It emerged that today was the anniversary of the death of Gustavus Adolphus,* so the whole world would be going to a glittering gala performance at the Opera. The hall where we were performing, which was quite a large one, contained about fifty people, or perhaps fewer. The acoustic was terrible anyhow, and with the room practically empty nothing could be heard. I decided to shrug my shoulders and performed my part of the programme without bothering too much about it. But Ptashka, worried about her hoarseness, was nervous, sang badly, and was greeted with very little applause, which upset her very much.