On the 12th of January I was invited by Princess Kotchoubey to “await the new year,” which, of course, is, according to the old style, our 13th. Curiously enough, the old style was observed even in the English Church, so that the Christmas Day services were held on the 7th of January, according to our reckoning. I have told elsewhere of the magnificence of the Princess’ palace, but this entertainment quite exceeded anything that I had ever seen or heard of. There were only about fifty guests, but these were all the chief personages of St. Petersburg, including Prince Gortchakoff, who, as was his wont, appropriated to himself the youngest and prettiest lady present, for the old Vice-Chancellor was a great flirt. He was not yet Chancellor, for at the death of Count Nesselrode in March, 1862, the Tsar would not fill the office. His Majesty was reported to have said that “Nesselrode was one thing, Gortchakoff another.” This was a great mortification to the Prince, and gave occasion to some wit for the saying, that Prince Gortchakoff was the man of the most virtuous inclinations in the whole Empire, “parcequ’il cherche toujours à se débarrasser de son Vice.” Another great celebrity who was present was Count Schuvaloff, the grand marshal of the Court, a noble old man, the father of Count Peter Schuvaloff who was afterwards Ambassador in London and with Prince Gortchakoff represented Russia at the Congress of Berlin. On the stroke of midnight came a procession of gorgeous footmen, bearing trays with glasses filled with champagne, and we all clinked our goblets together, drinking prosperity to the New Year. Then followed a pretty old Russian custom. Every guest went up to the hostess and kissed her hand, and she went through the form of pretending to kiss each of her friends on the forehead in return. It seemed a pity not to carry out so graceful and picturesque a tradition in its entirety. But though Princess Kotchoubey did no more than bow over her guests’ foreheads as they stooped to kiss her hand, her reception of them was grace itself. She was a Queen in her palace, and we, her subjects for the nonce, did willing homage to her. It seemed little short of a miracle to step out of the iron grip of a Russian New Year’s Eve into a fairyland in which all the treasures of the world were sampled—the diamonds of Golconda, the rubies of Burmah, the turquoises of Persia, pearls from the Eastern Seas, tapestries of the Gobelins, gold and silver masterpieces of famous Florentine and French artists, flowers and fruit of June and July, the warmth of summer with not a fire to be seen, lighted up by myriads of candles disposed in a way of which Russia alone seemed to have the secret. And in all this magnificence there was only one tiny omission, one little blot to remind us that we were human, and that humanity is imperfect: there were no salt-spoons!