Last week the Russian Ballet's shrewd, chunky Sol Hurok clasped his hands over his ample paunch and sighed with content. His Ballet Theatre had just opened Manhattan's annual ballet season at the Metropolitan Opera House. His Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo was to join it a week later at the same stand. While balletomanes roared approval in accents as thick as borsch, more staid Manhattanites took stock of the first of five brand-new ballet productions, mooned nostalgically over such puff-skirted favorites as Swan Lake and Sylphides, such latter-day spectacles as Petrouchka and Bluebeard....
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