MOSCOW
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.