learned that George had placed his aunt's opera box at our disposal for this evening, the aunt being in Moscow, and likely to remain there for the winter.
Daylight was almost gone by the time lunch was well over, and our friends took their departure, promising to meet us again at the opera.
The days now are absurdly short. We breakfast at ten, generally by lamplight. For about four hours there is daylight, and sometimes a little sun, but shortly after two the lamps are again lighted. When it is cloudy, we have candles all day. The sun behaves in a very eccentric way. It rises over the left-hand corner of a block of shops on the other side of the street, called Gastinni Dvor, and it gets about two feet above that building, and then sinks down behind the right-hand corner early in the afternoon.
We reached the opera in good time, and found George and Sacha awaiting us. Shortly after Mr. Thurber and Nicolas came in. The whole performance was Russian. This particular opera is sung on all national fêtes, and was composed by Michael Glinka,—"La vie pour le Tsar," so Sacha translated the name for me. The plot is quite touching, and very patriotic, as explained by him. Tom was glad to listen to his account, in spite of the opinion he expressed the other day, that "Novissilsky reminds me of a hand-organ, he grinds out the same tunes so many times."
The singing was only moderately good. There was
