While I spoke of my protégée, the ambassador’s wife remembered having seen her dance at her sister’s house in Chicago some years before. The dancing, to tell the truth, had not particularly interested her, but if it would be of any help to us she would be very glad to come to our performance. Sure of having a good audience I returned to the hotel and told my friend that the occasion she had desired so long had at last arrived. I decided to give an evening for the press on the same day on which my friend would appear at a matinee before the Princess and members of the diplomatic corps. I then sent invitations to the Viennese artists and art critics. When the day came everything was in readiness. I had engaged an orchestra; the hall had floral decorations; the buffet was most appetising. The English ambassador, his wife and daughter, were among the first arrivals. There was a great gathering in front of the hotel to admire their carriage with the magnificent liveries. Then came the turn of the American ambassador and his wife, in a black carriage, very simple, but very elegant. Finally all the others arrived. Suddenly the princess’ turnout, so well known to all Vienna, paused before the door. After having welcomed my guests I begged them to excuse me for a minute and I went in to see the débutante. It was half-past four. In ten minutes she was due to begin. I found her with her feet in warm water, in the act of dressing her hair, in a very leisurely manner. Startled, I begged her to hurry, explaining that she ran the risk through her negligence of offending an audience that would definitely give her her start. My words were without effect. Very slowly she continued her preparations. Feeling that I could do nothing with her I returned to the drawing-room and made the greatest effort of my life to get out of this delicate situation. I was obliged to make a little impromptu address. What I said I have never known, but I remember having vaguely fashioned something like a dissertation on dancing and its value in relation to the other arts and to nature. I said that the young woman whom we were going to see was not an imitator of the dancers depicted on the Etruscan vases and the frescoes at Pompeii. She was the living reality of which these paintings were only an imitation. She was inspired by the spirit which had made dancers of them. All at once she made her entrance, calm and indifferent, looking as if she did not care in the least what our guests thought of her. But it was not her air of indifference that surprised me most. I could hardly refrain from rubbing my eyes. She appeared to me nude, or nearly so, to so slight an extent did the gauze which she wore cover her form. She came to the front, and, while the orchestra played a prelude from Chopin she stood motionless, her eyes lowered, her arms hanging by her side. Then she began to dance.