the Perm-Catherineburg Railroad. I still remember the open
sleigh in which we traveled for eighty miles in the frosty Ural air
from Perm to Kungur. The magnificent Ural forests, the smells of
fresh snow and crisp apples and the tart flavor of the birch juice from
the young trees were a far cry from the semitropical, indolent at
mosphere of Nikolaiev, but we all thrived on the change. According
to Mother's notes, it was during the three years spent in Kungur that
she grew from a simple young matron to a poised hostess and an
avid student of letters and arts. She began entertaining her husband's
business associates and soon presided over a group interested in phi
losophy and two-piano playing. Mother was very fond of teaching her
/ EMERGE 11
sons a large repertoire of Russian nursery rhymes set to music, and
while I had the better ear, Alexis had the louder voice. However,
since his r's, Fs, and most sibilants were defective, he made a good
deal of noise but very little sense, which gave me another opportunity
to shine which I seldom failed to seize. Beginning with our sojourn
in the Ural Mountains, we were never without governesses of as
sorted nationalities; one of these was a gay Czech, another a dog-
faced German spinster, and a third, supposedly a Frenchwoman,
turned out to be Swiss-Italian. Soon Alexis and I learned to express
ourselves in a Franco-Russo-German patois with a generous admix
ture of the dog language understandable only to us children.
My first essay in composition somewhat resembled the meaning
less poems that so frightened the womenfolk in our family, in that
the notes looked like notes but were undecipherable to a musician.
This essay, which was prophetic in a sense, was a ballet in fourteen
acts, one page to each act, entitled Cassiopea.
Father, on completing his Ural job, was characteristically trans
ferred many miles away, to Crimea. This time we, accompanied by
the Czech governess, traveled by Volga steamboat all the way down
to Nijny-Novgorod and thence by Pullman to Sebastopol.
It was at the time of our removal to Crimea that I was first able to
see Mother as she really was, not as the legendary Good Fairy of
one's chaotic beginnings. Mother was something of a Russian version
of the Gibson Girl, although she was dark and Spanish-looking. She
had a splendid carriage, a small waist and the traditionally ample
hips of a good-looking female of the pre-War Number I vintage. In
reality, Mother was not beautiful, but rather uncommonly handsome,
as her features were irregular, her nose a bit too long, and her mouth
too full, but she had huge luminous brown eyes with the longest-
imaginable eyelashes and a truly Gibsonian head of hair. What
made her immediately attractive, and this attraction she retained
to the end, was the trusting, childlike appeal of her entire mien. She
had a touching curiosity about every human being she came in con
tact with, and an insatiable quest for friendship in which she was in
variably disappointed.
On arriving in Sebastopol, we boarded another steamer and
finally reached our destination, the small and none-too-fashionable
resort named Evpatoria. Apparently there was some miscalculation
on Mother's part, as here it was July and the season was to end
12 PASSPORT TO PARIS
August 15th. Russian vacationists were very strict about observing
seasonal deadlines, and we arrived in the middle of the general exo
dus. The female servant who went with the villa turned out to be a
chronic alcoholic and her drunken railleries alternated with the dis
mal howling of the numerous dogs abandoned by the departed va
cationists. A short winter interlude in Kiev followed, remarkable only
for my first taste of the theater; the first two spectacles I witnessed
were Maeterlinck's Blue Bird, and Massenet's Cinderella. At the
beginning of 1910, Father obtained the much-coveted job of con
struction engineer for the proposed south-shore Crimean Railroad.
This was a private enterprise undertaken by the multimillionaire T.
K. Ushkov, the brother of N. K. Koussevitsky, the second wife of the
conductor who played so significant a role in my musical develop
ment. Ushkov's country estate, Foros, was the most-photographed
showplace of Crimea.
That spring Mother and we two boys migrated to the Alexandrov-
Dollnik "Pensione" situated next door to the celebrated Vorontzov
Park in Alupka. Father lived in the mountains in a tent surrounded
by engineers and students and joined us on holidays only.
The Crimean peninsula was the Russian Riviera, actually much
smaller than its prototype, but considerably more lush as to its
flora and fauna. The Black Sea is bluer than the bluest Mediterra
nean; the fish more varied and far tastier; the flowers larger and
more fragrant; and above all, the fruit not to be compared with any
obtainable elsewhere. My most vivid recollection of Crimea is the
taste of the local grapes and the astonishing variety in their shape,
size and flavor. I particularly remember three: the huge yellow-
green Chaoosh, the subtly perfumed Isabella, and the common but
infinitely juicy Shashla. The everyday drink of all tourists and resi
dents of Crimea was a fresh grape juice squeezed before your eyes
from a pound of Shashla; this drink, amber-green in color, in no way
resembled commercial grape juice as we know it in the U.S.A.
Crimea was famous as a health resort for tuberculosis patients, and
fresh grape juice was their diet staple. Chekhov supposedly thrived
on it.
After a heavenly summer and autumn in Alupka, we were to
spend the nonexistent winter in Yalta. Mother rented a dilapidated
villa belonging to one Usatov, Chaliapin's first vocal teacher and an
obscure operatic composer. The little fat man, something of a "card"
/ EMERGE 13
by reputation, obligingly removed himself and his wife to a small an
nex nearby. They were a delightful couple. Usatov had given up a
promising career as an opera singer for his wife, a sudden TB vic
tim. They were both small, rotund and ever-smiling, just like the cele
brated Old World landowners in Gogol's tale. Outside of having
coached Chaliapin (who, in common with most overnight phenom
ena, proved forgetful of Usatov's valuable contribution to his suc
cess), the old man's new claims to fame, which I'm afraid never came
off, were a new Chaliapin called Matveiev and a five-act opera en
titled Love Is Closer Than the Mountains. I immediately told Usatov
that I went him one better by writing a fourteen-act ballet, which
announcement was greeted by thunderous laughter and a gift of a
dozen apples, Usatov's favorite food.
Shortly afterwards, Father was sent to Europe by Ushkov for four
months and Mother, with time on her hands, began giving me piano
lessons. I was no wunderkind, but on Father's return, I knew enough
to play easy piano duets with Mother or Frdulein.
My other two recollections of Crimea were the spectacularly hand
some Tartar provodniks (guides) whose thriving trade was to teach
well-heeled gentlewomen the art of horseback riding. Mother's sister-
in-law, Aunt Genia, and numerous other young divorcees donned
Godey-like riding habits with tall hats and starched jabots and disap
peared into the mountains accompanied by these Tartar Valentinos
with their girlishly narrow waistlines and flashing white teeth. The
other recollection was a charming young lady tutor Mother found
for me with whom I was secretly in love. My tender feelings for this
deserving young woman caused me to prepare my lessons with un
common zest, which was rewarded by the glowing accounts the
girl gave to Mother. Alexis, true to form, was proceeding at a
much slower pace, but he now grew into quite a sentimentalist;
Mother records an episode when Alex, on hearing the first pages
of Uncle Tom's Cabin, burst into tears and refused to hear more of
the book.
In the spring of 1911, my piano studies were resumed in earnest,
but Alexis now displayed a good deal of determination to have les
sons also in spite of Mother's great doubts as to his readiness. He
astonished us all, especially myself, with his ability and zeal and
pretty soon was making such progress as to put me to shame. His
formerly hairless dome was now resplendent with silken blond locks
14 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and he was definitely beginning to come into his own, to my con
sternation. While in Crimea we met the three sons of General Mdi-
vani good-looking lads owning a fleet of expensive toy battleships,
but no princely titles at that time.
In March of 1912, Father, whose excessive mountain-climbing
exploits began to take their toll, had a serious heart attack. He was
not quite thirty-nine. Mother, greatly alarmed, took us children back
to Kiev to the Kopylov town house, and on doctor's advice, started on
a journey abroad with Father. He was ordered to Bad Nauheim,
a German health resort, but apparently the doctor's diagnosis
was faulty and, following a short sojourn in Switzerland, my
parents returned to Kiev for further consultations with the family
physician.
On their return, we were taken for a short summer holiday to the
unusual beach resort of Mejigorye on the banks of the Dnieper. It
was unusual because it was run by the nuns of the Mejigorye Con
vent for married gentlewomen and their offspring. The husbands
were not allowed on the beach for the reason that all bathing was
done in the nude, but quite unorthodox leniency was exercised in
sofar as the children were concerned; they were allowed to swim in
the nude with their mothers regardless of their sex.
My only experience with sex up to then had been in my grand
mother's quarters on the family estate when I was about six years
old. Grandmother, a strict Catholic, allowed no men on the premises,
and consequently the young peasant wenches whom she employed
were somewhat starved for male company. One of them, a nineteen-
year-old Polish amazon named Marylia took a great fancy to me,
and I dimly recall certain liberties she took with me, to which I sub
mitted rather sheepishly and for which I was rewarded by succulent
sweets stolen from Grandmother's larder. This episode, redolent of
the writings of Restif de la Bretonne, left a mark on me, as I became
peculiarly addicted to Renoir-like women in later life.
I also recall that some years after this vaguely erotic interlude I
became fascinated with the Scriptures and was engulfed by a wave
of religiousness; on recapturing the odd sensations provoked by
Marylia, I was driven to utter despair and started thinking seri
ously of suicide. This was at about the same time that we went to
Mejigorye, and the spectacle of abundant feminine flesh on all sides
made me cringe with terror and remorse. Some of my companions
/ EMERGE 15
exhibited a premature interest in their surroundings, and I remember
a little pug-nosed boy called Petya being chased off the beach by an
enraged good sister completely naked except for a huge black um
brella with which she succeeded in getting the culprit off the sacred
territory.
There was a small island in the middle of the Dnieper which
was the favorite swimming haunt of men vacationers whose wives
were entitled to the privileges of the nuns' beach; these men spent
most of the day gazing rapturously at their friends' wives through
powerful binoculars, which pastime the nuns were unable to sup
press.
While luxuriating on the nuns' beach, I again demonstrated my
capacity for bluff by wading to a sand bank located in apparently
deep water and pretending to swim, inviting Mother and her friends
to admire my prowess.
This all too short vacation was brought to an abrupt end by a
series of family tragedies, beginning with the death of my maternal
grandmother on September 8th, in Kiev, where we were summoned
to her funeral.
With no chance to recover from her grief, Mother had further
cause for increasing worry about Father's condition. He now walked
with considerable difficulty, and in early December was ordered to
his bed, which he was not to leave again. The whole household was
busy preparing a true Russian Christmas, a ritual quite unlike that
in any other place, and we children were reveling in the protracted
bounties of the holiday, when on December 28th, Father had his
second heart attack, which proved fatal. Fraulein, Alexis, and my
self sneaked into the library next door to Father's bedroom and
heard with horror his gasps of agony. At one point, he cried out with
indescribable pathos: "I don't want to die!" and shortly afterwards
was no more.
We ran to Mother, begging her to tell us what was happening,
and Mother's strange look of spent resignation told us the truth.
We both burst into uncontrollable tears, whereas Mother remained
inexplicably silent. The next few days brought all the paraphernalia
of the Greek Orthodox conception of human frailty and untimely
demise: swarms of hastily arriving relatives and yellow-faced nuns
with ikonlike burning eyes, who mumbled inaudible but strangely
terrifying prayers, their monotonous chants at the bier, the singing of
16 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the large choir brought back speedily after performing a similar
chore for Grandmother, the frightening smell of incense mingled
with that of unnaturally beautiful flowers and the damp leather of the
servants' freshly varnished boots, the black crepe over the mirrors,
and the hordes of the usual curious onlookers all of these many
emblems of death contributing to an untimely awakening after the
innocuous dreams of our pastoral childhood. All at once, Sobatcha-
nia, bulging diaries, and piano duets became like so much gilt on
the gingerbread of our beginnings.
On July 16th of the following year, Mother's younger brother,
Uncle Vassily, a six-foot-three Guard's -officer in Her Majesty's cele
brated Uhlan Regiment, put a bullet through his head. He was
barely twenty-three at the time, but in true Russian fashion had led
a sumptuously wild existence. I recall vividly a breakfast at Grand
father's table, with Uncle Vassily, arriving after a sleepless
night spent in Kiev dives with gypsies of easy virtue, demanding
champagne in the midst of our oatmeal. Grandfather, a choleric
and uncompromising old man whose secretary Akivisson usually sat
at his left at table, thought nothing of upbraiding Vassily with
forceful invective; Grandmother had alone been able to remon
strate with Grandfather and stand up for her son, but now that she
was dead, Vassily had no supporters except us children, who loved
him for the sweets he brought us, but had no say in the matter.
These breakfast scenes usually ended in Vassily's demanding one
hundred rubles, which would start a violent row terminating in
Grandfather's abrupt exit. He was followed by Akivisson, shaking
his head ominously, and an enormous Saint Bernard named Satan,
whose affections were divided between Grandfather and Vassily, but
who knew in canny dog fashion where his next meal was coming
from. Uncle Vassily's pranks were of such a nature that he was about
to be demoted to the rank of sergeant. This dishonor, plus his un
requited love for a celebrated French operetta star and his chronic
debts, apparently precipitated his untimely end. A thing I recall with
some delight about Uncle Vassily was his insistence on dragging
poor Satan, carefully washed and beribboned, to his rendezvous
with the heartless Frenchwoman. Vassily apparently believed that no
female could resist the huge, perpetually drooling dog, but Alexis
and I had a sneaking suspicion that the Saint Bernard contributed
but little to Uncle Vassily's amatory chances; the dog was more adept
I EMERGE 17
at staging one-sided battles with Caro, who sometimes attached him
self to Satan's ear and was nonchalantly dragged the length of the
court.
Thus, with Vassily's suicide, our family was thrice visited by
death in the course of ten months. September came, and Mother,
in spite of Grandfather's entreaties, refused to remain in his house,
where so much grief had been endured by her. She was quite com
fortably off and set up housekeeping in an attractive flat at Bolshaya-
Podvalnaya Number 14, where we remained until .the time of our
exodus from Russia in the winter of 1919.
CHAPTER II
TO MUSIC
ONE OF the leading figures in Stepanov's popular novel Port
Arthur, published in Moscow in 1945, is my paternal uncle
George Dukelsky. On the first page of the novel he is described as :
"Lieutenant Dukelsky, Admiral Stark's flag officer, a tall, handsome
young man ..." He was later made aide-de-camp to Admiral
Makarov on board the battleship Petropavlovsk, the flagship of the
Russian Pacific Fleet. This ship, under fire from the entire Japanese
fleet, went out of Port Arthur to save sailors from the sinking Russian
destroyer Strashniy on April 13, 1904.
The Petropavlovsk struck a nest of Japanese mines in the Yellow
Sea, exploded and sank within one and a half minutes. Among the
men lost were two admirals, Makarov and Molas, the famous Russian
painter Vereschagin, twenty-seven officer^ and six hundred and fifty-
two sailors. Only seven officers and fifty-two sailors were saved
among them Grand Duke Cyril and Lieutenant Dukelsky, mortally
wounded, died the same day in Port Arthur Naval Hospital.
Uncle George, or Gigisha (his Caucasian nickname), was a great
ladies' man, and even the Soviet novelist, while not without prole
tarian indignation at the young officer's foppishness and aristocratic
pretensions, gives his charm and courage their just due. Gigisha mar
ried a lovely Nagasaki girl some few months before his tragic end
and the result of this temporary marriage was a handsome Russo-
Japanese boy who was later to send me postcards to New York ad
dressing me as the "flower of his soul." It was probably at the insti
gation of Uncle George that I was enrolled in the St. Petersburg
Naval Academy at birth, to the subsequent delight of Grandmother
Dariko who, enchanted with my early flair for languages, saw me as
a combination naval officer and diplomat.
TO MUSIC 19
Thus, shortly after our removal to the Bolshaya-Podvalnaya flat,
Mother received a letter from Dariko outlining her plans for me
and requesting that steps be taken to insure the proper sort of pre
paratory education, preferably in St, Petersburg.
So far, the only formal education I could boast of had been morn
ing sessions at a glorified kindergarten of progressive tendencies pre
sided over by a famous lady educator, Madame Jekulina; the Froebel
and Pestalozzi systems then fashionable in Russia were employed
in this institution, which was pleasantly co-educational and gave me
a first taste of feminine company my own age. Madame Jekulina's
school was paradise compared to what I feared might be in the offing
educationally speaking.
Although fascinated by the sea, particularly the Black Sea, I was
frightened by the harrowing tales of the midshipmen's rigorous
training, which included diving from the top of the mast into the
raging waves. I was too proud to admit my fear, but suddenly de
veloped a devouring passion for composing music, writing longer and
obscurer poems, and sketching whoever and whatever happened to
be around, such as Alex, Caro, and our ugly cook, Pauline. These
activities were indulged in to impress Mother with my artistry; I was
taking no chances and practiced all the arts at once. Of the three,
Mother preferred music, and after hearing a long "sonata" I had
completed, saw fit to wire Grandmother that I was a composer of
great promise and my naval career was not to be.
A long wrangle ensued, with the maternal relatives upholding
Mother, and Father's brother's sticking by Grandmother Dariko. I
kept my mouth diplomatically shut and opened it only to tell my
uncles and aunts that I didn't see in what way Beethoven's sonatas
were superior to mine. So astonishing a statement made it imperative
for Mother to take me to a composition teacher, Lubomirsky, and
seek his impartial verdict.
Lubomirsky was somewhat distressed on discovering that I did not
boast perfect pitch, in those days regarded as a "must" for future
composers. With my customary aplomb I told him that my pitch was
indeed perfect; but it proved to be a hit-and-miss, one of my ears
probably at variance with the other. Not giving Lubomirsky a chance
to recover from his disappointment, I plunged into my latest sonata,
which was so long and loud that the kind little fellow was taken
aback and had no other way out but to accept me as a pupil. His
20 PASSPORT TO PARIS
summing up was rather on the guarded side; what he actually said
was that he saw no reason why I should not become a composer, but
this was optimistically interpreted by Mother and myself as a bona
fide passport to greatness. Suitable telegrams were dispatched to all
the members of the family and the "jumping off the mast" terror
subsided somewhat.
The first intelligible piece of music I wrote was not the over-long
sonata, but a little waltz composed at age seven. Mother testifies
in her notes that I jumped out of bed in the morning and ran to
the piano, seized by the kind of inspiration people love to read about;
ah, those inspirations! Soon enough writing music becomes like sign
ing checks, just as methodical and just as disseminated. My studies
with Lubomirsky were to start in the autumn of 1914; that summer
Mother discarded her mourning and felt the need of a change of
scene to which she had become accustomed by her migrating hus
band and off we went to untrodden paths, this time to the so-called
Riga Strand, which consists of a cluster of small watering places on
the Baltic Sea. What a change from the warmer and darker waters
of Crimea. The swimming was actually better as there were none of
the rocks or pebbles characteristic of Crimean beaches; the sand was
fine and lemon-yellow, the water steel-blue, and the surrounding
smells were tarter and cleaner, but not as mellow as the subtropical
scents of the balmy Black Sea.
We soon found a small pink villa in Bilderlingshof and joined
the waxen-blond Latvians and Germans summering there. Alexis and
I were elected to an amateur fire brigade of Russo-German boys,
cannily managed by two German lads in their early teens. We were
given fancy uniforms and made to pay large dues to purchase an
almost full-scale fire engine, which the German boys craftily appro
priated at the end of the season. Alexis was a much better fireman
than I. We were both elected "spritzers," which gave us an op
portunity to squirt large quantities of salt water on giggling little
German girls in white dresses.
In the evenings, Mother played accompaniments for a young Pol
ish violinist called Michalski and I became enamored of Kreisler's
"Liebestraum" and "Liebesfreud."
One of Mother's closest friends, the stately Mrs. Dityatin, and her
three children occupied a little house in Bilderlingshof. The husband,
TO MUSIC 21
Vitaly Fedorovitch, a polished Anglophile type, was a friend of Georg
Schneevoigt, the Finnish-born conductor whose influence was then
great in the Scandinavian countries. Dityatin offered to show a
would-be orchestral piece of mine to the eminent Schneevoigt, then
vacationing in Marienhof a few miles away. Although I was im
mensely flattered, I somehow was smart enough to decline.
On June 16th, war with Germany was declared; our German fire
men suddenly disappeared, carrying off the splendid fibre engine, and
we Russians began a precipitate exodus to Riga. The hotels were
packed to the roof, the prices rose alarmingly, but we let Mother
worry about that and happily roamed the streets of the beautiful
medieval town. One afternoon I wandered into a sixteenth-century
square on the outskirts of Riga and heard a group of sad-looking
Latvian children led by a girl not more than fifteen in a monotonous
chant which, while it seemed to be a nursery rhyme, filled my heart
with extraordinary sadness. I believe that they sang in Latvian; the
odd music with incomprehensible words scared me off and I ran home
in inexplicable terror.
There was more violin music in Riga, and quantities of delicious
smoked fish (particularly one called seeg, the like of which I have
never tasted since), but such luxuries soon came to a premature end
as we finally booked train space home to Kiev.
Everybody was being mobilized all around us, but with Uncle
Vassily's suicide, we had no immediate relatives of conscription age.
Having graduated from Madame Jekulina's establishment with some
distinction, I was now to experience the thrill of becoming a full-
fledged gymnasiast, or high-school pupil. Russian high schools were
much stricter than their American counterparts. They were not co
educational, and the boys were made to wear uniforms at all times;
the government high-school students were decked out in black
with silver buttons and in caps with silver insignia. Alexis and I
were sent to a private high school run by a much-esteemed peda
gogue named Naumenko, and our specially designed uniforms were
of powder blue with golden buttons and cap insignia. This provoked
great hostility on the part of the "plain" or government boys, who
called us blue-breasted sissies, Mamma's boys, and offered to fight us
at the drop of a hat. In school I was good in history, literature, lan
guages, and geography, and rotten in all mathematical subjects. I
22 PASSPORT TO PARIS
was frail and reasonably aesthetic-looking, which went well with my
proclivities for writing poetry and music, drawing caricatures of my
classmates, and disdaining athletics.
By an uncanny coincidence, there was an attractive boy a year
older than myself whose name, exactly like mine, was Vladimir Du-
kelsky. To make things more complicated, he too wrote poetry, but,
unlike me, showed promise as a soccer player. One day we two got
mixed up by the athletics coach, and I was ordered on the field to join
the team. Not being able to run fast enough for a forward, I was
entrusted with the responsible position of goal keeper. The coach
didn't have much faith in me, but I somehow miraculously blocked
a few assaults during practice periods and was allowed to play on the
second squad in an interschool match. The score on this momentous
occasion was four to nothing in favor of the opposing team, all four
goals being scored due to my fatal fumbling; following the game I
was severely beaten by my classmates and spent the next three
days in bed.
While at Naumenko's I learned to play the domra, a round instru
ment of the mandolin family whose metallic strings are manipulated
by a plectrum but whose sound is more nasal and twangy than that of
a mandolin. The domras, of assorted sizes, were employed to take
the "melody lead" in the balalaika bands always popular in Russia.
Every school boasted one and so did Naumenko's. I was only a fair
performer on the primitive Russian lute, but I did make some efforts
at arranging, with indifferent results.
Meanwhile I was progressing satisfactorily with my piano lessons
under the guidance of one Josephine Leskevitch, a pupil of Dombrov-
sky, who was later to become my teacher at the Conservatory. Lubo
mirsky was now instructing me in elementary theory and first har
mony; he, too, was a minor case of musical schizophrenia, having
written a textbook on theory and a "Danse Orientate" in great favor
to this day with cooch dancers, oriental travelogues, and Caucasian
knife throwers. These were Lubomirsky's only known accomplish
ments, and I began seriously to question his adequacy as a teacher of
composition on so slender a record.
This was the era when the "Russian Decadence" school in poetry
and painting was becoming all the rage. The first futurists, like the
Burliuk brothers, Kruchenikh, Khlebnikov, and others of that ilk,
true to the teachings of Marinetti, the Italian founder of the school,
TO MUSIC 23
donned eccentric garb, wore carrots and radishes in their buttonholes,
painted their faces blue or green and created disturbances in theaters
and other gathering places, to attract publicity. The effete, coiffeurSke
ego-futurist Igor Severyanin made women swoon with his would-be
chic poems, in which he glorified imported motor cars, Paris dress
makers, pineapples filled with champagne, and other attributes of
High Life. Severyanin had his low-brow apostle in the person of
Alexander Vertinsky (at this writing still flourishing in Moscow),
who got himself up as Pierrot and mumbled Frenchified inanities to
strangely gypsylike tunes a weird but eminently successful combi
nation. Russian women were, and often still are, captivated by these
two home-grown catchpenny Baudelaires, and their influence was
enormous everywhere. Vertinsky was responsible for the cult of the
exotic-at-all-costs; one of his best-known songs was called "Purple
Negro," another, "Your Fingers Smell of Incense," and there were
tattooed sailors and super-virile cowboys galore in his chansons.
Poor Mother didn't escape this unhealthy fad; in common with
her women friends she began smoking out of long amber cigarette
holders, wore Mexican earrings, and studied the tango. This new
word meant not only the latest dance craze, but also was the tag of
flaming orange color. Alexis and I were badgered into learning the
steps of the Argentine pas de deux and in a week or so could put on
a fair exhibition, with Alexis the unwilling danseuse.
On reading Severyanin and Co. avidly, I perceived to my great
exhilaration that their poems made even less sense than my own
early ones. I began to consider myself a futurist, too, and even ap
peared in high school with a painted face on one occasion, to be
ordered out of class immediately. My Beethoven-like "sonatas" were
now discarded and gave way to more experimental essays which con
sternated Lubomirsky, who complained to Mother about my non
conformist tendencies,
I, at first a model student, was now beginning to sow my oats
in school contributed ego-futurist poems to the school magazine,
played my "revolutionary" piano pieces at children's parties, and found
less and less time to do my homework, particularly math and physics.
The math teacher was an old friend of Mother's and let me off easy
until he was shown a cruel caricature I had drawn of him; then he
cracked the whip and failed me. Mother was greatly alarmed by this
unpleasant change in my scholastic standing and began to cite Alex
24 PASSPORT TO PARIS
as an example of a not-too-imaginative but diligent student. This was
the last straw, and instead of reforming I was determined to get
out of the gymnasium, as I deemed it unworthy of my highly special
ized talents.
Mother had a box at the opera and we boys soon began to antici
pate every operatic outing. Although I loved opera, symphony con
certs fascinated me even more, especially when conducted by the
placid but thorough Reinhold Gliere, then just made director of the
newly created Kiev Conservatory. Gliere, born in Kiev, was of Bel
gian origin, which could not be guessed from his conventionally
Russian, Glazunov-like music. He was forty at the time, dressed well,
and quite captivated Mother, who began to nurture the ambition of
annexing him as a teacher for me. On one occasion, she took us to
hear his interminable Ilia Murometz Symphony, a favorite warhorse
of Stokowski's. Another time, we went to hear the piano concerto
of a young St. Petersburg Gold Medalist, Serge Prokofiev by name.
This last experience proved something of a turning point for me, but
not in the obvious sense.
After a conventional overture, and sympathetic applause, Glifere
bowed and shortly reappeared with a tall young man of extraordi
nary appearance. He had white-blond hair, a small head with a large
mouth and very thick lips (unlike the purple African of Vertinsky's
imagination Prokofiev was then nicknamed the "White Negro") and
very long, awkwardly dangling arms, terminating in a bruiser's pow
erful hands. Prokofiev wore dazzlingly elegant tails, a beautifully cut
waistcoat, and flashing black pumps. The strangely gauche manner
in which he traversed the stage was no indication of what was to
follow; after sitting down and adjusting the piano stool with an
abrupt jerk, Prokofiev let go with an unrelenting muscular exhibition
of a completely novel kind of piano playing. The prevailing fashion
in those days was the languorous hothouse manner of a Scriabin or
the shimmering post-Debussy impressionist tinklings of harp and
celesta. This young man's music and his performance of it reminded
me of the onrushing forwards in my one unfortunate soccer experi
ence; there was no sentiment, no sweetness there nothing but un
relenting energy and athletic joy of living. No wonder the first four
notes of the concerto, oft-repeated, were later nicknamed "po chere~
poo" ("hit on the head"), which was Prokofiev's exact intention. I
will not say that I was fascinated by the piece, Far from it,
TO MUSIC 25
Mother, Aunt Genia, Alexis and I were all horrified, all said that the
so-called concerto was a disgrace and that there wasn't a tune in it.
(How often was I to hear those words applied to me in my later
career.) To our consternation, there was frenetic applause and no less
than six flower horseshoes were handed to Prokofiev, who was now
greeted with astonished laughter. He bowed clumsily, dropping his
head almost to his knees and recovering with a yank.
"That's not music, Dima (my family nickname)/' said my mother
sternly. "Don't you start writing like that. Remember, my boy, mel
ody first and last."
I grunted my approval. Little did Mother know the warring in
fluences already rife in my breast.
My scholastic labors were interrupted by two bucolic episodes; the
first, a short sojourn in Grusskoye in the government of Kursk.
This was an estate belonging to one Kourdiumov, a rich epicurean
totally paralyzed by the gay sins of his Hussar youth. He was still
young, but had to wear yellow-black eyeglasses, which were supposed
to strengthen his unseeing eyes; his face retained traces of the good
looks typical of his regiment and had the faded color of a vellum
binding. His limp and useless body was propelled in a wheel chair
by an old servant with white side whiskers. Only his hands were
eloquent and his palate active; Kourdiumov lived for food and was
a true gourmet in the old Russian not the finer French tradition.
Every morning at breakfast, Kourdiumov summoned his chef and
his two apprentices and held a long conversation, often interspersed
with hectic arguments, on the subject of the day's menus. Varieties
of game supplied by full-time hunters employed by our host, baskets
of imported fruit, and cobweb-covered bottles from his vast cellars
were exhibited, compared and critically sampled before the day's gas
tronomic program was decided upon. Menus in French with the fam
ily crest were then hectographed and deposited in all the guest
rooms, including the children's.
Noontime marked the arrival of the hungry guests, consisting of
neighboring landowners, a few generals, retired and active, and a
horde of "Popes" as the members of the Greek Orthodox clergy were
familiarly called. These Falstaffian clerics sported luxuriant beards,
wore the somber black garments of their calling, and had a truly
Byzantine capacity for eating and drinking. Long before mealtime
they assembled in Kourdiumov's bedroom, where large carafes of
26 PASSPORT TO PARIS
herb-distilled vodka were consumed amid wall-shaking laughter and
distinctly pagan jollity.
Alexis and I, accompanied by the Lvov children, a brother and
sister of twelve and fourteen respectively, were ushered into the
enormous dining hall chaperoned by our two governesses. Mother
and Mrs. Lvov arrived in fresh mousseline dresses fragrant with
Coty's L'Origan, the perfume then in vogue. Both women were some
what apprehensive of extra poundage from the daily eating festivals,
but the food was so good that they soon joined the noisily masticating
throng.
The daily luncheon began with four tables of hors d'oeuvres
wheeled in by as many white-gloved footmen; the first table covered
with smoked and pickled fish of the rarest species, another with five
or six kinds of caviar of all hues, the third with meats and fowl in
aspic, and the fourth with hot sausages, veal patties, lobster and crab
concoctions, and other savory dishes. On certain days there was a fifth
table on which reposed two or three hundred heavenly pink-boiled
raki, or large fresh-water prawns cooked with dill. As a grand finale
to the entrances of these groaning boards, a perambulating bar of
rainbow-hued vodkas appeared, the vodkas varying from the fresh
green of the zubrovka to the clear pink of the Ryabinovka, distilled
from a berry not unlike the U.S. cranberry. The idea was to wash
down the hors d'oeuvres with these potent liquids, and there was quite
a trick to use the right vodka with the right appetizer, although after
a while it didn't particularly matter.
At table, the first course was usually the beloved blini, or light
fluffy pancakes, which were, as brother Alexis was fond of saying,
easy to eat. First the bllni were smeared with hot melted butter, then
with a thick layer of sour cream, and finally garnished with caviar,
although some connoisseurs disdained that delicacy in favor of lightly
smoked salmon couleur de popo d'enfant (color of a baby's behind).
The blini, of which we children ate approximately a dozen and the
grownups not less than three or four dozen, were washed down by
bouillon, and then the real meal started.
The first course was some magnificent fish, preferably out of sea
son, like cold sturgeon with sauce verte; then game traditionally
cooked in sour cream with cranberry sauce; then the main meat
course, either a boiled suckling pig accompanied by creamed horse
radish or a baby lamb served whole with kasha (buckwheat groats);
TO MUSIC 27
then a fancy salad with wonderful Russian mayonnaise, the secret of
which is irretrievably lost; then the pride of the chef a huge plom-
bieres, an elaborate ice-cream mold with glace fruits adorning it and
Kourdiumov's initials for decoration. For those who were still hungry,
a table decked with every imaginable cheese was trotted out, and
finally a vast assortment of liqueurs, the particular delight of the
clergy. Enormous vintage cigars and specially blended coffee termi
nated the feast.
The children and their governesses, as well as the ladies, were
now allowed to leave the table while the men remained to regale one
another with bawdy stories. Half an hour later, the assorted com
pany adjourned to their respective bedrooms for a lengthy two or
three hour siesta. An hour after waking, the vodkas reappeared, this
time in the drawing room, where one of the ladies was called upon
to tackle the piano, and then dinner was announced, always twice as
elaborate as the luncheon. It was Kourdiumov's custom to kiss all the
ladies, including young girls, the younger the better, after each meal,
a ritual not at all to their taste.
We children never slept in the afternoon, but were provided with
facilities of croquet, volleyball, and to my alarm horseback
riding. The ringleader of the sports was a tall and prematurely
worldly wise gymnasiast, Serge Golinevitch by name, who was to
graduate that year and was therefore much admired and envied by all
us small fry. The belle of the younger group, a dark-haired fourteen-
year-old named Nina, looked rather like Judy Garland at her debut.
This girl, although secretly adored by Alexis and myself, was an
nexed by the enterprising Serge, who impressed her with his big-town
airs and easy chatter. The three younger boys, her brother, Alexis,
and I, saw the young couple mount the fine Cossack horses provided
by Kourdiumov's grooms and disappear in a shower of golden dust
They were usually absent for not less than two hours, and there was
much leering and whispering on the part of my companions as to
the exact nature of these expeditions. I pretended to be above such
unworthy speculations, but was in reality horribly envious of the
suave city slicker.
I demanded from Mother that I be given riding lessons, to which
she reluctantly acceded; I never liked or understood horses, and
don't to this day, but was determined to make a nuisance of myself
and to become a master equestrian. It took me quite some time to
28 PASSPORT TO PARIS
learn to post for the trot, my behind was increasingly sore, but I
persevered. In a few days I bribed a groom with Mother's ruble and
suddenly appeared on a small brown horse, bent on accompanying
Serge and Nina on their outing. Nina, already a true representative of
her sex, was of course gratified by my zeal, guessing the great effort
it cost me, but Serge was not at all pleased and arrogantly galloped
off with Nina, leaving me behind.
On a certain Sunday, hordes of juvenile visitors made their ap
pearance, and each was provided with a nice tame horse; my favor
ite, Arabchik (Little Arab), was already engaged, and the only
horse left available was a black brute of a stallion named Barbarian.
This horse was reluctantly assigned to me, as I was determined to
join the merry cavalcade, especially since Nina's horse had just been
saddled. I gave Barbarian a dirty look and was hoisted into the saddle
by ominously scowling grooms. Somehow I managed to sit up
straight, and bestowed a triumphant smile on Nina, who smiled back
admiringly, when Barbarian emitted a bloodcurdling whinny and
lunged forward entirely on his own. In a furious gallop, my feet
deserting the stirrups, and my would-be aesthetic hands clutching
wildly at the brute's mane, we traveled at such a diabolical pace
that the entire cavalcade was soon left behind, and I began to scream
my heart out unheard by anyone. There was no hope except to hold
on to the black mane for dear life, but the beast had a horrible
habit of shaking his head, which made this safety device rather pre
carious. My terror increased when Barbarian swerved from the bridle
path and headed for the main house, a marble-columned eighteenth-
century edifice. Directly facing the porte-cochere was a formal gar
den, Kourdiumov's delight, planted with the rarest flowers, and this
was apparently Barbarian's destination. In a flash, I saw Mother at
an open window knitting, and Barbarian threw me at her feet in the
prize-tulip bed with a disgusted snort. I wasn't hurt, but with my
already pronounced flair for the theatrical, played dead. A whole
Greek chorus of terrified women, led by Mother, surrounded me,
suggesting fancy remedies for me and a bullet for Barbarian, pest
of all, Nina appeared, flatteringly solicitous, and temporarily deserting
the disgruntled Serge for me, the hero of the moment. Needless to say,
I played the scene to the hilt; yet my happiness was but short-lived.
One day, we children heard a violent harangue emanating from
Kourdiumov's bedroom, and a few minutes later the wily Serge
TO MUSIC 29
emerged white and trembling, refusing us any explanation. Stifled
cries in Nina's room in answer to her mother's shrill scolding were
equally incomprehensible and disturbing. Alexis did some snooping
around and came up with the astounding intelligence that Serge and
Nina had been discovered in a most compromising position in the
summerhouse by one of the governesses. Serge was sent home that
same evening and Nina was confined to her room and put on a
strict and no doubt antiaphrodisiac diet. I, of course, knew the exact
location of Nina's window and spent the next morning playing
detective under it. Nina, her splendid sunburned body meagerly hid
den by a white nightgown, finally appeared at the window, opened it
and stared unseeing ahead. I will never forget the girl's look of
adolescent despair mingled with wanton longing and helpless rage at
the absence of her lover; a large tear ran down her cheek and I
could no longer be silent.
"Nina," I gulped, "what is the matter? Is there anything I can do?"
The look she gave me was witheringly contemptuous. "You? Why,
you wouldn't know what to do, even if there was anything to be
done. You're nothing but a child!''
With these words she closed the window and disappeared. There
is nothing sadder than telling a boy just past ten that he is only a
child, except, on passing forty, to hear "old man" for the first time.
The second episode involved my only trip to Moscow.
Moscow, something of a Paris to Russians (while there was a
London-like austerity and aloofness about St. Petersburg), was the
goal of every provincial Russian. The sing-song of the native Musco
vite with his broad a's and o's was considered irresistible, although not
quite as comme il faut as the crisper, less emotional St. Petersburg
accent. Mother, still disconsolate over the loss of her husband, began
to seek solace in the Moscow Art Theatre season then holding forth
at the Solovtzov Theatre in Kiev; she much admired the versatile
Kusnetzov, who tackled Gogol's Revizor, Charley's Aunt and Hamlet
with equal ease. After the performance there were gay suppers with
the Moskvichi (Muscovites) at the Praha, the lights of which we
could see from our fifth-floor flat.
A gay Moscow couple, the Savostianovs, were ringleaders in these
nocturnal outings of Mother's, whereas Alex and I were told to
display our best table and play manners to the Savostianov children,
Nata and Youra. This new friendship resulted in the Savostianovs*
30 PASSPORT TO PARIS
invitation to spend the Christmas holidays at their country place near
Moscow, which Mother gratefully accepted.
The three things I recall best about Moscow are the broadbacked,
bearded and vociferous izvostchiks (coachmen); the heady smell
of the freshly baked Moscow kalatch, the tastiest bread known to
man; and the famous department store Muir and Merrilies, the
Scotch-owned Russian forerunner of the Macy's and Selfridge's of the
occidental world at least that's what the Russians are sure to claim,
if they haven't already done so.
The Savostianov datcha was typically suburban; of Kourdiumov's
feudal splendor there was none, but there were the simple country
pleasures of snow games and tobogganing with the Savostianov
children. The slim, Circassian-looking Nata got along famously
with Alex, and they, with Youra, would disappear after the tobog
ganing for some mysterious sessions in the bushes, where I strongly
suspect the three of them played an oriental version of the "doctor
game." I, with my pious reputation, was never asked to participate
and pretended no interest in their pastimes. One day I overheard a
shockingly colorful description of these goings-on and melodramati
cally declared that, being a true Christian, I would have to report
such sins to the two mothers. Nata, terrified, tried to buy me off with
an offer to join me in the bushes, but I indignantly declined and
burst into uncontrollable tears, which brought Mother and Mrs.
Savostianov running. The three culprits glared threateningly while I
was questioned as to the cause of my hysterics, but I am proud to say
that I refused to play the informer.
After the holidays, the two families went their separate ways to
Moscow, where Alex and I were fed pirojki, bought from Filippov,
the caterer, and allowed to roam about the Kremlin.
We listened to the melancholy and elephantine waltzes played by
a military band at the Moscow skating rink, where cocky gymnasiasts
showed off in daredevil fashion for the watching schoolgirls, blush
ing and giggling into their handmuffs, the sharp Russian frost biting
their little ears.
Mother took us back to uneventful Kiev to resume classes at
Naumenko's Gymnasium, to Scarlatti with Miss Leskevitch, and for
me to wrest from him the last of the now steadily dwindling stock
of Lubomirsky's musical surprises.
The great day came when Mother felt that I was ready to beard
TO MUSIC 31
Kiev's musical lion in his den; she put on her caracul manteau over
the orange "tango" dress with its matching fur border, and we headed
for the Conservatory's inner sanctum Gliere's cabinet de travail
In the izvostchik on the way to the Conservatory, Mother
sighed over my snowballing reputation as a Peck's Bad Boy at
Naumenko's, but I grandly reassured her that it was all part of a
"plan."
Gliere greeted us impeccably turned out, and after appraising
Mother's ensemble and taking a whiff of her violet corsage backed
up by the ever-present L'Origan, he bowed and kissed her hand with
obvious pleasure. After Mother's excited explanations, he sized up my
kneepants with some surprise.
"So young and already a composer," he observed sadly. "And
when you compose, young man, do you actually write it down?"
I whipped out the orange-colored (the tango influence) cover of
my "sonata" and asked Gliere if he would care to follow the music
while I played it. Thus cornered, Gliere had no choice he folded
his arms and prepared to listen. I'm afraid his response was more
or less the same as Lubomirsky's at my first audition. The longer I
played, the more startled Gliere became, until finally he asked me to
stop and told my mother that I was indeed peculiarly talented; he
suggested that I take some private lessons from him prior to entering
the Conservatory. Gliere considered my piano playing sufficiently ad
vanced for the class of Professor Marian Dombrovsky, who was Miss
Leskevitch's teacher. The interview was most satisfactory to Mother
and me and we left Gliere's office feeling that we had Euterpe by the
tail.
The next morning I entered the Naumenko temple of learning
in a particularly flip mood. When the geography teacher asked me to
point out the Carpathian mountains on the map, I deliberately lo
cated the Crimean range. My brazenness brought a gasp from my
classmates, but I topped this in the Russian literature class (my fa
vorite subject) which followed. A handsome young Ukrainian named
Galiun was the teacher and the idol of all the schoolgirls. Because
of my overly advanced ego-futurist experiments, I was no longer
allowed to write for the "serious" school publication Our Thoughts,
and had enterprisingly retaliated with my own satirical journal, The
Ventilator. No sooner had Galiun begun class than I circulated the
newest hectographed copies of my rag, which featured his likeness on
32 PASSPORT TO PARIS
page one in a rapt embrace with the schoolgirl popularly considered
his pet. There was ill-repressed mirth among the readers, and with a
mock bow, Galiun appropriated one of my gay little sheets. He red
dened up and stomped out of the schoolroom, Ventilator in hand,
shortly returning with the school principal; I was then called out of
class.
The next morning I was formally expelled from the gymnasium,
which was exactly the result I desired. Mother was perturbed of
course, but I set her right by claiming that my Pegasus was far more
likely to be Gliere than Naumenko, and that I would reach Olym
pus much faster in the Conservatory chariot.
CHAPTER HI
KIEV CONSERVATORY
I WOULD give anything to take a long look at Kiev as it is now,
thirty-four years after I left it, if I could avoid winding up in a
Soviet torture chamber. Whatever the modern improvements, I don't
believe it can be in any way more enticing than it was in the days of
my musical beginnings. True, the railroad station was a horribly
ugly edifice which was to be torn down and replaced, and surely has
been by now; once through its gates, Kiev was a world half-
occidental and half-medieval Russian. The modern and luxurious
thoroughfares of Kreschatik (Kiev's main street) and the exclusive
Lipki residential section, named for its abundant young linden trees,
seemed highly kinetic next to the peaceful golden domes of the city's
many sixteenth-century churches; of these the Lavra of Petchersk
was the Saint Mark's of Russian Christendom. The city's parks in
cluded the Gorka (Hill) of St. Vladimir, the splendid Czarski Sad
(Gardens), and the Merchant's Gardens, the home of the summer
symphony concerts. Our street, the Bolshaya-Podvalnaya, was well
paved, clean, and boasted a cinema where we saw the first super-
colossal movie epic, Cabiria; the hilarious comedies of Max Linder,
the monocled predecessor of Charlie Chaplin; the homemade sexy
melodramas that starred the Russian favorites Vera Kholodnaya and
Ivan Mozjoukin.
The Gromov sisters, two enchantresses in their early teens, lived
nearby, and it was strongly rumored that they smoked cigarettes,
drank their father's champagne, wore their mother's silk stockings,
and had week-end adventures with young cavalry officers. We
boys were no match for them, but we constantly spied on the
demure sirens as they trotted in and out of their house, schoolbooks
under arm.
34 PASSPORT TO PARIS
The rich and glamorous Mouraviov and Ilyashenko families lived
near us in expensive private houses and gave festive parties for
young people to which Alex and I were often invited. I recall that
some of the older boys, habitues there, urged us to visit a brothel to
which they were already resorting; this premature invitation filled me
with terror as it was commonly known that the Kiev venereologists
were getting richer by the year attending to their patients. The best-
known of these doctors, an ex-wrestler named Alphonse Schwartzer,
had his office near our house and I always quickened my steps on
passing his fearsome sign with its ominous 606-914 glaring at me.
With the advent of penicillin, Schwartzer switched to general prac
tice and became my physician in New York at the time of World
War II.
Two blocks away was a puny little two-story edifice with a large
sign in its window proclaiming its ownership by "A. Razilo-Olizar,
Free Artist, Vocal Lessons, Italian Method." I was entranced by so
unorthodox a monicker until it dawned on me that Olizar was
Razilo spelled backwards.
Between our house and the teeming Kreschatik was the pereulok
(mews) where the Conservatory was located; in the opposite direc
tion was grimy and unfashionable Lvovskaia Street. Off Lvovskaia
was another mews called Dionisovsky Pereulok, where Grandfather's
townhouse stood, the scene of the three family tragedies; next door to
him was a convent run by nuns in some way affiliated with those at
Mejigorye, the sanctified nudist beach.
Grandfather had combated his gloomy solitude by taking his
housekeeper for a mistress. Mother brought us to see him occasion
ally, but we didn't enjoy these trips very much; the food had deterio
rated, Grandfather was increasingly irascible, and poor Satan, the
Saint Bernard, was sinking into the hairless and toothless miseries of
age. However, Grandfather expected attention from Mother and
the other four offspring who would share in his estate. That is, except
ing Mother's brilliant brother Alexis, who was persona non grata
with Grandfather because of his involvement in a conspiracy during
the 1905 revolution. Grandfather's politics were of a markedly mon
archist variety; he and his friend Dobrynin were among the chief
stockholders in the Tory sheet Kievlyanin, and their feudal views
went Nicholas II one better. Paradoxically, Uncle Alexis married
Dobrynin's daughter Liza and settled down to teaching political econ-
KIEV CONSERVATORY 35
omy at Novotcherkask University, so Grandfather grudgingly received
but never forgave him.
Uncle Alexis had a genuine feeling for music, among his many
interests, and of all my maternal relatives did the most to encourage
me. His tastes in music were those of a serious dilettante, worshipful
of standard symphonic literature and fairly contemptuous of any
thing that smacked of the music hall.
Mother's Moscow friends tried to cheer her up by taking her to
operetta performances. She sometimes brought home sheet music
from such hits as The Chocolate Soldier, Sylvia, and The Merry
Widow for which I, the future Vernon Duke of Broadway, roundly
scolded her. On one occasion, an avant garde lounge lizard presented
Mother with some hot platters of American imported ragtime; the
raging two-steps had such detestable titles as "Automobile" and "Tr&s
Moutarde" (Very Mustard). Alexis and I watched aghast as the
daring young man demonstrated, with Mother as his startled partner,
the vigorous arm-pumping and jerky steps of these pre-Scott Fitz
gerald favorites. Mother tactfully eschewed an opportunity for terpsi-
chorean advancement and led our visitor into the familiar tango,
which I magnanimously played on the piano; I wasn't fond of dance
music or the pseudo-gypsy waitings of the early Russian crooners of
prerevolution days.
Our apartment boasted a small but diversified library, which
started 'me on the long and adventurous road I have traveled to
Bibliophilia. Memories of Sobatchania probably accounted for Alex's
and my love for the eight illustrated volumes of Braehm's Life of the
Animals. The rarer and more repulsive the animal described, the
better we liked him.
There were two books on the shelves forbidden to Alex and me:
ForeFs Sexual Question and a fat volume on atheism, Bezverye. In
the Russian language zver means animal and bez means without;
consequently Alex and I had deduced that this book wickedly
championed the destruction of animals, a plan abhorrent to us. The
title really should be translated Without Faith, since vera means faith
in Russian.
One night Mother went to the theater and Alex and I sneaked out
these two guilty volumes; I plunged into the mysteries of sex and
Alex probed the animal-less world. After some furious reading, we
looked at each other with puzzled disappointment. Alex had found
36 PASSPORT TO PARIS
no animals at all, only obscure pagan gods and obscurer Greek and
Roman philosophers, and I felt the sex act as scientifically explained
was unfeasible, the whole thing being preposterous. We replaced the
books sadly, unable to find answers to our surreptitiously acquired
questions.
The date had rolled around for my first lesson with Gli&re. I had
an idea that so esteemed a member of the artistic community would
occupy palatial quarters in the Lipki sector. Instead, Mother left me
at the door of a small house next to a disreputable market place in
Bessarabka. Gliere opened the door for me in furry slippers, his face
unshaven and Bohemian-looking, quite unlike his urbane polish on
the symphony platform.
We plunged immediately into first harmony. I was waiting for his
lead to describe my latest efforts at composition, but he hewed to the
pedagogic line. Finally, as he was dismissing me, I ventured the in
formation that I was starting my first symphony.
"A symphony?" queried Gliere with a supercilious smile. "My dear
boy, prove to me that you can write a thirty-two-bar prelude first
and then we'll try a small piano study before we progress to the
symphony."
He patted me on the back and turned me out into the cold air. On
the tram trip home I tried to fit the acclaim he received at the concerts
and the meager, shabby home he worked in together. I had thought
that composers and artists of all kinds moved in a teratogenic and
prodigal world, their most extravagant wishes the command of an
adoring public. Glifere was the lion of Kiev and he lived more
humbly than its lambs.
Although I always took my music seriously, even at that remote
period I had the unwise tendency to attempt media for which I had
no proper equipment. Unbeknown to Gli&re I had written a piece
purporting to be a string quartet, without the most rudimentary
notion of the technique or limitations of stringed instruments. I
brought my score to a sweet old drunk named Grigorovitch, who
taught calligraphy for a living and played string quartets for amuse
ment. At his request I copied the parts of my quartet, and to my
delight the kindly Grigorovitch volunteered to give it a reading. I'm
sure the opus must have been awful, but hearing four grownups
execute sounds arranged by me filled me with exaltation. Whenever
a particularly juicy chord made its appearance, I jumped for joy and
KIEV CONSERVATORY 37
asked the musicians to please play that bar again because "it sounded
so good." The four good-natured Ukrainians were gluttons for punish
ment; they complied by repeating the work throughout the evening
and Grigorovitch even offered to give it a semipublic hearing, from
which fate my prudent mother saved me.
At that same time I was practicing conscientiously for my piano
examination, which called for two taxing technical studies and in
which I intended to include my most radical sonata, an addition not
at all obligatory. I appeared before the assembled pedagogues, headed
by Gliere, who did not show me any favoritism and stopped me cold
on the third page of my sonata. However, my general musicianship
was pronounced excellent and my piano technique acceptable for
Dombrovsky's advanced piano class.
I then became a full-fledged Conservatory pupil and since that
institution ran gymnasium classes for its students, the matter of gen
eral education was not neglected either.
The students were mostly aspiring singers, pianists, and violinists;
composers were a distinct minority and loftily aloof from the lowly
interpreters. In later years I found that, ironically, it was the inter
preters who made a good living out of music, while the creator
often worried about his next meal. The sharpest of the students were
the young violinists, as high-strung as their fiddles, who raced after
the girls along the corridors, solfeggio-stuffed satchels in tow. The
girl singers were always prettier than the girl pianists, and from the
adolescent exchanges I overheard, the boys considered them far
more rewarding partners in the emotional dramas that teemed
among us.
I remember two of these inconstant nymphs of music, both ten
years older than myself, whom I admired through their surrounding
crowds of fiddlers; one was the Nordic Znamenska, who sang my
songs two years later at a Conservatory recital, the other a luscious
Scheherazade-like contralto with the odd name of Vera Character. Of
the male pupils I recall sad-eyed and long faced Vladimir Horowitz,
who studied then with Serge Tarnovsky and later with the celebrated
Felix Blumenfeld; his piano playing was already dazzling, but most
of us students championed Horowitz's friend and rival, Sasha Doubi-
ansky, who tragically committed suicide in his early twenties. Horo
witz specialized in Chopin and Liszt, whereas Doubiansky leaned
toward the moderns, particularly the charming Polish composer
38 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Szymanovski, who later became my friend. Another pianistic lumi
nary at the Conservatory was Harry Neuhaus, a cousin of Szymanov
ski; he was considerably older than the other two virtuosi. Neuhaus
was identified with all the latest musical fashions and was a close
friend of Pierre Souvtchinsky, the rich and influential publisher of the
Musical Contemporary, the most luxurious musical magazine ever
printed.
In Gliere's class were two young men in their twenties who were
regarded as master craftsmen by us beginners; they were Liatoshinsky,
now the leading composer of Ukraine, and Mischa Levin, presently
a successful background-music composer in Hollywood, under the
name of Michel Michelet. Liatoshinsky's music was a blend of the
seemingly incompatible styles of the two prevailing Messiahs of every
Russian conservatory, Scriabin and Glazunov. Levin was more of a
"modernist," in that he was not averse to French influences and was
rather cosmopolitan in his tastes, due to previous study with Max
Reger in Leipzig.
Tall, awkward Liatoshinsky was married to an excellent colora
tura, nee Tzarevitch, who affably sight-read the latest songs turned
out by the Gli&re pupils; once a week we met at Liatoshinsky's large
apartment and played and sang each other's music far into the night.
In the summer of 1915 Mother took us to Finland to visit my
paternal great uncle, Nikolai Apollonovitch Dukelsky, who had a
villa in Kuokkala, about forty miles north of St. Petersburg. We
swam in the cold waters at the gloomy and forbidding seacoast. A
Wuthering Heights brooding hovered over the place, and my cousin
Vera would have made a good Bronte heroine had I been a little
older.
We went to St. Petersburg, my only visit there and a pleasurable
one; I saw the celebrated Tzarskoe Sielo, the name of which sings
nostalgically to Russians who associate it with Pushkin's happiest
years.
Moscow's scent can be likened to that of overripe passion fruit;
St. Petersburg seemed to me redolent of lemon and verbena, emanat
ing from the River Neva, and there was an acidy, lemonish pallor to
the St. Petersburg faces.
It was here that I was awed by the phenomenon of the Nordic
white night, which I translated many years later musically in my
cantata The End oj St. Petersburg; after one performance this work
KIEV CONSERVATORY 39
disappeared into a musical limbo as inexplicable as the polar lights
which brought it into being.
Grandmother Dariko, the Princess Toumanov, received us in a
magnificent Patou summer frock whiter than the night of her city,
scrutinized us closely through her lorgnette, felt for my muscles and,
on finding them nonexistent, told Mother I was probably better off
as a composer than a naval officer after all. It would have given the
thwarted lady pleasure to see me commissioned a lieutenant in the
U.S. Coast Guard in 1944.
She ushered me to the piano and bade me display my latest musi
cal attempts; I complied with zest, but it was obvious that Grand
mother wasn't too smitten.
"You undoubtedly have talent," she conceded graciously, "but your
musical style is already polluted with that horrible futuristic hogwash;
all those Rebikovs, Scriabins, Debussys, and, God forbid, Schoenbergs.
Ugh!"
To show there were no hard feelings, she took Alex and me on a
round of the pastry shops. At the Confiserie Berrin we ate heavenly
apricot ice cream; we swallowed eclairs and petits fours at several
patisseries, and wound up in an arcade where pale, pretty St. Peters
burg girls in white uniforms dispensed the latest concoction, raspberry
ice drowned in seltzer, a Russian version of ice cream soda.
Father's younger brother, Colonel Ilya Dukelsky, lived in a luxu
rious flat in Basskov Pereulok, ostracized by the rest of the family
because he belonged to the despised Corps de Gendarmes; he cyni
cally asserted that he intended to indulge his expensive tastes, which
included gold-digging cocottes. Mother took us on two visits to Uncle
Ilya, who looked like a dissipated version of my late father, and
Alex and I played big-game hunters with the bear and tiger skins
stretched over the floor. I overheard Uncle Ilya's fascinating confes
sion that his chief occupation in the Gendarme Corps was spying on
Rasputin. Although the czar held the Siberian ex-monk in awe
and had succumbed to his hypnotic influence, my uncle kept close
tab on Rasputin's relationship with the czarina and her favorite lady
in waiting, Anna Vyrubova. At his death in Nice during the German
occupation, Uncle Ilya left a journal presumably full of the scandal
ous adventures of Rasputin in the hands of a friend who also died
without bringing the memoirs to the light of day.
On another occasion Mother took us for a visit with young Prince
40 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Irakly Toumanov and his pretty first wife, a Georgian, who lived
not far from Tzarskoe Sielo. Uncle Irakly, who was Father's cousin,
wore the beautiful uniform of a Czar's Strelok (the czar's crack rifle
corps). While the young princess and Mother drank tea from a giant
samovar, spiking it with quantities of choice cherry jam (an excellent
recipe, by the way), Uncle Irakly took several rifles off the wall and
proceeded to perform inspection of arms, to the terror of Alex and
myself. His house was full of champion pointers, hunters, and bea
gles, as hunting was Irakly's favorite recreation,
The year immediately preceding the revolution was unremarkable
musically speaking, as the World War made normal pursuits of
learning more and more difficult. Mother and most of her female
friends joined the Red Cross as volunteer nurses, and our apartment
became the meeting place of young officers fresh from the front, quite
a few of them wounded. Some of Gliere's older pupils were mobi
lized, but on the other hand, there was an influx of aspiring com
posers from St. Petersburg and Moscow. Food was still plentiful in
Kiev, and life was easy and carefree compared with the growing
feeling of insecurity and unrest, as well as various economic restric
tions, in the two Russian capitals.
Mother, who was a one-man woman if I ever saw one, dropped
the frivolous Muscovites one by one and divided her time between the
hospital and her new religion theosophy, in which she was
absorbed to the time of her death. Several St. Petersburg theosophists
of note appeared in our midst; among them was the spruce Colonel
Alexis Fedorovitch Lvov, grandson of the composer of the Russian
national anthem, "God Save the Czar," written in 1833. Lvov was
a vegetarian, spoke in a high-pitched and petulant voice, and in spite
of his aestheticism relished the company of pretty women. He di
rected Mother to the writings of Blavatsky, Besant and Krishnamurti,
whose ideas so entranced Mother that she spent several weeks in the
prophet's camp after we came to America. Lvov was attached to a
railroad battalion of the army, a connection which proved most use
ful to us a few years later. The colonel had just arrived from St
Petersburg, was devoted to the czarina, and had bitter misgivings
about the mysterious conspiracy surrounding the czar's entourage.
Mother was a mild liberal in her political views and talked lightly
about the desirability of a "change/' the corruption of the court, the
sufferings of an ill-equipped and ill-fed army, and the stifling St.
KIEV CONSERVATORY 41
Petersburg censorship, which made clear thinking and frank talk
an impossibility. It was a tradition in our household for Mother to
tuck us into bed and bless us Greek Orthodox fashion every night;
having performed this ritual lovingly, she would return to her guests
wounded officers and fanatical theosophists whose clamorous dis
cussions in the drawing room kept us awake many an hour.
My piano studies with Dombrovsky were not progressing too satis
factorily. The business of practicing five or six hours a day was
odious to me, and with my customary capacity for bluff, I tried a
system of doing no piano work for several days and then spending
all the day preceding the lesson practicing. The first few times I did
tolerably well, but the exacting Dombrovsky soon caught up with
my tricks.
"You don't want to be a pianist, you're a composer first and last,"
growled the big Pole. "I'm wasting your time, and you're wasting
mine. You're gifted and facile, but you won't work; I suggest that
you go to a teacher more interested in musical development than in
pianistic pyrotechnics."
He gave me a note to a fellow Pole, Boleslav Javorsky, who had
a reputation for eccentricity, radical tendencies, and fanatical disciples
who did everything but study the piano. Obviously a man after my
own heart.
CHAPTER IV
CAME THE REVOLUTION
TO THE non-Russian world all Russians are divided into two
classes: Russians proper, that is the present inhabitants of my
native country, and the White Russians, or emigres. The arbitrary
division of my former countrymen into resident procommunists and
nonresident anti-Reds is erroneous. There are probably as many sup
pressed "Whites" inside Russia as there are underground "Reds" out
side it. The term White Russian originated in the civil war following
the Revolution, and we and our friends were of the bourgeois class
from which this group was culled. To such people the great up
heaval that came about in February, 1917, was a gratifying fulfill
ment of a roseate dream without which no supposedly clear-thinking
bourgeois could call himself a member of the intelligentsia. Every
body was openly contemptuous and even patronizing about Nich
olas II because of his mildness, lack of will power, and because he
was dominated by unscrupulous and grafting cabinet members, who
stifled the Duma (Parliament) and allowed Rasputin to become
virtually a one-man Tammany Hall.
All that the February Revolution meant to the white-collar ideal
ists was the dethronement of the unpopular czar, the humiliation of
the still less popular czarina, and the vague beginnings of a mildly
socialistic paradise in which the fast-talking and histrionically capable
Alexander Kerensky played a self-appointed Archangel Gabriel with
sex appeal.
Russian women gave the puny Severyanins, the Vertinskys, and the
Sabinins the heave ho and became pioneer bobby soxers, with Ker
ensky as their political crooner. What he stood for, what he
preached, and what he did with the enormous power given him
seemed to be of no consequence. The whole country was in an un
seeing and unthinking ecstasy, and the crew-haircutted, khaki-
CAME THE REVOLUTION 43
clad Kerensky with his Napoleonic attitudes and rhetorical flights
kept it at its highest pitch.
The early days of revolution will always remain in my memory as
elaborate flower parades put on in every street to the deafening oom-
pahs of military bands; as throngs of wildly gesticulating women in
their still Gibson-girlish dresses now mingling with fat-cheeked
Ukrainian peasant girls; as occasional shootings and skirmishes with
the rapidly dwindling loyal monarchists; as a never-ending recess
from school, from the strict daily routine of a student, from obliga
tions of any kind. -
Spring was especially beautiful that year the cataclysmic
Russian spring with its islands of melting snow and tons of bluish-
green ice suddenly cracking under the onslaught of the March sun,
the streets inundated by rushing rivulets that were snow and ice only
the night before. The swiftness of this spring and the welcome
and clean-cut suddenness of the first Revolution seemed perfectly and
violently mated. The sternest admonitions didn't prevent Alexis and
myself from joining little groups of happily shouting collegians whose
chief fun was tearing the Imperial eagles from their caps and adorn
ing their sleeves with flaming-red bands.
Almost nightly there were symphonic concerts, everywhere hast
ily gotten up for some revolutionary-charity benefit and, at first, for
the War Loan and Liberty Loan drives. Best of all were the Mer
chants' Gardens Concerts, where on one occasion a full-sized sym
phony orchestra consisting entirely of enlisted personnel played
Tchaikovsky's Path&tique symphony, which inappropriate hymn to
death was greeted by tumultuous shouts and frenzied cheering. At
another concert a string intermezzo of mine, composed behind
Glare's back, was publicly performed by the Moscow conductor
Palitzin. This was a mournful little piece, inoffensive but pleasantly
mellifluous, and it got a respectable enough hand for me to come
forward and take my first bow before a paying audience. When the
assembled other boys' mammas saw me, a thirteen-year-old in knee-
pants, they cooed and twittered audibly: "Isn't he cute?" and, "Now
you can see why you should practice the piano, Junior!" I was not
concerned with my juvenile appeal, but only my (in my own eyes)
indubitable greatness and didn't neglect telephoning GUere the next
morning to tell him of my first triumph.
To achieve this "triumph," Mother secretly bribed a Conserva-
44 PASSPORT TO PARIS
tory graduate named Jasensky, a disgruntled musical pen pusher
who wrote small orchestral pieces with little music in them but
showily orchestrated; Jasensky was hired especially to clean up
some unwieldy writing in my string piece, and got paid extra (unoffi
cially) to palm off the music on Palitzin. Palitzin had no idea as to the
identity of the composer and was just as amazed as the audience at
my appearance.
Every concert given that spring mixed music with politics in that
intermissions were taken up by fiery speeches some by soldiers
"just back from the front" (never the politically suspect officers,
as they would have been roundly booed) , some by influential civil
ians hastily appointed to government posts, and quite a few by un
kempt and ferocious members of the dreaded Council (Soviet) of
Workers and Soldiers Deputies. The soldiers "back from the front"
were of the popular-hero variety, and their reassuring slogan was War
to the Victorious End; these "heroes," some of whom had never seen
battle, patterned themselves on Kerensky, copying his khaki trench-
coats and eaglelike attitudes. The "important" civilians were mostly
rich and polished members of the Constitutional-Democratic Party
(C.D., or Cadets as they were popularly called), landed gentry
most of them, titled as often as not and sporting golden pince-nez,
well-kept beards and bulky fur coats. These were the bourgeois in
tellectuals and would-be liberals so ruthlessly exterminated by the
Soviets in the ensuing years; at the time they were enthusiastically
received, as they spoke well if somewhat above their audience's
heads (which is always impressive to Russians). The third group,
the Soviet boys, were members of the extreme-left parties: the Bol
shevik division of the Socialist-Democrat Party (then still a small
minority) and even an anarchist or two. Their speeches consisted of
shrill and impassioned screaming, with much invective and fist-
shaking; "fraternize with the enemy and come home, soldiers" was
their appeal These violent rabble rousers meant no good, and every
time they appeared a strange chill and premonition of the horrors to
come seized their listeners,
Worse still, no concert was complete without a passport examina
tion, a "security measure" for which the Soldiers and Workers Coun
cil was largely responsible and which was more in the nature of a
raid on monarchists and other political undesirables. We children
got off easy, of course, but we saw fashionably dressed bourgeois of
CAME THE REVOLUTION 45
both sexes, their teeth chattering, their eyes glassy with fear, being
led away to pastures unknown by burly ex-soldiers with the dread red
armbands. Sometimes suspects attempted to flee and to our horror
distant shots would ring out, mingling with the thick harmonies of a
Glazunov symphony.
Some subtle changes were taking place at home. Our ugly cook,
Pauline, got herself a "returned hero" sweetheart who instructed her
in the joys of stealing. Each day some trinket of Mother's would dis
appear, and when questioned Pauline laughed disdainfully and threat
ened that this was only the beginning and Mother could fire her if
she didn't like it. It was impossible to get other servants as they were
always in the street celebrating, and poor Mother was so used to the
treacherous Pauline that she didn't have the heart to show her the
door. New money in large denominations appeared everywhere,
prices rose alarmingly, and food particularly country produce
became scarce. Some of our young officer friends, desperate and
disgusted, took off their uniforms, put on peasant garb, and went into
the country with their wives' jewels to get drunk with the festive
Ukrainians and to return with live chickens and geese, butter and
eggs and milk.
Shortly after the February upheaval, I was admitted into Gliere's
Conservatory composition class. Outside of Liatoshinsky and Levin,
there were several newcomers, mostly St. Petersburg and Moscow
refugees. The eldest was the bankerlike Shatunovski, fortyish and
dandified, his music so closely akin to that of Ravel that distinguish
ing between the two became an engrossing game for us students.
In true St. Petersburg fashion, Shatunovski held himself somewhat
aloof from us. Also from St. Petersburg was the now-prominent Soviet
musicologist Alswang, a typical conservatory bore given to long
speeches and enamored of technical terms.
Thanks to a blond Ukrainian named Nadenenko I discovered
Debussy's Pelllas, and after much poring over its ethereal pages, my
style switched from the recognized, respectable Gliere-Glazunov
manner (with a dash of Scriabin) to slavish imitations of Debussy
and Ravel. I wrote a suite for piano duet fancifully entitled "Ver-
lainiana," and shortly afterward the first act of an opera based on
Maeterlinck's Aladdine and Palomide in which I cribbed from Pel-
teas to my heart's content.
These pretentious works made quite a bit of noise among the stu-
46 PASSPORT TO PARIS
dents and were exhibited to Glire. The good Reinhold Moritzovitch
played them over searchingly and smiled at me benevolently through
his pince-nez: "What have you and Nadenenko done, applied for
French passports?" The class greeted this sally with students' in
evitably overgenerous laughter. "What are we beginners to do, Rein-
hold Moritzovitch?" I retorted. "You and Glazunov have said all
that could be said in Russian; we shall have to learn another lan
guage." Gliere grinned, patted me on the back, and told me to get to
work on a chamber piece for the student's concert which would
abide by the rules, and put aside the mists of Pelleas.
Scriabin, as I have inferred, was the reigning influence in the two
years preceding the 1917 revolution; he died in 1915 at the age of
forty-four. This feverishly emotional but most limited composer was
then the accepted model and the idol of Russian concert audiences.
He provided effective piano vehicles for the virtuosi (a splendid
pianist himself) and the ecstatic erotomania of his best inspirations
moved and exhilarated the listeners. Not to write la Scriabin was
the mark of provincialism; his imitators were legion in every Russian
city.
In our midst appeared a St. Petersburg pupil of Essipova, Markian
Frolov, whose music was almost undistinguishable from that of Scria
bin; it had the same agitated leaps, capricious rhythms, and erratic
but opulent harmonies. Frolov, whom we called starik (old man)
since he was nearly thirty, was a good pianist, and his rugged pipe-
and-tweeds exterior belied his Scriabin worship. Briefly I succumbed
to his tenets too, and produced some unconvincing Scriabinesque
essays, but the style was entirely foreign to me and the influence
proved inconsequential.
Revolution is always identified with youth, and the young for
the most part blissfully unconscious of the grave social changes and
the accompanying crises thrive on haphazard, come-what-may
restlessness and pleasant chaos. We saw old and respectable con
servatory professors inexplicably vanish, their places taken by ag
gressive young men in military-style 44 f ranches" (as American and
British officers' tunics were then called in Russia) and polished
cavalry-issue boots. They talked music, but instead of using words
like counterpoint, double fugue, recapitulation, main subject, etc,,
constantly referred to ideology, proletariat, class war, bourgeois- tend
encies and social significance. Their talk sounded strange to us,
CAME THE REVOLUTION 47
but these early "commissars" were there to enforce the New Order,
and we liked to consider ourselves "progressive" and to be part of it
The two capitals began sending us dozens of precocious music boys,
among them ten-year-old Julian Scriabin, the late composer's son.
His mother, Tatiana Fedorovna, was a tragically beautiful figure in
deep mourning, which she affected long after her husband's death of
blood poisoning. Julian had enormous deerlike eyes, and a rather
distant air. I was slightly resentful of his extreme youth, which dis
placed me as the official wunderkind of Gliere's class. One night at
Liatoshinsky's, Julian played some promising piano preludes for us;
his mother and two sisters were accompanied by a Puckish young man
of quick eye and ready tongue named Nicolas Skmimsky, who is now
an entertaining writer on music in America.
Apparently Scriabin pere, in common with most composers, had
little money to leave his wife and children, for Tatiana Fedorovna and
her son lived in genteel poverty. There was no electricity in the house
they occupied and poor Julian composed by candlelight. He was pecu
liarly choosy about various orchestral timbres: disliked strings but
adored the clarinet, which he called the aristocrat of instruments.
The first revolutionary summer, a lazy Ukrainian summer, started
the usual desertion from Kiev to the countryside; this was no longer
easy, as the trains were jammed with soldiers celebrating their re
turn from the front, revolutionary officials and their staffs transferring
from place to place, and with the ever-present Workers and Soldiers
Deputies always holding the priorities. Finally we managed to accept
the invitation of Mother's new friends, the Lipofka-Polovinetzes. The
son Stass played the violin and was one of Alex's buddies. His uncle,
a rich and cynical sybarite named Wulfert was a cousin of Tchai
kovsky's tragic friend Davidov. Wulfert owned the lovely eighteenth
century house where we vacationed, in the government of Poltava
not far from Mirgorod, immortalized by Gogol.
The house was on Gogol's beloved river Psiol, and when I first saw
it I had a strange feeling that I'd been there before and that I was
familiar with every corner of it. Wulfert had a superb Erard piano;
at dusk as I played it, the open windows of the drawing room wafted
in the rich scents of honeysuckle and roses from the garden out
lined in tall poplars, with the village church spire in the back
ground; I heard the peasant girls singing as they sauntered home
from their work in the fields.
48 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Even in that provincial hamlet there was a feeling of insecurity
and unrest and the peasants had begun to assert themselves bit by
bit. But food was still abundant, there were no ration cards, no people
lining up before understocked grocers' shops, none of the other dis
comforts we had known in Kiev.
We drank in that last summer in the Russian countryside avidly.
There were boating and swimming daily in the willow-sheltered wa
ters of the Psiol, and Mrs. Wulfert, an extraordinarily handsome rose-
skinned blonde, had a floating bathing barge built for herself and
could be observed every afternoon, completely naked, indolently
stretching herself in the sun. My recollections of church-sanctioned
nudism came back strongly, as the numerous peasant wenches em
ployed on the estate were also fond of swimming in the nude, sing
ing, giggling, and splashing about like clumsy white seals.
On our return to Kiev we found great changes. The "french-
coated" young men were on every street corner, gesturing and shout
ing threats and promises to hypnotized citizens. Large posters cov
ered with exclamation points and promising death to the bourgeois
and all enemies of the working class were now signed openly by the
central committee of the Workers and Soldiers Soviet and the Pre
sidium of the Socialist-Democrat Party (Bolsheviks).
The lines outside the food shops lengthened daily. All clothing
was severely rationed, shots rang out constantly, and the populace
was asked not to leave home after sundown on certain evenings be
cause of spreading disturbances. Alex and I were still handed our
daily lunches carefully wrapped by Mother and sent off to school,
Alex to Naumenko's and I to the Conservatory, Mother warning us
not to endanger ourselves in the crowded streets. Going to the opera
or to concerts was now a perilous adventure as all bourgeois children
and grownups were recognizable by their dress and manner and were
automatically asked for their identification papers and often held for
annoying and officious examinations,
The reports from St. Petersburg and Moscow were more and more
disturbing. In April the authorities had permitted a sealed train bear
ing Lenin and his cohorts across the Russo-German border; a few
weeks later these men were joined by Trotsky, who arrived from Can
ada, and their nefarious plotting began to be activated in Russia in
earnest. Although their first attempt in July to seize power with the
CAME THE REVOLUTION 49
help of mutinous sailors from the Kronstadt naval base proved abor
tive, their imprisonment was only temporary.
The country and the war effort undeniably were going to the dogs.
The officers who still paid furtive visits to our flat dressed as soldiers or
peasants unanimously denounced the vacillating Kerensky, who de
prived the popular General Kornilov of command while he was en
route to St. Petersburg to protect the provisional government until a
zemski sobor (people's voting assembly) could be held; this allowed
the Bolshevik leaders to seize power, the Red masterminds were re
leased from prison, Kerensky, for whom Lenin issued a warrant of ar
rest, fled the country disguised as a woman, and the Soviets moved
virtually unopposed into the custody of Russia.
Kiev, being a provincial town, did not receive the news of these
events until a few days later, but the repercussions were swift and ter
rifying.
One of the first men to be arrested, held for questioning, and finally
returned to his domicile with all of his money and securities confis
cated was Grandfather Kopylov. Mother's comfortable yearly income
vanished with the inflation that swept Ukraine, and she was unable
to sell her stocks and bonds. She began to dispose of her diamonds,
of which she fortunately had quite a few, and managed to carry
on for several years. The two leading newspapers, including of
course the reactionary Kievlyanin of which Grandfather was an im
portant stockholder, were abolished and replaced by Bolshevik sheets
which were carbon copies of the all-powerful Pravda and Izvestya.
The Red Terror carried off hundreds of victims to the Che-Ka cel
lars daily, and we couldn't sleep at night because of the racing mo
tors of the huge army trucks employed to drown out the screams of
the townspeople being shot or tortured by the Chekists.
Each apartment house had a "house committee," the head of
which was responsible to the Soviet government for his tenants; this
resulted in people spying on each other, making up stories about un
popular neighbors, and carrying on a private revolution in every
courtyard.
The new plutocrats were the food-shop owners, who took to sporting
furs and Paris dresses; enterprising youths pursued the lady shopkeep
ers, offering their manly charms in exchange for butter and milk.
The fact that clothes were rationed became meaningless, because
50 PASSPORT TO PARIS
even with a ration card clothes were unobtainable. Mother spent
most of her time cutting trousers and making outlandish coats out of
old skirts, bedroom-window curtains, and woolen rugs to clothe her
growing sons. I remember traipsing off to the Conservatory in a
golden-yellow coat of a most unorthodox cut, with green trousers made
galije (cavalry) fashion, the origin of which I suspected was Grand
father's billiard table.
The Bolsheviks, pie-eyed drunk with power, mobilized boys of six
teen and men over fifty to fight the volunteer patriotic troops assem
bling throughout Russia; it was a moot point with these unfortunates
as to which was worse to wear a Red star on one's cap or a Red
bullet in one's heart.
One afternoon, Gliere's counterpoint class was interrupted by the
unheralded arrival of the notorious Che-Ka executioner Pereverzev,
accompanied by two Red Army officers and two music commissars.
Pereverzev was a splendid Slavic specimen, tall and blond, wearing
an unfamiliar uniform with three or four guns jammed in his holster
belt; he shook hands patronizingly with Gliere and turned to speak
to the students, who were all frozen with fear.
"Composer Comrades, the hour has struck, now that the great
October Revolution has given humanity a new hope and pattern for
life; you musicians have the chance to combat the Soviet's dastardly
enemies the degenerate capitalists and czarist lackeys who con
spire to stab the Revolution in the back!" He went on like this, using
roughly the clich6s of today's Soviet newspapers, and wound up with:
"We ask you, therefore, on behalf of our beloved Soviet government
and our noble leader Comrade Trotsky, to do your bit to help the Uni
versal Military Training Program (Vsievobutch). To popularize this
more than timely measure, we of the Communist Party have decided
to present a full-length opera which you will write within two weeks."
This brought an involuntary gasp from the assembled students, and
a whispered conversation between Gliire and the intruders ensued,
Pereverzev resumed his talk to inform us that he was fully in accord
with Glare's plan to have the opera created "collectively" by the
best of Glare's composing talent. The libretto was the work of Lev
Nikulin, a mediocre poet turned Red, Liatoshinsky was to write the
overture and orchestrate the entire opera, Nadenenko and Frolov
were to supply the ballets and choral ensembles, and I, because of my
melodic gift, was entrusted with the job of writing three "revolution-
CAME THE REVOLUTION 51
ary" arias. In spite of his extreme youth, Julian Scriabin, the late com
poser's son, then only ten, was assigned the words of a "patriotic"
girls' chorus.
Pereverzev nodded approvingly as the truly communistic work
division took place, repeated a few more official platitudes, and with
an ecstatic "Death to the World's Bourgeoisie!" strode out of the
classroom, patting one of his guns, followed obsequiously by the offi
cers and commissars.
The silence that ensued was quite the gloomiest in my experience.
There was no arguing with the new masters, we all knew that; but what
if we shouldn't deliver "the goods" they wanted? It was not for us, the
earliest birds, nor for any Soviet composer since, to question the va
lidity or possible effectiveness of such an assignment. All we had to
do was to set Nikulin's servile verses and be damned quick about it.
The lesson over, we, the collective Soviet composers, were ordered
home to our frozen pianos.
Mother, on hearing of my strange assignment, became terribly per
turbed, but dejectedly realized there was no way out. "Don't make it
too good, Son," she said with an attempt at humor.
I went to work immediately and astonished Gliere two days later by
bringing in all three arias neatly written out. Little Julian was there,
too, as he was having considerable trouble with his girls' chorus, pro
fessing not to understand the words assigned to him. Gliere played
over my songs and apparently found them satisfactory, for he called
in one of the commissars and asked him to play over Comrade
Dukelsky's inspirations. The well-groomed young commissar, a
conservatory-trained pianist, played the arias through and said he
thought them "just right" and very stimulating indeed. I confess that
although I was not in tune politically with my new boss, I was quite
elated at his praise; I went home to tell Mother that my songs had been
accepted and would go into rehearsal the next day. Mother was hor
rified, as she had secretly hoped I would be found incompetent for
such an important task, and vowed that although I must help during
rehearsals, she would never allow me to attend any performances of the
devilish Soviet propaganda opera. "How can you prevent my attend
ing?" I queried incredulously. "If I don't show up they are sure to
throw me in the Che-Ka!" Mother shook her head determinedly. "You
will be very ill, Dima, and I will be forced to keep you in bed. Do you
understand?" This prospect was not to my liking, but Mother was ada-
52 PASSPORT TO PARIS
mant. The opera was completed on schedule; all its component parts
fitted like a jig-saw puzzle and were orchestrated by the harried Lia-
toshinsky, who gave up all hope of sleeping for several nights. After I
got through rehearsing a fat blond soprano in my revolutionary an
thems, Mother appeared at the Conservatory with our family doctor,
who felt my pulse, made a grave face, and speeded me home in an
izvostchik.
I was put to bed and given a peculiar-tasting drug which made me
very weak indeed; I suspect it was a potent sedative as I remember be
ing in bed for three days and floating in celestial dreams. On the fourth
day I was awakened by sounds uncomfortably familiar. I ran to the
window in my nightshirt and saw my fat blond soprano propped
against a truck-borne piano, her accompanist being one of my fellow
composers. She was singing one of my revolutionary hymns through a
large megaphone, and Nikulin's flashy words set off almost as flashily
by my music rang out abrasively in the morning air. Mother ran into
the room in the middle of the refrain and burst into bitter tears.
Back to bed I went. An hour or so later, there was a loud knock at
the door, of the kind universally feared in Russia. Mother went white
and crossed me hastily. "This is it, Dimotchka," she said, her eyes
misty with tears. "Have courage. If we die, we die together." She
walked to the door and opened it cautiously. Four Red Army soldiers
wearing huge squeaking boots entered carrying two big burlap bags.
"Does Comrade Dukelsky live here?" the tallest of the four asked.
"Yes, gentlemen," Mother said falteringly, "He is my son. He's sick
in bed. Is there anything I can do?"
The soldier grinned. "In bed, eh, the little Bourjooitchik? Very
well, here is his pay for contributing to our opera. Good day to you,
Comrade." With these words, the soldiers threw the bags on the floor
and walked out, their boots squeaking reassuringly.
Mother ran to the bags and, on feeling the burlap with her needle-
worn hands, exclaimed joyfully, "It's flour, flour!" She brought a
kitchen knife and, after making an insertion, ascertained to her even
greater delight that my pay consisted of precious white flour.
One afternoon in the spring of 1918, Julian Scriabin and his sisters
went swimming on the Dnieper. He hid himself in the rushes to un
dress; apparently had a sunstroke, fainted, fell into the swift river
and drowned instantly. His terrified sisters, unable to find him, ran
back to town and unburdened their grief to Nicolas Slonimsky, as
CAME THE REVOLUTION 53
their mother was away on pressing family business in Moscow. Slonim-
sky telephoned Levin and they instigated a search which lasted a week
before Julian's body was recovered. The two young musicians were
faced with the inhuman task of telling Madame Scriabin, on her re
turn, of her new loss.
Music became my only life, the one meager illusion of immortality
in a rapidly vanishing world. I came down, in swift succession, with
one disease after another, so that my health added to Mother's mount
ing tribulations; we were chronically undernourished and going into
the country in search of food was now punishable by death. There
was little desire for such expeditions anyhow as Kiev was surrounded
by bands of disorganized rebels, "Yellows" and "Greens," as they
called themselves; these were highway robbers who tried to white
wash their plundering and mayhem with the labels of various assumed
ideologies.
In Kiev, we drank tea distilled from carrots, coffee made from tree
bark and soup cooked with a stock of the bones of a raw herring used
again and again. The only bread available was made of stale, sickly
green peas and had a musty, forbidding odor rather like that of a rat-
trap. Horse meat was the standard luxury, but some of our acquaint
ances even essayed cat and dog ragouts, which we boys, with memo
ries of Sobatchania still fresh, refused to sample. Little wonder that
our gums bled regularly and that Alex and I began to lose our teeth.
From the beginning of the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 to the time
of our flight in the winter of 1920, there were nineteen changes of
government in our city. Each one of these changes was accompa
nied by a bloody battle in the streets, including Bolshaya-Podvalnaya,
and by all-night bombardment and incessant machine-gun fire. Dur
ing these tense struggles, the house-committee leader ordered all ten
ants into the basement shelters, where we huddled together in fear and
hunger. During one bombing which occurred in the middle of the
day, I got acutely fed up with the whole thing the evil-smelling fel
low tenants, the prayer-mumbling old women, the ceaselessly whining
children, and, I'm ashamed to say, my own mother's exaggerated pre
occupation with my welfare. I ran out of the shelter and up five
flights to our apartment, where I stole to the piano. This sounds like an
affected theatrical tour de force, but I truly began composing, obliv
ious of the crashing bombs outside. As I was picking out a French
ified reverie, a bomb hit the top of our building and caved in the sev-
54 PASSPORT TO PARIS
enth floor, with the sixth floor above the only barrier between me and
certain death. A heavy chandelier plunged to the floor, missing my
head by inches, and I tore back to the shelter, panic-stricken. I en
tered to a concerted wail led by Mother; her relief was as great as my
delicious feeling of enveloping safety.
In the spring of 1918 I completed a four-movement string sextet,
and this Glazunov-like work, quite respectable as to technique and
musicianship, permitted Gliere to devote one half of a Conservatory
concert to my compositions; also programmed were some of my
rather flowery songs and a set of piano pieces. The soprano Znamenska
acquitted herself well in the songs, the sextet made a favorable im
pression, and by the time I appeared in one of Mother's better sartorial
creations, the audience gave me a warm reception. After the con
cert there were even some cheers, and pretty girls came back to the
artists' room to shake my hand, which quite turned my head.
Although Javorsky, my piano teacher, played the instrument beau
tifully, he was far less concerned with technical proficiency than
with the all-around conception and feel of a piece assigned to his stu
dent for preparation. Javorsky discarded all accepted academic
tools and created his own modal system, to which he devoted most of
his life. He lived with his favorite pupil, Serge Protopopov, a pudgy,
good-looking youth who usually wore an apron, as he did all the cook
ing in the Javorsky m6nage. There were some strange stories about
these two and Javorsky's morals in general, but I was too eager to ab
sorb Boleslav Leopoldovitch's revolutionary musical theories and his
new slant on piano playing to worry about the excessive kisses he
showered on the pupils after each lesson. Javorsky was a fascinating
talker and never lost an opportunity to kick whatever academic
backside happened to be close by. He was most unpopular with the
rest of the Conservatory personnel and his piano pupils never won
prizes, which was all right with me; Javorsky was far more interested
in what I wrote than in what I played.
Chronologically speaking, it is hard and unnecessary to list Kiev's
bloody government changes in the order of their appearance and dis
appearance. Regardless of one's political beliefs, it is only fair to say
that food, clothing, and other necessities returned briefly under the
German-appointed Hctman (leader), General Skoropadsky, and the
short-lived triumph of the Volunteer Army in 1919. Otherwise,
whether they temporarily seized power in street skirmishes or full-size
CAME THE REVOLUTION 55
bombings, these varied regimes brought nothing but misery and acute
distress to the Kiev people.
What Ukrainian patriots didn't bargain for was that with the advent
of the Hetman Kiev was virtually German-occupied, and the steel
helmets of Prussian and Bavarian Burschen bristled everywhere.
Shortly after the installation of the Hetman regime, the revolution in
Germany took place and the troops deserted Kiev, with Skoropadsky
escaping, Kerensky style. With him fled our hopes for order, as the
Ukrainian Nationalists took over briefly in bandit fashion, and in their
wake followed the notorious Ataman Petliura, whose troops indis
criminately slaughtered Bolsheviks and volunteers alike, not to men
tion a few Hetman supporters who couldn't get out in time. After four
teen days and nights of incessant bombing, during which we only
awakened when the shock of a ten-minute lull occurred, the Soviets
retook the city and the Red Terror again engulfed us. We had little
energy to keep track of the political turnover, being too preoccupied
with where the next meal was coming from.
Then on August 31, 1919, the Denikin Volunteer Army made a
magnificent entrance patterned on the seventeenth-century Boyards
processions. We had never seen so many imperial standards, golden
epaulets, glittering decorations, never heard so many prerevolutionary
songs and czarist army marches. This time the joyous schoolboys and
hysterical parents were out in full force, not to welcome a revolution
but what looked like a release from it; the same rose-tossing females
who had pelted Kerensky now favored the fat, red-jowled General
May-Maevsky. I remember standing on tiptoe behind two Madame
LaFarge-like, scrawny hags in the Place of St. Sophia to hear the gen
eral's speech of victory; his sonorous voice resembled an aged bull
dog's bark. No one understood what he said, but who cared? The white
officers were back and so were white bread, milk, butter, and plump
country chickens.
Our officer friends, the same ones who had crawled in and out of
the apartment disguised as workers or peasants, blossomed out in their
dress uniforms with Saint George crosses dangling triumphantly on
their chests. Colonel Lvov put aside theosophy and busied himself
with his railroad battalion. Miniature theaters mushroomed overnight.
Restaurants with renowned Muscovite names opened. Hordes of cur
rency speculators flourished. A renaissance of the good old ego- and
cubo-futurists took place: the Vertinsky imitators, decked out as
56 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Pierrots, the Acmeists, who were a Russian continuation of the Paris
Parnasse, and out-and-out poetical anarchists like Zdanevitch, who
cantered around a stage and made sounds like a horse as his contribu
tion to the arts. I wavered between continuing as a composer or re
turning to poetry; on one or two occasions, I painted my face subtly
and recited some of my poems at one of the dozens of the poets' cafes.
The intoxicated patrons rewarded my youthful aplomb with assur
ances that I was at least as good as Mayakovsky, which appraisal of
my gifts did not displease me. Mother was too busy selling her dia
monds and buying dubious bargains to criticize my exploits.
By the end of November it was clear that the Denikin cause was
rapidly disintegrating, there were reports of wholesale corruption, and
the newspapers reporting the progress of "our valiant army" were full
of blank spots, due to the increased censorship. The volunteer forces
not only had not reached Moscow, but were now retreating toward
Kiev at a vertiginous pace; in spite of censorship, battles and skir
mishes were reported at various points too close to Kiev for comfort.
One morning early in December we were awakened by heavy
cannon fire; Colonel Lvov, who was rooming with us, located it at fif
teen miles from Kiev. He dressed rapidly, dashed out of the apartment
scowling ominously, and returned for a family conference. Lvov's
folded arms and compressed lips promised trouble.
<C I have just returned from the railroad-battalion headquarters,
Anna Alexevna, and I have it on excellent authority that the Com
munists will be here in three or four days at the latest. You have been
kind enough to give me sanctuary and the least I can do is offer you
and the boys the limited facilities available for transportation to
Odessa. Since, however, space is most restricted, you will be forced
to leave all your belongings here and take nothing but the barest ne
cessities."
"Leave my husband's souvenirs, my mother's Bechstein and silver?
That's unthinkable!" Mother exclaimed.
^ Lvov shrugged wearily. "Then we must stay here and face the mu
sic; we may all be killed, but then again we may not. Who knows? As
a true theosophist "
This was my cue. "Theosophy be hanged!" said I. "We are all
doomed here. Every Soviet spy in the neighborhood saw you in your
splendid uniform; every errand boy knows that you are rooming with
us; our family has been identified with the White regime. Even if they
CAME THE REVOLUTION 57
don't kill us here, life anywhere else would be better. If we stay on,
Alex and I will lose all our teeth, Mother will sell her last diamonds,
and I won't have the strength to write my music and poetry. We must
go, please, please!"
The colonel tugged his mustache, shrugged again, and said that the
decision was up to Mother; that nothing so absurd as my artistic pur
suits should influence this momentous decision in the lives of four peo
ple. This made me boil with indignation and I began painting our im
pending doom under the Soviet onslaught so eloquently that Mother
arose somewhat theatrically, her mind made up.
"Lead on, Alexei Fedorovitch; your opinion as to my son's talents
is immaterial to me, although I regret that you are not sufficiently mu
sical to appreciate his promise as a composer. Since my husband's
death I live only for my boys; although my possessions are dear to me,
they are nothing weighed against my sons' future lives. I am grateful
for your offer and I accept it." A third shrug from the colonel and we
began to pack.
The next day, December 14th, the newspapers were reduced to
half a page, the rest all whitened out by the censors, the rout of the
volunteers obviously in full swing. Mother's decision to entrain to
Odessa was strengthened by the knowledge that my father's brother,
Colonel Ilya Dukelsky, the former shadow of Rasputin, was now in
charge of evacuation in the seaport; the train on which Lvov ar
ranged passage to Odessa for us was the last to leave Kiev, as it turned
out. Mother packed a few essentials under the eagle eye of the colo
nel while I made a tidy bundle of my music manuscripts, collected
poems, and a prized green toothbrush; when the colonel spied this he
sniggered disdainfully and said that at times like this, such superfluous
trivia should not consume space. A prolonged verbal battle ensued,
with Mother and Alex (never a Lvov fan) as my impassioned sec
onds. My precious bundle finally was passed by the colonel and we
closed up our home and stole out into the sickly, silent streets. After
dragging our belongings for several blocks we were hoisted into a
grimy truck, along with other would-be exiles, and driven to the de
serted and blacked-out Kiev railroad station. On Lvov's promised
train, our accommodation was a dirty red carriage with the legend
"40 men, 8 horses" on the door; we were grudgingly given cramped
space on its floor by the crowded occupants. Thank God, there were
no horses.
CHAPTER V
ODESSA
THE TRAIN to Odessa started forward with a weary whine
after three or four violent preliminary jerks, stealthily deserting
Kiev's icy, blacked-out station. Mother, Colonel Lvov, Alex and I
crouched together, surrounded by a suffocating mass of human bod
ies, whose combined warmth heightened the acrid smells reminis
cent of the boxcar's former horse-tenants. Male and female, old and
young, sturdy and disease-stricken, the fur-clad bodies crouched or
stretched out about us in a sleepy stupor, some of the faces wrapped
in bashlyks (hoodlike woolen scarves) vaguely familiar to us.
Mother tried to keep from crying for her abandoned home. Alex
and I had some pangs about never again seeing the citizens of Sob-
atchania, who were now locked up in the 1880 cupboard in the hall,
and we wondered what boys would be appropriating our animal books
in the musty little library; but when you're sixteen, you are blissfully
aware that your life is before you, and leaving the familiar for the un
known is a challenge to be relished.
The train was maddeningly slow, stopping not only at all stations,
but countless times between stations; something always seemed to be
going wrong there was much signaling and shouting which was
hard to make out through our one, high boxcar window. At stations,
the train groaned and squeaked to a stop and we opened the doors to
the frosty air, searched for the sign bearing the station's name, and
were sometimes rewarded by the sight of a stationmaster swinging a
welcoming lamp while a howling group of babas (peasant women),
coifed in their traditional kerchiefs (peculiarly known to American
women as "babushkas," which in Russian is grandmother) , and their
raggedy children engaged in lively trade with the hungry passengers.
Their wares were none too appetizing pickles, bublicks (bagels)
ODESSA 59
and sometimes hard-boiled eggs, at outrageous prices; the crafty
peasants contemptuously refused the "Kerenka" (Kerensky's rubles)
and the Denikin banknotes in high denominations and clamored for
articles of clothing or jewelry. As in Kiev, Alexis and I scouted for
boiling water, which cost more at each succeeding station.
In the bandit-infested areas the train was completely blacked-out;
Greens, Yellows and even Blacks (anarchists) prowled for rich
boorjoois to loot, killing Denikin officers and raping their women.
Our train was twice held up by those blood-curdling Eastern counter
parts of the James brothers, but our car miraculously escaped, leav
ing us in a bad fright, trying to curb some typically high-powered Rus
sian feminine hysterics. Cauchemar (nightmare) was one of my
mother's favorite words in normal circumstances (she had even ap
plied it to Pauline's cooking on occasion) , and now the poor woman
was quite beside herself with terror.
The trip became a cauchemar in earnest when an epidemic of
typhus broke out. The entire car was kept awake one night by the
cries and convulsions of a man lying next to me, who died in agony at
dawn. There were no provisions or time for burial; four of us heaved
him onto a snowbank when the train stopped between stations. The in
fection spread, and two former inhabitants of our apartment building
in Kiev had to be left at a country hospital; we shuddered at leaving
them without proper doctors or medicine, but it was their only hope.
Although we were suspicious of Alex's condition for a while, none of
our quartet caught the typhus.
The journey from Kiev to Odessa, which ordinarily took about
twenty hours, lasted for fifteen days. We arrived unspeakably dirty
and ridden with lice and other vermin and set out to find my paternal
Uncle Ilya to put ourselves under his powerful protection. Colonel
Ilya Vladimirovitch Dukelsky held the ominous title of Head of Evac
uation of the City of Odessa; obviously the persons whom he was to
evacuate were the Denikin Volunteers. These erstwhile "liberators"
were being pushed back into the Black Sea by the other self-styled
"liberators," the Bolsheviks; but my Uncle Ilya and his fellow White
officers, in that last overconfident month of 1919, seemed bent only
on evacuating boredom and pessimism.
We were shown to the portico of 8 Deribasovskaya Street, a splen
did private house commandeered by the Denikin headquarters for
Ilya's use, and were startled to hear the impassioned sounds of a gypsy
60 PASSPORT TO PARIS
chorus backed up by an apparently sizable balalaika orchestra,
ample proof that Uncle Ilya had transplanted his lavish St. Petersburg
bacchanalia to Odessa. Mother and Colonel Lvov exchanged out
raged glances before ringing the bell. The door was flung open by a
massive orderly, who examined our tattered quartet with surprised
distaste. Mother, in a proud if tremulous voice, delivered the informa
tion that we were his master's relatives, and after scratching his head,
the orderly went off to interrupt the festivities with the news of our ar
rival.
Ilya Vladimirovitch appeared, a little unsteady on his feet, his eyes
bloodshot, but elegantly uniformed and full of good perhaps a little
too good cheer. His dissipations had aged him terribly, his glossy
mustache had given way to unbecoming Edwardian side whiskers and
his hair was now shot with untidy gray. After kissing us with caution
and shaking hands ceremoniously with Lvov, he scowled, "Good
heavens, Niura!" (Mother's family nickname.) "You must be cov
ered with lice and bugs, you poor tilings! Come now, I'll order hot
baths for you all and find some clean clothing. I'll drop in later to be
sure you are comfortable."
"Aren't you going to talk to us for a moment, Ilya?" Mother ques
tioned indignantly. "We aren't untouchables, you know. You don't
know what we have gone through, escaping from our Kiev hell!"
Ilya stammered embarrassedly, "Yes, yes, of course. Only you see
a few friends dropped in for supper, so I'm afraid I must . . ."
Mother sighed, "Very wdl, Ilya, don't worry about us. Hot water,
soap, and a change of clothing will be heavenly. We'll talk when you
are free."
Ilya smiled, patted me on the head, and went back to the "few
friends," who were now dancing with the hard-working, hired gyp
sies. Upstairs, we four had luxurious baths with stinging-hot water,
pungent yellow soap, and outsized turkish towels; then we slipped into
clean robes and were served chicken bouillon, as well as precious
white bread and fresh butter. We said our prayers and happily flopped
into four separate beds without waiting for Uncle Ilya's promised
visit. He apologized the next morning for not breaking away, but we
learned that it had been a birthday celebration for his Siberian mis
tress and therefore a special occasion.
"Odessa Mama" as the popular ditty had it, was an enchanting
town. Far less Russian than Kiev or Moscow (the French, the Greeks
ODESSA 61
and the Italians played important roles in its history) , the place had an
almost Mediterranean indolence and subtropical languor.
Having soon discovered that Uncle Ilya's temporary palace was
no suitable place for us it was heavy with the colonel's amorous
intrigues and almost nightly "celebrations" Alex and I were sent
into the streets on insignificant but, to us, most attractive errands. My
passion for fldnerie (a sort of inspired strolling dear to the literary
Frenchman), already begun in Tzarskoe Sielo, St. Petersburg and
Moscow, was now being indulged hourly and, since my sturdy brother
was equally fond of walking, we soon explored the town very thor
oughly indeed.
In the realm of music instruction, Gliere was now replaced by
Vitold Malishevsky, a good-looking youngish Pole, then director of
the Odessa Conservatory. Like Gliere of foreign origin, Malishevsky
also like Gliere adhered strictly to the Belaiev group and wrote
(in Diaghilev's phrase) "samovar and red boots" music. This music
was no better and no worse than the productions of the Belaiev minor
gods. Malishevsky's fastidious taste, however, led him to tinker with a
little Debussy-and-water on the side. In appearance and manner he
somewhat resembled that great charmer Karol Szymanovski; they both
had (if you'll forgive the too-easy gag) that irresistibly Polish polish,
catlike suavity and softness of speech. They subsequently succeeded
one another as director of the Warsaw Conservatory in the days prior
to the Communist annexation of their country. To Malishevsky I
brought some highly spiced songs which he professed to like. One of
them (salvaged from Kiev and now adorning one of my walls) is per
haps the first really decent piece I wrote, and Malishevsky praised it
unreservedly; another ("Like the White Swans" was the title) in
trigued him chiefly because of its inhuman range. "Why do you insist
on making the poor soprano hit high C's all the time?" Malishevsky
asked me. My answer was typical of my early cockiness: "Because I
only want good singers to sing my music and bad singers can't hit a
C." Malishevsky burst out laughing and took me under his wing.
During the day, I studied the counterpoint problems set me by Ma
lishevsky, and at night the bizarre human patterns of my Uncle Ilya's
menage, which my mother considered distressingly unorthodox.
Ilya's two favorites of the moment were the Siberian beauty Olga
Stepanovna and an ample seductress named Claudia Mikhailovna,
who had a most melodious laugh, an irresistible habit of squinting sen-
62 PASSPORT TO PARIS
suously and a laudable capacity for taking on all comers. One of
these, the tiny but muscular dandyish Goulaiev, was the classical "life
of the party" Russian, and prided himself on outsinging, outdancing,
and outdrinking them all. After warbling "To the Darling Women," a
cavalier's serenade I always thought insufferable, he drank cham
pagne out of his chosen lady-of-the-evening's slipper, then led her to
one of the cozy Persian divans for more concentrated gallantries.
Olga and Claudia detested one another and, to make things worse,
Uncle Ilya was of extremely jealous nature and, with truly gendarme-
like persistence, spied on Olga, occasionally even stooping to ques
tioning us boys about her comings and goings. Alas, the Siberian siren
considered poor Ilya an "old man," while availing herself of his gener
osity, and to irk him further, embarked on an energetic flirtation with
a sixteen-year-old boy myself. This was both flattering and terrify
ing to me; I was clearly no match for the athletic and amoral bans
vivants of Ilya's entourage, so, to assert myself, I began showering the
lady with amorous sonnets. On receiving these tokens of my adora
tion, the heartless Olga would read them aloud to her circle, punc
tuating her delivery with mocking laughter. Some of my rhyming
proved surprisingly ingenious, which the younger men grudgingly ad
mitted, but Ilya was not at all amused and complained to Mother;
she, in turn, took my poetic offerings very seriously and even remon
strated with Olga, asking her to leave me alone.
In the evening, when the balalaika orchestra was unavailable, I
would be pressed into service, rattling off polkas, tangos, and the in
creasingly popular American two-steps. The nearer the Reds came
to Odessa, the more worried and despondent Ilya's group became,
and the nightly orgies grew more frantic and noisy in our false oasis of
pleasure.
An American enlisted man, Corporal Krouglov, who had been born
in Russia, was one of the lions at these soir&es dansantes* Krouglov
was a huge bear of a man whose hands, big as Smithfield hams, could
have crushed the puny poets who had long sung of "gentlemen cow
boys" and now found themselves uncomfortably deserted by the ladies
in favor of a living personification of their super-virile dream prince.
With his colorful, broad-brimmed hat, cavalry boots, and Sam Browne
belt, since discarded by the U.S. Army, his impressive position with
the American Red Cross, and his exaggerated nasal twang, "Big Jim"
Kroughlov succeeded in conquering all hearts in Ilya's harem.
ODESSA 63
Things soon assumed an unpleasantly familiar pattern. The News
From the Front section in the Odessa newspapers began to resemble a
chessboard with so many white quadrangles. Our "valiant allies,"
mostly in the shape of French sailors with their gay pompons, Sena-
galese infantry of the flashing white teeth and shining black faces,
phlegmatic Britishers, were still about, but we began to suspect that
they were there to protect their own interests rather than Denikin's.
Mother attempted to interrogate Uncle Ilya on this unhappy turn of
events, but, beyond references to "our brilliant leader, General Dem-
kin" and "our valiant allies" got nothing out of him. Poor Ilya was too
preoccupied with Olga's perfidies to bother about the political scene.
Mother's younger brother, Nicholas, a rising gynecologist, appeared
at 8 Deribasovskaya and declared that he was desperately in love
with one of his patients the young wife of a rich manufacturer
and "wouldn't budge." Plenty of budging was quietly going on all
around us, with journalists, doctors, businessmen and just plain spec
ulators offering large bribes to captains and first mates of various
commercial vessels stationed in Odessa port, for transportation for
themselves and their families to the Crimea, where the courageous
Baron Wrangel was still firmly entrenched, or far-off Constantinople,
at the other end of our own Black Sea.
Krouglov was now too busy at the American Red Cross head
quarters to bother further with Ilya's women. He needed a few English-
speaking lads to help him guard his organization's warehouses in the
port, and since I had a smattering of English and since among Krou-
glov's promises was space on a transport bound for Constantinople,
I eagerly volunteered. When Krouglov, with a skeptical glance at my
frail physique, asked whether I could handle a gun, I lied by replying
in the affirmative. I was given a rusty Enfield rifle, an American khaki
uniform, and a Red Cross armband. Every evening we young volun
teers (there were seven or eight) were picked up by a Red Cross
truck and taken to the port, there to stand watch, report possible dis
turbances and shoot at sight, if necessary. This last possibility was
purely academic in my case, as I didn't know how to hold the rifle
correctly, let alone fire it. However, what I missed in knowledge and
experience, I made up in bluff a formula I often relied upon with
satisfactory results, and Krouglov soon told Mother that I was a will
ing worker and a model sentry. Luckily, outside of a sailors' brawl or
two and some shots that occasionally rang out nearby but caused no
64 PASSPORT TO PARIS
damage, there was no trouble and I was never put to the test of using
my Enfield.
A few days later, the city of Odessa awoke to the sounds of heavy
bombing, and on rushing into the street, we beheld posters on which
were printed a prikaz (order) calling for a general and immediate
evacuation. The prikaz was signed by a general unknown to us, not by
poor Ilya, who either resigned or was relieved of his duties. The flight
to transports, barges, small passenger steamers and even private
yachts, now requisitioned by the Denikin command, was on in ear
nest. Krouglov summoned "his boys" and told us that we were to guard
the warehouses as usual that night and, in the early morning, round up
a half-dozen senior officers and escort them to the small Spanish
transport Navaho, a disreputable old tub already familiar to us. To my
dismay, I read the name of Uncle Ilya on the list handed us by
Krouglov. Did this mean that he was under some form of arrest? As
Krouglov later explained, the senior officers on the list were heavily
involved in anti-Bolshevik activities and ran the risk of being slaugh
tered by the Soviet underlings, even before the Red Army's entrance
into Odessa, expected momentarily. We teen-age boys were thus en
trusted with the task of protecting the lives of professional military
men, veterans of many battles. When I told my uncle, already irked
by my attentions to Olga, that we had orders to escort him and his fel
low officers on board the Navaho, he shrugged wearily without looking
at me. "It's a sad farce," he muttered. "It is also the end of everything
for us all; good thing that Niura has a few diamonds left." These were
the last three diamonds Mother still owned, and she was constantly
inventing new and unusual methods of hiding them should we have to
flee Russia.
That last long night on duty in the port was bitterly cold and there
was a thick layer of ice on the bay. The ceaseless bombing reached
closer and closer. Our sentry duty passed uneventfully, except for
handing a few prowling drunks over to the port police. At dawn we
were served steaming coffee in big mugs and coarse black-bread
sandwiches with country bacon; thus fortified, we were started off
with the detailed itinerary of our "round-up.*' We must have been a
strange sight seven or eight undersized boys, dressed in American
uniforms far too large for us, stepping along the deserted streets of the
besieged city brandishing useless rifles.
We learned at our first stop what an awkward errand we were dis-
ODESSA 65
charging; the first to be picked up was a middle-aged general, who
was dead drunk and furious when he learned our mission. He called us
every name in the unwritten military dictionary, but followed meekly
enough when threatened with arrest. Another man, a fat colonel,
had to be forcibly parted from the blowzy mistress who was in bed
with him. After a prolonged wrangle he dropped his demand that she
be allowed to accompany him, and invoking hell's fire on Lenin,
Trotsky, and the American Red Cross, walked out, ignoring the
piercing screams of the deserted girl. None of the officers relished
having to march, unshaven and unkempt, convoyed by scrawny
youths, especially Uncle Ilya, who smoked furiously, stalking disdain
fully ahead.
^ Krouglov had arranged that Mother, Alex, Colonel Lvov, and the
"Ilya regulars" were to be driven to the port; when my procession
reached there I was unable to search for them as we were under or
ders not to leave our officers until they were safely escorted on board
the Navaho.
The port presented a spectacle worthy of Hogarth or Dore at their
cruelest; literally thousands of frenzied citizens pushed and kicked
madly, all codes of decency abandoned, with men fighting women,
lost children howling in a maze of luggage, bundles, and even furni
ture, with no one to organize the unwieldy mob and hold it in check.
Two larger transports were loaded to the point of danger, and the rest
of the raging humanity apparently was to be squeezed into the rat-
eaten entrails of the decrepit Navaho. Krouglov appeared at last,
energetic and unruffled as ever, and ordered us boys with our charges
"to wait until everyone else gets aboard."
Suddenly furious shooting started nearby, and we learned that the
Soviet cavalry was entering the Port of Odessa. Ours would be the last
ship to leave, and the crowd knew that the ship was their only hope of
avoiding mass slaughter. The scene that ensued was unforgettable.
The danger-obsessed crowd crushed itself on board the creaking
ship, we boys followed and were ordered to remain on deck ready to
shoot if necessary. The captain ordered full speed ahead; the rusty en
gines gave one tortured screech and then stopped. The ice in the
bay had us marooned, and the Soviet cavalry was bearing down upon
us. Luckily, the ship next to us, the St. Andrew, an old Imperial Navy
ice-breaker, pushed ahead, cracking the ice, with the Navaho fol
lowing like a scared Eliza out of range of the Soviet's hounds.
66 PASSPORT TO PARIS
We had a hellish trip, as the Navaho was built to hold cargo, not a
crowd of human beings; without a proper balance in the hold, the
ship rolled from side to side with each wave, tossing us and our belong
ings about like oranges hi a sorter.
There was a blinding snowstorm (the first of its kind hi twenty-three
years) as we started across the Black Sea. The storm subsided, but an
impenetrable fog reared and the captain was unable to see the proper
course when we reached the Bosporus Straits. With the lives of all on
board ship in his hands, the captain made three stabs at finding the
opening, each time running into a blank wall of fog, the waves sky-
high, and the ship barely recovering with its dangerous list. After the
third failure, the man locked the door to his cabin and shot himself.
He was replaced by a young sailor, who gambled on finding the gate
as we were more likely to be bashed against the rocks if no positive
move was made quickly.
The sailor took the wheel, closed his eyes, and ordered, "Full speed
ahead!" Death never seemed closer to any of us. A slight lurch
the ship shuddered, and suddenly glided forward as smoothly as if it
were on the surface of a Swiss lake. "We made it, we made it!" went
up the cry, and most of us ran on deck to verify the miracle. We
stood in the clear January air screaming our lungs out with joy the
blue Bosporus, soothing and serene, just as advertised.
CHAPTER VI
TURKISH DELIGHT
ONSTANTINOPLE decorated both shores of the canal-like Bos-
porus in Turkish-delight technicolor. The Navaho stopped dead
in the middle of the anchored vessels proud British battleships, glis
tening luxury steamers, weather-beaten tankers none as unkempt as
our old tub.
"What now? Why are we stopping?" The exhausted passengers
stretched their necks inquisitively, like so many hungry turkeys. The
word went around that we were halted until the immigration and
health officials decided our fate. With the chronic inconsistence of the
human race, the horrors of the trip from Odessa were forgotten, and
the bourgeois dowagers, used to lording it over husbands, children
and servants, started bitching at their new status as unwanted refu
gees as if it were the worst blow of all. We "Red Cross Boys" re
turned our rifles to the genial Krouglov, got into a hot huddle and
began bitching, too. We demanded to know if his promises of sanctu
ary were to be broken, but Krouglov waved us away and went off to
his shipboard flame, a pale young baroness who looked like a poodle
in need of a haircut. She was munching dejectedly on oversalted
canned corned beef, washing it down with sickly condensed milk, the
two staples of the Navaho cuisine.
The only man on board who appeared unperturbed by our deten
tion was the musician Oscar von Riesemann (his book on Mussorgsky
is still widely read) ; I joined him to discover the source of his detach
ment from the all-Russian bedlam. A tall, Baltic baron in a lamb's-
wool papakha (Cossack cap), von Riesemann drawled pleasantly:
"I don't mind this a bit. The Bosporus is very decorative, and who
knows what the Turks or our so-called allies have in store for us?
Let's talk music."
68 PASSPORT TO PARIS
He told me about his old friend Rachmaninov; how he played the
whole series of Scriabin sonatas (ten of them) at a Moscow concert
and at the conclusion slumped wearily on the piano, oblivious of the
deafening applause; how young Prokofiev, in tails and monocle, had
then dashed onstage and slapped Rachmaninov on the back, exclaim
ing: "Well played, old man!"
Oscar chuckled as he recalled the scathing review critic Leonide
Sabaneiev published the morning after the announced premiere in
Moscow of the Scythian Suite by Prokofiev (Sabaneiev's bete
noire) . The Prokofiev performance had been canceled as the orchestra
parts failed to arrive in time.
Von Riesemann was extolling the composing talents of Issay
Dobrowen, a Moscow name unfamiliar to me, who has since acquired
a reputation as a conductor rather than as a composer. Meanwhile a
snappy black-and-gold tugboat, with the red-and-white Turkish flag
fluttering its star and crescent on the mast, secured itself alongside us,
and discharged the long-awaited and dreaded officials. Two were doc
tors in red-and-green uniforms, a third was the immigration officer,
and with them a bearded civilian who acted as interpreter.
The entire ship's company was ordered to line up for a medical ex
amination and a searching inquiry into each individual's political,
military, financial, and family status. This was old stuff to us, veterans
of nineteen Kiev regimes.
The inspection lasted several hours and uncovered two typhus vic
tims among the passengers. We were to be quarantined right in the
middle of the Bosporus for three days, and then dispersed to one of
the four islands in the straits known as the "Princes."
The three days went by swiftly enough. The American Red Cross
supplied more corned beef and canned milk, a few crafty merchants
from Constantinople sneaked on board and tempted us with gazos
(bottled lemonade), halvah, rahat-lokoum, and genuine berry-red
Turkish fezes with black tassles. The matrons went on with their
verbal hair-pulling, Krouglov paid court to Olga, Claudia, and the
baroness, Mother and Colonel Lvov talked theosophy, and Alex and
I speculated as to whether I had been justified in tearing the family
away from Kiev. There was wild talk that the Allies would ship all
refugees back to Odessa; that the valiant General Wrangel had be
gun a major counteroffensive and was headed straight for Moscow;
and that those of us who couldn't be accommodated on the Prince
TURKISH DELIGHT 69
islands would be sent to the dreaded Dogs' Island, to be eaten alive
by the thousands of wild dogs imprisoned there by Constantinople's
governor.
Of the Prince islands, Prinkipo was the largest and most luxurious,
Halki was the next best, and Proti the smallest, poorest and dirtiest.
With the customary Dukelsky luck we were assigned to Proti. Our
group, led by Krouglov, consisted of the four Dukelskys (including
Uncle Ilya), Colonel Lvov, the rival crooners Dolinsky and Nyegin
(Goulaiev's stage name), the rival courtesans Olga and Claudia, the
ex-General Pestrikov, our uncle's crony, who was darkly plotting a
diamond coup, the languid baroness with her fourteen-year-old, husky
son, and a sociable couple, the Berestnevs (who later settled in Bos
ton, Massachusetts).
A small American cutter transported us to the barren, torturously
hilly island of Proti. An old Greek monastery on the hilltop, con
verted to a military hospital, was to be our new quarters. The rooms
were all filled with officer patients, so we were stationed in a corridor,
men at one end and women at the other. We were supplied with cots,
linen and blankets, and individual clothes lockers. Men and women
were issued drab semimilitary olive-green uniforms, particularly
shocking on the formerly highly decorated general and Uncle Ilya.
The corridor of our "Krouglov crowd," as we were becoming known,
opened on a meager garden featuring olive trees which never ab
sorbed enough vitality from the poor soil to produce olives.
As soon as we were settled, the usual Russian intrigues and squab
bles began. Olga, Claudia, and the baroness gossiped behind each
other's backs about their sex adventures, until they nobly decided to
serve as hospital aides; Uncle Ilya and Pestrikov whispered about the
diamond market in dark corners and found a way of sneaking into
Constantinople daily; Dolinsky and Nyegin sighed over the loss of
their "public" and the good old days; and Alex and I spent most of
our time on Proti sick in bed, with Mother worrying over us.
Life on the wretched island was bleak enough, but viewed from a
hospital cot, it was so desolate that I was inspired to write long pes
simistic poems in the genre known to the French as larmoyant. One
of them started with the fatalistic line: "I want to die as simply as
possible," which was a poetic exaggeration as I had no intention of
dying but was merely sick of being sick.
Mother met the director of the Constantinople YMCA through
70 PASSPORT TO PARIS
some American theosophist friends and was asked to help out with
the Russian Lighthouse, a club for refugees organized by the YMCA
in Pera, the European quarter of Constantinople. I was finally cured
of my nth disease and given a lamer passer so that we might leave
humble Proti, unsung by any travelogue commentator for its barren
hills, stubborn donkeys, undernourished trees, and the largest bedbugs
known to man. We had learned there, though, that when an Oriental
shook his head he meant "yes," and when he nodded energetically,
often emphasizing the nod with a crisp "tsk," he was saying "no."
The white, villalike Lighthouse in Rue de Brousse became our
headquarters. The ground floor contained the offices of the American
director and lesser employees, along with a well-appointed gym. A
wide marble staircase led to the dining hall and library, with an ad
joining salon of considerable elegance. The salon boasted an excellent
Steinway as it was sometimes used as a chamber-concert hall, and this
became my personal haunt. The third floor was given over to a "pro
gressive" kindergarten, and as Mother was good with children and
they loved her, she was soon put in charge of the other nursery
teachers. Our sojourn at the Lighthouse brought much-needed com
fort and harmony into our lives and has left me with a high regard for
the YMCA's kindly policies.
I was not so much attracted by the universally known landmarks
of Constantinople the Aya Sophia, the Golden Horn, the intermin
able staircase which was used as a street to lead into the mercantile
Galata from our district of Pera; it was the mysterious zigzagging
sidestreets which intrigued me, peopled with masked matriarchs stol
idly sitting on the curbs, vendors hawking pungent foods and liquids
in fiercely polytonal counterpoint while whipping their donkeys
along, bearded philosophers in white-tiled caf6s tugging at their
waterpipes or sipping the vile duziko, the baby lambs being roasted
on a spit right in the street and being eaten without benefit of cut
lery, the terrifying fat whores in Galata, their faces immobile and
grotesquely painted, their bodies like gallons of inferior vanilla ice
cream, squatting in cages to be gaped at by pencil-slim American
sailors.
Along the Galata staircase you could buy Siberian furs, trained
fleas, pornographic postcards whose salesmen extolled their delights
with coloraturalike commercials, violins played cello fashion, bleating
clarinets and crazily cackling records of Turkish, Armenian and
TURKISH DEUGHT 71
Greek hits of the moment (the Greek ones always tangos, for no
conceivable reason), the heavy buttocks of black-silk-clad Armenian
belles and their heavy blacker-than-olive eyes overweight women
being a specialty of the Orient. These Levantine curios mingled hap
pily with Longines watches and Walk-over shoes, dazzling one from
behind their Pera vitrines the Longines and Walk-overs tokens of
their wearers' opulence and forever denied us insolvent refugees.
Mingling with the oriental boulevardiers were strutting, corseted
French officers, bemonocled and faultlessly tailored British officers,
hordes of overfed Greek and Armenian civilians everyone seem
ingly armed with a Longines watch and shod with a pair of freshly
shined Walk-over shoes and the universally despised and impecu
nious Russian refugees like me. I cringed when I saw former
heroes, proud earners of all four Saint George crosses, still bearing
the now-obsolete insignia of no-longer existing regiments, in their
faded and artlessly patched uniforms, ambling aimlessly and shame
facedly along; or worse, Russian women, many of them still pretty,
still hopeful, with the bold flag of Parisian lipstick on parched lips,
an overdose of mascara on their eyes, which had seen too much too
soon, their dresses out of fashion even in Turkey their shoes
pitifully disguised wrecks, who haunted the Grande Rue de Pera at
all hours, window-shopping masochistically. There were grim stories
of our women becoming desperate and essaying prostitution, clandes
tinely and otherwise; the worst one concerned the languid baroness,
Krouglov's erstwhile protegee. Her son, having passed the turbulent
stage of puberty, became urgently aware of his surging maleness,
and went out in the Pera of an evening, in search of feminine com
pany, his mother's five liras firmly in his pocket. After wandering
back and forth along the nocturnally bright Pera, he ventured hesi
tantly into a dimly lit arcade where assorted demoiselles de la nuit
plied their trade, armed with the universal trade-marks outsize all-
purpose handbags and beribboned umbrellas. He ducked several too-
vividly painted harridans and smiled shyly at a fairly ladylike speci
men, dressed in severest black, then approached the tart awkwardly
and opened his mouth to make the usual overtures, when the girl let
out a wild shriek and fled, sobbing it was the boy's mother, the
languid baroness. I quite realize that the anecdote sounds like poor
Maupassant; it is, nevertheless, authentic.
Mother, Alex, and I had moved to a small flat just off Rue de
72 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Brousse at No. 27 Rue Agha-Hamam. Uncle Ilya, up to his ears
in diamonds, including the smallest of Mother's three stones (our
entire fortune), shared a more opulent habitat with Pestrikov, and
Colonel Lvov was quartered at the Russky Mayak (lighthouse).
Mother spent most of the day in her kindergarten, Alex became a
platoon leader in the Russian Boy Scout organization, and I wangled
the job of music supervisor, concert manager and accompanist at the
Saturday concerts of the Mayak; for performing these duties I received
three meals a day and the use of the club facilities, but no money.
My rather flexible position left me with a lot of time on my hands,
and I used it for the purpose of doing nothing most agreeably, when
not composing or arranging the club's programs, hiring the artists
and rehearsing them. Of an evening, Mother and Alex would often
have a meal at home, happy in the family warmth that only new
poverty, intimately shared, gives people, and I occasionally joined
them, sensing my mother's troubled and infinitely loving glance
scanning my face at which I'm ashamed to say, irritation welled
within me. Mother knew I had plenty of free time to gad about,
and she disapproved of most of my new friends. She was right, as
mothers generally are, and I resented her Tightness in the equally
general fashion of recalcitrant sons.
Among my new friends was the son of the famed St. Petersburg
baritone Tartakov; he later became a gypsy singer and conjirencier
in London, and was a "good-time Charlie" from way back. He
struck up an acquaintance with the Sultan's chef and wangled an in
vitation to dinner at the chefs house in Beshiktash for four of us
Russians* The host, a storybook Turk, portly and cordial, greeted us
in a mixture of French and Russian. We sat down to a Babylonian
banquet, the main feature of which was a whole lamb stuffed with
turkey, the turkey with a chicken, the chicken with a quail All
manner of exotic side dishes and international wines and liquors ac
companied this gastronomic surprise package, and as toasts in Turk
ish, French and Russian succeeded each other, each more effusive
than the last, by the time coffee appeared we were all orgiastically
drunk. The host and Tartakov kissed and embraced tearfully and fol
lowed declarations of undying devotion with a peculiarly choreo
graphed and somewhat untidily executed dance, the rest of us con
tented with shouting and clapping our hands. The chief cook, who
did not cook the dinner, now grew positively reckless and summoned
TURKISH DELIGHT 73
his six wives from what I presume was an authentic old-fashioned
harem. The coy young women, unused to such outlandish goings-on,
duly appeared, clad in black and dark purple; at least two of them
were extremely pretty.
I remember dimly, in the mists of my first major alcoholic bout,
reciting one of my Russian poems to the youngest wife, who had the
largest eyes and longest eyelashes I've ever seen; although she didn't
understand a word I said, she nodded her approval. We were initiated
into smoking hashish, and after the six wives honored us with a
stately native dance, parted from our host, declaring our eternal
friendship. I also remember that I was violently sick on leaving the
cook's mansion and was supported by the three fellow gay blades,
who immediately became sick too, and were then supported by me in
turn, and that, finally, I was deposited at my doorstep at 7:30 A.M.
and fell into the anxious arms of Mother, who was getting Alex's
breakfast but had to set it aside to put me to bed.
There were other and similar diversions, but I took my musical
duties at the Mayak very seriously and executed them ably enough.
Constantinople was then rich in refugee talent concert artists, bal
let dancers and opera stars. I remember three of these whose names
all ended with "etz," including Nina Koshetz, a great dramatic singer,
Rachmaninov's proteg6e and later a success in the U.S.A., where she
now lives. These and lesser stars were more than available they
were anxious to appear at the Mayak, because it meant desirable
American contacts and a few Turkish liras.
My poetical pursuits were not abandoned either. Constantinople
was crawling with poets, young and old, and the Mayak was as suit
able a meeting place as any, although it was no Closerie des Lilas and
I was far too young to be a new Jean Moreas. What I lacked in
authority and renown, I made up in nerve, and soon persuaded the
Americans to subsidize a poetic almanac in Russian, with me as editor.
My new status made the poets unbend a little, and they began to
gather in the Mayak salon, armed with poems, some of which were
quite remarkable. Among the older poets was the Quasimodo-like
Valentin Goryansky, a bitterly brilliant satirist, and the enigmatic
Zavyalov, with the massive build of a professional athlete, a rich and
domineering Polish wife, and reams of the most savagely destructive
and violently defeatist poetry ever produced.
There was a significant aftermath to these poetic strivings. On sort-
74 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ing out the various contributions to our proposed almanac, I glimpsed
an unopened blue envelope, addressed to me and marked "Personal."
The arresting thing about the envelope was the startlingly recherche,
baroque calligraphy with which my name was written my name,
not an especially pretty one, literally sang out from the fine blue
paper on which it was so lovingly emblazoned. "A man of taste, ob
viously,** I murmured smugly and opened the letter with the utmost
care, so as not to cause damage to the handiwork of the artistic
sender. The envelope contained three or four poems in the same un
earthly handwriting, poems rather affected, although not uncharm-
ing, dealing mostly with angels and precious stones, and signed
Boris Kochno. I liked one of these verses, something about an emer
ald or sapphire which "sang, nay screamed at me" in the poet's
phrase, and decided to read them that evening to Goryansky, Zavya-
lov and company. My colleagues were more impressed with Mr.
Kochno's calligraphic prowess than his poetic ability, but we decided
to summon the man to one of our gatherings there was something
about that handwriting that made us all eager to see its owner.
The young man (he proved to be almost exactly my age) ap
peared at the appointed time and we had tea in the Mayak salon. I
beheld, for the first time in my life, a faithful replica of a youthful
man-of-fashion an incroyable; Kochno was of good height and
figure, wore a well-tailored sack suit with a great air, sported a
Doucet bowtie and even smoked an English cigarette in a long jade
holder. His face, felinely soft, was quite beautiful, and his voice, al
though undeniably affected, had an ingratiating ring to it. I, who in
tended to give Kochno a piece of our collective minds about his
merely prettyish poetry* was so awed by all this magnificence that I
couldn't go beyond a few urbane politesses in my best, hastily pro
duced, drawing-room manner. Kochno was accompanied by a middle-
aged actor whose heavy-lidded eyes gave him the look of a decadent
Pompeian. He spoke a few words in provincial Russian, his eyes
never leaving Kochno, and after we had exchanged a few urban
nothings, and I had promised "to do something" about the Screaming
Emerald, the pair left. I hardly could foresee that Boris Kochno
would become the scenarist of my two ballets: the Dukelsky Zephyr
and Flora (1925, Diaghilev Ballets Russes, Kochno-Braque-Chanel-
Massine) and the Duke Le Bal des Blanchisseuses (1946, Ballets des
Champs EIys6es, Kochno-Stanislao Lepri-Roland Petit), In 1921
TURKISH DELIGHT 75
Boris stood out chiefly for his looks and clothes, which contrasted
cruelly with the beggars' garb of so many of the others. Yet, I
couldn't help liking and even envying young Boris I, no social
butterfly at that remote time, in my semimilitary olive-green getup; I
kept my promise and did "something" about his Screaming Emerald
gave it to Nicky Slonimsky, who set it to music unhesitatingly and
got Madame Voronetz to sing it at one of our concerts. Boris, impec
cable in dark blue, reappeared with his actor friend, smiled content
edly and left after thanking Slonimsky and the singer. A week or so
later he went off to Paris, where he met Serge Soudeikine, the painter,
and his wife (now Mrs. Igor Stravinsky); they in turn introduced
him to Diaghilev, whose secretary, confidant and librettist he became.
It was here in Constantinople, too, that I met Pierre Souvtchinsky,
the musicologist, magazine publisher and, later, head of the Eurasian
movement (they believed that Russia wasn't either Europe or Asia,
but a continent in itself Eurasia). He listened to some songs of
mine (one of which, "The Wooden Church," is still, I think, an ar
resting piece of music) and displayed considerable enthusiasm, which
was to increase in 1924 with the birth of Zephyr and Flora and give
me a new lease on musical life in 1947, when I reappeared in Paris
with Le Bal des Blanchisseuses and the Third Symphony. Together
Souvtchinsky and I listened to a score by Theodore de Hartmann, a
man with a huge skull and the high-cheekboned face of a Tartar,
who was shortly to form* a symphony orchestra in Constantinople and
give a series of quite respectable concerts.
Nina Koshetz's accompanist, Nicolas Stember, the nephew of Nico
las Medtner, was playing Medtner's effective, if derivative, piano
sonatas and "Fairy Tales" all over town, and I was overjoyed when
he approved of my one-movement G-minor piano sonata, begun in
November, 1920, and completed in April, 1921.
Not all of my musical activities were on so elevated a plane.
Mother was doing her best to keep Alex and me well fed and clothed,
but the proceeds from the diamond sale were quickly gone, and her
salary from the kindergarten was barely sufficient for a Spartan exist
ence. I cast about desperately for a paying job and became a pianist
in a "salon trio" in one of the better Pera restaurants. Slonimsky was
already directing a similar group at Tokatlian's, Constantinople's
most fashionable cafe. We were both fed up with "O Sole Mio, M
Toselli's "Serenade," the "Berceuse" from Jocelyn, "Otchi Tchornya"
76 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and other such stand-bys, without which proper digestion is an im/-
possibility. For an evening's work, my pay was three liras; the job
lasted about two weeks, and then I transferred to a cinema, where I
had to supply suitable accompaniments to "silent" films.
A English colonel visited the restaurant where I held forth with my
violin and cello partners, and engaged me on the spot for a concert
in his barracks. The pay was good but I had no notion of what was
expected of me. On arriving, I found masses of enlisted men, roaring
drunk on Turkish beer, who greeted my entrance with hoarse shouts
and demands for songs like "K-K-K-Katy," "Tipperary" and "For
Me and My Gal," which I knew by heart; after a successful start, I
was urged to play various English folk ballads totally unknown to
me. Here I was seated at the rickety piano, bewildered by the singing,
shouting Tommies, who demanded encore after encore. God alone
knows what I played and how the Tommies were able to follow me,
or I them, but at the end of the evening, the tall cockney sergeant
shook his head and handed me five liras, adding, " 'Ere's yer money,
chum, even if you ain't much good as a pianoforte player."
I always had the enviable ability to talk about a flop as though it
were a hit (it proved most helpful in later years), and told awed
friends of having conquered the British. A young Greek decided that
I was ripe for the British Embassy and arranged for a recital there
with a portly Russian baritone. For this I was to collect ten liras, and
of course we joyously accepted; on the day of the concert it wa$
pointed out to me that we were to dress, meaning white tie. I don't
think I owned a necktie in 1920, white or colored, and as for tails,
they were associated in ray mind with the Russian Imperial Court or
the films. The possibility of my getting into one of those things never
entered my mind. Yet here it was tails or no ten liras, In despair,
I ran to the kind little Greek, who was short and somewhat crippled
and produced a morning coat and striped trousers from his own ward
robe. His tails were at the tailor's, but the morning coat was certainly
formal as hell, so no one could say I was not "correct."
I played my accompaniments looking as if my clothes had been
shrunk in a rainstorm, and at the end of the concert, after warmly
congratulating the baritone, the ambassador dismissed me with a
cool nod* I did get the ten liras, for which I would happily have
dressed in a barrel.
TURKISH DELIGHT 77
That first winter out of Russia I began to function (unofficially
and unprofitably) as Dufcelsky and Duke. I disliked popular songs,
owing, no doubt, to such exponents as Nyegin, and I loathed the
"arty" sex-serenades of the industrious Vertmsky, who was always
popping up unexpectedly. One afternoon after lunch, I saw the orig
inal Moscow Pierrot lolling dandiacally in the Mayak salon, all the
"well-born" waitresses (ex-gentlewomen, naturally) worshipping at
his impeccably shod feet. The master was at his most affable and was
reciting his latest sexotic, as Walter Winchell would have it, rounde
lay. He then distributed engraved cards bearing the legend The Black
Rose, Cabaret Artistique. The Moscow Pierrot had found himself
some well-heeled Armenian Harlequins, and they had provided him
with his own boite. 1 was too young and too poor to frequent such
dens, but I heard a few months later that the authorities staged a raid
in the place and unearthed quantities of cocaine and 100 per cent
syphilis among the lady servants and entertainers. No more Black
Rose.
But the Rose of Jazz, healthy and blooming, was by now firmly
planted on the European shore of the Bosphorus. Mayak patrons be
gan to request "Hindustan," "Tell Me" and "Till We Meet Again."
I promptly purchased all three, also Irving Berlin's earlier successes
and a thing mysteriously entitled "Swanee" by a man improbably
styled Geo. Gershwin. The Berlins were good in their way, but the
Gershwin sent me into ecstacies. The bold sweep of the tune, its
rhythmic freshness and, especially, its syncopated gait, hit me hard
and I became an "early-jazz" fiend. That's not quite what I mean, be
cause (shudder, ye New Orleans purists!) the "real" New Orleans
jazz and the true-blue blues impressed me considerably less. "What
can you expect from a long hair" did I hear you say? Perhaps I can
explain it best by admitting my admiration for the "musicality" and a
composer's inventiveness in young Gershwin, which was (and is)
missing from the "real" thing, largely a collectively produced mood,
anonymous and crude.
Daily I was glued to the piano, wrestling with the new medium.
This was like playing golf, after reading too much Schopenhauer. I
wanted to acquire the knack of writing popular tunes in the American
idiom. The purist will tell you haughtily that it's not jazz at all so
be it; but if "Tea for Two," "The Man I Love," "Night and Day"
78 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and forgive the plug my own "I Can't Get Started With You"
aren't jazz, you can have all the "Tiger Rags" in the world, and wel
come.
My tunes of the Constantinople vintage, 1920-1922, sounded as
if they were in the authentic American jazz idiom, but harmon
ically they weren't. Those first pop songs without lyrics, imitative
of Gershwin and early Jerome Kern, weren't signed Duke or Du~
kelsky: I coined the phony-sounding "Ivan Ivin," later replaced
by the Americanese "Alan Lane." Slonimsky, pounding away at the
Tokatlian, composed a Turkish-American fox trot called "Yok, yok,
effendi" ("No, No, Sir"), the lyric concerning a Turkish girl spurn
ing an "ally." The tune wasn't bad but jerky and a bit "crowded,"
just as my tunes were.
After my job playing at the Turkish cinema evaporated, I donned
a fez and went off for a holiday in Istanbul with some young Mussul
man highbrows. We visited Eyoub, a celestially restful retreat of
white mosques, white-bearded monks, and whiter doves, Boyouk-
Dere, a sumptuous summer resort, and humbler villages where Turks
played wailing jeremiads and snappy, although minor-keyed, two-
quarter-tirae dance tunes. The native bands included the already-men
tioned violins played cello fashion, the oud (like a mandolin), the
kanoun (a forty-stringed instrument played with two picks), and the
zourna (a clarinetlike reed thing).
The outcome of these agreeable wanderings was three Turkish
songs, which I harmonized, and which my Turkish friends succeeded
in having published by Pera's Maison Andr<. One of the three songs
was "Telgirafin Tellerine," a song about the beginnings of the tele
graph in Turkey, with which I can still liven up any Moslem gather
ing.
New faces appeared at the Lighthouse; Pavlik Tchelitchev for one,
now a distinguished painter, then an apple-cheeked Adonis fond of
exuberant laughter and good-natured practical jokes. He was a few
years older than I and easily sold me some cock-and-bull stories about
vicious Orientals lying in wait for me, 300-pound Galata belles plot
ting to seduce me, etc, I met the dancers Zimin and Kniasev (Kniasev
was later choreographer for de Basil and married to the great Spessi-
vizeva), who were both dancing at Constantinople caf6s at that time,
Zimin partnered Italian ballerina Bianca Fosca and asked me to
create an oriental ballet for him. The title was Conte d'une Nuit
TURKISH DELIGHT 79
Syrienne (Tale of a Syrian Night) and the music minor-league
Scheherazade-cum-Glazunov. Tchelitchev designed Bakst-like sets
and costumes, I wrote out parts for the eight- or nine-piece orchestra,
and the premiere at the Theatre des Petits-Champs (in 1921) was
fairly well received. Soon after, Tchelitchev left for Germany, where
he wound up designing sets for the Berlin Opera House.
Things seemed to be humming on all fronts, except the lowly, but
important, carnal domain. My adolescent technique of reciting verse
to the belle of the moment and then progressing to sentimental kisses
was a signal flop, because girls who liked poetry usually stopped
right there and those who had designs on me (a distinct minority)
didn't see any point in poetry prior to going to bed. Alas, it was the
going to bed that I dreaded, because, having adopted the pose of &
jaded rake, I was ashamed of my anatomical status, which was certain
to betray me. One uninhibited female, daughter of a naval officer,
cut me short in the middle of a fancy ode, and proceeded to take oS
her clothes, complying realistically with the urgent entreaties of my
verses. After a perfunctory caress or two, I invented some cockeyed
excuse and fled, cursing my ode, the cause of my predicament.
More of our relatives arrived with the supporters of Baron Wran-
gel, who had finally been beaten out of Crimea. Uncle Irakly (Prince
Toumanov), with a new wife and two infant sons, Uncle Nicholas's
divorced wife, Aunt Genia and her son Yura, a handsome naval cadet,
and my mother's brother Professor Alexis Kopylov, all appeared in
Constantinople on their way elsewhere. Yura died of consumption at
sixteen, in Gallipoli, where his naval academy was transplanted.
Uncle Alexis and his wife, Aunt Liza, went to Poland, where they
owned land. Prince Toumanov began to talk rhapsodicaUy of the
United States.
My artist friends such as Kochno, Tchelitchev, and others, were al
ready in Belgrade, Sophia, or Paris. Constantinople began to seem
like an outmoded health resort, peopled with dull patients.
A benevolent YMCA official offered to help Alex get a scholarship
in a good New England prep school (Cushing Academy in Ashburn-
ham, Massachusetts, made famous by its alumna Bette Davis). No
one offered me an education, as I was reasonably if sketchily ed
ucated but I was convinced that the United States couldn't get along
without me. Mother began losing her favorite pupils as their parents
deserted Turkey, Colonel Lvov was directed to American theosophist
80 PASSPORT TO PARIS
contacts, and Uncle Irakly threw his princely weight around with the
caste-conscious officials at the U.S.-sponsored Robert College, where
he lectured.
Our collective merits were weighed, the hard-earned immigration
visas supplied, and we sailed for New York on the not-so-good Greek
ship King Alexander in the autumn of 1921.
CHAPTER VII
THE BAD OLD DAYS
THE KING ALEXANDER, of German origin, was a ship of
about 22,000 tons displacement, cleanly scrubbed and reeking
of disinfectants the genteel refugee smell. Here again were squeal
ing children, the anxious eyes of their mothers bent on delivering
their offspring into the bountiful arms of the legendary Statue of
Liberty, unwashed journalists, pseudo-poets and gloomy bourgeois,
peering unhappily at their companions of the voyage, who at least
had their youth, and therefore no recollections of former comforts
and riches. We traveled third class, bunk fashion, and the trip from
Piraeus to New York took exactly one month.
Life aboard the King Alexander wasn't very different from the one
we had led on Proti; but the food was plentiful and devoid of corned
beef and condensed milk, and the faces around us were good old
faces. Colonel Lvov went on meditating merrily in the best Blavat-
sky fashion; the Berestnevs danced the one-step without musical ac
companiment; and Mother, when not suffering from seasickness,
watched us tirelessly, as if to make sure that we were there intact, with
no new dangers confronting us. There were no dangers to speak of,
except a huge Armenian diamond merchant, a San Franciscan of
recent vintage, who endeavored to initiate me into the joys of homo
sexuality after ensnaring me into a Turkish bath. His entreaties had an
unforeseen result I laughed myself sick at his amorous antics, which
so disconcerted him that he cursed me in Armenian and returned to
his ablutions.
Our delight at the first appearance of the yellowish-green Jersey
shore and the bluish-green Rubensian lady, identified with the free
dom and self-respect so long denied us, was as vociferous and spon
taneous as that of so many previous generations of immigrants. There
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was one difference Russians used to flee from the czar, we fled
from the czar's murderers. Ellis Island was Proti on a miniature
scale, with fewer trees and darker inmates, rather like a rehearsal of
Scheherazade in a hospital. The immigration officials were surpris
ingly kind, everybody talked like Krouglov and, the usual formalities
over, we were released into the New York streets, Mother proudly
clasping her hard-won first papers, which were issued automatically
to each legally entered immigrant. Alexis and I were too young to
have separate papers, so we were included in Mother's.
The Manhattan skyline in 1921 was not as impressive as the 1955
one, but we spent most of the first three days craning our necks and
just gaping. Mother, who had passed her fortieth birthday, would
not part with her favorite hat an odd straw number with arti
ficial flowers and a dark-green velvet ribbon tied under her chin
shepherdess style. This hat had been purchased from a Kiev modiste
just after the revolution, and I suffered agonies encountering ironic
glances and even sneers from uninhibited passers-by, startled by such
ludicrous headgear. Mother was unaware of this silent censure, so busy
was she watching us protectively as if afraid that we would be
crushed by the granite towers around us.
New York seemed even dirtier than Constantinople, but there was
electricity and feverish promise in the air. The town was new, un
gainly and cockily, awkwardly young, rather like a wolfhound pup
with legs too long for the rest of his body not only the town's
legs, but also the girls' were interminable, straight and perfect, like
so many miniature skyscrapers. The girls' small, birdlike heads under
the absurdly close-fitting cloches, the vogue of the day, were lit up by
shining eyes and teeth, exactly like so many electric signs suddenly
flashing up on Broadway at night. Like all wonders of the world,
the skyscrapers, along with the Paris Eiffel Tower and the Tower
of London, completely lost their fascination after a few days, but
Broadway at night was an awesome sight, nowhere equaled on earth,
On the suggestion of our YMCA protectors, we put up at a small
ish (by New York standards), though comfortable, businessmen's
hotel on Madison Avenue near 3 1st Street. Alex and I, left to our own
devices on the first afternoon, amused ourselves by examining the
big, fat, telephone book with a red cover. We chanced on the
letter "M" and discovered, to our consternation, that there was a
separate listing for "milliners," which we, with our imperfect knowl-
THE BAD OLD DAYS 83
edge of English, took to mean "millionaires." "God, there are so
many of them!" exclaimed Alex. "And they all seem to have foreign
names," I chimed in incredulously. "But where are the Rockefellers
and the Vanderbilts?"
The next morning Alex and I went off to Central Park, a rather
disappointing place, the trees poor and anemic-looking the sur
rounding tall buildings seemed to squeeze all the juice from the
joyless oasis. The park's meager charms failed to dampen my spirits.
Seized by a strange fervor, I pranced about the hilly slopes, singing
one of my Constantinople refrains at the top of my lungs. "What's
that?" Alex queried skeptically. "I like Irving Berlin." Whereupon he
whistled Berlin's newest air, then all the rage. "Oh, you do! Well, I'll
outdo Berlin, just you wait and see," I retorted. I'm afraid this
prophecy is still unfulfilled, and Mr. Berlin, whom I met many
years later, was never in danger of competition from this source.
There are several New Yorks. There's the amiable pre-Pickwickian
New York of Washington Irving; the elegant, Lady Blessington-
conscious metropolis of the unjustly forgotten Nathaniel Parker Wil
lis; the shopgirl's Manhattan of O. Henry; the immigrant's New York
of Gorky and Korolenko; the merciless monster of a city sung by
John Dos Passos; the hip-flask-flashing, girlish-thigh-revealing, bath
tub-gin-happy, debutante-studded New York of Scott Fitzgerald;
the stately, urbane literateur's club world of Henry James; Max
well Bodenheim's Greenwich Villagey daisy-chain conception of
the big town; the phony nobleman's favorite haunt as depicted by
Ben Hecht; the Harlem-cum-Montparnasse paradise of Carl Van
Vechten; the garment-center slicker's city of Jerome Weidman. We
saw, smelled and tasted a bit of each, but the refined Upper West Side
brownstone singing teachers' New York, the town of aging ex-prima
donnas of the dyed hair and the drooping gardenia, decked out in
Klein's best, of deadly "musicales" featuring Town Hall ballads and
music-loving Elks and Shriners, of tired chicken salad and tepid
Manhattans, remains unsung, and it's a pity, because it was quite
a place in the twenties, the place to which we were removed from
our Madison Avenue hotel.
Colonel Lvov and Mother sold the last Dukelsky diamond, scanned
the newspaper advertisements and triumphantly came up (or rather
down) with an inexpensive basement in the West Sixties. The pro
ceeds from the diamond sale constituted our capital; Mother and the
84 PASSPORT TO PARIS
colonel soon became factory workers (the match factory then
considered the thing by refugees) , Alexis was busily absorbing various
sciences, as he was about to enter the Gushing Academy, and I
volunteered to earn my keep by putting music to practical use.
That wasn't an easy task. I was seventeen, no longer spoiled
(the Revolution took care of that) , but unaccustomed to the dubious
ways of the world, and quite unknown. Making music pay for one's
keep is no cinch, even now that I have a name or, rather, two
names. How to be a composer without being a conductor or a virtu
oso instrumentalist is a tough proposition either get yourself a rich
wife or write music for music consumers, not music lovers.
The catalogue of my would-be "commercial" activities in the
1921-1923 period denotes an uncommon versatility, if nothing else.
I played accompaniments for ersatz gypsies in Second Avenue restau
rants; wrote "incidental" music for vaudeville performers, which
they commissioned and then declined to buy, declaring it unsuitable;
played piano on the stage for Alexander Oumansky's ballet vaude
ville act on the Keith circuit; played piano for a small-time adagio
team content with any old circuit as long as they got paid, which
wasn't often; wrote music for Horace Goldin, the famed magician,
who gave me two hundred dollars for labor involving a lullaby for
a trick rabbit, a tango for vanishing handkerchiefs and suddenly
appearing bouquets of roses, a languorous waltz for card tricks
and a diabolic galop to denote the time-honored feat of sawing a
woman in half; conducted an orchestra of five musicians for a bur
lesque show, an exploit that deserves a little digression.
I never could conduct, and the art of coordinating one's arm and
body movements with sounds emanating from a large group of in
strumentalists still seems inhumanly difficult to me. How I ever got
the job of conducting the pit band for Jazz Babies (the title of the
burlesque piece entrusted to me) is not clear, except that I remem
ber playing piano in a hired room at Leo Feist's for a bouncy blonde,
her hair the color of a ripe banana, who was the jazziest of the
gum-chewing Jazz Babies and who took a fancy to me. I remem
ber, too, the horror and the excitement of our first stage rehearsal:
ten meaty females this was the pre-Gayelord Hauser era in baby
rompers or tight bathing suits, wearily undulating and kicking their
outsize legs to my meticulously, but "comity" executed accompani
ments. "Stick to the rhythm, Kid, stick to the rhythm," admonished
THE BAD OLD DAYS 85
the bowlegged dance director, a half-chewed White Owl dangling
from his mouth. "This is Amurrica." At least one of that country's
citizens the banana-haired bombshell always rose to my de
fense by stroking my hair and giving me a hug.
Thanks to my benefactress, I was promoted from pianist to con
ductor, although, in reality, I was both, thereby saving some money
for the producers. My nightly task, after the show's opening, was
elementary and not very tiring, but the spectacle of all that un
savory flesh pounding the runway over my head, twenty bare legs
strutting lasciviously in a heady cloud of cheap talcum powder and
sweat, proved too unnerving. I mixed up my music, missed my cues
and was invariably and rightly upbraided for this by the White
Owl-loving dance director. He also resented the unmistakable ad
vances made to me by the banana-haired Jazz Baby, and consequently
I turned in my notice at the end of the week, or was fired I forget
which happened first.
Living as we did in the singing teachers' quarter, I soon began
meeting some of the clan. I was rather good at sightreading and so
began to pick up a few odd dollars helping out ex-prima donnas
by coaching the would-be prima donnas, their pupils. Through Koka
Stember, I met Isolde von Bernhardt, a good Wagnerian mezzo-
soprano, who provided me with occasional jobs. Koka mastered my
Constantinople piano sonata and especially praised the passages
that sounded like Medtner, of which there were not a few. Stember
was then serving as accompanist to Nina Koshetz, who moved her
enormous bulk, her slim water-color-painting husband, and her small
daughter, to a big, sprawling flat on Riverside Drive. It was a
delicious refuge for lost young souls like myself, who often repaired
to Nina's after an overdose of poor jazz or synthetic gypsy wailing.
We drank oceans of tea and devoured innumerable pirojki and other
Russian goodies; we talked of Rachmaninov and Scriabin and that
impertinent young coxcomb Prokofiev, who had locked himself up
in an abandoned Bavarian castle and was busily scribbling a new
piano concerto (this turned out to be his best the sparkling and
ever-fresh No. 3) as well as an opera based on Dostoievsky. One
evening Nina sat down at the piano, wrapped in a red Spanish
shawl, and accompanied herself in Prokofiev's songs on Akhmatova's
poems and one of his five "Vocalises" songs without words. The
eerie, uncannily simple and uninhibited, uncerebral music filled me
86 PASSPORT TO PARIS
with sudden ecstasy; I drank in every note, and the Jazz Babies be
came utterly unreal, as if they had never, never happened.
At Nina's I met Lazare Saminsky, the composer, and Aaron
Baron, the critic, a benign and fussy little man who wrote for Jew
ish and German newspapers and was fond of old ladies who gave
musical teas. Baron loved to act as escort and confidant of visiting
musical celebrities. I was no celebrity and I was not visiting, but
nevertheless little Baron took me in hand and introduced me around
as a promising one hundred to one longshot. It was Baron who
caused me to swallow innumerable petits fours and lettuce and cu
cumber sandwiches in settings of mangy potted palms, aspidistras,
keepsakes of McKinley's era, where vocalists hopeless and hope
ful regaled the bespatted attorneys and dentists with anything
from Nevin's "Narcissus" to Wagner's "Brunnhilde." "The boy is
a composer," Baron would whisper in the hostess's ear. A polite
smirk would ensue, followed by a Medtnerian prelude by myself,
a little indulgent applause, a few more petits jours.
But I'll ever be grateful to little Aaron Baron, for it was through
him that I met Karol Szymanovski, Chopin the Second of Polish
music, and it was through Szymanovski that I knew the Kochanskis
Paul, the great violin stylist, and Zosia, his bright and warm
hearted wife; and, had I not met the Kochanskis, my composer's
career would never have happened.
Mother gave up her exhausting match-factory labors and^ turned
to designing children's clothes for a Fourth Avenue establishment.
Alex was accumulating scholastic honors at the Gushing Academy.
The colonel was diligently punching the clock somewhere; thus,
everybody was honorably and regularly employed, except myself.
I led a fascinating but oddly unproductive life and earned nothing to
speak of. Lvov began muttering something about aesthetic "ne'er-
do-wells," and there were heated arguments with Mother, who de
fended me stoically behind closed doors. It was no use denying that
Mother and the colonel were the only providers in our family of
four (the colonel's position was somewhat unorthodox, as he was
neither a relative nor Mother's lover) , and whatever they succeeded
in saving was given to Alex and myself as pocket money. I was,
however, determined to make music pay and began turning over new
leaves every morning.
We were now "installed" in Washington Heights on West 172nd
THE BAD OLD DAYS 87
Street, our basement in the Sixties having proven something of
a hellhole during the first murderous heat wave we experienced.
This was a pleasantly nondescript neighborhood, too new to be red
olent of anything except fresh paint; the kind of place that was
described as "steadily growing," "making rapid strides," etc., by
the municipal authorities in 1922. The air was purer here because
of the proximity of the Hudson, and the rents were cheaper.
It was fun to take the subway at 168th Street every morning
and be surrounded by cleanly scrubbed young people hurrying to their
downtown jobs. I invariably alighted at 50th Street and would wan
der into the heart of Tin-Pan Alley, which was much noisier then than
it is now; every publisher of renown had at least a half-dozen song
pluggers thumping battered uprights and bent on selling material
to recognized vaudevillians. With the aid of a kindly song writer
named Lee David, I managed to get a hearing now and then, but my
songs were not in the idiom of the street and were instantly re
jected. They were not good songs, and the lyrics, concocted by my
self with the aid of a Russian-English dictionary, were deplor
able. I remember two one was called "Spooning on a Crowded
Bus" and featured the startlingly rhymed climax: "Underneath the
bridge our paradise we cross, spooning on a crowded bus"; the other
was ingeniously titled "Don't Waste Your Time Wasting Your Time
on Me." The publishers didn't.
On one especially humid afternoon, I wandered into a cheap barber
shop, several rejected manuscripts under my arm. The barber was a
small Sicilian named Baretti and, prior to cutting my hair, he pointed
at my piano copies and desired to know whether I was a song
writer. "No, I'm a composer," said I with dignity. "Same thing,"
was Baretti's rejoinder. He began cutting my hair, then suddenly
stopped, the glistening scissors high in the air. "Say, Kid, I have an
idea. I'm a great composer myself, only I can't write down the
notes my parents always wanted me to be a barber, not a musi
cian. How would you like to write down some of my stuff? I'll cut
you in on the royalties or else it's five bucks per." (I thought this
over quickly and settled for five bucks per. This turned out to be a
smart decision, as I discovered that Baretti published his music him
self and was in the habit of presenting it to steady customers with
a suitable autograph. I don't think he ever sold a copy.) Baretti sang
in a loud and intensely nasal voice, but he sang in tune and writing
88 PASSPORT TO PARIS
down Ms ditties was no problem at all that's how simple they
were. His favorite was a waltz entitled "Pay More Attention To Me,
Dearie," which I suspected was swiped from an old Irish air, but I
pocketed my five bucks and said nothing. I harmonized three or four
of these songs and was ready for more when Baretti suddenly de
cided that I was too expensive and made me an offer of ten dollars
for three new ones, which I haughtily declined. Baretti became
indignant and I had to switch to a Washington Heights barber who
had no musical leanings.
Lee David introduced me to Leo Edwards, Gus's brother, who
was then producing a night-club revue for Murray's Roman Gardens
on West 42nd Street This was Jazz Babies on a higher and more
refined level; the girls were slimmer and cleaner, most of them had
garment-center "boy friends" (a term I always detested) who gave
them Guerlain scents, fur coats and (very occasionally) diamonds.
In the time-honored chorine tradition, these girls always fell for the
trombone player or the drummer they still do and thought
the piano-playing foreign kid (myself) too skinny and too young.
I, in turn, thought Murray's girls too brassy, their faces too blatantly
painted, their bodies too extravagantly scented. Thus we worked in
comparative harmony, but not for long; although the revue's theme
song proudly asserted that "in Murray's Roman Gardens there's never
a lull," pretty soon there never was a customer there either.
Without realizing it, I was already leading the dual musical exist
ence which became my trade-mark in the thirties. Out of an odd sort
of self-defense, I began to torture and complicate the musical dialec
tics in my "serious" output; thus, the simpler and more down-to-
earth my tunes, the more cerebral and voulu my "good" music became,
until it was practically indistinguishable from that of the twelve-
tone boys. I sounded off with ten songs on avant garde Russian
poems, including one by myself. These were exhibited to Nina Ko-
shetz, who attempted to decipher them, couldn't, and worked her
self into a violent diatribe against young men who are born old
and would rather die than be caught red-handed with a melody.
She was right. Poor melody became (unwittingly) a tawdry 32-
bar refrain by Alan Lane or Ivan Ivin (Vernon Duke was yet to
make his initial appearance), whereas Dukelsky, thus robbed by
himself was in danger of sinking in a harmonic marsh. The
songs, disdained by Nina, were then taken to Eva Gautier, that
THE BAD OLD DAYS 89
remarkable and cruelly unrewarded exponent of new music. Madame
Gautier, looking not unlike an amiable Siamese cat, liked two of the
songs and proposed to perform them at an International Composers'
Guild concert. The reader is not likely to remember that there
were two new-music citadels in the twenties in New York: the I.C.
Guild and the League of Composers. The former was a militantly
aggressive organization headed by the admirable Edgar Varese, one of
the few authentic new voices in music, and his less radical but most
able colleague, Carlos Salzedo, who revolutionized the harp. The
Guild's concerts were packed with explosive excitement, as some
highly debatable and indigestible music was always played; it was a
joy to see the hall jammed to the doors with extroverted young
people who made rude sounds at the slightest provocation, reacting
violently and noisily to whatever novelties were served up by the
Guild. The hissing and booing in counterpoint with shouts of ap
proval that accompanied the premiere of one of Carl Ruggles's
harsher pieces was as thrilling to me as was the occasion when
Stokowski had to repeat Stravinsky's "Renard," so great was the
audience's insistence! Such things do not happen today, and a living
composer is lucky if he manages to duck into the wings before the
patronizing applause dies down.
The League of Composers was another matter. It had more solid
financial support and there was a reassuring aura of nice bureaucratic
tedium about the goings-on. A lot of middle-of-the-road music was
being played and it was as if the sponsors were bent on selling
the customers the idea that new music could be conformist and re
spectable. Ditto for my reception by the two groups; the League, in
response to my timid inquiry, became frigidly noncommital on hear
ing my "no-name" name and rattled off something about mem
bership fees, etc. On the other hand, the fact that I was totally
unknown served as a password to the Guild, and I was instantly
invited to a Greenwich Village gathering where my hand was
shaken by Varese, an imposing hunk of a man with superbly chiseled
strong features and a bomb-thrower's manner, the feline, impec
cably mannered Salzedo and an odd, birdlike pipe-smoking creature
in shabby tweeds who turned out to be the blood-curdling eardrum
smasher Carl Ruggles. They liked my two songs well enough to
accord them a place on one of their programs and fed me cheese
and Chianti.
90 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Madame Gautier mastered my songs even provided English
translations and sang them at the next Guild concert. The au
dience reception was indicative of other such receptions traditionally
accorded new, but not too new, music the sort of reception where
the hopeful composer asks his best friend, "Well, how did it go?"
and gets this answer: "Pretty well, I thought, how did you think
it went?" The critics said nothing much and nobody "hailed" me
except a swarthy young man named George Gershwin, whom I
first knew as Geo. Gershwin, the creator of "Swanee," the copy of
which was by now gathering dust on the big piano in the Russian
Mayak in far-off Constantinople.
Gershwin impressed me as a superbly equipped and highly skilled
composer not just a concocter of commercial jingles. His extraor
dinary left hand performed miracles in counter-rhythms, shrewd can
onic devices, and unexpected harmonic shifts. "Where did you study?"
I asked, after listening to him play. George laughed, a cigar stuck
between his white teeth. "Oh, I didn't study much some piano and
harmony with a man called Charlie Hambitzer, some lessons from
Rubin Goldmark but on the whole I guess I'm just a natural-
born composer."
When I informed him of my years with Reinhold Gliere, the
difficulty I had had mastering counterpoint and orchestration at fif
teen, he was vaguely impressed. "Gee, it must be great to know so
much," he said, eyeing me with curiosity. "But now that you've
learned it all what are you doing with it?" By way of reply I
played an extremely cerebral piano sonata. Gershwin listened, rather
impatiently, I thought, and then shook his head. "There's no money
in that kind of stuff," he said, "no heart in it, either. Try to write
some real popular tunes and don't be scared about going low
brow. They will open you up!"
This rather startling remark of George's "they will open you up"
stayed with me through all the years that we were friends. Too
many people have climbed on the bandwagon of George's posthumous
glory. Yet, together with two or three others, I was as close to him
as a friend can be. This friendship lasted until his last trip to Holly
wood, which brought about his tragic and untimely death at the age
of thirty-eight
I doubt that Gershwin, then just beginning to "hit it," liked the
strange little songs I wrote. As he expressed it to me later, he was
THE BAD OLD DAYS 91
surprised by the fact that so young a man (I was five years his
junior) should write such dry and intellectual stuff. Eva Gautier sang
three of George's songs at her own recital (composer at the piano)
and the audience literally shouted the place down with approval. A
few months later, Marguerite d' Alvarez, then at the height of her
fame, "stopped the show" with more composer-accompanied Gersh
win. Odd that some of our present-day recitalists don't hire Duke
Ellington (or the other Duke Vernon for that matter) to in
ject a little much-needed life into their Town Hall appearances.
I was now branching out in all directions. Greta Torpadie, the
Norwegian, sang three more songs of mine. Marie Kiekhoefer,
then an executive of the Wolfsohn Musical Bureau, took me in
hand following the Guild initiation and suggested I write an or
chestral piece. I had always wanted to write an overture to the
Russian acmeist-poet Gumilev's "Gondla" a high-flown' post-
romantic tale of Iceland in beautiful marblelike verse. I went to
work happily and completed the job in little over a week. The over
ture, which I orchestrated hesitantly, was shown to Dirk Foch (the
father of film actress Nina Foch), the colorful Dutch musician who
had just formed the short-lived New York City Symphony, and that
courageous man accepted it for performance. This was quite a jump
from the intermezzo of my short-pants debut, and I sat in a blissful
haze through the two rehearsals, and bowed from a box after the
Carnegie Hall performance just before the more than meager ap
plause died down. H. E. Krehbiel, the then all-powerful New York
Tribune critic, called my "Gondla" a "farrago of atrocious noises,"
and most of the others dismissed it facetiously, but it was a start, and
playing the misunderstood genius at so early an age was good fun.
The Foch, Gautier and Torpadie "breaks" gave me my first taste
of the contemporary composer's plight; he gets a performance
then, perhaps, another performance then a seemingly interminable
lull. Thirty years ago most of us had the same trouble perform
ances led to nothing because the new-music market, as today, was
extremely limited and there was far too much supply and far too
little demand.
I remember sitting idly on a Central Park bench after the first and
last performance of "Gondla," pondering my fate. There wasn't
much pondering to do, really. It all amounted to the same thing:
I must make music pay but how? The pudgy little man with a
92 PASSPORT TO PARIS
glistening checkbook who runs up to you after a brilliant premiere,
wrings your hand and shouts, "Great! You've got what it takes
I'll give you ten thousand a year and here's five on account;
just sit tight and write music," doesn't pop up these days, and I
suspect he wasn't accessible in the days gone by not unless his
name was Ludwig of Bavaria and yours Wagner. So, back to synthetic
gypsies I went, as accompanist to one of the tribe in a pseudo-Russian
midtown night spot.
The first clash between the embryo Duke, the wage earner, and
Dukelsky, would-be composer, occurred there and then: one evening
when I was about to charge into the obnoxious "Otchi Tchornya/'
who should walk in but the impeccably clad Karol Szymanovski, a
half-dozen composers in tow. This, as I presently learned, was to be a
banquet tendered the Pole by his admiring colleagues Alfredo
Casella, Emerson Whithorne, Aaron Baron, Lazare Saminsky and
several others. Words cannot describe my despair and mortification.
Here were my senior contemporaries, proudly practicing their craft
nay, my craft! and here was I, a young fellow composer, about
to prostitute myself publicly. I closed my eyes, raced through the
hateful "Otchi" at breakneck speed, causing the gypsy diva intense
discomfort and annoyance, then excused myself and buttonholed
Saminsky. "I'm so sorry," I stammered miserably. "Try and under
stand why I'm doing this." Saminsky shrugged his shoulders philo
sophically. "Don't worry, I understand perfectly. One must eat, mustn't
one?" Nothing was more obvious than this truth, but Oh! how it
hurt at the time.
The next morning, I had a long talk with Mother. I told her that
the hellish humiliation of my lower-than-lowbrow jobs was not justi
fiable in view of the pittances I received for them, that I would
seek and obtain something more remunerative and that I would for
ever renounce the metier of an eatery piano player. Dear Mother
agreed completely, as she always did when my music and my musical
progress were at stake. The "Otchi Tchornya" interlude proved to be
an epilogue, and never again did I have to don a red silk blouse
and black dress trousers (part of a dinner suit, purchased on Eighth
Avenue for seven dollars) to entertain hiccuping customers. I called
up Gershwin and asked him whether he would listen to some freshly
written tunes of mine. George said he sure would and I was off to
West 103rd Street, a new hope in my heart.
THE BAD OLD DAYS 93
When not playing ping-pong on the ground floor with brothers Ira
or Arthur, George could be found at his piano, playing tirelessly for
hours, never practicing in the Czerny sense, just racing through new
tunes, adding new tricks, harmonies, "first and second endings" and
changing keys after each chorus. He was a born improvisatore yet
never changed tempo, nor played rubato, the relentless 4/4 beat car
rying him along it was physically difficult for him to stop. This was
just what he was doing when I walked in and sat down to listen.
George's sister, Frankie, a chubby chestnut-haired flapper, ran in,
and after singing a chorus in a husky little voice, with "gestures,"
ran out again. George then switched to a blues, closed his eyes and,
pushing out his lips in an oddly Negroid manner, began intoning
Ira's lyrics. There was the "feel" of an incantation in George's "vo
cals," and no subsequent performer of his songs has ever invested
them with such arresting fervor. Chorus No. 3 became a duet with
mild, bespectacled Ira, who sang "harmony" to George's lead and
provoked his brother's ire by screwing up an especially juicy pas
sage. The music stopped, a heated argument ensued; this was my
chance and, by breaking up the argument, I hastily slid onto the piano
stool.
"O.K., Dukie, let's have it," said George, baring his teeth and
lighting a pipe. The Brothers Gershwin called me Dukie long before
George baptized me Duke. The first two tunes were shrugged off
politely, but on hearing the third, George's attitude changed. He "
took the pipe out of his mouth and ordered me to repeat the chorus.
"That's a funny chord you got in the second bar," George said re
flectively. "It's good, though. It's so good that I'll tell you what I'll
do take you to Max Dreyfus." Max Dreyfus, as most everybody
knew, was the musical-comedy potentate publisher. This was the real
article at last.
Harms, Inc., Dreyfus's firm, was then located on West 45th Street
and consisted of an old-fashioned suite of offices. In the waiting
room sat members of the Dreyfus "stable" Vincent Youmans ("Tea
for Two"), Joe Meyer ("California, Here I Come"), Phil Charig
("Sunny Disposish"), Harry Ruby ("Thinking of You"), Oscar
Levant ("Lady, Play Your Mandolin") and a few others. The
place was like a political hell, with Boss Dreyfus dispensing pa
tronage to the Faithful and selling producers on commissioning
entire musical-comedy scores to the older and better-established
94 PASSPORT TO PARIS
"boys," or interpolated numbers to promising beginners. Most of
these privilege characters were drawing small weekly advances against
future royalties on a yearly basis and that's what I was after.
Dreyfus, looking not unlike a well-groomed Mahatma Gandhi,
sat at his huge mahogany desk, puffing on a long cigar. He handed a
similar one to George and managed a thinnish smile. George was
definitely a comer and a special favorite, but mine was a new face,
young and unfamiliar. After some jocular shop talk concerning the
new Kern musical (Sitting Pretty) and the eccentricity of You-
mans, an unpredictable creature, Gershwin lit the Dreyfus cigar and
said, "Max, Dukie is a Russian and writes classical stuff. I want you
to hear a tune he wrote that I like." Dreyfus looked me over, this
time unsmilingly, and waved me to the Steinway with his cigar. "Go
ahead, young man," he said shortly. I attacked the Gershwin-ap
proved chorus, but was stopped at the tenth bar when the "funny"
chord reappeared. "Just a minute," said Dreyfus. "What kind of a
chord is that?" I carefully translated the Russian conservatory term
for the chord. "Oh ... all right, continue," was the new order. I
modulated into a brighter key and stole a look at mighty Max. His
eyes were closed, his face set he was listening attentively. I man
aged to go through the prescribed 32 bars. Long silence. "Why do
you like that tune, George?" Dreyfus queried calmly. I don't re
member George's answer, but I do remember taking leave of the
potentate a few minutes later his hand was cold and so was the nod
I received, signifying dismissal. "Funny," mused George as we left
Harms, Inc., "if I were Max, I would have signed you up on the spot."
It was Nina Koshetz who restored my rapidly vanishing faith in
myself. She needed someone to coach her for a forthcoming concert
with Leopold Stokowski and gave me the job. Nina took a house
in Monmouth Hills, New Jersey, and invited me to spend a month as
her guest and collaborator; outside of playing accompaniments I was
engaged to orchestrate Rachmaninov's "Vocalise" and Moussorgsky's
"Gopak," the two pieces Nina was to sing with Stokowski's orchestra.
My knowledge of orchestration was distinctly sketchy, but I was
grateful for the invitation. There is no greater satisfaction for a
composer young or old than to have a performer turn to him and
say: "I need you. Come and help me." Unfortunately, they usually
reserve such pleadings for their managers or lovers.
I was given a comfortable room and an old Chickering piano,
THE BAD OLD DAYS 95
which suited me fine. Armed with Gevaert's and Widor's orchestra
tion manuals I did the job reasonably well, and working with Nina
was fun because she was not only a musician, but also had a sense of
humor the two seldom go together. There were always young peo
ple around the house, including Salima, a florid blonde of nineteen
who was vaguely reported to be Nina's niece; we had romantic de
signs on one another that came to naught. The younger element went
in for tennis, swimming, some typically Fitzgeraldian petting in Stutz
rumble seats and Saturday outings to the Monmouth Country Club,
which was reputed to be the last word. I wasn't good at sports and
couldn't drive a car; as for the country club, I never had enough cash
and was too proud to sponge off of visiting Princeton and Yale men.
When not flirting with Salima, I composed or orchestrated and was
happy to be able to work away from sleazy rehearsal rooms and
Second Avenue samovars.
Then it was back to New York, the relentless heat strangling the
big town, its pavement strewn with the discarded festoons of the sum
mer. I saw Arrow-collar-type young men in their Wanamaker or
Brooks Bros, suits, according to the social strata, returning home
from vacations the younger ones soon to be off to college, the older
back to Daddy's bank or Uncle's soda fountain. They seemed to have
a purpose in life and a well-planned future, as did their "dates,"
pert, slim-limbed city sirens, complete with the new boyish bob, ori
ental earrings and a long cigarette holder, bent on marriage or a "ca
reer"; they all had fresh memories of energetic necking at Princeton
house parties or on the less recherch6 sands of Coney Island. I again
felt suspended in thin air as I returned to my daily pursuits of Eu
terpe and greenbacks.
Through Alan Tanner, a wistfully handsome youth much in de
mand as accompanist, I had met Vadim Uraneff, whose claims to
fame were a Moscow Art Theatre apprenticeship and a small part in
John Barrymore's Hamlet. Uraneff, who had distinct directorial tal
ents and some (not enough) ambition, thought of putting together
a double bill of an abridged "Song of Songs" in pantomime and a
one-act playlet by Alexander Blok, the Russian poet of pre-Revolu-
tion despair. I looked dreamy and arty enough as did Uraneff
and copiposed what was then regarded as "modern music," so I
was introduced to the regal Edna James, actress-backer of the pro
posed venture, and asked to write incidental music for what proved
96 PASSPORT TO PARIS
to be a mild amalgam of Meyerhold eroticism and the Bible. I wrote
my score, not an unpleasant one, for seven instruments, with a piano
part for myself; there was nothing incidental about the music, which
flowed copiously from the overture to the curtain without a single
break. Our bill was put on at the Lyric Theater, 42nd Street, for
a "limited" engagement of three weeks, which had to be further
limited to two because of lack of patronage. One of the critics wearily
mentioned the music and printed my name.
Eva Gautier took me to a gay party given by Adolph Bolm, the
ex-Diaghilev premier danseur de caractere, who then had his own
"intimate" ballet company, with Ruth Page as the prima ballerina.
Bolm had successfully choreographed Carpenter's Krazy Kat and
had a ballet synopsis, a rather stilted harlequinade, which he handed
me after some concerted sales talk by Eva, Alan Tanner and Aaron
Baron. I composed industriously, and the results were not altogether
wasted, as I used some pages in Boreas's variation in Zephyr et Flora
two years later. Bolm never produced the little ballet, as he soon
disbanded his small company and went on to more lucrative
things. At about the same time, my new friend and youthful sponsor,
Gershwin, was "arriving" at a tremendous pace. Outside of the long
runs of George White's Scandals (of which he wrote several edi
tions), there was Sweet Little Devil, with songs like "Virginia" and
"Innocent Ingenue Baby" of sassy, full-blodded freshness, at which he
banged away at all the best parties, the guests clamoring for more.
On top of all this came the evergreen Rhapsody in Blue.
I am still young enough to sigh for the Bad Old Days, and not old
enough to long for the Good Old ones. "I wanna be Bad" was the
sophomoric motto of my New York companions, and how they loved
achieving badness, not the involved post-Freudian aberrations, just
drink and lechery in very large doses. My composing career was not
panning out right; the nearest thing to a "break" I got was the Ko-
shetz performance of the two Russian pieces I orchestrated. This
took place in Detroit; no one needed me there, so I didn't go and con
sequently didn't hear my versions. With the sweeping abandon of
youth, I decided to go bad in a big way. This proved simpler than
chasing .the Muse and the Moola at the same time. I was under twenty,
not unattractive and wore my secondhand or borrowed clothes with
an air, though without a cent. Obliging mentors turned up on all sides;
there were gay Englishmen like Oswald Balfour, certainly the most
THE BAD OLD DAYS 97
diligent diner-out of his day, Lord "Naps" Alington, and their
American cronies, Johnny McMullin and Lester Donahue, the "social"
pianist. These men were fashion dictators (McMullin wrote on
men's clothes for Vanity Fair) , salon habitues for salons thrived
in New York in 1923 and occasional shimmers in Harlem, then on
the crest of a gigantic wave, and in Greenwich Village, which com
bined Montparnasse and Montmartre with a touch of Rue de Lappe.
I'm not sure just why I was taken up by such established dandies but,
thanks to the Koghanskis, I frequented musical Fifth Avenue and
dined at Hoytie Wiborg's, or Dorothy Monroe Robinson's, or Mrs.
Otto Kahn's, three somewhat "intellectual" hostesses who entertained
splendidly and liked to mix Gershwin's airs with Burke's Peerage's
graces.
Theirs was a Bohemia on a grand scale, complete with butlers
and white tie de rigueur. The doyen, the real animateur of Bed-
lam-in-Gotham was none other than Robert Winthrop Chanler, six
feet eight inches of massive man, screen painter, one of the Astors
and ban vivant extraordinary. Chanler's high priestess and mistress
of ceremonies was Louise Hellstrom, widow of the Swedish novelist,
who possessed the rare knack of raising Cain imaginatively and at
all times. Bob Chanler had a brother named Willie, generally sup
posed to be potty; when Bob married the tempestuous and highly
publicized beauty Lina Cavalieri, Willie cabled him: "Who's loony
now?" Willie had something there, because the Chanlers were soon
divorced in a manner that brought about a major disaster in Bob's life.
He painted a large screen on which he depicted a white deer being
bitten to death by a black panther; he would often take new friends
to the cellar, where the screen was displayed, and, shedding drunken
tears, would beat his breast and hint at the symbolic nature of the
screen the deer was himself, the panther Cavalieri.
Louise was of medium size, sparingly put together. Her hair was
red of a striking redness, made still redder by the bluish-whiteness
of her skin; she had oddly shaped green eyes, her best feature, talked
in a hoarse baritone, pausing just long enough to inhale the smoke
of her cigarette or gulp down her highball; unless you knew her well
and were used to her mannerisms, her speech was extremely difficult
to follow, as she was fond of interspersing her narrative with un
intelligible mumbling. Here's a sample: she'd say, "My dear, how can
you possibly like that pot-bellied bastard, he's so mzz, bzz, mzz,
98 PASSPORT TO PARIS
bzz." This accompanied by violent grimaces and much shoulder-
shrugging. Or, "I saw Kitty and Johnny last night at T. R.'s and we
had one hell of a good dinner, then T. R. and I went into the library
and had some of his scotch and when we came back to the living
room Kitty and Johnny vzz vzz vzz on the sofa," Louise would now
animate her pretty legs, attempt a lascivious leer and then burst out
laughing delightedly. I later learned that the mumbling was an
imitation of Bob Chanler's speech. You knew eventually that with both
of them "mzz bzz" signified things boring and unworthwhile, whereas
"vzz vzz" indicated epicurean and priapean delights, also anything
cozy and gemutlich. To Louise all people and she met hundreds
daily were either "mzz bzz" or "vzz vzz" (caressingly intoned) and
were immediately and ruthlessly screened: The "mzz bzzers" never
went farther than Louise's Village flat, from which they were often
forcibly ejected; the "vzzers" were reinvited, this time to mix with
some established members of the Hellstrom group, and if met with
general approval, accorded the supreme honor of being taken to Bob
Chanler's of an evening.
Chanler's house was the goal of all pleasure seekers, because life
there consisted of one continuous party nightly, after sundown
into the not so small hours. I don't remember the servants, although
they must have been remarkable characters too, but whoever opened
the door to admit a new arrival, was invariably followed by Louise
or Carlotta, Louise's big Spanish rival in Bob's affections. A "mzz
bzzer" daring to crash the sacred gates would find the door shut
tight in his face even if brought by friends of the family a "vzz
vzzer" would be greeted with piercing shrieks of joy in which Bob,
suddenly emerging from nowhere, would join, roaring like a de
mented lion. The guest would then be literally carried upstairs to
the third floor, where uninterrupted revelry reigned. The second floor
was known as "respectable" (strictly "mzz bzz") and given over to
Chanler's debutante daughters, who'd occasionally appear on the
staircase, white-gloved and disdainful, to greet a white-tie eligible
creature and make sure that he didn't make a mistake and wind up
on the wrong floor. Because of my youth, non-Chanlerian looks and
correct clothes, I was once ushered into the daughters' sanctum and,
after dancing rapturously with a tall dark divinity, her Coty-
scented arms locked around my neck, upon being asked the name
of my fraternity, gave an answer so unorthodox that I was thrown
THE BAD OLD DAYS 99
out instantly. I cannot say that I felt very much at home where I be
longed on the third floor not being good at either drinking or
lechery; but Bob and Louise took to me, rather like one takes to an
absurd yet somehow endearing trinket or piece of furniture, and
made me feel that no party was complete without my presence.
They nicknamed me "Dodo,'* I was pronounced strictly "vzz vzz"
and I will always have a soft spot for the strange and lovable "bad"
couple, whose badness artfully disguised that very rare commodity
a big heart.
I suspect Louise was something of a snob in her own way, the
way in which I, also, am a snob. She cared very little for titles, fat
bank accounts or social-register listings, but collected people of tal
ent literary, theatrical, painting or musical preferably, but
not necessarily, touched by recognition and accompanying publicity.
To her great credit she helped and mothered many so-called "strug
gling" artists, making sure first that they had some art with which to
struggle; Bohemian hangers-on and career charlatans she detested.
The inmates of "Chez Chanler" were an astonishingly motley crew.
The "regulars" consisted of T. R. Smith, the publisher and antholo
gist of erotic poetry, a small belligerent-looking man wearing pince-
nez; Joseph Stella, the Italian Brooklyn painter, whose 14-year-old
daughter danced bare-breasted for the guests on one occasion; Marcel
Duchamps, the celebrated abstract painter; E. E. Cummings; Carl
Van Vechten; the Russians Ivan Narodny and David Burliuk; and
many others. Two other Russians, Bobritsky and Alajalov, who
did well in the ensuing years, were then making a living as batik
painters and dwelt in Fourth Avenue in daytime, at Charter's at
night. Louise's own circle determinedly dernier cri was no less
colorful, but rather out of Chanler's orbit, finding his coterie too
mixed for comfort. The circle was made up of women like Jane Heap
and Margaret Anderson, the Little Review masterminds; Djuna
Barnes, the novelist (both Margaret and Djuna great beauties);
Georgette Leblanc, Maeterlinck's ex-wife; and Yvonne George, the
Edith Piaf of her day, who died young. Yvonne, much feted all over
New York, lived at the Brevoort, undermining her robust good looks
by a steady diet of morphine. She once took a slight shine to me but,
on finding little cooperation from this source, said, "Tiens, tu aimes
les gargons. II jallait me le dire!' It was useless to tell her that the
gargons meant nothing in my young life and that neither did the
100 PASSPORT TO PARIS
whole sex business, which still filled me with uncomprehending ter
ror.
The above enumerated stalwarts, when at Chanler's, were soon
joined by assorted visitors of note or reasonable promise. In the course
of a few months, I saw Somerset Maugham, Jack Buchanan, Bea
Lillie and Gertrude Lawrence (who had just taken New York by
storm in Chariot's Revue; Gertie's singing of "Limehouse Blues" is
still one of my most poignant memories), Arnold Bennett, Jane
Cowl, Dorothy Parker, Judith Anderson, John Murray Anderson,
Augustus John, Alexander Woollcott, Arthur Bliss, Noel Coward
(then broke and fighting for recognition), Marguerite d' Alvarez,
Sam Hoffenstein, H. L. Mencken, Burton Rascoe, Arthur Guiter-
man, John Dos Passes, etc., etc., as well as the young actresses
Blythe Daly and Tallulah Bankhead.
John Murray Anderson, looking like an amiable cockatoo, was al
ways surrounded by young boys and girls who adored him. He had
the gift of curt and deliberately cruel repartee, and I never knew
whether to be insulted or enchanted by his cryptic and very per
sonal remarks. Murray was then producing Jack and Jill, with music
by Augustus Barratt, who was better known for his monocle than
any particular talent. Elizabeth North and Barbara Bennett, later
Mrs. Morton Downey, were in the chorus and smuggled me into the
show's rehearsals, held at a Third Avenue German Bierstube which
reeked of hops and sawdust. It was wonderful to watch the labor
pains of a musical comedy even from the sidelines; Murray paid
not the slightest attention to me and would not listen to my songs, for
which I did not blame him they were simply not good enough. I
remember Barbara Bennett, who was the heaviest and, I thought,
the prettiest girl in the show (the two usually went together with
me), developing acute hysteria in the middle of an intricate dance
routine, and being carried out by two husky chorus men. There was a
big party at Murray's penthouse on top of an early-vintage sky
scraper in East 34th Street following the opening; but the notices
were grim and Jack and Jill folded shortly afterwards. Murray was
then chiefly known for his imaginative Greenwich Village Follies,
which usually employed my pantomimic friend Jimmy Watts. The
two Murray and Jimmy were in the habit of dropping in at
Bob Chanler's and having a heated argument with Louise, who loved
arguments more than anything else in this world.
THE BAD OLD DAYS 101
Chanter's celebrated third floor consisted mainly of a long and
narrow living room with a well-stocked bar at the end; this led to
two mysteriously partitioned-off beds, hidden by Chanler-painted
screens. As often as not the guests, after copious libations and much
noisy talk, "would pair off and disappear behind the screens; they
never escaped the eye of their host who, towering over his screens,
would delightedly watch the proceedings, vzz vzz vzzing under his
breath.
These Peeping Tom activities of Chanler's sometimes led to trou
ble, as on the occasion when he discovered an especially virile
young man in the screened-off bed, with the wtong girl; the young
man's official girl friend, also present, was indignantly notified of
this by the host, who then obligingly helped her pull the offender
out of bed. Another bit of pulling quickly followed when the girls
went at each other's hair, with the entire entourage forming a semi
circle around the contestants, Bob beating his breast and guffawing
ecstatically. . This was a typical climax to an evening which started
most innocuously with Ivor Novello, then an entirely too beautiful
youth, playing "And Her Mother Came, Too," an agreeable little
tune which pleased Gershwin, also present. Following the hair-pull
ing act, two Chinese servants appeared with champagne to celebrate
Virtue's victory, the girls kissed and made up and we all repaired to
Harlem to hear Florence Mills. Everybody was mad for Shuffle
Along and Liza, the two reigning Negro musicals, shortly to be
followed by the "immortal" Blackbirds. At 6. A.M., a group of inti
mates was driven at breakneck speed to a Long Island spot where
we were fed a breakfast of steamed clams and coffee.
Notwithstanding all this depravity, I managed to compose a piano
concerto for Artur Rubinstein. He was not the success then that he
is now, and was more receptive to new music, playing Szymanovski
and Stravinsky superbly. On hearing some piano pieces of mine at
Zosia Kochanski's, he suggested that I write a one-movement
concerto, pianistically grateful and "not too cerebral." Were it not for
Artur, I would have probably gone back to "Otchi Tchornya,"
although he never played the concerto, through no fault of his or
lack of willingness but I'm anticipating. It is sufficient to say that
in a life made up of turning points as well as of "points of no re
turn" the concerto proved a turning point of major proportions.
Mother was seriously worried about the frenzied existence I led
102 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and in her many letters, made available to me by the addressees after
her death in 1942, spoke feelingly about "poor luckless Dima, who
never seems to get started." Yes, the title of my subsequent song hit,
"I Can't Get Started," could well be applied to this early chapter of
my life. Mother and I knew that the Hellstrom and Chanler parties,
the fancy waistcoats artlessly copied from Oswald Balfour's, the oc
casional sorties into the great, glittering world of well-heeled art
patrons were not for me not yet that I had no right to think my
self a part of fashionable Manhattan; that this was merely a desper
ate cover-up and that, when stripped of my secondhand finery, I was
a badly frightened young man.
The concerto, my first well-knit and technically adroit piece, was
finished by Christmas 1923. I tried it on Koka Stember, who liked it
instantly and volunteered to learn it, then on Gershwin, who became
enamored of the lyrical second subject and made me play it at
parties as an aftermath to his "Do It Again" and "Stairway to Para
dise." Thus encouraged, I took it to my new mentor, Rubinstein,
who received me dressed in a brocaded silk dressing gown, with a
large pearl stick-pin in his tie, affable and courtly as is his wont. The
one thing I dreaded was a polite brush off: I had learned the concerto
painstakingly, but, having given up practicing long ago, was barely
equal to my task. I gave a fairly good account of my work, never
theless, and Artur, bless him, was quite transported. He grabbed
the manuscript and began looking it over page by page, his large
bulging eyes shining. "It's amazingly good, far, far better than I
expected. Forgive me, but I expect very little from new composers,"
he said. "They all have two faults which make their work hopeless
for a pianist who must earn his bread; firstly, they have no melodic
gift or are ashamed to display it and secondly, they don't know how
to write for the instrument. They think the piano is a kettledrum.
Thank God, you don't. Also, the concerto is full of tunes." He sat
down at the piano and essayed the first solo, then added: "Yes, I'll
play this music only not here; the managers won't let me play
what I like they're always complaining about poor KaroPs
[Szymanovski's] things, which I love. As for concert! they don't
hire me too often to play with orchestras, and when they do, it's
always Tchaikovsky, Beethoven or Liszt. No, the place for you and
your concerto is Europe. Go to Paris, where I'll be this summer."
I was speechless with excitement and gratitude. I knew, of course,
THE BAD OLD DAYS 103
that Paris was ever the Mecca of young composers. Having learned
all about New York the hard way, I hoped I might have something
to offer this big, hard-boiled city, but my time hadn't come; I needed
a Parisian passport first.
The decision having come so swiftly, so irrevocably, I was not
worried about the main requisite for a trip to Europe money. I
just knew I'd get it somehow. I sprang the plan on Mother that
evening and pleaded my cause with such infectious eloquence that
she became persuaded I should go. The colonel thought anything
better than my Sybaritic way of life and even gave me a theosophical
blessing.
The next morning I was on the telephone to Gershwin; told
him of my decision, assured him that I didn't want to borrow money
but simply had to make some and would he have ideas on the sub
ject. George, with his customary generosity and big-brother kind
ness to me, told me to come right over. When I did so, he was argu
ing violently with his father, the legendary New York Micawber, who
is yet to find a Dickens to immortalize him. Pa Gershwin liked me
and I always felt at home with him. "Well, young man, and how are
you? Still writing those long symphonies?" he enquired facetiously.
"O.K., Pop, see you later," George countered; he was habitually
rather snappy with his father, but they loved each other and the
arguments were the food of their love. Pa exited, whistling a non-
Gershwin tune.
My hunch was good. Things began to work out at a swift pace. It
transpired that George, overburdened with work, needed a "ghost"
writer for a black-and-white ballet a simple bit of ragtime for
a high-kicking precision routine for the Tiller girls, who were to
appear in the 1924 edition of George White's Scandals. I turned
out the thing in a few hours and was paid $100 by George. Deem
ing the job satisfactory, George then desired to have me try my
hand at "piano copies," publishable voice and piano versions of
songs to be used in the revue. I arranged six of these and was paid
twenty dollars a piece by Harms, Inc. The songs I "arranged" were
the ever-popular "Somebody Loves Me," "In Araby," "Kongo
Kate," "Tune in on Station J-O-Y," "Year After Year," and a rhythm
song, the name of which escapes me. I was quite proud of the "fill-
ins," I provided for "Somebody Loves Me" and was amused to
find that they were also used in the stock orchestration obvi-
104 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ously, the arranger thought them eminently Gershwinesque, which
indeed they were. That was another $120.
Last, but certainly not least, George entrusted me with the piano
solo version of the "Rhapsody," for which I was paid $100, the
personal check signed by Mighty Max. My pockets suddenly bulg
ing with money, I next invited Zosia Kochanski to lunch and started
selling her on my European venture. I didn't have to oversell, be
cause Rubinstein had already told Zosia of the good impression my
concerto made on him and she was ready to do her darndest to
help. We compared our listings of rich and influential people and
Zosia picked Dorothy Monroe Robinson as the most likely and will
ing victim. Mrs. M. Robinson (now Mrs. Elbridge Gerry Chadwick)
came of a prosperous and cultured Boston family, was pretty in
the New England way than which there is nothing more seduc
tive and was an amateur ballet dancer. A seance at the lady's
house followed: I played, Rubinstein and the Kochanskis lent
weighty support, and a day later I was richer by $500. My luck
changed literally overnight.
In 1924, the sum of $800 was more than enough for a young
musician's needs for a six months' sojourn in Paris. Mother was
elated at my good fortune and even the stern colonel began refer
ring to me as a "composer of promise." It wasn't altogether clear to
anyone, including myself, just what Paris would do for me, but,
supremely confident, I was determined to do something for Paris.
I felt I needed some letters of introduction. From my social mentors
I obtained three to Princesse de Polignac, Baron de Meyer (then
the Vogue photographer) and Misia Sert. Szymanovsky gave me a
letter to Henry Pruniferes, the editor of the Revue Musicale. Now
that Max Dreyfus paid me for Harms-published arrangements, I
felt free to ask him for a letter to Salabert, the top Paris publisher
of light music. The customary interview was obtained, complete with
the thin, long cigar, a thinner smile and few, very few words. The
secretary appeared, was told to type the "usual" letter, then a curt
nod, a vague circular gesture with the cigar, indicating, I hoped,
bon voyage and good luck and back to the waiting room I
went to hear Joe Meyer's latest joke and Harry Ruby's newest base
ball story.
The ship I sailed on was the Rochambeau, a small, rickety vessel,
but the passengers wide-eyed students, for the most part were
THE BAD OLD DAYS 105
young and in search of happiness, the food excellent. Before sailing
Mother gave me a small Greek Orthodox icon, that had been in the
family for generations, a little theosophical pamphlet and a thick
wool sweater, knitted by herself. "It is significant," said she, "that
Mother was Anton Rubinstein's favorite pupil, and that you are now
going to Europe sponsored by another Rubinstein Artur!"
CHAPTER VIII
PASSPORT TO PARIS
EVERY great city and there aren't many deserving that adjective
has an immediate and special effect on one exposed to it for
the first time. New York hits you between the teeth, London makes
you straighten your tie and roll up your umbrella, Venice soothes
and saddens you, Rome turns you into an actor, Berlin forces you to
dislike the human race, Copenhagen causes you to like it again,
Constantinople lulls you into a sweet sleep, Vienna . . . forgive
me, I've never been there . . . Paris enchants and exhilarates you
as no other place can. From the moment I was ushered into my
room at the Hotel Majestic and made up for the poverty of my
luggage by the excessiveness of my tip to the bellhop, from the sec
ond I opened the window and looked down on the busy street scene,
catching that first unforgettable whiff of crushed lilacs and gasoline
the nowhere to be equaled Paris smell I knew that I loved
Paris and would love her until my dying day.
The Majestic was, of course, a big mistake, as the Kochanskis,
whom I met in the lobby, told me concernedly. They knew my
finances to a franc and remonstrated with me, pointing out that I
was no spleen-killing tourist, merely a poor aspirant to recogni
tion and a Paris endorsement, and had better try the Left Bank. My
finances may have been low, but my spirits never higher. I agreed
with my benefactors thoroughly, assured them that I would move
that afternoon, but stayed one whole week. "Stayed" is certainly the
wrong word, as I was in a state of perpetual motion from the time I
landed, bent on discovering Paris for myself without anyone's help,
unarmed with Baedekers or Michelins. By walking about ceaselessly,
lounging in cafes, riding in the Metro, buses, horse carriages and
bateaux mouches, by chatting, arguing and exchanging pleasantries
PASSPORT TO PARIS 107
with natives, I learned to my delight that the Left Bank was more
Parisian than the Right; that ordinary oeufs sur le plat and salade
de tomates were ambrosiacal and assuredly more than just eggs and
tomatoes; that the subway was more attractive and comfortable than
the New York variety, but that you needed a gas mask if traveling
second class; that the French girls often had mustaches under their
noses as well as under their arms; that their often chunky bodies and
voluminous busts were supported by bony toothpicklike legs, usually
too short; that the men were smallish and exceedingly badly dressed
even dandies had an oddly overdressed "wrong" look; that the
"flics" (cops) were corpulent, untidy and bewhiskered and spent
most of their time arguing with even untidier taxi drivers, when the
latter weren't too busy insulting one another; that the lady con
cierges were addicted to beards and glared at you until you gave
them un petit -franc, at which point they displayed the most ex
quisite manners; that the urinoirs on street corners were none too
safe as they were the habitual haunts of pederasts on the prowl;
that the wine was incomparable and the beer deplorable; that
the French didn't like foreigners but were intrigued by them; that
Paris was a most virtuous city (this is even more true today) be
cause, unlike New York or London, where sex is in<Mged in for
health or athletic reasons, it's very hard to get a woman to sleep
with you; that it's either le grand amour, in which case the girl
moves her belongings into your flat, whether invited to do so or not
and starts darning your socks or you've got to pay up; that the
method of paying varies from so much per hour in a "house" to so
much per dress at a good couturier's or so much per jewel; that for
a modest sum you could indulge every known and unknown vice
from massage sous I'eau to necrophilia; that Bois de Boulogne at
night wasn't a healthy place, unless you wished to participate in a
partouse or become prey to elderly voyeurs; that there is no pastime
more delicious than bookhunting on the quais (that's where my
bibliomania began, trivially enough); that kissing a girl in a cafe
in full view of curious strangers was most agreeable; that bathrooms
were scarce but with practice you could perform wonders with a
bidet (which always looks like a cello made of marble to me) ; that
some people eat to live, others live to eat, but the French eat to eat,
and no nonsense; that a Frenchman shakes a friend's hand by lifting
it up in the air and then pulling it downward with a sudden jerk;
108 PASSPORT TO PARIS
that Paris dogs are the best front men and mixers of their kind
they sit outside their owners' cafes, make with the charm and lure the
customers in; that Paris children are the best-looking in the world,
which argues well for the city's future; that when eating his excellent
bread, a Frenchman places a piece of it directly against his navel,
holding on to it firmly with both hands, then breaks it noiselessly
and proceeds to wipe his plate clean with it in order not to miss any
of the sauce; that no one can smoke a cigarette as artfully as a
Frenchman, who sticks it in a corner of his mouth, lights it, purses
up his lips (this is very difficult) and then proceeds to talk rapidly,
the dangling cigarette and the pursed-up lips giving him the desired
"tough" look try it the next time you smoke; that the prettiest
American girls hung out in Rumpelmayer's tearoom or the Ritz and,
galvanized by "Gay Pay-ree," were chronically on the make; that
music was everywhere, from Salle Pleyel to Le Jockey in Montpar-
nasse; that everybody gave parties and most everybody who knew
how to kiss a lady's hand was invited; that taxis were cheap and un
safe and telephones bewildering and unreliable; that snobs read
Proust and Claudel, not the Almanack de Gotha or the social register,
and went to concerts, not just dinners, weddings and horse races; that
everyone gate and took, and no one gave a damn in short, that
Paris was Paradise.
Educationally speaking, I was doing fine, but I was spending too
much money and not progressing along the self-prescribed lines. The
initial fever over, I took myself to 150 Boulevard Montparnasse and
descended on Pavlik Tchelitchev and Alan Tanner, then sharing a
big, untidy flat which by a stretch of the imagination could have been
called a "studio." The living room had the right kind of light in it
and all the painter's paraphernalia. It also housed an upright for
Alan to practice on which he did but seldom, as he was lazy and
preferred to linger in bed pushing the keys of a tiny piano muet
(soundless), while Pavlik painted diligently. They were an odd pair;
Alan pale and willowy, his small mouth in a perpetual pout, while
Pavlik was healthier than ever, all golden hair and plump rosy
cheeks, shouting and gesticulating out of sheer exuberance. Their
painter friends were always in and out pugnosed Tereshkovitch
with a shrewd peasant's face; small, silent Pougny (both recognized
"masters" now); Count Lanskoy, who later switched to abstract
painting and gained a reputation by so doing; and Boris Shatzman,
PASSPORT TO PARIS 109
with the head of a minor prophet, his fine eyes glaring at Tchelit-
chev's prospective customers, forever dropping in but seldom buy
ing anything. Among the "non-customers" was Nicolas Nabokov, a
tall youth a year older than myself, who had studied composition
with Rebikov, the now forgotten "whole-tone scale" champion, prior
to coming to Paris. He played some music of his Omar Khayyam
songs and an overture in the Satie manner; we liked neither, but
Nabokov himself was an engaging young man with an open Russian
face and the disarming clumsiness of adolescence.
Tchelitchev, as I soon found out, had made a name for himself in
Berlin, where he painted sets for the opera house. He was entrusted
mainly with Russian operas and, since "Russian" was synonymous
with "garish" in those days, adopted a flowery Bakst-Soudeikine-
Rabinovitch manner which delighted the Berliners. It didn't satisfy
the painter who, in spite of his youth, had a genuine capacity for
self-discipline; he, therefore, gave the echte russische Kunst a swift
kick in the behind and retreated to Montparnasse to learn painting
from scratch.
We dined that night, my first in Montparnasse, at Rosalie's, which
'is around the corner on Rue Campagne Premiere, still full of memo
ries of Modigliani, whom the good woman fed when the painter was
ill or broke or both. The tiny place was crowded with tousled Swedes
and awkward Texans with cornfed grins and big feet; the ample-
"bosomed Kiki sat in a corner with Foujita on another night I
saw Helene Perdriat, Juan Gris and Kisling, but not together. The
food was not bad and very cheap. Pavlik picked a quarrel with one
of the painters present and, when the shouting and fist-shaking died
down, we paid the modest bill and returned to 150 Montparnasse.
"Well, let's hear this music that you came to conquer Paris with,"
Tchelitchev said, winking good-naturedly at Tanner. I sailed into
the concerto with gusto and was rewarded by the astonished faces of
my two listeners. "What's gotten into you, Dima?" Alan queried,
pouting no longer. "This is a really good concerto a little too much
Prokofiev, a bit of undigested Rachmaninov here and there, but you
*can write music of that there is no doubt." Pavlik roared with
pleasure, then sat down, suddenly pensive: "Yes, you might do ...
for Beaumont, not for Diaghilev. Diaghilev is too great a snob and
wants names. However, the Count de Beaumont is launching a ballet
.season with Picasso, Massine and Satie, is calling it Soirees de Paris,
110 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and we all know him. He may commission a score from you." Alan
made a face. "What about Valitchka?" he asked Pavlik. "Not
Valitchka Bolm, surely?" I cut in. They both laughed. "No, silly
Nouvel, Valitchka Nouvel; Diaghilev's business manager and admin
istrator a man, not a girl. He's crazy about Alan and who can
tell may take a fancy to you," went on Tchelitchev. "He knows a
lot about music, having founded the Contemporary Music Group
with Nourok in Russia. Valitchka is a crotchety old boy, but he
means well."
I expressed my delight at the prospect of meeting the male Va
litchka and Alan promised to telephone him in the morning. My
two friends then helped me move to the small and smelly Hotel de
Nice, practically across the street from their home, where the prices
were right and the company wrong, principally whores and travel
ing salesmen. I don't know just what the salesmen sold, but they
seemed to travel mostly from one whore's room to another's.
While waiting for Valitchka to materialize, I decided to put my
letters of introduction to good use and began with Salabert, then sit
ting on top of the world with Maurice Yvain's gay and unrefined
musicals like Ta Bouche, Pas sur la Bouche and others. I told the
receptionist I had a letter from the great Dreyfus and was imme
diately ushered into Salabert's office. The publisher shook my hand
cordially, waved me to a chair, and opened Dreyfus's letter. His
face fell. "Haven't you played your music for Max?" he asked icily.
"Yes, Mr. Salabert, I have indeed. , . . Why?" I faltered. "Well,
read this." I glanced at the letter, which was very short. "Dear Mr.
Salabert," it said. "The bearer of this letter is Mr. Dukelsky, a young
man who composes music. Any courtesies shown Mr. Dukelsky will
be greatly appreciated. Faithfully [etc.]." Needless to say, the door
was the only courtesy shown me; on returning to my hotel, I gave
myself to a fit of rage and tore up all the other letters. From now
on, my music alone was going to make or unmake me.
Nouvel showed up that same evening a pint-size, natty man
with an old-fashioned pince-nez under bushy eyebrows, a clipped
mustache and a fierce scowl, a little too fierce to be authentic. Dear
Valitchka was, in reality, one of the sweetest of God's creatures, but
also a frustrated composer (like his friend Diaghilev), frustrated
lover, frustrated sybarite he loved luxury and could not afford
it and I think was genuinely angry at himself for possessing so-
PASSPORT TO PARIS 111
kind a heart. He was fond of cutting and artfully insulting remarks,
which he made often between puffs on his eternal cigarette, and
would follow them with a snakelike sound a cross between a hiss
and a chuckle winding up with an asthmatic cough, which would
make him angrier still. In a perpetual rage at himself, he covered it
up by being ingeniously unpleasant to people especially if he
liked them.
After kissing Pavlik on both cheeks and pinching Alan, Valitchka
clucked contentedly and turned to me: "I hear you write music
must you?" This sally was accompanied by the hissing-snake act,
followed by violent coughing. No answer was expected, obviously,
and Nouvel went on: "Don't be scared by me; nobody is scared by
Valitchka any longer; they took out my fangs and they won't let me
talk. Seriozha [Diaghilev] occasionally listens to me, but never
agrees with me. What kind of music do you write?" This very
abruptly. I was somewhat taken aback. "Good music, I hope," I re
plied. More clucking from Valitchka and then: "They all say that.
I once said that about my music I was the only one who said it.
Let me see if Aliousha's piano is in tune." He hobbled over to the
upright, struck a few disjointed chords and let out a yell. "How can
you play on this casserole? I'm prejudiced against your music al
ready." There was some violent shouting on the part of the hosts,
which permitted me my habitual sneaking maneuver of taking pos
session of the "casserole."
The concerto was again rattled off, and this time greeted by
thoughtful and (to me) ominous silence. "I don't know whether
Seriozha will like your piece," Nouvel said finally. "I don't think he
will, but you never know with him. There is too much Prokofiev in
this music and Diaghilev now hates Prokofiev. I keep telling him
that he is a better composer than Stravinsky, but what's the use?
Chout was a failure, so Prokofiev is out. Play something else not
as longwinded as the concerto, khe, khe, khe. ..." I played part
of the second sonata and, to my surprise, Valitchka liked that better.
He asked me to repeat a certain passage, cocked his head amusedly
and then rose, glancing at his watch: "I must go now and sup with
Serge at the Cabaret [Diaghilev's favorite restaurant]. I promise
nothing, but I'll tell Diaghilev all about you and maybe get him to
listen to you. I understand you know Boris Kochno?" "I met him in
Constantinople." "Does he like your music?" "He's never heard it.
112 PASSPORT TO PARIS
He didn't like my poems too well and, frankly, I wasn't insane about
his." "Good, very good. Khe, khe, khe ..." A long hiss this time,
kisses all around and Valitchka took his departure.
The next day I was offered a diminutive, but cheerful, room next
to Alan's and, gratefully accepting it, said good-by to the smelly,
small hotel and the whoring salesmen. I was fast becoming a real
Montparnos, nursed "bocks" at the Dome or the Rotonde for hours,
danced with American girls, who thought me terribly foreign and "so
different" at the Jockey, and with French painters' models at a stu
dents* ball, a pale replica of the famous Quatz Arts; apparently, not
ten minutes after I left the ball (at 3 A.M.) everybody took their
clothes off. My timing was bad and still is.
A few days later Valitchka telephoned and in a slightly pompous
voice announced that I was invited to Diaghilev's box that night and
should I pass the inspection, would most likely be taken to a supper
party for Stravinsky after the performance. I was to wear tails or, at
least, a dinner jacket. Did I own one? I most certainly did. "All's
well, then," Valitchka said. "Oh, youth, youth! khe, khe, khe . . ."
and rang off.
Could this be happening to me? I was to meet the great man, the
aesthetic dictator of the century, in his own lair and so easily, so
painlessly only within a few weeks of my arrival in Paris. Life was
good and so was Valitchka Nouvel. "Just you wait, Pavlik," I said
gaily to Tchelitchev. "I'll get a ballet commission and you'll do the
sets." "No, I won't," Tchelitchev replied. "I hate the theater."
I, for one, loved the theater that evening. It was a Stravinsky gala
and featured Les Noces, with the music of which I was only vaguely
familiar. In the box sat Misia Sert, covered with glittering jewels, a
square-headed important-looking woman with a massive jaw and
rather a mean mouth; a young-old man in tails with an Italian accent;
and Koribut-Kubitovitch (nicknamed "Pavka"), a benign sexa
genarian of the type known as "venerable"; he had the whitest of white
beards, the pinkest of pink lips, an expression of infinite benevolence
and turned out to be Diaghilev's cousin. Diaghilev was busy back
stage, settling a quarrel between two dancers, as I overheard Koribut
say. Decked out in my inoffensive Eighth Avenue dinner jacket, I
was overwhelmed by the distinguished company, who paid not the
slightest attention to me, and, modestly tucked away in a corner, be
came absorbed in the proceedings on the stage. Gontcharova's
PASSPORT TO PARIS 113
black-and-white decor for Les Noces, the choreography, shrewdly
mixing paganism and geometry, and best of all, the luminous "un
dressed" uncannily persuasive music, the four pianos clashing and
clicking their teeth, the constantly changing rhythms chasing each
other without stopping for breath, fibred my whole being. At the final
curtain I screamed "Bravos" with the rest of the Stravinskyites, with
such undisguised abandon that even the majestic Misia rewarded me
with a smile and studied me with mild interest through her tortoise-
shell lorgnette.
Shortly afterwards the door behind me opened and in walked a man
of an appearance so remarkable that it will be hard to give the reader
a faithful pen portrait of him. Sergei Pavlovitch Diaghilev was a big
man slightly over six feet tall broad and big-limbed, but not
corpulent; his head was enormous, and the face a world in itself;
you hardly noticed the rest of his body. The still-abundant graying
hair was parted meticulously on the side and displayed the oft-
described silver-white patch in the middle no crafty coiffeur's
trick but, from all accounts, something of a birthmark. When I first
gazed at Diaghilev's face, I thought instantly of a decadent Roman
emperor Caligula, perhaps although Diaghilev was allergic to
horses among other things, then the Tartar in him possibly Genghis
Khan or even a barbarous Scythian, became visible and
lastly, what he really was: a Russian grand seigneur of Alexander in
vintage. The eyes had a piercing, mocking intensity about them, soft
ened by unusually heavy eyelids, and he was fond of closing them
slowly, as if persuaded by some unseen Morpheus, but only for a mo
ment; they were soon peering at you again, not missing a thing. The
mouth was cruel and soft at the same time, the mustache even more
close-clipped than Valitchka's, the smile irresistible and oddly fem
inine. Sergei Pavlovitch carried monocles in all his pockets and had
a habit of dropping one into his left hand, producing another with the
right and screwing it into his eye languidly, making a lazy chewing mo
tion with his mouth the while, as if munching spinach. He was well,
although not conspicuously well, dressed and wore his Davis dinner
jacket as if it were a dressing gown. His voice seemed monstrously af
fected at first the Imperial Page's voice of aristocratic St. Peters
burg but you soon knew that he must have, too, been born with it.
Diaghilev spoke French superbly, and English adequately.
He walked straight up to Misia, took her head in his hands and
114 PASSPORT TO PARIS
kissed her on both cheeks. "Mon Serge! Mon anger cooed Misia,
and started an excited and unpunctuated monologue. She had the
rare knack of talking to one person in a room full of people in a loud
and even booming voice, but with intonations so intimate and a vo
cabulary so special, that the monologue was unintelligible to all but
the person addressed. That was an essentially Paris-snob stunt and I
was being treated to it for the first time. Little Valitchka soon ap
peared, emerging from the dark of the avant-loge, with Boris Kochno
on his heels, handsomer than the dancers on the stage and smiling at
no one in particular. Boris patted me on the back, somewhat tenta
tively, and then ran up to Mme. Sert, bowing low to kiss her bejeweled
hand; Misia went right on talking, with barely a nod to Boris. Diaghilev
soon turned to Nouvel, exclaiming: "Heavens, hadn't we better go
off to supper? Stravinsky is in a good enough mood, but he must be
starving." Valitchka adjusted his pince-nez, obviously nervous, and
muttered: "Seriozha, this is Vladimir Dukelsky, the young composer
I told you about." Diaghilev then noticed me, dropped his monocle,
adjusted another in its place and did the spinach-munching routine,
the three actions permitting him to examine me minutely. "Ah, a
good-looking boy," he drawled. "That in itself is most unusual. Com
posers are seldom good-looking; neither Stravinsky nor Prokofiev ever
won any beauty prizes. How old are you?" I told him I was twenty.
"That's encouraging, too. I don't like young men over twenty-five;
they lose their adolescent charm and sleep with any woman who
gives them the nod. I fire most of my male dancers when they reach
that age." More spinach-munching, then an amused smile. "This
is all very simple. If your music is bad I can always hire you as a
dancer. N'est-ce pas, Misia?" Misia smiled thinly, wrinkling up her
small nose, and surveyed me again through the lorgnette. I was
embarrassed by this initiation, well aware of the fact that I'd never
do as a dancer my body was too thin and unmuscular. "Oh, so
you still can blush," Diaghilev went on. "Valitchka, I think him a
very pleasant young man and I want him to come to supper with us.
Come with Boris I believe you two already know one another.
Viens> Misia." The regal Mme. Sert nodded, permitted herself to be
enveloped in her evening cloak by the taciturn old-young man, whose
name I never learned, and they went out, followed by Diaghilev,
Valitchka traipsing daintily behind him, Boris and I the last to leave.
PASSPORT TO PARIS 115
Supper at Pre Catalan in the Bois was a very Parisian affair. I re
call the crimson-and-gold decor of the room, the excellent cham
pagne and the superlative food Diaghilev was an accomplished
gourmet, but his palate was so jaded that he had to pour virtually a
whole shaker of salt and another of pepper on whatever he ate, and
then cover the dish with a thick layer of Savora, his favorite condi
ment, in order to taste anything at all. Five or six elegantes were
present including Misia, Daisy Fellowes, Daisy de Segonzac,
Lady Abdy and one of the d'Erlangers; Stravinsky, in tails, was not
unlike an emaciated Pickwick, accompanied by the faithful Win
kle and Snodgrass George Auric and Francis Poulenc, two husky
and amiable youths, one fair, the other dark and the amorous
Tupman Valitchka Nouvel. To continue with the possibly far
fetched analogy, these gentlemen were soon joined by an overdressed
Jingle Jean Cocteau of the fallen-angel face, sleeve-cuffs un
buttoned to permit the bourgeoisie to feast their eyes on the fireman-
red lining (a sartorial must with him) and the fanciful, if not always
intelligible, line of gab. These people, including Stravinsky, talked of
Stravinsky and I drank in every eloquent word.
I wasn't asked, but managed to tell Igor Fedorovitch how trans
ported I was by Les Noces, which effusion was graciously received.
Coco Chanel walked in, looking like a jockey in drag, and de
manded to know who the new young man (me) was, and whether,
by chance, I wasn't a new dancer. When told that I wrote music,
she looked at me without interest, and turned an appreciative ear
to Cocteau's newest epigram. I was too happy to care. My departure
was as unspectacular as was my entrance and I went back to Mont-
parnasse in a cab and in a daze.
Two days later the ever-punctual Valitchka telephoned again and
told me that Diaghilev desired me to play my concerto for him; and
would I come to the Baron de Meyer's house that afternoon, as the
baron had an especially good piano and it was in tune?
So the big moment had come, though, in the anticipation of it, my
new self-assurance vanished. It was all working out too well; to a
young man already used to the bitterness of bad breaks, such per
sistent good fortune appeared suspicious. "What does he want with
my concerto?" I thought sadly. "Nouvel doesn't really like it and I
myself think it reminiscent in spots." I made up my mind to at least
116 PASSPORT TO PARIS
play it well and, pushing the indignant Alan off the piano stool, went
on a four-hour practice jag.
The de Meyers lived in un hotel, which, in this instance, meant a
private dwelling (hotel particulier) , not an inn. The house and its
owners were typical of the all-powerful tout Paris set Louis XV
and Marie Laurencin with Vogue trimmings. There was a faint tinge
of violet in the beautiful white hair of both de Meyers a decorative
pair, aggressively agreeable, as people of their class are, when re
ceiving; the class that labels everything that comes their way as
either divin or d'un ennui mortel be it music, a new novel, a new
restaurant or a new concubine. I was brought by Diaghilev, the
magician and explorer, therefore there was a good chance of my
being divin. I don't think they knew that the frail youth with jet-black
hair was in their home "on approval" and that his fate hung peril
ously in the balance.
I was the first to enter the de Meyer drawing room a regrettable
mistake, as no one divin is ever punctual. My embarrassment was
somewhat relieved by the cordiality of my hosts and the perfection
of the dry Martini I was offered, a drink still misunderstood by Pari
sians, who call it un dry pronounced "dree" and make it al
most entirely of vermouth, using gin as sparingly as if it were Fernet
Branca. Some small talk followed, very small indeed on my part, and
then Sergei Pavlovitch entered with Boris in tow, both splendidly
shaven and eau-de-cologned.
I was much too nervous to listen to the gossip that made up the
general conversation. I drank two more Martinis and, just as I emp
tied the second, was asked by Diaghilev to show him the concerto I
had Brought with me. After carefully wiping and then adjusting one
of his monocles, he began perusing the manuscript, humming to him
self in a strange catlike voice and conducting with a pudgy index
finger. I watched the performance with awe and astonishment.
Diaghilev, who never missed anything, smiled indulgently and put
down my music. "Few people know it, but I'm a compositeur
manque," he remarked. "I was always behind in my harmony lessons
with Rimsky-Korsakov, but once managed to write a piano piece,
which I showed him. It was very bad and he said so." Sergei Pavlo
vitch then rose brusquely and led me to the piano. "Let me hear your
concerto: I'll turn the pages for you."
With the determination of despair and, encouraged by the excel-
PASSPORT TO PARIS 117
lence of the instrument, I gave a creditable account of my "Passport
to Paris." I remember vividly thinking as I played on: "I don't care,
here it is. It's the best I can do, take it or leave it." When I hit the last
crashing C-major chord, there was a moment of dreadful, complete
silence I didn't turn around but knew that the two de Meyers and
Boris were looking at Diaghilev, awaiting his verdict. To my astonish
ment, the great man began clapping his hands thunderously and with
such determination that the others soon joined in the applause.
"Bravo, jeune homme, and congratulations. Best new music I've
heard in years. Now what shall we call your ballet?" he inquired
suddenly. I was completely taken aback. "What ballet, Sergei Pav-
lovitch?" I queried. "The one you will write for me, of course. You
-will write one, won't you?" Kochno now intervened. He got up, em
braced me and, smiling knowingly, declared that he already had an
idea for "my" ballet and that the idea was certain to please Sergei
Pavlovitch. I dimly remember that I was then made much of by the
de Meyers and that a bottle of champagne appeared mysteriously
and toasts to the new Diaghilev composer were drunk by all, includ
ing the toastee.
I was taken home to 150 by Diaghilev himself Kochno stayed
on to dinner at the de Meyers' in a large chauffered limousine. My
discoverer had his arm around me and talked softly and earnestly
about my talent, the future before me, the task he was entrusting me
with and his hope that I would fulfill his expectations; I was so dazed
and drunk with the Martinis, the champagne and my crashing, com
plete success, that I only understood half of what Sergei Pavlovitch
said, but loved every word of it. He deposited me in Boulevard Mont-
parnasse, kissed me heartily on both cheeks Russian fashion, and
departed. Both Alan and Pavlik were out; I dined alone extravagantly
on a corner terrace, paying eleven francs for a copious meal, and,
exhausted by the events of the day, went off to bed. That night I
cried my first, and probably last, tears of happiness and realized that
Victorian novelists had something there, for never did tears taste so
sweet to me.
What ensued was equally dreamlike. The next morning, my recital
to Tchelitchev and Tanner, to which they listened with eyes popping
and mouths ajar, was interrupted by Valitchka, who dashed in with
out bothering to telephone this time. He declared himself delighted
with my success, there was more embracing all around, and then
118 PASSPORT TO PARIS
I was let in on the newest developments; apparently Diaghilev, Boris
and Valitchka had supper late the night before and Boris talked a
great deal about the proposed ballet. All I could learn about it was
that two leading male dancers' roles were envisaged one for Dolin,
the other for Serge Lifar, the remarkable new Russian boy for whom
Diaghilev entertained the highest hopes; that a girl called Alice Niki-
tina with the "most beautiful legs in the world" was a hot candidate
for the female lead, and that I had better drop everything and con
centrate on my job as if my life depended on it. This was easy, be
cause there was nothing for me to drop and I had no other life than
the one that was so miraculously opening before me.
The news of a new Diaghilev protege emerging from out of no
where Russia via the United States was an unheard-of beginning
spread rapidly through the Paris salons. Diaghilev nicknamed me
Karsavina, as he claimed that I bore a striking resemblance to that
dancer, and this led to obvious speculations as to the nature of our
relationship; idle ones, I must add, because, quite outside my own
"normal" leanings, I just wasn't Sergei Pavlovitch's "type." I quickly
formed lasting friendships with both Auric and Poulenc, whose gay,
lilting music was a relief after the strenuous Varese and Ruggles diet.
I liked Auric's Les Fdcheux with Braque's decor even better than
the universally popular Les Biches (Marie Laurencin Nijinska)
by Poulenc. There was a splendid ruggedness, a bittersweet savor
about the former, an uncouth but very personal harmonic language,
and the rough-edged, graceless orchestration fitted the music per
fectly; the ballet (produced in 1923) was only a moderate suc
cess, perhaps because of the rather pedestrian choreography. Les
Biches, on the contrary, was (and still is, wherever revived) an em
phatic hit, and rightly so because it is the perfect period piece and
typified the twenties as did no other ballet. The morbid prettiness of
Laurencin's decor was happily underlined by Poulenc's ingratiating
music, slyly frivolous or voluptuously romantic by turn; he had a
rather coy trick of perversely harmonizing the simplest Schubert-
cww-Chaminade tunes, which alternately caressed and intrigued
the ear. Nemtchinova's entrance, with her sleek black hair, tiny
blue jacket and long, dreamy legs in white tights, to Poulenc's best
tune in the score was a great and unforgettable coup de th6dtre.
Auric also liked to pepper his pseudo-seventeenth-century airs with
"wrong notes" artfully distributed and I much preferred this some-
PASSPORT TO PARIS 119
what naive device to the out-and-out vulgarity of Milhaud's Le Train
Bleu, whose unashamedly cheap strains would have probably gained
by a little shrewd mutilation.
Auric and Poulenc were wonderful company; Poulenc much
more of a mondain than his friend. Auric was a big, unwieldly crea
ture, a megot always dangling from his lips, the smile childishly good-
hearted, the small Balzacian eyes malevolent and crafty. Francis, on
the contrary, although fairly portly, too, spoke and moved with the
easy assurance of a salon habitue; his voice lazy and nasal, his
clothes unobtrusively right, his light hair cut en brosse, somewhat in
the Prussian military manner, Poulenc was at his best when playing
the piano, which he did with an impish nonchalance immediately
attractive to the listener.
Auric and Poulenc returned favorable verdicts on my gifts and I
was now maneuvered into a pilgrimage to Stravinsky's quarters, in the
Pleyel building. The master, surrounded by multi-colored inks, eras
ers, pens, pencils and music paper of every conceivable variety, all
in meticulous order, sat in an ultra-modern chair behind an even
more aggressively modern writing desk. As he got up to greet me with
the rather fussy politeness so typical of him, I became conscious of
the enormous goggles he wore, propped up above his eyes, the chin,
in its turn, propped up by an elegantly tied ascot emerging from a
monogrammed sport shirt. Stravinsky's body was small, taut and
compact, but in common with small men, he was fashion crazy, not
unlike Ravel, who spent a young fortune on a light-blue tailcoat once,
"launched" it at one of the Princesse de Polignac's bigger soirees
and then, to his mortification, heard a marquis ask a count: "Who is
the little fellow who didn't bother to dress?"
Igor Fedorovitch was on the whole very nice about my concerto.
"What pleases me particularly," he said, gently puffing on a cigarette
in an extra-long holder, "is your technical proficiency; you are al
ready a professional. There is nothing like Russian conservatory
training and your young French friends would have been better off
had they studied with Taneiev, Glazunov or their pupils. As to the
music itself well, it's good honest conservatory music, too, and
how can it be otherwise?" Since the concerto, which I had had to
perform daily for several weeks now, had begun to bore me, I didn't
disagree. "Play something else something not quite so formal and
correct," Stravinsky asked. I don't know why, but I plunged into the
120 PASSPORT TO PARIS
allegro from my prematurely frozen Icelandic overture. Stravinsky
smiled engagingly and patted me on the back. "That's the kind of
music I expect from young men it has meat in it, and it's musical
meat, not fancy little ornaments." I remember him saying, "You
should be able to write a good ballet Diaghilev is seldom wrong."
I was most anxious to meet Prokofiev, whose third concerto was a
model for my first and so far only one. Diaghilev warned me
against seeing his "second son." "Serjosha is certainly very talented
and full of melody which Igor is not but Igor is intelligent
whereas Prokofiev is an utter imbecile. He always can be counted
on doing the wrong thing fancy calling a symphony 'Classical';
it's almost as bad as Scriabin we detested one another labeling
his orchestral poem 'Divine.' " I was no longer afraid of Diaghilev
and protested violently. "How can an imbecile write a piece as well
constructed as the third piano concerto?" I wanted to know. "And
those fresh, lyrical themes what charm that music has!" Dia
ghilev winced a bit, then grew thoughtful. "Yes, charm ..." he
said quietly. "That's something impossible to acquire. Stravinsky est
le seul musicien slave qui ria pas du charme slave"
If Stravinsky was reputed to be politely indifferent to everyone ex
cept himself, Prokofiev was feared by many for his bluntness, not to
say boorishness. He carried this attitude to somewhat childish ex
tremes, as when Siloti, the old pianist and Liszt's last living pupil, in
troduced him to pert and pleasant Lady Dean Paul, who, under the
name of Poldovski, wrote Debussyan salon music. Prokofiev declined
to shake hands with the woman, who was thrilled by his presence at
her concert, because "she wrote bad music," as he put it. I was
luckier than the unfortunate Lady Dean Paul, because Serge the Sec
ond (I often think the twenties the Era of the Three Serges
Diaghilev, Prokofiev and Koussevitzky) received me most cordially;
I was brought to his flat by Souvtchinsky on June 17, 1924 a sig
nificant date in my life, as a great and durable friendship began on
that day. Souvtchinsky, spouting enthusiasm on the way, declared
that I had nothing to fear from this new "test" as I had the makings of
a "grand style" (in the French sense) and was already "com
pletely autonomous." Prokofiev, looking like a cross between a Scan
dinavian minister and a soccer player, didn't go to quite such giddy
heights, but, with some reservations, thought the concerto a good,
solid job, convincingly melodious. His lips were unusually thick, ex-
PASSPORT TO PARIS 121
plaining to some degree the "white Negro" sobriquet, and they gave
his face an oddly naughty look, rather like that of a boy about to
embark on some punishable and therefore tempting prank. His pretty
wife, Lina Ivanovna, was part Spanish, sang well, and was a good
housekeeper and mother (they had two sons), which didn't prevent
Serge from picking fights with her hourly and throwing her out of the
room at the slightest provocation. Prokofiev pumped my hand ener
getically, asked me whether I played chess (I did, badly) and sug
gested I write him in Brittany, where he was going for the summer, to
report my progress or lack of same.
Summer was upon us and Diaghilev had made up all my plans for
it. He told me that he wanted a ballet combining classicism with
Russian overtones tutus with kokoshniks, as he put it. Sergei Pav-
lovitch, who began his career as a sponsor of painting, adored Ve-
nezianov, Borovikovsky and Levitzki Russian "classical" paint
ers of late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and was es
pecially fond of Venezianov's peasants clean, graceful creatures
in white, their dress a fanciful amalgam of peasant headgear and a
Russian landowner's conception of Olympian fashions. These land
owners had their own theaters on their country estates, and it en
chanted them to see their latest favorite a Douniasha or Parasha
endowing her rustic charms with godlike attributes of a Flora or
Psyche. Diaghilev was a barin of the old school; one of his ancestors
had owned such a theater and this perverse conception of theatrical
mythology was understandably dear to him.
The story selected and "rearranged" by Kochno was that of
Zephyr and Flora, already "balletized" by Didelot, and also carica
tured by Thackeray in 1836, but these antecedents only added spice
to the idea. Zephyr was to be impersonated by Anton Dolin, Boreas
by young Lifar and Flora by Nikitina of the perfect limbs. Diaghilev
admonished me to stick to Glinka and Dargomijsky as models and
to steer clear of Prokofiev; this I promised to do, meekly volunteering
to add a dash of Dukelsky. The plan was for Boris and myself to go
off to a small retreat in the country, near Paris, and go to work without
delay. Boris became most industrious and businesslike, and a few
days later we were in the Chevreuse Valley, sharing the second floor
of a tiny house owned by one Veuve Gicquel, who ran a small village
bistro underneath our quarters. The honest bourgeois who patron
ized her establishment must have been bewildered by the distinctly
122 PASSPORT TO PARIS
un-French sounds emanating from upstairs, but no one seemed to
mind. The bourgeois drank, I composed, and Boris went about the
fragrant countryside faternizing with the villagers, a favorite pastime
of his in those days.
Kochno's synopsis was craftily made and gave a composer a
free hand with his material. A word of advice in passing here may
not be amiss keep your ballet story to five or six lines and stay
away from literature or editorializing of any kind; the simpler and
more direct the scenario the happier the composer and choreogra
pher, the more pleased the audience. Boris had (and still has) a rare
knack for presenting his ideas with the utmost clarity yet with
great poetic feeling and when you had so good an initial "peg"
and an atmosphere as unmatchable as that provided by Diaghilev's
presence, his enthusiasm, his quiet eloquence, his uncanny intui
tion it wasn't easy to go wrong.
I began with the joyful Concert des Muses and the Nouvel-
approved scherzolike episode from the second sonata for Lifar's
first entrance. After this start, the next three "numbers" wrote them
selves; never before and certainly never since (except perhaps in
the 1946 Bal des Blanchisseuses, written in three weeks also on a
Boris Kochno "argument") have I experienced such delicious free
dom in composing. I played what I wrote to Boris of an evening, the
smell of freshly mown hay mingling with other assorted odors of the
French countryside. There were a few roughly clad customers of
Mme. Gicquel's drinking vin blanc au citron below they got used
to the mad foreigners upstairs and were not above offering us un
pinard. Boris loved what he heard, made detailed notes for the chore
ographer (not yet chosen), and then we trotted downstairs to join
the pastoral drinking, happy and young and full of music. A few days
later the result of our labors was exhibited to Diaghilev, who never
came to see us in our Chevreuse retreat, but remained in Paris rais
ing money for his next season. On this occasion I had my first glimpse
of Lifar, a coltish youth with an unusually dark complexion and
Ukrainian features. Lifar wore a perpetually ecstatic expression and
talked mostly in excited monosyllables, like a young savage savoring
the fruits of European civilization for the first time. His ecstasy at
what he heard of Zephyr was so noisy that I couldn't hear Diaghilev,
who was whispering animatedly in a corner with Kochno. But there
was no need to worry. If Sergei Pavlovitch liked the concerto enough
PASSPORT TO PARIS 123
to commission a ballet from me, a total nonentity, he was enormously
gratified by my new effort, particularly because, as he put it, "he
was not sorry he had had faith in me.'* He thought the style exactly
right, melodious and Russian but "minus samovars." That night Boris
and I were driven back to Chevreuse in someone's town car, faintly
Guerlain-scented and with a chauffeur of excessively good looks. I
began to feel important, a dangerous feeling when one is twenty.
Valitchka turned up in our Chevreuse working quarters one eve
ning, drank a great deal of red wine, listened to the new music,
liked it and then produced a contract for me to sign. I'm a little
hazy as to what was in the contract, but recall that the royalties
were to be paid me through the French Performing Rights Society
(of which I became a member through Boris's good offices) and
that Diaghilev agreed to give me 1000 francs a month while I was
working with him, "and maybe more later," said Valitchka darkly,
"if your ballet is a success and you're asked to write another. I
wouldn't count on it if I were you, khe, khe, khe. . . ." In 1924
you could live in France on 1000 francs a month about as well as
you can in 1954 on 100,000 just enough for a decent existence
sans faire des folies. This arrangement was most welcome; my tastes
were modest but Mrs. Monroe Robinson's money was dwindling rap
idly.
Three more weeks chez Mme. Gicquel, who had got used to her
strange tenants and was loth to see us go; about 40 per cent of
Zephyr and Flora was written and approved by Sergei Pavlovitch,
who declared that I would finish the score in Monte Carlo.
On August 4th, I wrote Gershwin:
My dear George,
Your letter was forwarded to me about two weeks ago, but,
being extremely busy and lazy, I didn't manage to write you at
once.
The thing is that Diaghilev ordered me (sic) a large ballet
score on a rather difficult book for the coming 18th season of
the "Ballets Russes"; this is to be produced next Fall, first in
Monte Carlo, then in Paris. Of course, you understand that
nothing better could have happened to me, and, although speed
is not required in this particular case, I'm writing and writing.
In two weeks I'm going to Monte Carlo to join Diaghilev, finish
124 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the score and start rehearsals. My concerto is to be played in
U. S. A. in January; I also received an offer to play it myself in
Paris next Spring. [Nothing came of these two projects.]
Your letter was adorable in its unselfish simplicity, but one
thing makes me sad: you don't even mention the rhapsody
that is the Real Thing. Now this is most important. I spoke
about you to Diaghilev and played nearly all your tunes to his
secretary, who finds them amazing. I also have a most interest
ing proposition for you (Diaghilev's) . Do come to Paris before I
leave.
Love,
On August 31st, Diaghilev wrote Lifar:
Dukelsky came yesterday and played me the music for Flore et
Zephyre, which I liked enormously. I made such comments as I
thought fit, and he very nicely said he would take note of it all,
and go on working at it in Monte Carlo, under my eye, all of
which pleases me greatly. For his twenty years he's extremely
gifted and developed.
To Monte Carlo we then journeyed by a slow and rather nasty
train; my head chronically in the clouds and my heart wonderfully
light. The company was soon to go on another tour and Diaghilev
and Kochno were going along they now trusted me to complete
the job alone and assured me that I was on the right track. Diaghilev
warned me to keep away from women, whom he professed to abhor,
not merely as useless (to him) sexually but because of their colos
sal stupidity and greed. Sergei Pavlovitch was, I'm afraid, overfond
of such generalizations; along with women, his pet peeves were homo
sexuals and balletomanes. This intelligence might appear startling
in view of his being both of these things himself. However, he ex
plained the paradox by insisting that he only liked manly and virile
youths, afraid or suspicious of women, and thus falling into the able
hands of the likes of him. Simpering and mincing tantes he detested
and thought worse than women, whom they aped unsuccessfully.
He was most sympathetic when I confessed to not being homosex
ual. "A pity in a way of course," he mused. "Poor Piotr Ilytch Tchai
kovsky was always on the verge of suicide, so afraid was he that
people might discover that he was a pederast; today, if you're a com
poser and not a pederast you had better put a bullet through your
PASSPORT TO PARIS 125
head." When I protested and cited the names of three especially suc
cessful living composers of old-fashioned habits (that is, heterosex
ual), Diaghilev retorted: "Nonsense. Two of them are des tantes
ratees (would-be pederasts who failed to make the grade) and the
third is impotent." He laughed uproariously, then shook a well-
manicured finger at me. "Don't get mixed up with women, Dima
. . . not now, anyway, while you're working for me. All they are
good for is gold-digging or venereal disease ghastly things both." I
assured him that women played no part in my life and, to give weight
to this statement, reluctantly admitted my still virginal status.
"A virgin at twenty most interesting," drawled Diaghilev, drop
ping his monocle. "That reminds me of an uncommonly beautiM
young man who was in the Horse Guards; about your age he was,
too. I wined and dined him nightly with not the slightest success. He
didn't seem to care for girls and, strange to relate, in spite of his su
perb physique was entirely allergic to sex, in his own admission.
This began to nettle me, so I took him to the famous old Dr. Botkin,
the inventor of the Botkin drops [a staple drug in prerevolutionary
Russia]. Botkin was an irritable old party and fit to be tied after ex
amining my frigid Horse Guard. 'What's your diagnosis, Doctor?' I
asked him anxiously. 'Diagnosis? Hell, the young man is beyond all
hope,' Botkin growled. 'I asked him whether he liked women. "I do
not, Doctor," said he. "Do you like boys?" "No, indeed." "Do you in
dulge in solitary pleasures?" "Certainly not, sir." "Perhaps a slight
affinity to canines or young sheep, then?" "What a horrible idea!" I
was fast becoming exasperated. "Well, damn it, do you have dreams?"
"Oh, yes, I dream occasionally." "Ah, now we're getting somewhere,
Kindly describe a typical dream!" The young man concentrated for a
minute. "It's really quite silly, but I often dream of waiting for a train
at the Tzarskoe Sielo station. I wait and wait . . . and then I hear
the chugging of the approaching train in the distance . . . chug
. . . chug . . . chug . . . chug . . . nearer and nearer . . . it's
practically upon me . . . and then ..." "Yes, yes, go on!" "And
then I have an orgasm!" Naturally, I threw the idiot out of my
office.' "
Diaghilev's aversion to balletomanes was more justifiable than his
contempt for women his truest friends and admirers as well as
financial backers were women after all, and he loved them and
was touchingly grateful to them. Sergei Pavlovitch considered the
126 PASSPORT TO PARIS
musical score the axis of every ballet, sets and costumes came next
in order of importance, then choreography and lastly a good or at
least an adequate performance by the dancers, who, to him, were
choreographers' tools no more. "A balletomane I was one my
self in the Marinsky-theater days has a fixation: the dancer's legs
and feet. To him a ballet is a jewel box with his idol be it a he or a
she the jewel. They have no ears for the music, no eyes for the
decor they are nothing but fetishists," he told me. "God help us
if they ever become critics!" Alas, most ballet critics today are
balletomanes; one has only to read a typical account of a ballet
premiere in a London or New York newspaper or magazine and see
the music dismissed with "poor" or "brilliant," the decor barely
touched upon, the choreographer given plenty of space, but most of
the space devoted to the interpreters. That was not so in my Diaghilev
days, as music critics (and sometimes composers), both in Paris
and London, wrote ballet criticism. It is still possible to get a non-
amateurish notice for one's ballet score in Paris but not in London
or New York.
Sergei Pavlovitch and Boris alighted at the Hotel de Paris their
habitual quarters in Monte Carlo whereas I, my first ballet pay
envelope in my pocket, went off in search of a cheap and "amusing"
hotel. The establishment I selected in Monaco which I thought
had more character than Monte was sensationally cheap, all
right, but it proved anything but amusing. It was run by a pale and
perpetually scowling Auvergnate with watery eyes and a distrust of
foreigners, in which category she included every out-of-towner. She
couldn't for the life of her see why a young Stranger like myself
should want to stay at her inn, inhabited mainly by croupiers and
professional ballroom dancers; and when she took a look at my Nan-
sen (League of Nations) passport I had no separate American first
papers at the time > being merely "written in" on Mother's her dis
pleasure became complete. She eyed me up and down, asked inter
minable tricky questions and, I'm sure, would have frisked me had
she had the right to do so, but, the moment I produced a month's rent
in advance, a benign smile appeared on her squeezed-out lips and I
was admitted. The reader will wonder why I made so great an effort
to secure so sorry a lodging that's easy: the view was magnificent
and the room clean.
There was a horrible harridan of a chambermaid at the place, a
PASSPORT TO PARIS 127
Jill-of-all-trades and second in command to the patronne. She was
all caky make-up and gold teeth and, in her own confession, liked
two things pastis (the anisy drink of the Midi) and young boys.
The creature herself must have been somewhere around fifty, but
her latest acquisition was a seventeen-year-old Marseillais named
Honore, a fervent sportif but none too agile as bellhop; Honore was all
muscles and pimples and the harridan promptly took him in hand.
Her room was right next to mine, the walls were very thin, as is usual
in French hotels, and I was often treated punctually at 6 P.M.,
when I returned to my room to shave and, occasionally, change
to an erotic duet that filled me with terror; the duet consisted of a
cantus firmus performed by the rickety bed squeaking rhythmically,
a highly involved aria by the harridan, full of ecstatic roulades and
well-executed tremolos, the whole punctuated by double-basslike
grunts and snorts by the athletic Honore. It made for fascinating,
if gruesome, listening, and I once cut myself badly with the razor,
shocked by a sudden tumultuous crescendo by the overvocal lovers.
The food at the hotel was unfortunate it was bad and there
wasn't enough of it, as the well-worn story has it. My appetite was
ravenous and I would often gulp down the unpalatable dinner and
then dine for the second time with Diaghilev and Boris at their excel
lent brasserie; they seldom took their meals at the highly gastronomic
and costly Hotel de Paris, and then mostly on festive or important
business occasions. My first impression of Monte Carlo and of
the Riviera in general was decidedly mixed and still is. I never
could see why such astonishing natural beauty should be ruined by
dingy and pretentious villas and, above all, the ever-present dirty-
orange of the Riviera rooftops. The three colors which predominate
in that land are orange, blue (the Mediterranean) and green (the
flora) a poor blend. I don't know why the roofs weren't painted
pink, crimson or even pale blue in the first place.
The hideousness of the Monte Carlo casino is too well-realized
without any further vilification on these pages. The whole square, with
the birthday-cakelike Hotel de Paris, the rotonda in the middle
with benches occupied by has-beens ex-lorettes of the Felix Faure
day and retired British colonels living off a roulette "system" by
which, if you possess inhuman restraint and self-discipline, you are
"guaranteed" 2000 francs daily and the casino in washed-out
pink, is one of the saddest sights in the world, second only to a foggy
128 PASSPORT TO PARIS
afternoon in Manchester, England. I hated the casino because I
lost the last few thousands of non-Diaghilev money there at roulette
in slightly under ten minutes; yet Fate decreed that I should com
plete my Zephyr within its dreaded walls. There was no piano at my
hotel in Monaco and anything more advanced than "0 Sole Mio"
or "La Violeterra" was unsuitable for the Hotel de Paris and its
clients, so Diaghilev made arrangements with the administrator of the
casino, who obligingly moved to other quarters, to lend me his cabinet
de travail, which boasted a good Erard and thus became a composer's
workshop. It was wondrous strange to compose ballet music right
under the gambling hell; by opening the windows I could occasion
ally catch the bored rien ne va plus of the croupiers over my head
and wince remembering my shameful loss. However, the Theatre
de Monte Carlo one of the most attractive of its kind in Europe
was next door, my good genius Diaghilev was across the street and
all was well with Zephyr and Flora and the world in general
Shortly before Sergei Pavlovitch and Boris went off with the com
pany, I decided I had had enough of my Monaco rattrap and, by
walking in the streets of hilly Beausoleil, found a "vacancy" sign
in the window of a pleasant little house grandly styled Villa des Genets.
I rang the bell and soon beheld an unusually thin dark Italian lady
with huge Giottoesque eyes, whom I instantly liked and who turned
out to be Veuve Marcellin, the villa's owner. She greeted me in warm
Italian fashion and was soon joined by a Mile. Doucet, who was as
fat as Mme. Marcellin was thin and whose hair was the reddest red
known to nature or science. Mile. Doucet was, technically speak
ing, an old maid, but there was nothing old or maidenly about her;
she was amiable and coquettish in the extreme.
After showing me an agreeable room on the second floor and
learning that it suited me perfectly, the two ladies offered me a Cin
zano and we all sat down. "May I ask, sir, the nature of your busi
ness?" the widow said gently. "I write music." "Ah, c'est beau, la
musiquef" sighed Mile. Doucet, adding, "So cultural and it aids the
digestion." "The voice of the heart," Mme. Marcellin offered, clutch
ing hers. "And of the soul, too. It's very dignified to be a maestro
compositore and we are honored to receive you." "But we have no
piano here," Mile. Doucet suddenly remembered and looked at me
with anxiety. On learning that I had my working quarters elsewhere
and that I wrote for the Ballets Russes (next to gambling, Monte
PASSPORT TO PARIS 129
Carlo's greatest magnet in those days) the two women expressed
sincere delight at renting their prize bed-sitting room to so accom
plished a young man and my health was drunk in another Cinzano.
There was a smaller room, next to mine, occupied by various tran
sients at uncertain times, but deemed unsuitable for a prolonged
sojourn otherwise, but for the owner and her dame de compagnie,
the Villa des Genets was empty.
With the departure of my collaborators, my Monte Carlo life as
sumed a duller but more regular pattern. I'd get up early, breakfast
with the two ladies, walk over to the casino, compose for two or
three hours and then take a bus to the Larvotto beach, which in
1924 was an unpretentious petite plage de famille. After a short im
mersion in the Mediterranean I swam very badly I'd lie in the
sun for an hour and return to Beausoleil to lunch in one of the many
small restaurants in that area. I would buy fruit or sweets for my
worthy landladies and spend an inspiring half hour discussing the up
lifting qualities of Art, music especially, and partaking of refresh
ments; then return to my casino quarters and work until six, when
one of my new friends among them the Comte de Segonzac,
Daisy's husband, and Henri Gautier-Vignal, witty and gracious peo
ple both would fetch me and we'd go on a motor trip to Eze, or
la Turbie, or St. Paul de Vence. Dinner was at somebody's villa, as a
rule, then more talk over brandy and cigars, occasionally a bad fox
trot played by me somewhat disdainfully (I was now a maestro com-
positore) for the delectation of my hosts who, initiated by the Boeuf
sur le toit, already had a distinct "penchant" for American jazz, and
so to Beausoleil and bed.
Cocteau was summering in Villefranche at the Hotel Welcome
and I was taken there a few times by Gautier-Vignal. Jean, in good
form, was surrounded by admiring disciples, mostly the youths in
search of Beauty and Truth (or Fun, at the very least) so aptly de
scribed by Maurice Sachs in Sabbat. He ran around the room,
talking incessantly, the disciples just sat and worshipped. Somehow
I could never fall under the man's spell, which, I fear, annoyed him
not a little it's always embarrassing to a hypnotist to try to lull to
sleep a man who stubbornly stays awake. In spite of the marked and
flattering interest Cocteau displayed in me, in spite of an enjoyable
cruise in his famous boat Ange Heurtebise and the fact that he
nicknamed me "Le Due Exqiiis" (Dukelsky), I didn't very much
130 PASSPORT TO PARIS
care for these Villefranche outings. They were rather like drinking
verveine tea with a snake charmer in a hothouse.
I much preferred my sunbathing sessions at Larvotto's beach.
There were attractive young people about, disporting themselves on
the sand or splashing in the incredibly blue water. Their meeting
place seemed to be a small raft not quite a quarter of a mile away
from the shore, and I gazed enviously at the gay group of American
and English teenagers whose chief occupation seemed to be diving
off the raft and then climbing back on again. One of the best swim
mers of the group was a Nordic nymph with green-grey eyes,
sunflower-colored bobbed hair, sugar-white teeth and a body so brown
that the color seemed painted on her lithe but solid frame. She'd only
linger on the beach for a minute or so and then would swim out to
the raft, using a powerful and faultlessly executed crawl. I soon
learned from one of the guards that the nymph's name was Karen,
that her friends nicknamed her "Khaki" and that she was half-
Danish, half-English. Watching the girl disappear in this manner ev
ery morning was torture to me as I was eager to get to talk to her; in
order to win her attention I signed up for a course of swimming les
sons with a big, stalwart Monegasque and told him that my aim was to
swim well enough to be able to reach the raft. The Monegasque nod
ded knowingly and we began our lessons the next morning at an hour
early enough not to be heckled by watchers.
I was in no way an exceptional pupil but, after six or seven lessons,
mastered the common breast stroke and could even float on my
back with some difficulty. Two more lessons and the Monegasque
told me to go ahead and swim out to the raft, solemnly promising to
come to my rescue, at no extra charge, should I fail to make it.
Filled with romance and courage I waited for Karen to reach the
raft, then started out, acutely conscious of the inadequacy of my
"sissy" stroke, but determined to get to her. I was pretty tired by the
time I reached the enchanted spot, but reach it I did, and who
should help me climb aboard, my teeth chattering and breath heavy,
but Karen herself! She gave me a beatific smile and looked me over
with mocking curiosity. "That was quite a feat," she said encourag
ingly. "You're not much of a swimmer, are you?" I swallowed that
and managed a smile myself. "If you must know the truth, I learned
swimming to get to this raft and meet you," I said. Khaki broke out
in a gay laugh, then shook my hand with some warmth. "I like that.
PASSPORT TO PARIS 131
. . . It's flattering and it's sincere. I hope we'll be friends." This was
a very healthy beginning and I inwardly blessed my Monegasque and
reminded myself to give him a fat tip. After a few wonderful minutes
on the raft, the assorted Anglo-Americans wondering who the in
truder was, Khaki and I swam back together, which was much eas
ier, the girl slowing down her progress not to embarrass me, breast-
stroking diligently alongside her.
Following this somewhat Saturday Evening Post-like kickoff, we
became inseparable. Khaki's father was a manufacturer, in fairly
comfortable circumstances, and he was expected momentarily
from London; meanwhile she was staying alone at a typically English
pension, patronized either by young vacationists or the already
noted retired colonels with unbeatable systems at roulette. Karen was
nineteen and more or less engaged to a rising Cardiff football player
known simply as Biddy. I thought myself in love, although it was
probably autosuggestion; no matter, for it came at the right time and
I wouldn't let any Biddies or British manufacturers stand in my way.
I was glad of this new development because, with the departure
of Diaghilev and Kochno, I learned something about loneliness. I
like loneliness now and have learned to live with it quietly and har
moniously for the most part. There is no getting away from it, you
are lonely alone and you die alone and so being lonely at intervals
is like a series of leisurely rehearsals for death. You create alone,
too, but almost everything else you do in a crowd; a crowd of two
if you're lucky and have a lover, a larger crowd depending on the
number of friends you have worst of all, a kaleidoscopic proces
sion of fellow mortals, totally indifferent to you and not especially
pleased at finding you still alive. Theirs are the faces you see around
you most often, theirs are the unwelcome telephone voices, theirs the
letters destined for the wastebasket before you open them; but, as long
as your business is a communal enterprise, a mass effort and what
business isn't? you will go on seeing these phantoms more often
than you'll see friends or lovers.
I didn't know all this when I was left alone in Monte Carlo to com
plete my Zephyr and Flora music a clever move of Diaghilev's,
because he knew that I'd have more time on my hands, and would
have to use it to compose. When not composing, I'd turn to letter
writing (still a favorite recreation of mine, bewildering and annoying
to my friends, because I foolishly expect replies and just as foolishly
132 PASSPORT TO PARIS
become indignant when I don't get them; nobody writes anymore)
and send Mother and Alex long and detailed reports of my miraculous
progress. Alex was doing fine at Gushing and Mother had now
switched to Russian embroidery and cross-stitching, much in de
mand at the time, to keep her younger son properly clothed and fed.
She soon moved to Boston, to be near Alex, and stayed with
the Irakly Toumanovs in Jamaica Plain. Both Mother and the inde
structible colonel were now enamored of Krishnamuti, and the colo
nel, formerly hostile to my Muse, took to writing me theosophical
treatises on the Cosmic Significance of my Art.
All this was dear and reassuring to me, but there already was a
strange unrealness about the New World I left behind to recapture
the Old. Khaki was, on the contrary, extraordinarily real and close
to me; I never experienced anything more sensuously vital than the
simple pleasures of dining & deux, oblivious to the surroundings but
grateful for them being there, slowly walking down to the beach, my
arm around Khaki's waist, and then lying on the cool sand close to
the girl, kissing her lips, hair and bare shoulders smelling of salt water.
It seemed clear to me that Fate decreed that, to become a man,
I should also become a husband. Forgetting Diaghilev's advice, 1
proposed to Khaki about ten days after we first met. My proposal was
received with a somewhat evasive but encouraging counterproposal
to "wait a few days.'* On returning to the Villa des Genets, I wrote
Mother the first of a long series of letters announcing the first of my
several forthcoming marriages, none of which took place.
CHAPTER IX
FAME DID NOT DELAY
DIAGHILEV soon returned from his travels, and with him Boris,
Lifar, Valitchka and Serge Grigoriev, the tall and somewhat
military-looking regisseur of the company. My newly written music
I completed the score slightly ahead of the deadline was
noisily approved (except for a very complicated variation for three
Muses, subsequently cut) and there was a lot of even noisier kissing.
When I mustered enough courage to spill the news of my impending
marriage, the kisses gave way to agonized screams. Then came an
other venomous antifeminine monologue by Diaghilev, with a stern
warning not to mix matrimony with ballet composing. Torn between
what I imagined to be love and what I knew to be my life's work,
I suggested that Diaghilev meet Karen and have it out with her; I
naturally hoped that Diaghilev, woman-hater though he was, would
be unable to resist the girl. "I'll be glad to see the creature," Serge
said more calmly. "But beware; I'll tell her that you're homosexual
and penniless." "How horrible of you!" I exclaimed. "You know it's
not true I'm not homosexual and I'm earning a living." "You're
earning just enough for one, and I'll see to it that you don't earn more.
As for truth, the only thing that's true is that you've written good music
for me and I always lie in the interests of the truth." This Machiavel
lian twist brought the discussion to an effective close and Diaghilev
turned to other matters.
Fortunately for the fate of my ballet, Karen became more and
more engrossed in Biddy, who arrived, sensing the danger; she re
served every evening for the big, powerfully built, football player. I
was eaten up by jealousy, but Karen's perfidy prevented an ill-timed
showdown, which might have resulted in a fatal rupture with Dia
ghilev.
134 PASSPORT TO PARIS
After the Zephyr was completed, there remained the task of or
chestrating the music, choreographing it and having sets and cos
tumes designed. Choreography and scenery were Diaghilev's prov
ince, orchestration mine alone, and I plunged into it, unaided and
frankly, unprepared. The sum total of my orchestrating experience
amounted to three or four half-hearted stabs. Did I confess my al
most complete ignorance to Diaghilev? I did not. With the wondrous
impudence of youth, I went to work, the two Rimsky-Korsakov vol
umes on orchestration and a score of Petrushka by my side. Mean
while, Auric, fortified by his Les Fdcheux experience, was scoring
Les Matelots, the other ballet commissioned by Sergei Pavlovitch
for the 1924-1925 season. When Auric fell ill, I grandly offered
to orchestrate his colorful finale; luckily, the Frenchman was smart
enough to decline my services with thanks.
The matter of the choreographer came up next. Lifar tells the
story in his biography of Diaghilev: "The arrangement was that
'Zephyr' should be produced by Nijinska but, having for some reason
taken offense because Diaghilev had entrusted me with the part of
Boreas, she left the company. I vividly recall how astonished, how
shaken I was when Diaghilev . . . said I was to be responsible for
the choreography of this ballet, for I knew well the importance at
tached to it by Diaghilev; knew too, how much he admired the
music of the young Dukelsky, whom he had recently discovered.
Enthusiastically, and with immense zeal, I took on the task of pro
ducing the new ballet. Nevertheless, in the early days of the New
Year 1925, I began more and more to feel irresolute and somewhat
doubtful of the whole thing . . . because I feared that, by wholly
devoting myself to a new art, I should fall behind as a dancer, just
when I was beginning to succeed. Strongly influenced by this motive,
I did my best* to persuade Sergei Pavlovitch to be reconciled with
Massine, in order that the latter might return as choreographer to the
Ballet. A period of long and painful indecision followed, but finally
... he yielded, and Massine began to work on 'Flore et Zephyre.' "
I'm sure there was more to it than the "persuasion" by a young and
untried dancer that resulted in Diaghilev's choice.
Arnold Haskell and Valitchka Nouvel, whose biography of Dia
ghilev appeared in 1935, gave an entirely different account of Mas-
sine's return to the fold: "For some time Massine had been seeking to
rejoin the Ballet, and Diaghilev found that it would now be wise to
FAME DID NOT DELAY 135
make the peace. Nouvel and Wollheim (the London ballet agent)
were entrusted with the negotiations, and they proved almost inter
minable, for Massine had learned the value of independence. Finally
a contract was signed by which he was engaged as choreographer
only, and entrusted with the novelties for the next Paris season."
Whatever the facts, Massine arrived in Monte Carlo and, as the cur
rent phrase has it, we were in business.
I well remember the audition, in the course of which Massine
heard both Zephyr and Les Matelots played piano-duet fashion by
Auric and myself. Leonide Massine, although of small stature, was
an arresting figure; his head was of extraordinary beauty, the eyes
flashing and hypnotic, the smile rare and therefore all the more be
guiling. His movements were brusque and oddly, determinedly virile,
with none of the unmasculine grace and softness too often typical
of male dancers. Massine's legs were a mystery, as he always wore
loose, Spanish-type pantaloons at rehearsal and it was maliciously
whispered that his legs were not the best part of the spruce, springy
body of the man. His manner was distant, inaccessible and reserved
in the extreme, possibly because of Diaghilev's aloof and barely civil
politeness to his former favorite and Nijinsky's successor. Although
nicknames and diminutives reigned in the company, Massine always
addressed Diaghilev as Sergei Pavlovitch and Diaghilev stuck to
Leonide Fedorovitch when speaking to the Beautiful Joseph of his
past (Massine made his debut in Richard Strauss's ballet of that
name). To my delighted surprise, this forbidding and admittedly diffi
cult master, certainly the top choreographer of his time, took to me
and my music almost immediately. He smiled repeatedly, nodded his
head (he sat directly opposite me while I played) and then went into
a long huddle with Sergei Pavlovitch and Boris, the only account of
which, made by the latter, was, "Funny. Leonide likes nobody, but
he liked you. I hope it's a good sign."
At about the same time I was introduced to the ballet company
by Diaghilev, an incomparable showman, in the theater as well as
the reheasal room. I was ill at ease in the long, low-ceilinged salle
with its heady body smells and an occasional welcome whiff of
resin or powder; ill at ease especially because of the two or three
dozen young and not so young ballerinas, disappointingly un-
feminine in their ugly black or gray tights, breathing noisily and
perspiring copiously all over the place. They were in the middle of
136 PASSPORT TO PARIS
a class, conducted by one of the older ballerinas, who shrilled:
"ee-raz, ee-dva" (and one, and two) as the dancers went through
the prescribed "manual of legs," to paraphrase the army term. Dia-
ghilev stopped the class and made a short introductory address in
which I was presented to the company as the composer of one of
the two new ballets. The dancers were obviously astonished by my
youth and there was some barely audible snickering from the male
dancers and agitated whispering among the girls. I was horribly em
barrassed when three of the younger ones curtsied with mock rever
ence and intoned: "Bonjour, Maitre" in chorus, which brought a
satanic laugh from Sergei Pavlovitch.
I soon got to know them all girls and boys and even became
quite popular with them; I was their age and I was Russian also, too
much of a new face to be a "Diaghilev spy." There were two or three
such informers in the company, who, knowing the great man's un
manly passion for gossip and scandal, kept him well advised about the
members* ambitions, jealousies, deeds, misdeeds and sleeping ar
rangements. Diaghilev himself was always feared as an incomprehen
sible superman, detested for his stinginess (poor S.P. wasn't stingy,
just perpetually, grandly broke, having to live in princely fashion as a
necessary "front") and secretly adored by most. Grigoriev and Tcher-
nicheva represented the "administration" and were unpopular; Woi-
zikovsky, a Pole, and Sokolova, English in spite of her stage name,
the next "ranking" couple were among the "rebels" and universally
liked. Nemtchinova, exquisite on the stage, was not even pretty in
private life, but replete with charm; the beauties of the company were
Maikerska, a languid Polish Venus, chic Doubrovska of the mile-long
legs, dark and well-rounded Nina Nikitina (Nikitina II as Diaghilev
billed her), piquantly seductive Dorothy Coxon of Kensington and
statuesque Ninette (then Nina) de Valois of the quick Irish wit and a
friendly, direct manner (now Dame Ninette, the female Diaghilev of
Sadler's Wells).
Zephyr's sets were entrusted to Georges Braque, who had done so
beautifully by Les Fdcheux a season before and whose deep browns
and greens in that decor were promptly styled "Braque colors."
Coco Chanel attended to the costumes. An odd and utterly Parisian
coupling; only Diaghilev could have hit on such a combination,
which worked out surprisingly well. Coco was then in "residence"
aboard the Duke of Westminister's yacht lying in the Monaco harbor,
FAME DID NOT DELAY 137
and often came to lunch with Diaghilev and his satellites. Misia Sert
appeared out of nowhere one afternoon, all jewels and furs, and de
manded to hear the music of my ballet. Misia's gruff speech and des
potic air always intimidated me, but she knew and "felt" music, and
having heard glowing and certainly exaggerated reports of my
score, was excited by the prospect of hearing it. There is no greater
incentive to a performer-composer than a rich and influential patron,
thrilled in advance by his work, and I played like one demented.
Misia was wild about Zephyr, clapped her plump hands transportedly,
and declared that "ce cher Serge and especially his dancers must be
so grateful for such music it would make a corpse dance/* She
then took me to dinner with Picasso of the crafty peasant's face (as
was Braque's on a larger and cruder scale) and his pretty red-haired
Russian wife. Picasso was very pleasant and asked me to sit for a por
trait, which I did a few days later (in Antibes). I don't believe the
portrait was ever completed, although there were four or five sittings.
Most of my evenings were spent in the company of Massine, which
annoyed Diaghilev, who insisted that Leonide had no soul, no heart
and no taste and was only interested in money; from what I heard,
Massine drove a hard bargain with Sergei Pavlovitch and the two new
ballets were costing him plenty. Diaghilev grudgingly admitted that
Massine was a capable choreographer "but only in my hands," he
added significantly. I, for one, found Leonide a stimulating compan
ion, although he detested crowds, organized gaiety, disorganized
drinking, and was the world's worst ballroom dancer; it is strange but
true that most ballet luminaries are helpless on the dance floor. I
clung to Massine also because Khaki made up her mind not for
long, it soon transpired to take on a football-playing fiance rather
than a piano-playing one and went off to London, following the cus
tomary bittersweet scene, complete with imaginary heartbreak and
mutual reproaches. The much-married Leonide (he and Balanchine
are alike in this respect, if in no other) laughed at my sorrow and sug
gested that I had better make my mark in this world first and then
marry, if marry I must.
I was too engrossed in the activity around my Zephyr to suffer from
this separation too long. Massine staged a pretty pas seul for the
poetic-legged Alice Nikitina as a first essay in his new choreographic
assignment, and Diaghilev, adoring it in spite of himself, decided to
give a foretaste of our work to the potentates of Monaco, These were
138 PASSPORT TO PARIS
an attractive young couple the hereditary Princess Charlotte, a
striking slim brunette, married to the blond soft-spoken Prince Pierre
(ne de Polignac), lovers and supporters of ballet both. I accompa
nied Nikitina at the piano and our little duet was extremely well re
ceived, as was the rest of the bill (the program of which, emblazoned
with a golden crown and the date January 31, 1925 is before
me); it consisted of excerpts from Les Sylphides (Nemtchinova,
Tchernicheva and Dolin), others from Carnaval and Les Femmes
de Bonne Humeur, the beautiful "Nocturne" from Auric's Les Fa-
cheux (danced by "Antoine Doline," as he was then styled) and
for a triumphant coda dances by Alicia Markova, then fourteen
years old, with music by Delibes and Rubinstein.
The "royal" approbation of my three-minute "variation de Flore"
brought a flock of invitations to various social gatherings, such as din
ners with the Dukes of Connaught and Sutherland, where I was made
much of, but felt ill at ease in the presence of so many faultlessly
dressed lions; my secondhand dinner jacket was by now dilapidated
and shone brilliantly in the wrong places.
On the day my new dinner jacket arrived, flashily cut by a very
bad Monegasque tailor, Massine suggested we celebrate both the new
clothes and the forthcoming ballet by going to the Carlton, a none-
too-respectable boite in Monte Carlo. Dressed to kill, we dined elab
orately en ville and then, filled with champagne and fancy food, ven
tured to the Carlton, where a ringside table was reserved for us. A
spuriously American band, called something like Karol's Karlton
Kids was holding forth, and wasp-waisted playboys were piloting
short-skirted and heavily perfumed hussies through transatlantic gy
rations.
Leonide and I were content to sip champagne and take in the fes
tivities. Directly across from us sat three maharajahlike young men,
sulky and intense-looking, playing host to three flashy demimondaines,
obviously English, judging from their stodgily cut evening frocks. The
tallest and prettiest of the three was a well-built blonde, her extra-short
skirt provocatively accentuating shapely silk-stockinged legs. With
the aid of my monocle, to which I clung in spite of the shoulder
shrugs, I perceived that the luscious creature stole repeated flirtatious
looks at me, pursed up her lips in my direction, winked outrageously
and even waved once all this while dancing with one of the sulky
pseudomaharajahs. Massine, too, noticed her behavior and laughed
FAME DID NOT DELAY 139
encouragingly: "You've made a conquest, Dima. Go to it" "What do
you mean?" I queried nervously. "She is flirting with me, I can see
that; but she is not alone. What about the three Indians?" "Oh, non
sense," retaliated Leonide. "Go over to their table and ask her to
dance. Your hair is brilliantined gigolo fashion, your dinner jacket is
the tightest I've ever seen and they'll- take you for a professional
there are dozens of them around to make the women dance. Don't be
a fool, up with you." As if hypnotized, I did as I was bid, made my way
"across the crowded room," alighted at the Indian table, bowed from
the waist without losing the monocle, which is hard and se
cured the blonde for a fox trot.
I noticed at once that the girl's mind was not on dancing. She
clung to me as if in danger of falling flat on her face, although stone
sober; her legs seemed to be glued to mine and her belly performed
such sinuous undulations that dancing unless you were a danse du
ventre expert, which I was not became difficult. This was new,
exciting and bewildering. The blonde's laughing eyes scrutinized
every bit of me, including the telltale blush which I knew was spread
ing rapidly the blush that plagued my entire youth. "You are noth
ing but a silly child, and yet you wear that absurd monocle. Why?"
the girl whispered. Completely abashed, I tried to think of a properly
worldly rejoinder and, failing, muttered something like, "The better to
see you." The blonde gave me an umnaternal squeeze for this clumsy
compliment and then, her face suddenly serious, her lips practically
enveloping my ear, said: "You're a funny monkey, but I like you. H
you really want to see me, give me a key to your place, go there now
and I'll soon join you. Be quick." As if in a trance, I reached in my
pocket, produced the key and even managed to furnish the proper
directions to my room at Mme. Marcellin's. "Room, eh? Young and
poor, I see. But then, so am I and so au revoir and ah tahn-tot, as
the Frogs say. Are you a Frog?" "No." "Foreign, anyway that suits
me. Not queer, are you?" "No." "Good. Now take me to my table." I
did so, bowed from the waist again to the gloomy potentates, and re
turned to Massine, who was enjoying himself hugely.
He congratulated me on my good work and suggested that I return
home quickly and wait for the girl. Retreat was impossible this time,
so I assumed a rakish air and took leave of Leonide, my heart beating
furiously. I woke up poor Mme. Marcellin as I had no duplicate key,
played drunk convincingly, causing the good widow to shake her
140 PASSPORT TO PARIS
head and say the proper thing about my mother not being there to see
her son in this state, etc.; once in my room, I selected my best pair of
pajamas, undressed in a great hurry, and hopped into bed.
The next hour was exceedingly trying: I listened eagerly for unfa
miliar footsteps, torn between the necessity of playing the impatient
lover and the prosaic yet acutely realistic desire to sleep. I finally
succumbed to the latter; no sooner was I in the middle of a fairly in
teresting dream, than I was instantly awakened by a piercing electric
light, which made me jump and sit up straight. Facing me was the
blonde, stark naked which was most becoming after all that
Shaftesbury Avenue finery grinning invitingly at me. "Asleep, little
boy?" she intoned teasingly. "Well, if this doesn't wake you up, noth
ing will."
When I got up in the morning, there was no girl by my side. I had
slept so soundly that I hadn't heard her dress and leave; had she stayed
beside me, my vanity might have been pricked again by another brutal
remark about my now lost virginal status. And then I made the deflat
ing discovery that my watch had departed with Sally. (Some weeks
later, the girl was deported for playing a similar trick on someone
bolder than I was.) Dressing in a hurry, I sauntered out in the limpid
Riviera air and headed straight for the morning rehearsal of my ballet.
Three of the Muses were already there, wrestling with the "undancea-
ble" variation, and Massine, in his wide black pantaloons, a big black
book in his hands, was inventing a step, his eyes never leaving the
opened book while his feet shuffled tentatively to my oddly rhythmed
music. Massine's black book was the object of much excited specu
lation in the company; no one had any idea of its contents and no one
was bold enough to steal or borrow it and make sure. Some said that it
was a seventeenth-century treatise on choreography, a priceless rar
ity; others, that it consisted of perfectly blank pages and was used to
intimidate dancers. Whatever the contents of his book, I never saw
Massine choreograph anything without the huge volume before him.
So absorbed was Leonide in his work that he didn't even know I was
in the room. A few minutes later, however, he stopped the pianist, dil
igently struggling with my variation, walked up to me and said; "Dima,
this music seems to end before my dance design can possibly be
brought to a close. I have an idea and I'm going to try it. Watch!" He
gave a sign to the pianist and the three Muses were set in motion again.
To my astonishment, when the music stopped the way I wrote it
FAME DID NOT DELAY 141
the girls went on hopping unconcernedly. "What are they doing? The
variation is over," I whispered. "Sh-h," hissed Massine, scowling.
"That's the idea. They dance on without music. That's it. Felia
down up pile hands so together together finish.
How do you like it?" I didn't and said so. Leonide didn't like my not
liking it and said so. A quarrel was prevented by the welcome arrival of
Tamara Gevergeva, the new beauty of the company; Gevergeva was
the first wife of Georgi Melitonovitch Balanchivadze George Balan-
chine to you. The four of them Gevergeva, Alexandra Danilova
(still flourishing as ballerina assoluta), Efimov (a good character
dancer now at the Paris Opera) and Balanchine fled from Russia in
1924 and were annexed by Diaghilev, who saw them dance at Missia
Serfs Paris house in November of that year.
Tamara, part Tartar, was the standard Nordic beauty pale and
fair-haired, with cool blue eyes and a perfectly proportioned body. I
first caught a glimpse of her at a rehearsal of the hateful Scheher
azade, already outmoded then, but ever popular with the audiences,
especially English ones. She startled Grigoriev, the stem disciplinar
ian, by wearing pink Russian boots to rehearsal; since Scheherazade
is a character, not a classical, ballet, he let it pass. She also wore a
pink ribbon in her lemon-blond hair and had seductive little wrinkles
at the corners of her mouth when she smiled I never saw a prettier
girl. I paid little attention to George, a slender slight man with Geor
gian (Georgia, Caucasus, not U.S.A.) features and a barely percepti
ble facial twitch, which caused that irrepressible name-inventor John
Murray Anderson to tag him "Mr. Tick" in later years. Unaware of
George's prodigious gifts as choreographer I thought he was merely
an inevitable nuisance in his lucky role as Tamara's husband. Gever
geva was one of the nine Muses, and I loved watching her as she easily
mastered Massine's complicated dance patterns.
I wasn't allowed to linger long and exchange Russian badinage with
the quick-tongued Tamara, as Nouvel arrived to whisk me away for
a press interview. Diaghilev had a genius for well-timed publicity, and
various French and English scribblers, paid and unpaid, always
swarmed about at the advent of a new production; now that a new
composer was about to be launched, they were dined and wined by
Sergei Pavlovitch with a complete disregard for expense someone
would foot the bill eventually, nothing except wild drumbeating mat
tered now.
142 PASSPORT TO PARIS
The next day I lunched with Poulenc, who, too, had been sum
moned by Diaghilev for an avant-propos on his new musical discov
ery. I played the entire score of Zephyr for my already-famous young
confrere (only five years my senior). The talented and wealthy com
poser (Poulenc Brothers is one of France's biggest chemical prod
ucts firms), a far better pianist than I, was a wonderful audience and
wrote his impressions for a Paris music journal, titling his article
"Dukelsky A New Russian Musician." In it he said:
I cannot adequately express my joy at our meeting, away
from musical groups, and their sinister concerts. Dukelsky is
not one of those laughable creatures, more concerned with sys
tems than with music, that one meets in avant-garde magazine
offices, always on the scent of an article or a first performance.
Too strong and too conscious of his strength to stoop to musical
politics, freedom alone suits him.
Although only twenty-one, Dukelsky already knows all music
and both continents. Leaving Russia at seventeen, he spends
three [sic] years in America before coming here. As music,
alas, does not feed her man, he composed varius Blues [sic]
in an astonishing melodic style akin to that of Gershvin [sic];
but, too intelligent not to realize the danger assimilating such
music to his, this musician who knows the technique of jazz
profoundly gave it a kick in the pants ["punch in the nose'* in
the original] after helping himself to it, in such a way that no
trace of Negro exoticism is discernible in his symphonic pro
duction. Isn't it the most beautiful lesson to those who believe
that jazz is destined to renovate music? I know few works as
heavy with music as "Zephyr and Flora." Dukelsky, without
archness or affectations, touches the heart by the freshness of
bis melody. The harmony, always direct, and the boldness of the
development give his charm the framework indispensable in liv
ing music. A desire for pigeonholing will make the public attempt
to place this new arrival in a neatly defined category. His art,
rather remote from the great Stravinsky, is perhaps closer to that
of Prokofiev, but, if there exists a spiritual relationship, the real-
izati6n differs profoundly in one and the other. Truly, Dukelsky
is already himself. Listen, without prejudice, to this new voice,
and I wager that you'll be conquered by its poetry.
FAME DID NOT DELAY 143
Such a testimony from so representative a young musician carried
considerable weight, and the atmosphere of feverish expectancy that
surrounded me was, as I now see, unhealthy, though undeniably satis
fying. I was fast becoming famous by virtue of so much favorable
hearsay, without a note of my music performed to substantiate my
premature fame. Easily persuading myself that I could do no wrong,
because my contemporaries thought me right, I went on orchestrating
serenely in the naive belief that, since the music was right, the or
chestral coat of paint was bound to be right, too.
The conductor for the Monte Carlo Ballet season was a native of
Monaco Marc-Cesar Scotto by name, a capable, well-routined
musician, but no Nikisch; just the man to suit Diaghilev, who despised
primadonna conductors. "There's nothing worse than a 'titan of the
podium,' " he told me. "If it weren't for the composer who put little
black notes on white paper, the titan couldn't wave his stick, strike
leonine poses, thrill women and earn lots of money. What does the
composer get? Take yourself you have nothing and I pay you very
little but even that little is more, far more, than most of them re
ceive. No, the only conductor for me is the kind that does what he is
told by the composer, and never talks back."
This was logical and laudable, but like nearly every dictum of Dia-
ghilev's, paradoxically at variance with his oft-expressed contempt
for most composers; he thought there were far too many around
hardly a half dozen of them writing worthwhile music. It is well known
that he rejected Ravel's "La Valse," which prompted a complete
break with the composer; hated Delius (he pronounced it Dehlius)
and Sibelius; despised Schoenberg and all the atonalists, although
vaguely interested in Alban Berg and, later, Hindemith. He asked
John Alden Carpenter for a ballet score, had it read to him by my
self and, although the work was entitled "Skyscrapers" renamed it
"Massacre du Printemps" and rejected it after one unsatisfactory
hearing. With so many offered and so few chosen, becoming a Dia
ghilev composer in the twenties was quite a feat. Like Prokofiev, the
big man could be cruel to those whose music he didn't care for.
Boris and I once persuaded him to go to Benedetti's cello recital in
Monte Carlo. On the program was a cello sonata by Alexandre
Tcherepnine, who accompanied Benedetti in his own work; and, al
though you could tell by Sergei Pavlovitch's signs and grunts that the
sonata was not his dish, he bore it patiently and good-naturedly. But
144 PASSPORT TO PARIS
when, right in the middle of the proceedings, the tall, awkward-look
ing composer got up suddenly and executed a few raps on the piano
lid with his knuckles, certainly a novel effect, Diaghilev decided he
had had enough. He rose in the middle of the movement, pushed his
big body past the startled ticket holders and said in an audible whis
per: "They are heading for a knockout let's leave before blood is
drawn." With this we three staggered out, turning a deaf ear to in
dignant shushes and hisses.
I, the pampered and tenderly nursed Benjamin of the troupe, had no
complaints. Orchestral rehearsals had begun and I sat alone in the
empty hall, enjoying myself unreservedly. There were many mistakes
in the orchestral parts to be weeded out (there always are) and, with
the orchestra constantly stopping, like a faulty motor, it was hard to
tell whether the orchestration was good, adequate or downright poor.
In all fairness, it must be admitted that it was no more than adequate
for the most part. At times, what seemed like a lofty musical concep
tion became muddled and distorted almost beyond recognition; the
harmony seemed too thick, the basses that boomed so splendidly on
the piano were hardly discernible and the inner voices stuck out for
no good reason. The orchestration was, in the main, correct aca
demically speaking; in other words, heavy and flat. The music man
aged to overcome this self-imposed handicap to some extent; Pro
kofiev on hearing Zephyr in Paris dismissed the orchestration with:
"Too much Glazunov and not enough Dukelsky."
These faults were not immediately apparent to me nor, luckily, to
Diaghilev, Kochno or Massine, who blamed whatever defects were
easily detected on the perspiring Scotto and the orchestra. I even
wrote Mother that Zephyr sounded beautiful in its orchestral dress
and Francis Poulenc seconded this opinion.
Lifar had this to say in his Sergei Diaghilev about Zephyr: "The
work was by no means easy, for though Dukelsky's music proved
very refreshing, its rhythmic design was somewhat difficult and but
little helped by the manner of its scoring."
Lifar nearly caused a catastrophe by falling heavily at reheasal,
dislocating both ankles. Diaghilev was almost forced to give the part
to Thaddeus Slavinsky, one of the better dancers in his company, be
cause the doctor averred that fully six weeks must elapse before Lifar
"could dream of dancing." Yet, owing to Lifar's determination and
effective treatment, he danced at the opening on April 28, 1925,
FAME DID NOT DELAY 145
and "nobody in the audience had the least idea of the state of his feet."
Diaghilev was kindness itself he gave me an autographed pro
gram inscribed: "To Dear Dima, hi memory of a significant day,"
and a portrait of himself with the legend: "To my dear Third Son to
commemorate his baptism." The premiere, before a bejeweled and
befurred audience, went off without a hitch; the ballet obtained a siz
able success, all three principals the ethereal Alice Nikitina,
bouncy Dolin and fervent Lif ar were applauded and cheered to a
faretheewell, although the latter had one of his ankles "dislocated
three times during the performance and it had to be reset on each oc
casion." Ailing Lifar's program was inscribed thus by Diaghilev: "To
dear Boreas, the young and irresistible wind, on the day when he first
swept through Monte Carlo." At the final curtain, following the bows
of the three principals, Braque, Massine and myself appeared on the
stage and I was presented with a laurel wreath of such gigantic pro
portions that, on accepting it, I almost fell under its tremendous
weight. I didn't know what to do with the unwieldy thing (another Dia
ghilev offering) until either Dolin or Lif ar put it over my head, making
another bow an impossibility.
There was a gala supper for Zephyr's creators and dozens of
staunch Diaghilevites after the premiere. Sergei Pavlovitch insisted
on my drinking champagne, and since many toasts were made, sev
eral of them to me and my music, I threw all discretion to the winds
and drank glass after glass, winding up in such a haze that I had to be
escorted home by two male dancers, as I couldn't have found the
Villa des Genets without their help.
The Daily Mail correspondent's was the first comment on Zephyr:
"The music is by a new Russian composer, Dukelsky. It successfully
blends classic idiom with a moderate jazz influence in a close-woven
texture and was warmly appreciated. The Duke of Connaught at
tended both the dress rehearsal and the public performance and
warmly congratulated M. Diaghilev. The Prince and Princess of Mon
aco were also delighted." The royal approval was fine in its way, but
I was far happier when the faithful Poulenc lent me his competent
hand once again. Writing in Figaro on May 5th, Poulenc had this to
add to his previously expressed views: "Dukelsky, whose name is as
yet unknown in Paris, will be famous before long. At a time when
young musicians hesitate between most arbitrary harmonic systems
and a false simplicity, smacking of plain foolishness, Dukelsky,
146 PASSPORT TO PARIS
armed with a strong technique (the secret of all success) offers us a
perfectly rounded work, always well-integrated yet spontaneous.
The score of 'Zephyr,' consisting of separate numbers, owing to the
demands of the story, is never loose or disconnected. It is as if created
in one breath; one cannot resist so much fresh invention and espe
cially such authentic youth. When, at the insistence of the audi
ence, the author appeared on the stage, holding a huge laurel crown
[sic], one thought of a young athlete playing hoops."
The local papers were all complimentary, but they didn't matter.
The word got around that Zephyr was a success and Diaghilev, with
out waiting for the Paris verdict, started talking to me about another
ballet, which made me as proud as a peacock. There were a few dis
cordant notes, such as the anonymous violinist who scribbled at the
bottom of his part: "Do we have to play such utter nonsense?" and
an unprintable epigram, circulated by certain members of the cast,
which, freely and politely translated, went something like: "Music by
Dukelsky, story by Kochno lo, it's a new hit and it hit a new low."
I happily attributed such stabs to jealousy or ignorance and went from
party to party convinced of my greatness and making not a few con
verts to that idea.
Diaghilev now began active preparations for the all-important
Paris season, for which the Gaite Lyrique Theatre, which he disliked,
was booked. Massine was busy rehearsing Les Matelots, to be un
veiled in Paris as it was too late for a Monte Carlo tryout. Lifar's leg
was so badly swollen that Zephyr, in spite of its success, was given
only once in Monte Carlo; there was some further talk about replac
ing Lifar by Slavinsky, but the new Diaghilev favorite was surer and
surer of his ground and wouldn't hear of it. I used my well-earned
"siesta" to flirt with Nina Payne, the American tap dancer, then the
rage of the Riviera. We once sat in a night club in Cannes, deserted
except for a fortyish tart, a regular at the establishment. The woman's
evening was a fiasco as she had no clients; she sprawled in a corner,
a Felicien Rops-like ferociously painted lorette, sipping her fine &
Veau. Nina and I, both young, well-dressed and playing at love, kissed
rapturously throughout the evening, oblivious of the sleepy barman
and the brandy-guzzling woman. After watching us sullenly for an
hour, the tart sprang up and delivered a shrill and inflammatory
speech about dirty foreigners corrupting la belle France with their
lewd behavior. Although the help knew the woman to be no better than
FAME DID NOT DELAY 147
what she was, her arguments, brought about by her failure to secure a
client and her loneliness, were so strident and impassioned, stressing
the patriotic note with such fervor, that the bewildered barman asked
us to stop kissing or leave. We left.
On May llth, I was back in Paris, and on the 16th, a month before
Zephyr's premiere, wrote Mother from the Hotel d'Antin (where
Valitchka always stayed) : "I'm doing nothing at present, except try
ing to clarify my affairs; contacting publishers, authors' societies,
etc. anything to make a little money, of which I'm in dire need. I
can't expect any further income from Diaghilev until July, when I'm
to start work on a new ballet, and then we'll be back together on the
usual terms. As for now, Diaghilev is willing to help but he ow6s me
nothing for Zephyr. All my hopes are in jazz, which is well paid in
London and in great demand everywhere." Thus, Duke was already
stirring in Dukelsky's breast, ready to come to his rescue.
On entering the Hotel d'Antin, I found Valitchka in his room, coat-
less, stretched out on his narrow bed, his short arms behind his head
(his favorite posture), smoking energetically and gazing at the ceil
ing, rapture and boredom in his gaze. "Welcome, welcome, jeune
homme" he greeted me absent-mindedly. "How is the young genius
today?" The young genius was down to his last three francs, otherwise
pretty well. Valitchka was a generous man, but he was poor, and lend
ing his friends money (which he did often) made him both angry and
strangely elated. I suspect that one's indebtedness to him puffed up his
badly shrunken ego and also gave him the coveted opportunity for a
sternly administered lecture on the subject of idleness, women, drink
and other ruinous excesses. The lecture was duly delivered along
with some fascinating gossip about Beaumont, anti-Diaghilev in
trigues, Satie's Mercure, in which Picasso featured three brawny
men representing nymphs (seductive in bright green, with large mel
ons simulating breasts) Valitchka couldn't get over that, although
Mercure was no longer news and Prokofiev's Second Symphony
about to be premiered by Koussevitzky. "Do you know him?" Nouvel
queried. "No I would certainly like to." "Get Prokofiev to intro
duce you. Koussevitzky, too, likes young men, but not for Diaghilev's
reasons khe . . . khe . . . khe . . ." Valitchka, now delighted
with himself and the sly dig at his boss, produced a well-worn wallet,
sighed tragically, and made me richer by a hundred francs.
My next visit was to the Parfenovs, he a busy lawyer whose sister
148 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Sophie was my uncle Prince Irakly Toumanov's second wife, she,
born Vera Vajevska, an excellent lyric soprano (one of Opera
Comique's best Melisandes) and a very handsome girl. I, vaguely re
lated to Parfenov, and a fellow musician to his wife, was received in
cordial Russian fashion and fed superb food, in return for which I
displayed my new songs to words by Bogdanovitch, the amiable
eighteenth-century poet; he was the best exponent of the peasant girl-
turned-Greek-goddess-school so dear to Diaghilev. Under Sergei
Pavlovitch's influence, I produced three works in that manner
Zephyr and Flora, the three Bogdanovitch songs and "Dushenka," a
duet for women's voices on excerpts from that poet's delicious long
poem of that name. The three songs were Stravinsky's special favorites
(as I reported to Mother at the time) and Mme. Parfenov's was just
title right voice for them clear and limpid and truly lyrical.
I was impatient to acquaint Prokofiev with the music of Zephyr.
Sergei Sergeivitch had a rigorous working schedule, which was self-
imposed shortly after his graduation from the St. Petersburg Conserv
atory; any interference with this schedule was instantly checked by
Lina Ivanovna or the housemaid, who under no circumstances would
admit visitors before lunchtime. Mornings from nine to one were de
voted to composing, an hour was allowed for lunch, another hour
for disposing of people and routine errands, then two or three hours
for orchestrating, proofreading and polishing the results of the morn
ing's toil. This made reaching Prokofiev quite difficult, as he wouldn't
come to the telephone in the morning, disliked being disturbed at
lunch and was usually attending to business, bills, etc., prior to the
"orchestrating period." I soon learned the trick of catching him im
mediately before he sat down to lunch, at which time he was in rea
sonably good spirits, especially if the composing had gone well that
morning.
It hadn't gone well that particular morning, and Prokofiev's voice
was even more gruff than usual. "What do you want?" he boomed.
"This is Dukelsky. . . ." "I know it's Dukelsky and I'm Prokofiev,
and Prokofiev is very busy even if Dukelsky isn't." "But, Sergei Sergei
vitch ... I want you to hear my Zephyr. . . . You told me . . ."
"I know what I told you probably even told you that you're a com
poser I may have been wrong. What do you mean by calling me in
the morning?" "Sorry, S.S., but it's ten to one." Silence for cooling-off
purposes. "Why didn't you say so? All right then, come to lunch and
FAME DID NOT DELAY 149
bring your ballet." Quickly I taxied to Prokofiev's house, was admitted
by the master himself, whose face wore a scowl and a smile simulta
neously and whose, this time friendly, greeting sounded as if he were
giving me more hell. Such was Prokofiev, one of the most lovable and
rudest men that ever lived.
Lina Ivanovna, her eyes red from weeping, was grateful for my en
trance as she and her husband were not on speaking terms that day.
She, too, volunteered to sing the Bogdanovitch songs, about which "she
had heard from the omniscient Souvtchinsky. Prokofiev snorted,
"Don't try to ingratiate yourself with him. Learn how to sing a scale
before you get to new music." Lina Ivanovna let out an agonized
shriek, burst into tears and ran from the room, slamming the door with
all her strength. "Good," said Prokofiev with another half-scowl, half-
smile. "We can talk now." I was to witness many such scenes, and
never knew how to act under such circumstances, so took refuge in
polite silence. Sergei Sergeivitch mellowed rapidly, finished his wine
and leapt from the table with startling suddenness, making me swallow
my dessert in one gulp.
Prokofiev's working quarters were unlike Stravinsky's; the room
was tidy and sunny, but presented rather a Spartan appearance, and,
besides a concert grand, a pile of manuscript paper, a ruler and some
pens and pencils, had no luxurious modern improvements or fancy
gimcracks like the great Igor's. Sergei Sergeivitch threw himself into
a chair, grabbed my orchestral score and ordered me to play. In the
middle of the Muses' variations, Prokofiev jumped up and walked to
the piano, puffing out his cheeks, his arms on his hips, his stomach
pushed out to the limit; when I reached the final chord of the coda,
he most unexpectedly kissed me full on the lips and blurted out:
"Zdorovo!" (Zdorovy means healthy in Russian, but Zdorovo is oddly
untranslatable when used as a term of approval "swell" would be
the nearest to it in Americanese.) Elated by this ejaculation, unex
pected, as were most of Prokofiev's actions, I played on to the end
with new confidence of all my listeners, including Stravinsky, I
valued Sergei's opinion most. After all, I always loved Prokofiev's
music I only admired Stravinsky's.
When I finished, Prokofiev banged the score shut and summed up
thus: "The music's fine, the scoring only fair; too bad you couldn't
show me the orchestration before giving it out to be copied. It's too
late now, also it would cost Diaghilev too much money to have it
150 PASSPORT TO PARIS
redone. Don't tell Sergei Pavlovitch you played your Zephyr for me
it won't do you any good. Come on, come on, Lina, never mind the
tragedy Dima passed his exams." Lina Ivanovna emerged from the
bedroom, still dabbing at her heavily powdered eyelids, but smiling a
martyr's courageous smile. "Ah? Lina, ah?" went on Prokofiev, ac
companying his pleasure with a sizable smack on my backside.
"Here, for once, is singing music melody and more melody. I'm
very pleased with you and now for a game of chess." He then
smacked his wife's buttocks, which token of aSection brought on an
other pout, a very mild one. "I heard it all from my room and I must
say I agree with Seriozha, although he is not a bit nice to me. I hope
you beat him at chess," said Lina Ivanovna, smiling more roguishly
now. No such luck; I was checkmated on the tenth move, as Proko
fiev was the best of all chess-playing composers and used to boast of
trimming Alekhine, the chess champion, on one occasion.
To further indicate his satisfaction with Zephyr, which he thought
a great step forward after the piano concerto, Prokofiev took me to
the Samoilenkos, his best Paris friends, in Champ de Mars, one of the
loveliest parts of Paris. Boris Samoilenko, a hearty, perennially happy-
go-lucky sort of man, delighted in having people in his spacious flat,
particularly Russians "who did things." His Mussulman wife, Fatima-
Hanoum, a woman of infinite candor, zest and spirit, had a rare talent
for living fully and richly without being rich; the warmth of her wel
come, the carefree wit of her observations and the springlike, easy
feeling she gave everyone who came to see her, made the Samoilenko
ground-floor flat with its tiny, immaculately kept garden the most un
usual salon in the city. Every Russian of note, and several of charm
and nothing else, flocked to Avenue Emile Deschanel, where a con
tinuous performance by the guests, regardless of the hour, and entirely
unrehearsed, took place; the performance consisted simply of the
guests being themselves, and since all of them were either amusing or
worthwhile, or both, no one was ever bored at the Samoilenkos and
everybody adored them. One usually saw one of the three celebrated
Russian painters there Shukhaiev, Grigoriev, and Jacovlev. Ja-
covlev's beauteous niece Tatiana, subsequently Countess du Plessis,
and now Mrs. Alex Liberman, the wife of the New York Vogue's able
art director, broke a good many hearts, including that of Vladimir
Mayakovski, Soviet Russia's greatest poet, who managed to obtain a
permission to visit Europe in the twenties, and promptly fell in love
FAME DID NOT DELAY 151
with intrepid Tanya. I remember him well, a big bruiser of a fellow,
fond of billiards and Turkish baths, peculiarly handsome in his way,
with an outsize lower jaw and a look of great determination and force-
fulness which didn't prevent him from taking his life, at the age of
thirty-seven, in 1930, because of an unhappy, and, likely, trivial love
affair. Of the musicians, Stravinsky and Koussevitzky were frequent
guests, but only Prokofiev was an everyday "dropper-in," and as in
dispensable to the Samoilenkos as they were to him. I was taken home
in Sergei's big Ballot, a French car now obsolete, with which he was
always tinkering and whose unpredictable behavior mystified and
fascinated him. "I'll tell Koussevitzky and Eberg, my publisher, what
I think of your music," Prokofiev shouted over the tremendous noise
of the Ballot. "Your chess is no good." And off he went in a dirty-blue
cloud of gasoline. I hadn't seen much of Diaghilev of late; he spent
most of the time at the Gaite Lyrique, where rehearsals of Les Mate-
lots were progressing feverishly, or lunching with his patrons and pa
tronesses, who were invariably mobilized by Sergei Pavlovitch at the
beginning of the ballet season, to talk nothing but ballet, to give balls
for the ballet and to keep tout Paris, the most capricious and unreli
able snob aggregation in the world, ballet-conscious at all costs.
Kochno delighted in this sort of thing and his help was priceless to
Sergei Pavlovitch.
Zephyr's Paris premiere took place on June 15th; my ballet was
flanked by Stravinsky's adaptation of Pergolesi's Pulcinella and that
peerless bravura display, La Boutique Fantasque an all-Massine
bill. Zephyr obtained a good success with the audience, but nothing
like the frenzied, ecstatic ovation granted Les Matelots two nights
later. I was, however, recalled several times and garnered several new
addicts, notably Milhaud and Sauguet. The first, declared himself de
lighted with my melodic invention, whereas Henri Sauguet, a droll
and cuttingly witty little man wearing huge glasses, waved his arms
excitedly and said that he especially liked that "big tune" from
Zephyr, then he proceeded to sing something that bore not the slight
est resemblance to it.
Most of the notices accorded my work were favorable, and some
too much so. Emile Vuillermoz, for instance, praised my score to the
sky the more to belittle Auric's; he was violently anti-Les Six and I
was picked as a suitable pawn in his journalistic machinations.
I never knew the real "inside" of the Vuillermoz- Auric feud, but in
152 PASSPORT TO PARIS
a place like Paris such feuds are everyday fare and are seldom of any
lasting importance. At the time I was quite startled by the amount of
fist-shaking and name-calling around me, but very little of it involved
me, not as yet a Parisian figure, so I wisely let well enough alone.
Vuillermoz wrote: "We are in the presence of a vigorous, living and
muscular work of music [Zephyr]. One senses that happy sponta
neity, that superior ease that sweep away all objections. A musician
like Dukelsky, armed with an excellent technique, discovers in one
fell swoop a liberated style for which we, in our country, are search
ing in vain. The score of "Zephire" offers a richness and an abun
dance of rhythms and a savor of sounds that make it a perpetual treat
for the ear."
That splendid all-around musician and delectable operetta com
poser Andre Messager, who, among his many accomplishments, con
ducted the legendary premiere of Pelleas with Mary Garden as
Melisande, wrote in Figaro and made me very proud and, perhaps,
justifiably so: " 'Zephyr' is a copious work, filled, I would almost say
stuffed with music, which reveals qualities of the first order. The ex
treme youth of the author explains his abundance and his indecision.
He is at the age where one doesn't know yet how to curb one's lan
guage, where one accepts with a little too much complacency all
the ideas, without having the courage to choose. But can you think of
a more praiseworthy defect? So many composers have nothing to
choose from, since they have nothing to say! With Dukelsky, the mix
ture of sureness and inexperience is almost continuous. The style is
irresolute, yet the ideas are personal; the orchestration is brilliant, not
without heaviness and, at times, a bit empty. However, certain parts
are developed with uncommon mastery and numbers like the 'theme
and variations' show rare ingenuity where studied elegance does not
shut out the natural. It seems to me that, since Stravinsky, we have not
assisted at a manifestation so characteristic of what appears to be the
new tendency of Russian musical art. This is a debut that contains
more than merely promises and Mr. Dukelsky can be proud of a most
merited success."
The Paris Herald Tribune chimed in with: "Dukelsky's cleverness
is disconcerting. His 'Zephyr et Flore' is an excellent ballet in the first
manner of Stravinsky." Poulenc threw all discretion to the winds and
in a third article on my ballet summed up his impressions by saying:
"This score, so new and so alive, seems to me, next to the gigantic
FAME DID NOT DELAY 153
production of Stravinsky's, one of the most significant works of mod
ern music, and Russian music in particular."
All this must have incensed my detractors who, luckily, were none
too numerous. They were led by the acid-tongued Andre Coeuroy,
who wrote: "The musician's friends committed the great imprudence
to announce the arrival of a new Messiah . . . who could possibly
doubt that for a musician of twenty-one years, this is a beautiful
achievement. No uncertainty in the disposition of this quasi-classical
suite in separate numbers, not a blemish of taste in the orchestral sen
sibility, no shocking surprises in the rhythmic monotony; a precious
ensemble of virtues NEGATIVE ONES. Here's an occasion to re
flect, yawning a little, on the dangers and the merits of abstract art."
The other detractors extolled George Auric at my expense, but their
comments were more on the line of: "Well, the greenhorn doesn't
know his business, but has some talent will do better one day," On
the whole, neither Diaghilev nor I could have dreamt of a better press.
I got quite a few dirty looks in the foyer of the theater on the evening
of the second performance as I paraded up and down with Souvtchin-
sky, complete with tails, monocle and the usual outlandish flower in
my buttonhole with age I switched to carnations, but this was the
rose and orchid period. I perceived a fine-looking man in a splendid
fur-lined overcoat he was about to leave the theater who looked
at me with amusement and interest; he was standing next to Nicolas
Slonimsky, that indefatigable Boswell of so many musical Dr. John
sons. Nicolas was then secretary to Koussevitzky, and I knew that the
remaining Serge of the Three Great Serges was before me. Slonimsky
introduced us and Koussevitzky said without any preamble: "I just
missed your ballet but I already know about it from Seriozha Proko
fiev and our friend Nicolas here. I want your ballet, both as conduc
tor and publisher, and I want you to write a symphony for me." (Kous
sevitzky was the founder and owner of the Editions Russes de Musique,
which published nearly all Scriabin, Stravinsky and Prokofiev.) Be
fore I had -a chance to stammer a word of thanks, Koussevitzky shook
my hand and concluded: "I must be oS. If you have time tomorrow,
go to 22 rue d'Anjou and see Mr. Eberg, the director of my publish
ing house I'm sure we'll agree as to terms. Good night and good
luck." Slonimsky added a sotto voce postscript about telephoning me
in the morning and they vanished.
The next day I received a check for 6000 francs for Zephyr from
154 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the very pleasant Mr. Eberg, who told me that Koussevitzky wanted to
sign me to a life contract, whereby he'd be obligated to print every
thing I wrote in return for the exclusivity of my services as composer,
I said, very nervously, that I'd be delighted to accept, if I hadn't al
ready promised the piano concerto to Heugel, a prominent French
publisher, Eberg smiled indulgently and suggested that "his firm might
consider overlooking this little slip," and we made arrangements for a
business meeting the following week. I knew I had three people to
thank for this wonderful turn of events : Prokofiev, Slonimsky and
Diaghilev, who issued my passport to Paris, which was now miracu
lously turning into a passport to fame.
CHAPTER X
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE
HEUGEL bought my piano concerto, for which I received 5000
francs, and it proved a poor investment for the publishers, be
cause the work which caused Diaghilev to commission Zephyr was
never orchestrated and, consequently, never performed, Diaghilev
wanted me to play it in Monte Carlo, the two Rubinsteins Artur
and Beryl made half-hearted inquiries as to its availability, but
I was no longer sure of the piece, too transparent a mixture of several
ill-digested styles; in Zephyr the influences were slight and the
score had an unmistakable "presence" not so with the concerto,
in spite of its pianistic effectiveness.
A week after the last (fourth) performance of my ballet, I
experienced my first Channel crossing, accompanying Diaghilev, Boris
and Nouvel, who were London-bound four months ahead of the
ballet season; this time the company was to appear at the huge
Coliseum, a place even less suited for ballet performances than the
hateful Gaite Lyrique. To travel by sea with Sergei Pavlovitch was a
trying experience as the man suffered from chronic hypdrophobia, and
the mere sight of a ship's interior threw him into a helpless panic.
The weather couldn't have been better or balmier; nevertheless,
Diaghilev was carefully wrapped in a heavy woolen blanket on
top of a beaver-fur coat, a cashmere muffler around his neck, his
large face barely visible, encased as it was in the thick fur collar,
the too-small Lock hat over his eyes, to prevent even the tiniest
glimpse of the "raging" Channel, which was as still as a Swiss lake.
He fingered a small icon of Saint Nicholas with his left hand and
crossed himself repeatedly with his right, his lips moving noiselessly
in prayer. Boris and I, entranced by the bracing sea air, ran about
the ship, the high summer sun beating upon us, and would occasion-
156 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ally, for manners' sake, come down to the first-class "saloon" where
Sergei Pavlovitch sat all a-tremble, his powerful back turned to the
offending water, his eyes closed. "Sergei Pavlovitch, come out on
deck it's beautiful outside and so calm!" I exclaimed thoughtlessly.
Diaghilev gave me a withering look and shrilled in a high falsetto, a
sure sign of great displeasure, addressing himself to Kochno, ever the
diplomat, "Boris, tell this impudent young hooligan to go drown
himself!" He then pulled the fur collar over his face so that it prac
tically joined the hat, sighed tragically and went back to his prayers.
For once, he did resemble "a bear wrapped in Russian gloom," in
Harold Acton's phrase.
A half hour later Diaghilev got bored with so passive a resistance
to the spheres, and gave vent to his feelings by a violent diatribe
against England and the English, as if they were responsible for the
dangers and discomforts of the English Channel. He began by de
nouncing the language, which he likened to the barking of a bull
dog; then switched to women, claiming that Englishwomen were
even worse than the French or Russian variety. Eric Wollheim, the
agent and a subject of the unfortunate kingdom, winced but re
mained silent until, provoked by an especially vicious dart of Diaghi-
lev's, he attempted to check his boss by reminding him that he
would be interviewed on arrival and that it would be smart to be
pleasant and obliging. "Obliging?" snarled Diaghilev, crossing himself
at the advent of an imaginary wave. "I assure you that I'll be most
considerate of the poor beggars, the reporters. On one condition
that it will be 7 who will ask all the questions." "Whatever do you
mean, Mr. Diaghilev?" inquired the agent nervously. "Just that I
don't want the reporters to wear themselves out by interviewing me
I'll interview them. I ask the questions or no interview." The
unhappy Wollheim shrugged his shoulders and gave up.
Diaghilev was as good as his word; on arrival at Victoria, he gra
ciously received the press and requested permission to ask his ques
tions u to save you trouble, gentlemen," as he put it suavely. The
nonplussed reporters exchanged worried glances, then nodded ac
quiescence. "Thank you," Diaghilev went on in honeyed tones.
"And now for the questions: Why aren't Englishwomen the pret
tiest in the world?" Astonished silence. "Why is English food in
edible?" Silence. "Why are there no good English composers?" More
silence. More questions, some of which were frankly unprintable
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 157
there were a few titters, hastily scribbled notes and the baffled newspa
permen, loyal British subjects all, were greatly relieved by the final
"Good day, gentlemen" and a hearty handshake from their tormentor.
Once comfortably installed at his beloved Savoy, Diaghilev changed
his belligerent tune and talked of Zephyr and Flora to the represent
ative of The Observer in great detail. "Though there were four
performances in Paris," he said, "I regard it as scarcely having been
done at all, for it has been completely reshaped. The music has been
revised, and instead of one scene, there are now three, so that the
work of Georges Braque has become the most important he has yet
done for the theater.
"Braque is the only wise shall we say? and settled person
ality in the whole combination, for he alone has reached years of
discretion, whereas the combined ages of the composer, the author of
the scenario and the principal artists, Nikitina, Lifar and Tcherkas
(who replaced Dolin, no longer with the company) come only to
ninety-nine years. It is truly a ballet of youth. The composer,
Dukelsky, is the third I have discovered. His two elder 'brothers,' Stra
vinsky and Prokofiev, are too well-known to need discussion. If you
ask me by whom Dukelsky is influenced, I should say that he has
nothing in common with Stravinsky; that you could perhaps detect
his admiration for Prokofiev, though in any case he is more classical;
and that he is inclined rather to trace his heredity from his 'Grand
father' Glinka." Following the Observer interview, Diaghilev and
Boris started unpacking and suggested Bloomsbury as a locale more
commensurate with my finances than the opulent Savoy. I stumbled
into the Brighton Hall Hotel, near Russell Square, a somewhat de
pressing neighborhood; the sunless room with the big, creaky bed,
a cracked washbasin, overstarched towels and a slatternly maid in
black cotton stockings, who asked me whether I would care for "a
cup o' tzea" in the gloomiest tones imaginable, made me inexpres
sibly sad. I'm always sad during the first few hours in a place I've
never seen before Paris the exception. Strange sights and smells
give me a horrible, sinking feeling of being detached from the busy
Sfe around me, of "not belonging." The first London meal only
intensified my unhappiness; never did I imagine that harmless Brus
sels sprouts and a thin sliver of middle-aged mutton could taste like
boiled toilet paper. When I ordered coffee and liquid boot polish
appeared in a thick, badly chipped white cup, on the heels of some-
158 PASSPORT TO PARIS
thing called "suet pudding" and a fishy-smelling "savory" for a final
discord, I was ready to weep. The maid returned with offers of a hot-
water bottle, although the evening was exceedingly warm; I laughed
grimly, scaring the wits out of the poor thing, and fell asleep in
stantly.
The next morning, after a decent breakfast not even the Eng
lish can ruin eggs and bacon, and I wisely ordered tea instead of so-
called coffee I sauntered into the street and bought several news
papers. Finding my name in most of them in the drama and music/
sections, I immediately felt better. Funny what the sight of one's own
name in print can do to one's sagging spirits. I marched on jauntily,
through the dreary squares of Bloomsbury, past the squalid Greek
and Italian grocery stores and supposedly French restaurants of Soho
into the more animated but strangely shabby Shaftesbury Avenue.
Things were getting livelier by the minute; big red buses, antique
Daimler taxicabs, policemen twice the size of the French "flics," signs
lauding Bovril, Guinness and Players' cigarettes, unfamiliar products
all, had a cozy, comfortable look about them naive and out
dated, perhaps, but oddly resassuring. If Paris smelled of lilacs and
gasoline, the prevailing London odor was that of rotting apples.
Theatrical posters were everywhere and the names of the plays as
well as quotes from critics in English were good to see after too much
French, crammed too quickly into one's brain.
As I reached Piccadilly, I was ready, nay eager, to be converted
to things English except, certainly, food. Never have I encoun
tered so many faultlessly turned out men, bowlers and Homburgs at
just the right angle, suits beautifully yet unobtrusively cut, ties a
model of sobriety, umbrellas, like trained black eels, dangling ef
fortlessly from the left arm, in spite of the blazing sun; the whole
effect one of studied expensive simplicity with just a dash of amiable
complacency and condescension. I caught a glimpse of myself in a
mirror and was horrified: ill-fitting suit, trousers too short, tie too
loud, shirt too French, hat beneath contempt an outsider, obviously.
Quickly I slipped into the nearest pub a fascinatingly moldy yet
clean establishment and asked the buxom barmaid for a "glass of
beer." With a knowing glance at my "wrong" clothes (maddening
thought!), she bared her upper plate and demanded to know whether
I desired bitter, ale or lager. The bitter sounded unpromising and I
had never heard of lager, so settled for a tankard of warm, potent
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 159
ale. Thus fortified, I next visited the Burlington Arcade and spent
half my money on shirts, ties, a hat and the thinnest, most eel-like
umbrella obtainable. "I'll show them!" I thought elatedly.
In contrast with the magnificent male, the London women struck
me as peculiarly frumpy and ill-kempt. A good many of the girls
were pretty, in the fresh Anglo-Saxon way, with the well-advertised
glowing skin and sturdy, substantial legs, but the clothes were for the
most part deplorable ill-fitting, cheap "suits," sleazy prints and
shapeless "utility" shoes; the color schemes, too, looked vile, un-
matchable shades clashing willy-nilly and destroying the wearers'
natural good looks. I spied a few impressively and rather severely
clad mondaines, uptilted noses high in the air, teeth and feet a shade
too large but solid and obviously built to last as most things
were in the old Empire.
At noon I telephoned Boris to find out whether my presence was
needed for one reason or another. Boris sounded a bit irritated.
"Where on earth are you keeping yourself?" he asked. "Come to the
Savoy at once; Edwin Evans is lunching with us and you are to tell
him all about your music he knows a great deal and writes well.
Hurry, Seriozha is very angry with you." But when I got to the hotel,
Sergei Pavlovitch was beaming and cracking jokes with Evans, a
bearded Bohemian looking not unlike Pissaro, with a soft cultivated
speech and rather a diffident manner. Evans spoke good French, which
endeared him to Diaghilev, who didn't like to speak English, al
though he knew the language tolerably well. After some unavoidable
blasts at Ernest Newman (with whom he was always scrapping), the
pro-Germanic stolidity of the British musical mind, and the long-
suffering "Dehlius" and Sibelius, Sergei Pavlovitch ordered steaks
minute all around, patted me on the back and said to Evans: "This
boy is good, so be good to him." Evans smiled carefully and began
interrogating me in English, while Diaghilev and Boris turned to
business matters. I gave the bearded sage a suitably colorful account
of my beginnings, confessed that my love for jazz was never platonic,
due to my friendship with George Gershwin, admitted also that a
fashionable New York lady reporter had told her readers that my
early "Gondla" was "barbaric in its harmonies, Icelandic in its frozen
remoteness, and decidedly hunchback [Gumilev's hero was a crip
ple] in its form." Asked about my ideas on music, I made a few
reasonably snappy remarks, subsequently printed and reprinted in
160 PASSPORT TO PARIS
so staid a publication as the Boston Symphony Program Notes: "I
hate all 'modernism' and I love being modern. I believe only in
construction in the truly classical sense, knowing that it is more
difficult to construct a fox trot than to write a thousand 'poems' on
golden fishes, bald Chinamen, or oyster shells as the so-called 'modern
ists' do. I find that jazz is 'classicism for minors' and, therefore, very
useful. We must and will, undress music; it doesn't need the heavy
coat of harmonies and more winter is gone."
So impudent a pronouncement from a young man not quite
twenty-two was, doubtless, dismissed by the older British musicians as
bloody cheek, but it exhilarated the struggling young and filled them
with curiosity. This was 1925 and English music was in a sad state;
today England can boast any number of gifted composers, but thirty
years ago, with the exception of Vaughan Williams and little-known
Philip Heseltine, who used the pseudonym Peter Warlock, and who
killed himself in 1930 when he was thirty-six, the picture was
dreary indeed. The great men of English music were such purely local
figures as Elgar (whose "Dream of Gerontius" was dismissed by
George Moore an Irishman, I hasten to add as "holy water in a
German Beer-barrel") and Diaghilev's bete noire, Delius. Of the
younger men, Arthur Bliss and Eugene Goossens were the only ones
with any spunk at all and I was pleased when told by Diaghilev that
the latter was engaged as conductor for the Ballets Russes season.
The- next day Goossens himself telephoned me and invited me to
dine with him en famille. The famille that evening was composed
of Boonie, his tall Renoiresque wife, and a painfully thin, sandy-
haired young man whose name was William Walton. Unlike Eu
gene Goossens, a consummate dandy, Walton was almost shabbily
dressed and had a downtrodden, yet eager, look, bringing to mind a
Chekhov hero. The dinner was very good and so were Boonie's looks
and the music talk. Both men were familiar with Zephyr and Flora
and professed to admire it unreservedly. Walton, eighteen months
older than myself, with an engagingly modest mien told me of his
beginnings as an organist, his discovery by the Sitwells and his struggle
to obtain a hearing; so far only a string quartet, given at Salzburg at
an I.S.C.M. concert, and the first (1923) version of Edith
Sitwell's "Facade" were played in public. He wanted to show me his
new "Dr. Syntax" overture and have me meet his friends the Sitwell
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 161
brothers; Walton then stayed with Osbert in 2 Carlyle Square, Chel
sea. We parted friends.
Pedro Pruna, the Spanish painter whose scenery and costumes
contributed not a little to the universal success of Les Matelots, did
a rather mannered drawing of Kochno and myself; on it I'm repre
sented seated, one foot bare, the other beslippered, while Boris, stand
ing, is holding a mongrel pup with his left arm (the pup, who must
have been uncomfortable, appears to be legless) and a large peas
ant straw hat in his right hand. We are both wearing white toweling
robes and manage to look beautiful and effete at the same time
Pruna's trick, not ours. This drawing, executed in Barcelona from
memory, appeared in the October 1925 issue of the London Vogue
on the "We Nominate for the Hall of Fame" page. The caption
read, in part: "Dukelsky went to America where, like his friend
Gershwin, he became interested in the serious potentialities of jazz.
Diaghilev, with his flair for new talent, suggested his writing the
music for 'Zephyr and Flora,' which we hope to see in London. He
had also written a musical comedy which is soon to be produced here."
This was inaccurate, as the "musical comedy" was far from
written, but had reached merely the talking stage. It all began
with Massine, again on the outs with Diaghilev, signing a pact with
C. B. Cochran, who can with some justice be called the Diaghilev
of the light-musical stage, to put on ballets for a forthcoming
revue as well as for the Trocadero cabaret. My friendship with Leon-
ide continued unabated and I lent a willing ear to indignant words
against Sergei Pavlovitch, his tyrannical unconcern for his collabo
rators and the lucrative vistas that would open before me were I
to enter the commercial field under his, Massine's, and Cochran's
auspices. My money earned in France was fast disappearing, also I
had grandly ordered two suits and a tailcoat from the best Savile
Row tailor and although almost anybody's credit was good in London
in the twenties, I hated being in debt and fully intended to pay the
man. While fascinated by Massine's proposals, I decided to defer all
active steps in the "lowbrow" direction until after Zephyr's opening,
for fear of antagonizing Diaghilev, my sponsor and benefactor,
although my banker no longer.
Diaghilev left for Italy with Lifar in early August and this gave me
an opportunity to tinker with a few tentative jazz tunes. London
162 PASSPORT TO PARIS
musical shows were of much better quality then than they are now,
and the best of them was Primrose at the Winter Garden, with
Gershwin's music and Desmond Carter's pithy and well-turned
lyrics. This was George's second London musical, written especially
for the English stage and never reproduced in America. The first was
an unsuccessful revue by A. de Courville, Edgar Wallace (later my
collaborator) and Noel Scott called The Rainbow, produced in 1923.
George often told me that he considered The Rainbow his poorest
score, and it certainly couldn't compare with the exhilarating Scandals
music or such gems as the unjustly neglected "Innocent Ingenue Baby"
and the striking "I'll Build a Stairway to Paradise," which Carl Van
Vechten considered "the most perfect piece of jazz yet written." Yet,
at least two numbers could bear a revival the shrewdly Englished
"Sunday in London Town" and the Kern-like ballad "In the Rain"
both with good lyrics by Clifford Grey the latter with five-
bar phrases in the verse, which would be considered daring in 1954.
On the whole it must be admitted that The Rainbow score wasn't
much; Primrose was another matter. The star of that show was the
tantalizing Heather Thatcher, who, like myself, belonged to the
monocle-wearing brigade, but was certainly pretty enough without
that unfeminine appurtenance. The music and lyrics of Primrose
were consistently delightful and I'll never know why "Wait a Bit,
Susie," its best song, was never transplanted across the ocean. I was
greatly influenced in my light-music exercises at the time by both
Primrose and Tell Me More, Winter Garden's next tenant, with
Gershwin tunes, and Heather Thatcher again; the new musical, a
failure in the States, achieved a sizable run in London and contained
the lilting "Why Do I Love You?" this title reappearing many
years later in the more celebrated Kern-Hammerstein ballad.
I wrote several fair-to-middling songs with Beverley Nichols, ex-
secretary to Dame Melba, busy journalist, generous host and author
of 25, his autobiography and still his best book. He lived in a
very small and very pretty house this was before his infatuation
with gardens and wrote facile and deft profiles of his celebrated
guests, who were always in and out of Beverley's living room, drinking
his excellent liquor and joining in the polite merriment. Our songs
were not as good as the dry Martinis, the house's specialty. I remem
ber demonstrating four or five pieces to P. G. Wodehouse, an old
friend of Nichols's and one of the best lyricists in his day. Well-
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 163
mannered P.G. smiled broadly when we started, thinly as we sang
and played and not at all when we finished.
This, of course, was the heyday of the Bright Young People, ably
recorded by Beverley, Lord Donegal and, especially, Patrick Balfour,
whose book Society Racket was published in the early thirties. Patrick
summed up the London twenties as "an age, in the course of which
. . . actors and actresses tried to be ladies and gentlemen and ladies
and gentlemen behaved like actors and actresses, novelists were men-
about-town and men-about-town wrote novels, persons of rank be
came shopkeepers and shopkeepers drew persons of rank to their
houses, the speed king supplanted the Guards officer as the beau ideal
of modern woman and modern woman herself grew each day slimmer
and slimmer and slimmer." To this summation I must add that it
was also the age wherein Armenians and Russians (Michael Arlen
and myself, to name two) tried to be Englishmen and arty English
men would give their back teeth if someone thought them Russian,
normal men and women carried on as if they were homosexuals,
and homosexuals just carried on.
But let Patrick Balfour tell you about carryings-on: "What par
ties they gave! Parties for the Blackbirds; an unforgettable Russian
party in Gerald Road, with a Negro band ... the swimming party
in the St. George's baths; David Tennant Mozart party, where the
eighteenth century was recaptured for a night; Tallulah parties;
Guinness parties; impromptu wild parties, in fancy undress, in the
Royal Hospital Road. Between parties we went to the Cafe Anglais,
to hear Rex Evans singing about white mice and snowballs and the
wrong end of his horse . . . above all, there was Chez Victor,
where Hutch, in his prime, would sing. ..." Hutch was Leslie
Hutchinson, a light-sknined Negro, svelte and dashing, who played
a "lot of piano," as the phrase has it, and made a lot of love to a lot
of wellborn hostesses, who worshipped at his feet or was it his
fingers? One of Hutch's most ardent champions was snub-nosed and
energetic Zena Naylor, vaguely related to Lord Alfred Douglas and a
great friend of Willie Walton's, who was a habitue of Zena's house
in Hill Street, where a party was always on. I went to them all
wasn't my portrait in Vogue, my ballet announced and extolled by
Almighty God Diaghilev himself, weren't my clothes Anderson
& Sheppard's best? The people one always saw at these mad bac
chanals were Lady Eleanor Smith, the Guinness girls (Tanis later
164 PASSPORT TO PARIS
became Mrs. Howard Dietz), the Jungman sisters, Elizabeth Pon-
sonby, the David Tennants, Brian Howard, David Plunkett-Greene,
Hermione Baddeley, Madge Garland and such accomplished fun
lovers as Oliver Messell, Cecil Beaton, Noel Coward and Boonie
Goossens. I well remember one of Boonie's twins saying to Lloyd
Mitchell of the "Blackbirds" (having been briefed) : "Are you col
ored?" Lloyd Mitchell: "Yes, I am." Twin: "I am colored, too; my
color's white."
Noel, the talk of London and the most sought-after playwright-
actor in Mayf air his dream, which he achieved at an early age
was invited everywhere and charmed peeresses to his and their hearts*
content. He had a knack (by screwing up his face and looking
deliciously impish) of making them feel as if he were about to let
them in on a jealously guarded secret of the Paris underworld had
he not written Parisian Pierrot? when, in reality, a conventionally
sprightly exchange of well-turned trivialities was taking place. His
manner, build and general demeanor were wickedly, endearingly
"right" and although no one could touch Jack Buchanan for
sublime tails, it was impossible to approach Noel's perfection when
attired in a gray flannel suit and brown suede shoes. I often won
dered whether his success would have been quite the same had he the
physique of, say, Arnold Bennett.
Noel was then appearing in his own Vortex at the Royalty
Theatre and held court nightly in his dressing room. Massine, never
good at social small talk, but determined to bring us together, took
me to Noel's pleasant abode in Ebury Street, where we could talk
business. Coward received us in a resplendent dressing gown (I
made a mental note to get its duplicate regardless of cost), listened to
my little tunes with every evidence of pleasure, played a few of his
own and wound up with a first (for me) performance of "Tea
for Two," then the rage of the United States. Noel didn't play well
and his voice was curiously flat and unmusical; I thought "Tea for
Two" dull in the extreme and said so. I love the song now as who
doesn't? but still marvel at the nonsensical lyric which never gets
back to the title; no one does any tea-drinking in the song, which is
probably understandable as the song was not meant for English
audiences, but then why call it "Tea for Two"?
At that time Noel wasn't too sure of his ground as songwriter;
in Present Indicative he tells how: "Cochran's armour of evasive
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 165
politeness cracked, and he was forced to say that he frankly did not
consider my music good enough to carry a whole show." It was Mas-
sine's thought that Coward and I could collaborate on music and
lyrics, with me attending to ballet music as well. I remember playing
a very Gershwinesque refrain, which Noel liked enough to try writ
ing a lyric to then and there. Nothing came of the proposed col
laboration, because "Cockie" finally gave in and let Noel compose
the entire score for the revue. He, too, went to too many parties
and met too many people; he, too, "indulged a long-suppressed
desire for silk-shirts, pyjamas and underclothes," but Noel was pro
digiously industrious and never let pleasure interfere with business.
At twenty-two, I never let business spoil my pleasure and had a
childish and unreasonable conviction that Lady Luck had singled
me out as her own particular pet and all I had to do was let her oper
ate.
After Diaghilev's departure, Willie Walton and I became close-
friends. He lived on the top floor of Osberfs Chelsea house and I
was taken there shortly after the Goossens dinner. Two Carlyle-
Square could perhaps be described as an exclusive annex to such
meccas of "Smartistic" London (the word is Patrick Balfour's) as
Lady Colefax's the Lions Comer House, as the envious had it
Emerald Cunard's and Christabel McLaran's establishments. Osberf s
house was small and appeared even smaller as you entered it, owing
to the great number of precious objects and knickknacks, all of which
reflected the special tastes of the owner. The painter whose work pre
vailed on Osbert's walls was Severini, who, in spite of his early
reputation as "Futurist," always seemed a bit saccharine to me. Ital
ian and Persian art mingled freely in the Sitwell house; in a letter
to Mother, I recorded with some astonishment that even the John
boasted a number of Persian miniatures. There are people who as
pire solely to wit, others to chic, still others to money Osbert
Sitwell's niche was majesty. His looks, speech, walk and the ponderous
graciousness with which he received his guests made you feel that you
were in the presence of royalty and that your host's literary activities
were rather like the present King of Denmark's penchant for or
chestra conducting. Since I am not easily awed, Sir Osbert's awesome
manner failed to intimidate me, which was doubtless wrong of me;
I soon noticed a marked reserve in the Sitwellian remarks addressed
to me in the course of the excellent luncheon Willie and I were
166 PASSPORT TO PARIS
offered, and even more marked remoteness about the cold steely eyes
of my host, and was much relieved when the time came to rise from
the table.
Willie and I always enjoyed ourselves hugely in his attic and I did
much to veer him away from the pitfalls of atonality. I was brutal in
my denunciation of the Schoenbergian string quartet and other like
efforts, warmly welcoming the fresh water-color quality of "Ports
mouth Point," the overture then being written and orchestrated. This
ingenious piece was first dedicated to me, and I well remember my
hurt feelings when "To Siegfried Sassoon" appeared on the printed
score.
On November 12th Zephyr had its Coliseum opening with Braque's
beautiful additional sets and a good orchestra, well-rehearsed and
spiritedly conducted. If the Paris premiere had but a moderate success,
there were no such reservations to be made of the London one. In the
pet phrase of society columnists, it was rapturously received. No laurel
wreath this tune, but I wore a large white chrysanthemum in my but
tonhole to match the floral tributes bestowed on Alice Nikitina by
Lord Rothermere. Except for the outrageous chrysanthemum, re
ported by the tabloids the next day, my clothes were those of a gentle
man at long last, thanks to Messrs. Anderson & Sheppard, and, like
Noel in Present Indicative, I "savoured to the full the sensation of
being well-dressed for the first time."
Two wonderful, fairytalelike things happened to me that evening.
C. B. Cochran came to see me backstage during the intermission, his
perpetually red, friendly little face beaming, his hand outstretched to
grasp mine. Cockie looked more like a Surtees squire than a theatrical
producer, but a shrewder appraiser of theatrical wares never lived. He
told me that he thought the music of Zephyr extraordinarily exhila
rating, fresh and young, and would I write a musical-comedy score
for him? There is really no relation between the two media, and
Cochran's proposal was, in the conventional sense, just as unusual, as
if Ziegfeld had asked T. S. Eliot to write him a "Follies" score on the
strength of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." One must also
bear in mind that Cockie had never heard any of my jazz pieces
(probably it was just as well), though he might have had some
comments by Coward or Massine. I accepted the offer with dispatch
and promised to show up at Cochran's office for further discussion on
the next afternoon.
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 167
No sooner did Cochran leave than he was succeeded by the arrival
of Willie Walton, breathless and slightly disheveled; he told me in a
dramatic whisper that Frances Doble, "the most beautiful girl in
London," wanted to meet me, that she was entranced with the ballet,
my music and, apparently, my looks. Miss Doble asked Willie to take
her backstage after the last ballet and bring me to supper with her
at somebody-or-other's house. No party was planned for that evening
Diaghilev, Boris and I were to sup quietly with Goossens, Evans
and Wollheim in the Savoy Grill; I asked Willie to wait and ran
up to Sergei Pavlovitch, who was standing in the wings with Lifar,
to ask his permission to join Mr. Walton for supper. Although I
purposely omitted Miss Doble's name in my request, Diaghilev's
mocking glance told me at once that he knew the truth: "A girl
again. What a perfect young ass you are; Zephyr is a real London
victory. I'm proud of you as a composer; as a man, you're incurable.
Run along now!" I thanked Sergei Pavlovitch warmly, feeling a bit
remorseful here I was plotting to "sell my soul" to Cochran and
my heart to an unknown enchantress both actions certain to dis
please Diaghilev.
Frances ("Bunny," as everyone called her) Doble, the daughter
of a Toronto banker, was a gifted young actress and a great Mayfair
favorite. I knew that her sister Georgia ("Baby") was about to
marry Sacheverell Sitwell, Osbert's younger brother, with whom T
was on the friendliest terms. I knew too that Bunny was celebrated
for her beauty in a town noted for professional pulchritude (the
term "glamour girl" was not yet invented) , but I was not prepared
for the celestial vision that appeared out of nowhere on the huge
Coliseum stage, which was peopled with madly chattering ballerinas,
stagehands scurrying about and young guardees not above a little
post- Victorian stage-door- Johnnying, their mustaches all a-twirl, their
"I say's" and "ripping's" straight out of Wodehouse. Yes, Bunny
Doble was indeed rarely beautiful with her shining, almond-shaped
eyes, voluptuous yet shy mouth, dark-brown hair, the natural sheen
of which set off the cool, even pallor of her skin, almost free of
cosmetics; her figure didn't quite match the perfection of her face,
but it was a dressmaker's figure and Bunny's frock showed it off
seductively. Our first meeting was an exact duplicate of countless such
meetings in countless third-rate films, where the hero and heroine,
speechless and dumbfounded by each other's charms, utter unbearable
168 PASSPORT TO PARIS
banalities, while the audience's collective heart palpitates wildly and
enviously. I plead guilty to a scene which in cold print must look
very cold indeed, and assuredly inane, but we were both galvanized
by one another and went through the motions of that legendary
cataclysm love at first sight with utmost sincerity. I hope the
reader doesn't become nauseated by my narcissism, which never
extended to my looks, only to my clothes, but I must report that
Bunny's opening gem-bit was: "Oh, but you are beautiful!" I gasped
and retaliated with: "You are the most beautiful thing I ever
saw . . ."; thus having assured ourselves that we were the two most
beautiful people on earth, we walked off arm in arm, gazing at one
another with unbelieving eyes. Willie, astonished and amused,
following us at a respectful distance. I don't remember a thing about
the supper that followed.
The London notices were fully as good as the Paris ones; in
some instances, even better. In the light of my subsequent strange and
nonconformist career as composer, I feel I should again submit a few
quotes. Luckily for me Ernest Newman didn't cover my opening for
the London Sunday Times, but Dyneley Hussey did. "As for the mu
sic," said he, "it is a pleasure to welcome a work which not only
avoids mere silliness but shows that the young composer really has
something to say. It is not all on a level but some of the movements,
such as the slow solo for Flora after Zephyr has been wounded, were
beautiful. The ballet was received with great enthusiasm." The
accomplished and erudite Francis Toye (who wrote the splendid
biographies of Rossini and Verdi) was very complimentary: "It
would hardly be true to write that Dukelsky's music had, except for
a certain elegance, even a remote flavor of the 18th century, but it
struck us as by far the most interesting of all the compositions
associated with Mr. Diaghilev's most recent ballets. . . . Here is a
young man who, despite the discordant idiom of the times, knows
how to shape a musical phrase and conceive a musical idea. Strange
though it may appear to many people in the audience, M. Dukelsky
has a real gift of tune, and some of his contrapuntal writing is
extremely happy." Hubert Griffith added another bouquet: "Dukel
sky's music is a relief for sore ears after too much musical comedy.
Dukelsky may or may not be a great composer. His music last night
was a delight." Vogue thought it "spirited and stimulating, possess
ing a pleasant acidity somewhat reminiscent of Prokofiev." Lastly,
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 169
my erstwhile interviewer, Edwin Evans told his readers: "It is a rich
score possibly even a little too rich, for there are things in it which
scarcely come through and does not need any of the indulgence
that one accords to an early effort, for, apart from a certain youthful
exuberance, its style is unusually settled and consistent." Clearly, I got
off on the right foot.
Looking back at my London debut, which took place almost thirty
years ago, it becomes clear to me that I missed my big chance and
made the unpardonable mistake of dissipating the excellent first im
pression my music made, by not taking myself at all seriously. Had I
but the stick-to-itiveness of, say, a Prokofiev (I am not comparing his
gift with mine), I would have followed Zephyr with a yet better
work, would have orchestrated the early concerto a sure applause-
getter whatever its faults and, first and foremost, gotten back to
study, especially study of orchestration. I had Diaghilev and Kous-
sevitzky where I wanted them, my meteoric rise gave me an entree
to almost any conductor you could name, and, on top of it all,
Cochran, the greatest showman of his time, was commissioning a
musical comedy from me me, who had not a single printed song
to his credit! Yet, with all these wondrous opportunities, I let all
these birds in my hand fly away and did little of consequence for
the next three years except, in the current colorful phrase, have
myself a ball.
I went to see Cochran at the appointed time, was told that Arthur
Wimperis, then one of the top author-lyricists in the game, would
write the book for my score, signed a very pretty-looking contract
and pocketed a check for .300 a sum of money that would not be
called inconsiderable even today. I doubt that Cockie paid out such
large advances as a rule, but I was a "young man of the moment"
and bagging Diaghilev's newest composer must have given the enter
prising showman a real kick especially because he was aware of
Diaghilev's savage and vociferous disapproval of any theatrical
entrepreneur who dared lure "his people" away from him as was
the case with Massine. Had I asked Sergei Pavlovitch's permission to
work for Cochran, he would have first thrown a fit and then thrown
me out of his room and his life. What was I to do? The new ballet,
although seemingly a certainty, wouldn't bring me enough to live on
and there were Mother and Alex to think about.
On graduation from Gushing in 1924 as salutatorian, Alex passed
170 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the college entrance examination and was admitted as a freshman at
M.I.T. His first scholarship was granted by the Russian Relief in
1926, Alex beginning to show promise as an architect. By this time
Mother had moved to Boston to save Alex from alcoholic excesses, as
the Berestnevs began brewing their own bathtub vodka. Mother then
obtained a scholarship for Alex through Koussevitzky.
She worked in Mme. Ouspensky's dress shop, specializing in
Russian cross-stitching; everything Russian was then very popular. In
1928 Alex graduated with a bachelor of science degree with top
honors, was granted the Fontainebleau Scholarship and went back to
Tech to get his master's degree, which he received in 1929, with a
traveling scholarship for a year's study abroad. While these distinc
tions were being achieved, Alex subsisted solely on what Mother
was able to earn by hard work, and the two of them needed help
urgently. I was determined to do everything in my power to provide
that help.
Prior to meeting Bunny Doble, I met and liked Sacheverell Sitwell,
as "easy to be with" a man as Osbert was difficult Sachie, as he was
known to his friends, had none of Osbert's glassy perfection; his
clothes were baggy, his shirts rumpled, so was his unruly blond hair.
Although some likened him to Bacchus, he looked more like an over
grown urchin with his odd, shy giggle and awkwardly angular gestures.
There was something touchingly gauche about the man's appearance;
you would hardly suspect that he was a master of colorful, yet metic
ulous prose and warmly sensitive poetry, that he was by far the best
author of the three writing Sitwells which estimate will not please
him. The Sitwell trio's mutual devotion is too well-known to need
discussion on these pages; to criticize one in the presence of the
others is to invite a verbal explosion and a permanent ouster from
the exalted Sitwellian spheres. There is a priceless paragraph in Cecil
Beaton's Photobiography in which the author, with artful naivete,
tells of how he "as each week passed, became more panicstricken lest
I should fail completely in adult life. Then one day a delightful and
wise friend said to me, 'Don't worry so much about becoming any
thing very definite. Take it easy for a bit more and become a friend
of the Sitwells.' " Cecil took the advice and things worked out beauti
fully for him. As for me, having "become very definite" indeed, I had
the impudence to tell Sacheverell that I thought Osbert's Before the
Bombardment a boring and almost unreadable book the strident
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 171
scene that ensued is not one of my happier recollections. Vernon
Fane, reviewing Sir Osbert's The Scarlet Tree spoke of the author's
"intense egocentricity" and "none too elastic view of life." Ego-
centricity not being one of my many faults I sincerely dislike
talking about myself for the unusual reason that I know all there is to
know about me and would rather hear about others and elasticity
not being one of my few virtues, I was regrettably unmoved by the
trio of Sitwells, who have always made it clear that they regard
themselves as being apart and endowed with exceptional gifts. They
have succeeded in securing an almost general acceptance of this
belief by an unflinching and at times belligerent insistence.
My attentions to Bunny were, in reality, of the most inoffensive
sort. We saw each other every day, held hands, walked through
Chelsea or Hyde Park, kissed a great deal and talked all manner of
childishly romantic nonsense but that was all. Through my entire
life I was cursed, or possibly blessed, with a dual personality as lover
as well as composer. I have desired and I have loved, certainly, but
with two exceptions I never desired those I loved, never loved those I
desired. To further entertain members and disciples of the psycho
analytical cult, I will admit that I was never capable of sublimating
sex, nor degrading love, with elaborate variations of the sexual act.
I have read all about "love and sex being one and the same" or
"going hand in hand" so should music and money but Duke
and Dukelsky know better. I've never been married and my stock
answer when asked why not is, "Because, should I be married to
one woman, I'd be unfaithful to all the 'others.' " The real reason
is not as pat and snappy as that, but it is a more valid one.
To save money in order to help Mother and Alex, not forgetting
my own expensive outings and clothes, I moved to cheap digs in
Torrington Square in the heart of Bloomsbury. The room, as I re
member it now, had that very special London squalor about it, but the
rent was infinitesimal and Mrs. Dupont, my sad-eyed Belgian land
lady, had a way with beef and mutton, which was an added advan
tage on lean days when I wasn't asked out to dine. I composed
what little I did compose on an antiquated upright, perpetually
and fascinatingly out-of-tune no piano tuner could help the pre
historic beast, which would be on its good behavior for a week, and
then get back to complete acoustic anarchy.
It is a sad and probably little-known fact that composers are usu-
172 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ally jealous of one another and inclined to speak disparagingly of
their contemporaries' work. There is no jealousy in my make-up ei
ther in love or in music. I always liked all good music good to
my way of thinking, that is and was always ready to give it a
hand, exactly as if it were my own; I, too, felt, and still feel, that a
really worthwhile new composer is so rare a bird that he should be
caged at once and that the cage should be gold, not merely gilt, as is
too often the case. Thus, on hearing Vittorio Rieti's "Noah's Ark"
(1925) I became entranced with the man's talent and began "sell
ing" him to Diaghilev; there might have been other salesmen too
at any rate, Diaghilev lent a willing ear and Rieti's Barabau, a
hilarious "folk" ballet with inventive and dazzlingly fresh choreog
raphy by Balanchine, was put on at the Coliseum on December llth
and applauded to the echo.
In 1925-1926 I acted as a sort of an unofficial "musical secre
tary" to Sergei Pavlovitch and performed my duties with great zeal.
Always a facile sightreader, it became my job to play new works
submitted to Diaghilev, and, on occasion, to write composers and
their publishers. Willie Walton's great ambition was to compose a
ballet for Diaghilev, and I suggested that he play "Portsmouth
Point" for him. Willie had a young friend named Constant Lambert,
a product of the Royal College of Music, who had similar ambitions;
while Walton pursued his goal through me as a go-between, "Kid"
(as he was known to his intimates) Lambert had other ideas. He
used to haunt the corridor outside Diaghilev's door at the Savoy
Hotel and sit on the floor with the determination to waylay the
great man and obtain a hearing. Diaghilev, who had an efficient
bodyguard in Boris, was used to ducking composers and creditors
alike, and outsmarted poor Lambert daily by sneaking into his suite
before the boy had a chance to open his mouth. Kid Lambert was
rather typical of arty Chelsea and insisted on wearing an unusually
loud bright-orange shirt with a black tie. This trade-mark infuriated
Diaghilev, who called me in to complain about the "infernal
nuisance that Chelsea tapette [fairy] who haunts me." I laughed
heartily, knowing Lambert to be quite a ladies' man; I knew him
slightly and thought his manner curt and disagreeable, but certainly
not effeminate. Willie, with his habitual kindness, suggested that
Lambert join him for the Diaghilev audition, which I succeeded in
obtaining. I heard Lambert's newly composed "Adam and Eve" bal-
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 173
let, and thought it very mild fare, but promised to try and smuggle
the Kid in. In this I succeeded, although Diaghilev grumbled un
pleasantly at the sight of the orange-shirted prowler; Willie played
first he was no pianist, and got an icy reception from Sergei
Pavlovitch, who then told me what he thought of "Portsmouth Point"
in Russian, and it wasn't much. Lambert, a self-assured and efficient
performer, went on next, gave an excellent account of his skimpy
piece and miracle of miracles was rewarded by a beatific smile
by the listener.
"Are you English?" he queried. "Yes, I am, why?" countered Lam
bert. "That's most surprising. I don't like English music, yet I like
your little ballet. I'm going to produce it, but not with that silly title,"
Diaghilev went on. He took a big red pencil, crossed out "Adam and
Eve" and wrote "Romeo and Juliet" over it. Constant burst into
uncontrollable tears.
I was very upset by this turn of events, as I considered Willie's
music immeasurably superior to that of Lambert's. At my insistence,
and with some help from Goossens, "Portsmouth Point" was given
as an interlude at His Majesty's Theatre in the summer of 1926.
Arnold Haskell reported the Lambert "christening" thus: "Through
London friends, he [Diaghilev] had discovered a young English
composer, Constant Lambert." The London friends were Willie and
myself. I have before me a clipping from either the Times or the
Telegraph which reads: "The composer, Constant Lambert, is still a
student and is not yet twenty-one. His music was brought to the notice
of Mr. Diaghilev by Vladimir Dukelsky, the composer of 'Zephyr
and Flora,' and Diaghilev, liking it, thought he could fit no more
thoroughly British story to it than Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet.' "
Kid Lambert was wretchedly poor at the time and Willie asked me
whether I couldn't find some remunerative work for the young man,
who not only didn't thank me for the Diaghilev audition but seemed
to resent my role in bringing it about. Massine gave me five Albeniz
piano pieces to orchestrate and I was glad to share the assignment
with Lambert, whose orchestrating skill was superior to mine. Eight
years later Lambert favored me with a single mention in his scrappy
Music Ho! subtitled "A Study of Music in Decline": "Diaghilev was
far more than a mere impresario. Though not, strictly speaking, a
creative artist, he had very much more genius than many of the artists
who worked for him, and it hardly seems worth while examining the
174 PASSPORT TO PARIS
work of such minor composers as Dukelsky, Sauguet, Nabokov, and!
others, apart from their connection with Diaghilev. They were merely
the gunmen executing the commands of their Capone, who, like all
great gangsters, never touched firearms himself."
In mid-December on moving to Torrington Square, I fell victim
to a form of gastric fever and spent two depressing days in bed,
drinking tea, reading Stendhal and playing chess with Indian stu
dents, fellow inmates of Mme. Dupont's establishment. On the
second night of my illness, Walton stormed in to tell me that Viva
and Willie Booth, of the St. John's Wood Branch of the Bright
Young People, were giving a party for Bunny after her opening in
a new comedy and that Bunny announced that she wouldn't come
unless I came too. I felt wretched, but, my protests and excuses
proving of no avail, allowed myself to be persuaded by faithful
Willie, dressed hurriedly and, bundled up securely, ventured into the
icy December air. On arriving at the Booths', I was received with
mingled gaiety and solicitude and given a double brandy, on downing
which I promptly fainted. I came to just in time for Bunny's trium
phant arrival; she was radiant in shiny silver lame, grateful for the
plaudits she received at the theater and happy to see me among her
welcoming friends. The crackling fire, Hutch's soothing singing and
piano playing and Bunny's tenderness should have cured me instantly,
but I felt gradually more and more ill and had to be taken to bed,
Bunny playing nurse. The next morning, instead of recovering, I got
steadily worse and, thanks to Willie's kind offices, was removed to 2
Carlyle Square Osbert was vacationing in Italy.
I will always be grateful to Willie Walton for the friendship and
concern he showed me during the next week, which caused me
actually to enjoy my illness. Bunny came to see me and we had an
emotional scene which started with the girl kneeling at my bed and
crying, as she imagined herself responsible for my condition, having
insisted at my turning up at her party. There was talk of marriage, of
never leaving each other Bunny in tears, I in bed with a high
temperature which, according to the girl, gave me a magnificent
color. Bunny then left and, I fear, Love left us shortly afterwards.
What a relief it must have been to all our ill-wishers.
At Christmas time, I wrote Mother a long letter in which I said
that my main and basic desire was to see her as soon as possible and,
most important of all, to provide her even temporarily with some
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 175
semblance of security. I continued: "Diaghilev is very much satisfied
with my ballet and myself. As a token of his appreciation, he plans
three exclusively Russian novelties for the 20th, i.e., Jubilee season
of his ballet. The three composers are to be Glinka (Russian and
Ludmila in an unusual scenic presentation), Stravinsky and myself.
I keep good company, don't I? My new ballet will be, apparently, in
two acts and the libretto is being developed by Boris. A large number
of theatrical 'tricks' is being planned, but no musical ones; on the
contrary, I'm plunging deeper and deeper into the purest lyricism.
... So far I have no competitors; young Russian composers have
failed to put in an appearance in Europe."
Prior to leaving for Berlin with the company (Zephyr scored an
other emphatic success in the German capital), Diaghilev had but
two meetings with me. On one occasion he came to lunch at Osbert's,
accompanied by Boris; he sat at the table wrapped in his beaver-fur
coat (fear of catching a cold) and refused to sample the excellent
oysters (fear of ptomaine poisoning). Following lunch, I played my
Bogdanovitch songs, which he praised immoderately; Diaghilev then
told several wildly improbable stories and departed majestically. Os
bert's own majesty paled somewhat next to that of Czar Sergei's no
one could touch Diaghilev when he chose to be regal.
The other meeting was less pleasant. I composed some insignificant
"arrangements" for Massine, who was then staging cabaret shows for
Cochran at the Trocadero, and promptly forgot all about it. One
night Sergei Pavlovitch, Boris and I went there for supper and, to my
intense discomfort, one of the dancers performed a pas seul to the
strains arranged by me. Following the dance, one of Cockie's hench
men came over to the table to congratulate me on the success of "my"
music. Diaghilev went blue with rage, said nothing, drummed on the
table with his knuckles and demanded the bill. I was handed my coat,
ebony walking stick and brand-new top hat by the hat-check girl; no
sooner were we out in the street than Diaghilev knocked my top hat
off my head with my own stick, trampled upon it savagely, reducing
it to a messy pulp, and with a one-syllable parting shot, "Whore!"
disappeared in the dark.
Following my recovery from my illness, Willie went off to Amalfi
to join Osbert, Sacheverell married Baby Doble and Bunny was
reported to be in love with her leading man. Cockie was in the
hospital about to be operated on for gall-stones, while I went back
176 PASSPORT TO PARIS
to partying in an attempt to combat a serious attack of London
loneliness. My outlandishly elegant clothes, eighteenth-century walk
ing sticks and botanical arrangements, far from attracting English
females, usually convinced them of my "queerness." This I didn't
bargain for and was torn between a passion for sartorial effects and
a new and more natural craving for carnal conquests. While I was
asked about a great deal and made much of by women at parties
and opening nights, I'm afraid they regarded me more as a decorative
object and, if not a full-grown lion, at least an acceptable lion cub,
rather than a normally functioning male.
There was a lovely Nordic-looking dancer, whom we shall call
Lita Maine, who had a part in Cochran's revue at the Pavilion and I
decided to "give her a whirl." She whirled willingly enough
when it came to the Embassy or the Cafe de Paris, where on one
occasion I stepped on the then Prince of Wales's foot while he was
earnestly mastering the Charleston with an American partner, and was
charming company at dinner but that's as far as it went. What I
didn't know was that Miss Maine was Cockie's special favorite and
that it would have been far smarter to leave her in peace; my rivals,
detractors and just plain busybodies apparently reported my friend
ship with Lita to the ailing producer, painting it in vastly exaggerated
colors. I doubt that clever Cockie let such a puny matter interfere
with his theatrical projects, but he dropped my musical comedy on
his recovery and sent me a most polite note of regrets. He, 'however,
retained my services as arranger and orchestrator (!) to Massine,
then staging another ballet for the Trocadero.
Arthur Wimperis and I wrote two or three songs for the projected
musical, an adaptation of a French farce, the procedure much in
vogue in those days. Prior to going to the hospital, Cockie introduced
me to William Allen, head of Asherberg, Hopwood & Crew, the old
music firm, then a rival of ChappeU's in the operetta field; Bill
Allen, a sweet old Cockney with a walrus mustache, signed me to a
contract at 250 per annum against royalties to be accrued from
the sale of my music. Although my contract with Koussevitsky stipu
lated an exclusive lifetime partnership, I was permitted to prostitute
my muse and publish such unworthy outpourings elsewhere, on condi
tion that I find a suitable nom de plume. On my discussing this with
Gershwin, he suggested that the family name was easily enough trun
cated to "Duke," but the Christian name presented some difficulty.
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 177
There was nothing resembling "Vladimir" in English, and all the
Anglo-Saxon names beginning with "V" already had Russian counter
parts except Vernon. The name "Vernon Duke" had a somewhat
purple-fiction ring to it, but since musical comedy was not an espe
cially elevated form of art, that did not seem to constitute an obstacle.
Thus my first published song, "Try a Little Kiss," was signed with the
Gershwin-invented handle, which stuck through all these years until
it became my official name and relegated the Slavic "Dukelsky" to the
status of a pseudonym.
Through Allen, who was bewildered but somewhat impressed by
me I'm sure he had never feasted his eyes on so exotic a creature
I met redoubtable Jimmy White, the self-made Croesus and operetta
lover extraordinary. The operettas he loved were aU Viennese,
crammed with luscious waltzes, skittish primadonnas with parasols
and choruses of young men in white flannel trousers stilted and
intensely British versions of the Mittel-Europa originals. White's love
for these imports was so great that he rented old Daly's Theatre for the
purpose of installing an all-Viennese regime there; his calculations
proved wrong eventually as the regime was already tottering and
"bloody Yanks" were brazenly competing with Lehar, Oskar Straus
and Emmerich Kalman by forcing "lewd and obscene jazz" down
honest Londoners' throats. At the time of our meeting, Jimmy White
was still sitting on top of the world, lording it at the Stock Exchange
and czaring it at Daly's with a successful production of Katja, the
Dancer, with Jean Gilbert's music and regal Lilian Davies in the title
role.
If Bill Allen spoke the purest Cockney, Jimmy's speech was im
pure Lancashire; he couldn't finish a sentence without spicing it with
a bad word, usually so comically mispronounced as to take the sting
out of it. He took me on to "pep up" Katja, then in its second year,
reasoning that a few "saucy" interpolations would further prolong
the show's life. "You're a young man, Dulazy [which is how he
pronounced my name], and I want young ideas for the old girl;
give me that bloody Yankee monkey music I hate the stuff myself
but I'll try it." It is a mystery that White should have applied to
me, a Parisian Russian, according to the London press, for Yankee
monkey music, but he handed me a very welcome contract and I
started a career of "doctoring" ailing Viennese operettas and "jazzing
'em up" to suit the changing tastes of Daly's audience.
178 PASSPORT TO PARIS
I began by interpolating "Try a Little Kiss" (with a Wimperis
lyric) and "Back to My Heart" into Katja, and got a big thrill from
hearing my first "jazz" tunes sung by "name" actors on a West End
stage. Fred Leslie, the dance director, although not an American, did
his best to create an American-style dance routine to "Kiss," the
genteel Maida Vale chorus maids traipsing daintily through brazen
Yankee steps. I hardly think the box-office receipts skyrocketed as a
result of my interpolations, but Jimmy was pleased and hired me on
a yearly basis to tinker with his forthcoming productions, of which
the first one was to be Yvonne, also with a Jean Gilbert score. "I
think the old man came a cropper with this one," said Jimmy.
"You'll bloody well start from scratch, Dulazy." "Right you are,
guv'nor," I said smartly and went back to Bloomsbury, new contract
in my pocket
Balanchine was then practically my neighbor, and I really got to
know him. George, probably the most lovable creature that ever
lived, was already his well-known unpredictable self mixing sheer
lunacy with phlegmatic laissez aller, carried to unheard-of lengths.
Ever a diligent and inspired worker, he lived in a cozy little world
of his own, disorganized and ill-assembled to the naked eye, but very
dear to him. Untranslatable Armenian jokes and good Russian food
were enough to make him happy; money meant (and means) noth
ing to him, and I'll wager that he is the poorest of all choreographers,
although certainly the best. In the many years that I've known him,
George turned down job after job in order to create ballets for his
beloved New York City Ballet Company.
In his early London days, George spoke very little English and just
enough French to make himself understood; he was fond of playing
the guitar and, since non-Russian-speaking guests were always in
and out of his place, learned a song or two in English and sang them
in a peculiarly mournful voice. His after-dinner favorite was a
Balanchinesque version of the then popular refrain: "Everybohdy
lohves my bohdy, but my bohdy lohves nobohdy but me." George's
constant companion was a middle-aged character dancer named
Kremnev, a sly tow-headed Russian jack-of-all-trades whose suppos
edly perfect English was the object of Balanchine's great envy and
admiration. In reality, Kremnev knew scarcely a hundred English
words and mispronounced them atrociously, but to George, Krem-
nev's English was the purest Oxford and he was fond of saying:
BRIGHT YOUNG PEOPLE 179
"Ah, Kremnev, if I could only speak English like you!" The wily
little Russian would then shrug his shoulders self-deprecatingly and
reply with mock modesty: "It's not difficult with my talent for lan
guages." This finally got George's goat and, unbeknown even to his
wife, he began sneaking off to Berlitz's of an evening hi an effort to
prove to his friend that he too was a talented linguist. It must be
added that Balanchine and Kremnev habitually breakfasted together
on Sundays at Lyons' Corner House (not Lady Colefax's). As a rule,
Kremnev ordered breakfast in loud, imperious tones, with Balanchine
gazing at his friend reverently. On a certain Sunday, having acquired
a bit of workable Berlitz English, George took his polyglot friend
to Lyons' and, as they sat down, waited poker-faced for Kremnev to
start operations. "Veitresss!" yelled the dancer with authority born
out of practice. The Nippy duly arrived and awaited orders. "Veit-
ress ekky-bekky, plizz," said Kremnev; the girl, obviously new in
her job, looked at the polyglot with consternation. "I beg your
pardon, sir?" she stammered apprehensively. "You breeng ekky-
bekky, veitress. . . ." went on Kremnev, frowning. This was Bal-
anchine's opportunity. "No-o, veitress, no-o-o . . ." said George
soothingly. "No ekky-bekky . . . Yeggs and beycon!"
Balanchine was fond of my Zephyr music and Diaghilev promised
him, on the strength of Barabau's tumultuous success, that he would
be entrusted with the choreography of the Three Seasons, Diaghilev's
name for my projected new ballet. The three seasons were winter,
spring and summer with autumn omitted, as Sergei Pavlovitch
detested that time of the year.
CHAPTER XI
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER
MY FINANCIAL situation having become stabilized, I gave up
my Torrington Square "digs" and took an attractive service flat
in Pall Mall, under a similar one rented by Gershwin, who arrived
in London early in 1926 and soon became the darling of Mayfair.
He was showered with invitations, including those of Prince George
and the Mountbattens. (Prince George gave him a photograph of
himself inscribed: "From George to George.") When not busy with
a London production of Lady Be Good, the Astaires' showpiece, then
in preparation, Gershwin accepted these invitations with joy, because
he loved to play piano for people who loved to hear him. George's
superb piano playing took London completely by storm; clubmen,
guardees and debutantes surrounded the American Liszt, architect of
musical skyscrapers and the first transatlantic composer with a voice of
his own. Europe was just discovering jazz and its musicians hastened
to climb aboard the strange new bandwagon; Milhaud led the pack
with the curiously prophetic Creation du Monde, Krenek bowdlerized
jazz mercilessly in his Jonny Spielt Auj, Stravinsky toyed with it
unconvincingly in the early Ragtime, and even the young Englishmen
helped themselves to its formulas, as witness Walton in some portions
of Facade and, later, Lambert in his vulgarly garrulous Rio Grande.
Florence Mills was the chic diva of the period and no Mayfair
shindig was complete without a flock of "Blackbirds," imported by
Cochran with enormous success. Most of the Blackbirds were sin
cere and talented performers and it was good to hear them at parties
and in the theater; but things got out of control when their orches
tra drummer's wife slashed a London matron with a razor, on finding
her husband in the lady's boudoir. The drummer was duly deported
and the lady repaired to Paris and temporary oblivion. It was at one
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 181
of the Blackbirds' parties that Noel Coward performed a solo
Charleston in virtuoso fashion another token of his amazing ver
satility.
The lyric for Gershwin's "I'd Rather Charleston," interpolated into
the Astaire show, was written by gentle, sloe-eyed Desmond Carter,
a wonderful lyric writer who died young and who was to supply
words to my Yellow Mask tunes in 1928. George and Carter were
major kingpins in the House of Chappell, the London branch of
Harms (or was it the other way around?), run by Max Dreyfus's
brother Louis. Still smarting under Max's nonappreciation of my
talents, I became determined to achieve success without the omnipo
tent Brothers Dreyfus. I knew, however, that kindly old Percy Green-
bank, who wrote the lyrics to my music for Yvonne, was no match
for Carter, whose verse was always smartly turned, and I was
fascinated as Desmond, a model of tact and reticence, sat in an
armchair, pencil in hand, while George, a big cigar in his mouth
and eyes shining, played "I'd Rather Charleston" over and over
in every existing key.
In late March I went to Monte Carlo with Walton, having con
cluded arrangements with Daly's to return in the end of April for
rehearsals of Yvonne, starring Ivy Tresmand, who had made a hit as
a soubrette in Katja, the Dancer. We first alighted in Paris, and I
introduced Willie to Prokofiev, just back from the States. While on
Ms American tour, Serge had stopped off in Boston and visited Mother
and Alex, for which I was most grateful to him. Walton and I
played our new music for Prokofiev, who puffed out his cheeks,
made jokingly rude remarks and insisted on a game of chess with
me. When I feebly remonstrated, knowing myself to be no match
for him, Serge said that it delighted him to see me walk into every
trap he laid for me, which pleasure was denied him by better op
ponents. He claimed that my game was hopeless, but my mistakes
fascinating and "not devoid of genius."
Walton and I put up at the Hotel Cote d'Azur in Monaco, a big
and almost empty place whose only clients seemed to be a group of
petites mains from a dress designer's establishment, cheerful and
sparrowlike little Paris gamines, intoxicated by the Riviera sun and
the blue Mediterranean. Unlike most such places, our hotel had no
rules about noisemaking; the petites mains ran about and laughed
delightedly, Willie and I banged away on the piano and everybody
182 PASSPORT TO PARIS
was happy. One of the girls, a small mischievous brunette named
Monique, happened to live across the corridor from my room, was
always dashing in and out, humming the latest "Java" or "beguine"
(these are always in 34 tune, notwithstanding Cole Porter's classic),
bumping into me and running off with, "Oh! Je vous demande par
don, monsieur . . . comme je suis maladroite" This led to the in
evitable "nuit d* amour" and the nuit d'amour to Monique's luggage
being transferred to my room in the morning, without the small
matter of consulting me about the desirability of such an arrange
ment. This one-sided idyll lasted about a week, at the end of which I
presented Monique with a dress and a pair of shoes, went through
the motions of a sentimental farewell and saw her to the station in
a Victoria. At the time of this not very romantic escapade, Willie
was completing his Siesta for chamber orchestra, a pretty lyrical
piece which I called "very remarkable" hi a letter to Mother.
But it was time to return to London and the new Duke-Dukelsky
partnership. The book for Yvonne proved to be unusually inane,
and Percy Greenbank, an amiable and easygoing man, found my
American-style tunes rather difficult to lyricize. Some of Gilbert's
melodies were retained, but the bulk of the score was mine (nine
or ten numbers) and, on the average, the music was mildly pleas
ant, comfortably Kern-like in spots, uncomfortably Leslie Stuartish
in others. Ivy Tresmand's first song was prefaced by this sort of
dialogue:
IVY: Would you like a spot of tea, men?
CHORUS MEN (in blue blazers and white flannels): Jolly good
idea!
IVY: I always find it rather nicer to be naughty with a
few handsome young men to be naughty with
ha, ha! (Business of pinching chorus men's
cheeks.) (Song: "It's Rather Nicer to Be Naughty
[than to be always quite good]")
The orchestra was large, very brassy and conducted by Arthur
Wood, a benign, rotund Victorian type of musician, a great pet of
White's, It was at one of Yvonne's rehearsals that the famous
timpani episode occurred, since erroneously reported in joke books
and other people's reminiscences. At the final orchestra rehearsal,
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 183
White sat in an upper-tier box, reveling in the deafening noise
made by the Wood-led men; he didn't know much about music and
liked only two kinds brassy marches and dreamy waltzes. All of
a sudden, Jimmy noticed the timpani player, his arms folded on his
chest, standing idly by at the back of the band. " 'Ere, 'ere, Arthur,"
White bellowed. "Who is that barstid with the three drums?" "He's
the timpani player, guv'nor," said the startled conductor, stopping
the orchestra with difficulty. "Now, then, why isn't this timbly fella
playin'?" "Beggin' your pardon, sir, he's tacet, sir." "Well, you tell
that bludy tacet to jolly well play, or I give 'im the sack!"
When told that the Charleston was all the rage, and given a
demonstration of that pagan dance by Fred Leslie, Percy Green-
bank, still living in his Our Miss Gibbs memories and visibly shocked,
said hesitantly: "Don't you thinV Daly's patrons might resent so
immoral an exhibition?" He offered to take the sting out of the
number by calling the Anglicized version of it the "Dainty Charles
ton."
Thus I went into Jekyll-and-Hyding. But my "secret" was im
mediately discovered by the Daily Sketch snooper, who reported
while we were still in rehearsal: "By the way, composers of ultra
modern ballets are not above picking up quite an honest penny or
two by being a trifle lower in the brow for the nonce. Dukelsky, for
instance, has written some songs, duly approved by Mr. James White,
for 'Yvonne' at Daly's under the name of 'Vernon Dukes' [sic}. 9 *
Yvonne opened at Daly's on May 22nd after a "tryout" in
Manchester, where the dirty-green fog is so thick it shuts you off
from the rest of the world, whose leading hotel is a cross between
a catacomb and a house of detention, but whose inhabitants love the
theater. I had never been to an imchic musical opening before
Cochran's or Coward's first nights were always the peak of fashion
and the atmosphere of upper-middle-class respectability at Daly's,
the thicknecked stockbrokers and Midlands' financiers White's
friends for the most part with their blowsy wives in Regent
Street's best, made me feel like a goldfish out of Diaghilev's pure
water. No aesthetes were present the Croesuses sat in the stalls
and vociferous Cockney "theayter" lovers in the gallery. The gal-
leryites thought little of the piece, and when the jeune premier, a
plump and self-satisfied Public School boy, executed some awkward
entrechats while singing the title song, not a happy idea of Fred
184 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Leslie's, there were some audible titters and a rude remark or two.
I saw Hoytie Wiborg, who didn't know what to make of the Viennese-
Russo-American hodgepodge, leave in the intermission and felt an
urgent need for a double brandy. The supper afterwards, at the
"wrong" place, was substantial but dull, as was the show, and the
notices the next morning ranged from lukewarm to downright in
sulting. The only hit in Yvonne was made by Hal Sherman, the
"eccentric" little American dancer, who did a Chaplinesque rou
tine to another tune of mine called "Don't Forget the Waiter," and
brought down the house. My best songs were "Magic of the Moon"
(a fair mixture of Kern and corn) and "Daydreams," agreeably
sung and danced by Ivy Tresmand.
Jimmy White thought highly of Miss Tresmand's talents and kept
the show going, which, considering that he had a lot of money, was
not difficult. The show achieved a respectable run of 280 perform
ances and could, by stretching a point a bit, be put down as a moder
ate success. I was anxious to keep Diaghilev and Kochno out of
Daly's, but I believe they went there on the sly, because neither
spoke to me for three days.
Nevertheless, money was now coming in from several sources.
I was able to send some of it home fairly regularly, and Dukelsky, in
return, was doing all he could to help Duke and his "Yvonne the Ter
rible." Kindly Eberg, the head of Koussevitzky's publishing house,
died and was replaced by Gabriel Paitchadze, a Georgian like my
grandmother, and a man of infinite tact and wisdom; he soon got to
be close friends with both Stravinsky and Prokofiev a miraculous
feat. Zephyr and Flora finally appeared in print, and so did the
stillborn piano concerto. The 1926 summer ballet season was ex
ceptionally brilliant and the Bright Young People never shone so
brightly. Zephyr was revived, with two additional sets, and again
almost unanimously approved. My old Icelandic overture, "Gondla,"
was dusted off by Goossens and played as a "symphonic interlude"
between ballets (a laudable practice of Diaghilev's that should be
revived), leaving the listeners nonplussed. Koussevitzky announced
the suite from Zephyr for Boston's next season and offered me an ap
pearance with the Boston Symphony Orchestra as soloist in my
concerto; aware of my rusty piano technique, I was compelled to de
cline regretfully.
Best of all, from the point of view of sheer excitement, I was en-
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 185
gaged to play one of the four pianos (Auric, Poulenc and Rieti
tackled the other three) in Stravinsky's Les Noces, about to have its
London premiere. We learned our parts diligently, Goossens con
ducted cannily as usual, but every time we rehearsed the inhumanly
difficult work, terror seized us, helpless terror mingled with an odd,
elemental sort of ecstasy rather like one's first airplane flight. The
opening could best be described as a scandalous triumph, unique
in London's theatrical annals and, according to the people who wit
nessed both, second only to the famous Sacre du Printemps battle in
Paris. The noise was deafening boos, hisses and catcalls mingling
with cheers and thunderous applause. Diaghilev was delighted, but
his delight turned to fury after he'd read the ghastly and, frankly,
idiotic press reviews. The music was denounced as "barbarous, not
even barbaric," consisting of "sounds, which the nursery knows
as 'chopsticks,' " "amorphous," "hideous," etc. We four came in for
some unexpected backhanded compliments and a good deal of pity
and commiseration. The mysterious "Crescendo," after making short
work of the "barbarous" ballet, stopped in his tracks suddenly to
say, "I must be mistaken; if I am right, how could four men like
Auric, Poulenc, Rieti and Dukelsky be induced to take part in
'Noces'?" "What they played," commented Philip Page, "was prob
ably very difficult, for these accomplished young men cast glances
of agony at the conductor; but if they had played not a note the
composer had written and if they had come in consistently at the
wrong moment, the effect would have been the same." H. G. Wells,
our one "vigorous champion from an unlikely quarter" (C. W. Beau
mont), wrote an indignant letter to The Times in which he stated:
"I do not know of any other ballet as interesting, so amusing, so fresh
or nearly so exciting as 'Les Noces.' I want to see it again and again."
But Wells's letter wasn't published until June 18th, four days after
the premiere, and the damage was already done. The chief culprit
was that arch enemy of Diaghilev's, England's Beckmesser-in-Chief,
Mr. Ernest Newman. Not content with "quartering" us performing
composers, he went after Stravinsky and exclaimed that "the world
was tired of the moujik and his half-baked brain." It wasn't clear
whether Newman was referring to a Russian peasant, to Diaghilev
or the composer, but Sergei Pavlovitch was beside himself with
rage. He called the "four quarters of a composer" into the manager's
office at His Majesty's Theatre a half hour before the second per-
186 PASSPORT TO PARIS
formance of Les Noces and said with studied Olympian calm: "Gen
tlemen, I have it on good authority that Mr. Ernest Newman is in
my theater again tonight. In his dastardly review he has insulted
Russia, Igor Stravinsky, myself and you, my collaborators. Mr. New
man should be punished and I have evolved a most efficient plan for
such punishment." He scribbled something on a small bit of paper,
rolled it up, then rolled up three more bits of paper, leaving them
completely blank and continued: "You see here four bits of paper,
one of which contains Newman's name. You will draw lots and who
ever draws the Newman-marked lot, will don white gloves, approach
Newman's orchestra seat just before curtain time, ask him, 'Are you
Ernest Newman?' and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, will
pull his nose, in full view of the audience."
We did as we were told. As luck would have it, I drew the slip
of paper with Newman's name. White-gloved and strengthened by
whisky, my heart beating, I advanced to the location of the critic's
stall, indicated to me by the theater's press agent. To my complete
consternation, on arriving at the place, I found the seat empty.
Whether Newman was tipped off by one of my colleagues (who
alone knew of the conspiracy) and fled, or whether the prospect
of seeing and hearing the moujik saga again proved too much for his
Wagner-trained eyes and ears, is not for me to say. Whatever the
reasons for Newman's disappearance, he was barred from the Russian
Ballet's performances by Diaghilev and in later years never lost an
opportunity to make critical mincemeat of the Man Who Almost
Pulled His Nose.
Les Noces achieved seven performances and drew full houses.
Londoners never got to like that remarkable ballet, but it was "the
thing to see" and no dinner conversation was complete without some
reference to Stravinsky's masterpiece flattering or otherwise. I
moved to a very sporty flat in Hanover Square and got my tailors to
have some unusual cloth specially woven for me the latest wrinkle
in masculine fashion. The enterprising tailor came up with a spectac
ular number in gun-metal cloth the only suit of that material ever
worn by a male, I'll wager and the shocked expression of staid
dowagers on their first encounter with that creation was a joy to be
hold. I don't remember what prompted me to choose so outlandish a
color, but it's possible that my subconscious helped select gun-metal
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 187
as a discreet warning to Diaghilev's detractors. Wasn't I a gunman
according to my protege Mr. Lambert?
My life had now assumed a fascinating new pattern. My compara
tive financial solvency permitted me to travel, and I adopted the habit
of shuttling between London and Paris, taking in a few undiscovered
spots as well. In this I was often helped by Prokofiev, a passionate
traveler himself and an ardent motorist, although the big, clumsy Bal
lot seemed always to be suffering from some "temporary" disorder.
On my return to Paris, I visited Stravinsky, who told me he thought
the Bogdanovitch songs "my best music," talked of his new ballet for
Diaghilev (their collaboration was of the "on again-off again" vari
ety) and left for Nice a few days later, inviting me to come spend a
week end.
Prokofiev was on vacation in Fontainebleau and wrote me a funny
letter in which he congratulated me on becoming a 'full-fledged
cocotte" (he must have heard of the Diaghilev Trocadero incident),
but nevertheless extended a pressing invitation to the cocotte to join
him an "honest composer," as he put it in his humble retreat
The temptation was great, as no one's company exhilarated me as
much as Serge's, but with my two celebrated seniors composing like
njad, I realized that I had better get to work myself.
I found just the place for productive solitude in Villennes-sur-
Seine, some thirty miles away from Paris, a tiny pavilion with what the
French coquettishly call une terrasse fleurie and a lovely view. Boris
came to see me and brought me some notes and notions for the
Three Seasons, adding that I had better get busy as Diaghilev ex
pected me in Italy in early autumn, with the score at least half com
pleted. Kochno was in good humor, embraced me expansively and
set off to Venice to join Sergei Pavlovitch. I spent a restful, bucolic
month in Villennes, writing a little music, rowing on the Seine, swim
ming with occasional visitors and awaiting the Italian visa. With four
or five numbers of the ballet completed, I left Villennes for Paris on
September 8th, picked up Balanchine, who was to stage not only the
Three Seasons but also Sacheverell Sitwell's and Lord Berners's Tri
umph of Neptune: the last two were already in Florence, where
Diaghilev had established his working headquarters after the annual
holiday in his beloved Venice.
Balanchine and I, delighted with the exciting prospect of a col-
188 PASSPORT TO PARIS
laboration, boarded the train for Turin; disliking the food on the din
ing car, we got off at Dijon to buy various succulent goodies, ran
back and nearly, but not quite, missed the train. On regaining our
compartment we ate a whole roasted chicken and drank two bottles
of red ordinaire, then fell asleep, exhausted and slightly tipsy. On
awakening we found ourselves in Turin, where we were to change
for Florence, of which fact we were not cognizant. Consequently,
we remained in our seats until a tall, bewhiskered Piemontese de
manded to see our tickets; on examining them, he informed us in tol
erable French (most North Italians speak it) that we had just missed
the Florence train and that the train we were on was bound for Milan
that is, in the opposite direction. He sat down, had a drink with us
and, becoming very friendly, suggested an escorted tour of Turin
his native city. Since there was no decent train for Florence until
night, we happily agreed to the proposal and spent a most edifying
afternoon visiting points of interest and not forgetting occasional liba
tions in local bars our Piemontese seemed to be related to most
of the bartenders. Properly fortified, he suggested a visit to the leading
brothel.
That establishment proved an ornate, pointedly respectable sort
of dwelling with a smiling maid in a starched apron and the sedate,
discreetly mannered Madame with aristocratic pretensions. Our
conductor-cicerone placed himself modestly in a dark corner, while
Balanchine and I discussed the weather in French with Madame.
This went on for quite a while, when, like hellish bolts from the
blue, two young maids, dark and plump and entirely naked except
for jade earrings and necklaces, burst into the "salon" and jumped
on our knees without the slightest preamble. Madame smiled and mut
tered something about youth being soo-o impetuous, but George and
I were panic-stricken as the bold hussies proceeded covering us
with noisy kisses between shouts of: "Ah, che belli ragazzi" We
finally shook them off with great difficulty and started a whispered
consultation with the conductor, assuring him that we would be
happy to pay the girls "for their trouble" but had no intention of par
taking of their charms. The Italian, perplexed, stroked his mustache
and remarked that such conduct was "out of order" and might offend
the good Madame; he then grandly volunteered to take care of both
charmers and let us compensate them for their services only because
of his own slight pecuniary embarrassment. We thanked him pro-
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 189
fusely for his manly offer and went on chatting with Madame while
our new friend was "in retirement" with the girls. He emerged from
the inner sanctum a few minutes later, stroking his mustache with a
bit less of a flourish and, as we paid up and took our leave ceremoni
ously, was heard to confess rather haltingly that he was "not quite as
young as he used to be."
On arrival in Florence, we put up at a noisy albergo in the com
mercial part of the city, and then reported to Diaghilev, installed in
grand style in the old Hotel Palace on the opposite bank of the Arno.
Boris, Lifar, Sacheverell and witty and gifted Gerald Berners (a fre
quent visitor of Beverley Nichols's, where I first met him) were in the
lobby and we all had tea together. After the Englishmen took their
leave, Sergei Pavlovitch suggested that I move to the Palace, so that
he could "watch over me," also because "you are rich now," he
drawled slyly, "so rich, that I won't give you any money for the
Three Seasons until you finish it." "But, Sergei Pavlovitch . . ." "It's
useless to insist. If you need money, you can always get it from Coch-
ran or that mad bricklayer friend of yours." (He was referring to
Jimmy White.) "And now we'll all go for a walk. Come along, Serge,
Boris, and you, Mr. Balanchivadze." Balanchine was still a little un
easy with Diaghilev, the last of the grands seigneurs, an extinct race
in Soviet Russia, where George's youth was spent, and there was a
touch of courteous coolness in their relationship, although Sergei
Pavlovitch thought highly of his new choreographer after Barabau
and George always admired Diaghilev unreservedly. We went out into
the warm evening street and walked in silence, drinking in the incom
parable beauty of Florence.
Mother preserved a record of my initial impressions in a letter I
wrote her on September 14th from a cafe in the Piazza Vittorio Eman-
uele glorying in the name of Bar Sportmen and described by the
proprietor as "L' elegante Ritrovo della Firenze sporttva." "This is
the most miraculous city of all cities," I wrote (I was later to think
that of Venice). "One feels like remaining idle permanently here; it's
impossible to do anything except look, think and absorb."
My happiness was intensified by daily walks with Diaghilev, who
knew Florence better than any Florentine and who enjoyed our
wide-eyed wonder and Lifar's expansive shrieks at discovering more
and more beauty wherever we went. In Boboli Gardens Sergei Pavlo
vitch stopped suddenly, his eyes misty with uncontrollable tears. "To
190 PASSPORT TO PARIS
think that one day I must die and not be able to see all this again
ever." We returned to the hotel in silence, our hearts heavy, our
youth subdued as it always is when a mortal contemplates immor
tality,
Diaghilev and Boris were too busy with Neptune to worry about me
and my lagging ballet, which wasn't progressing too well in spite of all
the optimistic things I said about it to Mother. I was just as happy, as
Sergei Pavlovitch's preoccupation with the English work enabled me
to explore Florence in the company of Harold Acton, whose mem
oirs succeed in being both witty and petulant, and Violet, Lady Tre-
fusis, who also published a gay record of her comings and goings.
We dined at Acton's villa, La Pietra, one of the show spots of
Florence, and in Fiesole with Vittorio Rieti, good composer and good
companion. On one occasion, I dined a deux with Balanchine,
whose Italian was as bad as mine that is, nonexistent and who,
desiring milk and, not finding it on the menu, attempted to describe
it to the perplexed waiter in pantomime. On all fours, he made a stupid
face and uttered several heart-rending "moos"; the waiter smiled,
snapped his fingers, nodded repeatedly and, a few minutes later, tri
umphantly produced a large steak.
By October 1st, I was back in Paris, although my original plan for
the Italian voyage included visits to Rome and Venice. I don't re
member the exact reasons for the change in my plans but, in a letter
home, I admitted that "traveling alone even in Italy can be
unbearable. 5 * Balanchine was no longer with me, while Diaghilev was
too busy raising money for another ballet season; apparently the Ber
lin venture, although an artistic success, was something of a finan
cial disaster. In Paris, I renewed my friendship with Valitchka Nouvel
and Auric, who wrote a musical sketch for Spinelly, the French
star, culminating in a rather tentative "fox trot*' a far cry from his
1953 best-selling song from Moulin Rouge! Prokofiev was back
from Fontainebleau and played me the recently completed fifth so
nata, which I found dry and excessively complicated and lost no
time in letting it be known to the composer. He blurted out: "You're
a fool. Listen again," but before he had a chance to turn the first
page, two fashionably dressed American women slipped into the
room, led by smiling Lina Ivanovna all three daintily on tiptoe, but
unasked and unwelcome. I knew that Serge, already irritated by
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 191
my dislike of the sonata, would not stand on ceremony with the in
truders, but what ensued was a bit strong even for Prokofiev. He rose
from the piano abruptly, crossed his arms on his chest, pursed up
his thick lips, puffed out his cheeks and uttered: "Get out!" in Eng
lish and without raising his voice. The women smiled sheepishly, es
sayed a cordial greeting, then, realizing the absolute futility of their
advances, turned on their heels and meekly trotted out. Prokofiev
resumed the sonata and on discovering that I didn't like it any better,
threw me out, too, with a short speech in which "lazy London tarts"
and "lousy chess players" figured prominently.
It was high time to resume my London chores and try to replen
ish my wallet, which had shrunken visibly as a result of my continen
tal junket I played a few excerpts from the Three Seasons to Dia-
ghilev before leaving Paris and got a qualifiedly favorable reaction,
but not the immediate enthusiasm that had greeted a similar amount
of Zephyr music. Sergei Pavkratch said, however, that he'd work on
my ballet as soon as he got the Triumph of Neptune out of the way.
Owing to economic difficulties, I returned to 55 Torrington
Square, a practice which soon became a barometer of my
finances. When in funds, I invaded Mayfair or, at least, Knights-
bridge and Chelsea when broke, returned to Bloomsbury; Mme.
Dupont knew me and understood me well and I was always al
lowed to stay in her house without paying a penny for food or lodging
until the month was up a most welcome arrangement when one is
forced to give up Boulestin's or the Savoy Grill for bread and marga
rine and fish and chips at a dingy tearoom.
Yvonne, kept alive by Jimmy White, was celebrating its 250th
performance, but I had drawn my share of the royalties in advance
and my future at Daly's didn't look too rosy. There was an American
bandleader in London, Jay Whidden by name, who had replaced me
in White's affections while I was luxuriating on the Continent; he
was hired by Jimmy to lead a jazz aggregation in a melange of
Yvonne's tunes and engage in a "Battle of Jazz vs. Music" (as the
advertisements read), "music" on this occasion being represented by
the amiable Arthur Wood and his pit orchestra. This was done to
bolster the box-office receipts, but although the adversaries made a
great noise, as did their respective followers, I don't recall any
marked improvement in Daly's business. Arthur claimed to have
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won; nevertheless, Whidden was hired to "Americanize" White's next
production, Lehar's Blue Mazurka with only one song of mine
added to that score.
This was a blow, as I fully expected to be commissioned to write
an original musical for Daly's. Diaghilev's new season did not include
Zephyr and Flora, and I began to suspect that all wasn't well with the
new Three Seasons. Asherberg, Hopwood and Crew were still pay
ing me four guineas a week, but even in Torrington Square you
couldn't do much with so paltry a sum. The only hope seemed to be
Koussevitzky, who asked me to write a symphony for his Paris con
certs, was printing the songs and agreeing with Prokofiev that I was
the most promising of the new Russians. It would have been a de
pressing winter were it not for the stacks of engraved invitations re
posing grandly on Mme. Dupont's grimy mantelpiece. I now dined
out every night and, owing to the easily soiled stiff shirts and back
less waistcoats, spent most of my meager earnings on laundry bills.
One of my favorite recollections of that winter is the time when I
donned a morning coat and striped trousers to lunch at Mrs. Benja
min Guinness's only because all my other clothes were being pressed
and I didn't have enough money to redeem them from the tailor's.
On starting for Mrs. Guinness's, I debated with myself over the choice
between a dark-red carnation for my buttonhole or a ride in the Un
derground all I had left in the world was sixpence. Vanity won; I
grandly gave up my last coin for a fresh flower, and walked two miles
to Mrs. Guinness's, topper, morning coat, tightly rolled umbrella and
all all, that is, except a single penny in my pocket. On arriving at
my hostess's fashionably late, I was rewarded by a dowager who ap
praised my superb attire with great interest and asked coyly: "You're
a diplomat, of course. Which South American power, may I ask?"
When not partying, I concentrated on writing salable songs. Blue
Mazurka opened and, although not without merit, flopped sadly.
Three weeks after its opening, I was summoned by Jimmy White
whom I hadn't seen in months and, on entering his office at Daly's,
found that every songwriter in London was there too. White didn't look
well and was in one of his "moods." "Gentlemen, I asked you to
come here to help me," he started with outward calm. "I have a
grand play on my stage, but the people won't come to see it. Why, you
may well ask? I'll tell you why, gentlemen . . . because there isn't
a good waltz in the whole bludy show!" White now glared at the as-
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 193
sembled writers, as though they were responsible for Blue Mazurka's
deficiency, banged the desk with his fist and came to the point:
"Now, I want you, lads, to write me the greatest waltz in history
and I pay one thousand pounds to whoever writes it. Arthur Wood,
Idris Lewis [his Welsh musical assistant] and I will be the judges
I give you one week. I wish you good day and don't come back with
out the bludy waltz." We trotted out unhappily, like a horde of back
ward school children given an overdose of homework by too exact
ing a teacher.
Nevertheless, most of us, including myself, were back in a week,
waltzes in hand, spurred on by that thousand-pound prize. As White
listened to each new waltz, he grew gloomier and gloomier, until after
a particularly feeble sample by one of the older "boys," he jumped up
and roared like a wounded tiger. "No, no, no, dammit they're no
good. The whole bludy lot of 'em. Idris, bring us a mirror." "A mirror,
guv'nor?" stammered poor Idris, uncomprehendingly. "That's the idea
a ruddy mirror I'll show you distinguished barstids a new
waltz, since you can't write worth a damn. Now, get it" The mirror
was produced speedily and Jimmy placed a copy of the "Merry
Widow Waltz" on the piano, pushed Idris to the piano stool and
shrieked: "Go on play what you see in the mirror!" A horrified
gasp came from those present, but Idris, gritting his teeth, struck up
a chord and played the "Merry Widow Waltz" backwards. "That's
it that's what I want. Arthur, have it orchestrated at once and
let that be a lesson to you, gents. Come again!"
The "Mirror Waltz" was never added to the Blue Mazurka score,
and the show expired after 140 performances. A month after its
closing on June 29, 1927, Jimmy White, having failed to bring off
a gigantic coup on the stock exchange, committed suicide.
In the early spring of '27 I was again asked by Koussevitzky to
play my concerto with him at one of the four Paris concerts he was
planning that season. Having lost my faith in that work and knowing
it to be too difficult for me, I suggested writing a short piece for piano
and orchestra instead. The idea appealed to Koussevitzky and I be
gan work, helping myself to some odds and ends, such as discarded
Zephyr material and an andantino from the Three Seasons which
Diaghilev thought too pretty. A letter to Gershwin, dated May 24,
1927, tells of my efforts on both fronts, prior to again invading Paris
as composer:
194 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Dear old George:
How is your precious self? I'm dying to see you and to hear
the very latest "Georgeousness" as Mrs. Aarons [Producer Alex
Aarons' wife] puts it. I congratulate you on "Someone to Watch
Over Me" which is excellent how is "Strike Up the Band"?
As to me, I had rather a dreary winter in London went
to fairly boring parties and wrote a lot of music. "Yvonne" ran
for 34 weeks but otherwise was the worst show I've ever seen.
I sold about ten songs to different managers two of which are
in "Two Little Girls in Blue" [Vincent Youmans's early success
with Ira Gershwin's lyrics]. What do you think of "Somebody's
Sunday" which Eastman has sent you [a song interpolated into
"Little Girls" with lyrics by myself]? I write all my lyrics my
self now and find it great fun. [The fun didn't last long.] Jackson
[Frederick Jackson, American playwright] and I are working
on a show called "Half a Wife." On June 4th I am playing the
piano part in my "Sonata" for orchestra which Koussevitzky is
doing in Paris. "Zephyr" was played recently by the Boston Sym
phony and was very well received [a distinct exaggeration.]
Since Two Little Girls in Blue was a Chappell publication, I had
to be "loaned" to the Dreyfus firm by Billy Allen, who wasn't any too
pleased. Neither were the backers of the musical, but for a differ
ent reason: the show, in spite of a lilting score ("Oh Me, Oh My" was
in it) and a willing, youthful cast headed by the American Barry
Oliver, touted as a "Second Astaire," expired on the road. "Half a
Wife" was not even half a show, as we stopped working in the middle
of Act I. The suite from Zephyr gave Bostonians the first taste of my
music and, from all accounts, they found it but mildly palatable.
Philip Hale, the "Boston Terror," thought more of Boreas than of the
amiable Muses. More than once "the hearer was tempted to cry out
in the words of the old song: 'Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer.' "
Sergei Pavlovitch, although giving me the well-known runaround
with the projected ballet, was again on the best of terms with me and
even flattered me by stating that, although my conduct was "de
plorable," my taste in music other people's music was well-
nigh "impeccable." I was by now a little tired of the tra-la-la mu-
siquette of the twenties, the salon romps with deliberately banal tunes
garnished with spicy "wrong notes" for flavor, and so was Diaghilev,
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 195
who felt the need for powerful, "muscular" music after too many
frivolous confections. I seized the opportunity to resell him on Pro
kofiev and was helped in this by Nouvel, who couldn't abide the
"Chaminade lemonade," as he called the then prevailing Paris mu
sical tendency. I am proud of the part I played in the subsequent
rapprochement of the two Serges, although it resulted in the com
missioning of Le Pas d'Acier, a pseudo-Soviet epic. Diaghilev flirted
with the Soviets at intervals, intensely interested in Russia's artistic
and theatrical life, and was not above shocking his capitalistic lis
teners by maliciously praising the Communist regime a pure bit
of perverse bravado, as he was mortally afraid of the idea of returning
to his native land while the Bolsheviks were still in power. According
to Jacques Emile Blanche, "Lenin offered Diaghilev the post of Peo
ple's commissar for Soviet Stage Production, but in spite of the over
powering curiosity which Serge confessed and the sway which he
could exert artistically at Moscow, the fear possessed hfm that life
would be unendurable under the eye of the *Red Tzar.' "
Whatever the worth of the political aspects of Le Pas d'Acier
and Diaghilev was undoubtedly 'leading with his chin" with so equiv
ocal a theme: "a hymn to the Soviet Workers" whatever the merit
of the "constructivism" of Yakoulov, the Russian painter and set de
signer, specially brought over for the production, there was no deny
ing the tremendous vitality and power of Serge's music, startling and
invigorating after an overdose of syrup. Pas d'Atier's opening night
caused another fracas as did Lambert's jejune Romeo and Juliet,
not because of the harmless music, but because the Leftists disap
proved of painters Ernst and Miro, fellow radicals working for that
staunch capitalist Diaghilev! and Diaghilev was in a state of ex
treme anxiety, since he felt certain that there would be a terrific up
roar, and that "the Russian Emigres would stage a mass protest," in
lif ar's words. There was no mass protest but plenty of noise, deafen
ing cheers and piercing catcalls; Lifar is, certainly, wrong in re
cording that "the performance was received calmly, even tepidly."
I sat in Diaghilev's box with Prokofiev, and, when he returned from
backstage, flushed with his success and bewildered by the anti-
Russian outbreaks in the audience, I asked him to come out for a
smoke and talk things out. Once in the corridor, I told Serge of my
great admiration for the massive, sinewy music of his ballet, which,
in my opinion, would deliver a crushing blow to the decadent Pa-
196 PASSPORT TO PARIS
risian musiquette. No sooner bad I uttered that last word, the only
French word in the entire speech, when Cocteau appeared from
out of nowhere, screamed out: "Dima, les Parisiens t' envoy ent de la
merde!" and slapped me, then vanished just as suddenly as he came,
before I had a chance of retaliating. Prokofiev opened his mouth
in astonishment, but was immediately whisked away, as he was ur
gently needed backstage; I ran down the corridor in pursuit of Coc
teau, who must have ducked into his box as I couldn't find him. A
minute later I ran into Diaghilev, white as a sheet, who grabbed me
by the lapel and whispered: "I know all about Jean. Whatever you
do, don't start a fight here in the theater; I'm having enough trouble
with the authorities already ... we could all be deported. No fight,
understand?" I understood, but at this point began seething with un
comprehending rage, because, outside of the words "Paris" and "raw-
siquette" Cocteau couldn't possibly have grasped the meaning of
my tirade since he spoke no Russian; I therefore shook Diaghilev
off, assuring him that I wouldn't do anything rash, and raced on,
hoping to get the elusive Cocteau. Soon he appeared, several "dis
ciples" in tow, waving his arms, and cried out hysterically as he saw
me: "Rends-moi ma gifle, Dima, rends-moi ma gifle. . . . Battons-
nous." Remembering Diaghilev's orders, I composed myself, as best I
could and said in measured tones, "You're wearing a summer suit,
Jean, whereas I have my best tailcoat on; I have no intention of ruin
ing it ... therefore, I won't fight you here, but hereby challenge
you to a duel." "A duel?" Cocteau shrieked, taken aback momentarily.
"I have never used firearms in my life. Slap me, slap me back at once,
coward!" I was about to throw myself at the man when some mem
bers of the Diaghilev entourage pulled me back and admonished me
to stick to my promise to Sergei Pavlovitch.
I then arranged with two ex-officers of the Wrangel army who were
in the audience to act as my seconds and told Prokofiev of my chal
lenge to Cocteau. I was about to leave the theater when Mrs.
Paitchadze, the publisher's wife, appeared in our box, greatly agitated,
and implored me not to leave by the stage door as Cocteau was mak
ing an inflammatory anti-Russian, anti-Dukelsky speech to a large
crowd of "admirers" and I would, doubtless, be torn to shreds were I
to show myself. This so incensed me that I pushed the good woman
aside and went backstage at such a clip that she had to run fast to
catch up with me. There was a sizable crowd outside the stage en-
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 197
trance, with Jean, somewhat Hyde Park-oracle fashion in his light-
tan gabardine suit with shocking-pink lining displayed by artfully
unbuttoned sleeves, leaning on Desbordes, his newest "literary" discov
ery, addressing les Parisiens and shaking his bony fists. The moment
he saw me, out went a long oracular finger, and stopping in the mid
dle of a grandiose sentence, he cried menacingly: "Beware, Dima!"
The effect of this cry was somewhat doubtful as no one in the group
of les Parisiens knew who in hell "Dima" was; Dima contented him
self with promising to send his seconds to 10 rue d'Anjou (where
Cocteau lived) in the morning and was quickly whisked away in a
taxi by Mme. Paitchadze.
My "seconds" ruefully admitting that they couldn't get past Coc-
teau's servant the next morning, I donned my morning coat with
striped trousers and drove to Cocteau's house. Jean's servant opened
the door, and perceiving so splendid a visitor, admitted me with a
hesitant bow and bade me wait. I heard an agitated whispered con
versation behind doors and a few minutes later the master emerged,
pale and visibly nervous. "So you want to be slapped back?" I said
steadily. "Here you are," and slapped him without awaiting a reply.
"Now will you accept my challenge?" The effect of my action
was most unexpected: Cocteau grabbed me in his arms, embraced
me and sang out: "Embrassons-nous, Dima, embrassons-nous!" I
disengaged myself with some difficulty and left, utterly nonplussed. A
day later Diaghilev received a letter from Cocteau explaining his
reasons for declining a duel with me and describing my "cowardly"
visit to him. We haven't spoken since.
I now had other things to worry about. My hastily contrived sonata
for piano and orchestra (I didn't dare call it concertino) was an
nounced by Koussevitzky and rehearsals were about to start. Sergei
Alexandrovitch Koussevitzky then lived in Auteuil and held court
daily. Most of his visitors were composers good and bad, young
and old; they sat around, scores in hand, drinking tea poured by in
scrutable Natalya Konstantinovna (his second wife) and smiling po
litely at one another. In contrast with Diaghilev, "partisan of a chosen
few," who closed his eyes and ears to everything that he instinctively
felt was "not for him," Koussevitzky's tastes were determinedly eclec
tic. It was not, however, the usual eclecticism of an unprincipled
conductor, not a mere passion for "first performances" (the
conductors' occupational disease) but an unflagging curiosity about
198 PASSPORT TO PARIS
all genuinely "new" music. "Write it and I'll play it." This typi
cally direct approach gave many a struggling and disappointed
composer an incentive to work. Starting with a championship of
Russians Scriabin, Stravinsky and Prokofiev, whose music he not
only performed whenever and wherever possible, but also pub
lished in toto, Koussevitzky lent an untiring hand to Schoenberg,
Berg, Bartok and Hindemith at the time when such "shockers"
spelled certain death at the box office unwieldy and unpopular
French "lone wolves" like Albert Roussel, and little-known Russian
refugees like Obouhov, Vogel, Louri6, Berezowsky and Lopatnikov.
Most of these men were constant visitors; I remember particularly
courteous and self-effacing Albert Roussel, who liked my music and
wrote flatteringly about it; also Ravel, with his fine face and elabo
rately elegant clothes, who didn't care for my Zephyr and told Pro
kofiev that "Diaghilev made a mistake by sponsoring the young man."
Some composers arrived with their wives, always warmly welcomed
by Koussevitzky, particularly when they were pretty like Mesdames
Tansman, Lazar and Ferroud. The husband of the last-named was an
extraordinarily active man, always busy with running music socie
ties, making valuable "contacts," writing articles, going off on mys
terious music missions in the remotest corners of Europe, a man
full of good learning, good ideas and good will but, unfortunately,
a dry and dull composer. Ferroud formed the important Triton, a
modern chamber music society, and saw a great deal of Prokofiev,
whose brusque manner he imitated, and whose services he enlisted on
behalf of the organization; he died tragically, at the age of thirty-six,
in a horrible motor accident. Poor Filip Lazar, a handsome Rouma
nian, his devoted friend, couldn't endure life without Ferroud and
died a few months later.
Koussevitzky's Paris concerts, financed by Natalya Konstanti-
novna, were not too well attended, and caused her to grumble a bit
about the determinedly "uncommercial" programs, but her adoration
for her husband was such that she never dared to protest openly, pre
ferring to voice her discontent when he wasn't present. I recall sitting
in her box when a particularly insipid concoction of Ferroud's was
being performed; the applause was meager, but Ferroud, his face
shining, kissed the lady's hand, and exclaimed, "Beautifully played!"
Whereupon she whispered in my ear; "... and wretchedly com
posed."
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 199
My so-called sonata was well-enough liked by musicians;
Souvtchinsky ran up to me after the performance- shouting: "The
purest champagne!" But it was, in reality, distinctly small beer. In
style it was not unlike Zephyr, but my repertoire of Russo-classical
tricks was now exhausted and this kind of amiable music was no step
forward, dangerously akin as it was to the selfsame musiquette. As to
the notorious Oxford bags previously described* I should have re
membered the remark made to foppish Whistler by Degas: "You
dress as if you had no talent" Koussevitzky thought the sonata meri
torious, the critics were kind and I was told to complete the synt-
phony, for which I stored away some rather promising thematic ma
terial.
Following my shaky debut as piano- soloist, the Prokofievs and I
went on a long motor trip to the Haute Savoie mountains Sofro-
nitzky, the pianist, and his wife, Scriabin's daughter, were also with
us. The trip, in spite of the unsurpassable food we ate (it was because
of these early gastronomic trips with Prokofiev that I began to put on
weight and lose my Karsavinesque looks) proved something of a sore
trial, because of the constant quarrels between the Prokofievs, ter
minating in Jupiter-like shouts from Serge and copious tears from
Lina. Chi my return to Paris, I wrote an article for Souvtchinsky's
Eurasian magazine Versty (Miles) on Diaghikv and his work. In it
was my first, as yet indirect, criticism of Stravinsky's "neoclassical"
period, which has since ceased to be merely a period (in the Picasso
sense) but has become the composer's settled and only manner.
My disillusion in Stravinsky, man and musician both, began a year
earlier, when I dined at his house in Nice and listened to him talk, A
day or two prior to this dinner, the invitation to which flattered and
excited me, I ran into Nika Nabokov, who, on learning of my good
luck, asked me to show Igor Fedorovitch his piano sonata; I said
that I would be happy to do so and took the manuscript along.
Stravinsky received me with the utmost cordiality; we drank vodka,
talked music and sat down to a copious family dinner with Mrs.
Stravinsky and the children. What astonished me was the passionate
anti-Diaghilev monologue into which the composer plunged almost
immediately on my arrival. Omitting the more personal barbs, I can
recall Stravinsky's ire at the "execrable" orchestral performances,
the cynicism with which his music was mutilated, the disgracefully
inadequate rebeaisals, etc.., etc. Worshipping DiagMLev as I did and
200 PASSPORT TO PARIS
knowing full well the shaky finances of his organization (it was a
miracle that it existed at all, as money had to be raised at the eleventh
hour every season), realizing that before me sat a Diaghilev-made
composer, who owed Diaghilev his entire career, I became intensely
uncomfortable. It was not for me, a hopeful beginner, to contradict
the master, but, profoundly grateful as I was for being "put on my feet"
by Sergei Pavlovitch, by the touching care with which he prepared
Zephyr for production, I restrained myself with difficulty from what
would have been an unpleasant argument and kept silent. I showed
Stravinsky the Nabokov sonata, and, after perusing it carefully, he
pronounced it "not stupid."
The after-dinner conversation centered mainly around my host
and his recent appearance as pianist at the Venice festival of the In
ternational Society for Contemporary Music. It seems that Stravin
sky had been contracted to play his piano sonata at the festival for a
five-hundred-dollar fee. A short while before leaving for Venice, he
got an infected finger and was seized by fear of being unable to appear
at the concert; on the eve of that event he visited a church and
prayed fervently for his finger's recovery. Stravinsky appeared on
the concert platform, his finger bandaged, and made a short speech
of apology, pointing to the bandage and begging the audience's in
dulgence. Just before attacking the sonata, he removed the bandage
and, Eureka! the infection had subsided and the finger functioned
normally. All this was told with pontifical, profound seriousness
the manner always adopted by Stravinsky when talking about him
self. Four years later I glanced at the score of the Symphony of
Psalms (1930), in my opinion the last of Stravinsky's important
works and, probably, his best and was not startled to read on
the back of the title pager^'This symphony composed to the Glory
of God, is dedicated to the Boston Symphony Orchestra on the oc
casion of its fiftieth anniversary."
No sooner did I return to London than the shocking news of Jimmy
White's suicide rocked the town. The future of Daly's now appeared
uncertain and I had to seek employment elsewhere. My sonata's half
failure and Koussevitsky's generous readiness to perform my sym
phony should I write it made me feel like doing serious work
again, particularly since Billy Allen was no Dreyfus and couldn't
hand me a new show on a platter. I was overjoyed when Sir David and
Lady Baird asked me to spend a month or two with them in their place
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 201
at Newbyth in southern Scotland. I brought reams of manuscript
paper and very fancy golf clothes, since the Bairds and their friends
golfed daily at North Berwick. I had never wielded a golf club be
fore, and the dour old professional at the club said I had "no golfing
ability whatsoever" after two lessons. This didn't faze me unduly, as
just to inhale the extraordinary air of Scotland, go sight-seeing in
Edinburgh with Jean, Sir David's redheaded daughter, and flirt stren
uously with Rosemary Hope-Vere, another deservedly well-advertised
beauty of the period, were enough to make me forget my Paris tribu
lations and London debts, which were accumulating fast, the re
minders and bills causing the Bairds' letter box to swell suspiciously.
The symphony "wrote itself' in such ideal surroundings, but was
unusually short only sixteen minutes of music; the first and last
movements had a lot of Prokofiev about them, the slow lusciously
Italianate cantilena of the middle one was yanked bodily out of the
dormant Three Seasons.
Lady Baird, a kind and worldly woman of the Victorian-matriarch
variety, occasionally entertained Americans, and I always marveled
at the highly "special" manner in which they were treated. U. S.
visitors she considered quaint, colorful, oddly provincial and not al
together civilized. "One must never forget that they are really cow
boys and Indians in Savile Row clothes. I like all colonials, mind
you," she said to me, "but they are quaint, aren't they? The other day
a rich woman from Chicago, or some such place, came to tea; I
thought her rather attractive and asked her to dine. *Is it going to
be formal?' the woman wanted to know. Tormal? No, indeed; gay and
spontaneous, I hope/ " Lady Baird was maternally fond of me, but I,
too, baffled her. I wasn't a bona fide White Russian as I had no title
and wrote music for a living. I came frrm America without being
American, and looked and talked not unlike her daughter's "aes
thetic" English friends, without being English. "I suspect you are
what's known as 'cosmopolitan' nowadays, my dear," Lady Baird
sighed. "I'm not sure it's a good thing to be. Cosmopolitans have no
roots, you know neither have Americans. I think you'd do well to
marry an American girl." I'm afraid the good woman suggested such
a step because she was aware of the attentions I lavished on some of
her daughter's friends. She needn't have worried English and
Scottish girls are just as good as any other at spotting the "right" man,
and there was nothing "right" about me, except my clothes.
202 PASSPORT TO PARIS
On my return to London, I teamed up with Jimmy Dyrenf orth for a
song, "For Goodness' Sake," which we sold to the producers of a
typically British "intimate" revue, entitled Bow-Wows; the ditty, sung
by Elsie Gregory, was perhaps my first respectable effort in the idiom
and had an unusual rhythmic pattern, which attracted some atten
tion. Among the attentive ones was Julian Wylie, the pantomime pro
ducer, who had West End ambitions. I was broke again and getting
discouraged; my spirits rose instantly when Wylie, a large, bilious,
warm-hearted man, began sounding me out as to "terms." I had no
agent and would have accepted anything within reason, but Wylie
was not ungenerous and offered me 1 per cent of the gross receipts
as well as 150 advance to compose the music for the Yellow Mask,
Edgar Wallace's heterodox attempt to wed a "mystery thriller" to a
musical comedy. Prior to signing me up, Wylie insisted on hearing a
few tunes from my pen, and when I obliged, complained about the
lack of rhythm in my performance. "The only thing those American
chaps have is rhythm can't say much for their melody. Your
chimes are catchy but whereas the rhythm?" He swallowed his tea
and sighed "Have you ever heard Maisie ply?" I didn't know any
Maisie and apologized. "Smith, send Maisie in," Wylie said lugubri
ously to his secretary. "She is a wizard on the pianoforte, that she is."
Maisie, a tall, bony peroxide blonde with teeth large enough to serve
as piano keys, entered, beaming. "Maisie, ply us a chorus of 'Darda-
nella/ there's a love," Wylie asked. The blonde rattled off the chorus,
14th Street player-piano fashion, stomping her foot and lifting the
pinky refinedly at the end of each flourish. Wylie and I drank more
tea and applauded. I got my contract. Laddie Cliff was to direct
and co-produce, Desmond Carter (he was being 'lent" by Dreyfus
hallelujah! ) to write the lyrics, Aubrey Hammond then top man
in his field to design the scenery and Bobbie Howes, West End's
most promising young comic, to get his big chance in the play.
I lived again. Poor Mme. Dupont read the papers and knew all the
symptoms; four times I had achieved temporary solvency and four
times, having achieved it, hastened to leave her hospitable but de-
pressingly ugly oasis in Torrington Square. This time, I knew I'd not
return, and so did Mme. Dupont, who invited me to a "farewell tea,"
her still-handsome wrinkle-ridden face even sadder than usual. She
also asked the other "distinguished" but evasive tenant, one F. A. K.
Dais, a mammoth of a man in his seventies, a solicitor by profession
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 203
and a wretched bassoon player in his spare moments. F.A.K. had a
rich and mysterious past in which peers of the realm, Gaiety girls,
and polo players in India played a significant part; I always suspected
that Dale spent some years in prison for I know not what offense, as
his reminiscences (often startlingly purple-shaded) went only so far
as the turn of the century then he'd sigh deeply, imbibe some cheap
port, light a pipe and mumble something about, "Fortune, that faith
less jade.'* The faithless jade had not been treating the old boy right
for quite some time, as he barely eked out a living in an unspeakably
dingy office in the City, bereft of a telephone or secretary, and was
hopelessly behind in his rent. On Mme. Duponf s suggestion, I took
him on as a C.PA., or whatever the English term for that office is;
at this Dale proved surprisingly successful, as he had his own vastly
effective methods of dealing with the income-tax people. He'd write
them interminable and scarcely legible epistles about his clients*
predicaments, their ailing aunts and unemployed brothers, their
"essential" expenses far exceeding their income and so on, The
Crown would reply impatiently, admonishing Dale to stick to the
facts and send a check pronto; another twelve-page letter would
follow, another still more impatient rejoinder, and so the matter
would drag on for months until the Government representatives
would give in and settle for one tenth of what was coming to them. I
doubt that Dale's method would have had much success in this
country.
The Yellow Mask rehearsals started on October 20th, and with
the help of Wylie's advance, I was able to send Mother some much
needed funds. It was gratifying to be surrounded by experts people
like busy, ferretlike Laddie CM; Leslie Henson, the English Bobby
Clark, at whom I had laughed in the Gershwin musicals and who
was lending "valuable assistance"; huge, gloomy-faced Aubrey
Hammond; and the Master of Mystery himself, Edgar Wallace, a
bland, impassive individual with an extra-long cigarette holder and
the precise manner of a successful stockbroker. Volatile Bobby
Howes was bent on a "killing" (which he accomplished, as the
Yellow Mash catapulted him into stardom) ; Malcolm Keen strutted
and ranted as the villainous Li-San, governor of the province of Chi-
Fu; and London's favorite, Phyllis Dare was archly genteel as Mary
Bannister, the heroine, complete with the parasol without which
where would British musical comedy be?
204 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Wallace, almost as good a dnimbeater as C. B. Cochran, called
Julian WyEe The Rajah of Revue and wrote an amusing "close-up"
of the producer for the London Tit-bits in connection with our re
hearsals: " The trouble with this piece,' Wylie said gloomily, surveying
the empty stage, 'is that if s British. All the artists are British; you're
more or less British.' 'I am a Wallace/ I said, coldly. 'Haven't you
seen my tartan? Vernon Duke isn't British, his name is Dukelsky and
he's a Russian; so how can you say * 'For the purpose of his play,
he's British,' said Julian, stolidly. 'Anyway, he's not American. Don't
ten me he was with George Gershwin for two years, because I know
it We haven't a single American number or a single American co
median that's going to ruin us!' " The non-American musical show
was already a drug on the London market in 1927, but the Yellow
Mask did not ruin Wylie far from it, as it achieved quite a suc
cess, although not of gold-mine proportions. We opened in Birming
ham to unanimously excellent notices and crowded houses.
I returned from the provinces encouraged by the show's recep
tion and, especially, by the royalty checks that began to come in
regularly, once the advance money was deducted. Prokofiev arrived
in London to play a recital and it was good to get back to "music talk"
after English theatrical slang, which is a queer mixture of Cockney
and Broadway. Serge listened to "Dushenka," a prettily melodious
effusion in the Russo-Italianate manner, and was especially curious
about the symphony, which I had completed while rehearsing the
Yellow Mask. He liked both, made some insulting remarks about
"DushenkaV orchestration and demanded that I score the symphony
without delay, offering to help me should "prostitution" interfere. Pro
kofiev brought me a program sent on to him from Kiev on which my
Bogdanovitch songs figured surprisingly; the singer's name was un
familiar to me, but I had quite a pang on seeing B. Yavorsky (my
Kiev teacher) listed as accompanist. While considered a "deca
dent bourgeois" and a "lackey of bloodthirsty capitalists," Serge
somehow managed to get performances in Soviet Russia and even
appear in concert in larger cities there. Since he never talked poli
ties, I thought it best not to question him too closely about conditions
in Russia. He jokingly offered to become my musical salesman and
said that he was engineering a production of Zephyr in Moscow, "to
annoy Diaghilev," he added, exploding with laughter. I was wise
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 205
enough to refrain from exhibiting the luckless Three Seasons, except
for the andantino, now the middle movement of the symphony, the
movement he particularly liked. We dined at Simpson's in the Strand,
drank a great deal of lager and wound up in a gaudy night club called
the Silver Slipper. A loudly dressed tart brushed past us and suddenly
stopped with a wide-eyed stare at me. I wanted to duck but it was too
late Sally, my Monte Carlo nemesis, stood before me. "Blimey, if
it isn't the Monte boy wonder. . . . You're getting fat, me lad," she
screeched familiarly. "I wouldn't dare to talk to a man you treated
so shabbily, if I were you," I retorted stiffly, and motioned to Prokofi
ev, inviting him to leave the place. "On our 'igh 'orse, ain't we,
your 'ighness?" Sally rattled on scornfully. We hastened out into the
fresh air; I remained stubbornly silent and wouldn't explain anything
to Prokofiev. He left in the morning with a promise to write Kous-
sevitzky about the symphony and with an invitation to join him on a
gastronomic tour of the South of France, which I accepted ecstati
cally.
I had abandoned Bloomsbury for Chelsea 14 Church Street,
to be exact to be near the Embankment, which I loved. Carlyle
Square didn't mean much to me any longer as I was on the outs with
the Sitwells and saw less and less of Walton, who was always either in
Rome or Amalfi; but Tony Gandarillas, art-loving South American
diplomat, was nearby in Cheyne Walk, where I often dined with him
and Christopher Wood, the promising painter who died before fulfill
ing his promise, or, occasionally, George Auric, who always put up at
Tony's when in London; the Beaufort-Palmers, Francis and Sylvia,
were practically across the street, and Ewart Garland in Paultons Gar
dens, a few blocks away. Ewart, who was good to be with because his
brow was neither too high nor too low and his heart very much in the
right place, became my everyday companion and we delighted in
roaming London and the countryside in his trusty little Lea Francis.
Through Ewart I acquired Gibbs, a non-Jeevesian manservant with a
talent for cooking, answering the telephone glibly, and evasively when
necessary, drinking my liquor unnoticeably and, as I found out later,
padding my bills outrageously. He was pious and patriarchal-looking,
somewhat on the lines of Dickens's Rev. Stiggins, with a nose of lush,
tropical redness and a manner that went beautifully with my Jacobean
furniture, Staffordshire dogs on the mantelpiece (no self-respecting
206 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Londoner would live without them) and the soft candlelight which
was my only illumination the flat had no electrictiy and I was
aflergic to gas, except in Victorian novels.
On February 8, 1928, the Yellow Mask opened at the Carlton
Tlieater in London with every evidence of lasting success not
tks "biggest home-fared musical comedy success for years and
years," as the Daily Mall put it, but a sizable one nevertheless. Alan
Parsons, whom I saw at all the better parties, gave me this pat on the
back: **Not so long ago I had the pleasure of congratulating
M. Vladimir Dukelsky on the score of the ballet 'Zephyr and Flora.'
I have the same pleasure in congratulating Mr. Vernon Duke on the
music of the *YeIk>w Mask.* " The first-night audience had almost a
Russian Ballet-opening elegance and shouted its approval when
Wallace, complete with a yard-long cigarette holder, made a deft
little speech of thanks. I spotted Willie Walton in the intermission;
his greeting was of the coolish variety, which rather upset me, but
not for long there was a party at Wallace's after the show and I
was to fetch my girl of the moment backstage.
AD we needed now was full houses; they were full for three or four
months, then business began tapering off, for reasons that were not
quite clear to anybody they never are in the theater.
Whatever side of the ledger the Yellow Mask finished on, it did
well enough for the rest of the year (1928) to enable me to take a
deep breath, followed by a long pleasure trip. Gershwin wrote to con
gratulate me on the success of my **first complete score" and an
nounced his impending arrival in Europe this time family fashion,
with sister Frances, brother Ira, and Ira's good-looking wife, Leonore,
known to all Gershwinites as Lee. After a flying visit to London
(where I barely missed them, having just left for France) the
Gershwins alighted at the selfsame Hotel Majestic where I had first
set up residence in Paris. True to my 1928 form, I paid them a call
attired in the already-described gunmetal creation (now a little tight
for me), a pale-yellow Sulka shirt, an orchid in my buttonhole, the
wbote structure supported by a magnificent eighteenth-century walk
ing stick, a Christmas present from myself, purchased in Bath, So stag
gering a facade didn't fail to render the Gershwins speechless; they
stared at me, then at one another, then back at me, and had good
enough manners not to laugh out loud.
Ira Gershwin describes that memorable meeting in his diary:
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 207
"Paris, April 6th Friday (Weather sunshine at last). Letter from
Selwyn to George saying 'Strike Up the Band' would be done next
season. All of us happy about it. Dukelsky came in for an hour or so.
Argued with George about parts of 'American in Paris' saying
that George was 1928 in his musical comedies and in most of his
concert music but that in 'A.I.P.' he allowed himself to become
somewhat saccharine in spots. When he left, Walton, an Eng
lish composer friend of George's and Dukelsky's in London came in.
Played us a parody waltz, a tune and part of his symphony which
had been done recently by Koussevitzky. All pretty bad. Walton told
George to disregard Dukelsky's advice as Duke was influenced by
Prokofiev and thought anyone who wrote in another style old-
fashioned; also, that nothing of Duke's had become popular, etc.,
etc., Most interesting what they all think of one another."
I was then ignorant of Willie's reappraisal of myself and was de
lighted to run into him in Koussevitzky's music shop. We chatted
gaily and arranged to display our recent work to one another. I
played my three-movement piano sonata, written that spring for Bo-
rovsky (who never learned it), which Willie seemed to like; he did
make a remark which, in the light of the recently unearthed Ira
Gershwin testimony, appears understandable it rather stung me at
the time. "Very good, Vladimir," Willie said. "I'm really amazed be
cause I was told in London that you didn't write music any longer."
I then went to see Prokofiev, who knew I still wrote music and was
doing everything in his power to get it played; Armed with gastro
nomic guides, cook books and treatises on the wine industry, we
drove in the Ballot just the two of us with the minimum of hig-
gage and a huge chess set in the trunk of the car. Our schedule was
simplicity itself we'd spend the night at an inn in the country, get
up early, breakfast on coffee and croissants, and push off to the near
est gastronomic citadel. Proudly flashing our gourmets' manuals, we'd
be escorted to the best table, given the best service and regaled with
the best that the house could offer. We never hesitated ordering an
other speciaUte if the first proved to be up to snuff. It was at the
Hotel Commerce et Poste in Perigueux that I made an utter pig of
myself; having fallen in love with the extravagantly caloried pate de
joie gras for which the region is noted, I bought a pound of it from the
rnaitre d'hotel when Serge wasn't looking. On awakening the next
morning, I ordered the usual frugal breakfast and, when it arrived.
208 PASSPORT TO PARIS
unpacked the delicacy and began gulping it down, smearing it on
the hot croissants and taking great care not to masticate so vigor
ously as to awaken Prokofiev, who snored peacefully in the adjoin
ing room. Small wonder that I was ill the rest of the day, to Prokofiev's
intense annoyance; no sooner was he rid of women, he complained,
than here he was stuck with an invalid. I paid the penalty of not being
served the best bouillabaisse in Toulon the next day at lunch, and
watched Prokofiev devour two huge helpings of it. In the evening we
arrived in Monte Carlo to pay a visit to Diaghilev, then preparing the
new ballets Stravinsky's Apollon and Nabokov's Ode. It was Serge's
Idea; he wanted me to play the symphony to Sergei Pavlovitch and
get him to reconsider the abandoned Three Seasons. On entering
the administrator's quarters, I saw Sergei Pavlovitch, Boris and Na
bokov, whose greeting was cordial and worried it was now his turn
to earn his place in the sun.
I don't think Nabokov's music ever really excited Diaghilev, al
though there were several good things in Ode, a badly integrated bal
let whose abstract scenery had no connection whatever with the
ultra-Russian Glinkaesque music. In Lifar's testimony: "The Ode
frankly bewildered Diaghilev, both in its music and choreography, and
he could hardly decide to allow us to put it on. It did not interest him
at aH."
I wasn't pleased at having to play my symphony with another pro
spective Diaghilev child in the room (although Nabokov never got
to be the "fourth" son, Markevitch earning that distinction in 1929),
but Sergei Pavlovitch was most encouraging and so I tore into the
opening energico. On getting to the end of the slow movement, I sud
denly realized to my horror that I had just played the big pas de deux
from the Three Seasons, the piece Diaghilev had already heard. I
didn't dare to look at the man and charged into the bustling finale at
breakneck speed. When it was all over, Nabokov and Kochno looked
at each other enigmatically. Diaghilev was on his best diplomatic
behavior and all he said was: "A very good symphony, but I like
Zephyr better." How often was I to hear similar, maddening observa
tions in later years! Eugene Goossens, whom I'd meet every five years
or so, when shown a new work of mine would exclaim dreamily: "Ah,
Zephyr and Flora there was a score!" In the commercial field,
aH I have to do is demonstrate a song to the head of a recording com
pany for him to moan: "Gee, that "April in Paris' there was a
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 209
song!" I often wonder why Leoncavallo, who never wrote anything
decent outside of Pagliacci, or Charpentier, who couldn't top Lou
ise, didn't put bullets through their heads. Prokofiev tried to console
me by remarking dryly that Diaghilev had a "better taste in boys than
he has in music," but I couldn't help feeling depressed, until the next
gastronomic gtape restored my spirits somewhat.
At the end of our three-week trip I was at least fifteen pounds
heavier and couldn't get into my clothes. Without a doctor's advice
I put myself on a murderous diet of lemon-and-orange juice and
pickled fish virtually soaked in vinegar, and black coffee; such is
the resistance of youth that I experienced no dangerous aftereffects
and lost a lot of weight, only to regain it on eating normally for one
week. These ups and downs became a regular and most trouble
some part of my life after that trip with Prokofiev; when encounter
ing a friend I haven't seen for a month, I'm always greeted with, "Put
ting on weight, aren't you?" or, "You don't look so good to me
getting too skinny." I've been on every imaginable diet through these
twenty-five years and found them all excellent and most efficient //
you become a recluse and stick to them. What happens if you dine
out four times a week? Try and ask your hostess to serve you a half a
carrot and two cups of shredded black figs with a teaspoon of lemon
juice and a glass of soybean milk.
On May 29th, I took both Diaghilev and Prokofiev to hear Gersh
win's piano concerto played by Dmitri Tiomkin at a concert in the
Paris Opera conducted by Vladimir Golschmann. Whether the fault
lay with the French musicians, notoriously allergic to jazz, or with
Mr. Tiomkin, an able pianist, but certainly no Gershwin, I cannot
say. Diaghilev shook his head and muttered something about "good
jazz and bad Liszt," whereas Prokofiev, intrigued by some of the pia-
nistic invention, asked me to bring George to his apartment the next
day. George came and played his head off; Prokofiev liked the tunes
and the flavorsome embellishments, but thought little of the con
certo (repeated by Gershwin), which, he said later, consisted of
32-bar choruses ineptly bridged together. He thought highly of
Gershwin's gifts, both as composer and pianist, however, and pre
dicted that he'd go far should he leave "dollars and dinners" alone.
One afternoon at Koussevitzky's I met a tall, stooping, hawk-faced
young man who, Sergei Alexandrovitch told me in Russian, was the
new "white hope" of American music and who answered to the name
210 PASSPORT TO PARIS
of Aaron Copland. A short piece of his had been conducted by
Golschmann at the Tiomkin concert and didn't give me enough of
an idea of the man's talent. Copland seemed intelligent and was flat
teringly impressed by my dandiacal air and radical views on mu
sk;, aired with complete disdain of established values and reputa
tions; I bought him a drink at Fouquef s and we spent an agreeable
hour talking music.
My first symphony was by now orchestrated (with Prokofiev's
help), copied and accepted for performance by Koussevitzky,
who was preparing for his annual invasion of Paris concert life.
Meanwhile, I was elated to hear of my brother Alex's successful grad
uation from M.I.T.; he had received a Fontainebleau Scholarship
and was about to sail for Europe.
The program of Koussevitzky's concert, which took place on
June 14th, contained the first performance of Prokofiev's Angel oj
Fire (fragments of his opera of that name) as well as that of my sym
phony. I sat with the Prokofievs and the Paitchadzes and it was
thrilling to bow from the box from which Serge also took his bow. In
spite of so formidable a companion piece, my music apparently
held its own. Koussevitzky was much gratified by the symphony's re
ception and programed it for his next Boston season. He wired
Mother: "Dima's symphony dedicated to you. Wonderful piece.
Great success at my concert, Paris. Congratulations."
Alex arrived a few days later, bronzed and happy and very col
legiate. I met his train at the Gare St. Lazare and he had difficulty in
recognizing me that's how much I had changed in the four years
since we had seen each other. He was surrounded by rah-rah boys
and girls bent on raising a little traditional Franco-American hell. I
wound up my Paris affairs and, accompanied by Ewart Garland,
joined Alex in Fontainebleau a week later. My brother's enthusiasm
for everything French, especially food and scenery, was contagious,
and I loved impersonating a true Parisian and showing him the sights.
Then Garland and I ventured to Germany, for the excellent reason
that we had never been there. I don't think anyone ever disliked Ber
lin as much as I did. For sheer ugliness you couldn't beat the mis
shapen Berliners with their robotlike, ill-fitting clothes and evil-
smelling cigars, porcine necks and triple chins; or the ludicrous
and pathetic make-up on Kurfurstendamm fairies. The two musical
Schlagers of the season (1928) were crude exercises in Americano-
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 211
mania. One was Jonny Spielt Auf, Krenek's tuneless and jazzless jazz
opera; the other was Evelyne, an elephantine operetta by Bruno Von
Granichstadten, fully as unpalatable and Teutonic as the composer's
name. The badly lipsticked and atrociously garbed chorus girls kicked
sausagelike legs and shrilled, "Yes," "Okay," and "Get hot/' at the
top of their beer-greased lungs, to the accompaniment of three trom
bones, a tuba and the inevitable celeste and xylophone, all played in
unison, which, to anyone familiar with German musical comedy, is
an orchestrator's "must."
I didn't exactly expect a Welcome Home demonstration on my
return to London, but thought that with Zephyr, a show running in
the West End, and a successfully premiered symphony, I would in
stantly go on to bigger and better things. To my dismay, I soon real
ized that my three accomplishments were not of triumphant, definitive
caliber that Zephyr was already forgotten, the Yellow Mask on
the skids and the symphony unknown to London. I learned, too, that
ballet composers, while perfectly acceptable in their frivolous
sphere, were not easily transplantable into the loftier symphonic re
gions of England. Ballet was bad enough in the eyes of the saturnine
satraps who ruled that country's musical opinion, but all that "Ver-
non Duke" nonsense was really inexcusable; to this day, the august
B.B.C. hasn't touched a note of my music.
In the realm of the commercial theater I could have said with
Denry in Arnold Bennett's The Card that "I had committed the sin
of not being a native of England." Although the Yellow Mask was
no box-office smash and producers were in no hurry to sign me up,
a regular hue and cry began in the London press on the subject of
"alien" composers taking the bread out of their native colleagues*
mouths and coining fortunes in the West End. Especially noisy was
Hannen Swaffer, who resorted to editorials denouncing American
and other "alien" influences in musical comedy and leading the
pack of the "England for the English" journalists. Swaffer's taste in
music was nil and in his patriotic zeal he always backed the wrong
horse his first all-British musical "must" was a fiasco named
Lumber Love (there's a title for you) with music by Emmett Adams,
celebrated for the "Bells of Saint Mary's" and nothing else, and El
dorado (1930), another total flop, composed by one Rutland Clap-
ham, according to Hannen, "worth six of these ordinary musical
comedies." Not that all English musicals were that bad Coch-
212 PASSPORT TO PARIS
tan's zevues were way ahead of their time, as in addition to first-rate
composers and lyricists he engaged important painters (not glori
fied interior decorators) to do his scenery and bona-fide choreog
raphers (not ex-tap dancers); but Cockie was no chauvinist and
had a distinct penchant for foreign imports Delysia (a French
woman) was his favorite star in the twenties, Massine and later Bal-
anchine his favorite choreographers, and he commissioned entire
scores to suspicious aliens nke Rodgers and Hart and Cole Por
ter.
I didn't at once perceive the noose that was slowly tightening
around my neck. Fourteen Church Street was still old Chelsea at
its best, Gibbs's cooking was still impeccable, the Staffordshire dogs
grinned at me just as encouragingly, the candles shone as brightly
of an evening and so did the eyes of my rapidly changing female
companions. Among the new "bucks" were two colorful and rich
giants the Honorable Richard Wyndham, painter and writer, and
Sir Anthony (Tony) Lindsay-Hogg, the last of the true dandies, dare
devil driver, flyer and lover, who married Bunny Doble in 1930, di
vorced her a year later, then became and remained a warm and
generous friend and fellow adventurer. We all lived within walking
distance of one another and it was correct Chelsea behavior to drop
in at a friend's place at an ungodly hour, drink his liquor and walk
away with his girl if she and the host were agreeable, which they often
were. At times, such exchanges were difficult, as when one of us
paid a visit to a friend, a notorious sadist, and found their mutual
inamorata strapped to the garage door, while his "friendly" rival was
whipping her furiously and with evident relish. The visitor threw him
self on the ''villain" and was about to knock the whip out of his hand
and the teeth out of his head when he was startled by the piercing cry
of the girl, a delectable young German: "Stohp, stohp, you're spoiling
my fohn!"
Came autumn and I began to think seriously of invading the
United States; after all, I was a nonentity no longer, having amassed
a number of "credits," as they say in Hollywood. Alex was still on
Ms transcontinental tour, but he'd be returning to the States soon and
nothing appealed to me more than a prospect of home-coming, al
though I still considered London my official home. My wretched
Nansen passport was a big obstacle although included in Moth
er's first papers, I had failed to take the necessary steps at the con-
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 213
sulate to insure and prolong my immigrant's status; the best I could
hope for was a visitor's visa, which wasn't granted too easily to ex
patriates like myself. I began hinting to Mother at the possibility of
a Boston reunion. Living determinedly above my income, I was again
in debt and began looking around for musical-comedy work. With
some difficulty, I sold a song to Cochran (which he never used),
another to the firm of Daniel Mayer, and descended on poor Billy
Allen with would-be "world beaters" which he reluctantly printed,
advising the buyer that they were "Broadway flits." Shrewd old Billy
was not above "hand across the ocean" gestures for commercial
reasons, Swaffer or no Swaffer, but I'm afraid I let him down shame
fully. Thus 1928 came to a rather uncertain end, the new year a
big, fat question mark.
Musically speaking, I was quite happy, because productive, that
winter. Long a Pushkin devotee, I found just the right libretto for a
two-act opera among the Tales of Belkin, that unique cluster of short
stones that are, in reality, capsule novels. By an odd coincidence,
my choice, "Mistress into Maid," is preceded by an epigraph from
"Dushenka" by Bogdanovitch, whose poetry Pushkin greatly admired
the same "Dushenka" excerpts which I had set to music a year
earlier. Having given up poetry almost entirely (except for some
epigrams on Diaghilev, Kochno, Nikitina, Danilova and others, widely
circulated in Russian-ballet circles) it was exciting to create one's
own libretto, using big hunks of Pushkin's delectable prose the
kind that sings without music and writing love poems in the Bog
danovitch manner for arias and concerted numbers. By January
1929, I completed the first act and, on playing it over a few days
ago (1954) I felt exhilarated by the freshness of this young music
and its theatrical effectiveness. I was also working on my Second
Symphony.
Fred and Adele Astaire again had London at their nimble feet,
this time in Gershwin's Funny Face. In the pit were two young and
good-looking pianists Jacques Fray and Mario Braggiotti who
played tricky and showily contrived two-piano versions of the spar
kling Gershwin songs " 'S Wonderful" and "My One and Only"
among them. Mario, half Italian and half American, was very tall,
spectacularly handsome and spent his free time chasing women,
when not chased by them; such is the nature of the man that even
the most irresistible ones prefer to pursue rather than be pursued.
214 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Prodigiously facile as an improvvisatore Mario seldom practiced
the piano, but played with great dash and eclat, making extravagant
gestures and even growling melodically to strengthen the crashing
climaxes; all of this was carefully calculated to render the girls
limp with excitement and admiration. Then came an impassioned
speech, three parts "confession magazine" and one part Gabriele
d'Annunzio, in which red Chianti, Braggiotti-cooked spaghetti and
nude-bathing among the rocks of the Italian Riviera invariably fig
ured; another dash to the piano to execute a Neapolitan song with
Mario supplying a sex-laden vocal and the selectee of the evening
was ready, nay eager, for a kill.
Fray probably did nearly as well as his tempestuous partner, but
he played the suave and polished "continental" game soft lights,
soft music (his pianism was of the self-effacing persuasion) and
soft French-accented compliments. Thus the bobby soxers of early
vintage (many of them wore silk stockings and furs) who swarmed
at the Prince's Theatre stage door had their choice of push or polish.
Both Gershwin and Astaire were amused by the piano-playing Casa-
novas and liked going to parties with them. I met Mario and Jacques
ia Fred's dressing room while he was taking his make-up off and rib
bing the pair mercilessly. After a night of gallivanting about London
(minus Astaire, who, prudently, went to bed) we found we had so
much in common that a decision was made then and there to take a
house together. This was accomplished a few days later, coinciding
with iny discovery of Gibbs's thefts when we took our belongings to
rather ramshackle quarters in Soho; on discovering an unusual num
ber of mice and bedbugs in the place, we paid off the landlord with an
indignant speech, and established residence in a most attractive and
eminently "correct" little house in Pont Street, Knightsbridge.
Having concluded these arrangements I went to Paris once again
to take part in Vera Vajevska's recital on January 8th at the Salle du
Conservatoire. She devoted nearly one half of her program to my
music, singing not only the Bogdanovitch and Pushkin songs, but
also an aria from Mistress into Maid, in all of which I played her
accompaniments. There weren't too many people in the hall but we
had a good success and pleasant notices, although Le Monde Musi
cal harped chiefly on my great talent as ... pianist. A day before,
in faraway Boston's Jordan Hall, Gertrude Earhart premiered the
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 215
Bogdanovitch songs (thus obtaining first hearings in Paris, Boston and
Kiev almost simultaneously).
I don't think my Stravinsky-endorsed songs created any stir in
Boston, but Koussevitzky made the haughty patrons of Symphony
Hall Dukelsky-conscious with somewhat better results than those oc
casioned by the Zephyr and Flora suite. The symphony was played
on March 15th and the industrious Slonimsky (no longer Koussevitz-
ky's secretary but trouble shooter for the one-and-only H. T. Parker)
was again mobilized into propaganda on my behalf, this time for the
pages of the Boston Evening Transcript, whose approach to music
and music makers was the most unique and nonconformist in the
world, thanks to H.T.P.
A photograph of me wearing a pronouncedly early-Dukelskian sar
torial creation graced the music page, a day before the concert,
with this italicized caption: The Crime of Being Young. Directly
under the photograph there appeared a long, laudatory appraisal of
the criminal in which he was described as "a composer of power
and imagination."
Alas, the London-dwelling Dukelsky was weakening by the min
ute. Other people's music was applauded at the ballet and discussed
at dinner tables, Gershwin reigned supreme as Musical Comedy
King, and many other writers with the U.S.A. stamp had their fling.
There was no getting away from it America ruled the musical
theater and I was neither American, nor British, nor Russian for
that matter, with my aptly named League of Nations passport con
temptuously thumbed and reluctantly stamped by immigration offi
cials everywhere especially in England, where I had constantly
to report to Bow Street. "Why should I languish in London, up to my
neck in debt, where they don't pay you half as much as they do on
Broadway and resent your writing for their theater into the bargain?"
I wrote Mother, not unreasonably. "I can't wait to get back to the
States, where people of worth are properly remunerated, not just lion
ized. Alex Aarons wants me to write a score for him."
If the Bright Young People spent their short lives shuttling from
party to party, my bright young housemates, Fray and Braggiotti, too
lazy to move about, far surpassed them by making their Pont Street
existence one continuous non-stop party, with themselves as gener
ous hosts. Outside of such figures as the Astaires, Claire Luce (the
216 PASSPORT TO PARIS
actress), Benita Hume (now Mrs. Ronald Colman), Grand Duke
Dimitri and Prince George of Russia, a never ending procession of
young females was constantly on the premises, drinking, danc
ing, telephoning other females to come to the "most divine place
One Pont Street," staging fights and being made love to. Not in vain
did Zena Naylor call us The Three Beddies. This was fairly amusing
for a week or so, then I decided I had had enough and that such
shenanigans were no remedy for the profound gloom in which I lived.
I removed myself to the third (top) floor of our house and had a spe
cial lock made which could successfully shut me off from the wild
doings below. Such a stand earned me the nickname of "the Monk"
and annoyed the volcanic Braggiotti, who retaliated by making me the
butt of violent practical jokes, painful to me in my melancholy frame
of mind and uproariously funny to their perpetrator and his then
faithful henchman, Fray.
My longing for America became intensified by the arrival of Bos
ton notices for the symphony, which, while far from sensational,
were distinctly encouraging.
I was much touched by Mrs. Koussevitzky's invitation to Mother to
join her in her box on the night of the concert, and the kind letter she
wrote her before the occasion; also by the artless interview published
a few days after the concert, from which I gathered that Mother met
Koussevitzky at a tea given by Mrs. Ralph Adams Cram. The con
ductor "looked at her quickly, hesitated and asked if possibly she
were related to Dimir [sic]. He had known Dimir in Paris. Saturday
night she graced the seat reserved for the guest composer on the pro
gram. . . . When she heard his Symphony Saturday, of which Dimir
wrote her, *It is the first piece I feel I have a right to dedicate to you,*
she sat so concentrated that she never moved. 'I felt such a contact
with my son; I was very deeply happy,' she answered when she was
asked about listening there in the dark alone." On reading these lines,
my heart went out to Mother, for I, too, was in the dark, alone.
That summer I visited Paris for what proved to be the last time until
1936 went to the Fair with the Prokofievs, dined at the Samo-
flenkos, complained to'Paitchadze about the slowness with which he
was printing my music (I was a wretched proofreader and my early
publications are full of mistakes) and, finally, ventured to the music
hall where the "Blackbirds," again headed by the incomparable Flor
ence Mills, were bewitching blase Parisians. The performance was
AFTER THE BALLET IS OVER 217
sold out, so I bought a promenoir and elbowed my way through the
crowd to the back of the stalls; before getting to my destination I
bumped into a large man in an unseasonable beaver-fur coat. He
turned around to reprimand me haughtily for "pushing him about"
when we both stopped dead in our tracks the large man was Dia
ghilev. His mustache was carefully trimmed, the monocle shone as
disdainfully as ever, the necktie was Hilditch & Key's best (Diaghilev
always went there for his shirts and ties) but, in spite of the deter
minedly youthful pose, there was something about Sergei Pavlovitch's
face, something new, hollow and haggard that I didn't recognize and
that tightened my throat. Diaghilev was accompanied by a slim, wolf-
faced youth who disappeared before I had a chance of being intro
duced; he was Igor Markevitch, Diaghilev's official "fourth son" and
my successor in his musical affections. Sergei Pavlovitch greeted me
with the old, warm friendliness, which was especially gratifying be
cause so unexpected. "It's good to see you, Dima," he said. "You, at
least, didn't desert me for that ogress Ida Rubinstein she has al
ready annexed Sauguet, Auric and Stravinsky. Shocking, isn't it? Rieti
tells me that you played your Mistress into Maid for him; he liked
it enormously. I'm so glad. I always adored the tale. What are your
plans, Dima?" I told Diaghilev that I was to sail for the States a week
later on the S.S. Lacorda. "Not for long, I hope; I want you to come
to Venice in September and play your opera for me if I staged it,
Fd have arias, duets and trios sung and danced at the same time
what fun!" I stammered something about being thrilled by such a
project, vague though it was, and took my departure, after the tradi
tional Diaghilev kiss on both cheeks.
While in Paris I met Igor Glebov (Assafiev), the celebrated Rus
sian critic and musicologist and ambitious, but untalented, composer
of conventional ballet music. In 1929, Prokofiev was his god; twenty
years later, he, with Khrennikov and others, savagely denounced him
for his "bourgeois formalism," causing Serge to be ostracized, repri
manded and banished to a provincial hamlet, all of which horrors
doubtless precipitated the composer's death. Glebov was in Paris on
I don't know what Soviet mission and in appearance was like a post-
office clerk small, mousy and oddly diffident. He professed to like
my music and so did Miaskovsky, according to him; in those
days, liking music written by the "enemies of the working class" was
comparatively safe, as long as honest Soviet composers were uncon-
218 PASSPORT TO PARIS
laminated by such contacts. However, what interested Glebov most
was my "jazz" music and my friendship with Gershwin, already a
legendary figure even in Russia. "I have an unofficial proposition for
you, Dukelsky," said the critic with an uneasy glance at Prokofiev,
who, he knew, was above such frivolity. "I understand you write po
etry and speak English. Why not translate the book and lyrics of Gersh
win operettas say Lady Be Good and Funny Face? You could
then send them to me in Moscow and, who knows, you may be instru
mental in revolutionizing our entire light-music production. I promise
nothing, but I'd like you to try." So uncommon a proposition greatly
intrigued me, as I felt that no better anti-Soviet propaganda could be
imagined than a big, healthy dose of Gershwin music, and all the good
American things it stands for. That night after dinner I tinkered with
"Fascinating Rhythm" and "Lady Be Good," succeeded in Russian
izing them quite expertly, and demonstrated them the next day to Pro
kofiev and Glebov, who applauded frantically. Glebov took the lyrics
and the piano copies with him to Russia and promised to write; that
was the last I heard from him.
As to my American trip, it had happened not at aH according to
plan. In Pont Street I met a little man with a very large head and the
powerful hands of a pianist, whose name was Herman Wasserman
and who was sent to Europe from New York by Otto Kahn, that art-
loving banker, to "perfect himself* (he was a Josef Hofmann stu
dent) and give some recitals; Wasserman was as good at playing cards
as he was at playing the piano and I don't believe the recitals material
ized. Nevertheless, he knew good music, be it jazz or nonjazz, and
thought mine good on hearing it. "You're wasting your time here in
London," he said reflectively. (I already knew that.) "I'm sailing for
home in July and if you come with me, will manage you and find you
the right producers Arch Selwyn is a great friend of mine." Parallel
with this conversation, I sold a round dozen songs (no lyrics, just
tunes) to Fred Jackson's newly found backer, for 300; these were to
form the basis of the Make Hay score, soon renamed Open Your
Eyes. Thanks to F. A. K. Dale I got away with a mere fraction of what
I really owed in British tax, settled a few pressing debts, talked the
American consul into granting me a visitor's visa, presented Fray and
Braggiotti with a key to the "Monk's Quarters," and boarded the La-
coma on June 22nd with the firm intention of giving America a
second chance to discover me.
CHAPTER XII
BACK TO THE NEW
COUNTRY
A DAY before sailing I was suddenly told by the new producers
that my presence would be required for Make Hay rehearsals
in late August. I cabled Mother that I was coming for a two weeks'
visit and little dreamed that I would stay on and eventually become
a full-fledged American.
On reaching New York, I presented my Nansen passport to the
immigration officials and received my first serious setback. One of
the officials took a long look at the one-page document, stared at me >
then examined the paper again with a puzzled look and finally
turned to his colleague. "Take a look at this," he said. "Would you
pass him?" The colleague went through the same nerve-racking per
formance, gave the paper back to examiner No. 1, and shook his
head. "I would not," he concluded firmly. The first officer pointed to
a bench and bade me wait. I sat and sat, seemingly for hours, then
was told that I'd have to spend the night in Ellis Island until my pa
pers were straightened out.
I remembered Ellis Island unfavorably from my first trip to the
States and liked it even less now. Black-haired, oily-skinned children
and their jabbering mothers were present in full force, as were the
sickening smells of chlorine and iodoform. "This is where I came in," 1
I thought miserably; except that while I came in the first time, it
now looked as if I might have to get out! After a meal which I
hardly touched, I struck up an acquaintance with a Dutch missionary
who was "passing through" on the way to some remote islands,
where he was to convert cannibals to Christianity. Landing on a non-
220 PASSPORT TO PARIS
cannibal island must have been quite a shock. Together, we suc
ceeded in proving to the overseer that, being first-class passengers,
we were entitled to separate quarters, and were marched off to a
barren but clean cell, where we spent a fairly comfortable night.
Alex arrived in the early morning, unshaven and worried, accom
panied by an amiable and capable lawyer. Between them, they ar
ranged matters and I was permitted to board the ferry and set foot
on Manhattan soil.
Alex had to get back to his job; Mother was anxiously awaiting
my arrival in Natick, Massachusetts. I had enough to carry me
through the two weeks and expected another advance from England
to pay for my passage back. I put up at the Times Square Hotel in
a room so small that, when my huge trunk was brought in, I could
barely move. I assured Alex that I'd join Mother in Natick as soon
as I made the "necessary contacts" in New York, embraced him and
was left alone to ponder my fate and my prospects. How much
could I accomplish in two weeks? The brush with Ellis Island not
withstanding, I felt oddly at home in this overpopulated overadver-
tised city inhumanly beautiful when viewed at a distance, inhu
manly ugly and wretched at close quarters. Yet it was part of
America, the country to which we Dukelskys owed everything
our exodus from enslaved Russia, our subsistence in Constantinople,
Alex's brilliant scholastic career, made possible by Americans who
had faith in him. Outside of Diaghilev and a chance of my Mis
tress into Maid being produced by him, there was really nothing for
me in Europe not in England (I had little faith in Make Hay)
and not in France, as Koussevitzky was abandoning his summer
concerts there and concentrating on the Boston job, which, from aH
accounts, was not easy. I resolved then and there to return to Eng
land for a month or two, if really necessary, and then make the
States my permanent home. I felt I belonged here; I knew I wanted
to be close to Mother and Alex and their adopted country, not the
countries I had left behind wonderful countries with scenery like
stage sets; the theater is a splendid place to work in, not to live
in, I reasoned.
New York was in its summer doldrums, the heat getting worse
daily, and there was "no one" in town certainly no one I knew.
Bob Chanler and Louise Hellstrom were in Woodstock, New York,
their summer habitat; Nina Koshetz and Koka Stember were vaca-
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 221
tioning, and so was Wasserman. New York not being a flaneur's
happy hunting ground, I rode to Washington Square, on top of a bus
there was no one to spoon with there, a pastime rhapsodized by
me in the 1923 waltz and dined alone at the Brevoort The next
morning I telephoned Mother in Natick and our happiness at hearing
each other's voice was such that I boarded a Boston train that same
afternoon, stopped in Boston just long enough to learn that the
Koussevitzkys, too, were away, and reached Natick late in the evening.
Mother, overjoyed at seeing me unscathed after my Ellis Island im
prisonment, although rather perplexed by the new "English" accent
and London clothes, wanted to know everything left unsaid in my
letters and we talked and talked late into the night. She looked rested
and well, but was, as always, inclined to minimize all the trials and
privations she had undergone while I was riding high in Europe.
New England, which I had never seen before, was like a cool
drink of water after too much champagne. The landscape was no
match for the scenic marvels of Italy or Switzerland, but its austerity
and sober lyricism reminded me of central Russia and made the
home-coming feeling even stronger. The food, devoid of frills and
culinary refinements, was wonderfully good, with "regional" charac
teristics unsuspected by me; clam chowder, codfish cakes and even
the scoffed-at "boiled dinner" were interesting creations all. I was
also fascinated by the provocative dowdiness of New England's girls,
dressed practically and economically in "no nonsense" clothes, their
feet looking enormous in the clumsily made Boston shoes of best-
quality durable leather. That about sums up my first impression of
New England unspectacular but of the best quality and, certainly,
durable. It was a relief not to pour oneself into a dinner jacket every
evening, to go for strolls with local belles, who were not averse to
flirting in spite of their puritanical airs; they talked well in fiat but
not unmusical accents, and seemed to know more and pose less than
their Manhattan sisters. There were Russian evenings with the Ber-
estnevs, the Ouspenskys and, of course, Colonel Lvov, bombarding
me with questions, arguing, giving advice and carrying on as if they
had never left the good island of Proti which, I dimly recalled,
was just another Ellis Island, but with olive trees.
While in Natick, I received a 50 publisher's -advance for Make
Hay, now Open Your Eyes, and the news that rehearsals were post
poned for at least a month and I could remain in the States until
220 PASSPORT TO PARIS
cannibal island must have been quite a shock. Together, we suc
ceeded in proving to the overseer that, being first-class passengers,
we were entitled to separate quarters, and were marched off to a
barren but clean cell, where we spent a fairly comfortable night.
Alex arrived in the early morning, unshaven and worried, accom
panied by an amiable and capable lawyer. Between them, they ar
ranged matters and I was permitted to board the ferry and set foot
on Manhattan soil.
Alex had to get back to his job; Mother was anxiously awaiting
my arrival in Natick, Massachusetts. I had enough to carry me
through the two weeks and expected another advance from England
to pay for my passage back. I put up at the Times Square Hotel in
a room so small that, when my huge trunk was brought in, I could
barely move. I assured Alex that I'd join Mother in Natick as soon
as I made the "necessary contacts" in New York, embraced him and
was left alone to ponder my fate and my prospects. How much
could I accomplish in two weeks? The brush with Ellis Island not
withstanding, I felt oddly at home in this overpopulated overadver-
tised city inhumanly beautiful when viewed at a distance, inhu
manly ugly and wretched at close quarters. Yet it was part of
America, the country to which we Dukelskys owed everything
our exodus from enslaved Russia, our subsistence in Constantinople,
Alex's brilliant scholastic career, made possible by Americans who
had faith in him. Outside of Diaghilev and a chance of my Mis
tress into Maid being produced by him, there was really nothing for
me in Europe not in England (I had little faith in Make Hay)
and not in France, as Koussevitzky was abandoning his summer
concerts there and concentrating on the Boston job, which, from all
accounts, was not easy. I resolved then and there to return to Eng
land for a month or two, if really necessary, and then make the
States my permanent home. I felt I belonged here; I knew I wanted
to be close to Mother and Alex and their adopted country, not the
countries I had left behind wonderful countries with scenery like
stage sets; the theater Is a splendid place to work in, not to live
in, I reasoned.
New York was in its summer doldrums, the heat getting worse
daily, and there was "no one" in town certainly no one I knew.
Bob Chanler and Louise Hellstrom were in Woodstock, New York,
their summer habitat; Nina Koshetz and Koka Stember were vaca-
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 221
tioning, and so was Wasserman. New York not being a flaneur's
happy hunting ground, I rode to Washington Square, on top of a bus
there was no one to spoon with there, a pastime rhapsodized by
me in the 1923 waltz and dined alone at the Brevoort. The next
morning I telephoned Mother in Natick and our happiness at hearing
each other's voice was such that I boarded a Boston train that same
afternoon, stopped in Boston just long enough to learn that the
Koussevitzkys, too, were away, and reached Natick late in the evening.
Mother, overjoyed at seeing me unscathed after my Ellis Island im
prisonment, although rather perplexed by the new "English" accent
and London clothes, wanted to know everything left unsaid in my
letters and we talked and talked late into the night. She looked rested
and well, but was, as always, inclined to minimize all the trials and
privations she had undergone while I was riding high in Europe.
New England, which I had never seen before, was like a cool
drink of water after too much champagne. The landscape was no
match for the scenic marvels of Italy or Switzerland, but its austerity
and sober lyricism reminded me of central Russia and made the
home-coming feeling even stronger. The food, devoid of frills and
culinary refinements, was wonderfully good, with "regional" charac
teristics unsuspected by me; clam chowder, codfish cakes and even
the scoffed-at "boiled dinner" were interesting creations all. I was
also fascinated by the provocative dowdiness of New England's girls,
dressed practically and economically in "no nonsense" clothes, their
feet looking enormous in the clumsily made Boston shoes of best-
quality durable leather. That about sums up my first impression of
New England unspectacular but of the best quality and, certainly,
durable. It was a relief not to pour oneself into a dinner jacket every
evening, to go for strolls with local belles, who were not averse to
flirting in spite of their puritanical airs; they talked well in flat but
not unmusical accents, and seemed to know more and pose less than
their Manhattan sisters. There were Russian evenings with the Ber-
estnevs, the Ouspenskys and, of course, Colonel Lvov, bombarding
me with questions, arguing, giving advice and carrying on as if they
had never left the good island of Proti which, I dimly recalled,,
was just another Ellis Island, but with olive trees.
While in Natick, I received a 50 publisher's -advance for Make
Hay, now Open Your Eyes, and the news that rehearsals were post
poned for at least a month and I could remain in the States until
222 PASSPORT TO PARIS
further notice. After a ten days' "breather" in Natick, I returned to
New York and another tiny cage at the Times Square Hotel, which
had the advantage of being around the corner from Shubert Alley
and only a few blocks from Harms, Inc. My first business visit was
to Max Dreyfus, whom I no longer dreaded. He received me quite
cordially, told me that Alex Aarons (the producer) spoke well of my
music and even hinted at signing me up should my Broadway activi
ties warrant it. I was introduced to Morrie Ryskind, a promising
member of the Harms "stable," a small, bespectacled man of blunt
speech and a restless manner. Morrie and I went to work and pro
duced several tolerably good songs he wrote lyrics before finding
his true vocation as librettist
Gershwin returned to New York after the Boston trials of Show
Girl, his new musical, with Al Jolson and Ruby Keeler, which Zieg-
feld produced. This was one of those enterprises that look great on
paper (the book was by J. P. McEvoy, the lyrics by Gus Kahn and
Ira), "can't miss'* and somehow do. In it, according to John Mason
Brown, Gershwin's "American in Paris" broke out with an Albertina
Rasch. Clayton, Jackson and the one-and-only Jimmy Durante sup
plied the comedy; Duke Ellington and his band were on the stage
all to no avail, for the piece was a failure. The music was not
George's best, although it contained the provocative "Do What You
Do," which Frankie Gershwin sang at parties with convincing aban
don. George took the flop in his stride; other and more exciting
projects were looming, such as his Stadium debut as conductor on
August 26th and the new version of Strike Up the Band being pre
pared for a Christmas-night opening in Boston.
The Gershwins then lived at 33 Riverside Drive in adjoining pent
house apartments. George's was breath-takingly modern, with all the
latest mechanical refinements and a fully equipped gymnasium. His
cabinet de travail boasted a huge Steinway and a spectacular view
of the Hudson, also a collection of modern paintings, to which some
of his own (he painted remarkably well) were periodically added.
Parties, again, were the order of the night and I, already a veteran
party boy, attended regularly. The parties and the guests have been
colorfully described elsewhere, especially by Isaac Goldberg in his
George Gershwin, a Study in American Music, presented to me by
George with a touching inscription in 1931, shortly after its publica
tion. Among the regulars were Bill Daly, Gershwin's favorite pit con-
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 223
ductor, elfin Kay Swift, whose "Can't We Be Friends" and "Fine
and Dandy" promised a bright Broadway career, and the profes
sional sourpuss Oscar Levant, a good-hearted neurotic. Oscar played
Gershwin brilliantly, although with a certain caustic dryness, robbing
George's tunes and piano pieces of their romantic lushness. I always
thought Oscar an all-around musician of great resourcefulness, a
maddeningly provoking conversationalist, but I never thought him
funny either in a room or, many years later, on the screen; I don't
think sheer agony funny, even when accompanied by a wisecrack.
Of the nonprofessionals I recall kindly Conde Nast, exuberant
Jules Glaenzer, vice president of Carder's and organizer of musical
parties where all the current Broadway gods were exhibited and lion
ized; I had first met him in Paris with Aarons and Gershwin when
Poulenc and Jean Wiener were also present. There was always a
contingent of pretty girls at 33 Riverside Drive young actresses
and show girls mostly, with an admixture of what's now known as
cafe society. These enchanting damsels had a habit of sharing the
piano stool with George when he would finally install himself there
not to leave it again for two or three hours; we all knew that
George was enamored of the piano, but since we were enamored of
George's music and his exhilarating performance of it, no one seemed
to mind his almost continuous usurpation of the instrument. What
some of us did mind I, for one was the fact that the sirens
present never volunteered to share the piano stool with anyone but
their host. "The longer they let him sing and play, the better he
likes it," reported Goldberg. (The better the girls liked it, too.)
Ira and Lee, only a few steps away (via the terrace), led a quieter
sort of life. Their own visitors were of a more intellectual persuasion
people like S. N. Behrman or George Kaufman or the lovable
versifier-turned-schoolteacher Lou Paley, married to Lee's beautiful
sister, Emily. It was at Ira's that I met stocky, aggressive E. Y.
("Yip") Harburg, then writing with Jay Gorney, who started him
off on his lyric-writing career. I was shown a song the two had writ
ten for the Earl Carrol Sketch Book entitled "Kinda Cute" it was
just that and returned the compliment by playing a half-dozen
tunes, one of which struck Ira and Harburg as a possible hit. They
began "writing it up" then and there and the ultimate result was
"I'm Only Human After All," which resulted in my signing a Harms
contract a few months later.
224 PASSPORT TO PARIS
I felt I was back in my element, but didn't seem to make any
sizable progress. A former Diaghilev rehearsal pianist, Nicolas Ko-
peikine, subsequently employed as the celebrated Major Bowes's mu
sic director (for the Amateur Hour), a huge, easygoing Russian, sug
gested I move into his rooming house in West 66th Street the
New York replica of my Bloomsbury digs, minus the charm, also
minus my Belgian fairy godmother, Mme. Dupont Sick of living, if
not in a trunk, then certainly on top of one, I agreed gladly, but dis
covered that I was to share a small-sized bedroom with a pugna
cious and ill-tempered Russian male dancer. I was really too broke
again to afford to kick, and moved in with the fellow, who had the
greatest contempt for me because I was practically penniless; he
sneered at my European "successes" and assured me that I'd be a
flop in America. The ensuing two weeks were pretty ghastly, not
only because of the persistent nagging I had to endure from my
roommate, but also because of Arkadina, an aging Russian prima
donna who employed me as coach and occasional accompanist, and
also because of the heat In a former chapter I said some mean
things about Manchester, England; I take them all back that city
isn't bad, compared to New York's West Sixties at any time of the
year, but especially during a late summer's heat wave. Madame
Arkadina, a kindly but insufferably pretentious and stagey sort of
woman, beady-eyed and rosebud-mouthed, given to the well-known
Russian tantrums, soulful glances and meaningful asides, thought of
herself as Traviata, although in robust health; she was demanding,
humble, domineering and submissive all at once and delighted in
playing a highly complicated romantic game which bored me stiff.
Desperately in need of the five dollars per session I received for
my services, I didn't dare to offend the lady, for fear of losing my
only job, and carried on fairly convincingly as a respectful but, to
her consternation, uncomfortably platonic admirer. Commuting on
foot between Arkadina's hotel and the Kopeikine establishment in
brutal heat, unseasonably overdressed (I had no tropical clothes)
and having to play the role of an attentive swain a la Samuel Rich
ardson in one place and that of a misunderstood genius from a page
of Turgenev's in the other was no fun at all;
Mornings were spent in Lee Shubert's waiting room; there was
talk of the Shuberts buying The Yellow Mask for Broadway, but
.that project failed to materialize. There were usually four or five
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 225
callers actors and writers waiting to see the all-powerful Lee,
whose technique in dealing with them was simplicity itself: he would
appear briefly in the doorway, following a completed interview, gaze
imperturbably at the bench warmers, his Egyptian pharaoh's face
perpetually sunburned and expressionless, then suddenly point to
one of us with a curt, "You," and retreat to his office, into which you
were to follow him at breakneck speed. I found Shubert tractable
and certainly approachable in spite of his seemingly discourteous
manner. He listened to the recital of my achievements with laudable
patience, listened to the tunes somewhat more perfunctorily (they
sounded awful in the dark, heavily draped and carpeted room, with
the piano lid down) and said that he'd give me a job, if I'd give
him a book (libretto, not novel). Things haven't changed much, as
getting a good musical book is even tougher now than it was then;
the current standards are higher. Mr. Lee, as he was always called,
said amiably that I should pop in often as he might eventually stum
ble on a good book himself; he introduced me to Agnes Morgan, the
lyricist of the 1927 Grand Street Follies, and we worked on some
songs. With the Ryskind and the Morgan lyrics, some Desmond Car
ter leftovers and "I'm Only Human After All" I was building quite
a catalogue.
Most unwisely, I picked a quarrel with Arkadina, who dramati
cally accused me of loving her money and not her looks or her art
which was very true. She then indignantly refused to provide me
any more with the thing I loved so much the five-dollar bill for a
"coaching" session and there I was with my immaculately tailored
pockets empty again. This catastrophe occurred at the most inop
portune time (catastrophes always do), as I had just persuaded Mr.
Lee to grant my entire "catalogue" a hearing; my rift with Arkadina
took place late at night, Kopeikine was asleep, and all I owned was
a bright shiny dime. Waking up the lazy Russian was out of the
question he always slept until late in the afternoon; so, with no
one to borrow from, I skipped breakfast the next morning and
started out on foot for Mr. Lee's office in Shubert Alley a consid
erable enterprise on a full stomach, far more considerable on an
empty one. I played my "catalogue" to Mr. Lee with the same semi-
negative I'd-give-you-a-job-but-where's-the-book results; I thanked
Mm and ran out to keep an appointment with Tom Weatherly, who,
in partnership with Dwight Wiman, had just revolutionized the
226 PASSPORT TO PARIS
American revue with tie First Little Show. Weatherly, the dapper
producer type, received me unenthusiastically, and when I got
through, snapped, "Not for me. I'm producing a topical revue, not a
musical comedy. 5 * "Don't you even like 'I'm Only Human After
AH'?" I queried lamely. "It's not for me, as I just told you. Good
day, sir," was my dismissal. Alone with my shiny dime, hungry and
discouraged, I ventured into an Eighth Avenue hash joint with a
sign proclaiming it "A Good Place To Eat" ("Do they eat places
here?" I thought savagely) and blew the dime on a nickel ham
burger and a cup of coffee. On walking back to 66th Street, I re
called a similar episode in London where the walk was longer, but
at least I was served a succulent meal at Mrs. Guinness's and taken
for a South American diplomat. There was no mistaking me now for
what I was a jobless songwriter.
However, that classical prop of songwriters the coveted silver
lining shone for me briefly on August 20th when, as I trium
phantly wrote Mother, Lee Shubert, having decided on a suitable
book (an Agnes Morgan adaptation of a Wodehouse story), was to
sign me to a contract the next morning which also meant a modest
advance; an advance that would enable me not only to pay my rent
and replenish my shrunken stomach, but also provide Mother with
money for a return to Philadelphia, where Alex was working. My
happiness was short-lived. The contract was duly signed, Shuberf s
check cashed and my dinner jacket pressed, as I was to dine that
night at Gladys Barber's with Clifton Webb, whom I had met at
parties in Paris. In the middle of dinner Webb told the assembled
guests that Sergei Diaghilev had died in Venice on August 19th
one day before my apparent change of fortunes. My heart almost
stopped beating. I remember crying out, as if in pain, then drop
ping my head in stunned silence and crossing myself. I asked my host
ess's forgiveness and mumbled something about being taken iH, then
stumbled out of Mrs. Barber's house, clutching the newspaper
clipping Clifton gave me with the terrible news, and taxied home. I
stayed in bed for two days, unable to touch food, and talked only
to Kopeikine who, too, knew Diaghilev and all that Diaghilev
stood for.
The three published accounts of Diaghilev's death Haskell's
and NouveFs, Lifar's and Misia Serfs (in her posthumous memoirs,
printed in 1952) differ considerably in detail. Lifar claims that
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 227
Diaghilev took Markevitch to Salzburg to hear Tristan, his favorite
opera. Misia insists that they went to Bayreuth as Diaghilev didn't
want young Igor to hear Tristan "anywhere but in Bayreuth," Wag
ner's terre sainte. Haskell and Nouvel omit any mention of the Ger
man trip. But all three agree on something I already knew that
Diaghilev was grooming Markevitch, his fourth "son," for greatness,
and endangered his own rapidly failing health by undertaking the
pilgrimage especially forbidden by his physician. Sergei Pavlovitch
had the highest hopes for the sixteen-year-old prodigy. "The Stra-
vinskys, the Prokofievs meant nothing to 'little Igor/ possibly be
cause he knew little of their music, his only allegiances being J. S.
Bach and himself, Igor Markevitch," as Lifar testified. Diaghilev
didn't wait for Markevitch to compose a ballet score, but decided to
launch him with a piano and orchestra piece (a piano concerto,
according to Lifar, a partita according to Misia), to be played as an
interlude in the course of the Covent Garden season, with the com
poser as pianist. This event took place on July 15th while I was
acting out my own version of le fils prodigue in Natick, Mass.
and was followed by a series of parties for Markevitch, which
brought back memories of my own London debut four years earlier.
By the end of July Diaghilev and Markevitch were in Baden Baden,
whence they proceeded to Munich for talks with HIndemith, whose
viola concerto, heard at a Koussevitzky concert, so impressed Sergei
Pavlovitch that a ballet commission followed. On August 8th, Di
aghilev reached Venice, alone, to die there eleven days later. Ac
cording to the Countess de Noailles: "A fortune-teller had once told
him that he would meet death by the sea." Lovers of the macabre
are directed to Misia's memoirs for the details of the great man's
end. It is incomprehensible and somewhat monstrous to me that
Lifar and Misia should disagree even on the manner in which Di
aghilev died. Misia reported that the "fat priest," who was sum
moned to perform the last rites, on learning that the dying man was
a Russian, became "red with anger" and declared that he'd do "noth
ing to assist a Greek Orthodox." Lifar, on the contrary, writes of
"Father Irenius of the Greek Orthodox church," who, summoned by
him (Lifar), "appeared in the room, and began to read the prayers
for the dying in church Slavonic." In Lifar's defense, I must state
that he speaks with respect and gratitude of Misia's role in the
tragedy, whereas the scene described by Misia of Lifar and Kochno,
228 PASSPORT TO PARIS
whose "mutual hate" prompted them to fight "like furious dogs" at
their master's deathbed, is really too ghoulish to be credible.
However he died, Diaghilev was no more and Europe his Eu
rope died with him, I kept repeating to myself. I now hoped fer
vently that I wouldn't have to go there at all and my hope was
fulfilled, as the Open Your Eyes management, short of cash, forgot
all about ine, rehearsed the opus in 16 days a la sourdine and rang
up the curtain at the Empire Theatre, Edinburgh, on August 26th.
No one chose to inform me of the opening and no one sent me the
lyrics of my songs (written by facile Collie Knox after my depar
ture), a printed set of which arrived in New York three weeks after
the show's opening. Open Your Eyes, while no eye opener, got off
to a brisk start and respectable notices, due, I'm sure, to a fifteen-
year-old newcomer named Ella Logan. This "wee Scottish lass" had
to pass herself off as an American in order to land the part and was
mercilessly snubbed fay the "principals" Marie Burke and Geof
frey Gwyther, the latter described by The Era as a "singer of cul
ture." Joe Coyne and Robert Hale, seasoned comedians, were also
in the cast, but it was little Ella who stopped the show, and, by so
doing, enabled it to live on. My best song in the score was "I'd Do
For You" (there's a British song-title for you!), and the music, in
general surmounting the unusual handicap of noncollaborating col
laborators, was better and fresher than that of The Yellow Mask.
The lyrics were in the polite, gentlemanly idiom of the period. Two
samples of the humor (quoted by the Sunday Post) will suffice: "Je
f adore f je f adore!" "Now, now, keep the party clean"; and "He's
just like a rabbit born to be skinned." Jackson had found Ella
singing at the Piccadilly Hotel in London. The year before, she was
in a pierrot show in Portobello. The Sunday Post appraiser, an intel
ligent man, obviously, for he complained of the story being "on con
ventional lines" and expressed a hope that "some day musical com
edy authors will get away from Countesses and swell crooks and
comic detectives and so-and-so's house in the country," delivered
himself of the by then shopworn complaint: "She [Ella] speaks
with an American accent, and my admiration for her was tinged
with a little regret that once more we had to yield to someone from
across the Atlantic. I was relieved when she told me afterwards that
although she was brought up in the States, she was born in Glasgow
in Dennistouru"
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 229
It was just as well that I was 3000 miles away. Notwithstanding
all these hopeful signs, the show, a "shoestring" project, was skating
on extremely thin ice financially speaking and closed on September
14th **for lack of money." It subsequently reopened in London,
where it had a two or three months' run, but by that time I had
lost interest, since the producers were not interested in me and kept
revamping and reshuffling my "score," adding numbers written by
new backers and their relatives. Ella zoomed into stardom (at fif
teen!) soon afterwards and saw her name in great, big lights in
Darling, I Love You (a Laddie Cliff production); Harmen Swaffer,
who campaigned so savagely against me and other foreigners robbing
the English theatrical till, was the only critic to lambast the delicious
Ella, convinced of her American origin.
The very minor royalties from my third (and last) English show
were left unpaid by the insolvent producers; I borrowed a hundred
and twenty dollars from the ever-generous Gershwin and took a
month's "breather," this time in the quiet and refreshingly unspec
tacular city of Philadelphia. American family life can be observed
at its best in that town, but it is death on the tourist or sight-seer.
The hotels have neither the Swiss-watch efficiency of New York's
palaces, nor the endearing quaintness of Boston's inns; the food is
superlatively good I know of no better dish than snapper soup
but the restaurants are depressing and accentless. The best theater
the Forrest is situated in an excessively gloomy and dimly
lighted street, and boasts the architectural oddity of having its stage
door located across the street from the theater building, although the
backstage quarters are in the theater building; I'm not an architect
and could never fathom this bizarre arrangement. Market Street runs
Times Square a close second for unsavory tawdriness, and a bur
lesque performance I witnessed in a sordid side street was quite
the most obscene imaginable, with strippers straight out of George
Grosz's city nightmares going through the cruder variations of the
sex act with imaginary partners, every member of the audience a
goggle-eyed and frustrated candidate. On the credit side were Rit-
tenhouse Square, some old houses with the pleasantly American
"homey" and "lived-in" look, spacious parks and Bookbinders"
downtown.
Mother and Alex lived in a little flat in Pine Street, uptown in a
modest residential section. Alex had learned to "conform" head-of-
230 PASSPORT TO PARIS
family style which meant office until six, dinner with Mother, an
excellent Russian cook (her Pojarsky cutlets were Balanchine's joy),
a little reading, a neighborhood movie perhaps, and so to bed. This
sort of existence had the charm of novelty for me. While Alex
worked in his architectural firm in Broad Street, I orchestrated my
Second Symphony, under Mother's watchful eye, wrote letters to
Paris and London friends and rejoiced in the telephone's silence.
Mother's best Philadelphia friends were the Polevitzkys, a large
Russian family the father an engineer for General Electric, his
wife an intelligent and gracious woman, an assistant professor of
bacteriology at the University of Pennsylvania, their son Igor a
budding architect (now a successful designer of the better Miami
skyscrapers-by-the-sea), and their two daughters, Ksenia and Irene*
pretty and carefree blondes in love with the good simple things
around them,
Huge Russian gatherings at the Polevitzkys (who lived in Yea-
don) were an almost nightly occurrence, and the lighthearted, un-
disguisedly provincial carryings-on right out of the pages of early
Tolstoy were another welcome novelty. Ksenia was engaged to Sto-
kowski's first cellist, Willie Van der Bergh, whom she subsequently
married and divorced; therefore I concentrated on Irene.
My pose was that of a disillusioned globe-trotter, Eugene Onegin
style hardly convincing in a young man not quite twenty-six, and
a Pushkin creation into the bargain, ill at ease in the early Tolstoy
ambiance. Irene was not overly impressed, although she rather fan
cied herself in the role of Tatiana, the amorous dreamer. I made the
tactical mistake of being too eager: my prototype, Onegin, was a
genuinely cold fish. Cold or eager, I was no match with my sym
phonies and ballets for the brawny Tarkingtonian college youths,
who dashed in and out of the hospitable Polevitzky house, were good
at driving cars (which art I didn't master until 1951) and sweep
ing girls off their feet with adolescent horseplay, a "must" in Amer
ica, an enigma to Europeans. My vanity was hurt, my heart (luck
ily) unbroken.
Seeing Prokofiev's Second Symphony announced on the posters,
I ventured to the Academy of Music (a better place for concerts
than the hideous Carnegie Hall of New York) and witnessed a
Stokowski rehearsal. The symphony is one of Serge's lesser-known
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 231
works, and perhaps deservedly so; it is unwieldy, overorchestrated
and extremely difficult to play. Stokowski greeted me cordially dur
ing the rest period and complained of the piece's difficulty. I sug
gested, with forced playfulness, that he take a rest after its premiere
and tackle an easy symphony my First, for example; this brought
a smile but no results.
Armed with the completed Second Symphony I took off for Boston
with the plan of conquering Koussevitzky with the symphony and,
on thus breaking his resistance, borrowing some money from him.
I put up at Slonimsky's, then stormed Sergei Alexandrovitch's bu
colic retreat. After the initial: "Oh's!" and "Ah's" and much sonorous
kissing a la russe, the atmosphere cooled perceptibly, because I
(always a mediocre diplomat) blurted out the real reason for my
mission on the strength of so friendly a reception. It took an hour
for me to explain why I needed so much money, that my income
from England had suddenly stopped; then, Natalya Konstantinovna,
ever the business brain and treasurer of the menage, reluctantly
agreed to give me a check on the receipt of a signed promise that
I'd repay her by April, 1950. Underlining my deplorable gift of bad
timing, I innocently embarked on this transaction on the very day of
the epochal October 1929 market crash!
In order to dispell the considerable chill in the air caused by my
ill-timed request, I quickly produced the score of the symphony
and was led to the piano by Sergei Alexandrovitch. The subsequent
audition saved the day for me; Koussevitzky literally suffocated me
with a bear hug and declared that the Second Symphony was "ten
times better than the first" This was a special characteristic of the
man he always proclaimed a composer's last effort immeasurably
his best, until after the performance, the audience's reaction and the
next day's notices. Few, very few, of us shone as brightly after that
fire and water test. Momentarily, I was again the reigning favorite;
Natalya Konstantinovna (or, as she always signed her letters to me,
"Tante Natalie") beamed, left the room and returned with the
check. "You've been a good boy and we are pleased with you," she
said magnanimously. "Thank your symphony for this money," hand
ing me the lifesaving slip of paper. This scene, reported in a letter
to Mother on October 30th, ended with a sumptuous lunch and a
firm promise to launch the new symphony in Boston and New York.
232 PASSPORT TO PARIS
The report, understandably, ended with "Hooray!" in capitals. My
letter was dispatched from the Wall Street station, hardly the place
for rejoicing in October 1929.
With a breath of relief, I parted company with the boorish dancer,
my unwilling roommate, and moved in with Jacques Fray, a recent
arrival in New York. He was teeming with ambitious projects, such
as a concert tour with Maurice Chevalier and the importation of his
friend Rene Clair. Not three minutes after I left Kopeikine's room
ing house, the Russian was held up by masked bandits who tied him
to a chair, robbed him of eleven dollars (all he had) and left,
brandishing guns presumably loaded. All these histrionics for eleven
dollars the bandits had probably been wiped out in the crash. The
crash had no visible efleqt on me: I was broke before it and just as
broke after it.
Claire Reis, probably influenced by Slonimsky's industrious drum-
beating on my behalf, asked for "something" from my pen for her
League of Composers (which survived, while the more progressive
International Composers' Guild was no more); I accompanied a
singer in two inconsequential songs at one of the league's concerts.
A few months later both Nina Koshetz and Valentina Aksarova sang
my Bogdanovitch songs at their recitals. Good Morning, Bill, my
protected Shubert venture, entered the ominous stalling period, and
while a few other possibilities loomed, they never seemed to leave
the looming stage. Among such possibilities was the 9:75 revue be
ing assembled by Ruth Selwyn under Don Voorhees's musical guid
ance; Fray and Braggiotti were to serve as duo-pianists, and played
two songs of mine, "Funny Little Home" (with words by Morrie
Ryskind) and "I'm Only Human After All." Almost every song
writer in town had a song in the show, which was the fashion of
the day (composite scores are now comparatively rare), but most of
the songs didn't even reach the rehearsal stage. My two were among
their number; nevertheless, I was taken to Boston (or was it New
Haven?) by Edgar Selwyn, Ruth's husband, who was then preparing
Strike Up the Band and whom I met with the Gershwins. I remem
ber being aghast at the terrible confusion that reigned backstage and
the almost equally confused performance; 9:75 was a patchwork of
good and bad, with the bad predominating. Among the good things
were a Kay Swift song, "High Above the Chimney Pots" (unjustly
forgotten), and "Get Happy," which made Broadway Harold Arlen-
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 233
conscious. The revue was a quick flop and all I learned from my
contact with it was that a revue can be fixed (this one wasn't)
whereas a book show with a bad book cannot.
Prokofiev arrived in December and went directly to Cleveland to
conduct a concert of his music; I never saw Serge conduct but, from
all accounts, he was a far belter composer and pianist than con
ductor. At a Koussevitzky concert in Carnegie Hall (I had a "per
manent" invitation to the conductor's box) I sat between Lina Pro
kofiev and huge, hulking Alexander Glazunov, former director of
the Petersburg Conservatory, sole remaining survivor of the Belaieff
group of composers (which stemmed from the Mighty Five) and
once a powerful enemy of Prokofiev's music. (When Serge appeared
as gold medalist of Mme. EssipofFs class in St. Petersburg with his
own first concerto, instead of the prescribed Beethoven or Liszt,
Glazunov stalked out of the hall after the first few measures.) On
the following Sunday, Prokofiev himself came to New York; I met
his train and we went off to a dull performance of Cherubim's Re
quiem, followed by supper a deux. Serge talked of Diaghilev's last
days, of Stravinsky's piano pieces, which he disliked, and of Na
bokov's "lyrical" symphony, just premiered in Brussels, which he
liked better than that composer's earlier efforts. Of Russia he said
only that things were "very bad indeed" there a startling state
ment from Prokofiev, then already a recipient of insistent Soviet of
fers.
The Koussevitzkys, the Prokofievs and I were invited to the Greek
Orthodox New Year's party at the very rich Mrs. Loomis's house.
This turned out to be a full-size ball with Kuban cossacks, gypsies,
oceans of vodka and other Russian trimmings. At least five genuine
grand dukes were present, not counting a minor Duke, not genu
ine and not grand myself. Germanova, the Russian actress, read
Pushkin's poems, pretty Marianne Gonitch (with whom I flirted en
ergetically) sang and Natalya Konstantinovna, half mockingly, pre
sented me with a huge orchid from her corsage and insisted on
inserting it in my buttonhole, probably as a souvenir of my Beau
Duke Paris youth. On the following Tuesday, Prokofiev and I went
to the Strike Up the Band opening and later to a midnight party in
Gershwin's honor at the Warburgs, where there was no room for
nostalgia but where the music was better: George didn't leave the
piano until the notices all excellent arrived, then resumed his
234 PASSPORT TO PARIS
recital with renewed vigor. At the party Pop Gershwin distinguished
himself twice: when Russel Grouse asked him how he liked the
show, he parried with: "What you mean how I like it? I have to
like it** And again, when George introduced him to Roger Pryor,
the leading man, Pop remarked benignly: "Oh yes, you were on the
American side.'* (Strike Up the Band had to do with an imaginary
war between the U. S. and Switzerland. )
The year 1930 began uneventfully, although there was no lack of
high jinks; George took me to a Lambs* Gambol, where he con
ducted one of his songs. I watched goggle-eyed as all the top male
stars Fred Stone, Jack Donahue, Fred Astaire, Victor Moore,
Charles Butterworth and many others had the assembled profes
sionals in stitches by their improvised antics. The hilarity was con
tagious, but I couldn't help thinking of how much gayer I'd be with
just one little job for one of those big men, so friendly and seem
ingly accessible on the small Lambs' stage. George and Robert Rus
sell Bennett, whom I met in Paris, where he showed me an interest
ing organ sonata of his, promised every assistance but they were
not producers or stars, merely fellow musicians,
TTie ensuing four months were tough sledding, made tougher by
Mother's extreme anxiety and worry; I wrote deliberately sprightly,
optimistic letters, assuring her that I was just about to strike it rich
if not this week, then certainly the next. True, I was getting per
formances (of Dukelsky's music) and writing articles, three of which
H. T. Parker, whom I was yet to meet but who was already cham
pioning me in Boston, commissioned for the Boston Evening Trans-
script at fifteen dollars per article. The articles were on Diaghilev,
Prokofiev and Nabokov. As for performances, it costs money to
write serious music and get it in performable shape.
Aaron Copland and Roger Sessions gave three concerts of their
series "designed to meet the interests of the younger generation of
American and European composers." Kopeikine played my piano
sonata on their first program on February 9th the first and (so
far as I know) last public performance of this published and per
haps not unworthy work. On February 24th, the Boston Flute
Players* Club presented a typical "occasion" piece of mine, styled
"Canzonetta" and written for flute, oboe, viola, French horn, bass
clarinet and bassoon.
By the end of March, Duke, jealous of Dukelsky's progress, began
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 235
functioning at last. Harburg and I had a series of discussions with
the bigwigs of Paramount Publix Corp., which had established East
ern studios in Astoria, L. I. It all began with a phone call from
Frank Tours, the English conductor, whom I had known in London
in the Yellow Mask days; Tours was made general music director for
Paramount in the East and was completing his staff. Philip Cohan,
later a radio executive at CBS, was mainly responsible for the Para
mount interest; he was employed there in a business capacity and
knew Tours well. Harburg and I were apparently wanted for the
film version of Rodgers's and Hart's Heads Up one of Aarons's
and Freedley's lesser successes; according to the time-honored but
hardly laudable movieland custom, original scores were seldom re
tained in filmizations of Broadway musicals. By mid-April I had a
Paramount contract which called for seventy-five dollars a week plus
one hundred and fifty dollars for each number accepted by the com
pany. I sent a sizable sum to Mother in Philadelphia and I was able
to go to Boston and attend my Second Symphony rehearsals in
peace and with the rare feeling of comparative security.
At first the symphony seemed distinctly shaky, and I wrote Gersh
win after the third rehearsal: "The first movement is very satisfac
tory; it sounds well throughout and Koussevitzky's tempi are right.
The Menuetto I didn't quite get there may be one or two things
in the orchestration that I should change. The finale seems all right
until the 'Coda,' which, through a misunderstanding,- was taken twice
too fast; this will be corrected at tomorrow's rehearsal (the last one).
I'm dying for you to hear the work and to know your opinion.
Please do all you can to be here on Saturday." But George had an
important engagement that week end, Prokofiev sailed for Paris on
the lie d.e France on March 28th, and thus the two men closest to
me and whose opinions I valued most were not present at the sym
phony's birth.
While in Boston I stayed with the Koussevitzkys in Jamaica Plain,
and was again struck by the uncanny resemblance of New England's
scenery to that of Russia; the Koussevitzky place had the feeling of
a Russian oussadba (small country dwelling) as painted by Somov
or Soudeikine. It had the same unostentatious comfort, harmonious
simplicity and the well-measured, unhurried daily routine. The
Russian note was further accentuated by the high-cheekboned,
Mongolian-faced manservant and his typically Slav, nunlike wife;
236 PASSPORT TO PARIS
by the simple Russian cooking hygienically and plainly prepared
(Koussevitzky was a health addict and never began a meal without
partaking of a pill or powder or both), washed down with the best
tea procurable Natalya Konstantinovna being a tea heiress and
vintage wine for European guests. Although indifferent to wine and
liquor in general, Koussevitzky had the odd habit of downing a glass
of straight whisky before eating. The midday meal was always pre
ceded by a leisurely walk on the Oussadba grounds with Drollka,
a disagreeable-looking but affectionate French bulldog, Kousse-
vitzfcy's great favorite. These walks were an all-male institution, as
Natalya Konstantinovna never joined us, and Sergei Alexandrovitch
particularly savored such outings, which gave him an opportunity
for exchanging musical gossip, hearing the latest New York or Paris
scandal and listening to the newest "off-color" anecdote, unthinka
ble in the stem presence of his wife. After a half hour's walk we'd
return to the house, flushed by the stinging New England air and
ravenously hungry, Natalya Konstantinovna awaiting us on the ter
race with the invariable amiably gruff "Well, talked your fill?" greet
ing; this meant that hands were now to be washed and that lunch
was about to be served. After the meal Sergei Alexandrovitch re
tired for his afternoon nap; the guest was left free to rummage
through the gigantic music library or be driven to Boston in the
Koussevitzky family car. I once caught hell from N. K. for directing
her chauffeur to take me to Slonimsky's (they were not on speaking
terms), which dastardly act was reported to her on our return. On
Koussevitzky's awakening we'd drink more tea, accompanied by
sweets and pastries; then came a two-hour working period, during
which a visiting composer was requested to play his about-to-be-
perfomied piece on the piano, with Koussevitzky comfortably in
stalled in a deep armchair, conducting an imaginary orchestra the
while. I don't believe the nasty legend, circulated in some quarters,
of Koussevitzky's inability to read an orchestral score, but it is true
that he much preferred to study a new work by the above-described
method.
At dinner, Koussevitzky, relaxed and jovial, would unbend con
siderably and voice various nonconformist opinions, some of them
calculated to startle Natalya Konstantinovna, who would then frown
and purse her lips in disapproval. Occasionally, there was a free dis
cussion of Koussevitzky's conducting contemporaries; he had little
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 237
use for most of them, particularly John (now Sir John) Barbirolli,
whom he always called "BarbiroHa" and even "Barcarolla." "No-o,
nooo," he would say, smiling wickedly and winking at me, "and
what is your Barcarolla up to now, eh?" I never met the conductor,
but the mere fact that he conducted in New York, where I lived,
made him "mine" in Koussevitzky's eyes.
Rehearsals in Symphony Hall were closely guarded secrets with
only special appointees permitted to attend Sergei Alexandrovitch
didn't wish to have his work disturbed and Natalya Konstantinovna,
ever the vigilante, provided her husband with a virtual iron curtain,
as a security measure. Composers, troublesome and nosy creatures,
were relegated to the first balcony and tolerated on condition that
they remained silent and respectful. To correct a glaring mistake in
the orchestra parts, or an erroneous tempo by the conductor, meant
standing up and shouting a daring feat, attempted by few. I re
member leaping to my feet when the coda of the finale was tackled
twice too fast, and screaming: "No, no! slower, please." Kousse-
vitzky stopped the orchestra, turned to me with a terrifying scowl,
screamed back: "If too slow, I play faster!" and did. I screamed
louder this time, in genuine anguish. Sergei Alexandrovitch rapped
the stand with his baton and hissed: "Personne play!" (which was
his way of saying: "Nobody plays."), then added in tragic tones, ad
dressing me: "You conduct," and crossed his arms on his chest. "But
I cannot conduct, Sergei Alexandrovitch," I wailed. "Then you com
pose and I conduct and you SILENCE!" Koussevitzky summed
up grandiosely and resumed the offending coda. It was now taken
at the correct tempo, but the episode looked like a Koussevitzky
victory.
I was frankly apprehensive about the symphony's Boston fate,
owing to my inability to make suggestions or last-minute alterations
in the score. For once my fears were groundless; Koussevitzky
straightened out the sore spots or glossed them over and the sym
phony scored an emphatic success. When Boaz Filler, the colorful
contra-bassoon player (who looked exactly like his unwieldy instru
ment) and doubled as a sort of an unofficial Grover Whalen to the
Boston orchestra, walked up to me after the applause died down
and pushed his autograph book in my face, I knew I had "arrived."
"You bowed three times good, very good," boomed Filler in his
thick Dutch voice. "I didn't think much of your first two pieces, but
238 PASSPORT TO PARIS
you can now sign my autograph book here, right next to Richard
Strauss." I was overwhelmed and thanked Boaz profusely for the
rare distinction bestowed upon me. At supper after the performance
Koussevitzky was all smiles and Natalya Konstantinovna shook her
finger at me playfully, as if to reproach me for my bad behavior at
the rehearsal, then drank a toast to me and the symphony in hastily
produced champagne.
Transported by my Boston success, I began to compose a double-
bass concerto for Sergei Alexandrovitch (a double-bass virtuoso prior
to becoming a conductor); on my return to New York I sent ten
pages of it to Prokofiev in Paris, to get his opinion on my writing
for so "antimusical" an instrument. Prokofiev sent the pages back
with "unplayable" scribbled in pencil on page one. The pages were
destroyed instantly.
My job at Paramount was awaiting me in Astoria and I began
punching the clock daily and liking it. At twenty-six I was regularly
employed for the first time and found American efficiency, thorough
ness and fairness unexpectedly refreshing and stimulating. Gone
were the days of idle fldnerie, of long consultations with my tailor,
of gastronomic orgies the leisurely pursuits of a bright young rake.
I invested in an alarm clock and a stop watch, bought a business
suit, ready-made but comfortable, and learned enough slang to ex
change pleasantries with stagehands and orchestra musicians and not
be thought pompous. I was given a freshly scrubbed cubbyhole of an
office, with my name in modest-size letters on the door, a tinny up
right, a writing desk, a music cabinet and a telephone, and told to
write whatever music Paramount needed. I enjoyed turning out a
song with Harburg for a two-reel short in the morning and a few
pages of "emotional" background music for a dramatic feature in
the afternoon. The music cabinet contained hundreds of stock com
positions, neatly catalogued and labeled to facilitate my task. Should
Claudette Colbert be upbraiding Fredric March for spending too
much money, all I had to do was to pull out the drawer labeled
Anger and help myself to officially endorsed angry music. Tallulah
Bankhead's screaming would call for music tagged Hysteria; Mau
rice Chevalier sweeping a chick off her feet necessitated consulting
the Seduction file; Nancy Carroll's breast-heaving was easy help
yourself to the Passion drawer and so on. There were also Reli
gious drawers, a Manhattan file that city to this day is musically
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 239
represented by hustle-and-bustle one steps with xylophone solo
Far East and Western musical documentation and, of course, Greed,
Lust, Murder, Chase, and other suitable tools for mixing crime and
music realistically. Once the material was chosen, you were advised
to "trace it" an inaccurate term which meant changing the
melody around and modifying the harmonic structure, yet remaining
as close to the original as possible; this was necessary in order to
prevent accusations of plagiarism and costly lawsuits. I haven't writ
ten film-background music in many years and I doubt that these
music cabinets still exist, but they were a great boon in my Para
mount days, when I was in a hurry and had to turn out music by
the yard.
Among my co-workers was Johnny Green, an attractive dark
youth with a Harvard background, now the able head of MGM's
music department. Johnny, an intensely ambitious and well-schooled
musician, was the first to greet me on my arrival in Astoria; he
breathlessly told me of his pleasure at meeting so distinguished a
colleague and apparently knew some of my "serious" music. "Mr.
Dukelsky, do you mind if I ask you how old you are?" he asked.
"Twenty-six," said I. "Oh, I have a chance then I'm only twenty-
one," Johnny said with a sigh of relief and ran out of my office.
The big excitement in Johnny's young life then was his "Body and
Soul," which was soon to repeat its London click in the States and
become one of the truly great "standards." Johnny was originally
hired as rehearsal pianist and soon promoted to "arranger."
Harburg and I didn't get the Heads Up assignment after all, Vic
tor Scherzinger, the director, was also a songwriter, and supplied
additional numbers himself, retaining most of the Rodgers and Hart
score. We turned out a quantity of musical "shorts" instead, and
these were far easier and more rewarding work than the machine-
like "tracing." A young brunette with a raucous speaking voice and
a million-dollar song delivery was hired for one of the shorts; she
was just beginning to throw her not inconsiderable weight around
and was obviously going places. Her name was Ethel Merman, and
the Duke-Harburg song she sang was called "Old Devil Sea."
On completing the Merman assignment, we were introduced to an
apple-cheeked, wholesome lass, who rejoiced in the quaint monicker
of Ginger Rogers. I thought Ginger, then scarcely nineteen, fascinat
ing and bought her lunch in the commissary, expressed polite won-
240 PASSPORT TO PARIS
der at her strange Christian name and was told that it stemmed
from the girl's abruptly terminated vaudeville and marriage career,
during which she and her dancer-husband were billed as "Ginger
and Pepper," the ex-husband's legitimate name being Jack Pepper.
Ginger was a better dancer than she was a singer, so Harburg and
I wrote her one of those tinkly jingles of no consequence. Ginger
was always accompanied by her youthful and ever-energetic mother;
however, I talked her into a dinner or two, and we went through
Central Park in a hansom at night on one occasion. Ginger was
anxious to learn French she undoubtedly speaks it well now that
she has a French husband and I taught her all manner of amo
rous nonsense during the hansom ride of verbal variety only, I
hasten to add.
Edmund Goulding was another director with songwriting ambi
tions. A well-turned-out Englishman with a unique gift of unconven
tional gab, Eddie had had a colorful career as actor, director, soldier,
pugilist, professional man about town, first-nighter and lady-killer.
There were talent and imagination in everything he touched, but his
songwriting habits were baffling and somewhat uncomfortable. He
played no musical instrument and couldn't sing, but would compose
his songs by whistling them for hours on end. After whistling a pas
sage he would stop for breath and to point out the extraordinary
beauty of his "composition," then go right on without indicating
whether he was starting all over again or continuing. He took a lik
ing to me and insisted on my joining him for breakfast daily at the
Ritz, where he then lived in a spacious suite over the barbershop.
Breakfast a la Goulding consisted of quantities of the best beluga
caviar, dry toast and champagne. I was happy with the astronomi
cally priced caviar, but drew the line at champagne and insisted on
coffee instead, to Goulding's displeasure. The princely repast over,
I'd be led to the piano and asked to harmonize and develop Ed
die's whistled inspirations, some of them recognizable as pop songs,
others merely as Hungarian-restaurant music. I couldn't detect any
thing English about Goulding's refrains they were all in a minor
key and brought visions of a bushy-haired violinist shedding rhap
sodic tears right in your soup. At least two of them became world-\
wide hits "Love, Your Magic Spell is Everywhere," and "Mam'-i
selte" (with Mack Gordon's lyric).
The picture he and I worked on was a would-be Czechoslovakian
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 241
melodrama named Night Angel, with Freddie March and Nancy
Carroll a strange choice for a Prague romance. Walter Wanger,
then Paramount's head in the East, had high hopes for this opus, but
it proved a colossal fiasco. The story was excessively gloomy and the
settings heavily "atmospheric"; colorfully garbed girls all over the
place Eddie insisted on a beauty chorus, although Night Angel
was not a musical caviar and champagne at intervals, enthusias
tic whistling, faithfully taken down by me and blown up to sym
phonic proportions and frequent parties at( f night with Eddie and
Helen Morgan, with whom he was in love at tEe time.
The best picture I was connected with when employed by Para
mount was Laughter, a gay and deftly directed comedy in which the
hero, also played by March, was a romantic composer. During one
scene he was required to play a three-minute "rhapsody" (composed
by me) on the piano; I also performed this piece in the film, with
March going manfully through correct pianistics in this I had to
coach him. Laughter, as I recall, was voted one of the twelve best
pictures of the year, and the stock of those involved went up imme
diately.
I was now much in demand and my salary was upped to ninety
dollars a week. When not busy scoring my company's pictures, I'd be
lent to other companies (Warner Bros, among them) to "musicalize"
trailers, those idiotic few-minute previews of a coming attraction.
They usually began with an ear-splitting drum roll, a fanfare and a
few bars of "hurry" music violins in unison rushing up to a big,
crashing chord designed to emphasize a question suddenly flashed on
the screen something like: "Did you live, love and die?" then, be
fore you could recover, another crashing chord and a triumphant:
"Well, Cornelius Corn did!!!" Followed by a few entirely uncon
nected scenes, erotic and violent by turn. Writing music to these
abortions was a bore fully as crashing as the so-called "modern"
chords with which I was requested to underline the provocative cap
tions.
While at Paramount I often saw Maurice Chevalier, whose irre
sistible charm was second only to his thriftiness, unusual even for a
citizen of France a country not noted for largesse. Chevalier dis
dained the reasonably priced commissary in favor of the still cheaper
cafeteria, frequented mostly by carpenters and stagehands, and held
the record for never picking up anyone's check except his own. I
242 PASSPORT TO PARIS
had met Tallulah Bankhead in the Bob Chanter days and had seen
her at London gatherings, but was never in her entourage of "dah-
lings"; I don't think I exchanged two words with her the entire time
I worked on Tarnished Lady, one of her two flop pictures an un
usual record for two such extroverts as Miss Bankhead and myself.
Other jobs included something called Sap from Syracuse and an
utter horror entitled Secrets of a Secretary, in which the late George
Metaxa made his screen debut. Metaxa was one of the first authen
tic "glamor boys," a personable singing juvenile and a good friend;
he lived too well, had too many wives and died too young. I knew
him in the Fray and Braggiotti Pont Street days and first met him
in the cast of Bow Wows, where he sang a reprise of my early "For
Goodness* Sake" without understanding the words not because the
lyric was that poor, but because he spoke no English. After the two
Tallulah turkeys and Night Angel Paramount's Eastern organization
began to fall apart with ruthless rapidity.
Parallel with the Paramount engagement I finally got my Broad
way entree, via the Theatre Guild, then putting its third (and last)
Garrick Gaieties together. As the whole theatrical world knows, the
first two editions of that impish and impudent revue launched Rodg-
ers and Hart, the third was to launch me with considerably less
eclat; after all, Rodgers and Hart wrote both scores entirely unaided,
whereas I made only four contributions to the free-for-all score of
the third edition. You'd never guess it, but the man who first spoke
to Theresa Helburn of my lowbrow talents was that arch highbrow
Aaron Copland. I then met Miss Helburn at a Gershwin party,
played "I'm Only Human After All" which became my passport
to Broadway and was asked to join the assorted songwriters in
vited by the Guild to help write the Gaieties score.
I was not prepared for the spectacle which greeted my eyes, when
I reached the Theatre Guild's rehearsal hall. Not less than thirty
tunesmiths and lyricists youthful eager beavers for the most part
were present, piano copies, lead sheets and typewritten slips of
paper in hand. They displayed no animosity towards one another,
but each one boasted a greater number of "accepted" contributions
than the next fellow. "How many numbers you got in the show,
Charlie?" an eager beaver would ask. "Five," Charlie would shout
back. "How many you got?" "Seven," was the triumphant reply.
"Eighth one coming up." Since an "intimate" revue seldom accom-
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 243
modates more than twenty musical entries and, judging from the
number of prospective contributors and the size of their contribu
tions, the third Garrick Gaieties would have an unusually generous
score of some one-hundred-fifty items what chance did I have
with my one song, even with Ira as part author of the lyric?
There was no furniture in the rehearsal hall except a table and a
chair occupied by a dark, intense-looking man with glasses who
turned out to be Philip Loeb, the revue's director. When I entered
the place, he was engaged in the difficult task of reading two lyrics
at once, listening to a chorus sung by one of the eagerer beavers,
and looking speculatively at a tasty dish of eighteen in a clinging
practice dress, who was being considered for a secondary role. Loeb
was too busy to pay any attention to me and after ten minutes of
languishing impatiently, I decided to play an unusual trump card:
I dove into my waistcoat pocket and produced my trusty monocle, a
cherished relic of the Diaghilev days. It had been many months
since I had used it last, as the monocle went unappreciated at
Gershwin soirees, and cut no ice in Philadelphia; but drastic meas
ures were in order and so, monocle brazenly glistening, I performed
a sort of London strut and coughed significantly. That did it. "Hey,
you!" Loeb shouted, nonplussed. "The bourgeois with the monocle
what can I do for you?" "That's easy, Mr. Loeb," I ventured
playfully, is l want you to hear a song." "A song? Good Heavens,
man, we have enough music for five shows," Loeb protested. "I
don't doubt it but mine has a lyric by Ira Gershwin and E. Y.
Harburg." Phil's troubled face broke out in smiles. "Oh, Yip and
Ira, eh? O.K. Let's hear it." I banged out "Human After All" trium
phantly and noticed to my intense satisfaction that Loeb was soon
joined by Terry Helburn and well-fed, capitalistic-looking Lawrence
Langner, who listened to the song with every evidence of pleas
ure. There was a lot of whispering, some annoyed stares from
the eager beavers but the song was in to be put in rehearsal at
once. The next day, on reappearing in the Guild rehearsal quarters,
I was buttonholed by Charlie of the five entries. "You with the
dude clothes," he boomed. "How many songs ya got in the show?"
"One," I confessed, blushing modestly. "Funny I got four left;
had five yestiddy. You wouldn't be hornin' in, would ya?" I smiled
cryptically and retreated. That afternoon another song of mine,
"Too, Too, Divine," from the short-lived Open Your Eyes, was
244 PASSPORT TO PARIS
sneaked into the Gaieties; the producers needed a lively one-step
for their G. B. Shaw burlesque and Harburg was promptly ordered
to rewrite the lyric, which now became "Shavian Shivers." A few
days later Albert Carroll, an old friend, cast as Mei Lan-Fang in
one of the sketches, needed an atmospheric background and I was
pressed into service again, reducing Charlie's contributions to three.
I got the Mei Lan-Fang job by producing my Yellow Mask notices,
thereby proving my predilection for things Chinese. Then in the
grand finale of Act I a Gilbertian lyric needed a Sullivanish tune
and who could do one better than the would-be Englishman with the
monocle? In went a fourth number from my pen, with Charlie now
down to two. Another reshuffling, another two last-minute additions
by new composers, and poor Charlie was out in the cold. He took it
like the fine sportsman he was. "S'long, dude," he said cheerfully.
"I guess you're the better man no hard feelin's. Wish me luck."
I never learned Charlie's last name.
Alex had left on his M.I.T. traveling scholarship, and Mother came
to New York to share a flat with me and to set up housekeeping.
This was now feasible, owing to my improved finances; besides the
weekly income from Paramount, I had the Garrick Gaieties and
some hackwork (anonymous) for Earl Carroll's Vanities mostly
ballet music and odds and ends. Prokofiev wrote from the Palace
Hotel in Brussels to tell me that my "Dushenka" and the Pushkin
songs had been engraved by Paitchadze; of the festival of his music
in Brussels, in the course of which Ansermet conducted Serge's Third
Symphony, a Divertimento, a suite from Chout and the ever-popular
Third Piano Concerto. He was also giving a piano recital a task he
seldom relished. Meanwhile, Koussevitzky, the initial wave of en
thusiasm over, went back on his promise and didn't bring my Second
Symphony to New York which vexed me considerably. I was now
all the more determined to make my mark on Broadway, Dukelsky
needing Duke's help badly.
Garrick Gaieties opened "cold" (no out-of-town tryout) on June
4th and pleased the critics. "Lively and amusing," said Winchell. "A
show you'd better see. It's fresh, fast and not too incurably collegi
ate," said Garland. "A lot of revue at $3 top," said Mantle. Business
was helped, too, by gratuitous publicity by Grover Whalen, then po
lice commissioner, and the John Wanamaker department store. They
threatened suit because of the "They Always Come Back" finale,
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 245
by Levy, Kay Swift and Duke, which satirized Whalen's return to
Wanamaker's and the store itself. The "Johnny Wanamaker" song,
the store's officials alleged, desecrated the memory of the founder.
Whalen objected to my "I'm Grover" aria, wherein the spruce com
missioner was described as the "Gardenia of the Law." "Human
After All" received favorable mention, the New Yorker coming out
boldly with the statement that it was the "best of the new show num
bers." To top it all, in Variety's July Music Survey the three leading
phonograph companies reported six best sellers, and Brunswick's list
had "Human After All" (played by the Colonial Club orchestra) as
number one. Shortly after the revue's opening I was summoned to
the Harms* offices and signed to a composer's contract on the
strength of my first Broadway showing.
Helburn and Langner were so pleased with Harburg and myself
that when, after a four months' profitable summer run (yes, the
shows could run for four months in 1930 and show a profit!), they
decided to send the revue on tour, we were commissioned with aug
menting and rounding out the score for provincial consumption;
some of the original material was judged to be entirely too New
Yorkish and la-de-dah for the "sticks."
The Guild people, ever the pioneers, had yet another new wrin
kle in this venture: having disdained the customary procedure of a
hinterland tour followed by a New York opening, they now "toured"
the new version in Manhattan to whip it into shape for "out of
town." "The selfsame responsible parties," the Daily News reported,
"have decided not to teach the inhabitants of the prairies too much
about the facts of life. Hence, the sketches retained in the new edi
tion are practically blushless." Five new songs by Harburg and Duke
were added to the score (mostly replacing the weaker entries), of
which "Unaccustomed As I Am" and "A Little Privacy" were thought
best by the critics, who gave the "traveling" edition their unreserved
blessings.
It was altogether a most productive summer; a summer of hard
work and a little play on week ends. At the Nina Koshetz recital I
met Serge Soudeikine, the Russian painter, once too a Diaghilev pro
tege; Sergei Pavlovitch sponsored him in his Exposition of Russian
Art days but never entrusted him with a ballet commission. Soudei-
kine's real contribution to Diaghilev's ballet reign was Boris Kochno,
whom he introduced to Diaghilev in 1922 in Paris. His former
246 PASSPORT TO PARIS
wife, the statuesque Vera, subsequently became the present Mrs.
Igor Stravinsky. Soudeikine bore a slight resemblance to Diaghilev,
of which fact he was exceedingly proud; with a few facial character
istics and a difficult, domineering nature the resemblance ended.
True, Soudeikine was also an inspired causeur and seemed to have
a considerable knowledge of the arts and literature, but one soon
became aware that this knowledge was no more than a handy bag of
tricks with which to dazzle the listener. At the time he was doing
sets for the Metropolitan Opera House and living at the Ansonia,
then the opera singers' favorite, in a large, sunny studio, with his
American wife, Jean, of the big Wagnerian voice and equally big
physical proportions. Whatever Soudeikine's faults as painter, he was
a warm and accommodating host and a welcome link with my color
ful European "past"; like Vouvray, a hastily acquired Paris and Lon
don reputation does not "travel," as I learned only too soon. Even
the Boston success of my symphony under Koussevitzky had no
sizable repercussions in New York. "If it's that good, why didn't
Koussevitzky bring it to Carnegie Hall?" was the usual query.
Soudeikine had a barn, for painting and living purposes, in Wood
stock, New York, and we spent several week ends there. Bob Chan-
ler and his faithful Louise had us to dinner; neither had changed
much although the "vzz vzzing" was by now practically unintelligible
and there was a previously absent bitter note, caused by the disinte
gration of the Chanler Circus, with only a few of the old faces still
intact Among the new friends were the De Liagres, neighboring
landowners, a hospitable couple, and their handsome children Al
fred, just out of Yale, tall and "aesthetic," and his glowingly fresh-
faced and healthy-limbed sister.
As if all these multihued activities were not enough, I managed to
write a little "serious" music, but noticed, to my horror, that the more
free and outspoken, the more "opened up" (in Gershwin's phrase) my
commercial music sounded, the drier and more cerebral were my
"serious" essays. I sent some of them to Prokofiev in Paris, and with
them a half-boastful, half-apologetic letter describing my "slum
ming* 9 or <c whoring" (musically speaking) activities in New York.
Prokofiev retaliated with a severe and, probably, not undeserved
verbal castigation which really shook me at the time. Serge said:
"The touching story of young maids who become prostitutes in order
Mother, Kiev, 1917
Myself, Monmouth Hills, N. J., 1921
Myself, Monte Carlo, 1924
Myself, London, 1928
-a
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5
George Gershwin, Beverly Hills, 1936
Ira Gershwin and Vernon Duke writing the Goldwyn Follies, Beverly Hills, 1937
IM
3 o
8
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s
Jack Robbins, Ogden Nash friends and Vernon Duke, old Knickerbocker
Music Hall, Second Avenue, New York, 1948
Lehman Engel, Vernon Duke, Mimi Cabanne and prospective backers at the
He. and She audition. March 1949
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O
I
c\
^A
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c
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BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 247
to feed their mothers isn't new. In the days of Karamzine [a senti
mental Russian writer of the early nineteenth century] the story
made people cry. However, they soon understood that, if the young
maid secretly likes lying down, she is only too glad to find a respecta
ble excuse for so doing; should she not like it, she'd find other means
to help Mania. I doubt that mothers particularly relish their daily
bread when secured by whoring daughters. No matter what the ex
cuse, you simply love your half-respectable bread and cannot hide
your ecstatic joy at the fact that your rotten little record [Serge was
referring to "Human After All"] is Number One in sales. And,
should I ask you what you've accomplished in the sphere of real
music, you have nothing to show except two pretty dry piano pieces.
Their dryness is characteristically typical of your case: when, after a
long delay, you tackle 'serious* music again, you're terribly afraid
of the taint of operetta, which has become your flesh and blood,
without your noticing it. Russian music already had such a prece
dent, strange though it may seem, in Rachmaninov's case. In his day,
he, too, was thrice as talented as most, and although he never
stooped to cancans, unbosomed himself in several much too flowery
songs. To appease the musicians' protests, Rachmaninov tried to as
sume a 'serious' mien, but resorted to such dry rot that he soon van
ished from the scene altogether and remained in history as a com
poser of said flowery songs for the 'Greater public's' consumption.
Let's hope that by 1931 you'll succeed in rehabilitating your name,
already half-forgotten in Europe. I will be happy to do what I can
for your Second Symphony. I persuaded Paitchadze to have your
score copied, so it can travel from conductor to conductor." He went
on to enumerate Ms efforts to "place" the symphony in Berlin (with
Seidler-Winkler of the Radio), Brussels, and Paris (Ansermet or
Monteux). A new Prokofiev festival was announced in Paris to take
place on December 18th under Monteux's direction (Fourth Sym
phony and Second Piano Concerto), and I was profoundly moved
by the fact that, notwithstanding his own frantic preoccupation with
it, Serge found time to think of me and add . . . "that [the festi
val] will be an opportune moment to high-pressure Monteux with
your symphony." Prokofiev went on to inform me of the impending
publication of both the Pushkin songs (adding that he liked the Bog'
danovitch ones better) and the "dry" piano pieces and then com*
248 PASSPORT TO PARIS
plained about "Dushenka" having just been printed without the
promised dedication to him which, incidentally, was Paitchadze's
slip, not mine.
Prokofiev himself without realizing it was traversing his "ex
tra-dry" period; he followed the overwritten Second Symphony, with
third and fourth so-called symphonies I say "so-called" because
they were in reality suites culled from his Diaghilev ballet Le Fils
Prodigue and the opera Flaming Angel. Aroused by Prokofiev's bitter
denunciation of nay selling my musical soul to the Almighty Dollar,
I derided him for the dubious practice of thus "symphonizing" the
atrical music. Also in his lengthy letter was the announcement of
the forthcoming ballet Sur le Boristhene, with Lifar's choreogra
phy, Larionov's decor, Gontcharova's costumes and Serge's decidedly
inferior for him score. However, in the sad smile-provoking
custom of all composers, Prokofiev cheerfully reported that Nouvel,
Souvtchinsky and Lif ar praised the music and. rated it a step forward
after the Prodigal Son. When the ballet was mounted at the Paris
Opera in May 1931 and resulted in a near catastrophe, with threats
of lawsuits by all parties concerned, I shrugged my prematurely
weary shoulders and thought of my own "step forward" the Three
Seasons, so wisely buried by Diaghilev.
Serge wound up his epistle by gloating over Ms American-type ex
tension desk, recently purchased with money earned by concert
tours. That, too, was a form of prostitution which Prokofiev ad
mitted to me in 1938 when I last saw him; having to play a piano
to make a living disturbed his composing schedule, brought about a
comparative lull in his creative work and finally resulted in his return
to his Mother Country. In the letter, the implication was that he
earned his comforts by legitimate means, I by illegitimate ones
and coming from Prokofiev, it hurt. In self-defense, I pointed out to
Serge that I couldn't make a living playing piano or conducting, as
he did, having no particular ability in either, although I subsequently
became a good jazz pianist, and began to make records as early as
1934.
As a result of my first Broadway click, my stock started climbing.
I met the urbane, mild-mannered S. N. Behrman at the Gershwins',
played a lot of music for him and was handed the stage version of
Serena Blandish, which he had adapted for Jed Harris a few seasons
back. Berry, v as everyone called him, said that I was the one right
BACK TO THE NEW COUNTRY 249
man for the job, speaking two musical languages as I did and posses
sing the necessary "cosmopolitan" outlook. I devoured both versions
the original by a "Lady of Quality" (Enid Bagnold) and Berry's
smooth and canny theatrical adaptation in one evening and re
solved that there was the perfect book for me at last. I spouted en
thusiasm over the telephone the next morning and received a letter
from Berry authorizing me to write the score should a production be
arranged. Serena turned out to be the first of my long list of unpro-
duced musicals, and will recur periodically in this narrative as a
persistent yet strangely stillborn leitmotif.
Among the contributors to the Gaieties was Edward Eliscu, an
able lyricist who collaborated on some of Vincent Youmans's great
est songs. He liked my contributions and I liked his, so we talked
things over and discovered that we were both "under consideration'*
by Tom Weatherly for the score of a Dwight Taylor musical named
The Gay Divorcee. With gratifying ease, we were signed by Weath
erly as a team and began turning out songs for his property.
On the classical front, I still wasn't composing enough, but thanks
to Prokofiev (who, paradoxically, redoubled his efforts on my behalf
while I was still smarting under the effects of his lecture) began get
ting important performances. Three weeks after the lecture, Serge
wrote briefly to tell me that Seidler-Winkler had definitely programed
the Second Symphony and that "on arrival in Warsaw, I attempted
to persuade Gregor Fitelberg that you were Poland's greatest com
poser. He promised a performance with the Warsaw Philharmonic."
Lina Ivanovna's postscript read: "Greetings, Dukie dear, am pre
paring some of your songs."
Thanksgiving., a heartwarming American institution, new to me,
and Christmas were entirely family affairs that year the small
family consisting of only Mother and myself, since Alex was in Eu
rope on his architectural pilgrimage. On New Year's Eve, in our
two-room flat in the East Eighties, we drank toasts to Prokofiev, my
European guardian angel, and to George Gershwin, my American
one; to the Theatre Guild and the Paramount Studios in the lowbrow
division; to Koussevitzky and Slonimsky in the highbrow ditto; to
the absent Alex and to ourselves, happily present; and, lastly, to the
United States of America, where I hoped to make my permanent
home.
CHAPTER XIII
SETTLING DOWN
C* HORTLY after my arrival in America, I began a thorough investi-
^ gation of the local musical scene. My meteoric, though incon
clusive, rise in Europe, the five excitement-packed years I spent there
and the encouragement and interest shown me and my music in
France and England led me to expect important reverberations here,
a continuation, as it were, of a career begun with a resounding
bang. In this I was grievously disappointed; it took me little more
than a year to come to the painful realization that the composer, the
man who supplies the very stuff without which music-making would
be a physical impossibility, was indeed the Forgotten Man, the pariah
of the music world which he alone created. The Maitre of France,
the Maestro Compositore of Italy became little more than a woefully
underpaid handy errand boy of the Almighty Interpreter, the virtu
oso, the prima donna, the star the trusty meal tickets of thriving
concert managers. The nonperforming, nonteaching composer is to
this day in spite of all the optimistic propaganda and publicity-
seeking publishers' claims a penniless lunatic in the richest country
in the world.
Used to earning my pennies by lowlier pursuits, I hoped at least
for a beneficial musical climate conducive to serious work; I found
no such thing. It was taken for granted in Paris that composers of
similar ages and tendencies were also friends. In some instances they
even collaborated as witness numerous ballets, suites, and sundry
occasional pieces jointly composed. Our life in Paris was inconceivable
without almost daily communion, playing one's newest work for the
others, with the resulting helpful interchange of pros and cons. A
similar condition existed with the Russian Five, the Schoenberg School
and the Miaskovsky Group in Moscow, and I do not thmV any harm
SETTLING DOWN 251
was done by the undoubted cliquishness of these groups. They had
fun, even though they were often made fun of.
No such Arcady existed in the States, as I discovered. Fun among
composers was unheard of or frowned upon. The composers them
selves were sad, somber fellows in quest of jobs and performances,
and distrustful not only of me, a European pretender, but particularly
of one another. There was much talent among them, and also much
genuine suffering. Every composer I met boasted a long record of in
human trials and tribulations, of sums spent and none earned, of
eternal promises by publishers, performers and conductors, never
fulfilled. My curiosity soon gave way to indignation indignation
not entirely unselfish as I began to have somewhat similar experiences
myself. Most of the composers I'd met were young if not exactly
hopeful. A few were past middle age and apparently past all hope.
Among these were at least two whose music had extraordinary merit:
one of them asked me whether I could give him a copying job.
In the twenties and thirties, the currently oft-performed native
"boys" were no more than beginners. Groping for recognition, stylisti
cally insecure, these young men were understandably hostile to in
vaders with impressive European debuts behind them, and commercial
jazz practitioners, worst of all those who operated under the cloak
of Carnegie HaO respectability. "American music is not jazz. Jazz
is not music" that's how Paul Rosenfeld began his An Hour With
American Music, which made its appearance in the year of my
arrival in the U.S. After so pontifical a statement, Rosenfeld, a pas
sionate champion of native talent, when free of the jazz taint, went on
to assert just as pontifically: "We have an American music: there
exists a body of sonorous work, not jazz, made by persons associated
with the American community, to be grouped without imperti
nence with classic European works"; and further, "Some of the most
important living composers are Americans by nationality and by
culture." In 1929? Who were they? According to Rosenfeld they
were Roger Sessions, Carl Ruggles, Roy Harris, Aaron Copland,
the Mexican Carlos Chavez, the French-born Dane Rudhyar and Ed
gar Varese, and the Russian-born Leo Ornstein. Adolph Weiss and
Virgil Thomson got "favorable mention." The one man who rightly
or wrongly has put the U.S. on the map, musically speaking, the
real Voice of America, known and loved by millions the world
over George Gershwin was accorded little more than a page by
252 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Rosenfeld, the Pure Music Apostle (to Ornstein's 10, Rndhyar's 7,
Sessions's 13 and Copland's 15), and what a page! After blasting
(rightly) Krenek's Jonny and dismissing Milhaud's jazz efforts with
"soft and timid," Paul the Pathbreaker went after George with ven
omous relish. "The American parallels of these jazz experiments are
equally indifferent," said he. "Gershwin's Rhapsody, Piano Concerto
and 'An American in Paris' have found a good deal of popular
favor; and Gershwin himself is assuredly a gjfted composer of the
lower, unpretentious order; yet there is some question whether his
vision permits him an association with the artists [italics are mine.
V.D.] The Rhapsody is circus music . . . not so much music, as jazz
dolled up. The Concerto ... is utterly bare of the impulsion to
wards a style which every living thing exhibits ... we seem to hear
Gershwin's instrument, like Balaam's ass, reproving the false prophet;
directing him to the sphere congenial to his gift." As for the "artists,"
with whom an association of a puny circus musician was questioned
by Rosenfeld, they fared extraordinarily well. Rosenfeld's method
was to compare them with their European model (the existence
of which he had to admit, however grudgingly) and find the native
son immeasurably superior. Ornstein is "not as naive as Franck
[Cesar] or Weber [Carl Maria von]." Rudhyar's sonorities are
"harder and more intricate than Scriabin's"; Sessions, "even where
he is closest to Stravinsky, has more robustness than ever comes the
way of the somewhat chlorotic Russian." Thomson's tangos "were
much better than Milhaud's"; and so on. Only dear old Horatio
Parker's Mona does not surpass, but merely ranks with, Salome,
Pelleas, etc.
These views, absurd though they may seem today, were echoed
by most "highbrow" writers of the period, with the signal exception
of Carl Van Vechten, who wrote well (Rosenfeld's writing was ba
roque in the extreme) and made sense. He also made the music world
Gershwin-conscious, having predicted before the advent of the
Rhapsody that jazz would be utilized in a musicianly manner by
'The Great American Composer to create just the effect that Liszt got
into his rhapsodies by the use of Hungarian tunes, or Albeniz into his
Iberia suite." Four years before Rosenfeld's defiant assertion, refusing
jazz the right to be classified as music, or George Gershwin as artist,
Van Vechten wrote: "Jazz may not be the last hope of American
music, nor yet the best hope, but at present, I am convinced, it is its
SETTLING DOWN 253
only hope." A mighty armada of antijazz Columbuses must have
sailed into the muddy musical waters four years later, to hear Paul
tefl.
Thus, a newcomer could take his pick; Ornstein, "the spring as
it comes up through the pavements, the aching green sap. . . .
Lazarus emerging in his grave clothes into the new world . . . sure
of reaching the high heaven of art for which he seemed and still
seems bound" (what became of the man, incidentally?); the "uncom
promisingly and idealistically lofty" Copland; Roy Harris, "the rhap
sode of the American migrations and pioneer existences"; or the
well-heeled Cinderella of U.S. music George Gershwin, the
rhapsode of "splendiferous hotel foyers crowded with important peo
ple and gorgeous women," who, according to Rosenfeld, couldn't
even "qualify as a vulgar composer." Our critic had a better definition
he called George the "laureate of musical advertisers."
I refused to take sides and listened avidly to the music around me,
hoping for new sounds and new directions and disregarding the source
whence they came. It's no idle boast when I say that I never let per
sonalities or musical politics interfere with my appraisal of music, nor
when I claim to be able to listen to a new work without checking
with the program to make sure that it is musically "respectable" or
having my enjoyment colored by the presence or lack of such respect
ability. When Prokofiev wrote what I thought a poor work, I said
so; and when Copland, whose music I fail to admire, writes a Vitebsk
trio or Second Hurricane, a moving and thoroughly theatrical chil
dren's opera, I'm ready to split my palms applauding; but I have the
greatest contempt for those pitiful hangers-on of music whose mis
placed partisanship compels them to lie prostrate in orgiastic ecstasy
while listening to a few bars from their idol's pen. I had nothing but
admiration for Varese, the magician of acoustical invention, noth
ing but respect for Sessions, a solid craftsman and a true idealist; in
short, I liked and still like all living music, the spontaneous ut
terance of every talented musician, every fresh, "reachable," non-
sterile, noncalculated, unprefaced, unapologized-for musical realiza
tion.
Europe soon got the opportunity to acquaint itself with American
fashions in music the Rosenfeld party was to be represented by
Sessions's Piano Sonata, the Van Vechten party by George's American
in Paris both works chosen for performances at the ninth meeting
254 PASSPORT TO PARIS
of the I.S.CM. in Oxford and London in July 1931. Ever fair and
impartial H. T. Parker reported on the American contributions and
stated typically in the Transcript: "It is good to find so distinguished
a body giving ear to the side of American music that Mr. Gershwin
represents." The "distinguished" body had also chosen my Second
Symphony through the good offices of Prokofiev, who cabled me
on January 21st from Paris: "Your Symphony accepted international
Festival Cambridge/' the mistake causing me great consternation, as
I imagined that the fair city of Cambridge, not to be outdone by its
ancient rival, was staging its own festival. Walter Winchell announced
to his readers that " 'Duke,' whose score will embellish Tom
Weatherly's 'The Gay Divorcee,' is Dukelsky, whose Second Sym
phony, etc." The purists began to shake their heads they never
stopped shaking them; here, clearly, was another candidate for the
"musical advertisers' " laureateship. Times have changed. Versatile
Lennie Bernstein writes the Jeremiah Symphony with one hand,
Wonderful Town with the other and no one gives a hoot. A
friend of Bernstein's was heard to exclaim at the Winter Garden:
"Best score since Satie!" Adroit, if inaccurate, remark. So farfetched
an appraisal gives a Broadway score a musically "correct" cachet and
takes the sting out of the telltale box-office royalties. In reality the
only resemblance between Satie and Bernstein lies in the fact that
neither wrote song hits, but that is of no importance. Pity, no one
was chic enough to say of Strike Up the Band that it was the "best
score since Chabrier," which might have helped George in certain
circles.
The English are noted for their phlegm and good manners. Per
versely, these characteristics are not present in that nation's gentle
men of the press. No one can be more savagely abusive than an Eng
lish critic when aroused be it in the field of literature or art. No
one could top such men as John Wilson ("Christopher North") or
J. G. Lockhart, Walter Scott's biographer and son-in-law, when it
came to neatly filigreed invective; in music, America's Krehbiels
and Rosenfelds couldn't hold a candle to England's Davidsons and
Newmans, whose pens were truly dipped in nitroglycerin. Yet I,
piloted as I was by Diaghilev in my London debut days, had little
idea of the English critical fraternity's destructive methods. I don't
recall how Roger Sessions fared at their hands, but Gershwin and
I were really massacred. The man on the Daily Mail called "Amer-
SETTLING DOWN 255
lean in Paris . . . innocent but tiresome babble" and confessed
that Gershwin's "banal and silly piece drove me from the Hall." He
then complained about "a shockingly noisy, tasteless symphony by the
Americanized Russian Dukelsky." Another critic, signing himself
R. C., called my symphony "the worst music of the evening" and
George's piece "pretty bad music; not clever enough for the oc
casion." The Telegraph and the Morning Post were not quite as
brutal, but brutal enough. Truly, a rude awakening after the honeyed
epithets bestowed on me for Zephyr and Flora and the selfsame sym
phony at the time of its Boston premiere. However, Gregor Fitelberg,
who conducted my work, nothing daunted, repeated it in Warsaw (at
a regular concert of the Warsaw Philharmonic), where it was well
received and favorably reviewed.
Meanwhile, I continued my labors on the Gay Divorcee and con
tributed numbers to various revues, among them Heywood Broun's
Shoot the Works; so active did I become on Broadway that the Bill
board in its September 5th issue listed Arthur Schwartz and myself as
Broadway's "Most Prolific" composers, "with four shows apiece," al
though Sir Arthur Sullivan, of course, had his seven revivals. One of
the four shows to which I contributed was that splendid revue Three's
a Crowd, which also housed Johnny Green's "Body and Soul," sung
by smoky-voiced Libby Holman. My contribution was an effective
song and dance for my old flame Tamara Geva, a Diaghilev discovery
like myself. Dashingly outfitted with a glistening topper and tight-fitting
tails, Tamara sang and strutted my "Talkative Toes" to a smooth lyric
by Howard Dietz.
I was still in my twenties, knew a lot of people and, depression or no
depression, went about a good deal. My peregrinations in Mayfair's
better drawing rooms were known to some of Long Island's and West-
chester's Anglo-American hostesses, and invitations to coming-out
parties and soirees dansantes soon made their appearance. It must be
noted that I was invariably invited in the role of an agreeably cosmo
politan young man, "ineligible" certainly but "acceptable" perhaps,
never as a composer of not inconsiderable attainments. I will dwell on
American Society's attitude towards their creative contemporaries
later; in 1931, 1 was just as happy to be asked to gay gatherings simply
because I dressed correctly, danced adequately and said deliber
ately wrong things at the right time not because of my status as two
composers inexplicably rolled into one.
256 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Girls, delectable New York girls, were in huge quantities every
where; they went to bed with me willingly enough, but drew the line at
marriage, realizing, with a woman's unerring instinct, that I simply
wasn't "'marriage material." The main difference between local sex
habits and those of France lay in the female's widely divergent philos
ophy in the two countries; the American girl of the so-called "priv
ileged" class is given to gay and lighthearted experiments with sex
prior to her marriage, which in this country is synonymous with "set
tling down" to a one-man deal. The French girl is, as often as not, a
virgin prior to marriage; the marital rites over, she achieves her free
dom from family and prejudice ties, and acquires lovers of either
sex, if so inclined. The only difference between the young French
bride and her husband is that he's led a turbulent sex life before his
marriage and reaches still dizzier heights after it. The American hus
band tries hard to "stay put"
On the termination of my Paramount job, I went back to "serious"
composing with renewed vigor, spurred on by Prokofiev's tongue-
lashing and anxious to justify his faith in me and his untiring propa
ganda for my music. I wrote a difficult piano piece called "Spring
1931," which Paitchadze published in Paris, and began tampering
with Mistress into Maid again, adding a prologue and two choruses.
Mistress into Maid (dedicated to Diaghilev's memory), based on a
slender Russian anecdote not in itself original, having no production
prospects, I decided on a more appropriate and realizable tribute to
my discoverer's and benefactor's memory; I cast about for a poem
which should in some way express a suitable idea. I did not wish to
commission a poem, preferring to find something which had not been
written on order. After a three months' search, I found exactly what I
wanted in a poem by the Russian Ossip Mandelstamm, like Gumilev
(who inspired the early "Gondla") a St. Petersburg "acmeist."
The poem blended the spirit of the North, Diaghilev's home, with
the warmth of Italy, of which he was so fond and in which he died. "It
depicts a theatre of Italian opera at St. Petersburg as it is being emp
tied after an evening's performance in winter," I said in a Boston
Transcript interview. "I give the description of the scene to the cho
rus which acts as narrator. Lyric utterances go to a solo soprano, who
evokes the spirit of 'Melpomene,' relates how Melpomene is strangely
at ease in this old Russian land; how the native music is closely akin
to Italian song. The poem ends with the Italian swallow dying on the
SETTLING DOWN 257
'hot snows' of Russia. I believed this idea an appropriate one for my
purpose, since, by inversion, it mirrors the life of Diaghilev: he, the
great artist born in Russia, died on Italian soil."
The Epitaph for Diaghilev was written in April and May of 1931
and scored in the fall of that year. In addition to the soprano and the
mixed chorus, it assembled an orchestra with a large woodwind choir,
scant brass, two guitars (to provide the wistful echoes of gypsy music
in pre-World War I St Petersburg), piano and the usual strings. This
was iny fourth work to be played by the Boston Symphony and I was
fast acquiring a tolerable Back Bay reputation as composer, never
as man. The Epitaph, which very nearly turned out to be my own, as
the reader will see, added nothing to that reputation and, although my
intentions were laudable, did even less for Sergei Pavlovitch's mem
ory. It was a diffuse, delicate piece with some lyrical high spots and
an interesting bit of vocal writing for the soloist, but the orchestration
was muddy and colorless, in spite of the two guitarists, who diligently
strummed away, uncomfortable and bewildered in the fashionable
austerity of Boston's Symphony Hall.
Prior to invading Boston again, I made friends with Mrs. Eugene
Meyer, art patron and wife of the powerful Washington publisher and
financier. Mrs. Meyer had a Westchester chateau and two decora
tive daughters, Katherine and Florence not the least of the cha
teau's attractions. Mrs. Meyers's interests were education and modern
art, Katherine was a budding writer, Florence, after a brief bout with a
ballet career, became Mrs. Oscar Homolka. It was a good change to
breathe the brittle Westchester air, roam about the immaculately kept
grounds and talk with three intelligent and attractive women on sub
jects other than those usually discussed in the homes of the leisure
class. I held forth on the composer's tribulations with Mrs. Meyer and
found in her an attentive and sympathetic listener.
Late in 1931, little Aaron Baron popped up again, easygoing and
ebullient as of yore, and took me to Courtney Burr's flat on Park Ave
nue, for a demonstration of my songwriting gifts. Courtney, a man of
great charm, a social-registered boulevardier, listened with evident
pleasure and, in common with Sam Behnnan, liked the songs with a
Franco-American flavor best. The bright-yellow canary sang loudly
and remarkably out of tune throughout my recital, which, according
to its owner, was an excellent omen; Burr, one of the instigators of
Cole Porter's Fifty Million Frenchmen, was bent on producing a
258 PASSPORT TO PARIS
"smart" revue and thought me a smart enough writer to attend to the
music. Courtney wanted Dorothy Parker, a friend of his and his crony
Bob Benchiey's at the time, to supply me with lyrics but I insisted
on Harburg, whose name was unknown to Burr; Miss Parker was not
keen on writing lyrics, anyway, so the producer lent a willing ear to
my hymns in Marburg's praise. The revue was tentatively "penciled
in" for "sometime in 1932" and was also to launch Boris Aronson,
the sensitive and resourceful scenic designer, just back from Paris
and previously a worker in the Jewish Theater another Baron sug
gestion. And in January 1932, the League of Composers accepted
a second piece from my pen for performance; my short opus an
etude for violin and bassoon was universally liked and critically
endorsed.
Preparations for the Epitaph had meanwhile begun in Boston under
the guidance of Arthur Fiedler, entrusted with die direction of the
chorus. Adele Alberts was selected by Koussevitzky for the soloist's
exacting part. She had a magnificent soprano voice, of enormous
range and flexibility, and was a fine, self-effacing musician qual
ities seldom encountered in the same artist. She was fond of me and
fond of my Epitaph, which was an unlucky piece for both of us:
poor Adele died shortly after singing in my work of childbirth, in
her early thirties and I nearly died immediately after the perform
ance.
Florence Meyer, intrigued by the Epitaph, came to Boston to hear
it, and there was a youthful, festive atmosphere about the rehearsals,
with no foreboding of the tragedy and the near-tragedy that my omi
nously titled piece brought in its wake. The chorus sang valiantly,
Mrs. Alberts seraphically, Florence was all smiles and the two guitars
were all arpeggios and St. Petersburg homesickness.
On the day of the performance, I suddenly fell ill; I thought it at
first a common cold, as my throat was sore, but, on consulting the
mirror, was horrified by the dark-crimson flush of fever with which my
face was covered. I dressed quickly and went down to breakfast with
Natalya Konstantinovna, cursing fate for such ill-timed pranks and
determined to camouflage my illness until after the concert. But
Tante Natalie was too sharp an observer: "Great Heavens, Dima!" she
exclaimed. "Your face is flaming red you must be feverish. Let me
feel your forehead." After so doing and ascertaining that the said fore
head felt like a red-hot iron, Tante Natalie said that I needed a doctor,
SETTLING DOWN 259
but that it would be best not to call the family physician, "so as not to
alarm Sergei Alexandrovitch before the concert." Koussevitzky, in
addition to being a health addict, was mortally afraid of contagion
and I, suspecting that my illness might well have been contagious,
suggested removing myself to a hotel, but Natalya Konstantinovna
wouldn't hear of it. "You stay right here," she said firmly. "I'll give you
three aspirins and quantities of hot tea with rum that will see you
through the concert; more rum and more aspirin before bedtime and
in the morning back to New York and your doctor you go." I readily
fell in with this plan, thanked my hostess and airily assured her that
I'd be "as good as new" in the morning.
However, I felt progressively worse and was on the verge of calling
off my rendezvous with Florence at the Ritz. I pity those who are
unfamiliar with that leisurely yet agreeably animated retreat; the Paris
Ritz may be the haunt of international coxcombry and the best-
preserved clotheshorses in the world, but its Boston replica offered a
rare mixture of pert-faced Back Bay debutantes, serenely secure in
their to them impeccable backgrounds, their inoffensively
"arty" escorts with Richard Harding Davis strong-man profiles,
Brooks Brothers clothes and an occasional deliriously daring art
moderns waistcoat (the said arty inclinations suitably and safely tem
pered by cannily invested family fortunes and "must" memberships
in genteel Boston clubs, impenetrable to unprivileged souls whose birth
did not occur within a fifty-mile radius of Louisburg Square) and
intruders from another square (Times), who too patronized Boston's
Ritz-Carlton. The Broadway contingent, which often invaded the
sacred premises, consisted of an occasional star or two, a brooding
playwright or a beefy, bespectacled agent complete with cigar
(wrong kind) and overly tailored clothes (wrong cut). The outsiders
paid no attention to the strutting young Bostonians, yet were not above
unceremoniously ogling their plainly, but expensively, dressed girls;
the Bostonians, in their turn, were utterly oblivious of the outsiders'
presence, so enveloped were they in their own cozy exploits and end
less Back Bay gossip concerning mostly their cousins and aunts,
fellow clubmen, sister debs, subdebs and postdebs. Thus invisibly
segregated, everybody was happy except, possibly, me who fell
between two stools as usual; I wasn't quite "Broadway" nor, certainly,
"Boston," but appeared with tiresome regularity at eminently comme
il faut dinner parties at the homes of the Boston Symphony's trustees
260 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and other musically inclined social luminaries. My hostesses, I may
add, thought me disturbingly spectacular and regrettably colorful
"Not at all for you, my dear," they'd say firmly to their daughters.
"He would never do in Boston."
Determined to brave fate, I drank double whisky sours with Flor
ence, wouldn't look at food, and, in drunken stupor and high fever,
took her to Symphony Hall, nearly missing the first number on the
program, Mabel Daniels's "Exultate Deo." My head was swimming
and it was with some difficulty that I could distinguish my own piece
from Miss Daniels's; someone pushed me out at the Epitaph's con
clusion, and I knew just enough to find the door leading to the hall's
stage, kiss Mrs. Alberts's hand, shake Koussevitzky's and Richard
Burgin's (the concertmaster) hands and bow to acknowledge the
polite applause. The rest of the day is extremely vague in my mem
ory, except that there was a party somewhere and that, exhausted
and delirious, I took Miss Meyer to her hotel, which seemed hundreds
of miles away, and was then taken back to Brookline by Koussevitzky's
Russian chauffeur, to swallow more aspirin and flop into bed.
The awakening next morning was truly frightful. My throat seemed
to be getting a thorough working over by zealous creatures of Satan, I
couldn't swallow at all, my head was heavier than a church bell,
and, bell-like, rang discordantly. Somehow I managed to dress and
creep downstairs to join Sergei Alexandrovitch, frowning upon ex
amination of the notices, which were anything but good fortu
nately, I didn't bother to read them until later. "I feel terrible, Sergei
Alexandrovitch," I blurted out in a voice that sounded like a rusty
seesaw. "So do I," Koussevitzky rejoined. "Who wouldn't with no
tices like these? Listen . . ." But I wouldn't listen and, hastily re
questing that my bag be packed, ran out in the cold air, there to await
the car that was to take me to Back Bay Station. Sergei Alexandro
vitch stole a look at me, and what he saw upset him visibly; he be
came all solicitude and paternal anxiety, wrapped me up in a big
woolen shawl (I still have it) and sent me on my way, suggesting a
private bedroom on the train and "liquids, oceans of liquids."
The journey home was something of a protracted torture, further
aggravated by the reading of the notices. Alone in my foolishly, ex
pensive private bedroom, I thought of death with considerable pleas
ure. Should I die at twenty-eight, I would join such young men as Mo
zart, Chopin, Bellini, Weber and that incredible Spaniard Arriaga y
SETTLING DOWN 261
Balzola, who died at nineteen having delivered himself of three
wonderful string quartets. Why not? The obituary notices would be
suitably romantic and might dwell on my orchid buttonholes and
eighteenth-century walking sticks; on Zephyr and Flora and "I'm
Only Human After All"; on the Duke-Dukelsky partnership so prom
isingly begun; and lastly, on the Epitaph which, like Mozart's Re
quiem, proved my own death warrant. The idea had charm and pub
licity value only I wouldn't be there to read the notices, I quickly
reflected. I then thought of Mother, alone in our small East Side flat,
whose love was an indestructible shield, guarding me from all danger,
and of reams of unwritten music that I knew was in me and de
cided that I would try hard not to die not just yet.
On arrival home, I tried to speak and couldn't; Mother knew at
once how very sick I was. She forced me to open my mouth and let
out a scream; the inside of it was the color of a newly hatched baby
alligator's skin. A doctor was immediately summoned and Mother and
I were told that I was a victim of diphtheria a children's disease,
unusual in a man pushing twenty-nine. Apparently I had a very severe
case as my temperature was climbing swiftly to untold heights; I was
given a serum injection and another, a still stronger one, the next
day. The house we lived in was immediately placed in quarantine and
I began a long and obstinate bout with the unseasonable malady, which
appeared mulishly persistent and wouldn't let go of me for several
weeks.
To take my mind off my boring confinement, I wrote a set of lan
guorous, magnolia-scented songs to Michail Kuzmin's "Voyage in
Italy" a pleasantly purposeless pastime, as setting Russian texts is
about as practical as setting Latin ones; both Russian and Latin being
dead languages today unless you recognize the ghastly Marxist
gibberish printed in Moscow as Russian.
Having been denied a further extension of my visitor's visa, I was
told that, should I voluntarily leave for an adjoining country and there
be able to secure a quota number, I would then be eligible to re-enter
the U.S. as an immigrant and become a candidate for citizenship.
Mother did all she could to help secure a quota number for me
through friends in Riga, Latvia. Mexico was the "adjoining country**
elected for my "voluntary" exit.
I sailed in May on the Morro Castle, which went up in smoke off
the Jersey shore three or four trips later with most of her passengers
262 PASSPORT TO PARIS
burned alive. The ship itself was modern and clean, the service exe
crable and practically none of the stewards spoke English or any
other known language. We arrived in Vera Cruz an ugly, barren
town on an especially hot day; you felt as if you were a violin put
back in your case and left there, the case shut tight. Breathing was
out of question and I spent most of the time swigging crystal-cool
Carta Blanca beer in a low-ceilinged bar bereft of windows or venti
lation. That night 1 went to Mexico City by train an experience I
cannot recommend because it scared me out of my wits. I had to
content myself with an upper berth (all the lowers had been sold) and
couldn't sleep all night, having peered out of my window a few times
to discover that we were traveling in the sky, taking sharp curves in
order not to hit the moon and the stars, over an abyss of what looked
like 100,000 feet. This didn't prevent some two hundred soldiers from
cluttering up the vestibules and even hanging on to the hand railings
for dear life, making the whole trip on the slippery steps of the railroad
cars. They were fully armed and when I asked the porter the reason
for all that ammunition, he grinned knowingly and said something
about bandits lurking behind every cactus plant.
I loved Mexico City, even the crazily rare air due to the exces
sively high altitude, which nearly caused me to faint at first; even the
strange food, exotic with a vengeance and smelling not unlike highly
spiced fresh paint. It is customary for a foreigner to develop a violent
stomach ailment after a few Mexican commida corridas (complete
dinners), and I bowed to custom. It is also customary not to admire
the Mexican-baroque (churrigueresque) architecture of the city's
churches and edifices there I refused to conform, and admired
the elaborately ornamental fagades and windows unreservedly. I ex
plored the Zocalo, lounged in a Mexican gondola as I was rowed
through the floating gardens of Xochimilco, climbed atop the cathe
dral to "take in" the celebrated view of the city, and drank pulque
(horrible), tequila (take it or leave it) and nanche, a liquor distilled
from honey (sheer ambrosia) .
I was well received by Carlos Chavez, then director of the con
servatory, conductor of the Mexico City Symphony and the leading
musical figure of his country. Crouched at his office desk in the old
conservatorio building, Chavez looked pretty much the way his mu
sic sounded: wiry, angular, nervous and aggressively functional. He
was a small, keen-looking man of jerky, agitated gestures and what
SETTLING DOWN 263
writers of mediocre fiction describe as "dark, dynamic looks." He lis
tened to my Zephyr and Flora, called it "fresh, young music" and vol
unteered to give it a performance (which never took place); I was
introduced to Frances Poor, the city's top "contact" woman, and
Carolina Amor, Chavez's secretary, a girl as troublesomely pretty as
her name (to whom I later dedicated my "Capriccio Mexicano," a
wild violin piece) and taken to Carlos Obregon's for cocktails.
Obregon, the architect en vogue in Mexico, had built himself a
roofless house which was one of the wonders of the city. I still don't
know what he did when it rained, but can testify to the total absence
of a roof. We drank unusually potent cocktails and were offered
plates of unfamiliar-looking appetizers, brown little ovals that tasted
like dehydrated peanuts. They were quite palatable and, after devour
ing a half dozen, I asked the hostess what they were. She looked
around furtively, as if to make sure that the other foreigners present
weren't listening, and then hissed dramatically: "They are dried and
processed desert bugs. Delicious, no?" "Delicious, yes," I answered,
and ran to the bathroom.
I also met copper-skinned, wild-eyed Silvestre Revueltas, the half-
Indian composer, who died young. Revueltas was an impulsive,
warmhearted man, and his excitement-charged, volcanic music was
Mexico-hewn, perhaps more genuinely so than the sharper, wittier,
better-made music of Chavez. Revueltas had a small, delicately fea
tured Indian wife who had the beautifully shaped slim legs of the
women of her race and a sad, melodious speaking voice. We drank
and ate, and talked and made music it was a little like Paris, the
Paris of composers.
A Mexican friend took me to a mediocre bullfight (it was the
wrong time of the year for that sport) and three unforgettable per
formances at the Teatro Garibaldi, which no longer exists. The Gari
baldi was a species of American burlesque and the three perform
ances all took place the same evening; the first of these, at 6 P.M./
was a "family" affair, the girls appeared fully garbed and the comedi
ans made mfld jokes of an inoffensive nature. The second show, start
ing at 8. P.M., was considerably bolder; the girls, now in partial un
dress, displayed small firm breasts that looked like pale-pink oranges
from where I sat, and the comedians indulged in energetic horseplay
and scatological allusions, while the audience was "mixed," young
couples predominating; at 10 P.M. the theater quickly filled with
264 PASSPORT TO PARIS
daredevil-type aficionados and in a few minutes there was not a
woman in the cigar-scented place. What went on on the stage defied
description. The women were either entirely nude or wore nothing
-under transparent short skirts. There was a runway in the center of
the orchestra, U.S. burlesque style, and the women paraded up and
down on it, strutting lasciviously, their faces strangely impassive and
remote. Those who sat in the middle aisle were regaled by an anatomi
cal display leaving nothing whatever to the imagination; the dress cir
cle was occupied exclusively by Indians, and the runway was so
situated that, by leaning forward, the Indians could touch the girls
without difficulty. This was considered a cardinal offense and the po
lice, strategically placed in the doorways, were on a sharp lookout
for molesters; while I was in the audience, two such molesters were
picked up immediately and marched off to jail. Trips to jail, my in
former assured me, were part of the Indian's everyday life, and you
could often see a high-cheekboned, stolid and serene-looking citizen
being escorted by elegant Mexican cops, for who-knows-what of
fense, smoking a fat cigarette unconcernedly the while. The come-
{jians of either sex who participated in performance No. 3 car
ried on in a manner that would make Restif de la Bretonne blush.
Chavez and I dined together frequently and I developed a great
admiration for the man's energy and oneness of purpose, the second of
these qualities being regrettably absent from my character. His "Pan-
American" conception of the music of this hemisphere and his real
istically democratic regard for all "toilers in music," however hum
ble, coincided with my own ideas; we were both bursting with a
righteous desire to make these ideas universally accepted and put in
work. Chavez's pet project was a huge music festival of new music,
sponsored and run by composers, not interpreters or prima donna-
loving patrons; I thought of Mrs. Meyer and her magnificent West-
chester County Center, an ideal place for such an undertaking.
Mexico is the hotbed of romantic plots and counterplots; of upheavals
and bloodshed. We would have gladly bled some of music's more af
fluent parasites, but, for the time being, contented ourselves with ver
bal violence in the shape of a first draft of a "Composers' Manifesto"
a time bomb which exploded in 1933.
A quota number was finally secured and I was enabled to sail for
the States on the S.S. Orizaba on July 10th, an immigrant once again.
This time everything went off without a hitch on my arrival, and I was
SETTLING DOWN 265
admitted, never again, I hoped, to cast my eyes on the dreaded Island
of Ellis; I couldn't foresee, of course, that I would receive my
U.S.C.G. "boot" training on the island ten years later. I could have
kissed the "sidewalks of New York," so great was my joy at walking
them again, and even thought of writing a modern version of the af
fecting old ballad.
On landing, I bought the New York Sun and read, to my horror, of
the Gay Divorcee going into rehearsal with a score by ... Mr.
Cole Porter. Thinking this a newspaperman's error, I telephoned the
Weatherly office; Mr. Weatherly was out, but I thought of an ingeni
ous trick assuming the hesitant manner of a stage applicant, I
asked the receptionist whether I could audition for Mr. Weatherly's
show? "The Little Show or the Cole Porter musical?" the reception
ist shot back innocently. I slammed the receiver, seething with rage,
and ran to the offices of Harms, Inc. The whole of Broadway knew
that Eliscu and I were engaged to write music and lyrics for Dwighl
Taylor's book, that we were paid advances and given contracts and
that we even played "money" auditions for possible investors. All these
facts had been duly trumpeted by Tom Weatherly, ever the energetic
publicist. The question now was "To sue, or not to sue?" Wise old Max
Dreyfus took a long puff on his cigar, pondered for a while, then
opined that although Eliscu and I "had a case," it wouldn't pay to sue
a producer. It didn't pay to work on a score for months, only to have
it replaced by another writer's, without even the simple courtesy of a
written explanation, either but I swallowed my righteous indigna
tion and learned the true meaning of "you can't fight City Hall," an
expression that had always baffled me theretofore.
After lunch with Mother that is, I lunched while she cried and
thanked God for my safe return I telephoned Courtney Burr and
was told that he was having trouble raising money for the revue, but
that Boris Aronson was doing a "great job" and inventing new scenic
devices daily. Courtney didn't sound very encouraging, and with the
Weatherly show out of my hands, it looked like a jobless autumn com
ing on. Dejectedly, I walked up and down Broadway, frowzy and evil-
smelling in the glaring sun, like an unbathed cocotte after a night with
too many customers. Broadway is still a Babylonian spectacle after
dark, but were I the mayor of New York, I'd keep the visitors away in
the daytime, or revoke the licenses of fruit-drink and popcorn sellers
(incidentally, Td forbid the hellish-sounding popcorn mastication in
266 PASSPORT TO PARIS
cinemas), hot-dog and hamburger stands, Bowery-style bars all
the tinseled trash that succeeded in utterly defacing the once great
and stately theater street
A few steps from Lindy's I ran into a small, pudgy man whose voice
had a curiously strident nasal quality a cross between a purr and a
twang and who answered to the name of Billy Rose. Mr. Rose
looked me over, beginning with the shoes they were fine, thank
goodness, and did not betray the unenviable financial status of their
wearer then worked his way up to my face, tanned by the hot Mex
ican sun. tc Doin* anything?" he asked playfully. "Well, not too much
of anything," I answered, right to the point which is one of my ster
ling characteristics. "I'm just back from Mexico." "Takin' it easy,
huh?'* Mr. Rose continued. "I understand you're a kinda thorough
music man; may be able to do something with you. Come over to
Lindy's and we'll talk." To Lindy's we journeyed and talked or,
rather, Billy did the talking and I listened, fascinated. Apparently,
Rose was bent on producing a revue with sketches by Ben Hecht and
Charles MacArthur, and he wanted an assembled score studded with
nothing but hits. He felt that were he to entrust the job to one com
poser, he might come up with one world beater or two on the outside,
whereas, by getting all the top writers to submit their best songs, one
could, by weeding out the "dogs" (songs with no future) wind up with
a 100 per cent commercial score. My job, Billy continued, would
entail the examination of such material, a detailed report on the
chances of songs submitted both as music and as hit possibilities,
and the writing of "incidental," ballet and "furniture" music and, pos
sibly, a few songs as well. This, while not overly attractive, was a job,
and I, mulling it over quickly, asked what my royalties would be.
"Royalty?" Billy intoned* more nasally than before. "I'm not gonna
pay you any royalty. Tell you what I'll do I'll give you fifty bucks a
week: fifty every week while you work on the show, fifty every week
while it runs. Is it a deal?" My indignant protests proving of no avail,
I asked Rose's permission to telephone Dreyfus and get his appraisal
of such an offer. Permission granted, I reported our conversation to
Mighty Max, who said wearily: "You have nothing else. Take it we
may get a hit song out of it." I took it.
For almost two months, my work was cut out for me by Billy, a se
vere taskmaster. Every night at around nine I had to report at Fanny
Brice's fiat (Rose was then married to her), and was handed a big
SETTLING DOWN 267
batch of manuscripts, most of them unharmonized lead sheets the
voice part alone. I was then led to the piano, given a brisk pep talk
and left to submit the songs to a ruthless screening process hit
parade "maybes" to be placed to the right of the keyboard, doghouse
candidates to the left. At about midnight Billy would reappear, listen
to the evening's harvest and then take me to a Broadway delicatessen
for a cup of coffee and a corned-beef sandwich; I didn't care for
corned beef, but the show was tentatively titled Corned Beef and
Roses, so I munched the symbolically styled sandwich in silence.
Fanny, for whom I was to write two revues eventually, appeared once
or twice as I labored; I was grateful for these interruptions, as she
was friendly and immediately likable.
My evenings thus monopolized by the corned-beef musical, I
found afternoon sessions on Walk a Little Faster with Burr and Boris
Aronson a welcome relief. Boris, who looked as if he had just stepped
from an Assyrian frieze and wore twentieth-century coat and trou
sers under protest, was then struggling manfully and performing mira
cles of revolutionary stagecraft in his dingy Central Park West studio.
Evelyn Hoey, honey-haired and honey-voiced, Courtney, Monty
Woolley (engaged to direct the sketches) and I sat for hours, hypno
tized by Boris's excited guttural explanations and the beautifully
made little models of sets the ones intended for "April in Paris"
and "That's Life" (a Clark and McCuUough "special" with a bright
and biting Harburg lyric) were especially striking. Another song su
perbly "imagined" by Boris was the atmospherically titled "Manhat
tan's the Loneliest Isle Without You," eventually dropped from the
score. Money was slow in coming, but it was coming, Courtney said,
both Jock Whitney and Vincent Astor having promised to invest.
"April in Paris" was written in April 1932, in New York, at Tony
Soma's still-famous establishment, known to New Yorkers as the "West
Side Tony's," as opposed to the plushier East Side bistro of that name.
After auditioning some particularly untalented girls, we all repaired to
Tony's; the "we" consisting of Dorothy Parker, Evelyn Hoey, Robert
Benchley, Monty Woolley, Johnny McClain, Burr and myself.
Evelyn, whom I had first heard singing a pseudo-Scottish air of
Cole Porter's in the American revue at the Ambassadeurs in Paris
in 5 28 or '29 (Cole put her in his Fifty Million Frenchmen a year
later and she scored a notable success), was to be entrusted with the
singing chores in the new musical. After several double Scotches,
268 PASSPORT TO PARIS
we all got pretty sentimental, the Scotch reminding us of Miss Hoey's
tartan skirt in her Paris number, and the mention of the number inevi
tably leading to Paris, how wonderful it was in the spring and how vile
was Manhattan at that time of year. I can't think whether it was
Benchley or Woolley who cried out: "Oh, to be in Paris now that
April's here!" Hie rest went off in true Class B musical-picture fash-
Ion. "April in Paris . . ." said I, melodramatically. "What a title! My
kingdom for a piano!" No sooner were these words uttered than the
ever-obliging Tony ventured the information that an old and wretched
upright was at my disposal on the second floor. The piano was
wretched indeed, but it made appropriate sounds when persuaded
and, using the title "April in Paris" for what they call the 'front
phrase" in the trade, I soon completed the reasonably immortal re
frain. I then proceeded to "ham it up," telling all and sundry that I
had just given birth to a masterpiece that was certain to "make the
show." The lyrics were written a week later by Harburg.
On June 3, 1932, Prokofiev wrote from Paris:
Thanks for the puffed-up letter. Nineteen pages is something
of a record. Most of all I was touched by a certain youthful
freshness of your style, a quality lost long ago by the various
Markevitches and Nabokovs in their Paris struggle for survival.
You somehow manage to preserve that freshness in spite of your
constant peregrinations in the slums of New York music. I
held the manuscript of your "Epitaph" in my hands for a few
moments some months back when you sent it to Paris to have
the orchestral parts extracted; but on seeing that the work was
written on "Jazz" manuscript paper, I felt an upsurge of squeam-
ishness and put it aside. Since both you and Koussevitzky speak
well of that work, I will take a better look at it. What a decadent
idea to write a monumental work with dying St. Petersburg as the
theme! Say what you will, that is the stamp placed upon you by
your hobnobbing with the drying-up emigrants, these branches
severed from the tree trunk, that dream of past splendid Springs
while withering away. If you must write that kind of a piece, call
it "Leningrad" or "Dnieprostroy."
... it will not be difficult for me to place your chamber
works either with the Serenade or Cortot concerts, or the new
chamber society for contemporary music, which is being formed;
SETTLING DOWN 269
111 be on its jury. [The last-named organization was the Triton,
of which P. O. Ferroud was the leading spirit.] I was happy to
read that you liked my Third Symphony. I, too, feel that it con
tained a lot of "real stuff" and I don't understand why it is so
slow in getting going. The suite from the "Prodigal Son" was
put together with bits and pieces that didn't get into the Fourth
Symphony the one that was so unjustly buried in Boston by
our precious representative of the Kous-Kous tribe.
The rest of Serge's long letter consisted of highly technical "music
talk," and ended thus:
Lina Ivanovna sang your music on the London radio and will
soon do so on the Paris one. You have your Soudeikines, we have
our Souvtchinskys and Tansmans but they all vanished from
the horizon.
Alex was back in New York and the Dukelsky trio gave up the ex
citements of our "uptown" existence for the relative quiet of Green
wich Village. We found a second-floor walk-up flat on West Fourth
Street, right next to the Pepper Pot, just off Washington Square. Lower
Fifth Avenue and Washington Square are still "real New York" to me,
together with the Battery and what's left of Murray Hill. Our two years
on Fourth Street would have been replete with peace and content
ment were it not for the burglars. All our neighbors reported burgla
ries at one time or another, and then our time came twice. The
first visit of the looting boys resulted in the disappearance of my en
tire wardrobe; the second visit's toll consisted of every article of
clothing Mother owned. When I telephoned the police after the first
burglary, a bored voice answered: "Mister, there's nothing we can
do we get dozens of calls every day. It's the Village get a better
lock." We didn't call the police after Mother's things were stolen
we moved out.
Life on West Fourth Street was full and rich, despite our compara
tive poverty. Mother kept house, Alex worked for a fellow architect
in Jersey City, and I wrote my two kinds of music, toiled for Burr and
Rose, and entertained fellow composers in my leisure moments. Wall-
ingf ord Riegger and Harold Morris, two of the best talents of the older
generation, ever-young Percy Grainger and a trio of "cubs" Ber
nard Herrmann, Jerome Moross and Irwin Heilner could always be
270 PASSPORT TO PARIS
counted on to drop in of an afternoon; the younger group often came
to breakfast, to Mother's delight. Of the three, Benny Herrmann was
the most remarkable; still a Juilliard student, he lived for, with, and in
music. Oblivious of his appearance, unruly hair, shirt ill-fitting and
clothes unpressed, Benny was an aggressive, torrential talker, making
up in sincerity and violence for the lack of superficial polish in his
speech or any aptitude for felicitous phrase-making. His great honesty
and overflowing love of music, his dogged determination to serve it
as composer and conductor in contrast to conductors' traditional
tendency to make music serve them were touching and disarm
ing and worthy of respect. Benny Herrmann and Billy Rose had the
same East Side background of poverty and privation; the difference
lay in the fact that one was on the friendliest terms with Mammon, the
other with Melpomene.
Jerry Moross, a talented all-around musician, was what's known in
New Yorkese as a fresh guy. One morning, after downing a hearty
breakfast, he demanded to hear my "Spring 1931." I played it for him.
"That's a very bad piece, Vladi," Moross commented when I came
to a stop, then exploded in a delighted cackle. Gradually other com
posers, New York residents all, found their way to West Fourth Street
and together we plotted and argued excitedly. What emerged was a
concrete plan for an annual composers' festival based on the
blueprint Chavez and I dreamed up in Mexico; this plan was pre
sented to Mrs. Meyer, who thought it workable; she agreed to under
write the project to the tune of $50,000 and to house it in the hand
some and spacious Westchester County Center.
Our next job was to find a suitable conductor with a special flair
for contemporary music, who would fall in with our revolutionary
conspiracy restoring the composer to his rightful place in the mu
sical sun. I then made a cardinal, but understandable, mistake; aware
of Koussevitzky's fearless and generous championship of new music,
I thought him the logical choice for our undertaking. What I didn't
realize was the fact that Sergei Alexandrovitch, aided and abetted by
his rich and worshiping wife, was a despot an amiable one, cer
tainly, but a despot, nevertheless. I proposed his name at the next
composers' meeting attended, incidentally, by Aaron Copland
and Nicolai Berezowsky, both of whom owed their careers to Kousse-
vitzky and Sergei Alexandrovitch was unanimously nominated as
the Festival's musical director.
SETTLING DOWN 271
I went to Boston and consulted that human barometer of musi
cal weather, Nicolas Slonimsky, who knew Koussevitzky as few
people did. Nicolas told me with his habitual directness that we were
climbing the wrong tree, that Koussevitzky had never consulted any
one about his programs and wouldn't take dictation under any cir
cumstances especially from composers, to whom he had dictated
all his life. It was too late to retreat, so I manfully descended on the
Koussevitzkys, was asked to supper and went into my song and dance
about the Festival, the New Era in American Music, etc., etc. Sergei
Alexandrovitch's initial reaction was one of boundless ecstasy he
jumped up from his seat at the table, embraced me impulsively, and
said that an annual Festival of New Music was his pet dream and that,
should it materialize, he'd give up the Boston Symphony and devote
himself exclusively to working on the Festival's programs. "But that
will be our work, Sergei Alexandrovitch," I said quickly. "Whose
work, Dima?" Koussevitzky asked in astonishment. "Why, the com
posers', certainly. You see, the whole idea is that the composers' jury
you'll be on it of course will be responsible for the programs,"
I went on. The Koussevitzkys exchanged troubled glances. "Surely
you don't mean that your young people will pick the scores and Sergei
Alexandrovitch will just stand by until called upon to conduct the
orchestra?" Natalya Konstantinovna queried acidly. I had to admit
that that was almost exactly what we meant. Koussevitzky began sug
gesting agitatedly that were he to attend to the music, and / to organi
zation details, we'd do away with confusion and get better results, but
Natalya Konstantinovna rose, cutting short our debate, and suggested
drily that I spend the night and that we resume our talks in the morn
ing.
In the morning, the atmosphere became chillier still. The couple
had obviously "compared notes" and evolved a plan of strategy,
which they would not divulge to me. Sergei Alexandrovitch simply
said that he was interested "in principle," Natalya Konstantinovna
adding that they'd let me know "in due time." A few days later, how
ever, Koussevitzky accepted our proposal and we so informed Mrs.
Meyer.
On my return, I had to busy myself with other things. Billy Rose
took an office in the Wurlitzer Building and regaled the press with
typically roseate announcements concerning his forthcoming re
vue. One of these announcements read: "Most of the tunes will come
272 PASSPORT TO PARIS
from the music stand of Vernon Duke." Alas, my music stand proved
more of a standstill in the Wurlitzer Building, as Billy, busy with his
stable of stars, his coffers bulging with "hit material" I helped select,
somehow lost interest in me; when his revue got produced (under a
new name and with a new cast) I was not among its composers. Not
so with Courtney Burr, who stuck with me through thick and thin.
The Astors and the Whitneys heeded his call; at long last, splendid
offices at St. James Theatre were given over to Burr and his retinue,
and a fully equipped bar was put within easy reach of the producer's
desk a great luxury in those sad speakeasy days.
Beatrice Lillie, always referred to as "incomparable," and rightly
so, and Clark and McCullough were signed by Burr, as well as Boris
Aronson for sets and costumes, Albertina Rasch for the dances, S. J.
Perelman for the sketches and Monty Woolley to direct the dialogue.
Perelman, whom I first met in Burr's office, looked like a bespec
tacled black panther in a Brooks Bros. suit.
Harburg flew into a rage very easily. Upon demonstrating a song of
ours called "Speaking of Love," he wound up with the last lines:
"Speaking of love, I'll be your rczrccompoop, just be my mcompoop,
speaking of love." When Dorothy Parker, listening with her decep
tively demure air, asked sweetly: "Pray, dear Mr. Harburg, what is an
zwcompoop?" Harburg let out an agonized yell, delivered a poignant
address on the subject of Park Avenue Parasites and stormed out of
the room. He was a busy man in the autumn of 1932 and could well
afford to take such verbal duels in his stride. J. P. McEvoy's Ameri
cana, which opened in October at the Shubert Theatre, had several
composers, but Harburg was billed as its only lyricist (although three
songs were written in collaboration with Johnny Mercer). Ameri
cana was well liked by the critics and boasted two highlights
"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime" (Gorney-Harburg), that stirring
saga of depression, and the lightly satirical "Let Me Match My
Private Life With Yours," for which I supplied the tune; nearly
every newspaper quoted the punchline: "You can have your City
Hall PU take A. C. Blumenthal. Let me match my private life
with yours," sung by Albert Carroll in a realistic take-off on Jimmy
Walker.
The Boston opening of Walk a Little Faster coincided with the
Chicago premiere of my Second Symphony, which was programed
thanks to Prokofiev, who succeeded in selling Frederick Stock, the
SETTLING DOWN 273
orchestra's conductor, on the virtues of my score, prior to return
ing to Europe. I couldn't break away from the revue's rehearsals, and
thus had to miss the symphony's; from all accounts it was well played
the late Mr. Stock was a topnotch musician and noisily re
ceived, "bravos" clashing with less complimentary exclamations.
The notices were of the "in and out" variety. Walk a Little Faster re
hearsals were not particularly memorable, except that Bobby Clark,
one of the musical stage's greatest comedians, surprised me by seem
ing a mournful, pedantic little fellow, who kept complaining about
"tricky lyrics" and "too many choruses," which were fed him by
faithful Paul McCullough, who made up in efficiency for what he
lacked in talent. The pair had a hilarious opening number in "That's
Life" ("Just when you're getting ahead, bingo! You're dead That's
life."), a kind of a two-four strut, and I recall Bobby running across
the stage arm in arm with McCullough, singing through his cigar
and taking it out of his mouth every so often to bark at Harburg and
myself: "You're making it tough for me, boys."
On several occasions we were within a hairsbreadth of not open
ing at all, because, among the backers of nearly every show, there's
always at least one doubting Thomas who gets cold feet just before
signing his check and his withdrawal causes the show's future to
hang perilously in the balance. We, the authors, were too busy with
our own troubles to believe the wild tales we heard from some of the
snooping members of the cast and it was just as well; the tales
were all based on truth, but that didn't prevent the revue from open
ing shows having a habit of opening and alas! closing when
least expected to do so.
Courtney invited the Koussevitzkys to the premiere and they
accepted with pleasure; we didn't have time to discuss the proposed
festival Sergei Alexandrovitch wasn't any too anxious to do so,
anyway, and as I led the couple to my box, they were all smiles
and eager anticipation, quite like children with a multicolored,
oversized toy. The Boston Walk a Little Faster opening night was one
of the roughest in history. Two or three of the more massive settings
were not shown because of first-night handicaps backstage: two or
three of the less agile stagehands unintentionally appeared with the
actors, and some of the actors didn't appear at all, unable to find their
way to the stage. To paraphrase the report of an eyewitness, it was a
splendid performance, contributed both by the invisible actors and
274 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the visible stage crew, but the show easily rose above such trifles.
The wonderful Boston audience there is no better, as any show
man will testify ate it all up good-naturedly, overlooking such
items as the crash of a drop and its removal from the scene for good.
Again to the credit of Boston, it must be admitted that "April in
Paris" clicked during our tryout in that city, while it definitely "laid
a bomb" (in the current phrase) two weeks later in New York;
and I must again pay a tribute to my unflinching supporter, Boston's
own H. T. Parker by crediting him with the first out-and-out "rave"
for the song. His notice for the entire score was of the sort that no one
writes anymore and it lifted me right up to the sky. "Modernisms
abound in Mr. Duke's music. He has confided it and Mr. Salinger
has scored it [Conrad Salinger, who with Russell Bennett orchestrated
the music] for a jazz, rather than a theatre orchestra. Being a mod
ernist, Mr. Duke makes bold with rhythms. . . . Nor does Mr. Duke
hesitate at modulations that might grate on the more innocent Berlin
or Kern. Yet when need is, he can write a nostalgic, quasi-
sentimental melody that touches most that hear. 'April in Paris' is
worthy, in place and kind, of that city in spring. There is a catch in
the throat from it if one has too many memories. 'Loneliest Isle,*
which is Manhattan, keeps it fit company. Distinctly, Mr. Duke has
gone several steps forward with our music for revue" Despite good
notices, Walk a Little Faster, like most big, lavish revues, needed a
lot of work in order to achieve the hit status prophesied for it by Bos
ton's reviewers and, rather unexpectedly, by Koussevitzky, who
thought it the best show he'd ever seen; I doubt that he'd seen many.
Ray Goetz, Courtney's producer friend, arrived over the week
end to lend a helping hand, and the two men were closeted together
in Courtney's suite at the Ritz the whole of Sunday making drastic
changes, without the assistance of the authors, who were not sum
moned, at Goetz's suggestion. On Monday morning we were told that
a brand new "routine" was to be tried that night, that it was to be
sprung as a "surprise" and would we please forego "looking in" at re
hearsals, but attend the performance and make notes. Aronson,
Perelman, Harburg and I spent the whole day resting in the lovely
New England countryside, and, after a copious dinner at Locke-
Ober's showed up at the Majestic Theatre. The performance was a
surprise, all right; all the best sketches and songs were now in Act
One, the audience was brought to its feet and we to the nearest exit.
SETTLING DOWN 275
Out in the fresh air we stared at one another, Aronson shaking his
head unbelievingly, Perelinan's bespectacled black-panther face wear
ing a typically savage scowl. Knowing that all the "weak sisters"
were dumped into Act Two, no doubt with the assumption that the
audience, shattered by the first act's magnificence, would, by then,
swallow anything, we couldn't face the actors about to be slaugh
tered in the line of duty and betook ourselves to a neighboring bar.
At 10 P.M. we emerged, unable to stand the suspense any longer, and
were equally unable to re-enter the theater; masses of people were
pouring out of the Majestic, looking sulky and dejected, and block
ing all the entrances. Our first guess was that the paying customers,
crushed by the horrors of the second act, left in protest; but that
was not the case. Goetz's strategy was simply to cut out five of the
more offensive items, without replacing them; thus the curtain went
down at 9:50 P.M. (instead of the 11:45 of the opening night's per
formance) and the audience saw the shortest revue in theatrical his
tory. The original routine was restored on the next evening, Mr. Goetz
leaving Boston by an early train.
The receipts for the second week dropped quite a bit, but we
rolled up our sleeves and worked doggedly, finally whipping the revue
into acceptable shape. Another financial near-catastrophe was nar
rowly averted, and a hilarious party was given by Courtney and his
backers on the Saturday preceding our exodus from Boston and the
staid Ritz Hotel treated to the unusual spectacle of chorus girls per
forming audacious "grinds" in the hotel lobby at 6 A.M. and doing
uncensored "bumps" against the columns adorning the establish
ment's interior. Courtney and Evelyn sailed into an uninhibited
polka for the benefit of the wide-eyed bellhops, and even Monty
Woolley essayed a species of a jig, but cut it short, probably to up
hold his beard's dignity.
We opened in New York with considerable eclat, La Lillie's faith
ful admirers and the entire Astor and Whitney clans present in full
force. The show was much smoother than in Boston, yet its smooth
ness exposed faults a certain would-be recherche self-conscious
ness, a striving for originality at all costs and the sketches' tend
ency to peter out without reaching the hoped-for hilarious climax.
Consequently, the notices were only fah" or, in hopeful theat
rical parlance, they were "good box-office notices." My share of
the notices was almost nonexistent, which was hard to take after the
276 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Boston raves. WinchelTs appraisal of my score was a far cry from
Parker's colorful adjectives; he singled out "Where Have We Met
Before," "So Nonchalant" and "Speaking of Love" as the best of the
tunes, but thought the music for the most part "nothing to set your
tootsies tapping." Walter proved a good friend in later years; I just
didn't "slay" him in 1932. Nobody mentioned "April in Paris," ex
cept Bob Garland, who thought it "an unnecessary item." The first
columnist to embrace my best-known and most durable song was
amiable little Louis Sobol, who invited his readers to "clap calloused
mitts for his favorite next to 'Melancholy Baby' Vernon Duke's
soft 'April in Paris/ "
The truth of the matter was that poor Evelyn Hoey was suffering
from laryngitis and her rendering of my ballad seldom rose above a
hoarse whisper; the lovely Aronson set an imaginary Paris Left
Bank cafe behind a transparent gauze curtain and the waltz in
terlude by the young and supple Fitzgibbonses, well-choreographed
by Albertina Rasch weren't enough to put the song over. After the
second performance, Alex and I, dejected and resentful of the
critics' indifference, sat in the Times Square Childs' restaurant,
Alex consoling me to the best of his ability, when in stormed Har-
burg, disheveled and obviously in a rage. "Ah, so you liked your
Boston notices, my fine friend," he exclaimed, coming right to the
point. "I hope you're satisfied with the New York ones. I told you
'April in Paris' might be all right for decadent Europeans, but not for
this country yet you wouldn't listen. Read this." With a dramatic
gesture he threw Bob Garland's notice on my table. My shy, soft-
spoken brother came to my defense and upbraided Harburg for his
untimely and unfriendly onslaught on his collaborator, who, after all,
got him the job. The scene was not pretty and my lyricist left in a
huff, claiming that "April in Paris" should have been a saucy "jingle"
in the first place.
While in Boston, through Slonimsky I had met and become a friend
and admirer of Gershwin's and Gilbert's and Sullivan's vivid and eru
dite biographer Isaac Goldberg, a gentle, retiring soul, capable of un
expected flights of fancy and still more unexpected flashes of steel-
edged wit Goldberg was especially appreciative of the Duke side of
me,^ rather than the Dukelsky one; as I suspected, most of the "seri
ous" new music left him cold mine, possibly, included. In the
years that I knew Ike Goldberg (he is another tragic entry in my
SETTLING DOWN 277
ever-growing list of those who died too soon) , he did as much for me
in the realm of musical comedy as H. T. Parker in the symphonic
division. The music of Walk a Little Faster fascinated him, and some
of the pleasanter Boston rituals were nightly gatherings, after the
show, either at Ike's or Slonimsky's for a little modest eating and
drinking, a few ribald stories and limericks (Ike reminded me of Philip
Heseltine in that respect) and a capsule recital of my "catalogue
of dogs," in Jack Robbins's immortal phrase, with myself at the piano.
Goldberg was indignant at the New York critics' treatment of my
score for the Bea Lillie show and wrote me on December 13th:
"From scraps that I read here and there in the Gotham (Goddamn)
press, I gathered that they had been stupid that is the 'mot juste'
with your music. It is nothing new. I shall be glad, as a public serv
ice, and not alone as a service to you, to write to one of the news
papers. The question is, which paper shall it be?" There was more
in this vein, then an amusing reference to Gershwin's unsuccessful
Pardon My English, which was shut up for repairs: "Maybe the Eng
lish was unpardonable! I'm sure the music was O.K." Most gratifying
was the P.S.: " 'April in Paris' is one of the finest musical composi
tions that has ever graced an American production. If I had my way,
Td make the study of it compulsory in all harmony courses," The
paper for which Ike wrote his article, calling it "Dukelsky into
Duke," turned out to be the New York Evening Post, which printed
the article in January 1933. While Goldberg didn't quite "take the
stump to pronounce Vernon Duke the greatest of composers put
ting Ms work above Kern, Gershwin et al.," as the ubiquitous Winchell
announced to his Mirror readers, Ike did very handsomely by me:
"I consider it important for our lighter musical stage that a talent
such as Duke's should not, at this point in his development, pass in
sufficiently appreciated. The man has an individual gift that makes
him stand out in company of those who have made of our musical
comedy something more than the dull routine it once used to be. In
fact, I do not hesitate to say that he is the most important personality
to come to our stage since Kern and Gershwin and Porter were fol
lowed by Rodgers, Youmans and their fellows, and that, if he is not
allowed to find his place in contemporary revues, musical comedies
and even comic opera, the loss will be, to us and to him, artistically
considerable."
Such pronouncements were fine and soul-satisfying, but they didn't
278 PASSPORT TO PARIS
help sell copies or records, of which there were very few made, none
whatever of "April in Paris." Dreyfus was not pleased and intimated
that it was fine to be a "class" composer, but that turning out song
hits was infinitely healthier. The "boys" in the Harms waiting room
were thunderstruck when, on my way out of the "inner sanctum," I
was stopped by a white-haired, birdlike little fellow who said in a
high-pitched voice: "You're Vernon Duke, aren't you? Let me shake
your hand I'm Jerome Kern." We shook hands and I murmured
something indicative of my profound respect for the dean of Ameri
ca's show composers, who interrupted me to say: "You may think it
odd and I'm not in the habit of saying such things, but I'm crazy about
your music it's new and it's fresh. Believe it or not, I'm under your
influence. Good day to you." And off he went to keep an appointment
with Max Dreyfus.
Walk a Little Faster had a run of four or five months, was rated a
moderate success and lost money. A representative of one of the
backers, oblivious of the management's protests, hit on an effective
idea; he would appear at the box office after the Saturday matinee
and collect his principal's share of the week's take. This was fine for
the principal, but ruinous to us authors as, by the time the cast
and the orchestra were paid, there was no money whatever left for
us. Thus I, a busy Broadway tunesmith represented by two shows
(Americana was ha for a run) , received no royalties my micro
scopic share of the McEvoy show's intake excepted and had
difficulty paying rent and buying food for the house. It was no fault
of Burr's, who did what he could to help and made a cash settlement
with me and the other writers some months later.
Composers* meetings in Washington Square were now resumed
and a vast dossier of composers' grievances, complaints and aspira
tions assembled and indexed for the whole music world, which
was in no hurry, to see. Shortly after the revue's opening, I was sum
moned to Brookline by Koussevitzky for what I knew was to be a final
"showdown." Natalya Konstantinovna was not present at our conver
sation before supper, but she was the real power behind the con
ductor's throne and I knew at once that Koussevitzky's stand was
influenced and, probably, insisted upon by his wife, who would never
allow anyone to question Sergei Alexandrovitch's supremacy hi
matters musical. His main point was that a festival, to be lastingly
successful, must be run and guided by one man and that letting com-
SETTLING DOWN 279
posers run things without an authoritative leader spelled suicide for
our project. A heated argument ensued, Koussevitzky bent on win
ning, I holding ground obstinately. Exasperated by my stubbornness,
the conductor suddenly let the cat out of the bag: "This is all a waste
of time. Mrs. Meyer agrees with me, anyway/ "he shrieked.
I went back perplexed and worried; something was radically
wrong with the festival plans the composers on one side of the
fence, Koussevitzky on the other, with me in the middle, to which
position I was fast getting used. On whose side was Mrs. Meyer?
There would be the clue to the whole mystery, as all of our plotting
was just so much idle talk without that gracious and energetic
woman, her pet County Center and let's admit it her money.
I went to see Mrs. Meyer on arrival; in answer to my question con
cerning Koussevitzky's statement, she readily admitted having cor
responded with the conductor, who proposed his plan for the festival,
severely criticizing ours. Worse still, Mrs. Meyer seemed to be con
vinced by Koussevitzky's arguments and now thought our original
idea of a festival run by and for composers impractical and
unbusinesslike. It appeared that Sergei Alexandrovitch was greatly
vexed by "unknown amateurs" who wrote him offering program sug
gestions, and in parenthesis asking him to listen to their music.
When I asked the identity of so bold an amateur, Mrs. Meyer checked
with Koussevitzky's letter and said it was "somebody called Walling-
ford Riegger." I gasped. Riegger, born in 1885, studied at the Berlin
Hockschule and conducted the Bluthner Orchestra; received the
Paderewski award and the Elizabeth Coolidge Prize, and was one of
America's outstanding composers. AH of this was conveyed to Mrs.
Meyer, together with a request to receive a composers' delegation
and hear their side of the story before making a decision that might
destroy the very raison d'etre of the festival. To this the lady agreed;
and after listening to my fellow conspirators, came to the realization
that we meant business and that musically speaking there was
only one lead to follow that of the plan's instigators.
Another exchange of letters and Koussevitzky sent Mrs. Meyer
a telegram announcing his resignation as the proposed festival's mu
sic director. This was read at a hastily summoned meeting, and
with Mrs. Meyer's consent a telegram sent to Eugene Goossens, a
composing conductor, therefore better attuned to our problems,
asking him to take over. On Koussevitzky's resignation, two members
280 PASSPORT TO PARIS
of the composers' committee resigned also; they were Aaron Cop
land and Nicolai Berezowsky.
The remaining members prepared a "composers' manifesto," based
on the original suggestions of Carlos Chavez and myself, and sent
it to Olin Downes, the music critic of the N.Y. Times, where it was
published on May 31, 1933.*
* The manifesto began: "We, the undersigned, have united to form a
Composers' Protective Society, to reinstate the composer to his rightful
place in the world of music." After listing our "common difficulties," we
stated our objectives, of which there were so many that it would be im
practical to reprint them here in full. The objectives contained a plea to
enable composers to "gain a livelihood from their work." We made a good
point when we stated that the "yearly salaries for the conductors of but
six of our major orchestras aggregate over $250,000, to say nothing of
soloists 5 fees. Is it too much to propose that each of the orchestras budget
a minimum of $1000 to commission a work from a representative Ameri
can composer annually, and that their budget include fees for new works,
which at the present time the average composer is generally forced to
waive in order to have his work played at all?" Objective No. 9 was "to
give an annual festival of modern music, the programs to be selected by a
composers' board." The concluding paragraph read: "In the unity we pro
pose lies the hope of a better day for the composer in America." There
followed twenty-nine signatures: Joseph Achron, John J. Becker, Russell
Bennett, Marc Blitzstein, Henry Brant, Israel Citkowitz, Henry Cowell,
Fannie C. Dillon, Richard Donovan, Vladimir Dukelsky, A. Lehman
Engel, Vivian Fine, George Gershwin, AureUo Giorni, Percy Grainger,
Charles Haubiel, Irwin Heilner, Bernard Herrmann, Philip James, Douglas
Moore, Jerome Moross, Harold Morris, Wallingford Riegger, Carlos Sal-
zdo, Lazare Saminsky, Joseph Schillinger, Elie Siegmeister, William
Grant Still, Bernard Wagenaar.
CHAPTER XIV
THE GOOD YEARS
THXCEPT for the terrible blow of George Gershwin's death on July
-C 11, 1937, the decade 1932-1942 was for me in general happy
and productive on both fronts serious and light resulting hi a
chain of successes, although not the resounding, gilt-edged kind that
befall Broadway's favorite sons. As a matter of statistics, my first
real flop did not make its appearance until 1942 {Lady Comes
Across with Jessie Matthews, who certainly didn't).
I had my share of small setbacks, but what success is complete
without them? Take the composers* manifesto, for instance; it didn't
start the desired fireworks and never brought about the festival, its
sole realistic trump card. Yet it stirred up a little much-needed agita
tion and who knows? might have had some bearing on certain
half-hearted moves made by music's rulers in the direction of music's
creators. There were quite a few "letters to the editor" for and
against the "fors" mostly from composers, the "againsts" from in
terpreters. I was saddened by the pitiless dissection of the manifesto
by the man I thought would embrace it unreservedly H. T. Parker,
who called our profession de joi "... an American document that
does not much help a good cause." His comments, I felt, seldom
went to the core of the matter and were often highly debatable. Par
ker thus whitewashed the conductors' autocracy: "In organization
someone must have authority, and the final word. There is no other
way at present hi human affairs. The whole world pines for dictator
ship." The American world, too? More serious than Parker's severe
criticism was Mrs. Meyer's abandoning the Westchester Festival idea,
not because of her lack of faith in it but because her husband re
signed as governor of the Federal Reserve Board, after a disagree
ment with Roosevelt, and gave his money and energy to the Wash-
282 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ington Post, which he had purchased. This was hardly the time for
either one of the Meyers to back music festivals.
What promised to be an epoch-making departure turned out to be
yet another false alarm, and the composers went back to their com
posing and their struggles with the Masterminds of Music bent on
transforming the entire music business into a species of gigantic
Master Classes of Appreciation of Masterworks by the Masters of the
Past. After a Koussevitzky concert in Carnegie Hall, I went backstage
to congratulate Sergei Alexandrovitch and bumped into Tante Na
talie, who gave me the Catherine-the-Great-dismissing-yesterday's-
favorite look, meant as a warning signal. Tactlessly, I ignored the
signal, and said something about the composers being left high and
dry by Koussevitzky's abrupt resignation as musical director of their
project. Natalya Konstantinovna, now furious, stomped her foot and
shouted in Russian: "Poteeshe ss vashimi kompositorami!" (You be
quiet with your composers.) I instantly rejoined that not being Mi
lady's lackey, I would not be shouted at and stalked out of the
room.
Other conductors, probably unaware of my anticonductor cam
paign, began to interest themselves in my music. Leon Barzin dusted
off my 1927 First Symphony and gave it a good reading for the sub
scribers to the American Orchestral Society, in April 1933; audi
ence and critics were surprisingly kind to that youthful piece. Benny
Herrmann launched a series of three concerts in the Twelfth Street
New School auditorium and conducted his New Chamber Orches
tra in provocatively unhackneyed programs. My Ballade for Piano
and Strings was revised for Benny's concerts and got a "rousing re
ception" at the one on May 10th. This was probably due to Benny's
savage-rite type of conducting (he's toned it down considerably
since) and my having studied the piano part with Isabella Venger-
ova, Slonimsky's aunt and one of the greatest piano pedagogues
living. I played my solos with dash and assurance (as the musicians
told me later, not a single "clinker"), Benny and I made frantic faces
at one another and perspired impressively.
That spring I busied myself with putting my musical house in or
der with Prokofiev's usual unselfish help. When one realizes that
most men who've made their mark in the Arts are hopelessly unrelia
ble correspondents, the amazing punctuality of Serge's letter-writing
habits was next to incomprehensible. The man seemed to live in air-
THE GOOD YEARS 283
ports and railroad stations no two letters ever came from the same
address yet he managed to attend to his mail with clockwork regu
larity. His letters werelyp 6 ^ & Russian as a rule, although quite a
few were in his characteristic, peculiarly attractive longhand. Not
all of them were pleasant for Serge, as I have already noted,
could be brutally, uncompromisingly frank, and cared nothing about
one's feelings, although himself not insensitive to criticism.
Harassed by too many recitals, Prokofiev was traversing his least-
productive years, "formalist" years as Soviet scribes had it, owing to
the nomad existence, which interfered with his writing. While the
mellifluous "Lieutenant Kije" film music was written in 1933, during
one of his short visits to Russia, Paris (to which he returned) was
the birthplace of the barren and overwritten "Symphonic Song," the
first sketch of the cello concerto (of which only the first movement is
good Prokofiev) and some excessively "cerebral" piano pieces. We
neither of us minced words, and, on receipt of these pieces, I wrote
Serge a detailed criticism of them, stressing (not without malice) the
music's "dryness" the same identical fault for which Prokofiev be
labored me in the long letter already cited.
To make his answer understandable, it must be told that there was
a critic in New York who disapproved of most contemporary music,
excepting that of Gershwin; Prokofiev cited his articles as models of
biased and cranky writing and nicknamed him Mr. Hotenough
(which was close enough). Serge suddenly popped up in the States
again and wrote me from Chicago:
My dear Mr. Hotenough!
It was with suitable respect that I read your report on my
modest opus. It pains me to have to say that, since they threw you
out of the N. Y. World [not me, but my prototype, apparently]
you haven't made much progress nor acquired any new keen
ness of perception. Such is the characteristic trait of all Hote-
noughs not to discern real value, but pick on unimportant
and often infinitesimal faults. Dear Mr. Hotenough! I know that
in your spare time you too scribble notes and rests. On sounding
out Stock [Frederick Stock, the Chicago conductor] I gath
ered that he regards you with some coolness; at any rate when I
made inquiries about your Second Symphony, he wanted to know
who Markevitch was. You understand that with my usual zeal I
284 PASSPORT TO PARIS
attempted to explain "who is who." [English, in Russian letters,
in the text]. The results were pleasant. Stock would like to see
another score of yours, which we'll discuss on our meeting. Au
revoir, dear Mr. Hotenough! Try and develop yourself, dear Mr.
Hotenough! Your very trueny [a Prokofiev-invented Russo-
American adjective],
S.P.
The letter was typical of Serge, who, obviously nettled by my com
ments on his piano pieces, and replying in the vein of bristling sar
casm, yet tells his detractor in the next breath of spreading the gospel
of the detractor's music. Yes, Prokofiev's friendship was a rare and
wondrous thing. A few days after returning to Moscow he sent me
the following post card, with a view of the Kremlin on it It was
dated May 8, 1933, and read:
My dear Duke,
Your 2nd Symphony was performed in Warsaw a few days
ago, broadcasted [sic], and approved by a group of young com
posers in Moscow. Greetings from us both.
S. & L. Prokofiev
That spring Harburg and I were summoned by Lee Shubert to
help with the score of his proposed new edition of the Ziegfeld Fol
lies, the title of which, evocative of so many memories, he pur
chased from Billie Burke, Ziegfeld's widow. This was again to be an
"assembled" score, although originally most of the songs were by Lou
Alter and Arthur Swanstrom. Then the portly frame of the late Sam
Pokrass, one of the gypsy-songwriting Pokrasses (a brother was Rus
sia's top tunesmith), a lovable jester and sentimentalist, emerged
from out of nowhere; then Duke and Harburg muscled in I was
by now used to such athletic entrances so that, by the time the
Follies opened at the Winter Garden, only Pokrass and myself were
listed as production composers.
Harburg and I had three good songs left over from the orig
inal Billy Rose revue, and since Fanny Brice was to star in the
Follies, thought that there'd be no trouble transplanting the songs
from a dead score into a live one. We didn't know Broadway's own
THE GOOD YEARS 285
Billy; one would have thought that, having failed to produce the
corned-beef extravaganza, Rose would have been big enough to let
us use our material, intended for it and now reduced to an" inactive
status. Not on your life! Rose was going to make the Shuberts pay
through the nose for his songs, which made our own negotiations
with the producers extremely difficult Rose's name was on one of
the songs anyway "Suddenly," which we had written in Billy's
apartment and so his claim was that of an author as well as pro
ducer. I firmly believe that the man ended by getting more for the
three songs than Harburg and I together for the lion's share of the
Follies score.
The show was being staged by Bobby Connolly, the easygoing,
chunky dance director, who had had his taste of producing with Sons
O' Guns and, less successfully, Princess Charming. Bobby lived high,
cracked jokes and couldn't refuse a drink, but was no disciplinarian.
He was no choreographer either, in the contemporary sense, but a
dance director, which is another thing entirely. Dance routines in the
thirties consisted of "hoofing" or "tapping," and ballets, when incor
porated into a show's fabric, were usually staged by an outside spe
cialist; Albertina Rasch was, I think, the first stager who was adept
at both chores. The cast of the Follies was, certainly, heterogeneous,
but it contained enough talented principals to make the fortunes of
three revues.
Most revues are disorganized in the early stages, before the un
necessary material gets weeded out and the whole vehicle starts
taking shape, but in the Follies of 1933-34 sheer chaos reigned trium
phantly. After weeks of quarrels, tantrums, firings, hirings, Con
nolly's disappearances, Lee Shubert's dreaded entrances, money and
tears flowing, stagehands fleeing, we got off to an unpromising start
in Boston. "Only God can make a knee and that's where we come
in," sang the girls. Not only a hen can lay an egg we did; not one,
but several. True, Fanny stopped the show, as was her habit, but
faulty cues and backstage mishaps stopped it too often. We ex
pected a real lambasting from the critics, but to everyone's surprise
they loved the show; scratch a Bostonian and find a theater fan.
Nobody was fooled; the consensus was that we had a big flop on
our hands. Frantic reshuffling and rehashing of the show, wholesale
dropping of skits and songs, exiting principals didn't seem to help.
286 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Philadelphia (our next stop) wasn't taken in by the show's name,
nor the star-studded cast, and the critics this time really gave it "the
business" but not the kind that brings lines to the box office.
We then went to Washington. I don't know whether the fact is
well-known, but whenever a show is in trouble, the first one to be
blamed is the composer. Songs that caused producers, stars and
chorus girls to swoon in rehearsal rooms, theatrical offices and as
often as not composers' bedrooms, are suddenly condemned for
being tuneless, derivative, undistinguished and downright "dog-
like." Having acquired a respectable reputation in New York draw
ing rooms and being touted by those "in the know" as a "comer," I
was mortified to find that the tunes, which delighted Gershwin ("I
Like the Likes of You" was his favorite, and, jokingly claiming that
I invented the "Zw#-pause" style of jazz-playing, he was fond of imi
tating my manner of playing that song), were now in daily danger of
being thrown out of the score. A battalion of ambitious songwriters
was dogging Lee Shubert's steps, and I had somber visions of other
people's hits blossoming on the dead carcass of my discarded music.
To this day, should a musical show open in the provinces and get
doubtful notices, a round half-dozen song merchants will be on the
next train. One would think their pretentions futile and scoff at the
little fellow slouched modestly in the back row of the orchestra, a
squashed hat over his eyes; don't sell him short because, lo and be
hold, the little fellow is rehearsing an unfamiliar-sounding song with
three comedians and a girl tap dancer mumbling unfamiliar lyrics,
typewritten copies in hand. You then raise hell with the producer,
who is all righteous innocence: never heard of the little fellow, nor
his little song. The next evening you attend the show's performance
and, just as you're busy counting the house, the conductor strikes
up a new-sounding introduction and the little fellow's song raises
its ugly (or pretty) head, catching you unawares. This may never
have happened to Gershwin or Rodgers or Porter, but it happened
to me many a time.
No sooner did we arrive in Washington than Harburg, who had
been singing "What Is There to Say?" with infectious ardor, if not in
tune (he would start the chorus near the piano in the right key, then
gradually progress to the opposite end of the room, getting away not
only from the piano but from the tune as well as he progressed,
waving his arms expansively and crouching bear-fashion at the cli-
THE GOOD YEARS 287
maxes), descended on me in another fit of rage. In a torrent of ill-
punctuated words, he abused me for producing decadent, "unmanly/*
affected music instead of the good, simple, American tunes expected
by the people. My settings of his lyrics were about to disappear from
the score, he continued, and it was my own fault, as I wouldn't listen,
etc. The gist of all this ranting was that I had better write new
tunes yes, three new tunes to replace the defective originals. This
was too much and I, with equal heat, refused point-blank to cut "not
only my own throat, but also the score's."
The next day as I walked down the corridor on my floor of the
old Willard Hotel I heard sounds of a piano emanating from one of
the rooms, and a man's voice singing a song, the lyrics of which
sounded oddly familiar. On tiptoe, I walked to the door and listened;
there was no mistake what I heard was a brand-new version of "I
Like the Likes of You," in no way resembling mine. "Ah-ha!" I mut
tered, teeth on edge, and walked on. It can't be Oh, yes it was!
an entirely fresh and barely detectable "What Is There to Say"
emerging from another room on the same floor, this time warbled with
feeling by a tremulous girl's voice. My fists now clenched, I pro
ceeded on my Sherlock Holmesian promenade, and hadn't walked
two steps before finding myself face to face with one of the minor
Harms benchwarmers, who gave me a furtive look and pretended
not to recognize me. I found Lee Shubert and told him of the coinci
dence of three newly arrived tunesmiths all writing new tunes to the
lyrics of my songs and all living and creating on my floor, which was
entirely too much for human endurance; told him further that I was
leaving immediately for New York, at my own expense, and that I
didn't care whether my name was taken off the program, my royal
ties cut altogether, my small reputation ruined in short, that I had
had enough. Mr. Lee was kind and understanding and said some
thing about 'things arranging themselves" and "not to worry," but he
didn't attempt to stop me from taking the train back to New York,
which I did, a delicious sense of release enveloping my whole being.
On returning home, I plunged into "serious" pursuits, such as
the first draft of the End of St. Petersburg, a cantata for three solo
ists, mixed chorus and orchestra, that I was writing in snatches be
tween auditions, rehearsals and voyages. The "Epitaph" was a fail
ure, but it had given me a taste for choral writing; I find the singing
of a large choral group a greater musical thrill than the most ear-
288 PASSPORT TO PARIS
catching orchestral virtuoso display. The subject I chose for my can
tata has been a constant challenge to me and I was determined
to find suitable sounds for it. In the words of Hugh Ross, who con
ducted it five years later: "In his choice of St. Petersburg, Dukelsky
has a specially interesting subject, partly because of the curious ar
tificiality of that city which Peter the Great built for Russia, a
window opening upon the Western World; and also because St. Pe
tersburg has both lived and died in the sense that it has now lost not
only its name, but its position as Capital city of Russia." To every
Russian, the sound of the words St. Petersburg instantly spells a
strange enchantment. In a sense, we all are fetishists in regard to
Petersburg, the city, and Pushkin, its poet. This adoration reached its
zenith in 1937, which marked the centenary of Pushkin's death. That
anniversary was celebrated, not only in Soviet Russia (with unprece
dented pomp and circumstance), but in every last refuge of Rus
sia's scattered refugees, with something akin to mass hysteria.
True, the city is now renamed Leningrad (unthinkable sacrilege)
and is no longer the capital of Russia, but merely a gigantic museum
within the gates of a Soviet port; and the old name St. Petersburg has
a dangerously reactionary ring to the present keepers of the city's
keys. No matter. It will live forever in the music of Pushkin's poetry,
which needs no official endorsement.
In spite of the rich literary heritage dealing with our former capi
tal, few musicians have seized upon it for inspiration; Glinka, Dar-
gomijsky, Balakirev, Borodin and other renowned Petersburg com
posers chose a variety of exotic subjects for their operas and
symphonic poems but they shied away from the drab reality of
the Petersburg streets. Nor were Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov
inspired by the city unless one considers the fairly unimpor
tant, unfinished comic opera The Marriage (to Gogol's text), by
the former., The honor of translating Petersburg magic in musical
terms belongs to Tchaikovsky (Pique Dame) and Stravinsky (Pe-
trouchka or, in a much lesser degree, Mavrd). But neither of
these great musicians ever thought of erecting a "musical monument"
to St. Petersburg (in the manner of Vaughan Williams's London
Symphony, Delius's tone-poem "Paris," or Charpentier's opera Louise,
another Paris hymn) ; and that was exactly the perhaps overambitious
task that I had set myself.
My first and only trip to St. Petersburg (in 1914) left a lasting im-
THE GOOD YEARS 289
print on my memory, but it was not until 1928, when I saw the So
viet film The End of St. Petersburg in Berlin, that I was spurred on
to a decision to compose a tribute to that vanishing city. In an effort
to portray the spirit of St. Petersburg, I did not employ the text of
any one man, but chose the works of nine poets, past and contempo
rary, who sang their town's changing glories. The eighth episode was
a rather singular one. The poem, by Alexander Blok, deals with the
futility of existence in a dead city. While the male chorus recites the
eight-line poem in strict rhythm, the women wail bouche jermee in
counterpoint, against the soprano solo, who reprises the sad street
song of the opening measures of the work. A figure, reminiscent of
the ostinato used by Tchaikovsky in the bedchamber scene of Pique
Dame is employed in the orchestration to intensify the feeling of
impending doom. The ninth movement, in which both the soloists
and chorus participate, entitled "My May," is the workmen's procla
mation of victory, the triumphant hymn of the new order, which
brought the city's poetic history to a close, did away with its time-
honored proud name and stripped it of its former supremacy as Capi
tal of all Russias.
It's a far cry from Peter the Great's folly to the Follies of Zieg-
feld, but my life was full of such abrupt transitions and I gradually
became so used to them that proceeding in a straight line to a well-
defined goal would have been a hindrance rather than a blessing;
so I received only a minor shock when a telegram from John Murray
Anderson interrupted my work on the St. Petersburg cantata. The
telegram was to the effect that the Shuberts had asked Murray
(whom I hadn't seen since Bob Chanter's golden period and who, as
it turned out, didn't remember me) to restage the ailing revue and
"bring it in" after as many additional weeks on the road as he, Mur
ray, might deem necessary. According to Anderson, the only three
things he liked about the show were the three Duke-Harburg songs,
and would I come and see him as these songs alone might induce
hfm to take over the job. Encouraged and gratified by thus be
coming the main pivot in an important theatrical decision, I hastened
to Anderson's Murray Hill flat. The producer, who was rather ter
rifying in his early days, received me with every evidence of benevo
lent consideration and flattering interest. English-Canadian by birth,
Murray was agreeably placid and unhurried in manner, wore well-cut
tweeds and a perpetually amused expression; his humor was of the
290 PASSPORT TO PARIS
outrageous-nonsense-Grandville-cura-Edward Lear sort he gave his
co-workers absurd names and delighted in making them do absurb
things. His Englishness was so innate and untransplantable I had
an odd notion that, were he induced to visit a speakeasy (Murray
was a teetotaler), he would order a tankard of bitter and start a
game of darts. The flat was cozily reminiscent of Cheyne Walk in
teriors, a huge gray cat was asleep in an armchair, and cucumber
and watercress sandwiches were served with tea; Broadway seemed
thousands of miles away. In a few minutes Murray was calling me
The Grand Duke. "I don't know you," he said, Ms small lake-blue
eyes twinkling shrewdly, "but I like your songs very much. They
were, as I said in the telegram, the only good things in that wretched
show. Play them for me." The piano, pretty to look at, had an odd
hollow sound, and the pedals seemed to be out of order; nevertheless,
I played my three numbers, '7##-pauses" and all, while Murray
sang his own, highly individual, versions of them in a surprisingly
resonant baritone. "You must come and help me if I agree to take
over the Follies, O, Grand Duke," Anderson said, the musical inter
lude over. I plunged into an impassioned recital of my Washington
woes, but Murray interrupted me. "I know all about that. You see,
these things will happen in the theater; they are all part of the game
and they are supremely unimportant. Don't be rash, and don't stay
away from the theater. Your tunes are essential to the show and we
all know it," the producer went on; and no sooner did I nod agree
ment, than he rose and said loudly: "By the way, there's someone in
the next room who wants to shake hands with you." A few minutes
later I found myself shaking hands with Harburg; work was resumed,
and, thanks entirely to John Murray Anderson, the Follies saved.
This unforeseen resumption of my Broadway activities caused an
abrupt change in my plans. I had corresponded all summer with
Prokofiev in regard to a Paris premiere of The End of St. Petersburg,
having found a prospective backer, a social-registered Philadelphian
who offered to defray all expenses for the venture. Serge contacted
Marcel de Valmalete, the Paris concert manager, and asked him for a
detailed estimate; Valmalete agreed to provide a conductor, a well-
trained chorus and either the Lamoureux or the Pasdeloup orches
tra, and the entire cost of the proposed performance, including three
rehearsals, was to be in the neighborhood of eight hundred dollars.
Nevertheless, Prokofiev thought it unwise to enter into "marriage by
THE GOOD YEARS 291
correspondence," as he called it, and suggested that I come to Paris
a month or two ahead of the premiere and attend to matters sur place.
"Otherwise," he wrote, "the project may well cost you 100 per cent
more." In another letter of August 14, 1933 Prokofiev told me
of his own plans breath-taking, and, geographically speaking, a
good sample of his yearly peregrinations. "I sent Lina Ivanovna to
Geneva for a rest, Grandmother and children to the Riviera, and
stayed on in Paris (alone) for three weeks to catch up with my
work, 95 wrote Serge. "At the end of August I'll drive to Geneva to
fetch my wife and together we'll go down to the Mediterranean to
do a little swimming. Back to Paris around September 20th; in
early October I'll go first to Riga and Warsaw, then to U.S.S.R. un
til December; thence to Italy. I'm writing you all this, so that you
don't count on my being in Paris should you descend on that city
again. U.S.S.R. was very interesting (as usual), not only Moscow
and Leningrad, but also Caucasus, up to the Ararat mountains, at
the foot of which I gave a concert in Erivan. I want to take along
some of your music in October to place it in the Composers' Al
liance Library in Moscow. Do you remember our talks in New
York, when you spoke of your correspondence with a modern music
society in Mexico, while I told you of my project of cultural ex
changes with Soviet musicians? The idea occurred to me of 'recipro
cal* performances of Mexican music in U.S.S.R. and Russian music
in Mexico. I succeeded in bringing about such an 'interchange' be
tween Moscow and several capitals of Europe, and the 'interchange*
livened things up considerably. [I wrote Chavez and Revueltas for
warding Prokofiev's suggestion.] Did I tell you that Fitelberg wrote
me: Dukelsky's symphony had a good success and good notices? Fm
shaking your hand, write me in Russian. You are not Markevitch,
who cannot manage two words in his native tongue without stammer
ing." In yet another letter, Serge told me of his "placing" my Second
Symphony with Count Sammartino, then presiding over the Augusteo
symphonic season in Rome; Molinari was to conduct my work, but
somehow never got around to it. Lina Ivanovna, as I learned from
the same letter, sang my Bogdanovitch songs at the American Club
in Paris. Nothing stimulated me more than Prokofiev's unceasing
efforts on my music's behalf; invariably, on receiving a letter signed
"SPrkfv" I rushed to the writing table to prove to myself that I
was still Dukelsky, composer, not Duke, tunesmith. But there was
292 PASSPORT TO PARIS
no denying that my dichotomy, unnatural and irritating (because
nonclassifiable) to my contemporaries, had now become an all-en
veloping characteristic of my musical self-expression; in other words,
it seemed impossible for me to stick to one kind of music, without an
occasional welcome excursion into the other field.
My music-loving Philadelphian soon vanished, having decided to
put his money in a theatrical venture; putting aside St Petersburg
for the nonce, I journeyed to a far less poetic place Newark,
NJ., where the Follies, revamped, redesigned, rewritten and, in
part, recast, opened at the Shubert Theatre. Showmanship and
taste, previously absent from the production, were now in abundant
evidence, and it was fascinating to watch a singing and dancing
Phoenix emerging from the ashes. Murray restaged "What Is There
to Say?" unrecognizably and brought genuine poetry to "Water Un
der a Bridge," a weir.d "mood" song Harburg and I wrote for Everett
Marshall to sing and Patricia Bowman to dance. This was, probably,
the first of the "out of this world" (not heavenly, just plain uncom
mercial) tunes for which I achieved considerable notoriety; I don't
want to call myself a prophet, but the odd harmonic structure of
the piece, written in 1933, has aU the earmarks of postwar "bop"
conceptions and would provide the few remaining champions of that
new frisson" in jazz with a satisfactorily "crazy" vehicle. Although it
was successful in the theater, the Harms sages refused point-blank to
publish so outlandish a composition. "Duke, who are you writing
for?" said Spitzer, shaking his head wearily. "If you yourself cannot
sing it (it was true, I couldn't, although I tried) how do you expect
us to sell copies?" The song remained unpublished and to "get even"
with Spitzer, I recorded it for Liberty in 1934 (my first recording
anywhere), with Bonnie Lake, Ann Sothern's vivacious sister, on
the vocal and Ralph McLane, now Philadelphia Symphony's first
clarinet, playing unearthly "subtone" variations around the melody.
The record ("I'm Mad About a Man About Town", with lyrics by
myself, is on the reverse) is now a collector's item, and I'd love the
name and address of the "collector" who stole my copy.
As if by magic, the Newark critics, who evidently hadn't read
their Philadelphia and Washington confreres, thought well of the re
vue. The sour adjectives gave way to nice, heart-warming bromides
about a "gay and lively frolic ... full of color and merriment,"
THE GOOD YEARS 293
and "just the kind of show to provide relaxation in the holiday sea
son."
We missed the holiday season by a few days Murray was too
much of a professional to risk another ragged opening but finally
''made" the Winter Garden on January 4, 1934. This time we were
on sure ground and the "seven sages" of New York saluted "a smash
hit." Louis Sobol summed up the Anderson miracle of resurrection
when he admitted that "never had there been such sorrowful, under
current advance notices. As a result it was a listless audience pre
pared for the worst, but the snap and pep and the beauty of the
opera sat us up in our seats." Only a professional can truly appreci
ate the immense relief brought by so complete an about-face; only a
professional can know the dreaded, deadly agony of the much more
common phenomenon: an eager, gaily expectant audience, told by
''infallible" word-of-mouth, that they're about to witness a world-
beating smash, wilting all at once after the first ten minutes of the
show, aware, without a trace of doubt, that the "world beater" is a
monumental fiasco.
Not this item. We were "in" and the critics were good enough
to say so. They all put their seal of approval on Winter Garden's new
tenant. Thanks to Murray, I was vindicated and my three candi
dates for a Washington heave-ho were singled out by the reviewers
as the best of the score. There was now no denying the fact that I had
clicked emphatically, and I could say together with Whitney Bolton
that "I liked the likes of the Follies" and the Follies liked the likes
of me, for I was later signed to compose the second Shubert edition,
with Ira Gershwin.
With the show a pronounced success, my telephone began to ring
incessantly; Park Avenue hostesses came to the happy realization
that I might not be a bad drawing card for their drawing rooms. I
have already said that the genus composer was seldom encoun
tered there, but a performing composer ah, that's a different story.
You were welcome on condition that you "performed"; when not
performing, the correct demeanor was to be pleasantly unobtrusive,
laugh at the host's jokes, smoke his cigars and join in the very gen
eral conversation, consisting entirely of a lively discussion of the
comings and goings of the host's intimate friends. Dinner conversa
tion of the "brilliant" variety, as we knew it in Paris or London, was
294 PASSPORT TO PARIS
not only unknown here, but definitely taboo. I once sat next to a
ravishing young matron at a great Newport dinner where most of
the guests had "horsy" inclinations, and since it was, visually, al
most a replica of a Christabel McLaran or Mrs. Guinness party,
asked my delectable neighbor what she thought of Proust. "What race
is he in?" was the innocent rejoinder. Mrs. Clare Boothe Luce
then Brokaw of whom I was rather afraid because, on meeting
her at Constantine Alajalov's, she, having been told that I composed
Walk a Little Faster, said with an icy smile: "Not very amusing, was
it?" the divine Clare had very pertinent things to say about "Amer
ican Society and Near-Society," in an article of that name published
in 1932. On dissecting a typical "smart" hostess of the period, Clare
pointed out that: "She [the hostess] may, from time to time, enter
tain celebrities, but will never, never, under any circumstances, al
low the talk at her table to deteriorate into conversation. She will
have only the faintest idea of what is meant by the word 'salon/
and even if she cherished such continental ambitions, would find
them impossible to satisfy, in an American milieu where politicians,
artists, actors, authors, idlers, playwrights and, with a few exceptions,
musicians are considered beyond the social pale. When such sus
picious characters appear in American homes, it is usually as paid
entertainers, or court jesters; seldom as friends and equals of their
hostess." Correction please: entertainers and jesters, yes, but paid
ones hardly, unless you played for dancing or were hired to sing
at the piano while the guests guffawed at each other's anecdotes; and
there were a few near salons in the twenties, thanks to the industry
of Paul and Zosia Kochanski, Artur Rubinstein and their friends.
The celebrities could always be encountered en masse at Conde
Nast's, Elsa Maxwell's or Jules Glaenzer's; pretty showgirls and
mannequins congregated at Sherman Fairchild's or Everett Jacobs's,
but those who thought themselves the elite reelle stuck to the old-
fashioned Le. incurably provincial social amenities. And why
not? It's quite a jump from Main Street to Main Bocher.
A possible winner in the musical-show sweepstakes, thirty years
old and, as I smugly pointed out before, reasonably presentable, I
was "taken up" by the ever-watchful Elsa Maxwell, although I never
became one of the regular performing lions at her shindigs. I don't
think I ever did perform, just strutted about taking down telephone
numbers and carrying on like the seasoned extra man I was fast
THE GOOD YEARS 295
becoming. So many of Elsa's soirees did I go to that a "return compli
ment" seemed in order; a friend of mine had just started a night
spot named Caveau Basque in West Fifty-seventh, and was prepared
to pay for a big initial "splash." I communicated the thought to
mercurial Jules Glaenzer (Elsa's only rival in the fine art of party-
giving, according to Maury Paul) and Jules was all for it. We
joined forces and gave a "monster gala" cocktail party for Elsa on
the eve of her departure for Palm Beach, which again according
to Maury turned out to be the u jolliest, 'mixed' party of the sea
son."
Things were looking up on the ballet front in Europe, and from
ball to ballet was to be my next transition. Rene Blum and the oddly
named Colonel Wassili de Basil (Wassili being Russian for Basil,
he should really have been named Basil de Basil Ms real name
was Voskresensky) organized the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in
1932 and George Balanchine was his first choreographer. For de
Basil, who was vaguely reported to have been a Cossack officer
(while his enemies insisted he was an ex-policeman) George cre
ated Le Bourgeois GentiUiomme, La Concurrence (an amusing tale
of two tailors, with George Auric's music) and Cotillon probably
Balanchine's all-time masterpiece. To a scenario provided by infalli
ble Boris Kochno and with Berard's top-drawer scenery and cos
tumes, Balanchine created in Cotillon a divertissement which suc
ceeded in being witty and wistful at the same time; the music
consisted of a series of Chabrier's best piano pieces, astutely chosen
and handsomely orchestrated. Notwithstanding so promising a start,
the colonel and Balanchine came to an abrupt parting of the ways
after a year's collaboration. Massine then was placed in full charge
of choreography for the de Basil company, whereas George organ
ized his own Les Ballets 1933 (in Paris and London) which was
discarded at the end of that year. The exciting news was that both
Massine (in command of the colonel's forces) and Balanchine (ac
cepting Lincoln Kirstein's and Edward M. M. Warburg's invitation
to create a "School of American Ballet") were heading for these
shores at approximately the same time although certainly not to
gether.
It was wonderful to see George again he was a little thinner,
a bit paler, but still unruffled, unspoiled, supremely unconcerned
with worldly success, merely intent on doing a good job. His humor
296 PASSPORT TO PARIS
was as special, as wildly untranslatable, as before he was still the
Tiflis pixie and now delighted in improvising nonsensical verse
the sillier the better in which game I joined readily. We threw
meaningless quatrains at each other and laughed delightedly as the
rhymes grew more and more outlandish. Balanchine played me a
pretty waltz he composed, while I retaliated with excerpts from Mis-
tress into Maid and the three "big" songs from the Follies. "They all
sound the same to me," George said sniffing, but not disdainfully
it was an old habit of his. George, after divorcing Tamara Geva,
married and was quickly divorced from Danilova and was now a
slightly bewildered bachelor again a state that never really agreed
with him, I expressed a fervent hope to collaborate on a ballet a
collaboration we had planned as long ago as 1927, in Florence, and
wanted to know what sort of people Warburg and Kirstein were.
George described them as enthusiastic, intelligent and rich an
unbeatable combination and I, not wanting to burden my friend
with the role of a go-between, decided to offer the young men my
slightly soiled lyre, thinking that now that they had secured the
services of one Diaghilevite, they might, conceivably, use those of
another. I was received by young Warburg and told that their ven
ture was, for the time being, on "educational" lines and that no new
productions were contemplated. In a short while, however, new pro
ductions were in fact put in work, with scores by a wide variety of
composers, ranging from Kay Swift to Benjamin Godard, but none
by eliher Duke or Dukelsky. I don't believe my Russian birth had
any bearing on my rigorous exclusions from the American Ballet
programs as Soudeikine was entrusted with the sets of one of George's
first works for the young company, and Tamara Geva engaged as
guest artist.
Unwanted by Messrs. Warburg and Kirstein (I don't think I ever
exchanged two words with the latter), I was grateful for a telephone
call from Leonide Massine, then training his brilliant young com
pany at the St. James Theatre. We met for lunch and I listened to
Leonide's soberly worded recital of his tribulations following Diag-
Mlev's death, his "drudgery" at the Roxy Theatre and the oppor
tunity provided by de Basil, who, "while no Diaghilev, was, at
least, trying to follow in his footsteps by hiring good artists and good
dancers." Christian Berard and Andre Derain were the artists,
George Auric and Emmanuel Chabrier (no longer living, but more
THE GOOD YEARS 297
alive by far than most twentieth-century men), the composers, and
in addition to some ex-Diaghilevites, there were David Lichine,
Nina Verchinina and the three "baby ballerinas" Toumanova,
Baronova and Riaboushinska. Massine introduced me to the colonel,
a man devoid of social graces, clumsy in a room, clever in business
and with the sketchiest-imaginable knowledge of the arts, espe
cially music. His redeeming features were a strongly developed
sense of humor and a certain, rather winning, easy bonhomie of
the "I'm a good simple guy, trying hard, take me as I am" kind
which he used with good effect in his business transactions. It was
easy to see that Massine was the artistic dictator of the company,
Grigoriev (formerly Diaghilev's aide-de-camp) its exacting drill-
master, but de Basil, who styled himself "Director General" (not
General Director) was just that, when it came to paying bills and
salaries and sharing profits, if any; I once told him, since he boasted
of being the most truthful man living, that he should stick to his own
rank and have the billing altered to read "Director Colonel." He
pretended not to understand.
On reading Gide's Counterfeiters, I was struck by the profound
poetry of the page wherein human life is likened to a day in a pub
lic park, and thought it the perfect point de depart for an imagina
tive ballet. I communicated the idea to Massine, who thought it fas
cinating. I don't remember how Jean Lurgat, better known for his
tapestries than his paintings, became part of the project. Andre Gide
was approached in Paris, and shown a photograph of me taken
nine years earlier; Gide, liking it, expressed a desire to meet me,
seemed disappointed when told that I was 3000 miles away and gave
his permission to use his text as a "peg" for the ballet. (This was re
ported to me by Paitchadze, my Paris publisher.) I next went to
see the colonel, and gave him an impassioned sales talk. "Wonder
ful, Dimotchka," de Basil cooed, smiling half benignly, half satan-
ically. "You get the money, I'll put it on." Decidedly, the Diag-
hilev era was a thing of the past. In de Basil's defense, it must be
stated that he, anything but a grand seigneur, had not the social or
artistic contacts of his great predecessor. He was totally unknown
in the U. S. and utterly ignored by "Tout Paris." I knew a few rich
people in and around New York, but this was 1934 and the ballet
renaissance was yet to come. I consulted Gershwin, who knew ev
erybody and never lacked in backers, but the best George could do
298 PASSPORT TO PARIS
was suggest that I go see Max Dreyfus. "Why Dreyfus, George?" I
asked incredulously. "He has little use for me; in fact, I don't know
why he keeps renewing my contract. What would he want with a
ballet?" "He wants you otherwise he wouldn't re-sign you,"
George answered. u What would your ballet cost to produce?" "Oh,
about three thousand dollars," I said the figure (incredible to
day) having been supplied by Massine. "Well, he's advancing you
more than that a year, isn't he? Tell him to add the three thousand
to your advance he'll get it back." This sounded fairly feasible,
and having received George's assurance that he'd talk to Max about
the ballet plan, I arranged with the publisher's secretary to visit him
in Brewster, N. Y., where Dreyfus was recuperating from an illness.
I remember being kept waiting, being offered a drink and being told
with great deliberation that "serious" and "light" music didn't mix,
that being successful in one field excluded the chance of success in
the other, that there was no future in that sort of thing all leading
up to a flat "no."
A few days later I got the money through the good offices of beau
tiful and gifted Estrella Elizaga, one of the most popular figures in
what's known as the "international set," Estrella played piano, com
posed songs, was equally at home at bullfights and the ballet, spoke
French like a native and had the most tremendous chic, envied by
women and admired by men. I adored Estrella and, understandably,
my adoration rose to new heights when she told me with great sim
plicity and kindness, that she'd got the money for Jardin Public
the title Massine and I had chosen for our second joint venture.
The de Basil ballet went on tour after an artistically successful but
financially unsatisfactory New York showing, and I followed them on
to Boston, half the ballet composed. I felt Diaghilev's absence most
keenly when I played the music to Massine and the colonel; De
Basil's comment was worth quoting: "I don't understand you,
Dimotchka, my dear," he said, after I finished playing. "Everyone
told me that melody was your forte didn't you write the follies of
Mr. Ziegfeld? And here, the moment you start a tune and I say to
myself 'Khorosho> otchen Khorosho!' [good, very goodl] you
go 'off completely, as though you were ashamed of yourself. Then
it's all drann, brann, whatever my left foot desires [Russian say
ing, signifying a maximum of disorganization]. Then I feel like howl
ing like a dog I grit my teeth and I suffer. But maybe I'm not
THE GOOD YEARS 299
qualified to judge what do you think, Leonide Fedorovitch?"
Massine said nothing, his dark, habitually tragic face an impenetra
ble mask. When he broke his silence, he gave me a heavy, perplexed
look and said gruffly: "I won't know until I start working. Some of it
is good the dance of the Poor Lovers, especially. Let Dima finish
it." That was all. Massine had no musical intuition; he didn't know
or feel why a certain passage was right, another wrong. He never
guided me the way Diaghilev did, by talking, or the Balanchine way,
by sitting down at the piano and improvising the sort of music he
needed.
There were a few rehearsals between performances, a detailed
synopsis was worked out; the company then left Boston for the next
town on their schedule, whereas I returned to New York. Massine
and de Basil made the decision to open Jar din Public at the huge
Chicago Auditorium and to attend to the staging while touring not
a good way to put on a new ballet, but they had no choice in the
matter.
Early in May I was summoned by Lawrence Langner and asked
to work with him and Armina Marshall, his wife, on a project of a
musical play named America Dances. I read the first act, thought it
interesting, although a bit sententious in spots, and agreed to write
the music for it; Langner pointed out that this was a big and exacting
job, as music was needed throughout not merely songs and dances,
but musicalized dialogue as well. He suggested that I go to Westport,
Connecticut, for the summer to be near him, which would enable
us to collaborate more closely. I didn't drive and the plan thus pre
sented a problem, since New York suburbia is unthinkable without a
car, yet I decided to give it a try. I found a minuscule hut, more
like a picturesque outhouse, on Wright Street, just off the Boston Post
Road and within walking distance of shops and buses. There was just
enough room for an upright piano, and the bathtub wasn't much
larger than a bidet, only it was shaped more like a kettledrum than
a cello but grass and trees were all around the hut and I immedi
ately "took" to Westport. I sent Mother off to Staten Island, where
White Russians had quite a colony, so I knew she wouldn't be alone,
and moved my summer lares and penates to the little hut in Con
necticut.
It took me a few days to organize my life there and, a strict work
ing schedule blocked out satisfactorily, I plunged into the simple
300 PASSPORT TO PARIS
pastoral joys: swimming at the unluxurious Compo Beach, achieving
a spectacular sunburn and drinking quantities of bad applejack
with the natives the glossy advertising-executives station-wagon
set not having as yet discovered Connecticut. I wrote page after page
of music in the morning dance music for Charles Weidman and
Doris Humphrey and a few songs to lyrics provided by the Langners.
In the evening, I'd leave a quart of applejack for the ever-thirsty
natives on my tiny terrace, and go off to dinner with friends, of
whom I found not a few Mario Braggiotti, Harry Kaufmann,
the brilliant and sensitive pianist, courageous and kindly Cobina
Wright, with Cobina, Jr., then a long-legged precocious child, and
quantities of scientifically tanned summer sirens, languidly secure in
the knowledge of their perhaps too uniformly good looks.
Having completed the first act of America Dances some eighty
pages of continuous music I gave a preview of it at Langner's
farm; the authors-producers found it very much to their liking and
suggested that the dance portions be put in rehearsal immediately.
Arrangements were made for me to work with Weidman and Hum
phrey two of the most genuinely gifted yet insufficiently celebrated
workers in their field at their Greenwich Village studio. In con
trast with Massine, Charles and Doris and their spectacular costar,
Jose Limon, were endlessly inventive with the music at their dis
posal, and I found the three or four "workouts" we had together very
stimulating. On my return to Westport I had difficulty in contacting
Langner, busy with a new play's tryout; when I finally caught up
with him, he said quite calmly that he didn't believe our musical
would go "in its present shape," and that he had regretfully de
cided to postpone its presentation. It is now twenty years since
America danced (in the Weidman-Humphrey studio) and, although
the Theatre Guild got rich with America singing thanks to Rodg-
ers and Hammerstein I don't think they'll ever get around to
making it dance in our 1934 manner.
My Westport sojourn was not entirely a mistake, however. The
bottom having fallen out of the Langner project, I was seized with a
longing to be back in New York, where things were always happen
ing particularly in late summer, producers' offices all a-buzz with
new productions and orchestra conductors returning from their Eu
ropean jaunts with novelties hot off composers' griddles. It was easy
enough to board a train and reach Manhattan in a little over an
THE GOOD YEARS 301
hour, but with Mother on Staten Island and Alex in Cincinnati on
an architectural job, what would I come back to? My Westport rent
was paid for another three weeks and there I was, stuck with eighty
pages of unwanted music, the summer sirens and the applejack; so I
sat down "and then I wrote" (as the vaudeville-appearing song
writers used to announce) a paean to Manhattan* words and music
both as a "pendant" to "April in Paris" the new one called
"Autumn in New York." Both the long "conversational" verse and
the constantly modulating refrain contained not a particle of what the
Harms moguls called "popular appeal"; the song was a genuine emo
tional outburst and, possibly, this genuineness accounted for its sub
sequent "standard" status. I played it at one or two Westport get-
togethers, and found the listeners retreating to the bar in the middle
of the verse.
New York looked good to me when I finally returned there. The
Follies were still "packin 5 *em in" at the Winter Garden; Vassar
and Sarah Lawrence girls were still requesting "Suddenly," "What Is
There to Say," and "I Like the Likes of You" at the Stork or the
El Morocco; and clever little Alex Gard began pondering the ad
visability of executing a caricature of me to adorn the walls of Mr.
Sardi's establishment. Two producers announced my musical ver
sion of Serena Blandish; one of them was Robert Milton.
I was brought together with Lurgat, an intense, energetic French
man with a finely chiseled profile accentuated by a pipe and rust-
brown tweeds, but a somewhat "arty-crafty" approach to the theater.
With the return of de Basil's company, daily huddles with Massine
were resumed; the "word of mouth" had it that in the Poor Lovers'
pas de deux, Leonide surpassed himself both as dancer and chore
ographer. I was shown this and other disjointed episodes from Jar-
din Public, and marveled at the dark, lissome beauty of youthful
Tamara Toumanova and- the impudent, brazen slapstick quality of
Genia Delarova, Massine's dancer wife. We racked our brains for a
suitable number for her, and decided on a chair vendor's dance to
the discordant strains of a decrepit military band in the park
which would have been happier in a musical comedy than a Gide
hallucination.
Before journeying to Chicago, I heard from John Murray Ander
son, who was putting together an Eddie Dowling revue titled Thumbs
Up, for which my old Mends Clark and McCullough were hired, as
302 PASSPORT TO PARIS
well as a trio of Southern lasses named the Pickens Sisters, Ray
Dooley and Sheila Barrett, and two hopeful hoofers named Hal Le
Roy and Paul Draper. It appeared that the producer needed a nos
talgic evocation of Manhattan in the fall, red leaves falling hi Cen
tral Park, young people coming home from vacations in short,
he needed "Autumn in New York." "Murray, I may have what you
want," I said hesitantly, "only it's a crazy song; moves from key to
key and that makes it hard on a singer." "Whose lyric?" "Mine."
"What do you call it?" " 'Autumn in New York.' " Murray let out a
refined whoop. "Get into a cab, you unfortunate Grand Duke; don't
talk any more. Hurry!" In ten minutes I was at 15 Park Avenue, in
twenty minutes the song was interpolated into the Jimmy Hanley and
Henry Sullivan score; it was I who was now appearing in the role of
the little guy in a battered hat encountered earlier.
Ruth Page, whom I knew in the pre-Diaghilev days, was doing
pioneer work in the Native Ballet field in Chicago. I had seen her
for a few fleeting moments in Monte Carlo in the late twenties,
when she combined her honeymoon with a little postgraduate work
in Diaghilev's corps de ballet. Through Ruth and her bosom friend,
alert and articulate Betty Field, Lurgat and I were invited to put up
at the Clows' residence in Chicago; Baby Clow, whom I subsequently
introduced to her future husband, Mario Braggiotti, was a superb
amazon of a girl and a dabbler in the arts, including that of the
dance. IT1 never forget my arrival at the Clow mansion. It was late
at night, and as the Clows were out for the evening I was greeted by
a faultlessly schooled butler and placed in the care of an affable, au-
tomatonlike Filipino, who ushered me into my room as sumptuous
as it was violently modern. The place was all intricate "function
al" gadgets, an armchair scary-looking but comfortable and an
oddly shaped bed that seemed small but was, in reality, large enough
to accommodate a half-dozen orgiastic lovers. I was offered a choice
of four or five magnificent dressing gowns, selected a black-and-red
number and was led to an awe-inspiring bathroom (my host, as I
found out, was a Bathroom King). The extra-low built-in tub was
surrounded by a great many faucets. On leaning down, I discov
ered that one was marked "Guerlain," another "Coty," a third "Le-
long," and so on; on turning the faucet a pungent stream of perfume
would come out. I was impressed, but it was with some difficulty
that I found a faucet with the legend "WATER." A few minutes later,
THE GOOD YEARS 303
smelling like a Grasse factory, I emerged from the tub, accepted a
pair of pajamas that would not have been disdained by Sardanap-
alus, and slid into the luxurious bed. I instantly recalled the wisdom
of Balanchine's maxim: "There's nothing like a dab of perfume to
make you feel rich."
In the morning I was offered breakfast in bed, but disliking food
in sleeping quarters, I was silently offered yet another choice of
dressing gowns by the Filipino; this time I picked an apple green and
orange creation, and descended to the dining room. I was told by
the butler that Mr. Clow "will be down presently," and braced myself
for an American Robert de Montesquiou, at the very least. Instead,
in walked a tall, bespectacled man in his fifties, attired in the most
colorful robe in his entire collection; shaking me athletically by the
hand, he boomed: "Put it there, pardner, put it there."
Chicago was pretty wonderful in the thirties; it was out to beat
New York, and nearly did, artistically speaking. Lur^ai and I did a
lot of sight-seeing when not rehearsing, ate great food at Ernie By-
field's home atop one of the Ambassador Hotels, marveled at the
luxury of Lake Shore Drive rubbing shoulders with the worst and
most odoriferous slums known to man, took in the ribald doings at
Club 606, a close rival of Mexico's Teatro Garibaldi, saw a colored
man shot at a North Side dive at 4 A.M. and stood in wonder be
fore an electric sign reading "Chez Paree." "What language is that?"
Lurgat, the Parisian, wished to know.
I gave out a lengthy interview, in which I tried to account for my
dichotomy, to the eager young woman who wanted "the truth."
"How do you go about writing two different kinds of music almost
simultaneously?" she asked. "The two idioms in which I write are as
different as work and play. Serious music is hard work; jazz is easy
for me that is, just recreation for which I happen to get paid,"
was my reply. To a more insipid, but inevitable, question about my
"inspiration," I replied truthfully that nothing could inspire me more
than a $5000 check.
According to my observant interviewer, I was "a tall, black-
haired, handsome young man with very pink cheeks and an appear
ance of healthy, plump youth which he loathes. He wants to seem
40 and have a gray hair and a look of having done something spec
tacular in the way of suffering or accomplishment." Strange and a
little terrifying. Twenty years later, I still want to seem forty now
304 PASSPORT TO PARIS
that I do have many a gray hair and that my age is fifty. Chicago
liked the Follies, then playing at the Grand Opera House. With that
show on the boards and Public Gardens in active preparation, I was
again in the limelight. After a round of dances and dinner parties,
I was summoned to Philadelphia by Anderson to help with Thumbs
Up f breaking in at the Forrest; on arriving at the station, I found a
brace of Mallard ducks in my compartment, with Mr. William Clow,
Jr/s compliments.
I found Philadelphia pretty drab after Chicago's splendors. The
town was full of conventions and no hotel space was available any
where; I was finally given a hideous double room that had originally
housed the hotel's laundry, as I was informed by the bellboy. It had
no closets and smelled depressingly of yellow soap, making me
long for the Clow bathroom; but, since most of my time was to be
spent at the theater, anyway, I decided to make the best of it and
signed the register.
For Thumbs Up I wrote a tango for J. Harold Murray to sing and
a dance tune for Hal Le Roy to tap to, but both numbers were
dropped from the score in Philadelphia, only "Autumn in New
York" remaining as finale ultimo. At an audition I heard another
"intruder" demonstrate a song intended for the revue; the song
struck me as uncannily beautiful and I fought for it with the pro
ducers as though it were my own. The song's name was "Time and
Tide," its composer Alec Wilder; what particularly touched me was
a totally blind young man with a face like Shelley's who sang the
song to Wilder's accompaniment. "Time and Tide" was essayed in
Philadelphia and also dropped before the revue reached New York.
Shortly before returning to the Big Town, I received a thrilling
visit from the girl I thought myself in love with there was always
one in those days a tall, dark young woman with the face of a
Sienese quattrocento madonna and a body glorified by Lucien Le-
long whom I shall call Pamela. Southampton, L. I., and fifteenth-
century Siena are an irresistible combination, and so I gave up re
sistance; we danced cheek to cheek at Conde's or Elsa's parties, and
"I Get a Kick Out of You" (Cole Porter's most potent musical
aphrodisiac) was our favorite dance tune. I hoped that Philadelphia
would be the setting of our first night of love; we danced after the
show, which had all the earmarks of a hit, then betook ourselves to
my impossible hotel. Although the ex-laundry in which I resided was
THE GOOD YEARS 305
filled with dark red roses (Pamela's favorite flower), the girl went
pale on entering it, took a whiff of the antiseptic air and exclaimed:
"Goodness, these roses smell of soap. How sordid!" Romance was
difficult after such an opener; I bowed to fate and took Pamela home,
to the Bellevue-Stratford. Once again, love flew out of iny window.
I spent Christmas in New York en famille in East Fiftieth Street,
where we had moved from the Village, went back to Chicago for
two days of rehearsals of Jardin, which was to open in March dur
ing the ballet's return engagement, and somehow managed to attend
the New York opening of Thumbs Up on December 27th. The
show turned out to be a decent, average revue and received decent,
average notices.
Shortly after the holidays I received the following letter, dated Jan
uary 12, 1935, from Andre Gide: *Tm happy to learn that you
have not abandoned your beautiful project. To help its success, I
gladly agree to forego my 'royalties' for the ballet's performances in
America. The title that I already indicated to you, 'Jardin Public,'
seems excellent to me and I hope you won't hesitate to use it. It
would be best to indicate: 'after a page from Andre Gide's novel,
'The Counterfeiters/ and to reproduce said page 'in extenso* in the
program, which would serve to explain the ballet."
Following my tiff with the Koussevitzkys as a result of the abortive
Westchester festival, I picked another this time with my easygoing
Paris publisher, Gabriel Paitchadze, their appointee. The pace at
which my "respectable" music was being published was positively
lethargic and I was never noted for my patience. I sat down and
wrote the man a series of blistering letters, demanding "action," sug
gesting, in parenthesis, that we the Edition Russe de Musique and
I part company, unless such action be forthcoming. Paitchadze,
finding the wording of one of these letters objectionable, took me at
my word and gave me back all unpublished music I had sent him.
This created an unforeseen complication with Jardin's score, as, no
longer empowered to have my music copied, I handed it to Colonel
de Basil, who assured me that he'd "take care of it."
In common with most Russians, the colonel was a great believer
in letting things slide until the very last moment, and so, at 9 A.M.
on the day before the Chicago premiere of my ballet, the score and
parts reached New York after an exchange of frantic cables with the
colonel's Paris copyist. At four-thirty in the afternoon the material
306 PASSPORT TO PARIS
had been delivered in Chicago by airplane. At five o'clock the or
chestra started on its first and only rehearsal, under the direction of
Antal Dorati, who shared with Efrem Kurtz the conducting duties
of the organization. As a not unreasonable consequence the per
formance started something more than twenty minutes after the an
nounced hour. The parts were, not unnaturally, crawling with mis
takes, and my music, fairly dissonant in the first place, sounded like
Schonberg married to Varese and caused me to run out of the thea
ter then to return, panting and wishing I had stayed away. There
were two or three highspots, applauded to the echo, but the total
effect was one of a hopeless mess, although the N.Y. Times corre
spondent reported an "enthusiastic reception." An amusing and per
tinent typographical error crept into his notice, which read: "De
scribed as the last word in modernism. . . . The production was
resented at the opening of a return visit of the Ballet Russe de
Monte Carlo." That about summed it up.
There were two supper parties after the ballet. The Goodspeeds
had one for Leonide Massine, his pretty wife and Vera Zorina, then
very young and fabulously lovely; notwithstanding her youth and
beauty, she was cast as the senile wife in the "Old Lovers" episode.
"Seated with the Goodspeeds were Miss Gertrude Stein and Miss
Alice B. Toklas, whose appearance has lost none of the glamour for
their public," wrote the Hearst society columnist. "Again they were
surrounded with people who made remarks about Miss Stein's fa
mous little velvet hat and Miss Toklas's moleskin coat." I remember
being introduced to Miss Stein by Alan Tanner, who had forsaken
Paris for his native Chicago and was no longer rooming with Tche-
Htchev, but I don't, for the life of me, recall whether she said, "a
hit is a hit is a hit," or, "a flop is a flop is a flop." The other party
Ruth (Page) and Tom Fisher's was, in the words of the re
porter, who taxied from one to the other, "very gay, amusing and
mixed. White flowers, champagne and toasts to Lurgat and Dukel-
sky." At the Fisher party, Paul Dupont was overheard to say that
"maybe Dukelsky's score and parts should never have reached the
Chicago airport."
Two weeks later Jardin, brought to Broadway's Majestic Theatre,
was again spottily performed and spottily received, although the mu
sic sounded better. S. Hurok, the impresario, stood at the back of
THE GOOD YEARS 307
the orchestra and glared at me during the more dissonant passages.
When I complained about the wrong notes played by the musicians,
he snapped: "It is / who should complain about the wrong notes
you have written!" and walked away in anger. De Basil kept shaking
his head mournfully: "Dimotchka, you assassinated melody and the
critics assassinated me. Every time those trumpets go ... trr, trr
... I get a splitting headache." Most of my friends didn't care for
the ballet, either, and I was getting tired of ducking the generous
backers.
I decided to "get away from it all" and become "a certain Dukel-
sky, otherwise unknown to fame," in the happy phrase of Chicago's
Mr. Dunn. The place I chose for my hideout was Harrisburg, Penn
sylvania, and I couldn't have picked a better. An erratic and unpre
dictable young friend of mine named Mitchell Hodges, whose strange
and fascinating adventures would make up a livelier volume than
the present one, was doing WPA administration work in the colorful
Dutch town and had attractive quarters on Front Street, where I
joined him. We went on a splendid hike in the surrounding hills, lost
our way after walking for miles, and finally alighted at a pretty es
tablishment named the Crystal Lake Inn. After a hearty supper, we
were asked by the landlady whether there was anything else we de
sired, and answered that sleep, lots of sleep, would do us fine. The
woman gave us a strange look and told the chambermaid to get the
Pink Room ready. The Pink Room sounded peculiar, but we were
too tired to care. On entering the room we saw, to our consterna
tion, that not only was the large and distinctly girlish bed of a lus
cious pinkness, but there were also a profusion of large pink dolls, a
pink rug, pink towels, and mirrors, mirrors everywhere. Only one
bed was visible and I never could sleep with another human in
the same bed, be it a man or a woman but we both slept soundly
that night. Early in the morning Mitchell and I were awakened by
what sounded like a dozen beds squeaking rhythmically on all sides
of us, which brought back vivid recollections of my first Monaco ho
tel. We went down to breakfast, which was succulent and plentiful,
and asked the sullen waitress for the bill. "That'll be three-eighty for
the both of ya," the girl said challengingly. Considering that we ate
a large supper and a larger breakfast and slumbered in the fancy
Pink Room, the figure seemed unusually low and I inquired whether
308 PASSPORT TO PARIS
there wasn't some mistake. "You two comin' here sure was a mis
take," the waitress went on, with a dirty look. "Now beat it and
don't come back; we don't want yer kind here."
The de Basil company, meanwhile, sailed back to Europe and an
extended ballet season at London's Covent Garden, with Jardin Pub
lic, for which Massine and the colonel still entertained some hopes,
among the season's novelties. It was with a sigh of relief that I re
turned to "Dukal" activities; in that less-exalted sphere, things soon
began happening. Harburg received an offer to create a screenplay
for Universal with April in Paris as the title and the song as theme.
The Shuberts, encouraged by the success of their first Follies were
busily preparing a second. Ira Gershwin was available for the lyric-
writing job as George was working on Porgy and Bess with DuBose
Heyward. When asked whom he would like for his music man, Ira
suggested me and Lee Shubert, not having done badly with me a
year before, readily agreed.
The contracts signed, it was decided that George, Ira and Lee,
Moss Hart and I take a house in Ocean Beach, Fire Island an
island discovered for jaded New Yorkers by none other than Fanny
Brice. She raved about the place, which had a troubling, unsafe
sound (it isn't too safe, actually, as old islanders who have weath
ered a hurricane or two would testify) but proved an enchanting
and (in 1935) barely civilized hideaway. Wonderful swimming,
boating, fishing, clamming, crabbing or just plain loafing, the ab
sence of motorcars and telephones all of these were features of Fire
Island, then but sparsely populated, today uncomfortably crowded
with just the people you want to stay away from.
Ocean Beach natives simple, God-fearing folk, a good many of
them of Irish descent couldn't believe their eyes when they wit
nessed that summer's "foreign" invasion. Both Bea Lillie and Fanny
Brice inseparable friends had big houses on the bay side, Her
man Shumlin and Arthur Kober moved into the inner regions of the
village (perhaps to be near Wolcott Gibbs, one of the island's first
settlers), and the Gershwin-Hart-Duke quintet took up residence on
the ocean side, in what I believe was the largest house on the place
at the time (since demolished by the 1938 hurricane). George was
seldom around, as he was always joining DuBose Heyward in some
remote spot Moss, too, had pressing business to attend to elsewhere
THE GOOD YEARS 309
so Ira and I were left alone with our songwriting in the daytime
and Brice-Lillie-Kober-partying at night.
The reader will recall the "Khaki" incident in Monte Carlo; I met
Joan, with whom I came closest to marriage later, in almost identi
cal circumstances. I first saw the small, lithe figure, sturdily yet deli
cately molded, poised for an expert dive on the diving board. Joan,
who looked like an adolescent Vivian Leigh, had an impudently up
turned freckled nose and eyes of a purplish shade of blue, the shade
of Russian cornflowers. Her strong, nut-brown body against the
gleaming white of the bathing suit, a size too small for her, was
an irresistible sight. Joan noticed my prolonged stare and asked:
"Whaf s your name?" in a surprisingly small, melodious voice. I
told her. "Oh, you wrote my favorite song! It's ... tell you later."
And with that she dived into the water. "I learned to swim for
Khaki," I said to myself, "but Fm damned if I'll learn to dive for
this one." Joan soon emerged from the water and stood in front of
me, rubbing herself with a big, rough towel. "What are you doing on
the island?" the girl asked. I told her about the new Follies, the
Gershwins and my looking forward to a summer of hard work. "I
know the house where you live," Joan said reflectively. "I'm staying
with early settlers real island folks, not the likes of you. It's too
bad that you fancy theatrical people should have discovered our
island you're going to spoil it." Little Joan turned out to be a real
prophet, but I didn't like her remark and said morosely something
about her being a "fresh kid." "I'm not a kid, although I may look
like one," Joan protested peevishly. "As a matter of fact, I was
raped by a lifeguard last summer on the beach. So there." She broke
into gay laughter and rushed off, wrapped in her big towel. I suspect
the lifeguard "rape" thing was invented by Joan to impress me with
her maturity and sophistication. Following our bay-side meeting, I
rowed her to dinner at a place called Maguire's, where teen-age boys
in blue jeans brought their similarly blue-jeaned dates, and Joan be
haved with exaggerated decorum, no doubt to forestall any amorous
advances on my part. Another night we dined at the "Gershwin
castle," and I was the recipient of so many good-natured cracks on
the subject of cradle robbing that Joan and I decided not to see too
much of each other on the island, in view of the staggering difference
in our ages.
310 PASSPORT TO PARIS
The new Follies were in active preparation. Lee Shubert was
joined in the venture by an enterprising ticket broker named Harry
Kaufman, a rotund busybody who affected "Man of Distinction"
clothes and manner and had some excellent notions about improving
the quality of Shubert extravaganzas. When I helped J. J. Shubert
with an abortive revival of Sam Pokrass's Cyrano de Bergerac (mu
sical version), some of the costumes bore a startling resemblance to
the Student Prince uniforms, while the scenery was strangely redo
lent of Countess Maritza. No such money-saving boners for Harry
the Purist, who insisted on the "best and most expensive," and gen
erally got it. For a while there was some talk of entrusting Cecil
Beaton with scenery and costumes; Cecil was anxious to design a
big Broadway musical and wrote me repeatedly from London, of
fering his services. "The tunes that you have written for the Ziegfeld
show are so splendid that, of course, it will be a knockout hit,"
Cecil said in one of his letters. "The number I would adore most is
the Martinique Rumba." (This later became "An Island in the
West Indies," which Ira still insists on singing at parties). "As for
the money arrangement with the Shuberts, I am sure it could be ar
ranged to both our advantages as they are so rich and I so poor.
... As for 'Serena Blandish,' this sounds heavenly and I would be
mad keen to do it." Cecil was mad keen and very gifted, but he
didn't get either job. (When Serena, who is a pretty old lady by
now, finally appears on the musical stage, it won't be my job, ei
ther) . Harry Kaufman for some time had his eye on young Vincente
Minnelli, one of the most inventive and resourceful all-around tal
ents in the theater and now the films then just off to a sky
rocketing start. After dressing Marshall Field's windows in Chicago
at sixteen, he was snatched by Messrs. Balaban and Katz to design
scenery and costumes for their stage presentations. He was sent by
them to New York's Paramount Theatre late in 1929 about the
time when I appeared on the local scene then began freelancing
as designer and director. His scenery and costumes for the last Earl
Carroll Vanities and for DuBarry Was a Lady were of such eye-
filling splendor that Radio City made Vincente its art director in
1933. Then in came Harry with his gospel of "good, expensive
shows," and hired Minnelli to direct and design At Home Abroad,
to be followed by others, including the Show Is On (1936), in which
I was also to have a hand. Anderson was already hired for the pro-
THE GOOD YEARS 311
ducing job on the Follies, so Vincente agreed to sandwich in a de
signing chore on our show between directorial commitments.
For some time now I'd been blowing Balanchine's horn as the
greatest of all choreographers, and therefore indispensable to what
was planned as the greatest of all revues. I wanted in the worst way
to work with George and, having been turned down by Warburg
and Kirstein for an American Ballet assignment, was determined to
secure George for Shubert and Kaufman and the Follies. Balanchine
was agented by that Bulwark of Broadway, the irrepressible "Doc"
Bender Larry Hart's aide-de-camp, troubleshooter and father
confessor a pushy and fast-talking character; his salesmanship
was worthy of respect, because he only sold things he honestly and
passionately believed in. He didn't have to sell Larry Hart, who
was the best of all lyricists (not excluding Gilbert, in my opinion),
but when he screamed at the top of his lungs that Balanchine was a
god among choreographers, that Vivian Segal was without a rival
in her line, or that I was the best white composer to write a Negro
show, he was only voicing his inner beliefs and, being fanatically
sincere, was undeniably convincing.
I never knew how he got George away from his American Ballet
workshop, but, after concerted screaming by Bender and myself, the
choreographer was signed to create the ballets for the Follies. The
show was to have a spectacular cast in addition to Fanny Brice
and Gertrude Niesen, the songstress, Kaufman signed a hopeful
young comic named Bob Hope and a genuine Paris importation.
Mile, Josephine Baker, originally of Harlem. La Baker, with a
French count in tow, two beautifully groomed dogs of exotic appear
ance and a large assortment of the best Vuitton luggage, received us
majestically in her hotel suite. It is not generally known that, in ad
dition to the well-publicized flair for rotating her derriere, Mile.
Baker was also the possessor of a small but quite exquisite coloratura
soprano. Ira and I wrote her two highly spiced tropical arias
"5 A.M." and "Maharanee" with fioriture that would scare Lily
Pons out of her wits; Josephine mastered the acrobatic intervals and
larynx-defying trills like a trouper, although she was seldom audible.
Miss Niesen, on the other hand, was very audible indeed, and found
fault with everybody and everything. Bob Hope I thought a most
engaging young man, with a freshly scrubbed, balcony-nosed face,
rather self-effacing compared with our trio of female prima donnas
312 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and always worried about his waistline (so was I). We used to re
pair to Reilly's gym in Radio City and play paddle-ball, attired in
gray, perspiration-producing woolies which made us look like a pair
of cheerful Sing Sing inmates.
Summer came to a close and we, the Fire Islanders, ferried back
to prosaic Bayshore, L. I., from the quaint little Ocean Beach har
bor, a place resembling harbors in the British West Indies. Joan went
to Scarsdale to graduate from high school, Ira and Lee to their new
duplex on East Seventy-second Street and I to a new studio on West
Fifty-seventh Street, Mother and Alex occupying a comfortable flat
across the court from me. George Gershwin went back to Porgy and
Bess and his studies with Joseph Schillinger, the man who revolu
tionized the art of composition teaching, and especially the study of
orchestration. Gershwin did not go to Schillinger for the purpose of
getting him to help with Porgy. He met the Soviet expatriate musi
cian through Joseph Achron, the late composer and violinist, and ap
parently what he was seeking were fresh technical vistas, which
would enable him to write fresher songs. On visiting George, I found
his piano and writing table cluttered up with exercises dictated by
Schillinger. George, who always took a childish delight in the sim
plest pleasures and discoveries, now had found a toy that was real
fun and would also yield great dividends, an unheard-of combina
tion.
I was pretty skeptical at first when confronted with pitch scales,
units, etc. These terms had an antimusical sound and meant nothing
to my unmathematical ear. George was indignant at my skepticism.
"You just don't understand," said he. "I used to do all lands of
things harmony and counterpoint, I mean but I never knew
why I was doing them I thought they were just parlor tricks. They
always went great at parties. Now they'll go right into my music."
One day he played the ingenious "crap game" fugue from Porgy,
his face beaming. "Get this Gershwin writing fugues! What will
the boys say now?"
I went to Boston with George for the tryout. At the orchestra re
hearsal he grinned with delight at the well-organized sounds that
emerged from the pit. I was sitting quietly in a seat in the last row
of the orchestra when George startled me by suddenly appearing
from the back and grabbing me by the shoulder. "Hey, Dukie!" he
whispered fiercely. "Just listen to those overtones!" Yes, there they
THE GOOD YEARS 313
were. The Schillinger "slavery" brought an unexpected freedom to
George's musical utterances. The tunes we all listened to around
George's piano "Summertime," "It Ain't Necessarily So," "I Got
Plenty of Nothin' " were now clothed in appropriate orchestral
garb and shone with a new and dazzling brilliance.
Irving Berlin once told me that if he should study music he'd lose
his natural knack for writing popular hits. Doubtless Berlin knows
his limitations and is probably very wise, but the current prevalence
of musically uneducated show and film writers is not born out of any
historical precedent. From Offenbach on to Lehar, Oskar Straus,
Messager, Reynaldo Hahn, Sullivan, and Victor Herbert, the kings
of the operetta were solid craftsmen one and all, and orchestrated
their own music. The real reason for the nonorchestrating composer,
outside of his often self-confessed incompetence, is the lack of time,
because of the rush invariably connected with the writing and sub
sequent production of a contemporary musical play.
After completing the score of the Second Violin Concerto in Baku
in August, Prokofiev wrote me, on September 29th: "It was very
pleasant to get your letter with colorful and accurate observations
and to learn all about your activities, on the musical front, as well
as in the whoring division. Unfortunately, I haven't heard your 'Jar-
din,' but Ttedicaces' [a species of piano concerto with soprano ob-
bligato I was then working on] interests me greatly it's a rather
unusual conception. I thought of going to the States this winter, but,
since Bruno Walter failed to sign his contract, the New York en
gagement was cancelled. Outside of that, the four-act ballet [Romeo
and Juliet} which I just finished composing and am now orchestrat
ing will be staged at both the Bolshoy [Moscow] Theatre and the
Marinsky [Leningrad]; a long absence at such a moment is not a
good idea. I'm spending the summer in Bolshoy Theatre's estate near
Serpukhov. It's a lovely spot, a bit noisy when 3/4 of the theatre's
personnel arrive for a 'cure,' but I find those arrivals quite gay; es
pecially, since I have a separate minuscule house with a Bluthner
piano, and a terrace opening on the river Oka, with all the peace I
need for productive work. Lina Ivanovna and the children are here
also; everybody makes a great fuss over the boys and spoils them
dreadfully. Now the opera and ballet artists have vanished and I
spend eight hours a day scoring. I also wrote the Second Violin
Concerto, two symphonic suites, two piano cycles and an album of
314 PASSPORT TO PARIS
children's pieces. Gania [Prokofiev's nickname for Paitchadze] is in
no great hurry, but he's printing my music. I plan to be in Paris in
a month for the Concerto's premiere; in December I go to Africa.
Shostakovich is talented but somehow "unprincipled 9 and like
certain friends of ours bereft of melodic invention; he is made too
much of here. Kabalevsky and Jelobinsky 'sont des zero-virgule-
zero: [French in the original.] I am flattered that you find certain
works of mine 'timeless/ It's possible that therein lies the reason why
men who are too much of our time often fail to understand my lan
guage. Rumors of my friendship with Poulenc and Igor [Stravin
sky] are vastly exaggerated; as for half-Igor [Markevitch], I sup
port him with difficulty. I embrace you; don't deprive me of your
bounty and should you get something printed not in the tra-la-la
repertory, send it on." The phrase about men "who are too much of
our time" was the first indication of an already-existing, ideological
friction between the composer and the Soviet music authorities. It is
interesting to note that Prokofiev, who had taken out a Soviet pass
port a short time previously, was permitted to travel continuously
and extensively, and have his music published by the capitalist-
refugee conductor Koussevitzky; present-day Soviet composers would
languish in Siberia or be declared "enemies of the working class"
and shot for such acts.
Late that summer, at a party in New York, I met an astonishing
youth named John Treville Latouche, of Richmond, Virginia, of
French descent and of unquenchable but ill-defined ambition. He
was very small, dark and stocky, with the face of a precocious in
fant. Johnny's mind was ever alert, his wit ever sharp and often
merciless; but the boy's essential goodness and kindness shone
through his eyes. Extremely erratic by nature, Latouche worked
spasmodically and swiftly on his poetry; short periods of work to be
followed by long days and nights of blissful laziness and idle gal
livanting. I met him through Elsa Beamish, a Harrisburg belle who
shared a Park Avenue flat with another girl. Both girls were under
Latouche's spell and invited me ovfer for an exhibition of his talents.
Johnny dusted off a few hot epigrams, then sat down at the piano
and accompanied himself in a bouquet of night club-type songs
subsequently used by Spivy and others containing references to
the phenomena of the day. He sang and played atrociously, but the
THE GOOD YEARS 315
songs themselves, while of the self-consciously "smart" variety, were
often amusing and effective.
Since Johnny was very poor in those days, I promptly began sell
ing Moss Hart on the idea of hiring him as secretary a crazier
notion cannot be imagined. Moss, whose amiability, while occasion
ally strained, is admired by all, gave Latouche an "interview" and
found him very nice, full of talent, but hardly secretary material.
The second Shubert Follies was a better show than the first,
thanks to Minnelli, Balanchine and Anderson. Ira and I worked
hard, writing and discarding dozens of songs, but somehow, perhaps
owing to the performers, the score didn't come off too impressively in
the theater. Ira's writing methods were slow and soothing and very
restful after Harburg's strident screams and wild pacing of the floor.
Our work sessions usually began with a family (inner with Ira and
Leonore, joined by Fanny Brice or Ellen Berlin. After a long and
copious meal, the company would repair to the drawing room, which
housed the piano, and hectic conversation would ensue; I, on tenter
hooks, would be dying to get to the piano and persuade Leonore and
her guests to go elsewhere for their energetic gossip. I would shoot
expressive glances at ever-placid Ira, who affected not to catch their
meaning and willingly joined in the conversation. After an hour or
so of this, I, totally exasperated, would invade the piano deter
minedly and strike a few challenging chords. This time Ira would
heed my desperate call, stretch himself, emit a series of protracted
sighs, say something to the effect that "one had to work so-o-o
hard for a living" and more in that vein, then interrupt himself to
intone the magic word: "However . . ." This "however" meant
that the eleventh hour had struck and the period of delicious pro
crastination was over. Ira, sighing pathetically, would then produce
a small bridge table, various writing and erasing gadgets, a type
writer and four or five books, which he seldom consulted Roget's
Thesaurus, Webster's dictionary, rhyming dictionary and the like
wipe and adjust his glasses, all these preparations at a molto adagio
pace, and finally say in a resigned voice: "O.K., Dukie . . . play
that chorus you had last night" After wrestling with last night's
chorus for a half hour, Ira would embark on an ice-box-raiding ex
pedition, with me, fearful of too long an interruption, in pursuit.
There we'd stand in the kitchen, munching cheese and pickles, Ira
316 PASSPORT TO PARIS
obviously delighted with this escapist stratagem, I dutifully pretend
ing to enjoy it too. Another sigh, another "however," then back to
the piano. At 2 or 3 A.M. Ira would put away his working utensils
and victoriously announce to Lee that he had completed four lines
for the new chorus.
A fresh and novel "Ballad of Baby Face McGinty," imaginatively
staged by Balanchine, was inexplicably dropped in Boston. George
wound up with three choreographic contributions "Words With
out Music" (subtitled "A Surrealist Ballet"), sung by Gertrude Nie-
sen and danced by Harriet Hoctor; "Night Flight,*' a solo for Hoc-
tor; and Josephine Baker's "5 A.M.," an Aubrey Beardsleyish pipe
dream.
Fanny was great in "Modernistic Moe" a satire on "modern"
dancing, "The Sweepstakes Ticket" David Freedman's hilarious
sketch, and especially his immortal "Baby Snooks Goes Hollywood"
and in the "super-special musical photoplay" finale entitled "The
Gazooka," in which Fanny appeared as "Ruby Blondell" and Bob
Hope as "Bing Powell." Dave and Ira (who created this chef-
d'oeuvre) proved a regular pair of Nostradamuses in this opus as
the "Gazooka" a parody on the "Carioca," the "Continental"
and other fancy screen-created dance crazes was announced as
done "in Techniquecolor" on the "Widescope Screen." Hollywood
producers kindly note that we were eighteen years ahead of time.
Notwithstanding all these delights, as well as "I Can't Get Started,"
expertly delineated by Hope and Eve Arden, and Eve's "Economic
Situation," to a clever Gershwin lyric, the New York opening night
was chiefly marked by Josephine Baker's unprecedented but, I fear,
not unprefabricated triumph. The entire balcony was filled with her
friends and admirers, and they made such a din at their idol's merest
apparition, that no one, not even the audience-proof Fanny, could
follow amidst the frenzied cheering accorded La Baker. In reality,
that woman of indefinable talents she's no trained dancer, an in
audible singer and certainly no comedienne in the American sense
failed completely in the Follies, as the critics were quick to point out
the next morning. Neither did they care too much for Niesen, an
exciting and original singer; Brooks Atkinson said she had "a cloudy
voice suggesting an oboe with a cold." All he said about my tunes
was that they were "probably all right." Percy Hammond said that
4< music seems to be lacking," and Richard Lockridge that "Mr. Duke's
THE GOOD YEARS 317
music isn't, to be sure, anything in particular, except a lot of horns.'*
But, thank goodness, others dissented in my favor among them
John Anderson, Gil Gabriel, Bob Garland, John Mason Brown,
Bob Coleman and, best of all, Broadway's own bible, Variety. "Ibee"
of that esteemed sheet must be credited with being the real discoverer
of "I Can't Get Started With You." "Show's melody hit song is spotted
rather late," he said, "Bob Hope getting it across on the lyric end.
Even so the tune was quickly recognized as the standout. Ditty is
'Can't Get Started' warbled to Eve Arden, who plays hard to get.'*
The Time magazine man, too, singled out the song and even quoted
part of the lyric for a, perhaps, transparent reason: "The Himalaya
Mountains I climb, I'm written up in 'Fortune' and 'Time,* Tm asked
to every State Ball, but I'm just behind the eight-ball with you." Of
the daily critics, only John Anderson mentioned the song at alL
CHAPTER XV
IN MY THIRTIES IN
THE THIRTIES
I HAVE been faithful to thee, Serena! In my fashion," is the way I
could justifiably paraphrase Ernest Dowson. In 1936 I was still
passionately in love with Miss Bagnold's and Mr. Behrman's Serena
Blandish. As early as October 1935, Dwight Deere Wiman wired
me: "Asked Howard Lindsay to lunch with me on Wednesday the
twenty-third. Can you join us?" I readily forgave Dwight his role in
my replacement by Cole Porter in The Gay Divorcee one doesn't
quarrel with a hit, particularly when it's studded with Cole's best
songs and we foregathered at Tony Soma's "April in Paris V
birthplace. The lunch and drinks were good but Lindsay was not
keen on tackling Serena. On December 19th Dwight wrote me: "I
thought you were so busy with the Follies it might not be just the
right time to talk. I have not been exactly idle on the Serena busi
ness. The first difficulty as we both know is in finding the ideal per
son to do something about the book." I must explain that Berry
himself, who would have been ideal, didn't go beyond a promise to
"come in" on the book when it had achieved the "rough draft"
stage. "We would be quite unwise to bring the play in this year,"
Wiman went on. "I think if we can agree on the right sort of man
to handle the book and if we could let him work on it during the late
winter and spring to be ready for the fall, it would be much smarter
showmanship. I will get in touch with you as soon as the Follies
open." Moss Hart was approached next and declined the offer with
his customary amiability.
Immediately upon the completion of the Follies score, I began the
job of revamping and reorchestrating Jardin. While rusticating in
Fire Island, I kept in close touch with Massine and the colonel, who
were touring Europe and testing my ballet before Monte Carlo and
Barcelona audiences, getting it in shape for the all-important Covent
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 319
Garden showing. What happened when my work was therein ex
hibited defies description. From the letters I gathered that Jardin got
an "unusually noisy" reception, the noise being of the far from flat
tering sort. The critics really tore into me., Ernest Newman leading
the pack with habitual thoroughness: "The music is like a belated
ghost from the generation 1920-1930. . . . One feels, indeed, that
it is just the sort of thing Diaghilev would have imagined to be
truly representative of modern music in his last days." Why, thanks
Mr. Newman, I said to myself, then read on: "Dukelsky, appar
ently, still thinks we are likely to be impressed by a profusion of
discords without any distinction or continuity of idea to justify them."
Constant Lambert, the orange-shirted "Kid" of my Diaghilev days,
thought Jardin "a bit of a mess ... the process of artistic diges
tion, so to speak, is incomplete. And small wonder when so much of
the material is half-baked." After panning Lurgaf s scenery and cos
tumes unmercifully, Constant went to work on me: "Dukelsky's score
is a disappointment after his earlier theatre work. 'Zephyr and
Flora,' in spite of its rather costive harmonic and orchestral style,
was one of the most attractive of the neo-classical Diaghilev ballets
and had an agreeable melodic freshness. This and the jazz music he
has written under the name of Vernon Duke suggest that his talent is
'au fond' simple and spontaneous. His new score, however, is very
self-conscious." Only Francis Toye gave me a pat on the back:
"Dukelsky's music possesses the great merit as baUet music of being
extremely vivid and strongly contrasted if at times harsh and stri
dent."
Massine and de Basil urged me to take out the "harsh and stri
dent" sounds and butter the music with lush tunes although the
"Poor Lovers" already had one, and a good one, too. With all its
faults, Jardin was orchestrated more dexterously than the Diaghilev
Zephyr, but the orchestration failed to adequately underline and in
tensify the musical thought. I compared notes with Gershwin, who
suggested consulting Schillinger without delay. When told that his
help was needed because both the revamped ballet and St. Peters
burg were to be performed, Schillinger proved most sympathetic and
we went to work at once. Schillinger's workroom was full of his be
loved "new age" instruments, such as a Hammond organ, a Nova-
chord, and a Solovox, in addition to the "obsolete" piano. Our ses
sions for they could hardly be called lessons consisted of going
320 PASSPORT TO PARIS
over the two works page by page. A given page was subjected to the
most minute analysis, both in its orchestral and purely musical as
pects. Schillinger sought to determine, first of all, whether the musi
cal thought was "orchestrable"; the next step was to hear a passage
on the piano, and ascertain that the orchestration interpreted the
music properly, that the shifting of sonorities was gradual if the mu
sic warranted it, or sudden when dynamic penetration was necessary.
I was also shown the various Schillinger-invented "special effects";
those that had their origin in overtones and other acoustic phenom
ena were the most fascinating. Both works were given a new orches
tral dress, not for the sake of greater superficial effect but because
it was organically right for the correct projection of the music. Were
it not for Joseph Schfllinger, I would still be faced with: "What hap
pened to your music? It sounded so well on the piano!"
While thus endeavoring to keep myself busy on both musical
fronts, I went to the usual number of not overly amusing parties and
saw a great many people who were uniformly friendly and just as
uniformly indifferent to me as I was to them. Whenever there was a
lull in my activities, I'd kill an hour or two by having drinks with
easygoing chance companions or going through the motions of pas
sion with "yes women." The resulting emptiness was often unendura
ble, and marriage seemed to be the only possible remedy. Mother's
exemplary, though mercilessly short, married life was certainly a po
tent argument in favor of matrimony, even for so lighthearted a
young man as myself. At thirty-two, it wasn't a moment too soon to
think of marriage, and I spent the next six years (until Mother's
death in 1942) experimenting with the idea. Karen and Bunny
were my first, perhaps pardonable, missteps in that" direction; with
Joan I very nearly reached success. I knew full well after three or
four romantic outings on Fire Island that the girl was too young for
me that her father, a conservative businessman and an old-time Re
publican, insisted on four years of college education for his daugh
ter and I discovered shortly that Joan's mother was a manic-
depressive in a fairly advanced stage. I couldn't get the girl out of
my mind and found wonderful solace in her childish frankness, in
her lack of social or artistic pretensions and in the effortless, slightly
seedy comfort of her parents* home in the suburbs. After too much
studied badinage with well-advertised Park Avenue "lovelies," or
the snappy "tough talk" of Tin Pan Alley, being asked to deliver a
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 321
lecture "on modern music" at Joan's high school was pleasantly
American and purifying. God alone knows what I talked about to
eager-eyed besweatered coeds, who seemed quite nonplused by their
"continental" lecturer with an odd voice and a foreign manner; but
they absolutely ate it up and bombarded me with unexpectedly in
telligent questions. I was driven back to Joan's house to partake of
tea and crumpets, to sign several autograph books, and best of all,
to receive a grateful kiss from Joan, who was proud as Punch at
having "put me over" with her high-school contemporaries. It was
after my "lecture" that I began to think seriously of marrying Joan.
Three good things happened around Christmas time. The "new"
score of Jardin was read by de Basil's orchestra under Antal Dorati
in Indianapolis and, apparently, voted a distinct improvement over
the old one; Leopold Stokowski wrote to say that he'd be "most in
terested" in seeing the score of St. Petersburg; and Dwight Wiman,
in his untiring search for the right adaptor for Serena, seemed to
have finally found one in Arthur Macrae, the promising young Eng
lish playwright and actor. Johnny Latouche was having a series of
annoying illnesses and wrote me amusingly from St. Luke's Hospital
to ask me to burn a candle for him, "at St Vitus, please." Also
that he had completed a libretto and two ballets. Since Johnny was
in financial difficulties at the time, I got the bright idea of palming
him off on the good colonel as a fifth press agent, on his release
from the hospital. The colonel was astonished and irritated by the
boy's extreme youth he immediately voiced grave doubts as to
Ms eligibility as "public relations man" in the loudest Russian. 'What
did he say?" Johnny queried nervously. "He wants to know whether
you can read and write," I translated more or less accurately. I then
explained to de Basil that Latouche was a great genius and could
make the ballet palatable to cowboys or dockyard workers. This
proved the real clincher, and Latouche was hired on the spot, al
though we had some difficulty in securing a much-needed twenty-
dollar advance for him.
In Philadelphia Latouche was spotted in a fashionable bar buy
ing drinks for a bevy of ballerinas; that evening I saw him backstage
discussing the vagaries of the Russian soul with Irina Baronova. The
colonel attempted to listen for a while, then asked me worriedly:
"What is he saying?" Latouche's English being as baffling to de
Basil as de Basil's Russian was to Johnny. The colonel spoke French
322 PASSPORT TO PARIS
with a strong Kursk or Orel accent, whereas Latouche's French had
distinctly Southern intonations not the Midi of France but the
Midi of Richmond, Virginia, They pretended to be unable to under
stand one another and rightly suspected me of being an inaccurate
and dishonest translator; I couldn't very well tell one man what
the other thought of him. "Ach, Dimotchka, Dimotchka," de Basil
whined, "if only your little Babouche would write instead of talking
to my ballerinas, we'd get somewhere." The next morning Latouche,
having spent his entire advance on "high life," came to my hotel to
join me for breakfast. Two weeks later he and de Basil parted com
pany.
Gradually, an influential group of ballet enthusiasts was formed
around the Monte Carlo Ballet, and, since they were Americans, the
question of an all-American ballet arose. The only American work
in the colonel's repertoire was the intermittently exciting Union Pa
cific by Archibald MacLeish and Nabokov therefore only half
"made in the U.S.A." This work, imaginatively choreographed by
Massine, won a sizable success and made the colonel receptive to
further essays in Americana. I suggested Paul Bowles and Carlos
Chavez, excellent theatrical composers both and representatives of
two widely divergent but equally authentic aspects of the new Amer
ican musical thought. I always had the warmest admiration for
Bowles, who used to come to my Village gatherings and whose music
immediately appealed to me by virtue of its clearly personal "pres
ence." His crystalline and strangely equivocal songs, the many apt
and evocative "background" scores for Broadway plays he'd written
and some equally remarkable piano pieces were all indicative of a
potentially important ballet composer. Chavez already had several
ballets in his portfolio, including H.P. and the more recent Quatro
Soils the last named as yet unproduced. The question of backers
arose again, and of the two proposed works, the Mexican project
had readier takers, as the Chavez score was already "on paper,"
whereas Paul's was barely begun.
Alice Halicka's capitonnages (she had replaced Lurgat), my
"sweetened" music and the revamped choreography combined to
make a slightly better ballet than Jardin's first version, but I doubt
that Gide had any real cause for rejoicing. The "improved" version
was presented at the N.Y. Metropolitan Opera House in April 1936;
Estrella Boissevain and George Gershwin sat in my box and there
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 323
was a lot of seemingly spontaneous applause. Robert Simon in the
New Yorker said: "A practical, kaleidoscopic scenario, shrewdly
choreographed by Mr. Massine, and goodlooking scenery and cos
tumes. The score is sound ballet composition, and there are attractive
melodies in it. The audience made a handsome fuss over *Jardin,'
which is to have further showings." Further shavings would have
been more correct because, as Lincoln Kirstein gleefully recorded in
his "Blast at Ballet" pamphlet: "Dukelsky's (Vernon Duke's) fatu
ous score for "Jardin Publi^' [he might have brushed up on his
French] received two complete extremely expensive decoratings and
costumings in two seasons, was a failure in both, and junked in a
third."
In the course of 1935 I saw a good deal of Pavlik Tchelitchev,
who now shared a flat with Charles Henri Ford, a young avant-
garde poet and magazine publisher. Pavlik had become extremely
nervous and irritable, but he painted magnificently and was as friendly
as ever with me. Ruth Ford, Charles's actress sister, a dark South
ern beauty, was then eager to break into the musical-show game
and both Tchelitchev and his friend Cecil Beaton urged me re
peatedly to "get her on Broadway." In this I failed; but I did give
Ruth a setting of her brother's "Song of the Muse" to sing, which she
did deliciously. Chick Austin and other Hartford, Connecticut, aes
thetes ("Friends and Enemies of Modem Music," as they styled them
selves) were staging a sumptuous "Paper" Ball in Hartford, and
various art moderne personalities were asked to prepare "entrances."
At the ball, Ruth Ford, extravagantly dressed by Tchelitchev, sang my
"Song of the Muse" on the backs of four splendidly gilded but other
wise reasonably naked youths. The ball itself was a success; I at
tempted a flirtation with beauteous Mimi Soby, but she was snatched
from me by Charlie Ford, who offered to teach her the "blackbottom"
surrealist style.
Tchelitchev, in Harold Acton's words, "wished, above all, to be
stronger than he was and his efforts led to strain." This was a new
Tchelitchev, not the life-loving, insouciant youth I knew in Boule
vard Montparnasse. Again according to Acton: "One could not speak
of Berard to Tchelitchev without an eruption. *Bebe' Berard was at
tacked as a plagiarist, a cad, a snob, a 'mondain/ " I remembered
Berard as a beardless weak-faced young man with high color and a
passionate love for American jazz, especially as played by Gene
324 PASSPORT TO PARIS
McCown, a blues-addicted Paris expatriate. I once dined with Be-
rard in 1928 in his parents' gloomy old house, which had a long,
winding staircase and a profusion of darkly powerful portraits on the
walls. I was astounded to learn that they were all painted by the
weak-faced cherub who was my host that evening. "Yes, I painted
these portraits," Bebe sighed unhappily. "It doesn't do me any good
with Diaghilev he just doesn't believe I can paint." I then re
called seeing Berard often backstage at the ballet, chatting animat
edly with the dancers but never with Sergei Pavlovitch. Being dis
covered by Diaghilev would have precipitated Berard's success. That
success, to hear Tchelitchev rant, was now an accomplished fact,
In the spring (1936), I sailed for Europe with de Basil, Massine
and the entire Monte Carlo company on the S.S. Paris. The purpose
of my voyage was twofold: to assist with "final" changes on Jardin,
which was announced in Barcelona and London, and to meet and
work with Arthur Macrae, who had accepted Dwight Wiman's Se
rena offer and was luxuriating on the Riviera prior to going back into
the theatrical harness. I didn't see much of Massine, who was hav
ing marital difficulties, or the colonel, plotting dark plots with his
"associates." Squiring seductive Vera Zorina and jasmin-faced, sinu
ous Sono Osato, or playing ping-pong with their dancing cavaliers,
was more to my taste. On arrival, I was handed a cable which
read: "Follies established hit but overhead so tremendous will be
forced to close show unless authors agree 50% cut royalties. Ira al
ready accepted. Will you follow suit. Cable acceptance. Harry Kauf
man." This was a bit thick 5 and 10 per cent cuts were not rare,
but having one's income from a hit show cut in half was a near
catastrophe. "However ..." I said to myself, using Ira's favorite
opener, "Ira is older and far more celebrated than I and he ac
cepted who am I to squabble?" With regrettable lack of business
acumen, I cabled Kaufman authorizing the cut, and, on having dis
patched the message suddenly realized that I should have checked
with Ira first I was right; I soon received a letter from Ira, who
asked me why I agreed to so unprecedented a reduction in royalties.
Apparently, Kaufman sent Ira an identical telegram, concomitantly
wife mine, but claiming that "Vernon already accepted, etc." Thus
Ira and I were deprived of several thousand dollars, as the Follies
had a long and prosperous run.
Macrae wrote, suggesting a Paris meeting. I looked forward to
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 325
working on my favorite play in my favorite town. Prokofiev was in
Russia. I dined with Paitchadze, a friend still though my publisher
no longer. Neither the Parfenovs nor the Samoilenkos were in town.
De Basil moved in with Dr. Zalevsky, the great Polish diet, or rather
antidiet, specialist The bulk of Zalevsky's patients ^ consisted of
women suffering from pernicious anemia and other serious ailments,
resulting from overly zealous "slimming." One internationally known
"society beauty," after living for a year on black coffee and orange
juice, collapsed and was put in Zalevsky's care; she was slowly re
stored to life. Anna Pavlova was a patient of Zalevsky's, as were
many film and Broadway stars. On the second floor of his spacious
house were lodged various animals, all of them living on scientific
diets: an overweight cocker spaniel barked at an emaciated goat
and obese parrots cackled contemptuously at a starved eagle. Zalev
sky invented Padinox, a miraculous "slenderizer" in suppository
form, which was just beginning to catch on internationally when pre
mature death put an end to the brilliant doctor's career.
Arthur Macrae, a self-effacing and attractive young Englishman,
arrived in Paris; we lunched together, compared notes on Serena
and planned a series of further meetings. The next morning I re
ceived a cable from Dwight Wiman telling me that "previous com
mitments" prevented him from producing Serena Blandish after all
and wishing me luck with "another" producer, name unspecified.
This, after carefully outlining my "way of life" and working schedule
and paying Macrae in advance! Being enraged by producers was fast
becoming an unhealthy habit with me. I summoned Macrae, who
had received a similar cable, and who too was raging, in a discreet,
more subdued manner, as befitted a Britisher. I obviously couldnt
ask the young author, a total stranger to me, to work on speculation;
we had a farewell drink together and he departed, his faith in
Broadway magnates irreparably shaken. I wrote Dwight a long and
nasty letter.
the trip to Spain with de Basil and Sevastianov, his secretary, was
a refreshing change after the Kaufman and Wiman setbacks. With
fellow Russians the colonel could be good company, if you were
prepared to dispense with subtlety and wit, but then, Russian gaiety
is neither witty nor subtle. I liked Barcelona, although if s probably
the least Spanish of all Spanish cities. I was surprised to see de
Basil, whom I had always considered a dyed-in-the-wool monarchist,
326 PASSPORT TO PARIS
on the best of terms with highly placed Catalonian politicians of ex
tremely "progressive" tendencies. Massine, his dog Smoke and I
were photographed on the theater's roof between rehearsals by the
Musical America photographer. David Lichine, Riabouchinska and
some of the more adventurous girl dancers dined nightly on suckling
pig and heady Spanish red wine at the Caracoles just off the Ramblas.
Forgetting Zalevsky's diet advice, I joined them enthusiastically
there's nothing like young pig meat grilled on a spit and began
gaining weight again at tremendous speed. By the time we returned
to Paris, I had acquired a triple chin, I don't remember anything
about Jar din's reception in Barcelona, except that half the orchestra
made a wrong entrance in the middle of the Rhumba and no one,
including the dancers, knew the difference.
Zalevsky took one look at me at the railroad station in Paris,
where he awaited our arrival with an armful of roses for his favorite
ballerinas, and let out a howl. "You must have gained forty pounds,"
he exclaimed jovially. "What a perfect guinea pig for my research
work!" The "pig" reference was a little too close to home and I
frowned; but the good Zalevsky embraced me paternally and as
sured me that he'd whip me into shape in no time. "It'll cost you
nothing," the doctor assured me. "All I want you to do is to accept
my humble hospitality and lodge with me for the next three weeks;
I'm not doing you any favors you'll be favoring me by letting
me use you as my guinea . . . well, you know the animal I mean."
I consulted a mirror, hated what I saw and readily accepted Zalev
sky's generous offer.
On the first morning of my "cure" I was served a breakfast con
sisting of cereal, three fried eggs, quantities of butter, my beloved
croissants and coffee with thick cream. Being hungry I swallowed
everything and my admiration for Zalevsky grew. "This food must
have been de-calorized or seasoned with thyroid," I thought. "No
matter, it tasted fine." I did some composing that morning or,
rather, arranging, as I had sold de Basil an idea of adapting John
Field's (1782-1837) enchanting piano pieces; Field was Chopin's
model, the true inventor of the nocturne and a great glutton and
drunkard. I called my balletization of his music Field Day, a rather
pretty title, I still think. At one o'clock Zalevsky took me to lunch
at Laperouse, one of Paris's most famous restaurants; the menu .
which I refuse to reproduce, as it might tempt me to cook a similar
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 327
m eal was extraordinarily copious and studded with calories. A
great deal of wine was also consumed. At five tea with more
croissants, butter and raspberry tarts. For dinner we visited Kor-
nilov's and partook of vodka, blim, borsht, pirojki, Tzar's cutlets
(stuffed with foie gras, truffles and melted butter), rum cake and
coffee accompanied by liqueurs. That day I gained two more pounds.
I didn't dare open my mouth for fear that another morsel of food
would be put there by the diabolical Pole. The next day the same
overly gorgeous gorging; another pound and a half gained. On the
morning of the next day I couldn't get into my trousers and decided
to flee from Zalevsky's gastronomic trap, wrapped in a bed sheet if
need be. Before I could execute my plan, the maid entered, carrying
a tray; on it were lemon juice, half a grapefruit and black, unsweet
ened coffee. Lunch consisted of carrots, watercress, lettuce and a
slice of pineapple; for dinner a huge steak, a raw tomato and tea
with lemon. I was so delighted with the abrupt cessation of culinary
excesses, I could hardly finish the steak. Two more days of the hun
ger diet then a day of reckless stuffing (this time I gained only
half a pound) then back to the fasting. I also had to drink vari
ous liquids (no alcohol except on the "banquet days") and use
Padinox every night. In three weeks I shed well over twenty pounds,
could again wear my clothes "with an air," and thanked Zalevsky
by dedicating Field Day to him.
London was next on de Basil's schedule (the ballet gave no per
formances in Paris). On arriving I was given a small room in the
colonel's flat in Shepherd's Market. An acute feeling of hollowness
was the effect London had on me after my seven years' absence.
Most cliches are based on truth; I'm not sure that the one about the
Englishman "once a friend, always a friend" is. I was certainly
not lacking in friends in London during my four years' sojourn there;
yet the only two people who seemed genuinely glad to see me back
were Ewart Garland (by then happily married to his long-time love,
Rosalind) and my old lyrical collaborator Desmond Carter (who also
had a beautiful wife, Betty as redheaded as Rosalind was blond) .
Desmond and I promptly collaborated on two songs.
Staying with the colonel was not a good idea not by London
standards. De Basil, utterly devoid of Diaghilev's magnetic charm
and profound culture, made no effort to gain an entree into English
(and, even less, into French) society and was at all times regarded
328 PASSPORT TO PARIS
as a dull and socially unacceptable executive. His aide-de-camp,
"Gerry" Sevastianov was, on the contrary, a personable and ingrati
ating young man, who, although lacking in Boris Kochno's feline
polish and dexterity, did what he could to give de Basil a little
"salon veneer."
The London season was at its height; it would be an exaggeration
to say that all doors were closed to me, but I frankly didn't bother
to knock. After all, people knew (or did they?) that I was in town
and there was always the telephone which rang very seldom. I
went to cocktails at Cecil Beaton's and saw a few "bright young"
faces, relatively unchanged. There was a lot of hectic talk about peo
ple and things that must have appeared on the social horizon during
my absence, for they all sounded unfamiliar. I telephoned Willie
Walton, who, I was told, was in town, but there was no answer. He
never made the slightest effort to reach me.
I ran into one of the "bright young things" of the Elizabeth Pon-
sonby circa 1926 entourage not so young any more, but brighter
than ever. I took her to lunch and no sooner were we ushered to our
table than I spotted Constant Lambert lunching alone in a corner;
he had grown very fat and his face was exceedingly red. He, too,
recognized me and, in lieu of greeting, glared ferociously. I waved at
him airily, which probably enraged him all the more.
Jardfn had a gala "reopening" at the Covent Garden late in June.
I took the ex-"bright young thing" and an old Russian friend, Prince
"Vava" Golitzine, whose small country place in Chessington near
London was the meeting place of the "nicer" White Russians in the
twenties; Vava owned an antique shop in Berkeley Square and was
still the gracious grand seigneur a race now practically extinct;
its representatives are easily spotted, since their graciousness in
creases as their fortunes dwindle a difficult feat for the more nu
merous not-so-grands seigneurs. It was nice to see white ties and
tiaras in the audience; the proceedings on the stage were less en
couraging, but I couldn't really tell with the usual exhibitionist ova
tions and the bows Massine, Toumanova and I took together.
During the intermission, I did a little reconnoitering in the foyer,
and, although I didn't hear much beyond the usual "divine," "un
speakably dreary," "absolute heaven" and "frightful bore," the spec
tacle that greeted my eyes was most arresting. The resplendent
parade of homosexuals, shy and blatant, simpering and booming,
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 329
dressed with the unmasculine exaggeration of every caprice of fash
ion so typical of their ilk, was something to see; the "boys*' were on
the town and Covent Garden was their citadel. Ten years later
Cecil Gray summed it up fearlessly in Contingencies: "Ballet, in
fact, is the homosexual art form par excellence . . . and at per
formances of the Russian Ballet the character of the audience was
frequently such as to render one's presence in the midst of it if
one happened to be comparatively normal so acutely distasteful
that one preferred to stay away altogether. Whatever the future of
art may be after the war, we can at least be fairly sure that it will
not take the form of a continuation of this danse macabre. 93 The
spectacle before me was indeed macabre, but the wildly chattering
"gay" boys (according to Gray "those who share homosexual pro
pensities refer to themselves and each other as being 'queer.* " Hor
rors! "Gay" is the word.) seemed affable enough and quite a few of
them waved at me with Hellenic grace. I spotted a divinely tailored
and discreetly rouged exquisite, an Honorable something-or-other
whose face had the unmistakable stamp of the twenties, chatting with
a busty, rather "countryish" debutante. A pretty shepherdess sur
rounded by effeminate fauns was an incongruous sight and I decided
to come to her rescue. "Ah, Dukelsky," her escort intoned, <c would
you be an absolute angel and introduce me to Z [a good-looking male
dancer]?" I thought it over quickly and made a counterproposal.
"With pleasure if you, in turn, introduce me to your absolutely
angelic companion" this with a significant leer in the girl's direc
tion. She turned out to be the Honorable's cousin and her name,
which I didn't quite catch, sounded like Penelope Bumpety-Bump.
We shook hands with, perhaps, exaggerated warmth the girl sens
ing my lack of "gaiety" and her cousin permitted himself a dis
gruntled yawn. "I didn't know you were one of those" he said.
"How odd I didn't know you were," I retorted and made arrange
ments to take Miss Bumpety-Bump to the Savoy after the ballet
At supper, my debutante expressed her delight at meeting a male
at last, although a rather out-of-the-way specimen. "You are most
terribly bogus, you know," said Penelope with an arch look. "When
I first saw you I thought you were an American, but I no longer
think you are. What are you?" I meekly informed her that I was
Jardin's composer.
If I couldn't tell the effect my refurbished ballet produced, the
330 PASSPORT TO PARIS
critics next morning could and did. "It is difficult to understand why
Massine should have been at pains to revise his 'Jardin Public' . . .
for it is the least successful of his productions" went the Times.
"The music of M. Dukelsky is vulgar without being funny," declared
Philip Page, Referee's dramatic critic: "also an authority on music,"
according to the editor, "writing in place of Constant Lambert, who
will be back from his holiday next week." All at once, I found
myself actively longing for Constant's return. "Pointless cacophony
is intolerable, even in the wildest developments of modern ballet,"
Mr. Page added.
De Basil walked in and interrupted my reading. "You see, Di-
motchka," he began, his big ears shining menacingly in the midday
sun. "I told you to give me a little melody, but you put it all in the fol
lies of Mr. Ziegfeld. How many times " "Oh, leave me and the
follies of Mr. Ziegfeld alone, you Cossack bully!" I screamed in the
manner of Noel Coward's heroes. With that I ran put of de Basil's
flat and headed, for obscure reasons, in the direction of Hyde Park.
I felt wildly, epically miserable, hating the colonel, the ballet and
its devotees, my absent friends, the mean critics, Harry Kaufman,
and the whole not-so-wide world in general. I sat down on a park
bench, the summer laziness of Hyde Park all around me. There
was a fine smell of grass mingling with that of the ginger beer being
consumed by a Cockney family sprawled out under a shade tree.
Shopgirls and typists lay on the grass giggling gaily. Lovers were
everywhere, embracing furtively and clumsily but with every sign of
erotic enjoyment Here was life, crude and unambitious, unseeing,
unthinking, life savored for itself by little people whose very littleness
was so obviously stronger and wiser than all my savage striving for
success. And now that I was bogged down by failure, the unknown
and unsung practitioners of the art of living on all sides of me seemed
to be triumphantly successful precisely because they did nothing to
attain their triumph.
Staying with de Basil, in view of the fierce critical drubbing I re
ceived, became unendurable, so I took a little "service flat" in Dover
Street and spent evenings in the company of Penelope the debutante,
who thought me less and less "bogus" with each succeeding meeting.
Just as I began to forget faithless Serena, Milton Shubert turned up
and displayed interest in the project, thinking it a good vehicle for
Yvonne Printemps and Pierre Fresnay. We set up a meeting with the
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 331
pair in Paris and my spirits rose again. I couldn't leave London
quickly enough, although the colonel went on programing Jardin,
which somehow rather interested the public and was a minor succes
de scandale. Ever the opportunist, de Basil, who was all for "going
American" in the States, approved of my Field Day as a proper
appeaser for chauvinistic Britons. I had no time to orchestrate the
Field music things were brewing in New York, where Minnelli was
assembling a new Bea Lillie-Bert Lahr revue so I was entrusted
with hiring a suitable orchestrator in Paris.
Paris soon cured me of my many-hued blues. I took a suite in
a small hotel just off the Champs Elysees, guzzled champagne na
ture (the only kind of champagne I like and the one that doesn't
"travel") and was given a prodigious meal at the Caneton by Za-
levsky, who was delighted with my unchanged "silhouette" it isn't
difficult to diet in London and thought I deserved a gastronomic
prize. The Serena audition with Printemps and Fresnay went off well;
it was hard to resist Printemps's magnetism, her youth, which was
neither preserved nor restored, but which simply wouldn't desert its
owner, or Pierre Fresnay's perfect manners and perfect English. I
played several songs, mostly with lyrics of my own, like "Sailing at
Midnight," and the couple seemed delighted.
Boris Kochno, now sharing Bebe Berard's quarters, reappeared,
polished and handsome as of yore although his hair was fast re
ceding and he had a jaded air, rather like a petit poete of eighteenth-
century Paris salons, with only the snuffbox missing. He told me that
jazz-record collecting was his new hobby and that several records
of my songs were among his favorites. Having once helped launch
me as Dukelsky in Paris, he was now eleven years later ready
to put Vernon Duke on the city's musico-social map. "Play me
some jazz, du vrai jazz," Boris implored me dreamily. I complied
and, although no jazz "purist" would give me even a passing mark,
Boris was electrified. He went to the telephone and in ten minutes I
had three dinner invitations and one to the opera where Lifar an
nounced the "creation" of Le Roi Nu, a ballet based on Hans Chris
tian Andersen's tale, with music by Jean Frangaix. Outside of the
opera, ballet was dead in Paris and Diaghilev's imperial mantle was
taken out of mothballs and undeservedly donned by Serge Lifar a
poor fit.
My new Paris success was small beer compared with the Diaghi-
332 PASSPORT TO PARIS
lev debut, but it had the effect of healing balsam on my London-in
flicted wounds. I got a taste of Gershwin's salon pianistics mar
quises and countesses sharing the piano stool with me and listening
to my constipated roulades (they insisted on my "singing" the lyrics)
with every evidence of rapture. My social sponsors, outside of Boris,
were Marie-Blanche de Polignac, Denise Bourdet, the witty and ob
servant journalist widow of the playwright, and Natasha Wilson, one
of the most ethereally lovely creatures I have ever beheld. "Sailing
at Midnight" for which Howard Dietz later wrote a new lyric and
I a new tune was an "upsetting emotional experience" in the words
of a titled ravissante; upsetting emotional experiences don't grow on
trees and I rapidly became a veritable coqueluche des salons.
Maries-Blanche, who played the role of Lady Blessington to mine of
Nat Parker Willis, couldn't get enough of my Serena tunes, and we
saw each other almost nightly. Marie-Laure de Noailles, the rich and
eccentric muse of so many Paris musicians and painters, was never
altogether "sold" on me. For the premiere of Le Roi Nu Marie-
Blanche was my hostess; in the intermission as we were chatting
about the ballet, which no one seemed to like, Mme. de Polignac
was effusively greeted by Tchelitchev and Charlie Ford, who were
in Marie-Laure's party. I had no idea that Pavlik was in Paris and
ran up to him impulsively to tell him of my joy at seeing him at the
scene of my Diaghilev youth; I asked Tchelitchev to lunch with me
in the Montparnasse quarter, as a sort of pilgrimage to the familiar
phantoms of our past. The painter looked at me with obvious dis
pleasure, asked about the date of my departure for the States and
said that he was entirely "too busy" for sentimental outings. This
was the coldest of showers, as cold as it was undeserved and inexplica
ble. I learned later that Tchelitchev was reported enraged by my
social "triumphs," a report I thought hardly credible until I read in
Acton's Memoirs of an Aesthete: "Though Tchelitchev pretended to
have a horror of fashion, he could not help courting it. It was
Berard's success as an innovator of fashion that rankled most." Un
derstandably, no Paris soiree was possible without Bebe Berard,
now bearded and sporting food-stained and paint-spotted tight little
suits, but always radiantly gay and childishly entertaining; he was
universally adored. The next day I saw Tchelitchev at Halicka's
and told him of my resentment at the uncalled-for snub he adminis
tered to me at the opera; my frankness was, in turn, immediately
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 333
and violently resented by Pavlik, who never forgave me although,
in all fairness, it was he who should have craved my forgiveness. He
later told John Murray Anderson that I "bespitted" him.
I took Denise Bourdet and Natasha Wilson to supper at one of the
large Russian night clubs where fading gentlewomen sang gypsy
songs of questionable authenticity and violins shed their syrupy tears
right into your borsht We were joined by Lifar, his face an odd
red-brown, mouth chronically half-opened, as if in delirious aban
don. Lifar embraced me tenderly and wanted to know what I
had done with Mistress into Maid, which Diaghilev never got to
hear. He was planning a "Pushkin Gala" for the one hundredth an
niversary of the poet's death and expressed a burning desire to hear
the score of my two-act opera. Encouraged by Serge's interest, I told
him of St. Petersburg, which contained a long aria with a Pushkin
text ("I love thee, oh work of Peter") ; this so transported the dancer
that he nearly broke a violin bow that suddenly appeared under his
nose. "Dima, what luck us meeting again!" he exclaimed, downing
a glass of vodka. "Don't let's lose sight of one another. We met
through Diaghilev we meet again under Pushkin's Northern Star."
We arranged to foregather at Paitchadze's music shop in me
d'Anjou the next afternoon. I brought both scores along and could
hardly wade through them, so incessant were Lifar's ecstatic excla
mations and other appreciative noises. It was decided that both works
would be performed at the "Pushkin Gala" and that Mistress into
Maid should be copied for his, Lifar's, use, at his expense. A few
months later, my opera was duly copied, setting me back $410, and
sent to Lifar, to the Paris opera; I never received the slightest ack
nowledgment of receipt, let alone a check. The Pushkinists managed
to meet under their idol's Northern Star without my help. The task of
orchestrating Field Day was entrusted to Tibor Harsanyi, excellent
Neo-Parisian musician of Hungarian birth; not only was it left un-
produced by de Basil but he managed to lose the orchestra and piano
scores of that work together with the full score of Jardin Public,
Shortly before my return to the States, I sought out poor Uncle Iliko
(Itya), now employed as night watchman for a Russian antique store
in rue St. Honore. I could hardly recognize in the old, bent, shabbily
clothed man, his head shaking owing to a chronic nervous affliction,
the once spruce and lady-killing colonel of the gendarme corps. I met
Hiko (to whom I'd been sending money the past two years) in
334 PASSPORT TO PARIS
his patron's shop, after hours; he was sweeping the floor and put the
broom aside guiltily as I entered. I bought my uncle a good meal and
great quantities of cigarettes, the smoking of which was his only re
maining vice, as he meekly confessed. Hiko was not very old; but his
life was behind him in Russia and he was now obediently and un
complainingly going through the motions still expected of him. He
died six years later in Nice, at the asylum for the aged. My encounter
with Aunt Genia, Uncle Nicholas Kopylov's divorced wife, wasn't
much gayer; continually sick herself, she was employed as a nurse
and led a hopelessly gray life, the insufficient purpose of which was
to keep Death from releasing her from her misery. Hiko and Genia
were not on good terms before their exodus from Russia; having lost
their relatives and friends one by one, they now saw each other often
and clung together, old age and the starless night around the corner
their only bond.
Diaghilev's "fourth son," pencil-slim, black-haired Igor Marke-
vitch, born in Kiev but brought to France at an early age (hence
his poor Russian, deplored by Prokofiev), was the composer en
vogue in 1936 Paris. His early works, such as Rebus (introduced in
the States by Koussevitzky) and Icare, were really remarkable and
had a "new sound" years before the "new look" was invented.
Listening to his music was exhilarating, but on closer inspection it
appeared oddly devoid of substance though there was never any
question of the young man's genius for orchestration. Stories of
Marie-Laure's deification of the slightly diabolical-looking, youthful
maitre (who was later to become one of Europe's ablest conductors)
were running the salons. I went to Nadia Boulanger's lecture on the
forthcoming Paradis Perdu, a huge oratorio Markevitch had just com
pleted, and, to my astonishment, heard that worthy woman assure
her elegant listeners that while "they were not privileged to attend
Chrisf s birth, they will be accorded the supreme honor of attending
the birth of Markevitch's Paradise Lost. Alas, the Paradise proved
a total loss and half the audience left long before it was over; the
work was interminable, unwieldy and monotonously, obstinately
cacophonous. I liked Arthur Lourie's Concerto Spirituale (conducted
by Charles Munch at another concert) infinitely better; that work,
heavy with music and replete with religious fervor, deserves a
speedy revival.
A few days before boarding the Normandie, New York-bound, I
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 335
received the following cable from Chauncey Stillman, whom Mex
ico-loving Estrella Elizaga had sold on the Chavez ballet for de
Basil: "Have succeeded in raising thirty-five hundred dollars includ
ing my own contribution for the Quatro Soils and have exhausted all
efforts." The colonel and I had been writing Chavez (who had ex
pressed his readiness to cooperate in New York) the past three
months without ever receiving a reply. I sent Chavez an urgent cable
plus a detailed letter outlining de Basil's plans for his work, and
having thus also "exhausted all efforts" on behalf of a fellow com
poser, went back to my hotel to pack.
There has never been a ship like the late lamented S.S. Norman-
die of the French line; my only complaint was that the vessel was so
huge and the sailing so smooth and rapid that one never quite felt
that one was aboard ship, and the trip was over far too quickly. I
spent most of the time in Jack and Natasha Wilson's luxurious cabin,
which had a private deck where we sat lazily for hours, sipping long
drinks and exchanging Paris gossip.
"Vernon Duke, back this week from Europe, will write some addi
tional numbers for the returning Tollies' and at least two numbers
and two ballets for the Beatrice Lillie-Bert Lahr show. Somewhere
in his portfolio, too, is the score of the musical version of 'Serena
Blandish,' for which Pierre Fresnay and Yvonne Printemps are now
being mentioned. Nothing much will be done about this, however,
until a producer is found, Dwight Deere Wiman presumably having
lost interest in the project," the New York Times chronicler reported
on July 17th. Milton Shubert evidently got lost too, because to this
day I haven't heard from him regarding Serena.
Crafty Harry Kaufman, not content with doing me and Ira out
of half of our royalties, had been busily peppering the Follies (which
had had to close suddenly in the summer owing to Fanny Brice's ill
ness) with interpolated songs, notwithstanding my agent's strenuous
protests. He had a good argument: none of my tunes had become
popular, none were on the Hit Parade, none were even "plugged"
by Max Dreyfus's underlings. In vain did Robert Benchley call my
score "real music, which is something" I had a "dead" score in a
show that was very much alive. For two years I had begged Henry
Spitzer to release me from my contract; he adamantly refused, claim
ing that I was "way in the red." "How can I be in the black when
you refuse to work on my songs?" I protested. A shrug of the shoul-
336 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ders. "Go talk to Max," Henry suggested wearily. Since it was pleas-
anter to stay in the red than talk to Max, I shrugged the suggestion
off in turn and we were just where we started nowhere. On de
tecting Kaufman's newest machinations, though, I became grandly
indignant (my capacity for indignation is the bane of my existence)
and demanded an explanation from the professional manager, a tough
Damon Runyon character who talked as if he had a pound of pop
corn in his mouth. The man, who hated me violently, dragged me to
Dreyfus's office for a showdown. "It's either me or Voinon Duke in
this foim, Mr. Mex!" he shouted dramatically. "I'd be delighted to
leave, Mr. Dreyfus," I chimed in quickly. "But how about a few plugs
before I go?" Dreyfus smiled thinly through his thick cigar and dis
missed us both. I stayed on so did the professional manager.
Meanwhile Vincente Minnelli was putting The Show Is On to
gether. A new era was upon Broadway and top craftsmen "took
themselves to newer and smarter fields the intimate sophistication
of smart musicals," as one observant reporter had it. "Even the
Messrs. Shubert, conservative gentlemen who still believe in Santa
Claus, are brightening up their alley, sweeping out the tinsel and
bringing in such clever lyricists for their musicals as Mr. Ira Gersh
win and Mr. Ogden Gnash (as the Shuberts spell him; he's only a
year behind with his copy). Pat to this point about the new smartness
and almost girl-less musicals, and bearable this evening, is Ira Gersh
win's opening number of these same Shuberts' 'Ziegfeld Follies' at
the Winter Garden:
Gone is the day of the show girl
Whose charms captivate the Don Juan;
This year we cater to no girl;
Time marches on.
Beauty is fleeting and flimsy
Tho' she has the neck of a swan;
This year we're featuring whimsy;
Time marches on.
"So it goes. Thighs are a dime a dozen pairs now and the spec
tacular 'man on the flying trapeze' but an outmoded song even
drunks have forgotten to mumble."
Ted Fetter, a baby-faced, ever-cheerful young man (he was in
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 337
the Garrlck Gaieties cast in 1930), Cole Porter's cousin and the son
of a Princeton professor, was engaged by Mkmelli and Kaufman
to write most of the lyrics, I, most of the music. This was again to be
an "assembled" score and my job was approximately similar to the
one I performed for Billy Rose on my return from Mexico, except that
Minnelli meant business and had an opening date. A strong and silent
man named Gordon Jenkins, hitherto unknown on Broadway, was
hired by Minnelli as conductor and orchestrator. Besides Fetter's and
my contributions, the score boasted entries by the Gershwins, Harburg
and Arlen, Rodgers and Hart, Hoagy Carmichael, Herman Hupfeld
and two friends of mine, Norman Zeno and Will Irwin, a team that
should have gotten places but somehow didn't.
I don't think there has ever been a greater disciplinarian or a
more exacting perfectionist in the musical theater than Vincente
Minnelli. He is now the top director in the musical film division and
so formidable a tower of strength at M-G-M that Broadway pro
ducers have despaired of ever getting him back on the Great White
Way. Where other directors wasted a lot of valuable time wrangling
with costume designers, arguing with overpaid stars or kidding
around with chorus girls, with Vincente once the rehearsals started
it was all work and no play. We all felt like cogs in Minnelli's
magical wheel and kept ourselves well oiled. Most revues, as I men
tioned before, were not routined until dress-rehearsal time, and the
routines kept being changed nightly out of town; not with Vincente.
Once the material was decided upon and whipped into shape, it was
blocked out and put together like pieces in a solved jigsaw puzzle;
very little of the nmning order was changed for the New York open
ing.
Besides writing "Now," a flowing ballad well sung by Gracie Bar-
rie, and "What Has He Got?" a Fred Astaireish "jingle," I was en
trusted with the "Casanova" song and ballet, excitingly danced by
Paul Haakon, and a curious bit of Americana named the "Trage
dian" (subtitled "A Ballet of the Barnstormers"), the music of
which, in view of its complexity and comparative daring, was signed
Vladimir Dukelsky, Ironically, the one Dukelsky interpolation was
bounced out of the show. Another casualty, a tragic one, was the
failure of the late Bunny Berrigan (to whom I owe the ultimate suc
cess of "I Can't Get Started") to put his "Jam Session" finale across.
It just didn't work in the theater.
338 PASSPORT TO PARIS
After two postponements, necessitated by last-minute changes,
The Show Is On opened and rocked Boston, "Casanova," a chore
ographic study of sex was received with startled "Oh's" and "Ah's"
but furiously applauded.
It might have been a delayed reaction from my London shock,
but I failed to be elated by so fine a debut. I made sincere and
valuable friends in Boston in the persons of Robert and Dorothy
Hillyer; I admired Robert's poetry, having set nine of his poems to
music, and I loved Dorothy's joie de vivre and rare knack of turn
ing the stuffiest Bostonian into a frolicking Pan. All civilized gaiety
in Boston, not the gayest of cities, was organized by Dorothy and
amiable Nat Saltonstall, the head of the Boston's Institute of Modern
Art; the parties they gave were patterned after the London conversa
zioni, not the mournful Long Island merrymaking usually designed to
provide the "younger marrieds" with a little extramarital titillation.
Dorothy and Nat did everything to cheer me up; one evening I was
pleasantly surprised to find Noel Coward, dashing as ever, in the
Hillyer drawing room, spouting pithy sayings and running through
a few new songs. Noel had sent me a most cordial wire for the re
vue's opening, for which I thanked him warmly; he then asked me to
"do" some of the show's tunes. We ended by playing "Now"
piano-duet fashion. These diversions were well enough in their
way, but they didn't atone for the persistent, gnawing loneliness,
the likes of which I had not experienced before.
Boston is a strange place. It welcomes visitors provided they re
main "on the outside, looking in"; the Bostonians firmly believe in
staying "inside, looking out" for trouble. I was Trouble, having
developed a persistent penchant for Boston's girls. On closer inspec
tion I discovered that nearly every Back Bay virgin had something of
a Salem witch in her but then I would see another prim little
head, a face like a plain field flower, with almost no make-up, hear
the discreetly musical voice uttering neatly chosen words, scorning
the brassy slang of Manhattan and fall again, hard. I would have
gladly given my all for one "Slender Naiad of Stone" (the phrase is
Robert Hillyer's), provided she'd give me the nod.
The "Slender Naiad" came to my rescue momentarily the night
before the Minnelli show concluded its Boston run and moved on to
Philadelphia. The scene was a small supper party to wish me God
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 339
speed and an eventual happy landing on Broadway. The livelier the
party grew, the more down in the mouth I felt. The door opened,
the captain bowed and admitted a bridal party consisting of youth
ful bride and groom (Milton, Massachusetts, written all over them),
four bridesmaids and as many young men, presumably ushers. One
of the bridesmaids, in a white tulle dress with a huge bouffant skirt,
dark brown bangs over a radiant young face, put an end to my
melancholy and turned a miserabilis homundo into a Scott Fitz
gerald youth, love-stricken at the sight of a starry-eyed divinity at
tending her first prom. I was unable to take my eyes off the Naiad,
confessed my elated state to Mrs. Hillyer and asked her whether
she could think of a way to effect an introduction; no one at our ta
ble knew either the bride or the groom or the members of their
retinue an unusual state of affairs for Bostonians, the most clan
nish people in the world. A Harvard boy in our party came to my
rescue with a device as workmanlike as it was simple: he would "cut
in" on one of the "Harvards" (so known to Damon Runyon) in
the Naiad's party and I would in turn cut in on him.
In a few minutes I had my arm around the Naiad's waist; as
though mutually hypnotized, we stared at each other and were un
able to dance for quite a spell. "You may think this very strange,
but I wanted terribly to know you, so I cut in on my young friend.
You don't mind, do you?" "I don't mind at all,", the Naiad said in
clear Bostonian tones. "I like people who know their mind and speak
it." At this point we were dancing or rather undulating slowly with
out the slightest regard for the music. "You are much too wonder
ful to be real. Who are you?" I asked. "I'm Polly Turnbull. And
you?" I told her. "Oh, Broadway; Bea Lillie and all that . . ." she
intoned disinterestedly. I hastened to assure the girl that distinctly
un-Broadwayish activities were included in "all that." "Whatever I
am, whatever you are, I must see you." "I must see you, too." "Could
we leave this place and go somewhere together?" "How can I? I'm a
guest of the Smiths'," she pointed to the young married couple. "We
are going on somewhere after this." "But I'm leaving for Philadel
phia tomorrow - please try." The Naiad hesitated, then gave me an
even starrier look and smiled with sudden softness. "I know I'm
horrible, and the Smiths will never forgive me," Miss Turnbull whis
pered, "but somehow I can't help myself. Go back to your table
340 PASSPORT TO PARIS
and TO see what I can do. Ask me to dance again." I kissed her
hand, a disgracefully un-Bostonian feat, and returned to my table,
grinning idiotically.
On my return I was greeted with the customary joshing and face
tious cracks, but my happiness was such that I didn't even bother to
crack back. "The girl is a Bostonian. remember," Dorothy said.
"Don't rush things, or you'll get nowhere. If you're capable of a true
New England courtship, my blessings are with you, lad." A few
minutes later I was dancing with Polly again. "The Smiths think
me a lunatic," the Naiad confessed. "When I explained that I just
had to go off with you, that you were leaving town, they said they
understood perfectly. I'm sure they don't understand at all, and nei
ther do I, but I'm coming with you." "Let's go then." "Where to?"
"I want to take you to Bea Lillie's last-minute rehearsal after the
s k ow it's now almost one A.M., but I know they're still at the
theater, trying to lick the thing. This will only take a few minutes
then we'll go and sup somewhere anywhere." "All right," Polly
said resignedly, and went off in search of her cloak. She had her
car outside the club and drove me to the Shubert. Tired chorus girls
in practice clothes, stretching sleepily in orchestra seats, eyed the un-
theatrical new female curiously and a shade patronizingly theater
folks are snobs too. Polly, in turn, cringed at the sight of so many
bare legs and probably speculated on their owners' morals. My
Naiad was thrilled at meeting Bea LUlie, who is definitely a bac
chante and bacchantes are unknown in Boston.
It was so late by the time we left the theater that all restaurants
were closed. I suggested that we try the Ritz, where I was staying.
It was one-thirty; no service in the dining room only room serv
ice. I must have been wonderfully persuasive that night, because, as
if in a trance, Polly followed me into the elevator, startling the
wise little boy in charge, who could tell that the Naiad was strictly
Junior League stuff. In my room on the sixth floor I was more per
suasive still; but the reader grunting "uh-huh" delightedly in anticipa
tion of salacious descriptions, will be woefully disappointed. I never
touched the girl, I merely touched her heart; I pleaded my love in
accents un-Bostonian, but with such cataclysmic sincerity, that she
was clearly fascinated and for a brief moment forgave me my
regrettable birth in Old Russia instead of New England, the only
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 341
acceptable birthplace for gentlemen. I told her that her entering
the restaurant had changed my entire life and that all I wanted was
for her to enter that life and stay in it forever. Over supper and
wine, served by a sleepy waiter, I vowed to make all necessary ar
rangements and promised not to "rush things"; Polly, most unex
pectedly, told me of seeing Jardin Public in London the summer be
fore and being "tremendously moved" by it.
My Naiad then vanished into the night. After the next evening's
performance, I journeyed to Philadelphia with The Show Is On com
pany, determined to make tons of money, kidnap Polly if necessary,
and head for Paris on a honeymoon.
On walking down Broad Street, I stopped to read an eye-catching
poster announcing our show and crediting the score to mostly Duke
and Fetter, Rodgers and Hart, Dietz and Schwartz, the Gershwins,
etc., all in the same size small print. This was clearly a violation of
my contract, and made no sense, besides, as the reader could only
deduct that the music and lyrics were "mostly by everybody." I
descended on Harry Kaufman, who was busy arguing with the box-
office manager, and demanded to know the reason for the offending
posters. Harry, who had no use for me and could never understand
why Minnelli picked me to do the bulk of the score, tore his hair
and was about to start tearing mine, but then thought better of it (I
was taller and had more hair), so compromised on shrieking in
strident falsetto: "Making trouble again, Duke, eh? Why don't you
write me a song hit instead? Can't you see I'm busy trying to put
this show in shape for Broadway? Who cares about the goldarned
posters? Go on and call your lawyer." With that he slammed the
door in my face. Two hours later, the lawyer, a seasoned veteran
of many theatrical disputes, arrived at the Forrest Theatre; Kaufman
refused to see him. An hour later a half-dozen sturdy lads were
observed in Philadelphia streets tearing down the posters, while two
muscular members of the musicians' union took possession of the
orchestra pit and began taking out the arrangements of everything
signed by Duke and Fetter. This time Kaufman, tipped off by his
henchmen, literally flew into the theater and nearly yelled his
lungs out. The union brothers paid him no heed and calmly went
on with their work; a heated exchange with my lawyer and Harry
admitted defeat. He shook a plump fist at me, but the posters were
342 PASSPORT TO PARIS
changed and the Duke and Fetter items restored to the musicians'
stands. But little peccadillos like that couldn't stop the progress of
The Show Is On, which was emphatically a winner.
I had written Polly a ten-page love letter immediately upon ar
rival in Philadelphia, and here it was two weeks and not a word
in reply. A short, yet not altogether discouraging, answer finally
reached me in Washington; apparently, on returning home after our
one momentous meeting, Polly found her father sitting on the door
step, anxious and angry at her prolonged absence. The members
of the wedding party had informed him of Polly's inexplicable exit
with a "Broadway character," and such conduct was simply "not
Boston." The girl gave her father a frank account of the events and
stressed the correctness of my behavior, but was rigidly forbidden
to see, write, or otherwise communicate with me. I did well to be
patient for two weeks, as Polly's curiosity about so nonconformist a
suitor as myself was naturally whetted by her father's hostility. In
conclusion, Polly wanted to know whether I couldn't see her again
in Boston.
Couldn't I! Used to shuttling between London and Paris, I now
began shuttling between Boston and New York. I was doing well,
with The Show Is On clicking at the Winter Garden. I began to
spend a goodly share of my royalties on weekly trips to Boston and
wooed Polly with dogged determination, though little real encourage
ment. Due to the Turnbulls* point-blank refusal to have anything
to do with me (Polly gradually overruled their veto on our "ro
mance" she was 23, after all, and had her share of Boston
spunk), we usually met at the Ritz Polly "sensibly," yet unbe
comingly dressed (her white tulle evening frock was the only good
dress I'd seen her wear), looking as though she hated herself for
showing up; I trying every possible approach and not finding the
right one.
After two or three inconclusive rendezvous, in the course of which
Polly chided me for my dandified airs and my preoccupation with
"flashy" theatricals and I, naturally nettled, criticized her overly con
servative outlook and her hostility to everything outside her orbit,
we had words and they were not pretty words. I packed hastily and
was about to catch the next train to New York when the telephone
rang; it was a Boston matron who knew the Turnbulls and didn't
disapprove of me. "What have you been doing to Polly?" she de-
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 343
manded sternly. "The poor girl came to see me after you left her
and was in an awful state. She said you had a fight with her and
that all was lost, unless I got you to make up with her." True or
false, I couldn't refuse so real a chance to win Polly and hastened to
my kind intermediary's house. That afternoon I reached the pinna
cle of my imaginary happiness; I sat in an armchair chatting with
my hostess, while Polly, on the floor at my feet, gazed up at me
lovingly. I could hardly believe it possible, but Polly took my hand
impulsively and kissed it; it was the only kiss she ever gave me.
Late in February Prokofiev cabled from Paris: "First Symphony
Lamoureux March 14th Second Symphony Pasdeloup March 20th
regards." This meant that Serge, who always found time to worry
about my music while immersed in his own multifarious activities,
had arranged for my two orchestral works to be played in Paris. The
orchestra parts of the First Symphony were still in New York, where
they were used by Barzin in 1935, and I had to act fast to provide the
Lamoureux organization with the material in time for the concert.
Although sent with the utmost dispatch, the parts didn't arrive in time
and the First Symphony was canceled. Astrov, Prokofiev's assistant,
wrote from Paris to teU me that not only did Prokofiev "place" the
two symphonies, but also made tentative arrangements with Charles
Munch for a Paris premiere of The End of St. Petersburg. The figures
arrived at by Munch and Astrov are worth quoting in 1954, as they
demonstrate the catastrophic devaluation of the French franc and
the huge increase in music-making costs which would make such
an undertaking a total impossibility today. The chorus of sixty singers
(male and female), twelve choral rehearsals and three rehearsals
with the orchestra would have cost 21,000 francs, including the
performance, plus 1000 francs for the choral coach. The sixty-five-
piece orchestra wanted from 12 to 15,000 francs for three rehears
als plus the performance. Total costs about 37,000 francs, plus
1000 (!) for the rent of the concert hall. Were I to pay in American
currency at the present (official) rate of exchange, I could have
"swung the deal" for a little over $100!
A few weeks later, Prokofiev himself arrived in the States, radiating
good health and a kind of bombastic optimism. He told me that he
owed his sound physical condition to dancing lessons he'd been
taking in Kislovodsk, a Caucasian health resort. "Dancing lessons?
You mean the polka, the mazurka, the Viennese waltz, the pas
344 PASSPORT TO PARIS
d'espagne all those antiquated 'Russian' ballroom dances?" I asked
in astonishment. "No, indeed, you idiot," Serge exclaimed with a wide
grin. "The Russians are jazz crazy; all they dance is the fox-trot and
the Boston waltz, not the Viennese kind. Watch!" Prokofiev exe
cuted a pas seul that would have been approved by an Arthur Mur
ray instructor. "Speaking of Boston," he continued. "How are you
and Stank" (Serge always referred to Koussevitzky as Starik "the
old man") "getting along? Still feuding?" I confessed that matters had
not been patched up as yet, but that I had written a species of a
piano concerto ("Dedicaces"), to which Prokofiev referred in an
already-quoted letter, and thought it would be a possibility for San-
roma and the Boston forces. Serge demanded to see it. He read the
difficult piano part with great flourish, then jumped up jerkily. "I'm
going to Boston tomorrow and will stay with the Koussevitzkys. Why
don't you come with me? I know they'll be happy to see you again
and Starik is sure to like our 'Dedicaces' it's a really good piece.
What do you say?" What could I say, except, "Great"?
I took Serge to see Mother, who worshipped him. "Sergei Sergei-
vitch, do you mean to tell me that the Communists let you out
just like that?" she asked incredulously. "Just like that, Anna Alex-
evna," Prokofiev assured her, slapping his thighs a favorite man
nerism with him. "Here I am all in one piece, as you see." "And Lina
Ivanovna?" Mother persisted. "She will come back to the States
with me in October I have enough engagements to warrant a
speedy return." "What about your boys?" At this, Prokofiev changed
the subject abruptly. I later learned that the Soviet authorities would
not let them travel with their parents; in other words, that they were
forcibly left behind in Russia, as hostages.
At dinner Mother having discreetly refused to join us as we
had "so much" to talk about I asked Serge a difficult question,
then uppermost in my mind. I wanted to know how he could live and
work in the atmosphere of Soviet totalitarianism. Serge was silent for
a moment, then said quietly and seriously: "Here is how I feel about it:
I care nothing for politics I'm a composer first and last. Any gov
ernment that lets me write my music in peace, publishes everything I
compose before the ink is dry, and performs every note that comes
from my pen is all right with me. In Europe we all have to fish for per
formances, cajole conductors and theater directors; in Russia they
come to me I can hardly keep up with the demand. What's more,
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 345
I have a comfortable flat in Moscow, a delightful datcha in the coun
try and a brand-new car. My boys go to a fine English school in Mos
cow. It's true, Lina Ivanovna whimpers now and then but you
know her. Being a composer's wife isn't easy." It was my turn to be
come quiet and serious. "Serge, what would you say if I told you that
I plan to marry?" I asked my friend. "You? Marriage?" Serge cried
out. "I've heard that once too often. Who is the new one?" The recital
of my weird New England courtship over, Serge shook his head dubi
ously. "She sounds like a dull and priggish girl to me. I don't think you
need a wife, but if you must have one, pick a rich middle-aged oil
heiress. You can then give up your 'whoring' and stick to good mu
sic." This was sound advice, but I was in love, and advising lovers is
a waste of time.
Prokofiev did me a great service by taking me along to the Kousse-
vitzkys, as I had genuinely missed them and we now made peace in
noisy oscillatory style. At lunch, Natalya Konstantinovna, beaming
grandly, asked me whether my forthcoming marriage was really forth
coming. "It won't be," Prokofiev answered for me, "until I look the
girl over and bestow my blessings." "Why not bring her to the con
cert?" Tante Natalie wanted to know. "We could then all look at
her and tell you what we think." I telephoned Polly, inviting her to the
symphony concert at which Serge was to play his Third Concerto.
Serge's appearance was scheduled for the afternoon concert and
Polly and I arranged to meet him at the Ritz before going to Sym
phony Hall. Regrettably, she wore a really impossible dress a
crumpled red-cotton number totally unsuitable for the occasion
but even the bad dress couldn't altogether mar her fresh good looks.
I was amused by the bold way in which Prokofiev scrutinized my
Naiad; far from being displeased, Polly, who like all Bostonians ad
mired frankness, stared back at Serge with complete sang-froid. "I
must say, I don't see what Dima sees in you," Prokofiev suddenly
blurted out, to my horror. I needn't have worried, as Polly was not at
all horrified. "I admire you for saying what you think, Mr. Prokofiev,"
she said with disarming directness. "Now, why don't you talk to me
like that, Vernon? All you do is cover me with compliments." She
gave Serge her most irresistible smile. After the concert, at which
Prokofiev got a thunderous ovation and was recalled so many times
that he "got tired of walking," as he later confessed to Sergei Alex-
androvitch, I produced Polly for the Koussevitzkys in the conduo
346 PASSPORT TO PARIS
tor's dressing room. Natalya Konstantinovna thought her pretty in an
uninteresting, outdoorsy sort of way, but deplored her gauche manner
and wrong clothes. "Not for you" was the consensus, to which I, of
course, paid no heed. Prokofiev and I were then taken to the Turn-
bulls' pleasant, old-fashioned people who never let on that they
knew of my persistent attentions to their daughter and asked Prokofiev
"safe" questions about his composing habits never a word about
Russia. On the way back to the Koussevitzkys, Prokofiev asserted:
"This will never come to anything. It's a nice, Victorian family
the whole of Boston is Victorian. Did you see the women who came
to gush over me in Starik's room? Polly will be like them when she
grows old. Peace and comfort and rusty old traditions something
to cling to that's their way of life. You're restless and adventurous.
It won't work." How right he was! A week later, in New York, I re
ceived the habitual matter-of-fact scribble from Polly, all about her
exams and some tepid skiing experiences "hope to see you soon.
Fondly" this in answer to my umpteenth passionate paean. I knew
then all at once that I had to put a quick end to my unpro
ductive and evidently futureless courtship. I summoned Mitchell
Hodges, my Harrisburg walking companion, and persuaded him to
go on a driving trip anywhere except Boston to get away from
my writing table and telephone, from my grotesquely blown-up and
one-sided love, even from my music.
On returning to New York after our trip during which we spent
every night under a different roof, ate heavy food (scorned lovers are
notoriously heavy eaters) and read light fiction I sought refuge in
writing articles and raising hell 1926 London style. The Stage pub
lished an anti-prima donna outburst of mine titled "Musical Antics
and Antiques," in which I claimed that "the modern American com
poser is a sacrifice on the altar of ancestor worship," that "the public
is not only antic-minded (when it comes to conductors) but also
antique-minded as to composers; to lure it to the annual premiere at
the Metropolitan, the League (of Composers) had to bill the star
conductor in letters three times as large as those that spelled out the
name of the insignificant composer," and that, speaking of the small
number of living composers accorded performances, in comparison
with the dead, "were we to exclude from this number the works of
the three big S's of new music (Sibelius, Strauss, Stravinsky), whose
reputations were made from twenty to thirty years ago and who belong
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 347
to another generation along with such men as Ravel, Rachmaninov
and Roussel (aU in their sixties), how many young or youngish men,
men presumably representative of our up-and-coming age, will you
find among the chosen few? A mere handful, and that does not neces
sarily mean that they were hand-picked." I was immediately sat upon
by several indignant objectors, chief among them Mr. Samuel Chot-
zinoff, who didn't like my calling Toscanini "a notoriously bad pro
gram maker."
The Bachelor, a lively and provocative magazine for males which
had quite a vogue in the thirties and then died a premature death,
printed a tidbit from my pen the confessions of a composer who
reveals his likes and dislikes about New York. The town's credits (to
this one man's way of thinking) were on the left of the page, the debits
on the right. Among the credits were: "the teeth, feet and hands of
the New York woman the best in the world, cherrystone clams,
sunset in Washington Square, in contrast to all popular beliefs the
extreme friendliness and hospitality of the New Yorker, Murray Hill,
the excitement of a first night (backstage and out front), Robert
Benchley, Ira Gershwin and Dr. Leo Michel (Broadway's best-
beloved medico), all the Gershwins, the navels of the showgirls at
the Paradise and Hollywood, the curious dialects of Balanchine,
Sam Lyons and Cecil Beaton, the singing voices of all colored per
formers, the poetry of a Liggett's Drugstore. Among the debits: "the
fact that you cannot make love in a New York taxi, owing to the
absence of the 1907 Daimler of London and its old-fashioned com
forts ["Mr. Duke has either had bad luck in cabs, or with his com
panions," a columnist riposted.], Broadway and Sixth Avenue by
daylight, the price of a plain omelet at Twenty-One, the Hudson
River, which should be where the East River is and vice versa, the
New York woman's emphasis on glamour to the almost total exclusion
of charm, Central Park, which is one of the dreariest spots in New
York, the decline and pseudo-sophistication of burlesque and its ex
ponents, the difficulty of going between the East Side and the West
Side when one is in a hurry, the neverending glorification in New York
of foreign impostors in all fields and the inadvisability of flaunting
one's masculinity in any salon with 'arty' inclinations." Most of these
still hold after seventeen years.
I was interviewed by Alfred Hart of the N.Y. World Telegram and
called "probably New York's most versatile musician." The headline
348 PASSPORT TO PARIS
was "Garret to Seller"; the subtitle, "ambidextrous Vernon Duke writes
jazz as well as concertos because he likes caviar." At a Boston
Symphony concert (I was back in Koussevitzky's Wunderkinder
Garden) I ran into Carlos Chavez and asked him why, in view of my
securing the backing for his Quatro Solis, he didn't choose to answer
my letters. "You work for a White Russian policeman!" Chavez
shouted, white with fury. "Not I." He disappeared before I had a
chance to remind him that Archibald MacLeish and other eminent
citizens were not above working for the White Russian policeman.
In Koussevitzky's box, when I returned there, I found Chavez and
Copland exchanging pleasantries, Copland giggling in his shrill E[?
clarinetlike falsetto. I quickly resorted to the Russian tearoom and
had a dish of White Russian caviar on the sly.
My Second Symphony, conducted by Albert Wolff in Paris, re
ceived very poor notices. Shortly afterwards I wrote Prokofiev in
Moscow to report on the unsatisfactory reception, on my break with
Polly and on the reorchestrated St. Petersburg, a score of which I
sent him. On June 10th he answered:
Dear friend,
Thank you for your letter of April 20th which gave me great
pleasure. If s a month since I've received it I purposely de
layed answering, awaiting the promised score of the Oratorio;
it has not arrived as yet. Everything is going well and I just com
pleted the sketches for a Cantata, commemorating the 20th
anniversary of U.S.S.R. a huge machine for orchestra, two
choirs, military band, a percussion "choir" and an orchestra of
gannoshkis [slang for accordions]. When I think of the number -
of notes that I'll have to put on paper to orchestrate all this, I be
come seized with terror! The first "Romeo and Juliet" suite is
being engraved. The car has arrived and, with a good chauffeur,
it makes life much easier, especially come Spring, when one
feels like an outing "ins griine" [Prokofiev's favorite German ex
pression]. The radio works marvellously that is, the phono
graph part, as I haven't as yet arranged to establish the antenna
on our roof to take advantage of the radio reception. All our fur
niture arrived from Paris and I found, in my library, the manu
scripts of your two songs. I'll have them copied and will send
you the copy. So it's good bye, Miss Polly? To the intense joy
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 349
of my friend C. [a girl we both liked] and the "nurse" [another?].
[The next sentence was unprintable.] Did they give your Orato
rio in Paris? Have you any firm prospects with the Boston Sym
phony? You know probably that the performance of my "Rus
sian Overture" was buried in Boston last April, as friend Gabriel
[Paitchadze] failed to deliver the material in time. Yesterday
I was visited by Burgin [Richard Burgin, the concertmaster of
the Boston Symphony] who assured me that my engagement in
Boston this coming winter is still "on." Burgin is here for a short
stay, acquainting himself with Soviet works for possible Boston
performances. Eh bien, cher ami, don't forget to drop me a
line from time to time. I preserve "un souvenir tres sympatique"
of our "passe-temps" in New York. Regards from the family. I
looked over Hindemith's flute sonata it's very good, especially
is the ending well "ausgedacht"
Bien a toi,
Serge
While Prokofiev communed with Shakespeare and Hindemith, I
toiled for Vincent Astor and Hildegarde. The first-named was in
augurating the sumptuous Indium Room at the St. Regis Hotel and
had engaged his friend "Sunny" Forbes to sing at the opening he
wanted two new songs for her and hired Ted Fetter and myself to
write them. The money was good and Mr. Astor insisted only on the
word "indium" being included in one of the two lyrics a tough
word to find a rhyme for; we didn't think "presidium" especially sing
able but Ted proudly stuck indium into the verse and made every
body happy. One of the songs was called "New York After Dark" and
ended with the line "New York after dark is ours"; the New Yorker
reported a drunk in the bar after the opening, singing dejectedly,
"New York after hours is dark." Hildegarde first crossed my path in
Walk a Little Faster days, when she, a tantalizing wholesome Mil
waukee "bachfisch" was part of the Gus Edwards troupe and was
brought to audition for Courtney Burr. Hildy, or rather her manager,
wanted too much money and the thing came to nought. Now an es
tablished star, she and her enterprising sponsor, Anna Sosenko,
thought of making an album of my songs, with me and Leo Kahn,
Hildegarde's pianist at that time, playing two-piano accompaniments.
It turned out a good album (Decca) Dave Kapp supervising
350 PASSPORT TO PARIS
shrewdly, Hfldegarde singing continentally and Leo and I playing "a
lot of piano"; the album was well thought of and got an accolade
from the future bard of Rodgers and Hammerstein Deems Taylor.
The Gershwins and I had the same agents then A. & S. Lyons,
Arthur handling the picture deals, brother Sam attending to Broad
way business. In October 1936, I wrote Ira: "I am delighted beyond
words with the success you two (or rather three for I hear Lee
is the uncrowned queen of local intelligentsia) are making in Holly
wood ... am somewhat skeptical about my own clicking there, as
my Dukal antics may prove too much or not enough in the land of
levity and Levants. Am hard at work polishing up the 'End of St.
Petersburg* for a Paris showing in the Spring." There was no Paris
showing of Petersburg or anything else from my pen that spring, and
on April 20th I again wrote Ira: "New York is getting insufferable
as the females still insist on dieting; the great song hits are still written
by everybody in the world except yours truly; Sam Behrman still
breaks appointments; and I still don't know whether it will be Holly
wood or Europe next." Well, Hollywood was next, but I would never
have gotten there had it not been for the tragedy that rocked the
entire world of music.
On Saturday, July 10th, Walter Winchell told his startled radio
listeners that George Gershwin was critically ill in California. "He
never learned that he had just been elected an honorary member of
the Academy of Santa Cecilia, Rome, Italy's highest award to for
eign composers," Ira wrote for Merle Armitage's 1938 Gershwin
book. "We didn't bother him with correspondence although two days
before the operation we were still discussing songs. He died Sunday
morning, July 11, 1937, in Los Angeles at the age of 38."
Death can be kind and it can be just; but it had no business taking
our George, who was in full flower of his fine youth and who was un
questionably doing his best work: Porgy and Bess, the first and so far
the only good American opera (Gian-Carlo Menotti, although living
and working in the U.S., is an Italian citizen), and the wonderful
1936-1937 songs songs like "A Foggy Day," "You Can't Take
That Away From Me," "Love Walked In" and "Love Is Here To
Stay."
There have been so many incorrect and distorted versions of
George's last days that I deem it a duty and an honor to give here a
short and accurate account of what really happened, for which I'm
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 351
indebted to Lee Gershwin. A little over three weeks before his death,
George awakened Lee on a Sunday morning to complain of a violent
headache. Dr. Siegel (Greta Garbo's doctor) was called and, basing
his findings on George's symptoms, tested for a brain tumor, which
caused Lee and George to laugh. "There's nothing wrong with me,"
George said. "I'm just overworked, exhausted." (In addition to his
film assignments, George had an extensive concert tour that winter.)
Siegel then called in a neurologist and eye specialist, who, too, sus
pected a tumor. Because of George's feeling that his headaches were
caused by a nervous collapse due to overwork, and since he had had
a year's analysis with the famous Dr. Zilboorg in New York, incom
plete due to his moving West, it was deemed wise to bring in Dr. Sim-
mel, a distinguished disciple of Freud's and head of the Freudian
clinic in Berlin, Simmel, a doctor of the old German school, insisted
on a complete physical check-up; George went to the Cedars of
Lebanon for three days and all tests proved negative; he refused to
take a spinal tap (usually resulting in severe headaches) as his head
aches were already too violent without further aggravation.
On Gershwin's return from the hospital, Simmel went to see him
every day, after comparing notes with Zilboorg on George's emotional
background; he also provided a nurse trained for psychiatric work.
Thus George was under constant observation, the three doctors visit
ing him daily. He was now sleeping more, had fewer headaches,
abandoned work. About a week later, Dr. Simmel suggested moving
George to a quieter house with no telephone or other disturbances.
George spent the next two weeks in the smaller house, sleeping almost
continually, with no awareness of the time's passing; doctors tested
his reflexes, peered into his eyes, always on the lookout for the tumor.
It was in the smaller house that Balanchine, engaged by Sam Goldwyn
for the Goldwyn Follies, saw George in bed in a dark room, talking
with difficulty in a strange faraway voice, intelligible but barely
audible.
On Friday, July 9th, Dr. Simmel, who was with George all after
noon, asked him to play the Rhapsody for him but the composer's
coordination was gone. Dr. Simmel then knew the disease was or
ganic; Ira and Lee were called to George's house to decide on the
action to be taken. Lee remembers seeing six doctors testing George's
reflexes as she entered the bedroom. George was half asleep, half
awake, terribly sweet to everybody; they wrapped a bathrobe about
352 PASSPORT TO PARIS
him, called an ambulance, and took him back to the Cedars. It
was then that Lee (not Ira) was told that George was suffering from a
brain tumor. Lee immediately thought of Dr. Harvey Gushing, the
celebrated brain specialist; the doctors suggested Dr. Dandy, a dis
ciple of Cushing's, who was vacationing in Chesapeake Bay, on
the governor's yacht. It was found impossible to establish contact
with him. George Pallay, an old friend of the Gershwins, then called
the White House, which succeeded in contacting the governor's
yacht; but it was too late, although an open wire was kept for Dr.
Dandy so that he could follow the progress of the operation, which
was performed on Saturday night. In the course of the operation it
was discovered that George had a cystic degeneration of the tumor.
The cyst, which the doctor had hoped was the cause of George's
illness, was in reality a growth on the tumor. The operation lasted all
night, Lee and Ira leaving at daybreak. George didn't die until
11 A.M., and it was another George Jessel who was the first to
call the hospital and be told of Gershwin's death. What followed was
a kaleidoscope of nightmares: George's body in a hermetically sealed
casket arriving in New York; Ira, white as a sheet, stepping from the
plane, groggy after an overdose of sleeping pills; the overly elaborate
funeral, at which I was one of the pallbearers; the hollow-sounding
"eulogies." The terrible truth was that George was dead and post
humously eulogizing a career barely begun, seemed an ill-timed and
premature postlude for George was American youth itself, and his
music was the voice of Young America, now inexplicably silenced.
Most people while mourning the death of a friend will say, "Poor
fellow, he died," and resume their everyday toil with renewed zeal,
a nasty little voice within them adding, "Yeah, but I'm alive see?"
I don't think any of Gershwin's friends who are still living have ever
gotten used to the idea of his not being among them. Time has a funny
habit of marching on when it really should stop for a while to honor
the prematurely dead, if only for manners' sake.
The work on the Goldwyn Follies was resumed and Ira was asked
whom he would like as his brother's successor. Arthur Lyons sug
gested me, Ira agreed and Mr. Goldwyn asked me to come out to
the Coast to complete the job on his film.
Joan, back in the States after two years of Europe and India, was
getting ready for a college career; and I, having lost Polly and unable
.to latch on to Joan, somehow got myself engaged to a rich German
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 353
girl, who was in love with me, for a change. George's death was the
greatest loss I had sustained since my father died in 1913 and there
was a welcome semblance of security in daily receiving love letters
from Lili, the German girl, who was Europe-bound, while I, Goldwyn
contract calling for $1000 a week in my pocket, made hasty prepa
rations for my first Hollywood trip. Lee Shubert had picked up Serena
after his nephew Milton "lost interest," and was trying to get Clifton
Webb to play Lord Ivor Cream a superb job of casting, but I was
akeady on my way, and read about it on the Chief. "Clifton won't
do it," I said to myself on reading the item. He didn't.
I am now a confirmed Californian, and wouldn't live anywhere
else, but I still cling to the idea that, in direct contrast with New
York, California "is a good place to live, but not to visit." A short
stay in the L.A. area won't yield much to an observant visitor. The
place looks like a watered-down Riviera on a large scale, the gas
stations are more impressive than the palms and the natives are very
clean and big-framed and look as if they spent their entire lives eat
ing health foods, drinking fruit juices and getting a tan by speeding in
shiny convertibles with the tops down. The weather is so unifonnly
good that it deprives people of their main topic of conversation; the
distances are so great that no one in L.A. has ever been known to
"drop in" on a friend, who usually lives ten miles away; the nightlife
is of no particular distinction or variety and offers nothing that hasn't
been seen akeady in New York or Chicago with fancier trimmings;
most disappointing of all, people who are busy with studio or office
work go to bed at 10 P.M. and get up at 6:30 or 7 A.M. A stranger
with a car has little to do after ten but go boozing or take in a film.
A stranger without a car is a dead duck! However, to know the place
is to love it, as I discovered fourteen years later.
I put up at the Beverly-Wilshire Hotel, which in 1937 was unin-
vitingly dark and had no dining terrace or swimming pool. Since I
couldn't drive, I rented a large black Packard chauffeured by a
tall, handsome Canadian ex-officer, who wore a well-cut Edward
ian uniform but knew little about Los Angeles and its complicated
network of streets; as a result I never got anywhere on time, since my
Canadian couldn't move for five blocks without asking for direc
tions.
I was met by Freddie Kohlmar, then Goldwyn's assistant, and in
stalled in a fine office with a grand piano and an anteroom presided
354 PASSPORT TO PARIS
over by an equally grand secretary. The theatrical columns were
full of flattering references to the "successor to Gershwin" and
since news travels faster in Hollywood than anywhere in the world,
my salary (not enormous, but respectable for those days) must have
become common knowledge, because the first telephone call I re
ceived was from a fiddler I once met in New York, who wanted to
borrow twenty dollars.
On my first afternoon at United Artists, a tall, meaty blonde gained
admission to my "inner sanctum" by some tricky ruse, leaving her
papa outside. After announcing herself she proceeded to sing in a
loud and unusually disagreeable voice; I listened to eight unac
companied bars and then interrupted her politely to point out that I
was not the casting director. At this, she became furious and de
manded in piercing tones that I take my hands (which were edging
closer to the telephone) off her and how dare I take liberties with
her and that for five cents she'd call her father, unless, etc. I beat her
to the punch by calling Freddie Kohlmar, who arrived posthaste and
threw the pair out.
I was disappointed at not being welcomed by my new boss, Mr.
Goldwyn, whom I was not to meet until three days later. Freddie took
me to a rehearsal hall where Balanchine was putting his dancers, no
tably Zorina, whom he was courting at the time, through their paces.
George was too busy untwisting two young dancers who had got them
selves entangled in a choreographic double nelson; he just winked
at me and bade me wait. Zorina received me with open arms; I had
played a not unimportant part in her early career, when, dissatisfied
with her treatment at de Basil's hands, she had asked me for a Broad
way entree. I took her to Louis Shurr, always referred to as " the doc
tor," the most romantic of Broadway agents, whose taste in white
ermine and ermined blondes is justly celebrated; the doctor wanted a
"new face" for Tamara Geva's role in On Your Toes, for the London
production. One look at Zorina and his heart, under the exquisitely
tailored lapel, stood still. Having made a big hit in London, Vera, on
the strength of Shurr's transatlantic sales talk, was "sold" to Goldwyn
for his Follies without the customary test. She told me of her happiness
at having a leading part in the picture and at working with
"Chorche" (that's how she pronounced it) on the ballet version of
"American in Paris" he was staging.
I spent the next two days dictating personal letters to all my friends
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 355
to kill time; sitting at a big glass-topped desk in a swivel chair, dictat
ing to a neat sweater-and-skirted female made me feel like an execu
tive a sensation I hadn't experienced before. I rather liked it. On
the third day, Freddie Kohlmar walked in and told me solemnly that
Mr. Goldwyn was now ready to receive me; I braced myself for the
big moment and followed Freddie to the second floor, where the great
man had his quarters. We went through a long corridor, past innumer
able cubbyholes where tidy, efficient girls sat typing tidy, efficient
letters; an extra-tidy girl emerged from the last cubbyhole and, smil
ing blindingly, ushered me into Mr. Goldwyn's office. It was a large
room and one had to cover a lot of ground before reaching the massive
desk at the other end, where my employer sat. The lengthy walk from
the door to the desk gave Goldwyn an opportunity to scrutinize every
new arrival, so that, by the time he or she reached the desk, he'd al
ready formed an opinion of the visitor.
"Sit down, Duke," Goldwyn said, dispensing with the "Mr." His
voice was high-pitched, clear and firm and had no trace of the ac
cent I was led to expect. For two or three minutes I was treated to a
helpful, if conventional, lecture on the task before me, the tremen
dous responsibility, the honor of working on the greatest musical film
of all time. I listened, grunting understandingly at the proper moments,
and wondered whether this was really the Goldwyn of popular legend,
until the producer asked me abruptly: "What songs did you write?"
I told him. "Oh, yes, the song about April," Goldwyn said. "That's
good, but you won't get a firm footwork on the film industry until
you've worked for me. Good-by, Duke." I then shook the hand of the
man I knew was Goldwyn, and was dismissed.
I noticed, in the course of the interview, that Goldwyn's left arm
was in a sling; upon questioning his satellites, I was told he had in
jured it while bawling out his technical staff, banging on the table the
while. That afternoon I received an interoffice memo requesting my
presence on Stage 2 to view Balanchine's version of "American
in Paris." When I arrived, Goldwyn was seated hi the director's chair,
surrounded by Freddie Kohlmar, Alfred Newman, his musical di
rector, the Ritz Brothers and Adolphe Menjou, all of whom had roles
in the Follies. My old friend and landlord Kopeikine was at the piano;
Balanchine, in shirt sleeves, hovered over a large ballet corps, mem
bers of which were all over the place in small groups of three or four,
in immobile Balanchinesque poses. Having arranged the groups to his
356 PASSPORT TO PARIS
satisfaction, BalancMne walked over to Goldwyn and began explain
ing the first full-length ballet created expressly for the screen. The
music started. Goldwyn, pointing to his injured arm, said that he'd
like to watch the dancing from his directorial chair, but George
wouldn't let him. In an English slightly better than his 1926 London
brand but not much, he insisted that Goldwyn follow him and watch
the various episodes as performed by the separate little groups, which
necessitated Goidwyn's walking from place to place. Not at all happy
about so unorthodox an audition, Goldwyn gave in, nevertheless, and
it was a rare sight to see the man piloted by George, made to crouch
and squat, the better to view a couple wriggling on the floor or peer
straight into a dancer's navel "that's where camerra vill be shott!"
George would exclaim triumphantly. With every succeeding epi
sode, Goldwyn's face got redder and angrier; he complained loudly
about his arm hurting after so much crouching and squatting, and
refused to peer into any more navels. "Bott I have more, Mr. Gold-
veen!" George exclaimed, aghast. "That's all right, George, I get the
idea," the producer said. "When you get through, come to my office;
I want to talk to you." With that he exited, f ollowed by his co-workers.
I wasn't present at George's meeting with Goldwyn, but I saw my
friend an hour later in his apartment, shaking with anger and pack
ing hurriedly. "What on earth is the matter?" I asked nervously. "I'm
going back to New York, that's what's the matter. Goldwyn told me
that my ballet was very beautiful and 'artistic' but that the miners in
Harrisburg wouldn't understand it. 'Mr. Goldwyn!' I replied, Tm not
President Roosevelt what do I care about the miners in Harris-
burg?' Then I thought quickly and added: 'Besides, there are no
miners in Harrisburg; I know, because I've been there!' Do you
think that stopped him? Not at all he just laughed and said that
he was very sorry, but that the 'American in Paris' my three weeks'
wor k W as out. O.K., so I'm out, too; Doc Bender has a New York
show for me." This looked serious, so I telephoned Freddie Kohlmar,
whose diplomatic know-how I had soon learned to appreciate; Fred
die arrived, gave George a fast convincer, and the choreographer,
muttering something that even I couldn't grasp (it was probably Tiflis
slang), began unpacking.
I found working on a musical picture easier and more rewarding
than "tuning up" a legitimate show. There are fewer songs in a picture
score to begin with usually four to eight or nine, whereas a Broad-
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 357
way musical has at least twelve musical numbers, and twenty is
not unusual. Now consider the financial end of it. Once signed to
supply a "legitimate" score, the composer gets $500 (very seldom
$1000) down from the producers, and perhaps $1000 from the pub
lishers on account of royalties on box-office and music sales. It
takes from four to six months to write the score, during which time
you get no additional pay; then figure on three to six months for the
"backers' auditions" (these became the fashion in the forties). As
suming that the money has been raised, the show opens out of town,
and if it does well, you may be in the black by the time it hits Broad
way. If the show flops either on the road or in New York (I have
had both kinds), you not only don't make another cent, but it's
highly advisable to leave town and stay away until people forget the
flop and your connection with it. My advice is: if you get one flop
stay away for six months; another vanish for a year; a third
leave the country; a fourth open a grocery store or a gas station.
I had six or seven in a row, left the country four times, and here I am
back in show business and no one (well, practically no one) seems
to mind.
On the other hand, should you get a Hollywood assignment with a
major studio you're in the chips before you write a note of music.
You get so much per picture ($20,000 to $50,000 I'm not nam
ing Irving Berlin's or Cole Porter's figures, which are positively as
tronomic), get your money every week, never bother about backers
or backers' auditions, and better yet don't care whether the
picture is a hit or a miss. By the time it's released, you're working on
another picture job, or a Broadway chore, or you can always lose
your money in Las Vegas or Cannes, if you feel like it. You miss the
strange fascination of feverish, nerve-racking rehearsals granted;
the overtouted excitement of an opening night granted; the
smells, sounds, hates and loves of the theater also granted. But you
do get much more dough in the pictures and you keep your health, if
not always your self-respect. So when you contemplate your next
bout with Broadway, close your eyes, stick your fingers in your ears,,
shake your head and ask yourself: "Is it worth it?" I'm afraid the
answer is, "Yes."
For the Goldwyn Follies I wrote two songs ("Spring Again," sung
by Kenny Baker, and "I'm Not Complaining," subsequently deleted)
and two ballets "Romeo and Juliet" and "Waternymph"; I also
358 PASSPORT TO PARIS
supplied the verses for the three Gershwin, songs, anonymously of
course. All that could be found of "Love Is Here to Stay" was a
twenty-bar incompleted lead sheet; fortunately, Oscar Levant re
membered the harmonies from George's frequent piano perform
ances of the song and I was able faithfully to reconstruct it. Of the
two ballets, "Romeo and Juliet" showed less respect for Shake
speare than either the new Prokofiev conception or the old Constant
Lambert one; in the Balanchine scenario, the Montagues were rep
resented as jazz addicts, the Capulets as "longhairs." Thus Romeo
was what you would call today a "hepcat" whereas Juliet was dis
tinctly on the "square" side; quite logically, I wrote Duke music for
Romeo, Dukelsky music for Juliet. Goldwyn wasn't overly fond of our
approach to Shakespeare and cut the ballet so drastically that it's
point was almost entirely lost. The "Waternymph," with wonderful
sets by Richard Day and Zorina's superhuman beauty, not to forget
the pretty music, was a 100 per cent success, and is still shown
Goldwyn's guests at dinner parties. The sixty-piece orchestra, ad
mirably conducted by Alfred Newman, was a help, too.
Lovely Andrea Leeds and pert, diminutive Ella Logan were also
in the Follies. I swapped London stories with Ella and talked Serena
Blandish to serenely demure Andrea. "If Samuel Goldwyn is as smart
as people generally think he is," a New York scribe ventured, "he
will set about right away lining up Andrea Leeds to play in Serena
Blandish, particularly because he happens also to have Vernon Duke
in tow. No recent feminine discovery would be more suited to that
particular part in the quaintly sexological story, once dramatized,
and now to be made into a musical stage offering." In between these
occupations, I corresponded with Stokowski and Hugh Ross, the
director of the New York Schola Cantorum, regarding St. Peters
burg; talked music with Oscar Levant, who was yet to make his In
formation, Please splash and was defiantly writing "longhair" music,
some of it quite good; brought hopeful young actresses to Arthur
Kober's for dinner; and tried to bring a bit of my own rather special
and not always endurable brand of cheer into the lives of Lee and
Ira, still dazed by the enormity of their cruel loss. Except for our
work at the studio, I saw little of Balanchine, reported engaged to
Zorina. With Oscar I visited my old flame Ginger Rogers, living in a
typical Hollywood "dream house," and beat her at ping-pong. I also
had a sentimental reunion with the one and only Eddie Goulding.
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 359
About the time I returned to Manhattan, Lili came back from
Germany, full of nationalist slogans and greatly impressed by what
she had seen; we had a series of unpleasant tiffs and soon came to a
painless parting of the ways, which, I'm certain, was a relief to both
of us. Thus, "disengaged" I returned to my first love Serena.
Vincente Minnelli, also back from Hollywood, after a Paramount
assignment, had made plans to do a musical Serena as his first pro
duction the next fall. "It is to be an independent venture, with music
by Vernon Duke, whose idea it is," said the N.Y. Times. We "plotted"
for a week or so with Fetter as lyricist, then Vincente left town and
was not heard from for two weeks. On his return, Minnelli informed
me that Sam Harris was going to co-produce with him, that S. J. Per-
elman would write the book of a "colored" version (which alone
could give Serena the desired fillip, Vincente thought) , that Maxine
Sullivan would appear as Serena, Ethel Waters as the countess
and Cab Galloway or Bubbles (of Buck and Bubbles) as Lord Ivor
Cream, and also that Sam Harris insisted on Cole Porter writing the
score. Completely stunned, I left in a huff and abandoned the wench
Serena, to whom I was faithful in so unrewarding a fashion for so
many years; the "colored" Minnelli-Harris-Porter version never went
past the talking stage either.
Thanks to Goldwyn I was richer by some $9000, and so hit on the
idea of letting the fairly solvent Duke pay for Dukelsky, the pauper;
I decided to put some of my Goldwyn eggs in the St. Petersburg
basket. Stokowski, judging from his letters, seemed to like the work,
but his plans for its performance were extremely vague; Hugh Ross,
on the other hand, liked St. Petersburg enough to offer to program it
but there was a serious catch. The Schola Cantorum's finances
did not permit that organization to engage an orchestra. "May we give
your work with piano accompaniment?" Ross wanted to know. This
appeared unthinkable, as the cantata was constructed on massive
lines, and an orchestra was essential to balance the opulent sound
of a large chorus. Rather than refuse the rare miracle of a perform
ance, I thanked the conductor for his interest in my music and told
him not to worry about the lack of funds for an orchestra that I'd
gladly provide them out of my Hollywood earnings. My proposition
gratefully accepted, I promptly produced a check for $1200, which
was to pay for the services of the N.Y. Philharmonic for a solitary
evening's performance plus two rehearsals. Since my cantata took
360 PASSPORT TO PARIS
but twenty-eight minutes of playing time, I asked Mr. Ross to add
any well-known "classical" choral work of his choice, so as not
to take away from the interest of the novelty. With this he readily con
curred; Mrs. Elaine de Sincay Ross, the conductor's wife, was en
trusted with the English translation, and a long series of choral re
hearsals were planned for the autumn months.
Slonimsky wrote me: "While I'm always glad to read in WinchelTs
column that you are quite the dandy, and that you refused to attend
Lindy's because they had no special rack for your special cane,
and whereas I am delighted to watch your triumphant progress along
the combined Broadway and Hollywood boulevard[s], I feel that
your primary importance lies in what, for lack of a better term, is
called serious music. So I am looking forward to the promised
performance of your post-impressionistic (?) song-ballade (??) or
whatever it is that our mutual friend Koussevitzky is going to en-
baton. Sanroma tells me that Koussevitzky is indeed exultant over
your piece ["Dedicaces"]. . . . Hoping that you did not dissipate
your masculine strength unduly among the motion picture stars, and
that you will arrive in Boston in a sufficiently moral state to suit the
Back Bay standards, I remain, etc."
A few days later I received a letter from Koussevitzky (who seldom
wrote): "I am overjoyed at the news of your success musical,
moral and material in Hollywood. I intend to perform your 'Dedi
caces* and am awaiting that promised score. As for performing 'St.
Petersburg,' that would be utterly impossible in the coming season
as I cannot include two works by the same composer in our 24
programs." This I didn't believe, as a fellow named Beethoven got as
many as ten works played in the course of the same season but,
then, he was dead. The truth of the matter was that Koussevitzky, to
my great chagrin, didn't care for my St. Petersburg.
There is an unwritten law in show business by virtue of which the
composer of a Broadway hit automatically becomes a hot ticket in
Hollywood the reverse, perhaps because of the theater's defense
mechanism and sense of superiority, does not work that way. In other
words, a man importantly connected with a Class A musical pic
ture does not gain in stature in the "legit" field. This I didn't know on
my return from California, but in actual fact, outside of working on
Ray Bolger's ballet in Keep Off the Grass (1939)1 was among Broad
way's unemployed until the 1940 advent of Cabin in the Sky. Tha
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 361
didn't bother me unduly in the winter of 1937; I had two forthcoming
"serious" premieres St. Petersburg and "Dedicaces" and,<
meanwhile, went on partying with renewed energy.
The identity of the "classical" composer elected by Hugh Ross
to share the Schola Cantorum program, made possible by my Holly
wood earnings, was a dark secret until the day when, chancing upon
a choral rehearsal, I discovered to my dismay that it was to be Delius.
Worse still, the Delius work selected by Mr. Ross was the hereto
fore unperformed in New York Mass of Life. This selection, I realized
in a flash, would not only outweigh my entry by some forty minutes
of playing time, but would also detract from the premiere excitement
of St. Petersburg. The conductor, an urbane and learned man, as
sured me that there was no possibility of a "clash," as Delius was
dead, his work already a classic in England, and written in a style
that couldn't fail to put the modernity of my idiom in better relief
which arguments led me to agree reluctantly to the dangerous voi-
sinage. The agreement was purely academic, in any case, since the
Delius work was already rehearsed and carefully prepared for per
formance. An interesting touch: Delius was so greatly esteemed by
the people of New York that a society bearing his name was in exist
ence. This society was not heard from while the Mass of Life was in
preparation, no support was offered by it and I had to pay not only
for the performance of my music but also for that of my dead col
league. Delius, furthermore, received better "billing," in Broadway
parlance (that is, his name appeared in larger type on the posters)
perhaps because his work was forty minutes longer than mine.
After two rehearsals the orchestra was so ragged that a third re
hearsal became imperative. Koussevitzky attended the second one,
manifested his displeasure and told me that I "couldn't afford" so
chaotic a reading; what he didn't know was that I could and did
afford the entire venture. I conferred with the secretary of the
Schola, whose sponsorship committee boasts the names of some of
our most affluent citizens, and suggested that since I was already
$1200 out of pocket, I would deem it desirable and proper to have
the costs of an extra rehearsal defrayed by the committee members.
The answer was an emphatic "No!" and out came my Hollywood
fountain pen and two hundred and fifty more Hollywood dollars.
After a choral "preview" at the St. Regis, arranged by that capable
impresario of social activities, the affable Prince Serge Obolensky,
362 PASSPORT TO PARIS
whose musical tastes lean more toward the Viennese waltz, and an
other more intimate one held at the George Waller Blow's
house, the concert took place on January 12, 1938; my music got
a good audience reception and the traditional "mixed" notices.
Most gratifying of all was Elliott Carter, the gifted young composer,
who wrote in the League of Composers' Modern Music magazine:
"Dukelsky's popular songs have absolutely no connection with his
original and imaginative serious music in either style or content. In
this he is linear and dissonant and frequently violently rhythmic, fond
of a dry, unresonant orchestration somewhat like that of the 'Sym-
phonie de Psaumes' [Stravinsky], The 'End of St. Petersburg' con
tains some of the best music by this composer since he wrote his ex
quisite 'Zephyr and Flora' for Diaghilev." It is well to note that all the
reviewers who did not like my work complained that such an un
worthy concoction should share the bill with Delius's "masterpiece."
Little did they know that they wouldn't have had the opportunity
to hear the masterpiece were it not for the offending concocter. As a
final touch, I received no performance fee.
I was depressed by the absence of Prokofiev, who thought highly
of St. Petersburg and, having smuggled it into Russia, exhibited the
score to Miaskovsky and Khachaturian (in whose talent he had
great faith), as well as to Boris Assafiev (Igor Glebov) : Miaskovsky,
the dean of Moscow composers, liked the cantata and Zephyr,
played for him by Serge, enough to write Prokofiev a four-page letter
containing a minute critical analysis (a flattering one) of both
works. On January 14th Prokofiev (it was impossible to keep up with
the man) wrote me from Paris: "Forgive me for not writing. I received
your extremely interesting letter in September in Caucasus and
was overjoyed by your success, although it's in the domain of prosti
tution. Today Lina Ivanovna and I rolled into Paris, for two days only,
alas: Prague and London follow then, on 29th, the 'Normandie' to
the USA, where we hope to fall into your tender embrace on Febru
ary 3rd, 'natiirlich' if you will be in New York at the time. Your
'Leningrad' [the "Sovietized" title of my cantata] is, regrettably, non-
performable in the USSR for the time being; wrong timing; classics
only are being played, while the only contemporaries included in
the programs are Soviet ones. Miaskovsky saw the score and praised
it. Will be tremendously happy to see you again." Serge's letter
reached me in Palm Beach, where I was luxuriating during my first
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 363
winter stay in Florida. I was a member of Mary Lee Huntington Hart
ford's (now Mrs. Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.,) house party, and there was
a strange similarity between Prokofiev's terpsichorean pursuits in
Kislovodsk, a Russian "luxury" resort, and mine in Palm Beach, an
American ditto. No sooner did I arrive at Mary Lee's beautifully ap
pointed little house than I was whisked away to Arthur Murray's for a
rhumba lesson. The year 1938 marked the beginning of the rhumba
craze in the States, and not to be able to dance Cuban style was
equivalent to being tagged a social leper.
I thought Palm Beach something of a cross between Cannes and
Beverly Hills; however, the commercialism so heavily present
in those two places was conspicuously absent here. The difference
lay in the fact that everyone I met in Florida was born rich and
barring the crash would die rich; whereas Cannes and Beverly
Hills are peopled with folk who have made money and are still busy
making more. Being born and dying rich is seldom synonymous with
leading a rich life, and most of my friends were engaged in the hollow
game of killing time, for which game they were ceaselessly devising
new and, at least momentarily, fascinating techniques.
The "younger group" of which I became a parasitic member
swam, played tennis or golf, drank cocktails at the Alibi or the
Taboo, took in a heavy massage or a little light fornication in the
afternoon, followed by a scented bath, dressed quietly and leisurely
for dining at small tables under outsize lanterns, the air balmy with
cloying magnolias and the powdered shoulders of young girls, then
went dancing at the Everglades (in the grand manner) or the Patio,
where manners were not essential. You can scoff all you want, but
unless you've danced at the Everglades with a wide-eyed, slim-hipped
divinity in a dress weighing a mere ten ounces, with no discernible
underthings, you haven't lived and you can quote me.
Pretty and good-natured Mary Lee Hartford, my hostess, took me
to an evening of films at Charlie Munn's, the attendance of which
was a sure sign of "belonging." Munn himself, with whom I dined in
Antibes only last summer (1953) and who looked younger and hand
somer than ever, was a perfect host and did everything with an un
obtrusive, indefinable flair, which made his status as the colony's
uncrowned king understandable. Whatever Beau Nash did for Bath
I'm sure was not comparable with the beneficial effects of Beau
Munn's reign in Palm Beach, Florida.
364 PASSPORT TO PARIS
After missing St. Petersburg, Prokofiev, with too many concert en
gagements to fill, had to miss my "Dedicaces," now postponed by
Koussevitzky until late the next fall. We had a wonderful get-together
on my return from Florida, although Lina Ivanovna, magnificent
in sables and covered with glittering jewels, burst into tears at the
sight of me, which so infuriated her husband that he insisted on my
"parking" her at Mother's; once together, the two women, who
scarcely knew each other, began sobbing in concert, Russian style,
while Prokofiev and I journeyed to the nearest bar and talked music
for hours. This time "America welcomed Prokofiev as an old friend
and gave him a most cordial reception," testified Israel V. Nestyev,
whose biography of Prokofiev, an able job on the whole, appeared in
1946 and got him into hot water with Soviet authorities, as Nestyev
"sold himself out to American Capitalists" and allowed his book to
appear in an English translation in New York (Knopf) prior to the
publication of the original in Russia. After our lengthy session at the
bar, we went back to Mother's flat to collect Lina Ivanovna. We
found the two women chatting animatedly, having dried each other's
tears, and exchanging dressmakers' notions. Women will be women,
even in the land of the Soviets. Serge then departed on an extended
tour, while in Los Angeles visiting Hollywood, "where he made a de
tailed study of the technical methods used for the musical back
grounds of American sound films," and was pleasantly surprised
his surprise unrecorded by Nestyev for obvious reasons by the
"superior" quality of my music, Eddie Powell's scoring and Alfred
Newman's recording of the two ballets in Goldwyn Follies.
Having made a number of rich and music-conscious friends in
Palm Beach, I thought of putting some of their money to good use;
namely, to help the cause of new music. I mobilized Paul Bowles,
Elliott Carter and S. F, M. Barlow, whose lovely house in Gramercy
Park was the scene of so many "offbeat" musicales, and outlined my
plan to them. They readily fell in with it; a week later the Newport,
Southampton and Palm Beach residents were startled by a handsome
blue-and-red circular which somehow found its way into their mail
boxes. The circular read:
You have received Picassos for Christmas, you have called
in Berard to do portraits of your pet Siamese, there is a head of
your offspring by Epstein in the corner. But how many serenades
IN MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES * 365
has Stravinsky been commissioned to write for your birthdays?
Has Hindemith done your portrait in music? How many pieces
by Markevitch bear your name in their dedications? You will
talk race horses, clothes horses, British actors or psychoana
lysts until you are blue in the face, but you become strangely
silent at the mention of a modern composer. Perhaps you think
that modern music is cacophonous or just plain dull. We intend
to show you that it isn't. We intend also to show you that new
music is a form of entertainment, and as such is a useful com
modity obtainable at reasonable prices. Come to our concerts
hear our music and should your grandfather want a can
tata for his golden wedding day, your debutante daughter a set of
variations on the Big Apple [the 1938 dance craze] or your
favorite enemy a funeral dirge, we are the people to consult.
Come to the first three High-Low Concerts to be given in the
course of the present season. They will consist of 1. A signature
similar to a radio theme-song, commissioned from Aaron Cop
land, played at the beginning of each concert, to fade into 2,
A short and we hope amusing talk by one of the founders giving
you a pretty precise idea of what is to happen, then 3. The con
cert itself, which will consist of the more palatable offerings
in the realm of new music, as well as our added feature, three
swing soloists: Miss Maxine Sullivan and Messrs. Duke Elling
ton and Benny Goodman not in their usual repertoire which
you can hear when you are in a dancing mood, but works either
specially written for our concerts or not heard previously. The
concerts are being given for the benefit of the composers'
fund of the League of Composers.
It took quite a bit of doing to persuade the venerable League to co
operate with so frivolous a venture although their entire cooper
ation consisted of accepting seventy dollars from me, our "profits"
after the second and last concert the Benny Goodman one never
taking place. In 1938, Copland was already the ringleader of native
composers and, although we were never close friends, he readily ac
cepted my offer of fifteen dollars (all the High-Low Concerts, Inc.,
could afford) for a "fanfare," or rather, a "signature." He wrote a
very good one and it was performed with excellent effect at both
concerts. Some years later at a performance of Copland's "Outdoor
366 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Overture," I nearly fell out of my seat on hearing our High-Low signa
ture in its entirety as the overture's opening; this was all the
more astonishing as our concerts were distinctly an indoor under
taking. Copland never informed me of the strange use to which he
put our frivolous fanfare; but the original forms part of my collection
of Musical Curiosa, and the Dukelsky Foundation will eventually
inherit it, should I get rich enough to start one.
The first concert, with a foreword by Hugh Ross, and consisting,
in addition to Duke Ellington and ensemble, of works by Popoff (a
septet, loaned by Prokofiev), Theodore Chanler, Charles Ives,
F. Jacobi, Marc Blitzstein, Robert McBride, Paul Bowles, Henri
Sauguet and myself, was a "wow," according to Cue magazine, and
a complete sellout. Emboldened by our spectacular debut, we
thought of yet another moneymaking "gimmick," and asked our sub
scribers:
How would you like to have your portrait done in music? We
charge $100 for a faithful musical likeness of you, and will quote
you a special price for a family group. You may hear samples
of the portraits at the second High-Low Concert to take place
on April 10th at the St. Regis. As our models, we have chosen
Mrs. Muriel Draper, Prince Serge Obolensky and the Marx
Brothers.
We had no trouble with Serge Obolensky or the Marx Brothers
as sitters none of them really "sat" for their portraits but Muriel
Draper was highly indignant at being chosen as a "model" and, for
some reason, blamed me, not Elliott Carter, the "tonal" painter, for
the effrontery. She wrote me a letter of protest, bi.it the portrait was
"unveiled" nevertheless. Mr. Kirstein, in the "Blast at Ballet" pam
phlet already cited, took another blast at me: "Mr. Dukelsky, in his
dapper personality as 'Vernon Duke' the Broadway songster, organ
ized his High-Low Concerts, a tasty series at the St. Regis roof,
which Muriel Draper promptly named the NEW LOW (in vulgarity) .
Duke attempted to veneer the younger American musicians with
enough social glitter to fnake them passable to the international set
by having 'portraits' of well known people set to a piano and oboe,
or hiring a blues-singer to 'swing' a few eighteenth century songs.
There is a special kind of Russian hors d'oeuvre which they make
77V MY THIRTIES IN THE THIRTIES 367
out of how-you-say? Indian sweet-corn and sour cream. It must be
about the only Russian hors d'oeuvre that isn't absolutely divine."
That's how you say, Mr. Kirstein; there is no such hors d'oeuvre in
Russia. If what you're hinting at is a Russo-American appetizer, and
"Indian sweet-corn" is meant to represent bad jazz (ours was excel
lent, by the way), I'll take sour cream, thank you. I've been allergic
to corn all my life.
Honesty compels me to admit that, in spite of such blandishments
as a solo on a double tin whistle played by the resourceful Henry
Brant, who painted the Marx Brothers in music, or the genteel, ear-
soothing likeness of Serge Obolensky provided by Sam Barlow, no one
commissioned a portrait.
Prokofiev returned from his trans-American wanderings just in time
to lift my spirits again. A few days prior to his arrival, I received an
offer for his services (from my Hollywood agent) , made by one of
the major studios, at $2500 a week. I showed Serge the telegram
exultantly; there was a flicker of interest for a mere instant, then,
his face set, his oversize lips petulant, he said gruffly: "That's nice
bait, but I won't swallow it. I've got to go back to Moscow, to my
music and my children. And now that that's settled, will you come
to Macy's with me? I've got to buy a whole roomful of things you
can't get in Russia just look at Lina's list." The list was imposing,
and we went to Macy's department store, another sample of capital
istic bait designed by the lackeys of Wall Street to be swallowed by
oppressed workers. Although he wouldn't admit it, Serge enjoyed him
self hugely in the store he loved gadgets and trinkets of every
description. Suddenly he turned to me, his eyes peculiarly moist, his
voice even gruffer than usual: "You know, Dima, it occurred to me
that I may not be back for quite some time. ... I don't suppose it
would be wise for you to come to Russia, would it?" "No, I don't sup
pose it would," I answered, smiling bravely, my happiness abruptly
gone. I never saw Prokofiev again.
Thus, in the course of one fleeting year, I lost my two best friends
in music: George Gershwin, Duke's creator, and Serge Prokofiev,
Dukelsky's protector.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FIERY FORTIES
PART ONE
I WAS now on my own. Still described as a "young" composer (the
adjective "promising" having vanished a few years earlier) , I had
made a better than fair mark in both fields; what remained was the de
cisive "strike/' or rather two strikes, simultaneously, if possible, that
would bring me eminence and financial security by the time I
reached forty. I had joined the American Society of Composers, Au
thors and Publishers in 1934, and my income from that excellent or
ganization was mounting gradually, due to more and more frequent
performances of my songs. The Show Is On, while a hit, was hardly a
personal triumph for me, as I was merely a part composer of the
score. The Goldwyn Follies was Gershwin's swan song and, although
my contributions were considerable and well thought of, I had no in
tention of capitalizing on this "labor of love" chore. St. Petersburg
was a near miss, in spite of all the publicity; what I needed badly were a
symphonic success to justify my "serious" claims and a "book" show
of both artistic and commercial value to silence my detractors from
Lindy's, Sardi's and "21," the three strongholds of Broadway opinion.
Both Balanchine and I read and liked Robert Nathan's early short
novel The Orchid and thought it would make a fresh and interesting
musical so did Ted Fetter. I met Nathan at one of Blanche Knopf's
literary gatherings and began "selling" the writer on the idea. Nathan,
not a man given to easy enthusiasm was sufficiently responsive to agree
to meet with Balanchine and myself for further talks. Fetter brought
the Krimsky brothers into the project and they agreed to pay Nathan
an advance and put him to work on a "musicalization" of his own
novel, Nathan was going to Truro, on Cape Cod, for the summer,
which suited me, as I was planning to visit with my kin, the Paul
Chavchavadzes, who owned a cottage nearby.
THE FIERY FORTIES 369
Balanchine was full of plans. He dreamed of an 1820 Russian ro
mantic ballet with a Pushkinesque theme and we started working
on Entr'acte, a "ballet within a ballet," to George's imaginative sce
nario; this has proven another Serena so far, as here it is 1954 and it
remains unproduced. Through his association with Rodgers and Hart
and George Abbott, George had become a Broadway figure and, inci
dentally, the first choreographer to incorporate real ballet into a mu
sical show's fabric, just as, with our "Waternymph" in the Goldwyn
Follies, he brought genuine ballet to the screen. That summer our
little group, consisting of Balanchine, Larry Hart, the irrepressible
"Doc" Bender and myself, spent most of the week ends on Cape
Cod. We were a strange quartet: George, the "Doc" and I wore berets
(Bender in a beret was as incongruous a sight as, say, Malenkov in
tails), whereas gnomelike Larry secured, God knows where, a bona-
fide admiral's cap and wore it at a "salty" angle. We traveled about in
Larry's big black limousine, and its owner's habitual luggage con
sisted of a pigskin week-end bag stuffed with fifths and quarts of every
alcoholic classic, plus one diminutive toothbrush.
After a session with Nathan, we'd dine in Provincetown, that Amer
ican Montparnasse-by-the-sea, a colorful olla podrida of bad paint
ings, good-looking painters, vividly garbed Lesbians, decent folk from
Boston on an excursion, and a variety of smells bracing sea air
mingling with the fetid aroma of frying fish and popcorn. Even the
much-advertised sunsets looked like an execrably executed land
scape, but you couldn't help feeling brazen and silly and ready for
anything in Provincetown.
Larry and I wrote a song during one of our gay outings, but the title
"Who the Hell Are You?" made it ineligible for radio usage, so
he tore up the lyric. The week end over, we would stop at Joan's; she
was back from her first college year, pretty and impudent and full of
sorority slang. George, Larry and Doc would then go on home, while I
remained for an unhurried repast at one of the neighboring inns and, if
Joan was in a receptive mood, a little love-making.
The papers soon came out with announcements of "Carousel, a
musical play fashioned by Robert Nathan from his novel The Orchid,
to be presented by John and Jerrold Krimsky." Besides Ted Fetter
and myself on the score, and Balanchine on the dances, Elsie Janis,
Militza Korjus, Armand Tokatian, Alfred Drake and Duke McHale
a weird mixture of names were "mentioned" for the cast. All
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these fine people never went past an honorable mention; the book
didn't pan out and the would-be "backers" backed out. By the time
the successful Rodgers and Hammerstein Carousel hit the boards,
no one remembered our abortive one.
The 1938-1939 season marked the fifteenth anniversary of Kousse-
vitzky's leadership of the Boston forces. "Beethoven will be the pre
dominating composer," read a specially issued leaflet, heralding the
orchestra's 58th season. "Sanroma will play the piano part in the new
concerto by Dukelsky." I was on surer ground in Boston than any
where else in the States; although, romantically speaking, a failure in
America's Athens, I was rated a musician of enviable notoriety and
my name was definitely "news." Also, Boston critics were more en
rapport with my muse than were their Manhattan colleagues: the
three concertos ("Dedicaces," the violin concerto and the one for
cello) had, on the whole, a very good press in Boston and a poor one
in New York. For the record, Koussevitzky, whose custom it was to
treat New York to only the "cream" of the crop of novelties, never
displayed my wares there until "Dedicaces"; neither the Zephyr and
Flora suite nor the two symphonies were brought to the Big Town by
the Boston orchestra. I was astonished at the new ease and facility
with which I tackled the orchestration of "Dedicaces" the result
of the Schillinger "consultations." The third movement sounded so
well at the first Boston rehearsal that Sergei Alexandrovitch stopped
the orchestra twice to express his surprise to me. He cringed a bit at
one overtone-spiced passage, had it repeated, and then smiled, saying,
"It does come off, after all, doesn't it?"
I made a wonderful new friend in Boston, Mrs. Florence Wessell, a
woman of already advanced years, but briskly youthful, and infatu
ated with music she was a great authority on voice. "Signora"
Wessell was the mother of Mrs. Dudley Pickman, one of Boston's mu
sical hostesses, who entertained Gershwin and Prokofiev with equal
delight and had three handsome daughters. On Signora's piano I saw
newly published songs by Theodore Chanler, whom I had met vaguely
in my Montparnasse days music of poignant lyricism and a clearly
individual stamp. Mrs. Wessell told me that Teddy lived in the country
nearby with his wife; we met and made music together. Every note I
heard of Chanler's he is rather like Faure in that they both stick to
chamber music was of sterling quality and, in my honest opinion,
which I have had no reason to change through the years, the man
THE FIERY FORTIES 371
should occupy a place far above his better-advertised and more agile
fellow composers.
"Dukelsky is a curious figure on. the American musical land
scape," the Transcript trumpeted. "He would seem sufficiently ex
otic if he were judged upon the single score of his serious music.
Such a work as his 'Dedicaces' which Dr. Koussevitzky will intro
duce at the week-end symphony concerts, would alone be reason to
seek the varied and conflicting sources of so ingenious and odd a
creative intellect. But Mr. Dukelsky does not feed upon bread alone;
he sweetens it well with the rich flavors of the musical comedy stage."
Marguerite Porter, an excellent soprano, was picked by Koussevitzky
to sing the difficult vocal "epigraph" of Guillaume Apollinaire's, and
Jesus Maria Sanroma mastered the uncomfortable piano part with his
habitual "brio."
The first of that week's pair of concerts was greeted with cheers,
but it was Sibelius that the Bostonians cheered, not Dukelsky. I had
good cause to echo Diaghilev's feelings about "Dehlius and Sibelius"
the first named eclipsed me at the Schola Cantorum concert, the
second robbed me of a Boston triumph. I received no cheers, but had
otherwise no cause for complaint my "Dedicaces" met with
every evidence of approval and I made three comfortable and unhur
ried trips to the stage to acknowledge the applause. Koussevitzky was
elated over my success; when I went to see him in his dressing room,
he, dripping with perspiration caused by the Sibelius climaxes and
changing his shirt, exclaimed somewhat theatrically: "Next stop
New York!" This was gratifying to hear after four Boston tries
(Zephyr, two symphonies and the ill-fated "Epitaph") and none
in New York, but next morning brought an even greater thrill. Alex
ander Williams, whom I had seen at the Pickmans a few times, and
who had replaced Philip Hale as the Boston Herald's music critic,
opened his article with the kind of words that warm a composer's
heart: "Mr. Dukelsky 's 'Dedications' is the most impressive novelty
that we have so far been offered this season. Provided that a pianist
such as Mr. Sanroma can be had to play the difficult piano part
for it is not what is known as grateful music for the soloist the work
should stay in the repertoire for some time to come. It is a brilliant
work and does not deserve the fate of so much new music, that of en
joying a solitary performance and a succes d'estime. [Well, it did a little
better got three performances and a succ&s d'estime.] The 'Sea'
372 PASSPORT TO PARIS
movement is music of amazing power and variety. Mr. Dukelsky has
not once been tedious, he never goes on talking after he has ceased to
have anything to say. If one heard this work in the distant future,
doubtless one could place it historically as to its style. At the moment
it sounds both original and interesting." Who could ask for anything
more? But Warren Storey Smith proved a better prophet than the well-
meaning Alec Williams: "Dukelsky, alias Duke, is an enormously
clever young man, who can write effectively in any of the current
styles. Whether Dukelsky of the Concert Hall or Duke of the lighter
musical theatre and the films will predominate remains to be seen; but
one or the other must do so eventually. God and Mammon cannot
both be served for long." Sixteen years later, Duke and, I suppose,
Mammon are predominating, whatever that may prove.
Balanchine got himself another picture job and wrote me from
Hollywood: "The fate of our 'Carousel' is sealed, I'm afraid, Messrs.
Monks and Finkelhoffe having refused to work on it. They don't know
how to approach such a task, as the entire psychology of the play is
foreign to them." Ira, also in Hollywood, wrote in answer to my inquiry
about his eternal "previous commitments" which prevented us from
resuming our collaboration: "No, it wasn't to Kern at the time (that I
was committed). It was to Metro, Warners', Goldwyn, Twentieth
Century, Grand National, Major, Republic and Little Productions,
Inc. Not a studio in town but was after me for the life of George. First
one, then the other, but at no time none. At Metro contracts were
being prepared, money no object, when the war scare jumbled things
up and suddenly the studios went cautious and presto! musicals dis
appeared from the face of the earth. So here I was stuck with a two
year lease in this artificial, paper-moonish spot, of which, by the way,
I'm very fond."
On March 7th, I became an American citizen and Vernon Duke
became my legal name.
Balanchine's second picture didn't materialize and he was back
in New York around Christmas. Still a bachelor, he joined thirteen
others (myself included) to "make a barge captain's daughter a
glamorous deb," as Life magazine headlined it. Life continued: "To
lampoon debutantism and the Brenda Frazier type of debut, 14 of
New York's gayest prince charmings gave a dignified coming-out
party for an unknown Cinderella on December 22nd. The girl they
chose was Wilhehnina Van Den Baard, a model who lives near the
THE FIERY FORTIES . 373
Jamaica, L.L, racetrack with her father, a barge captain. Her un
conventional debut was held at Chez Firehouse [the Brothers Krim-
sky's headquarters]. There she was introduced to celebrities by the
14 bachelors who called themselves her "uncles." Her only com
plaint (like Brenda Frazier's): 'My feet hurt.' Her attitude: 'I think
most debutantes are dopes.' " "The whole affair was on a grand scale
of burlesque," commented Lucius Beebe, "with a full length receiv
ing line in opera length gloves, elaborated corsages, with fountains of
champagne and all the most eligible young men in the town congre
gated at the bar. It received vast newspaper lineage and poked a well
justified finger of scorn at the professional debutantes, face-cream in-
dorsers, publicity pigs and third-rate socialites." Two days later Bal-
anchine married Vera Zorina, after a long and persistent courtship;
while I, inspired by George's marital victory, proposed to Joan (now
back in college and voted the "prettiest girl of her class") and was
conditionally accepted, the condition being that I'd wait until she got
through college.
I lived unthinkingly "between the ascetic rocks and the sensual
whirlpools," in George Meredith's phrase; but Mother, haunted by a
fear of having outlived her usefulness to Alex and me and by yet an
other fear of her sons becoming "lone wolves," implored me to settle
down and taste a happiness like the one she knew with my father. She
disapproved of Joan, whom she thought too young and emotionally un
stable; Mother was actually afraid of Joan's mother, a small, wiry
woman who only visited her when in a state of extreme elation, threw
herself on the floor and made interminable and incomprehensible
speeches about Art and Mankind. I protested hotly that I was thirty-
five and in love with Joan, that marriage would change us both and
that her mother was really very kind and quite harmless. These discus
sions got us nowhere and I dreaded them, reluctantly sensing the truth
of Mother's reasonings.
One afternoon I strolled through Central Park on my way to a typi
cally meaningless cocktail party the kind one professes to avoid
and somehow always attends and saw a middle-aged woman alone
on a park bench feeding the pigeons. I am very short-sighted and had
to come much closer before realizing that the pigeon-feeding woman
was Mother. Her face was kindness and sadness itself. "Hello, Moor-
ashka" (her special nickname for me, meaning "little ant"), she said
softly, an overweight pigeon gurgling contentedly on her arm. "What
374 PASSPORT TO PARIS
are you doing in the park alone? Come and sit next to your old mama-
sha" I did as I was bid and asked her in turn, "Why are you here,
alone, Mother?" Mother smiled a pitiful smile. "I am almost always
alone, Moorashka" she said quietly. "I can't say that I like it always
but I'm used to it. Besides, I'm not really alone; look at my pigeons
they know me and they trust me. I'm here nearly every day to feed
them." I felt miserably ashamed, cursed myself for a heartless wast
rel, and took Mother to tea at Schrafft's, ducking the cocktail party,
where, I'm sure, I was not missed. There, in the genteel twilight of
America's most respectable teatime institution, we sat for an hour,
Mother and I, talking Russian and calmly happy together. For two or
three years Mother's vacations had been spent in a peaceful colony
of theosophists and occultists of all hues run by a saintly English
woman known to them as Sister Francis; the colony was called Joy
Farm and was located in Cornwall Bridge, Connecticut, near the
pretty village of Kent Mother hoped that I'd "find time" to come and
spend a few days with her there come spring "if you can tear your
self away from your important business," she added meekly. This
made me feel guiltier still and I fervently promised Mother to spend
the entire summer at Joy Farm with her. I did go there in late spring
for three whole days.
Having despaired of getting our Carousel on the stage, Balanchine
and I toyed with the idea of a "musical to end all musicals," with
book, sets, costumes, posters and program notes by ... Salvador
Dali. I'm sure Dali wouldn't have minded appearing in the leading role
could he but sing and dance. All that remains of that project is a nine-
page rough draft (very rough indeed), the title page reading: "Synops
[sic] for a play by SALVADOR DALI music by V. Duke, dia
logues by J. Latouche [Johnny was back in the fold again], chore-
ografy [sic] by George Balanchine. Working title Les Nuees.
Tentative titles Clouds, the Enclouded, Men in Clouds, Clouds
and men, For crying out Cloud."
On January 7, 1939, 1 had my Boston Symphony debut in Carnegie
Hall with "Dedicaces." A day before the concert, Koussevitsky
somewhat mysteriously told me that he was going to rehearse my piece
in Brooklyn's Academy of Music and that he didn't want me to attend
THE FIERY FORTIES 375
and "ff" passages. Akeady nervous and restless during the first move
ment, with Sanroma snowed under the thundering orchestra, I was
ready to flee when, "upon its conclusion, the staid audience was
startled by an energetic hiss from one of the boxes," as the Times de
scribed it on the following morning. However, I stuck it out and
calmed down a bit, for there were no further disturbances, in fact
"there was prolonged applause after the splendid presentation Of the
work, and the composer was forced to come on stage to take his
bow." (Noel Straus, N.Y. Times) "Forced" was a little strong; "easily
persuaded" would have been more like it.
But there was no Alec Williams in New York to lend me a hand.
Most of the critical boys were frankly baffled by my piece and ad
mitted it. "The poem itself is strangely conceived and the music
founded on it proved even stranger and decidedly more cryptic, if it
had anything definite at all to impart" this from Mr. Straus. "Al
though the composition did not seem destined for posterity, it dis
played Mr. Dukelsky's sure command of orchestral writing and his
considerable, if misdirected, talents as a creator." True to form,
Samuel Chotzinofi suggested that "perhaps the whole thing was meant
as a joke and we shall find the new piece in the role of a 'number' in
Mr. Dukelsky's next musical show. For Mr. Dukelsky, under the name
of Vernon Duke, is one of our best composers of musical comedy
scores." Only Bob Simon in the New Yorker appeared to like my "sort
of piano concerto" and thought it "clever music by an unusually
gifted composer."
In April my brother Alexis married Mona Burns, a Wisconsin girl
of great charm, kindness and wisdom. The marriage, which proved
one of durable and well-earned happiness, brought an end to his "life
with Mother" phase and brought Mother face to face with a "living
alone and liking it" mode of existence. She never got to like it and
spent the last three years of her life visiting her sons, trying to make
new friends and retreating to her beloved Joy Farm. She underwent an
operation, not a serious one, and was constantly bothered with asthma,
which showed no signs of abating in spite of prolonged treatments.
Nat Saltonstall, whose annual balls in conjunction with the Boston
Institute of Modern Art were justly famous, hit on the bright idea of
giving a surrealist ball at the old Somerset Hotel in Boston a more
piquant juxtaposition cannot be imagined. He asked me to suggest a
surrealist "patron saint" for the ball, someone importantly connected
376 PASSPORT TO PARIS
with the movement. Several local names were brought up and dropped
because of insufficient news value, when I suddenly thought of Dali,
the Little Father of Surrealism, and a man not exactly averse to pub
licity. "The very man!" Nat exclaimed joyously. "But can we get
him? Where is he?" Dali was at the Hotel St. Regis in New York and I
felt sure that he could be had, as he was fond of lecturing and there is
no better place far a lecture than easily shockable Boston; we all
knew of Salvador's famous London lecture, when he arrived attired in
a diver's suit and collapsed for lack of air on his way to the stage. I
was entrusted with the task of bringing him and his wife, Gala, to
Boston, to head one of the surrealist processions and, at a later date,
to deliver a lecture under the Modern Art Institute's auspices.
As I predicted, Salvador took to the idea immediately. "Ah, j'ai
toujourrs voulu chequer Bostonne," he cried in his ruggedly Spanish
French. At first he thought of taking a girafe explosive to Boston, a
favorite fixation of his; a notion that was simplicity itself all you
had to do was to let the giraffe swallow a little dynamite, which would
cause the animal to explode with great eclat, providing the ball with a
tumultuous climax. This was thought a little dated and cumbersome,
so Dali compromised by inventing authentic surrealist garb for the
three of us. In twenty-four hours the costumes were ready; Salvador
would appear in severely correct tails, his head encased in a huge
shark's jaw with two full sets of teeth, which looked more like a prehis
toric monster's, each tooth being the size of a cigar; Gala secured a
Schiaparelli dress made up entirely of gilded safety pins, and I, a sur
realist of doubtful authenticity, was provided with a human hand
made of plaster, the kind you find in sculptors' supplies stores, which I
was ordered to wear like a decoration, dangling on a black velvet rib
bon tied around my neck. To further enhance the effect of the third
hand, which appeared to be clutching my midriff, Dali suggested
wearing my Barcelona-tailored crimson-red linen jacket; the effect
was striking all right.
Nat wired me advising us to take the one o'clock train to Boston, as
we were to attend a dinner party before the ball. "Someone will meet
you Back Bay station," he added; but Dali was being interviewed at
noon, so we caught the next train, a slower one, and wired Saltonstall
to inform him of this slight change of plans. No one met us at the sta
tion, except an English-looking art critic from the Transcript, who
pounced on Dali (ever receptive to the press) and wouldn't let go. It
THE FIERY FORTIES 377
was half past seven when we reached the Somerset, and what with the
persistent Transcript man firing questions at Dali in stilted French
and Saltonstall telephoning frantically to make sure that we had ar
rived, we wasted another quarter of an hour. I, strangely impressive in
the blood-red jacket with the large plaster hand dangling from my
neck, begged the Dalis to start dressing, and they complied at last:
Gala's dress, being all-metal, was very heavy, but she finally poured
herself into it and looked magnificent, while Salvador, having forgot
ten to bring a wing collar, was busily cutting up one of Somerset's
1880 lampshades, to replace the missing article. In a few minutes a
young man stormed into our suite, dressed as a Fokine Pierrot in
white with shining black buttons, and implored us to hurry, as our
hosts were awaiting us with impatience. "Mais pourrquai ounn
Pierrrot?" Dali demanded suspiciously, and inferred that our guest
must have been a fugitive from a local carnival. Not at all when
we arrived, the host and hostess, as well as most of their guests, were
sporting Pierrot costumes, looking exactly like a concert party at an
English pier in summer. "Ca doit etrre la mode surrealiste de Bos-
tonne!" Dali concluded philosophically, and dug into his soup, which
was as cold as the smiles of our hosts, very much put out by our
being so late.
At the ball we were greeted by Nat, beautifully turned out as
you guessed it a Pierrot. He led us to his box, reserving the place of
honor for Dali, happy as a child again, the shark's teeth like a mons
trous necklace around his head. The "surrealist" parade was just
starting, with mostly Boston art students participating; several of the
entries were directly inspired by Dali's better-known paintings, which
greatly pleased the artist. Nat was no longer in the box, but told Dali
before departing that he, Dali, would be called upon for a public ap
pearance just before his group's entree. Salvador, excited and anxious
not to miss his cue, kept asking all and sundry at each new group's ap
parition "Moi? Cest moi?" but apparently his turn was yet to
come. Some thirty or forty defiles paraded before the assembled Pier
rots and non-Pierrots, some thirty or forty "Mofs?" from Dali when
Lo! the final fanfare sounded and the parade was over. The surrealists
had forgotten all about their Patron Saint in the shuffle. The Dalis took
it good-naturedly and departed on the morning train. Whenever I met
Salvador following the surrealist ball, he'd say: "Ah, Bostonne" and
snarl satanically.
378 PASSPORT TO PARIS
That spring I came close to writing a score for George Abbott, who
thought of turning Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing into a mu
sical no doubt encouraged by the success of The Boys from Syra
cuse, which Balanchine had choreographed; the pas de trois from
that show was certainly one of George's happiest inventions. Abbott
wanted Marcy Wescott and Alfred Drake for the show. I met Drake,
at the house of Clytie Mundy, the English vocal teacher and mother
of Meg, who achieved fame overnight several years later in The Re
spectful Prostitute. Alfred sang beautifully and with rare intelligence;
he knew how to project the words so as to make every one of them un
derstandable without ever sacrificing the purity of the melodic line.
Singing actors of Drake's caliber are almost nonexistent; small won
der that he became America's Number One musical-comedy man
his performances in Oklahoma and Kiss Me Kate were of unsur
passed brilliance. Yet he has told me many a time that he'd rather act
than sing.
Mrs. Mundy's flat was the scene of many pleasant musical eve
nings, at which Alfred and Meg sang duets, and Alfred's brother, an
other good singer, often joined them in operatic excerpts. There was
a pre-Raphaelite quality about Meg's beauty, an unstudied wist-
fulness and remoteness that rather put off the impressionable young
men who flocked about her. The remoteness did not faze my enter
prising friend Mitchell Hodges, who had met Meg at a WPA concert
at the public library (where my music shared the bill with Rebecca
Clarke's) ; I had accompanied Meg in the Robert Hillyer songs and
together we had scored a tidy little success. Mitchell, then utterly
broke his last exploit was to bicycle all over the country to "find
out how people felt about the coming war" and sell his findings to the
Saturday Evening Post, which had refused to buy had insisted on
an introduction to Meg, which I provided. Following the introduc
tion, they were constantly together, although Mrs. Mundy complained
irately about Mitchell's deplorable failure to appreciate, or even tol
erate, serious music. The romance progressed by leaps and bounds
and I was soon favored by a visit from Mitchell, who begged me to in
tervene and assure Mrs. Mundy that he was really a most deserving
young man and a not undesirable suitor. "Yes, but what will you live
on, Mitchell?" I queried."You wouldn't want to live off Meg's earn
ings, surely," I persisted. It must be explained that I, struck by Meg's
tragic beauty, had taken her to Alex Liberman, the artistic director
THE FIERY FORTIES 379
of Vogue; she became their best model and got paid handsomely for
her services. Mitchell grinned, "Not at all; I'm going to be rich by a
new method. Take a gander at this!" He produced a newspaper clip
ping which read: "DON'T WORRY: let a professional worrier worry
for you; all worrying done on the premises, attractive rates, etc."
"That is a new method. Any replies?" I wanted to know. "Oh, yes . . .
Tve had six replies so far; strangely enough, they are all from tailors'
wives. Look, here's one: 'Dear Mr. I don't know whether you may be
kidding but Til try anything. I'm so desperate. Jake is worried some
thing terrible,' and so on."
I had a slight cause for worry myself, as I was suddenly stricken
with appendicitis and taken to an Episcopalian hospital in Brooklyn
(that's where my doctor, an Episcopalian, lived). The operation
proved fairly painless and I actually enjoyed myself in the hospital,
with its relaxingly monotonous daily routine, quantities of reading ma
terial brought by friends and freshly starched nunlike nurses. My con
valescence was speedy and I was much touched when Meg tele
phoned and, with her habitual endearing shyness, insisted on taking me
home in her little car, bought out of her Vogue earnings. She came
with Mitchell, who disapproved of such excessive solicitude, and,
while driving Meg's car, kept looking back to make sure that Meg
and I weren't holding hands. Meg and Mitchell were married shortly
afterwards; their marriage lasted six months too much worrying,
obviously.
With the stitches still in my belly, I was rushed to Boston to write a
ballet for Ray Bolger, who was opening in Keep Off the Grass, another
Shubert revue that proved short-lived, perhaps for lack of Minnelli
magic. The music was by Jimmy McHugh, a good songwriter but not
noted for ballet composition; so Bolger had Balanchine choreograph
a ballet version of "Raffles," the society bandit, for him. I wrote the
ballet, which was industrious Gwen Bolger's idea, in a few days, with
Balanchine dancing out whole hunks of it, humming to himself, throw
ing himself on the floor and saying at intervals: "Here I want about a
minute of music for the guests . . . tra-ta-ta . . . tra-la-la-lee . . .
something like that; now . . ." as he ran to the other end of the room.
"That's where Bolger comes in, like this . . ." a hop and a couple
of turns "about twelve bars. You see?" I saw and wrote the thing
in three days, a nurse in constant attendance. When I got a little
stronger, I walked over to Slonimsky's on Hemenway Street, behind
380 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the old Opera House, for some music gossip and a perusal of a sonata
whose sole virtue was that its composer dwelt in Guatemala or Ice
land and was, by that fact, "Slonimsky material."
"Raffles" turned out pretty well and was generally considered the
revue's highlight. "Mr. Bolger performs his astonishing footwork with
the usual gangling precision, and is at his best in a 'Raffles' number,
with music by Vernon Duke," opined John Anderson. But the real
highlight of 1939, as far as I was concerned, was my final exit from
Dreyfus's kingdom to cast my lot with that erratic, unpredictable,
almost too colorful, but withal lovable leprechaun of popular music
Jack Robbins. He first came in contact with me back in 1936 when
he 'wrote to tell me of his admiration for "I Can't Get Started" and of
the great things he could do with that tune were it in his catalogue. My
weekly stipend from Dreyfus was 'reduced in 1938 which was par
adoxical in view of the increase in my performances and another
ASCAP promotion; this, coupled with Spitzer's dramatic exit from
Chappell, was a good pretext for asking and after eight years
obtaining a release. Robbins was a complete antithesis to enigmatic,
slow-spoken Max Dreyfus; my new publisher, a red-faced, choleric,
compact little man, was a past master of the art of unstudied insult and
torrential, crushing invective. I firmly believe that Jack abused people
and made them fighting mad with his taunts in order to hide the to
him shameful fact that he was basically a "good guy." Two of the
mildest terms he habitually applied to his acquaintances were "self-
appointed genius" and "mixed-up sonofabitch." He was especially
fond of insulting people on the telephone and the procedure was fas
cinating to watch: Jack would first sit quietly and listen with decep
tive patience to the man at the other end of the wire, then unable to
endure the heresies he had to listen to would leap to his full height
(about five feet six inches), his face a bluish-red, and go to work on
the heretic. His secretary, a serene, inhumanly patient little blonde,
would flee in terror as Jack flayed his listener with every known and
unknown, printable and unprintable, noun and adjective. Then he'd
stop, emit a few hoarse "hellos," look at the silent telephone question-
ingly (as district attorneys do in Class B movies) and slam the re
ceiver down, roaring: "The sonofabitch hung up on me; talk about
manners!"
His partner in the "Big Three" (Robbins, Feist, & Miller) and
editor-in-chief was bland-faced, rotund, bespatted Domenico Savino,
THE FIERY FORTIES 381
a skilled musician with a "classical" background and a flair for Ital-
ianate, extravagantly colored "lush" orchestration. Jack doted on
Savino, but abused him continually, which the diplomatic Italian
took in his stride, refusing to take "the boss" seriously. Jack and Sa-
vino talked a lot about "real" American music, which to them con
sisted of Gershwinesque piano pieces by Ferde Grofe, Dana Suesse,
Lou Alter, Peter de Rose and others, later blown up to orchestral
proportions by Savino and Grofe and originally selected for "big me
lodic strains" (to be converted into solid hits, like "Deep Purple")
and Rhapsody-in-Blueish harmonic devices.
One chord in particular, mildly dissonant, and used by Gershwin
with great effect in the Rhapsody, as a climax preceding a long pi
ano solo, was a sure earmark of "authentic Americana" to Jack and
absolutely de rigueur in a "modern" piano piece, Jack's modernism
being more like a streamlined racing car than the lucubrations of an
Anton von Webern. He'd listen to a new piece of music, then sud
denly interrupt the performer: "Why the hell don't you stick my chord
in there you know, the dyspeptic chord; here, play it for him,
Mimi [Savino's nickname]!" Savino would oblige and Jack, on hear
ing the dyspeptic chord, would exclaim, his face shining: "That's it!
Thafs America!"
Another time, while abusing an erring song-plugger to his heart's
content on the telephone, Robbins jumped up, while Savino and I
nudged each other wearily as if to say: "Here it comes," screamed
into the phone: "You know something? You're the kind of a guy that
would steal a nickel off his dying mother's breast. Good-byl" and sat
down with a smug look. "For heaven's sake, Jack," I ventured.
"What's all this about his dying mother's breast?" "You pretentious,
mixed-up White Russian!" Jack snarled. "Tell him, Mimi, about what
you Italians do to your dead." Savino sighed with a bored air. "You got
it all wrong, Jacques," he said reprovingly. "You must be referring to
the old custom of placing a coin under a deceased's eyelid." "That's
just what I said," Jack concluded curtly, and dismissed his two edi
tors.
For that's what I was in Robbins's music organization an editor.
Every morning I'd go through a batch of songs or instrumentals, ana
lyze them thoroughly and dictate a series of brief memos to Jack:
"Front strain O.K., release poor, lyric unacceptable"; "Nothing";
"This may happen"; "A dog"; and the like. On reading the memos,
382 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Jack would destroy all but the favorable ones (of which there weren't
many) and send for me. He usually had a visitor in his office, not at
all pleased by my intrusion, but Jack had a one-track mind, so he'd
interrupt his caller to yell: "What do you mean by okaying this
lousy so-and-so thing, you miserable snob? See what I have to go
through?" this plaintively to the visitor, inviting sympathy. Before
the visitor had a chance to open his mouth, I'd chime in with, "Jack,
I think you're wrong, this piece has a certain 'entrain/ " because
Robbins loved words that were new to him and had a grudging respect
for their user. "What's that? How do you spell it?" he'd ask, suddenly
interested. "That's a good word must remember it. Hey, look what
I picked up last night at the China Doll! " The China Doll was a re
treat for rhumba, samba and mambo addicts, of which fraternity
Jack was an honorary member; most of his fraternity brothers were
well-heeled middle-aged businessmen, whose only recreation was to
take daily rhumba lessons from professional Cubans or Puerto Ricans
and then show off the new steps to other members of the cult. Robbins
now executed an extremely fancy pivot, closed his eyes in ecstasy
and mamboed back to his desk. "Not bad, eh? Ha ha ha. Can
George Abbott do that?" Abbott, although hardly the type, was an
other addict, with years of energetic ballroom experience behind
him.
Besides editing, I was also doing some composing for Robbins.
Early in 1940 I wrote some songs for the Seymour Felix-staged Mid
night Frolics, with lyrics by Harold Adamson. I also embarked on a
geographical series glorifying American cities, at Jack's insistence.
The series consisted of fruity piano pieces (filled with dyspeptic
chords), styled "Lake Shore Drive" (Chicago), "Nob Hill" (San
Francisco), "Back Bay" (Boston), "Rittenhouse Square" (Phila
delphia) , "Beverly Hills," and so on. The best of them was "New York
Nocturne," which fast became Charlie Barnet's theme song. For
Helena Rubinstein I wrote the "Apple Blossom Waltz," which earned
me a round trip to Palm Beach and a two weeks' stay at its Whitehall
Hotel, where the new cologne and the new waltz were launched.
All of this was mere preluding for 1940's main event, and the all-
time high in my Broadway career Cabin in the Sky. Originally
titled Little Joe, it started as that unheard-of thing a completed
libretto (dialogue and all) ready for the musical setting. Its author was
Lynn Root, a Minnesota boy and Hollywood scriptwriter; he met
THE FIERY FORTIES 383
Teddy Hart, the comedian and Larry's brother, at a Hollywood party,
and handed him the script for Larry to read. Larry read it and, liking
it, gave it to Doc Bender, who, liking it, passed it on to George Balan-
chine, who, liking it but not understanding it too well, asked me to
decipher it. On reading the script, my first impulse was to turn it down
because much as I admired the Negro race and its musical gifts, I
didn't think myself sufficiently attuned to Negro folklore. Yet, I loved
Lynn Root's book and couldn't tear myself away from it. I had a maid
called Florence, a tall, loose-limbed octoroon, still young and fun-
loving, who spent her evenings jitterbugging at the Savoy. "Florence,"
I asked her at breakfast. "Do you think I could write a colored show?"
"You sure could, Mist' Duke," she declared solemnly. "Why, you is
the music-writingest gemmun I ever see." This sounded encouraging;
I tinkered with a few tunes and then tried Robbins. Jack became
highly indignant. "See what I have to go through?" he asked Savino
with stagy pathos. "I don't need you for colored shows I already
have Duke Ellington. Why don't you write me some modern-
American instrumentals that the schools would go for? Vernon, Ver-
non, when will you learn?" Ten minutes later I called Doc Bender
and told him that I'd write the music for Little Joe.
Getting a suitable lyricist was the next step. Ira Gershwin was my
first choice, and also that of Balanchine, who was in Hollywood
staging a new Zorina picture and gave Ira the book. On February
26th Ira wrote: "Saw Balanchine and read 'Little Joe.' I like it and
think it has a very good chance, but I'm afraid that lyrically, I am
already bespoken. On New Year's Day Moss Hart called me and
asked me would I do a show with him and Kurt Weill if I liked the idea
he had. Naturally I said 'yes' and last week when Moss, who was out
here for 'Man Who Came To Dinner,' told me the notion, I agreed to
work with them. Either Mercer [Johnny Mercer] or Yip [Harburg]
would be excellent for 'Little Joe.' Lots of luck on it." I then tackled
Harburg, who was in New York, played a few strains and showed him
the book; the book was turned down for lack of significance, social
or otherwise. It may be pertinent to note that in 1943, when the
M-G-M film version of Cabin in the Sky was produced, with Minnelli
directing, Harburg thought the venture significant enough to interpo
late two songs into it, with Harold Arlen supplying the music (I, being
in the armed forces, was unavailable).
Johnny Latouche, with my help, succeeded in selling his "Ballad
384 PASSPORT TO PARIS
for Americans," an effective "cantata" with Earl Robinson's mu
sic, to Robbins, and it occurred to me that Johnny, being a native of
Richmond, Virginia, might be the man for Cabin. I tried the notion on
Larry, Doc and Balanchine, my co-conspirators in the venture, and
they all thought it a good gamble; Johnny himself was willing, nay,
enthusiastic. Bender brought Albert Lewis, the producer, into the
project and, leaving our sponsors to the sordid business of raising
money, Latouche and I journeyed to Virginia Beach to imbibe the
"atmosphere," although there wasn't much to imbibe in Virginia Beach
except highballs.
Thoroughly saturated with southern talk and Negro spirituals, we
decided to stay away from pedantic authenticity and write our own
kind of "colored" songs. Latouche was erratic as ever; would work
hard one day and loaf even harder the next but we returned to New
York full of fried chicken, Smithfield ham and with a rough draft of
the score.
Money for Cabin wasn't easy to get, although the affluent and well-
liked Vinton Freedley joined Al Lewis with a view of presenting the
colored musical in the fall. While awaiting developments, I wrote
a little serious music and spent all my week ends with Joan. We were
still "more or less" engaged; Joan wore an antique bracelet I gafve her
in lieu of an engagement ring, but I couldn't make head or tail of our
relationship. A typical incident occurred one evening when, after a har
rowing New York day running in all directions and getting no place, I
arrived at the station hot, exhausted and pretty despondent. Joan,
fresh as an unripe peach, was at the wheel of her car. "Why are you
late, stupe?" she demanded. I told her in Wertherian tones of my strug
gles and disappointments and thanked Fate for providing me with
someone "to come home to." "That's great," Joan said placidly,
chewing gum the while. "Only right now I could do with someone a
little livelier." This so incensed me that I hopped into a cab and de
manded to be taken back to Manhattan, money no object. Joan soon
overtook the cab and got me back into her car by force, apologizing
abjectly, but the evening was ruined.
On April 5th, Prokofiev wrote from Moscow: "Mon cher ami it's
a century since I've heard from you. I thought of coming to America
in February, but there's fighting in Europe and I had to postpone
that pleasure. Just read in the 'Musical Courier' that you were present
at a reception, which means that all's well with you and I'm happy to
THE FIERY FORTIES 385
know it. Alors, vieux bonhomme, what's new? What did you write 1)
by way of music, 2) by way of tra-la-la? Does the tra-la-la still pay
off? Are you married or still at the mercy of 'petites demoiselles 3 ? This
past summer I wrote a 5-act opera based on a rather lively novel by
Kataiev, entitled 'I am the Son of Working People.' I am looking for
another title. It's being rehearsed in Moscow at present and the open
ing will take place in two to three weeks. My ballet 'Romeo and Juliet'
was 'created' by the Leningrad Opera in January with great pomp and
our best dancers. The last named were rather defiant at first, but after
15 recalls on the evening of the performance, decided that new
forms may prove acceptable after all. I wrote a fat sonata for piano
(25 minutes) which I will send you as soon as it's published. Alors,
I embrace you, mon vieux. Drop me a line [English in the original;
the remainder of the letter was in French]. Always yours, S.P." and a
P.S. in the left-hand corner: "Best greetings. Duckie, dear. L.P." (Lina
Prokofieva),
While Serge was creating ballets and fat sonatas, I created
you'll never guess a prize-winning hat for a petite demoiselle. To
gether with six other "representative gentlemen" a painter, a writer,
an actor, a magician, a "socialite" and a "man in the street" I was
invited to participate in an amusing contest, with a prize for the male
amateur who turned out the best hat. The contest was a feature of
Walter FIorelTs hat-fashion charity show at the Ritz-Carlton; the
Japanese Gardens were packed with professional and society matrons
and seven well-publicized debutantes were our models. "From a large
wheel barrow of the most preposterous millinery 'props' ever gathered
together, each man drew for himself the material and basic founda
tion feature with which to go ahead," wrote Antoinette Donnelly in
the Daily News. "Magician Paul Duke used a straw frame on which
to arrange some of his playing cards. Otto Soglow, the artist, built his
'masterpiece' with the aid of two enormous purple wings, long ribbon
streamers and a huge bunch of carrots for the one-eyed coquettish
effect. The prize winner, composer Vernon Duke, chose a flat, small
tin plate upon which he arranged a bunch of scallions and pink car
nations." We were given exactly ten minutes in which to "create"
the hats, and the feat of standing on a runway, like so many burlesque
strippers, fooling with bobby pins, hundreds of shrewd feminine eyes
scrutinizing us gleefully, was no picnic. My model had a smile so
disarmingly roguish that I became determined to win and did
386 PASSPORT TO PARIS
in four short minutes, well ahead of my flustered competitors, includ
ing such practiced hands as Ludwig Bemelmans and Serge Obolen-
sky.
Such is the singularity of my defense mechanism that whenever
things aren't going right, my immediate impulse is to indulge in the
most childish frivolity; most men become frivolous and start "paint
ing the town" after achieving success I want my fun before
achieving it. I was unhappy about Joan, who wrote me a letter in
which she said that she would marry me if I thought she should, but
that she knew she would not be the right wife for me. I showed the
letter to Mother, who said that it confirmed her worst fears and begged
me not to go through with the marriage in the autumn as planned. I
decided to wait and see; what I had seen so far was not encouraging.
Enlisting Balanchine's help (his wife was on the road with Louisiana
Purchase) I invented sillier and sillier distractions. One of them was
a party given by Mr. Vernon Duke to meet Mr. Vladimir Dukelsky.
My pride was hurt when most of my guests wanted to know who in hell
Dukelsky was; two or three of the Dukelskyites present professed com
plete ignorance of Duke's identity, but they were in a distinct minor
ity and, after listening to some blatant boogiewoogie, caught on fast
and left in a hurry. On meeting a Viennese refugee tailor de luxe, Bal-
anchine and I lent an ear to his tales of woe; he had money, an elegant
establishment on Fifth Avenue, featuring a huge panneau by Giorgio
di Chirico depicting a gent in tails gazing at an enormous white horse,
but no customers. "That's simple," George and I said. "Make us a suit
apiece for free and we'll get you all the customers you can handle."
"For free?" the tailor remonstrated in alarm. "My suits start at two
hundred and forty dollars." "That 5 s O.K.," George said, his face a
mask. "No free suits, no customers." The poor Viennese was in even
greater alarm at such ruthlessness; we finally won out and, to com
pensate the tailor, volunteered to "model" our free suits at a cocktail
party to be given at his shop. He was to pay the expenses for the party
in addition to giving us the clothes, whereas our job was to parade in
his creations before an assorted group of New York's most recherch6
dandies. The party took place, our free suits were universally admired
and the tailor got himself some paying customers everybody was
happy.
All these recreations were, no doubt, absurd, but they were certainly
harmless. It was far more alarming, in the course of an afternoon
THE FIERY FORTIES 387
at somebody's house, to come face to face with a hatchet-faced
lady novelist or a lobster-eyed lawyer and listen to violent denun
ciations of the country of my adoption, as opposed to the Russian
paradise on earth, snide little asides about those who saw no crime in
Americanism (synonymous with Fascism to "fellow travelers"), the
barbs delivered in a nauseating mixture of brittle New Yorkese and
Commumst-Gemtitlichkeit cliches. One met such characters more
and more frequently at opening nights, literary teas and avant-garde
concerts and exhibits "they always kibitz at exhibits" as my
friends Nat and Max Lief, lyricists and boulevardiers, said. I was
once taken to a T.A.C. "political cabaret" performance, listened for
an hour to anti-Churchill and Daladier harangues and cute songs
about every American's right to overthrow his government, as well as
nursery rhymes in which Abe Lincoln was extolled as a forerunner
and spiritual brother of Karl Marx, and left in a state of cold rage.
This business sounded frighteningly familiar; I recalled the hysterical,
wild-eyed orators in 1917 Russia, shouting defiance and demanding
an immediate cessation of the German war and death to the traitors
of the working class. The parallel was vivid and brutally realistic
the hatchet-faced and lobster-eyed sympathizers, who sympathized
with everything except their country, were soon among those march
ing and shouting, "The Yanks are not coming," in unison.
My "on again, off again" romance with Joan did not terminate in
marriage, just as the girl predicted. Her mother was taken violently
ill and died without regaining consciousness; I was summoned a few
days before her death in a neighboring hospital, but found my role ex
tremely trying. Father and daughter seemed to want to be alone with
their grief and, on returning from frequent visits to the hospital, would
go into long huddles behind closed doors. Joan's father, while he didn't
exactly resent my presence, didn't appear to find any solace in it
either although I tried to help in every way possible and, worst
of all, neither did Joan. Their tragedy was too personal, too intimate to
allow it to be shared by onlookers, however well-meaning; and I felt
keenly my unenviable role of such an onlooker. My leaving before
her mother's death, although caused by my inability to be of real serv
ice, was resented by Joan, who wrote me in a spirit of reproach. Her
mother's death didn't bring us closer together it merely precipi
tated the final break. A few months later, Joan married a bright young
lawyer.
388 PASSPORT TO PARIS
That summer it was Westport again for me. There is something
about that overgrown Connecticut village with its poor beach and
crowded traffic that puts me in a working mood. It may be the
attractive people who live there, or the fact that it's really a pocket
edition of New England within every New Yorker's reach, or be
cause of the two or three delightful inns it boasts but I never
went to Westport without pleasurable anticipations, never left it with
out regret. The "house" I found in the summer of 1940 was almost
as small as the Wright Street one, but there were no applejack-
swilling neighbors. Here I resumed my work, with Latouche on the
songs for Cabin, and on the ballets with Balanchine, a frequent visi
tor. "Many New Yorkers appear to believe strongly in 'Cabin in the
Sky/ " Ward Morehouse wrote in the Sun. "Certainly it isn't every
show that can claim a financial support of such a quartet as Martin
Beck, Gilbert Miller, Sam. EL Harris and young Harris Schmidlapp."
Thanks to the machinations of Al Lewis, Vinton Freedley, Dick
Krakeur and the formidable Doc Bender, money was found, little by
little; it's not the amount an illustrious "angel" invests, it's -who the
angel is that counts on Broadway. Should one noted angel put a few
dollars in a show, all the other, less noted, angels flock to it together,
ready to singe their wings.
With 60 per cent of the score written, Lewis, Bender, Latouche
and I descended on Ethel Waters, fresh from her Mamba's Daughters
triumph, and, not without difficulty, sold that wonderful woman on
our play. Todd Duncan, Rex Ingram and the then comparatively
unknown {Catherine Dunham followed suit. Meanwhile, Jack Rob-
bins, still frowning on my Ellingtonian escapade ("The wrong Duke,"
he kept shouting), busied himself with Sonja Henie's "It Happens on
Ice," the first (if I mistake not) "Icetravaganza" to be produced at
the Rockefeller Center Theatre. For the purposes of this ice opera,
he teamed me with Al Stillman, Radio City's staff lyricist, and we
turned out a fairly hummable score in little over a week. Something
went awry, however, and other writers, including the late Fred E.
Ahlert, soon "horned" in; in the end, only two of my numbers re
mained "Long Ago" and "Don't Blow That Horn, Gabriel" (with
Stillman and Will Hudson) for which I received a flat weekly sal
ary.
Rehearsals for Cabin in the Sky started in late September at the
THE FIERY FORTIES 389
Martin Beck Theatre. These were really something, what with three
Russians Balanchine, Boris Aronson, who did the sets and cos
tumes, and myself pitted against the prodigiously gifted and eager,
but bewildered, Negro members of the cast. I must emphatically
state that for all-around musical and dancing ability in the theater,
Negroes are immeasurably superior to their white counterparts; they
catch on more quickly, are born actors and throw themselves into
their work with extraordinary relish I've never yet seen a bored
Negro chorus girl. Ethel Waters was known far and wide as an ex
tremely difficult woman to work with, but I won her over by a time-
tested device I hereby recommend it to composers wishing to
please their leading ladies. I kissed her hand in lieu of "good morn
ing" and "be seein' you."
George Ross, an articulate word-slinger, described our rehearsals
in the Telegram: "Pit a threesome of turbulent Russians against a
tempestuous cast of Negro players from Harlem and what have you
got? Well, in this instance the result is a lingual ruckus approaching
bedlam. At least half a dozen times at each rehearsal of 'Cabin in the
Sky,' Ethel Waters, Todd Duncan, Rex Ingram, J. Rosamund John
son, Katherine Dunham and her dancers have paused in puzzlement
while the argumentative trio of Muscovites disputed a difference of
opinion in their native tongue. The Russian vowels and consonants
fly as thick as borsht. After ten minutes of such alien harangue and
retort, Miss Waters asks what it is all about. 'George,' Duke generally
interprets, 'just said the answer is "yes!'" and then rehearsals are re
sumed under a flag of truce until the next vocal flare-up. So, yes
terday, one of the 'Cabin in the Sky' players with a gag mind went out
and had one of those phony headlines made up which he posted near
the stage door. The streamer-type screams 'DUKE DENIES KNOW
ING BALANCHINE. NEVER HEARD OF BORIS EITHER/ "
Certain members of the cast were so alarmed by listening to our
outlandish gibberish that they thought seriously about taking Russian
lessons to get in on the arguments. In his turn, "Balanchine, whose
own Russian accent is unmistakable, soon became somewhat of
an authority on Negro dialect and inflection," Ross continued. "Al
though the voluble Russians are keeping their fingers crossed, the
Negro cast of 'Cabin in the Sky' was assured of success the other
day by a happy omen. In one of the scenes, the script requires Miss
390 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Waters to roll the dice and turn up a 7-1 1 in succession. Miss Wa
ters obeyed orders and so did the dice a legitimate pair with
two straight passes. Yeah, Man!"
There were strange goings-on backstage that the observant Ross
was not privileged to see. Vinton Freedley and, especially, Martin
Beck were alarmed by the sinuous, sex-laden writhing of the Dun
ham troupe and by Balanchine's novel approach to the Negro danc
ing. Negroes were noted for their show-stopping hoofing and tapping
(Bill Robinson or Nicholas Bros, style); putting them through the
motions of a highly stylized ballet seemed pretty iconoclastic to the
producers. They begged George to let the Dunhamites do a little
hoofing no dice. Finally, Beck decided on a showdown, the pur
pose of which was to oust Balanchine and replace him with a tap-
routine specialist. Aronson and I tagged along; George knew which
way the wind blew and was fit to be tied. The meeting opened with
an address by Vinton, who acted as arbitrator, but, apparently, his
tone was too mild and conciliatory for Beck, who banged the table
with his fist and interrupted Freedley to thunder: "To make it short,
Mr. Ball-an'-chain [that's how he pronounced George's name], you
either fix these silly dances of yours, or get out of my theater!" "No!"
George shouted, poker-faced no longer. "It's my theater I am di
rector! You get out!" The tableau that ensued resembled the Moscow
Art staging of the final scene of Gogol's Inspector General; the pro
ducers opened their mouths, but words refused to come out, and we,
the three mad Russians, walked out dramatically, heads high and
nostrils flaring. Work was resumed with no tap or hoofing to mar our
art.
The other episode concerns itself with Cabin's score. Our show,
originally scheduled to open at Boston's Colonial Theatre, was
forced to forego a road tour entirely as our finances did not permit so
big a gamble a show usually loses money on an out-of-town tryout
and give three or four pre-opening benefits right in New York;
these were, in reality, dress rehearsals. We had "first-act trouble,"
as the finale was inconclusive and a letdown; a "warm" touch was
needed just before the curtain fell. Vinton, an astute showman, was
responsible for the idea of ending the act with Joe and Petunia alone
on the stage, the wayward little man ready to turn over a new leaf.
But this improvement, charmingly "dialogued" by Lynn Root, wasn't
THE FIERY FORTIES 391
made until after the first two previews, which in spite of the many
highlights, were so dismal that Max Gordon suggested that Lewis
close the show before opening it and cut the losses. We needed a
heart-warming song to put the first act over and underline the "turn
ing a new leaf" notion. The song Latouche and I had originally writ
ten was a plaintive and rather "offbeat" lullaby, pretty enough but
carrying no "sock"; it was in six-eight time, and few hits in the annals
of our theater were ever written in that meter. Miss Waters didn't
care for the "lullaby" and wanted some "meat and potatoes" instead.
I reached for the trunk three days before the opening and stum
bled on "Fooling Around With Love," a song Ted Fetter and I had
written for the unproduced Abbott show. I tried it on Latouche; he
fell for the tune but thought the title not sufficiently "on the nose" for
the dramatic situation. An afternoon's work, with an assist from Fet
ter, followed, and what emerged was "Taking a Chance on Love,"
one of my better-known songs, an immediate hit and a solid standard
today.
I took Ethel to the downstairs lounge at the Martin Beck, in-
between rehearsals, to play her the song, and she stopped me after the
first eight bars with: "Mister, our troubles are over. That's it!" Vinton
ran in to hear the next eight bars, tweaked my cheek affectionately,
exclaimed: "That's my favorite composah!" and was off, quick as
lightning. Johnny wrote four more choruses for the song, and he
could easily have written another half dozen ask anyone who was
present at Cabin's opening, on October 26, 1940. If ever a song
stopped the show, but cold, it was "Taking a Chance on Love."
Ethel kept coming back, again and again, tears of happiness in her
eyes, singing chorus after chorus; five reappearances no more
choruses. To the best of my recollection, she had to sing the last
available one thrice.
Cabin's opening night was one of those gladsome, shining things
we always pray for, but so seldom get. Following those first disastrous
previews the word of mouth along the street was very bad: the best
thing that can happen to a show, provided it's a good one. At the
premiere, after the first gloomy ten minutes, Joe's death, Petunia's
despair and religious fervor, the entrances of the Lord's General
(Todd Duncan) and Lucifer, Jr. (Rex Ingram), came the songs
"Cabin in the Sky," sung by Ethel and Rosamund Johnson's wonder-
392 PASSPORT TO PARIS
ful choir with affecting lyricism, Katherine Dunham's teasing "Love
Me Tomorrow/* Ethel's "Taking a Chance on Love," which really
wrapped it up and we were in, in, IN!!!
In later years, when flops came in fast and furious, there was no
place I dreaded more than the theater's lobby at intermission time.
Any author or composer who hasn't been mortified, petrified and
crucified during those heavy-as-lead fifteen minutes, hasn't lived . . .
beg pardon, hasn't died a thousand ingenious deaths. You spend this
dreaded period ducking friends and enemies alike, rightly fearing the
solicitous commiseration of the first, the cutting, gloating politeness
of the second. Those in between casual observers do one of
two things. If they're not sure about your show, they'll buttonhole you
and screech: "Why, hello, Jack! Have a nice summer?" then
you know you still have a chance. But if they peer at you sadistically
and say quietly and without a trace of emotion, "Jack what do
you thinlc of the show?" Brother, get the hearse ready you're
dead. Neither happened that night. Friends, enemies and casual by
standers told you and what they said was good to hear. After the
opening, having kissed every member of the cast, cried with Ethel
and slapped Max Meth, the frenzied conductor, on the back a dozen
times, Balanchine, Zorina and I repaired to "21" and sat in a happy
haze, drinking Pommery Greno of the right year, to be joined at
2:30 A.M. by Vinton, his eyes shining, who waved the ecstatic
Brooks Atkinson's review and then read it to us in a quivering, happy
voice. Here, in part is what he read: "Perhaps 'Cabin in the Sky*
could be better than it is, but this correspondent cannot imagine
how. For the. musical fantasy is original and joyous in an imaginative
vein that suits the theatre's special genius. Lynn Root began it by
writing an extraordinarily fresh book about heaven, hell and the
common earth where black people work out their destiny. By great
good fortune everyone associated with him has met him on equal
terms. For it would be difficult to prove that the book is happier in
style than George Balanchine's lyrical direction or the excellent
performance by a singularly well-chosen Negro cast. Ethel Waters
has been essential to happiness in the theatre for some time. But she
has never given a performance as rich as this before. At the present
moment, this theatre-goer imagines that he has never heard a song
better sung than Taking a Chance on Love' . . . She stood that
song on its head last evening and ought to receive a Congressional
THE FIERY FORTIES 393
medal by way of reward. . . . Since Dooley Wilson plays the part
of 'Little Joe' with a kind of discouraged bewilderment and since
Katherine Dunham plays the baggage at a blistering temperature,
the triangular frolic is comic, disarming and incendiary by turns
and 'Cabin in the Sky' ranks with the best work on the American
musical stage. . . . George Balanchine is artist enough to appre
ciate the gusto of the people he is working with in this performance.
Musical shows seldom acquire dancing such as he has directed
here motion in many lines set on fire with excitement ... he
has released them [the dances] from the bondage of hack dancing
and ugliness. As a matter of fact, the joy of creative work shines
out of all the corners of Mr. Root's fantastic cabin. Vernon Duke has
written racy music in several veins from song-hits to boogie-woogie
orgies. Mr. Latouche has composed crisp and jaunty lyrics. Boris
Aronson has done his finest work. Put 'Cabin in the Sky' down as a
labor of love by a group of theatre people who have enjoyed working
on something that is bursting with life. Mr. Beck will need plenty of
fire insurance as long as 'Cabin in the Sky' remains at his theatre."
We all slept soundly that night. I don't think anyone connected
with the show got up before noon the next day, and by that time all the
other papers were in all the reviews were favorable except John
Anderson's in the Journal and John Mason Brown's in the Post. There
were some reservations about the book I only hope to get that good
a book again! but everyone, including Brown and Anderson, liked
the dancing and the score. Richard Watts, Jr., thought " Taking a
Chance on Love,' as brilliantly presented by Miss Waters, so gay
and charming that one hates to think how the radio is certain to go to
work on it from now on." Alas, the radio bigwigs wouldn't meet the
songwriters' just demands, and the entire ASCAP catalogue soon
went off the air in toto, Cabin included, leaving the innocent listen
ers to be saturated with "Jeanie With the Light Brown Hair," and
other such public-domain fare. Nevertheless, the songs being authen
tic, immediate hits something that never happened to me before
or since Cabin they were accepted as such by the "trade" and
played all over the country.
The day after the opening I charged into Jack Robbins's office,
swinging an ivory-topped walking stick. "Well, what do you say now,
Jack?" I asked challengingly. Robbins rose to the occasion he
had a way of sidestepping defeat that was the envy of his ever-loving
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associates. "Showing off already, eh?" he countered, scowling un-
convincingly. "There'll be no talking to you now that you have a
half-baked hit. Why don't you dust off the monocle, too?" I told Jack
that I couldn't help feeling exhilarated. "Exhilarated?" he intoned
pensively, the scowl gone. "Say, I like that word remind me to use
it." He grabbed Henrietta, the frail blond secretary, and executed
a new China Doll mambo step. "Not bad, eh? Can Ethel Waters do
that?" I exited rapidly and ducked into the stock room to find out
whether orders for my songs were coming in: they were. Robbins, not
having any faith in Cabin's future, placed the score with the smallest
of his three firms Miller Music but that didn't stop it. When the
M-G-M film of Cabin was made, my songs were switched to the next
biggest firm, Feist, Inc., went back on the air with a vengeance, and
became hits all over again.
CHAPTER XVII
THE FIERY FORTIES-
PART TWO
T^XHAUSTED by overwork and overanxiety, Balanchine and I
J-i went to Cuba to recuperate. Jack Robbins had a local branch
of his music firm in Havana and we were royally entertained by his
Cuban staff. I wrote, at Jack's instigation, a bolero-cancion called
"Rio CristaP' to Spanish words, subsequently published, and exten
sively played by Latin American orchestras. We drank jugo del pina
(Cuban pineapple juice, not equaled elsewhere), swam in the too-
blue transparent water at La Playa, watched jai-alai games and
spoke in Balanchine-invented Spanish, which we tried on puzzled
natives. "Why bother learning Spanish?" George reasoned. "All you
have to do is add 'ados' to any English word and the Cubans will
understand. If you want a match say 'matchados*; a glass of milk
will be 'milcados,' a steak 'steakados,' and so on. Watch me/' He
summoned a waiter and pompously addressed him in Balanchine
Spanish; the Cuban caught on immediately and brought the desired
article. I was impressed, until I learned that the waiter had gone to
high school in South Orange, New Jersey.
The weather was ideal, but during our return trip aboard a small
United Fruit steamer, it blew up a bit. Balanchine met a Russian
psychoanalyst aboard ship; they became very cozy and George spent
the rest of the voyage in the psychoanalyst's cabin, pouring out his
heart to the man. An unusual feature of these confessions was that
both the psychoanalyst and his patient were continually seasick, thus
creating a new, non-Freudian idea in analysis where both parties
lie down. Why not?
On our return George and I played two pianos for Zorina and
Anton Dolin (whom I hadn't seen since he danced the role of Zephyr
in my ballet) in a pas de deux I wrote and Balanchine choreographed
396 PASSPORT TO PARIS
for the British War Relief Society's gala at the Winter Garden.
Cabin was playing to standees and "It Happened On Ice" was a hit,
in its way, too.
Latouche and I were now in great demand as a team. Johnny
married Theodora Griffis, Stanton's daughter, and went off on a
Mexico honeymoon. Snapping their fingers at ASCAP's ban from the
airwaves, the recording companies brought out Cabin in the Sky rec
ords with lightning speed; this was still the era when good music sup
plied by "name" writers commanded respect in recording circles and
wasn't side-stepped in favor of horrendous "novelties" and pseudo
hillbillies manufactured by fast-buck hunters from Nashville, Tennes
see. Liberty brought out the show album with Miss Waters singing
alone practically the entire score, and record reviewers swooned
in print; Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw and Ella Fitzgerald helped, too.
It looked as though Duke and Latouche could now write their
own tickets. We wrote two of them, which was a mistake although
the first of the two was very nearly a winner. Writing two scores at
the same time is a perilous procedure and we should have known
better; but the producers of the two shows were so persuasive that it
became difficult not to give in. Besides, the producer of the first of
the two a musical version of Three Men On a Horse, with Eddie
Cantor was kindly, stooping Al Lewis, one of the three men on
Cabin, and turning down his offer would have been something like
ingratitude. The other project began as a Dennis King extrava
ganza, earlier identified as She Had to Say Yes, which flopped re
soundingly on the road and was picked up by Georgie Hale, dance
director and a friend of ours. Stewart Chaney's scenery was to be
retained and a new book and score written around it a rather
novel notion. Oscar Hammerstein, good sport that he is, once took
out an impressive Variety ad in which having clicked with
Oklahoma he listed his six or seven flops in a row. I am not Ham
merstein, but I resemble him closely in this respect; I, too, had six or
seven flops in a row, beginning with Georgie Kale's The Lady Comes
Across. The signal difference lies in the fact that Oscar's flops were
vindicated by as many (or more) colossal, epic hits, while I am still
waiting for one medium-sized success to make up for the failures.
Luckily, I had successes in other fields in the 1942-1952 decade,
and thus could thank my stars for having created a two-headed
monster with a two-track music mind.
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 397
Outside of writing the scores of two new shows and a full-size
violin concerto, the year 1941 was not, particularly memorable for
me. I made some new friends, including the quick-witted Benjamin
Welles, Sumner's son, then fresh out of Harvard and on his first N.Y.
Times assignment. He came to see me in the capacity of an inter
viewer a few days after my return from Cuba a tall, faun-faced,
prematurely worldly wise youth, and already a capable journalist
I'm well aware that this book is often sweetened by flattering descrip
tions of myself, culled from contemporary journals, but I think I've
been just as liberal with excerpts from my detractors; so I'm going
to quote from Benny Welles's interview, if only because it contains
my last prewar pen-portrait. Following Mother's death and the war,
I lost much of my notorious foppishness and acquired a fine, healthy
layer of extra-thick skin, which in view of subsequent vicissitudes,
was a good thing to have. "Vernon Duke has often been called the
'caviar' composer," Benny wrote. "Duke's sleek black hair and ex
pressive Russian eyes, his continental urbanity and American love of
mischief, and his theatrical addiction to brilliant color in his clothes
have served to stamp him as a cocktail-party character but this,
in essence, he is not. Vernon Duke is the suave front for a hard
working and highly accomplished musical creature, born thirty-seven
years ago and christened Vladimir Dukelsky. Duke's flamboyant
tendencies have been checked in recent years, but his attire for a
matutinal interview recently included a brilliant blue robe with
salmon-colored pajamas, topped off by a healthy sunburn acquired
in Havana. . . . The recurrent theme of Gershwin in the symphony
of Duke's life has often been commented on and draws a shrewd
appraisal from Duke himself. 'George was my earliest musical idol,*
he says reflectively, caressing an expensive Havana cigar and gaz
ing from his window into memory. 'When I met him, he was leading
the American popular composers away from the light operatic genre
of Offenbach, Sullivan, Herbert and Kern into a field accentu
ated by new rhythms. He was also discrediting the old theory that a
score should contain two hits and so much incidental music. George
lavished care on everything he wrote.' " Avoiding the sickening
"What comes first words or music" query, Benny asked the sec
ond stock question fired at every tunesmith: "How and where do
you write your music?" That's a tough one, but, on going through
my "catalogue," I realized that few of my better songs were written
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at the piano or the writing table. "He seldom uses a piano to com
pose, but develops a melody in his head," Benny reported, on my
say-so. "He writes on trains, on boats, on trams and cars, on any
thing that moves. The sway and roll and rock and rhythm is his
inspiration." That may sound a little phony it is, nevertheless, true.
Two of my recent songs were written in places hardly conducive to
creative effort one on the Super Chief, the other in a San Fran
cisco cable car.
The idea for writing a violin concerto originated with "Mr. Vio
lin" himself the peerless and Olympian Jascha Heifetz. We met
at a party where we both essayed some jazz Heifetz plays it on the
piano, not on his violin, and plays it very well; in between choruses,
he asked me: "Why don't you write a violin concerto? I'll play it if
it turns out well." This was not a commission, not the kind Willie
Walton and Louis Gruenberg obtained; they got paid and they got
played. But then I never expected a commission, since I was uni
versally thought a rich and successful composer and it would have
been bad business to deny it. I am also that rare bird a non-
prize-winning composer; I owe nothing to Messrs. Pulitzer or Gug
genheim, to Mesdames Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge or Alice Ditson,
or the Critics' Circle. Broadway and Hollywood have fed and clothed
me since 1930, and such questionable sponsors have probably made
me ineligible for the higher awards. The only two commissioned
works I can boast of are the cello concerto written for Piatigorsky in
1942 and the harpsichord sonata composed for Fernando Valenti
in 1949 paid for but, as yet, unperformed.
Anyway, I tackled the violin concerto with great zeal and spent
a lot of time studying that instrument's literature. Cabin, while not
breaking records, was doing fine at the Martin Beck and neither
Mother nor I had to worry about the next meal. Unshaven and
pajama-clad, I spent long hours taming the violin, an instrument
that doesn't lend itself to imaginative experiments. Halfway through
the first movement, I was interrupted by a Western Union messenger,
who handed me a telegram reading: "Your Cabin in the Sky most
enchanting play in town. Congratulations. Mary Lee and Douglas
Fairbanks, Jr." Great! Now, if only Heifetz would wire to tell me
that my concerto is the most enchanting work in that idiom, I
thought. This is what the violinist wrote me eight months later: "I
have just recently had a chance to play the work through, and I am
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 399
very sorry to say that it does not appeal to me to my entire satisfac
tion." The unwieldy phrase irked me considerably at the time; I
wasn't writing the concerto for his or anybody else's "entire" satis
faction. Just a little satisfaction would have done nicely.
The piece, turned down by Heifetz, was soon picked up by
Richard Burgin's handsome wife, Ruth Posselt, one of the few really
good violinists of her sex, and played by her with the Boston Sym
phony two years later. Putting the concerto aside for a spell, I went
back to Washington Irving's "little world of traps and trickery"
the theater.
There was plenty to do and not much time to do it in. There were
meetings with Joe Quillan and Izzy Ellinson, who were adapting
Three Men On a Horse, at Eddie Cantor's suite in the Essex House,
followed by meetings with Dawn Powell and Fred Thompson,
teamed up by Georgie Hale for the former She Had to Say Yes
the new titles for which were successively Listen Lady, Nice Dream
ing and, finally, The Lady Comes Across. There was a song to write
for Fefe Ferry's Monte Carlo, where John Buckmaster was sched
uled to appear in a witty "lecture in three parts" written by Johnny
Latouche; the subject of the lecture was Lady Birds the Ritzicum
Floosibus, or Yellow-crested Cinch (whose cry is "Yo'all, yo'all,
yo'all") and the Tomatokins Lushivus, or Night Flyer (this bird,
whose cry is "Wow!" may be mistaken for the Carotus Phonius,
which is an out-and-out canard). The lecture was delivered by Buck-
master as Major Gristle-Griswold, a blustering, hearty, roast-beef
type of Englishman with a monocle. The three ladybirds stripped
down to essentials, while chanting our lascivious roundelay, "Sisters
Under the Skin." This "show" proved so successful that it achieved a
seventeen weeks' stay at the Monte Carlo.
Having run out of "inspiring" locales in my geographical series,
I wrote an "American Arabesque" for Meredith Wilson's Decca
album and helped Duke Ellington, one of the greatest charmers
among musical folk, put together an "American Lullaby" for the
same enterprise. With Balanchine and Latouche, I wrote a song
poem entitled "Fog" for Zorina to dance at the Carnival for Britain,
as well as a musical setting for a monologue delivered by Gertie
Lawrence on the Friendship Bridge radio program, sponsored by
the British American Ambulance Corps. Meanwhile, Cabin in the
Sky, only a modest success in New York in spite of all the raves and
400 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the fact that it was voted the Best Musical Show of the 1940-1941
theatrical year by George Jean Nathan, who also rated my "Taking a
Chance on Love" the best show tune of the year, took to the road
and played to standing-room-only business everywhere. After a good
look at the box-office statements, Latouche and his shy young bride
deserted the metropolis for Stanton Griffis's Connecticut "bicoque"
and I developed a taste for hired limousines and luncheons at "21."
The big news on the Georgie Hale front was the signing of Jessie
Matthews, the English musical-comedy star whose eloquent legs had
captivated Londoners in the late twenties; she was to be teamed
with Ray Bolger, who, dissatisfied with the script, withdrew at the
last minute. Joe E. Lewis and Mischa Auer were signed, following
Ray's departure. Nearly everybody else available was being signed
for Banjo Eyes (the new title for Three Men On a Horse). While
getting ready for Lady's rehearsals, Balanchine purchased a home
out at Fort Salonga, near Northport, L.I., and had the house re
done entirely to suit his own architectural ideas. He spent hours
designing and arguing with the architects; they tried to insist on
usual specifications, but George won out and the house was built in
Balanchine baroque. It was a fine house and would have startled
Le Corbusier; in his anxiety to put his ideas over, George forgot all
about the front door.
Doc Bender and I were worried about Latouche's chronic nonat-
tendance of the Essex House powwows; rumors of his life of rural
splendor were all over town and the producers began shaking their
heads portentously. We borrowed Larry Hart's car and chauffeur and
motored to New Canaan to track down the recalcitrant lyricist. The
massive gates leading to the Griffis estate, smartly liveried servants
everywhere and the immaculately kept grounds were certainly im
pressive. After questioning the major-domo, the butler and several
fleet-footed footmen, we were escorted to an attractive formal garden.
A group of earnest-looking German and Viennese refugees in summer
garb were reclining on the grass listening with rapt attention to La
touche, their host, striking in baby-blue jeans, a white bandanna tied
around his head, reading poems obviously not meant for either Banjo
Eyes or Lady Comes Across, There was prolonged applause after the
offering and the German-accented voice of a countess was heard to
exclaim: "Zere iss only one Tchann Cocteau in France, only one
Tchonnee Latouche in America!" Doc and I, not daring to interrupt
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 401
the proceedings, joined the poetry lovers on the grass. The seance
over, Latouche greeted us effusively and volunteered the informa
tion that grouse and Romanee-Conti would be featured at dinner,
also requested that one of the footmen show us to our rooms. The
rooms were splendid, the dinner even better, but our every effort
to divulge the reason for our mission to the host fell on a deaf ear. I
was ready to admit defeat when the ever-resourceful Bender mut
tered significantly: "Don't you worry I'll get the guy in line if it's
the last thing I do!" After breakfast the next morning, Doc went
in search of Latouche, found him, pushed him next to the piano,
where I was sitting, a prop smile on my lips, and said resoundingly:
"There now get to work, you two, or there'll be nothing but
trouble." Johnny, pouting disagreeably, produced a pad and a pencil
and we began wrestling with a rhumba Cantor intended to sing to
one of the race horses in the play. I played a chorus; Johnny made a
face. I tried another; he shook his head disdainfully. "All right, listen
to this it's the best of the lot," I said, ductile to a degree, and
played yet a third rhumba. "Good heavens, Vernon!" Johnny
shrieked in disgust. "If you only had a little less agility, and a little
more ability!" A frightful fracas ensued, Bender and the butler par
ticipating energetically. Somehow, peace was restored and we all
went back to New York with a fourth and final rhumba for Eddie
Cantor's horse.
Banjo Eyes opened in New Haven on November 7th and made
history in that on opening night the final curtain didn't go down
until 12:45 A.M. with practically no one except the chorus
girls' mothers, the backers and their families remaining in their seats
for the finale. Eddie Cantor's idea was to get twice too many scenes,
gags and songs into the show for the opening, and then, guided by
the audience's reactions, to get rid of the dross and retain only the
high spots. At least four of our songs were yanked out after the open
ing, for lack of room, and scene after scene followed the discarded
songs into the producer's wastebasket. Nevertheless, the "stuff that
hits are made of" seemed to be there, and the Yale men shouted
themselves hoarse welcoming the little comedian's return to the stage
after eleven years' absence. It's true that you never can tell from a
New Haven break-in as Broadway wiseacres will concede. Shows
usually play only three performances there (Friday and twice on
Saturday), the houses are sold out to theater-loving undergraduates
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and swarms of Broadwayites, who storm New Haven on such oc
casions, murder in their eyes, and return in a body on the same
train Friday after the performance, murder on their tongues.
Boston is another story. Traditionally the best show town outside
of New York, with Philadelphia a close contender, it can also be
uncomfortably independent (as it is in all other fields) and give
many a "sure" hit a nasty jolt. Boston adored Cabin in the Sky,
which did turnaway business there after the N.Y. run, and I felt
idiotically confident that it would take Banjo Eyes to its heart, too.
It didn't, though the critics hailed it as a genuine smash "still in need
of pruning." I suspect that Bostonians' esteem and affection for
Cantor had a lot to do with the surprisingly good notices the show
received. Fortunately for Banjo Eyes, Cantor and Lewis weren't
fooled; on the second night, in Row D sat Max Gordon, Moss Hart
and George S. Kaufman and they were placed there by Al Lewis
to make a diagnosis. I never did learn what the three would-be doc
tors said to Al and Eddie theatrical doctors seldom mince words
on such occasions but I finally cornered Moss, who informed me
with bis traditional amiability that he didn't care for the score. The
next day Johnny and I, heretofore extolled to the skies as honest-to-
goodness supermen, were told by Lewis that the score had no hits in
it and by Cantor that it contained no Cantor songs. Latouche was
now the archvillain; he and Hazzard Short, our director, didn't see eye
to eye, Short dismissing every new lyric with a deprecating, "If it's by
Latouche it can't be good." Eddie had taken to waking me about 3
A.M. and demanding my presence in his suite; I'd get into a dress
ing gown, feeling sleepy and desperate, and ride in the elevator to
Cantor's floor, the elevator boy staring at me commiseratively
the Ritz's elevator boys always know everything that goes on in the
hotel. On entering Cantor's suite, I'd see the banjo-eyed comedian
playing cards with assorted Ritz Brothers in various stages of un
dress. "Yes, Eddie?" I'd ask ingratiatingly. "I must get a real Eddie
Cantor song, Kid," the comedian would pipe in his oddly high-
pitched voice. "Play me that last one you wrote." I'd obediently go
through the chorus, the Ritzes bidding and passing unconcernedly.
Chorus over. "It's not Cantor, Kid, it's not Cantor. Go to bed now
and write me an Tf You Knew Susie' tomorrow. Good night." Hav
ing written a round dozen of would-be Susies with Latouche, I knew
I was fast getting sterile. In a few days, following a tempestuous
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 403
scene John was ousted and replaced by Harold Adamson, a quiet
and philosophical chap with many "commercial" achievements be
hind him; together we wrote "We're Having a Baby," full of obstet
rical innuendo, and Cantor promptly stopped the show with it, while
Latouche went back to New York to help put the English Lady
across.
Jessie Matthews arrived from London suffering from bomb shock;
her singing and dancing were decidedly rusty, but it would be un
charitable to dwell on the misfortunes and tribulations that led to
her mysterious disappearance three days before the New York
opening, and replacement at zero hour by her courageous under
study Evelyn Wyckoff. Lady Comes Across was full of good
things: Balanchine's glowing choreography, especially in a wacky
"Tango" and a wackier "Polka"; young Gower Champion and his
partner Jeanne in "Lady," a melancholy waltz with a fine lyric,
danced languidly and slickly and self-interrupted with snatches of
romantic dialogue a trick successfully used by Champion in later
years; at least three songs equal to anything in Cabin "You Took
Me By Surprise," "Summer Is A Comin' In" (probably Latouche's
top achievement to date, interpolated into the MacMillan and Rat-
cliffe 1953 revival of Cabin with Juanita Hall) and "This Is
Where I Came In," sung by siren-voiced, callipygous Wynne Mur
ray; it also had the Four Martins, led by Hugh Martin and Ralph
Blane, who later did all right for themselves as a songwriting team
and who stopped our show with the pre-Chaucerian "summer" num
ber; such dancers as Genia Delarova, Massine's ex-wife, Lubov
Rostova and Marc Platt; but one thing it didn't have an intelligi
ble book. It was a rehash of something left over from the original
production and was now being rehashed nightly in a frantic effort to
give the show a unifying thread. The show started weakly enough
in New Haven, went downhill in Boston and expired in New York
after a three days' run. Banjo Eyes, having started shakily, was
rapidly shaping into a four-star bit and played to tremendous grosses
in Philadelphia.
The Cantor show opened at the Hollywood Theatre, New York,
on December 25th. Lady Comes Across started its three-day ca
reer at the 44th Street Theatre on January 9th. The first got a 100
per cent critical accolade (according to Billboard's statistics it drew
a "yes" from every critic) and was an immediate sellout; the second
404 PASSPORT TO PARIS
got a universal panning and a bum's rush to Caine's warehouse.
Most of the love songs were deleted from Banjo Eyes with the exit
of Sara Ann McCabe, who left the show after its Boston engage
ment, and I shuddered at the thought of what the critical boys would
do to my practically balladless score (the nearest thing to a ballad
was "Not a Nickel to My Name," expertly danced by the De
Marcos); my fears proved unfounded, as Brooks Atkinson spoke of
a "vibrant score of metallic music with John Latouche's witty
handsprings for lyrics" and Richard Watts, Jr., thought well of
'We're Having a Baby," a showstopper almost of "Taking a Chance
on Love" caliber, but a radio impossibility on "moral" grounds.
Banjo Eyes played to big business for six months, then abruptly
ended its run when Cantor had to undergo a serious operation.
After the opening of Lady Comes Across, Balanchine and I took a
bevy of dancing beauties to a Russian night club and proceeded to
drown our fears in quantities of vodka, accompanied by caviar,
knife-throwing Caucasian sexagenarians, and a faded blonde in a
kokoshnik, left over from the Chauve Souris, who sang chorus
after chorus of "Kirpitchiki," the saddest post-Revolution Russian
song written. I heartily recommend it to those who cry with diffi
culty; this song is a powerful tear-jerker. George and I wept on each
other's shoulders between encores.
This, our first real flop, caused us to plot a speedy getaway any
town looks dismal the morning after a fiasco, but New York is truly
the "City of the Dreadful Opening Night," to make free with James
Thomson. Though Russians, George and I are no melodramatic mas-
ochists, and we'd seen enough films to know the virtue of that great
Hollywood adage: "Let's get outa here"; Doc Bender, who was al
ways a ready hand at borrowing other people's cars and chauffeurs,
produced both again and, before any Broadway sleuths could get at
us, we were on our way to Sarasota, Florida, stoically refusing to
read the evening papers. George had a contract with John Ringling
North to stage the ballets for that year's circus, under the supervision
of John Murray Anderson. This was the edition that had as many
dissenters as it had admirers, owing to the revolutionary ideas of
Norman Bel Geddes (I remember the sand in the circus arena being
of a powder-blue shade), the hiring of Vera Zorina, who headed the
elephants' procession riding on the head of the tribe's leader, and the
commissioning of a polka for the selfsame elephants from none other
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 405
than Igor Fedorovitch Stravinsky. The polka, a strangely undancea-
ble little piece costing North a young fortune, was played reluctantly
by the Ringling Bros, band, and I can testify to the fact that the big
beasts disliked their new music actively, refusing to dance to it and
emitting ear-splitting roars. Like all new music by Stravinsky, the
polka featured the "truncated line" probably to glorify the ele
phants' trunks but the animals would have none of it.
Leaving George and the Doc to continue with their circus exploits,
I went on to Palm Beach for what proved my last holiday before
donning a uniform. On arriving at the Surfside Hotel, I was handed
a huge, heavy package by the clerk; thinking it a crate of fruit, I
opened it with pleasurable anticipation and found that it contained
5000 copies of "We're Having a Baby," my radio-banned showstop-
per from Banjo Eyes. An unprintable message from lovable Jack
Robbins was enclosed. That same evening Jack telephoned me from
Grossinger's in Miami, and after a lot of verbal abuse invited me
to an all-night saturnale, with a grand tour of Miami's hotspots.
"Come on, lover, don't be difficult," he coaxed. "It's all on Metro."
A footnote for the unenlightened: Jack and M-G-M had parted
company some years back when the publisher, on Ms own admission,
was thrown off the lot for "constant and damaging interference."
Jack's two methods of revenge consisted of writing an epic entitled
"Heels I've Met in Hollywood" (I believe he's still writing it) and
taking out clients and friends on costly binges, charging the bills to
Metro as "professional expenses." It was hard to be really angry
with Robbins and I needed a little merry mayhem to sweeten up my
Broadway blues; so I went to Miami and spent an extra-wild night in
the company of Jack, who needed no benzedrine to outplay and
outdance his younger contemporaries, and an outlandish assortment
of "real hep" guys and dolls, led by the Great Nemo, songwriter and,
according to Nemo, inventor of double talk. I slept off the effects of
the "evening on Metro" in Palm Beach and on awakening was pleas
antly surprised by a letter from George Abbott with words of warm
praise for the score of Lady Comes Across. George is like that; a
man of somewhat forbidding, glacial mien, he knows what he likes
(and dislikes) and is not afraid to be kind to a flop, or to deride a
hit.
Life in Palm Beach was pleasantly uneventful and, outside of
an ever-increasing number of charity balls and war benefits, there
406 PASSPORT TO PARIS
wasn't much war talk; a number of "eligible" young men appeared
in spiffy uniforms at dinner parties and civilians began wearing an
apologetic look, especially if they were of draft age. I wrote Mother,
telling her of Florida's salubrious climate and of my plan to set her
up in a small house near Sarasota, where the air, I thought, would
be beneficial to her asthma. Mother answered typically, suggesting
that there was no sense worrying about her, that she was fine and
happily settled in a small apartment she had found in the East Thir
ties, that the Florida house sounded lovely, but that I had better
straighten out my military status first. The "straightening out" came
from Uncle Sam himself; before long I, thirty-eight at the time, re
ceived the President's greetings and was requested to appear before
my draft board in New York.
On January 12, 1942, Natalya Konstantinovna Koussevitzky
died in Brookline, Massachusetts, the news reaching me in Palm
Beach. She was sixty-one, six years younger than her husband. I was
genuinely saddened by Tante Natalie's passing, because I knew that,
in spite of our one serious estrangement, set right by Prokofiev, she
was fond of me in her own despotic and Old-Russian way.
A few whirls at the Everglades and I was back in Manhattan,
slightly overweight again, but otherwise fit as a fiddle. I had a fright
ful shock on seeing Mother, who came to meet my train; she had al
ways looked younger than her years, had a healthy color and a
sturdy frame. I now beheld a gray-haired, emaciated woman, unmis
takably sixty, her wonderfully kind eyes burning feverishly in the
pale, haggard face. I couldn't help expressing the sudden terror that
flared up within me: "Mother, what's wrong? Are you ill? You must
have lost twenty pounds!" Mother smiled bravely, with a heroic at
tempt at light-heartedness. "It's nothing, Moorashka. ... I had a
common cold . . . haven't gotten rid of it yet; this silly asthma of
mine doesn't help, you know. . . ." There was no use asking Mother
why she didn't go to a doctor; she had no faith in doctors and rather
prided herself on possessing an organism which presented a constant
puzzle to them. "They never know what's wrong with me and it's
just as well; it's better not to know," she was in the habit of saying,
half-jokingly. I didn't have to look at Mother again to know that
her illness was no joke this time.
Mother led me to my new flat, rented for me by Alex in the same
rather too rigidly "functional" apartment house in which he lived
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 407
with Mona on East Thirty-fifth Street; Mother's apartment was three
blocks away. After showing me the place, which was half furnished
and looked depressing, Mother gasped for breath, smiled with visible
effort again and said: "I had better sit down. ... I don't feel very
strong today." In real alarm, I decided to force the issue of medical
help and demanded that she see the doctor without delay. "There I
was in Palm Beach, lolling in the sun and eating far too much, and
you never even wrote me to tell me of your poor health. Why,
Mother, why?" Mother became silent and thoughtful for a moment.
"Ach, Dima. What would have been the sense of worrying you? As
if you didn't have enough trouble with Mr. Cantor's horses and the
bomb-shocked English star." There was no use arguing with her, so
I took her by the hand and off we went to see the doctor. On
reaching his office, Mother begged me to leave her there and not to
wait to get a good night's sleep and telephone her in the morning.
I did as I was told.
In the morning I found Mother in tears, which she no longer at
tempted to hide. "The wretched doctor wants me to go to the hospi
tal for a thorough checkup," she said. "I'll go, of course, but I know
I'll never leave the place once I get there. A checkup indeed!" She
then asked me what I thought of her new flat. Faded photographs
of Father, and of Alex and myself as children graced the walls
along with signed portraits of Krishnanmrti (whose camp Mother
had visited) and Annie Besant; there was peace in Mother's little
place and an indescribable modest comfort, which was her very special
gift. "Must I leave all this? I like it here and it's so near you boys,"
Mother said, and then stood up straight. "I must pull myself together.
Do you know, I'm all packed and ready to go?" I assured Mother
that she was doing the right thing and would be back in her new
quarters after the checkup; she seemed encouraged by my optimism
and, after a long and nerve-racking taxi ride, we reached the hospital,
located in a wide, tree-lined street near Columbia University. She
died there less than two weeks later, although two days before her
death the doctor telephoned to pronounce her "out of danger."
Every decent man loves his mother and thinks her superior to
other people's mothers; I don't know, nor care, about how my mother
stacked up against others she was everything I had in this world
and if my feeling is what smart alecks call "mother fixation," so be
it. Her memory will sing in my heart as long as it beats. And it's
408 PASSPORT TO PARIS
the small, everyday things I'll always remember the way she
started every sentence when speaking English with "so that," for
which Alex and I chided her unmercifully, her artless admonitions
to "listen to me while I'm still here," her refusal to indulge in even
the smallest luxuries, her selfless and unreasoning love for her sons
and her intense suffering at our slightest setbacks these are the
things; that tug at my throat and will never leave me.
Koussevitzky, who liked Mother and was admired by her, sent me
a touching letter of condolence and invited me to Brookline for a
week end "to take your mind off your cruel loss." Mother died in
April, Natalya Konstantinovna only three months earlier; they were
about the same age. "I know exactly how you feel," the conductor
said at dinner after my arrival. "When Natasha died, only one part
of me went on living the music in me." The next day an agile,
good-looking and immensely self-assured young man called Leonard
Bernstein joined us for lunch. He had singular and uncompromising
views and was fond of airing them in ringing tones, punctuating his
statements with a triumphant smile; Sergei Alexandrovitch thrived
on that kind of talk from young people and was, in spite of his repu
tation for a colossal ego, a very good listener. "Noo, noo, go
on. . . ." He'd nudge Bernstein with a wink at me, and Lennie
would plunge into boutade after boutade. He reminded me uncom
fortably of myself in my twenties, for that was exactly how I had
comported myself and how Koussevitzky had reacted to my youthful
"showing off" some twelve years earlier. Prokofiev and I were the
official "amusers" then and no meal with Koussevitzky was complete
without us sailing into some heavy favorite of the conductor's and
pulling him to shreds, egged on by delighted "noo, noo's" of the
host. So Bernstein was the new "amuser"; this rather nettled me and
I began contradicting him. My irritation was shrugged off by the
new favorite, who obviously regarded his paradoxes as unshakable
axioms. On getting to know Lennie I developed a real fondness for
him and a sincere admiration for his gifts, but he is a narcissist and
so was I in my youth, and two self-lovers seldom get along on first
acquaintance. During the conversation I learned that Bernstein was
under contract to Harms just as I had been some years back;
knowing that Lennie was Koussevitzky's pupil in conducting and
reputed to be a Boston highbrow, I asked him incredulously whether
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 409
he wrote songs. "Oh, jazz and I are on excellent terms," was the
typical answer.
I appeared before my draft board and was pronounced 1-A after
a rigid examination. Alex was judged unfit, his eyesight not meeting
the required specifications. Not content with becoming a buck pri
vate at thirty-eight, I tried for a commission and made several un
successful trips to Washington, where I had "connections"; remem
bering Uncle Gigisha, who was Admiral Makaroff's aide, and my
narrowly missing the St. Petersburg Naval Academy, I tried the
Navy, but was rejected for defective vision. A retired colonel I
knew in New York had Coast Guard contacts, and thought he could
get me a chief bandmaster's rate. I didn't "make" chief, but was
given, for no particular reason, the "seagoing" rate of a coxswain, or
petty officer third class. The only seagoing experience I had had pre
viously had consisted of trips to Europe aboard transatlantic steam
ers, some swimming and a good deal of rowing. Soon enough I found
myself in boot camp on Ellis Island.
The "manual of arms" was a tough nut to crack, and I bribed an
Armenian boatswain's mate who wore impressive hash stripes to
help me on the shooting range; I had a nasty habit of closing both
eyes when shooting a Smithfield rifle, and he cursed me in Armenian
until I learned to shut only one eye, leaving the other half opened.
Making up my bunk according to the rigid rules of the Bluejacket's
Manual, eating ice cream and pork chops off the same plate and
tying knots were other problems; as were saluting with the proper
dash, squashing one's G.I.-issue hat until it assumed the devil-may-
care "salty" look, putting on "leggin's" and switching from dress to
undress uniform in two minutes' time. The enlisted men were youths
in their teens and early twenties, and I didn't mind being called
"Pop" and actually enjoyed leading a "boot's" life; the strenuousness
of my new duties was a good antidote for the gnawing despair
caused by Mother's passing. I obeyed the rules, "rose and shone,"
caught the drift of sailor talk, the one recognizable feature of which
was interpolating a certain four-letter word as frequently as possible,
and even became popular with my "shipmates" (I never saw a ship
in my two and one half years in the Coast Guard, except at a dis
tance), who thought me a "character" but "pretty regular" withal.
I, in turn, liked the rough kids, who scoffed at anything except "lib-
410 PASSPORT TO PARIS
erty," drinking and picking up "dames" which was a transparent
cover-up, for few of them were stupid but they had healthy faith
in a "square deal" and in an American way of life. Some of their
habits seemed regrettable to me: their passion for fried food
they even wanted their steaks fried and their insistence on di
viding all females into two classes "dogs," or desirable damsels,
and "pigs," or duds. Sample of typical dialogue between two sailors
back from a forty-eight-hour liberty: "Hey, Pete, who was the pig
you was with Sattiday?" "That was no pig, it was a dog." "The hell
you say."
I tasted the joys of my first liberty with unexpected relish; it was
thrilling to take a pine-scented hot bath, don civilian pajamas and
crawl into a triple-size bed in East Thirty-fifth Street again, after climb
ing exhausted into an upper berth in disinfectant-reeking barracks on
Ellis Island and listening to a concert of snoring G.I.'s. I went to the
Hollywood Theatre, where Cantor was still drawing full houses, and
bumped into Cole Porter, who surveyed me in my tight dress blues
from head to foot and whined: "Vernon, my boy what did they
do to you?" At a party after the theater, I saw Howard Dietz with
his pretty wife, nee Tanis Guinness, whom I knew in London in the
twenties, and played some new tunes for him; Howard, one of the
brightest and keenest men in the game, lent a willing ear, picked
the best of the lot and volunteered to write it up. "I have a book for a
musical you may like," he said. "I'll send it on to you."
Back in the barracks I read Dancing in the Streets, the book, by
John Cecil Holm (who authored Three Men On a Horse) and Matt
Taylor, given me by Dietz, and thought it amusing. Howard and I
decided on a collaboration, my Coast Guard duties permitting. Fol
lowing the Ellis Island boot training, I was "shipped" across the
Hudson to the Barge Office at the Battery and given the humiliating
job of pushing little flags across a large wall map of New York,
which had to do with the movements of Coast Guardsmen assigned
to pier duty. I soon got sick of that and asked for a transfer; they
transferred me downstairs in the same building, where I tasted
"eight on eight off" type of duty as signal receiver. This meant
sitting for hours with a pair of earphones and getting fire signals in
one ear and ship signals in the other; the din was at all times ter
rible and completely antimusical. Worst of all, my "detail" meant
sitting up all night and sleeping in the daytime, a thing I abhor. I
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 411
beefed again and got "transferred" to pier duty, which was more
fun; together with a lively chief, a quick-thinking Jewish boy, we in
spected cargo carriers and transports, mostly those flying foreign
flags (Russian included) for inflammatory stuffs, the list of which I
learned by heart. After two transfers, the gold braid, notoriously sus
picious of artists in uniform, especially musicians, decided that I was
too restless for my own good and shipped me to Peekskill for some
"advanced" training. If they thought it a punitive measure, the offi
cers were greatly mistaken; it was a rough deal but I took to it at
once. My new ambition was to shed fifteen pounds and return to
the svelte proportions of my youth; marching, giving men calisthen
ics (I was a petty officer, remember?), firing away at the shooting
range, crawling on my belly under barbed wire was great for the
figure, and I astonished everybody by my zeal. "Aw, take it easy,
willya, Pop?" a nineteen-year-old apprentice seaman would wail dis
gustedly. "Where's the fire?" My energy didn't disguise my utter
ignorance of the Bluejacket's Manual, and the hundreds of everyday
practices known to the regulars, who never let me forget that I was
"reserve," a guy with pull, a goldbrick. "How did you get that rate?"
my shipmates would inquire, eyeing my modest solitary red stripe.
"You sure must of known somebody. Some guys have all the luck."
Although elected to lead the "B" army at maneuvers, of which fact
I was inordinately proud, I was no good at strategy and soon got my
entire "army" captured by the enemy, for which I caught hell from
the tough lieutenant, j.g., in charge.
As a result of the Peekskill "advanced training," I slimmed down
to the desired weight, acquired bulging muscles and was ready to
punch anybody who dared call me a "boot." Since the Coast Guard
medicos pronounced me unfit for active duty and I narrowly es
caped boarding an 83-footer shuttling between the Port of New
York and Alaska, the "gold," disregarding my angling for a band
master's post, ordered me to report to Brooklyn Barracks, at the foot
of Columbia Street. This was a dismal spot, lacking in vegetation
of any sort and smelling evilly, owing to the proximity of a glue
factory; yet it was better than donning deafening earphones, or bob
bing up and down freezing in a sailor's pea jacket aboard an 83-
footer. I don't remember the nature of my duties in the Brooklyn
Barracks encampment, but I'm sure they were of the sort that any
able-bodied Spar could have performed with equal efficiency; after
412 PASSPORT TO PARIS
three days of whatever I was made to do, I went to see the C.O.,
a jovial ex-football star, and asked him whether I could form a
dance band. The C.O. roared with laughter and asked me whether I
could play the "swinette," an instrument unknown to me; then, grow
ing serious, he said that he had no objection to my starting a band
on my "liberty time" but that it would have to be "unauthorized,"
as the Brooklyn Barracks didn't rate an authorized band.
I went back to my quarters to tell my new friends that Lieutenant
Brodil (the C.O.) had authorized me to form an "unauthorized"
band, which announcement was greeted with rude noises. I found
four or five seamen who half-heartedly admitted to playing a musi
cal instrument, but were unenthusiastic about it, as, to their knowl
edge, all musicians were regarded as "sissies" and "goldbricks" by
the enlisted men. "Why don't you get Caesar? He can sure play the
sax," one of my prospects volunteered. I was then led to Caesar's
bunk and shook hands with a big, hulking lad of nineteen, who wore
a sour expression on his not unhandsome face and whose brown hair
was uncombed. This was Sid Caesar, seaman second class, of Yon-
kers, New York. At hearing my name, his face brightened up. "You
Vernon Duke?" he asked incredulously. "The guy who wrote all
those songs?" "I am." "Say, what are you doin' in this outfit? How
come you're not an officer?" My truthful answer to that was that I
had no college degree and had only been a citizen for four years, in
stead of the required ten. Caesar became friendly. "No kiddin'?
Well, welcome to Brooklyn Barracks, fellah. Say, do you know
Ibert's concertino for the saxophone?" I knew the piece but was
startled that Caesar, who looked and talked like a neighborhood
tough guy, should be familiar with such highbrow fare. In a few
minutes we were talking music over a beer; Sid confessed to having
played tenor sax with Shep Fields's orchestra and agreed to help me
form a small dance band in Brooklyn Barracks.
Sid and I rounded up all available talent and discovered that
while there were a few sax and clarinet players, a drummer or two,
a guitar and a bass, the only brass obtainable consisted of buglers,
who could execute a pretty bugle call but had no affinity with jazz
whatsoever. Faute de mieux we padded our B.B.B. (Brooklyn Bar
racks' Band) with more and more saxophones, until we had nine of
them, which afforded the possibility of big, luscious harmonic pro
gressions in Robbins's best "American modern" style; the dyspeptic
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 413
chord was by then distinctly old hat. It was pure luck finding one of
Benny Goodman's arrangers in camp; we put him to work on the
"jump" tunes, whereas I stuck to ballads. Caesar not only played a
good sax but was also of great help to me with inventing figures,
runs, licks and the like. Broadway publishers, flabbergasted at my
sailor suit and the absence of a walking stick, gave me tons of band
material, including so-called "stock" orchestrations and even special
arrangements, which Sid and I would rearrange for our rapidly
growing "combo."
The enlisted men, at first contemptuous and given to interrupting
our rehearsals with derisive noises, gradually got to liking the idea
of their own dance band, and our "debut" at a servicemen's dance
in the barracks was a distinct click. Soon the Friday-night dances
with the B.B.B. officiating became a popular feature and did much
to relieve the monotony of our daily grind, which caused several en
terprising souls to apply for sea duty, although the Coast Guard re
serve had a not wholly unearned reputation for being confirmed
"landlubbers." Another feature of the Friday dances were truckfuls
of Brooklyn YWCA inmates and the telephone company's employ
ees, mobilized for those occasions. I was a poor conductor and a
merely acceptable dance pianist, used as I was to solo playing, but
managed to "front" the band passably.
Lieutenant Brodil asked me to provide entertainment for one es
pecially "dressy" occasion, which officers from other stations were
invited to attend. I found a juggler, an impersonator and a "hoofer,"
but was stuck for a comedian; so I consulted Sid Caesar, who hesi
tantly ventured to oblige with a few "bits" monologues and such.
His repertoire included impressions of an Italian eating spaghetti, an
excitable Frenchman spouting Caesar-invented French, a German
beer-drinker and, to top it all, the inimitable "airplane pictures" sat
ire. Sid rattled off the lot with a "you asked for it" look and regis
tered surprise when I told him that he had the makings of a top-
notch comedian. "Comedian nothing," he remonstrated sourly. "I'm
a musician period!"
That Friday Caesar appeared at the barracks' dance as an enter
tainer and flopped his shipmates failing to get the hang of his
humor and almost forcing the youth off the floor; all they cared
about was jitterbugging, anyway, and went on cruelly interrupt
ing Sid with "Play sax, sailor!" Furious, the big boy swore he'd stick
414 PASSPORT TO PARIS
to music from there on, but, after a persuasive pep talk from me,
essayed bis stint a few weeks later at a YWCA canteen dance and
raised tbe roof with it. The climax was reached at the Waldorf As
toria Servicemen's ball, with over a thousand enlisted men and
women attending; the B.B.B., now tricked out with fancy specially
painted stands glorifying Brooklyn, represented the U. S. Coast
Guard, and the ham in me had good cause for rejoicing the boys
and girls loved us. Then Caesar went on, did the "airplane pictures"
bit and caused a stampede. The whistling and cheering disconcerted
the seasoned and well-publicized "headliner" who was scheduled to
follow him and couldn't.
A new deal was made possible for me through the good offices of
Lieutenant Brodil, who got me the coveted O.K. for working on
Dancing in the Streets with Dietz. The lyricist and M-G-M vice-
president had a house on lower Fifth Avenue and a luxurious sum
mer place in Port Washington, L.I., complete with swimming pool.
My "detail" in Brooklyn allowed me most of Saturday and the entire
Sunday off, and week ends at the Dietzes' became a regular feature
of my life and something to look forward to. Dietz was a gob himself
in World War I; he was now everything and anything he wanted to
be. Howard shone at everything he undertook; he never "dabbled"
in a new hobby, but applied himself to it with ferocious energy. He
tackled bridge, golf, tennis, croquet and swimming fairly late in life
and was soon outplaying and outswimming his younger companions,
trained for such pursuits in childhood. A brilliant executive gen
erally considered the best publicist in the film industry he was
also an inventive and facile lyric writer. Together with Arthur
Schwartz he fashioned some of America's smartest show scores, with
Band Wagon an all-time high. We should have been a great team,
for we had many traits in common, such as facility, adaptability
and a "sophisticated" outlook; but we just didn't "pan out" as a com
bination, probably because we had too much in common. No two
people were less alike than Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart, than
George and Ira Gershwin, than (the classic example) Gilbert and
Sullivan; yet they complemented each other, the qualities lacking in
one were abundantly present in the other and vice versa therein
lay the reason for the success of their teamwork.
Chatting with Greer Garson or Sylvia Ashley or Tanis Dietz by a
swimming pool and partaking of subtly spiced viands after stand-
THE FIERY FORTIES PART TWO 415
ing in chow line to "Come and get it" (the "it" usually being fried
pork chops or hot dogs, garnished with vanilla ice cream) was
very good for the morale, and the stomach as well. Dancing in the
Streets, a gay tale of wartime Washington, was "writing itself'; we'd
dash off a song in the afternoon and exhibit it to the Dietzes 5 guests
in the evening. Then back to the barracks Fd go, to my lowly duties
in the daytime, canteen and service dances at night two or
three of these a week, as a rule. As my shipmates insisted, I had me
a "good racket."
Case histories of hits are of interest to the reading public and of
help to professionals; everybody hopes to come up with an Okla
homa, a Kiss Me Kate or a Guys and Dolls. Nobody cares about
w/zy a flop was a flop and frankly, neither do I, once the flop is
behind me. My shows between 1930 and 1942 turned out success
ful, for the most part, and that is why I permitted myself to dwell on
them in considerable detail. Were I to do this about my failures
(1942-1946), I'd be instantly accused of "passing the buck" or
"stepping on people's toes." Some of my fellow sufferers have gone
on to big gilt-edged successes and I am happy in that knowledge; I
will therefore refrain from too many of the tales of horror that
invariably accompany a flop on its downhill course.
The reader will wonder why I, a man of solid and many-sided
experience, should have allowed myself to be connected with un
sound and obviously defective ventures. Ah, that's just where the
rub comes in: the defects are seldom obvious in the initial stage.
A book may appear fascinating when read, but prove untheatrical
and next to unperformable (Sweet Bye and Bye); a score may go
great at cocktails and get a "so what?" from the critics (Jackpot);
a producer may seem the salt of the earth and a theatrical colossus
at backers' auditions and prove an utter jerk or (worse still) a crook
after the dress rehearsal; a highly touted director may also be an
alcoholic and have just enough strength left to direct himself to the
nearest bar; a star may be great on the screen and less than great on
the stage and so on, ad infinitum. Every show reaching produc
tion stage whether a hit or a flop eventually follows more or
less the same pattern in the beginning, that is, after all the money
has been raised, which is almost as difficult as to make money on
Broadway (Oklahoma and Kiss Me Kate had a record number of
"money" auditions and their fates hung in the balance for months).
416 PASSPORT TO PARIS
Everybody loves everybody when the rehearsals start. The actors
nudge each other at the book's first reading, smiling knowingly as if
to say: "It's in the bag, Kid"; the chorus girls make eyes at the com
poser and lyricist when first treated to the show's score and whisper
dreamily: "Gee, that thing sends me. . . . Watch it climb on the
Hit Parade"; the backers sneak into the theater to take a gander at
their favorite's backside rotating rhythmically to the rehearsal pian
ist's beat, and bark: "Can't miss," at the producer. The second week
things seem to be progressing smoothly, when all at once the entire
structure begins creaking, holes and dull stretches are discovered in
the book, the prima donna acquires psoriasis, the dance director
fires the backer's favorite, the songs don't sing any longer and the
actors start acting up but not on the stage. You open out of town
and the papers pan you unanimously; the producer puts up a fine
front and appears unconcerned: "It's a New York show, boys. Wait
till Atkinson gives it the once-over." Atkinson gives it the once-over
and thinks it terrible; the show flops. Should your show please the
out-of-town customers and even break records everywhere, the pro
ducer becomes overconfident and allows the performance to deterio
rate, makes last-minute replacements and illogical changes, or, more
dangerous still, "freezes" his show, that is refuses to make any cor
rections at all, even if absolutely necessary, on the grounds that the
"show is a smash. Are you gonna argue with a hit?"
With clever Harold Rome, a corporal stationed in Brooklyn, but
nowhere near Columbia Street, I tinkered with yet another play,
called Nantucket, written by the late Samuel Hoffenstein and Gott
fried Reinhardt, Max's son. Gottfried was then a sergeant in the
Army's Special Services and had a hand in various documentary
films.
March 1943 was a big month for me, as I had three "world
premieres" following on each other's heels. On the llth M-G-M's
Cabin in the Sky with Ethel Waters; Lena Home (replacing Kath-
erine Dunham), Rochester (replacing Dooley Wilson) and Duke
Ellington and his orchestra were added to the cast. This was Vin-
cente Minnelli's first musical for Metro, with Arthur Freed produc
ing. On the 19th and 20th Ruth Posselt gave the first hearings of
my Violin Concerto, under her husband's baton, in Boston; and the
22nd marked th 
