Sarah’s name was on everybody’s lips. The best milliners and dressmakers of Moscow went to her performances to copy her costumes, and the confectioners promised her portrait for every pound of bonbons. On our “At-home days,” when I found myself searching for a suitable topic of conversation, the name of the great artist came to my aid, and I had every reason to be grateful to her without her being aware of it, for having helped me to entertain my guests. In comparison with Sarah the rest of her troop was very insignificant. The actor performing the leading part of lover, a gentleman by birth, had fallen under the spell of the enchantress and lost his heart to her. For her sake he became an actor and always accompanied her on her tours, following her wherever she went like the traditional lamb. The love-sick _Jeune Premier_ looked extremely foolish when making love to Sarah on the stage, casting sheep’s eyes at her. My goodness, what ridiculous creatures men are! Anthony Rubinstein, the king of the piano, was giving his last public concert in Moscow. The whole town came in to be present at the leave-taking. When the great pianist appeared on the estrade, he was met by a roar of applause; the wild enthusiasm of the house was indescribable. Rubinstein was a real treat, and bewildered me by his marvellous execution. This incomparable artist gave an interpretation of Chopin which sent a thrill through me. His _touché_ and his _technique_ were wonderful and perfect, he made the instrument positively sob and sing. I was in an ecstasy of delight and listened entranced, having never heard anything so beautiful before. Rubinstein looks something like Beethoven, clean-shaven, with a powerful face; his long locks, shaggy and picturesque, waved in sympathy with his excitement. When he had ceased, there was a moment of entire silence, that finest homage due to beautiful playing. During Rubinstein’s stay in Moscow he was bothered by a crowd of artists “in embryo,” who all wanted to sing for “opera” without having the remotest idea how to sing, coming to ask him if he would try their voices and tell them if they had talent enough to follow the artistic career. A friend of ours happened to come on a visit to Rubinstein just at the moment when a fat, neckless lady of about fifty summers was making her rehearsal. She sang like an old cat; her one idea was to be heard and she howled all her top notes so hard as to make all the dogs bark in the street. Dumfounded and horrified, our friend stopped his ears and took to his heels, running away as fast as his legs could carry him.