I rushed to Manhattan and up to the old Marie Antoinette Hotel, famous as the long-time home of that wizard of the American theatre, David Belasco. Here the Fokines had made their temporary home, while searching for a house. Michel was in bed, with Vera in solicitous attendance. To understate, the news was very bad. The doctor, who had just left, had said it would be at least six weeks before he could permit Fokine to dance.
But the performance had to be given Tuesday night. It was now Sunday. There was all the publicity, all the advertising, and the rent of the Metropolitan Opera House had to be paid. This was not all. A tour had been booked to follow the Metropolitan appearance, including Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and Richmond. Apart from my own expenses, there were the responsibilities to the various local managers and managements concerned. Something had to be done, and at once. The newspapers had to be informed.
The silence of the hotel bedroom, hitherto broken only by Vera’s cooing ministrations, deepened. It was I who spoke. An idea flashed through my mind.
“Mikhail Mikhailovitch,” I said, “could Vera Petrovna do a full programme on Tuesday night on her own?”
Michel and Vera exchanged glances. There was something telepathic in the communication between their eyes.
Fokine turned his head in my direction.
“Yes,” he said.
Quickly the programme was rearranged. Fokine suggested adding a Chopin group, which he called Poland—Three Moods: Happiness, Revolt, Sadness.
We went into action. The orchestra seat prices were five dollars, and a five-dollar top was high in those days. Announcements were rushed out, informing the public in big type that Vera Fokina, Prima Ballerina Russian Ballet, would appear, together with the adjusted programme, which we agreed upon as follows: Arnold Volpe and his Symphony Orchestra would play Weber’s Oberon Overture; Saint-Saens’ Symphonic Poem, Rouet d’Omphale; Beethoven’s Egmont Overture; Rimsky-Korsakoff’s Capriccio Espagnol; Ippolitoff-Ivanoff’s Caucasian Sketches; and the Wedding Procession from Rimsky-Korsakoff’s Le Coq d’Or. Fokina had an evening cut out for her: the three Polish moods I have mentioned; The Dying Swan; The “Moonlight” Sonata; the Danses Tziganes, by Nachez; Sapeteado, a Gitano Dance, by Hartmann; two Caucasian Dances, to folk music arranged by Asafief; and four of Liadov’s Russian Folk Dances.
A large sign to the same effect was installed in the lobby of the Metropolitan Opera House. The news spread quickly. But the public did not seem to mind. In this eleventh-hour shifting of arrangements, I was happy to have the whole-hearted cooperation of John Brown and Edward Ziegler, the administrative heads of the Metropolitan Opera Company.