One such incident occurred in Philadelphia. As a matter of fact, Philadelphia was marked by incidents. The first was one I had with Edward Lobe, then manager of Philadelphia’s Metropolitan Opera House, then at Broad and Poplar Streets. It had to do with some of the bouncing K.’s bouncing paper. This straightened out, I returned to the stage to find turmoil rampant. There was another crisis. The crisis had been precipitated by the man whose job it was to operate the curtain. Fokine had shouted and screamed “_Zanovess! Zanovess!_” at the unfortunate individual. Now “_Zanovess_” is the Russian word for curtain. The curtain had not fallen. Fokine could not say “curtain.” The operator did not have the vaguest idea of the meaning of “_zanovess_.” Moreover, the stage-hand suspected, from the tone of Fokine’s voice, his barked order, and the fierce expression of his face that he was being called names. When, finally, Fokine screamed “_Idyot!_” at him, the curtain-man knew for sure he had been insulted. The argument and hostility spread through his colleagues. Eventually, I got them calmed down. Fokine insisted they were all idiots; they were all ignorant. This idea leaked through to the stage-hands, and that did not help matters. I finally suggested that, since neither of them could understand the other, the best procedure would be not to scream and shout and stomp--uttering strange mixed French and Russian oaths--but to be quiet and to show by gesture and pantomime, rather than to give unintelligible verbal orders. So, with only minor subsequent scenes, the rehearsal got itself finished. Also, in Philadelphia, we had substituted _Salome’s Dance of the Seven Veils_, done to Glazounov’s score of the same name, in place of the _“Moonlight” Sonata._ It is hardly necessary to point out that the veils, all seven of them, are vastly important. Because of their importance, these had been entrusted to the keeping of Clavia, Vera’s Russian maid, instead of being packed with the other costumes. But, come performance time, Clavia could not be found. Hue and cry were raised; her hotel alerted; restaurants searched; but still no Clavia. She simply had to be found. I pressed Marie Volpe, Arnold Volpe’s singer-wife, into the breach to act as maid for Vera, and to help her dress. But only Clavia knew where Salome’s veils had been secreted. The performance started. The search continued.