The end of the year found me again in Petrograd, where, among other concerts, I had to take part in the performance of Rubinstein's Paradise Lost. To see Rubinstein conduct one of his works was to see him at his best, not as a musician, but as a man and friend; that is to say, not because he was a particularly good conductor, but because he was happiest when finding himself acclaimed as a composer. Needless to say, his continuous triumphs as a pianoforte virtuoso could not help being a source of keenest satisfaction to him, but it was the unfading laurels of a composer his heart and soul longed for, and toward the end of his life it had become an actual grief to him that his larger works, the oratorios and operas, had not been received with the favour he had hoped for—not even achieved the momentary success in which the sanguine artistic nature is often inclined to hail the dawn of ultimate popularity. I like to remember Rubinstein as he was that night in Petrograd, smiling and proud and happy as the vast audience attentively followed the performance of his work and, at the end, shouted and waved their approval. I sang the part of Lucifer, which suited me well.