This time when I was with her in New York, Koshetz heaped on me incredible protestations of love and admiration, more even than she had in Moscow: I was the only man in the world, her only ray of sunshine, the only possible saviour of her art. At first this was very flattering, but when later the talk turned to suicide, tears and hopelessness, it became very difficult. She sang my songs to me only once, and then mezzo-voce, but they sounded good, perhaps better than I had imagined.