Many renowned artistes visited our old capital this winter, among them Tamagno, the celebrated tenor, whose fame was just then ringing all the world over. After a concert-tour in America he came to Moscow to collect a new harvest of laurels. But I didn’t admire particularly his thundering voice, a veritable Jericho trumpet! Ferni-Germano, the ideal “Carmen,” for whom Bizet had composed his opera, made a clamorous appearance after Tamagno. She came to see us with a letter of recommendation given to her by one of our friends living in St. Petersburg, but didn’t find us at home. I wanted to see her close and went to the hotel where she had put up to pay her a visit. The “diva” didn’t gain on close acquaintance; she couldn’t stand the ordeal of pitiless sunshine, and sat with her back to the light in discreet semi-obscurity. I saw, nevertheless, that she hadn’t had time to rub off the powder which lay an inch thick on her nose. Eleonora Duse, the great Italian tragédienne, had come to Moscow to give a few performances. I saw her in “La Dame aux Camelias,” and was immensely pleased with her acting. In all my life I had never seen anything so perfectly beautiful. She seemed to have absolutely converted herself into “Violetta,” whom she represented, and put all her soul in her part; most of the women in the audience were in tears. I was also in rapture with Marcella Sembrich, who sang at the Imperial Opera; her beautiful well-trained voice was something marvellous. I had also the opportunity of seeing the famous ballet-dancer, Virginia Zucchi, in “Esmeralda,” and Nikita, a rising young star, recently out of her teens, with whom Europe and America had been enraptured, and who looked like a delicate piece of Dresden china, and was entirely bewitching with her long locks hanging loosely over her shoulders. I enjoyed her singing very much, her voice went straight to the heart of her listeners, and her high notes were as clear as a bird’s. Nikita had a brilliant future before her. She was born in America, and sang in public for the first time at the age of six.

There was a gala performance at the Opera-House in honour of Nasr-ed-Ding, Shah of Persia, who appeared in his box wearing his tall Astrakhan cap and literally ablaze with diamonds. He seemed to have a special appetite for the ladies of the ballet and stared at them fixedly through his opera-glasses, all the time regretting, doubtless, that he could not carry them away to his harem. I was perfectly dazzled by the aspect of the audience in the brilliantly lighted theatre, which presented a most magnificent sight; the gentlemen in brilliant uniforms and the ladies in beautiful toilets and superb jewels, showed to their greatest advantage.

The Countess Keller, one of the lady patronesses of Moscow, was getting up a charity affair in the hall of the Assembly, an amateur play and “Tableaux.” She called upon me to beg me to take part in these Tableaux, and would hear of no refusal. I asked for a day’s consideration, for Sergy rather disapproved of the whole thing, but the Countess sent me a note that same evening, imploring me to say “Yes” directly, and Sergy, who was always willing to accede to any wish I expressed, and had not the heart to refuse me anything, gave in.

Our Tableau named “Serenade” in the programme, represented a scene of Venetian life in the sixteenth century. A large gondola was to be moored to the side of a lagoon, with a lady dressed as the wife of a Doge of Venice in it, surrounded by the ladies of her suite, two gondoliers, and a street dancing girl, standing in the middle of the gondola. I was to appear as the dancing girl, in a lovely costume, the exact copy of a well known picture. According to the looking-glass it suited me very well, with my hair hanging down, adorned with a gold net intermingled with pearls. I had been given the choice between a harp, a lyre and a mandoline. The latter I selected for my instrument. We had two rehearsals and everything went smoothly, except that I made several bitter enemies. The next Tableau was to represent the exit of a troup of masqueraders with their masks off, from a fancy-dress ball. One of my would-be friends took part in that Tableau, she had a tongue as sharp as a sword, and if she could say a bitter thing to wound someone, she never lost the opportunity of doing it. She told me a good many things concerning our Tableau, most of which were more or less disagreeable. Notwithstanding her “darling Vava” here, and “darling Vava” there, she tried to sting me and to spoil my pleasure as thoroughly as possible, in hinting that our gondola was in great danger of being sunk, having such a lot of occupants. As my temper was not of the sweetest that day, I warmed up and paid her back in her own coin by suggesting, that the staircase on which she was to stand during the Tableau representing the exit from a masked ball, was in far greater danger of giving way, because our Tableau had only ten performers in it whereas a crowd of forty figures appeared in hers. This was a stab which didn’t please the young lady; she drew in her claws and bit her lips in vexation that she had been using her weapons in a wrong direction, and that her aim to sting me was not attained. I was mistress of the situation and amply avenged.

Our Tableau was a great success. The curtain fell amid loud applause and went up several times to the sound of an orchestra playing Moschkowsky’s “Mandolinata.” It was with a sigh of relief that I found myself home. I removed the grease paint off my face and got out of my costume as quickly as I could.

Though we led a quiet life, I had plenty of occupation. I took singing lessons of Mme. Kogan, a delightful teacher, and had some lessons on the cithern, which didn’t hold me for long. My participation in the Tableau in which I appeared with a mandoline, suggested to me the idea to study that instrument. Signorina Ciarloni, a soloist on the harp at the Imperial Opera, who played also the mandoline, was invited to give me lessons. Mr. P—, one of the most assiduous frequenters of our “At Homes,” a snobbish young man bursting with conceit and thinking a lot of his appearance, proposed to accompany me on the guitar, but our duets came to nothing, for it appeared that my partner could only play Bohemian songs, throwing himself into a sentimental attitude and studying his own reflection, with complacent eyes, in the mirror on the wall beside me, which reflected his proceedings.

Mme. Schwarzenberg, a great friend of ours, who was a splendid pianist and an artist to the finger-tips, asked me to sing at a musical party at her house. I sang there in public for the first time and it amused me very much to be treated as a professional singer. I should be wanting in modesty if I repeated all the compliments I received that night. Somehow or other I felt that I had a call for the stage and had missed my vocation and mistaken my profession of an opera-singer: the vision of treading the stage-boards stood before me night and day.

At Christmas we got up a concert for the benefit of Professor Albrecht, an old violincellist, whose pecuniary circumstances were not very flourishing just then. My husband’s aide-de-camps took the arrangement upon themselves. A raised platform had been put at the end of our hall, and chairs were placed in rows. We invited artists and dilettanti to take part in our concert. I had a duet and solo to go through and showed much courage at the rehearsal of the concert. It was poor Sergy who seemed much more excited and nervous, looking forward to that concert with excitement. At last the day of the great event arrived. I hardly knew how to get through it and spent that day like a professional prima-donna, reclining in a long chair and waiting for my triumphs. People began to arrive towards eight o’clock. There were a great many pupils of the Music Academy and the Philharmonic School among the audience. Every seat in the hall was rapidly filled up. We artists gathered behind a screen hidden from view by big plants. The agitation I felt over my début, before a select audience of musical critics, may easily be imagined. I had never sung in a concert before and was going to enjoy an entirely novel and exciting experience. Just before the beginning of the performance, whilst I sucked vigorously a pastille to clear my throat, a waiter brought us a bottle of champagne to keep up our courage, to the great alarm of Sergy, who thought that I had been taken by a sudden access of timidity and needed the help of that stimulating drink to hearten me. Before making my appearance on the platform I had an attack of stage-fright, but I soon recovered my self-possession, and after the first note I lost my fear entirely. Taking care not to look at the audience I directed my glances above their heads, trying to persuade myself that all the audience was merely furniture. My first aria was Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” to the accompaniment of Professor Albrecht on the cello. A storm of applause arose, and I was recalled several times. “Bis, bis,” ran round the room and I had to sing again and again. I don’t wish to boast, but my triumph was complete. Mr. Schostakowsky, the director of the Philharmonic Society, who was critical to the extreme, approved, nodding his head, and when the first part of the concert was over, he came up to me and complimented me upon my singing. There was a quarter-of-an-hour interval for gossip and refreshment, during which Count Kergaradec, the French Consul, thanked me for the pleasure my singing had given him, telling me that I was equally pleasing to the ear and to the eye. I was very flattered, very excited, very happy, and realised that the stage was my proper sphere. There! I am on the point of failing in modesty, and stop! When the performance was at an end, and the audience filed out, we invited some friends to supper. I was too excited to go to bed until dawn. Every one agreed that our concert was a wonderful success. Our desire to raise as much money as we could was fulfilled, the collection mounted to over eighty pounds, which we handed over triumphantly to Professor Albrecht. We did not expect so large a profit.

Our Governor-General, Prince Dolgorouki, underwent the same fate as Count Brevern de-la-Gardie, my husband’s chief; he was made to understand that it was time for him to give up his post. The uncle of our Emperor, the Grand-Duke Sergius, who was married to Elizaveta Fedorovna, Grand-Duchess of Hessen-Darmstadt, the granddaughter of Queen Victoria and sister of our Empress, was named Governor-General of Moscow in his place. I had to go and meet the Royal pair at the railway station, my name being put in the list with all the ladies, who were to present the image of the Virgin to the Grand Duchess. All the so-called “high-life” of Moscow had assembled at the station. When the train was signalled we went on to the platform covered with red cloth. The Grand-Duke, giving his arm to his spouse, advanced towards the Mayor of the town, who presented them with a silver plate and on it the traditional “Bread and Salt,” an ancient Russian custom. On the next day I was presented to the Grand-Duchess, and found myself amidst a lot of ladies standing in a semi-circle in one of the large halls of the palace. The Grand-Duchess was going round, speaking a word of welcome to everyone of us. I was curious to watch the expression of the ladies waiting for the honour of being addressed by Her Imperial Highness; some of them dropped profound courtesies till they almost disappeared.

In May the French Exhibition on the Khodinka Field was inaugurated under the presidence of M. Ditz-Monin, a Senator of the French Republic. There were many interesting things to be seen at the Exhibition. The sections of jewellery and costumes were admirable; beautiful costumes were exhibited by Redfern and Paquin, but the prices were exorbitant: a splendid ball-dress cost neither more nor less than 10,000 francs.

Admiral Gervais visited Kronstadt with the French squadron of ships, and came with all his officers to visit our old city. A banquet was given in their honour at the Exhibition, in the Imperial Pavilion, where everything was done grandly. Caviare was served in a big barrel, and ice-cream was made in the shape of the Eiffel tower with tiny French and Russian flags stuck into the top, which the naval officers pinned in their button-holes as souvenirs. One of the young marine officers exchanged visiting-cards with his neighbour at table, the Vice-Governor of Moscow, who, on returning home, showed it to his wife, and to her great amazement she read on the wrong side of the card the addresses and prices of the most popular courtesans of Moscow, pencilled on it, with the officer’s personal valuation of them. I can well imagine how the young mariner felt when he found out his mistake!

The French officers were present at a night retreat on the Khodinka Field, after which a great supper was given in their honour at the Military Club, illuminated a giorno. I stood amongst the crowd of lookers-on when the mariners were proceeding to the dining-room. There arose on their passage a mighty shout: “Long live France!” and the French officers shouted: “Long live Russia!” Innumerable toasts were drunk to the prosperity of France and Russia during the repast. My husband pronounced a long discourse in French, after which Admiral Gervais addressed himself to General Malahof, the oldest Russian military commander present, and said that as he hadn’t the opportunity to shake hands with all the Russian officers sitting at table, he asked permission to kiss the old General for them all. The champagne had loosened the tongues of the guests, and one of them, having suggested the wish that France and Russia should fight together against Prussia some day, a voice cried: “We’ll enter Berlin together!” after which the subject of conversation was diplomatically changed. Next day the French mariners returned to St. Petersburg on their way to Portsmouth, where Queen Victoria was to meet them.