MOSCOW received news from the novelist Turgenev that the talented Nikolai Rubinstein had died in his arms beyond the border. His body was brought to Moscow for inter-

ment some time in March or April, 1881, just at the time when mud made it almost impossible to walk the streets of Moscow. My cousin, who at that time was the chairman of the Russian Musical Society and Conservatory, which was the fruit of the labor of Rubinstein, asked me to help him in meeting the body and in arranging the funeral. I was only twenty years old then, and was very much flattered by thf; offer, as I found it rather pleasant to figure publicly in the role of a manager at the funeral of a man as famous as Rubinstein. My work was to manage and place the deputations at the head of the procession. This meant that I was to lead the procession and necessitated that I seek my cousin, who was the manager of the entire funeral, on many occasions to solve some of my problems, such for instance, as the route of the procession, which had not been explained to me clearly enough. The distance from the head of the procession, where I was stationed, to the coffin, where my cousin was, was at least a good mile, and the streets were covered with ankle-deep mud. Like most of the assistant managers, I was tired to death at the end of the first day when we met the coffin and carried it to the University Church. The following day was to see a longer route of march to the graveyard of a monastery beyond the city limits. It was decided that the managers would come on horseback. I was very fond of riding at that time, and the decision made me enthusiastic. I owned an un-

MY LIFE IN ART usually handsome mount, and thought that if I could get funereal accoutrement for the horse and mourning clothes for myself, I could cause a sensation at the funeral. Evidently the actor's desire to flaunt himself before the public had already managed to poison me.