The world will not cease to develop itself till the moment of the Last Judgment. A man, according to ancient Greek teaching, ought to study and improve till the last moment of his life; but a girl’s education is supposed to finish when she attains a marriageable age. Thus, when I was on the point of reaching that blessed epoch of my life, I was taken to Dresden to “finish” mу intellectual and artistic school.

A teacher of singing was secured without delay, and he introduced mother and myself to several musical circles. Invited to one of these centres, we arrived one evening at the appointed hour, and were told by the musical hostess that the famous Mme. Shroeder Devrient was expected, and had even promised to give one or two songs for the benefit of the young artists in spe. But the impatiently awaited star seemed to have forgotten her promise, and we commenced to amuse ourselves with a beautiful chorus from Mendelssohn’s “Elijah.”

I thought we were singing rather well, considering that we had never before sung it together and had had no rehearsal. Suddenly an angry, scolding voice sounded behind our backs: “Why do you shut your mouths? How can you produce proper tones when your lips are closed? Do you imagine you are singing?” The company only smiled, but I felt rather shocked and humiliated by this tone of contempt, and turned brusquely towards the arrogant intruder. . . . She then stopped and regarded me with interest. How long that exchange of mutual examination continued I do not exactly remember, but suddenly she exclaimed:

“Are you a Russian?”

“Yes, madame,” replied I.

“From Moscow?”

Same polite reply from me.

“Did you know Alexis Kireeff?”

“He was my father. He died when I was quite a child,” answered I with emotion, for I had loved him above all the world.

“What a wonderful likeness! It is just as if he stood before me,” muttered she to herself, regardless of those who stood around. At that moment supper was announced, and we adjourned to another room.

I then guessed that I had been speaking to the famous Shroeder Devrient, though she was much older in appearance than in the portrait which never left my father’s table. Needless to say, how impatiently I awaited the promised song of the great artist; instead of which she suddenly became perfectly still, and told her hostess that she could not sing that night.

“The sight of that young girl brings back to me important moments of my life, and I cannot sing to-night.” Thus the only chance of hearing the “divine singer,” as she was described by her worshippers, was lost to me. She had brought with her a large basketful of the ribbons with printed dedications addressed to her which had been attached to her bouquets. She fell ill, and after a couple of months died.

At an advanced age, she had married (for the third time) a man from our Baltic provinces, Mr. de Bock. “A late marriage,” observed a cynic, “is a public confession of a sinful youth.” And I think it probable that she had led a rather Bohemian life, as though she never cared what people thought and said of her.

Whether she liked or disliked the Jews I do not know, but that she failed to observe all Moses’ Commandments, especially the seventh (or the eight, according to the new calculation defended by some scholars), is, I think, beyond doubt! One of her earliest admirers was Beethoven. Having written his “Fidelio,” he was in despair not to find a voice capable of executing the chief part in that Opera. At last, a young girl of sixteen was introduced to him; it was the little Shroeder, and then he had the joy to find his Leonora. The number of her admirers was countless and ranged from Weber to Wagner.

But to return to early days. It happened that my father was then a student in the Leipsic University, and had fallen under her despotic spell. Meeting a man of mature years who spoke disparagingly of her, my father exclaimed: “How dare you speak in that way? I cannot tolerate such infamous calumnies.” The other interrupted the young modern Crusader, then hardly more than twenty years of age: “But I know her better than you do,” observed he smilingly. Upon which my father, with Russian impetuosity, threw his glove in the speaker’s face. A duel resulted. My father was wounded and bore a slight mark on his face all his life. He kept Shroeder Devrient’s portrait in his room to the day of his death. What my mother thought of that unexpected meeting I never knew!

OLGA NOVIKOFF (nee Kireeff).