words as she tossed back her head, shook it
with a most bewitching scorn, or leaned forward
with half-shut mischievous eyes, as she
struck the guitar-strings with playful triumph.

As she finished her first song, the shouts of
"Oulitza" (the voice dwelling on the "Ou" in a
sort of long-drawn howl) were followed by fresh
cries of "Marscha" (Mary).

Marscha sang "Oulitza" over again with more
delightful archness and tenderness than before.
I think I never heard a singer who attended
more attentively and instinctively, not merely
to light and shade, forte and piano, but also to
every minute inflection of meaning.

It was a beautiful air, full, as I took it, of
passionate entreaty, of almost Oriental adoration,
of lovers' coaxing arguments, of playful quarrel
—a rustic love-story, in fact, changeful as April.
And every time Marscha sang it a fresh colour
seemed to transfuse it, so varied were the tones
of her voice, and the phases of her grace, pride,
archness, and imperial coquetry.

I asked Herr Grabe the meaning of the words,
for the song was in Russian patois. Alas! for
my imaginations.

"They call it a gipsy air," he said, "and so it
partly is, but I have certainly heard it in Germany.
It is called there 'The Beer House'. It describes
a droll fellow staggering out of a beer-shop
and seeing two moons positively winking at
him; presently the houses on each side of the
street begin nodding too, and the church dances
a cavalier seul. Then a fit of maudlin melancholy
supervenes, and he resolves to give up his
boozing ways, turn his back on the seductive
beer-shop, and go back to the old gipsy tent
and his old chums.

And on this stupid old drinking-song I had
thrown away all my enthusiasm; and that was
the revelling measure in which Marscha had
expended all her fine acting. Bah! I was vexed
—I was hurt. But who was I? A mere
foreign mist. The applause was tremendous.
The people rolled and billowed with delight.
Marscha's eyes lit up, but she received the
applause with the majesty of an empress.

The next song was a part-song with chorus.
The men struck in nobly. The air was wild and
humorous. The leader gave the signal for the
chorus by a swift right-about-face and a wave of
the handle of his guitar as he struck the bass
chords. It was a half-savage Tartar tune,
but tinged with fun, with a dashing crescendo in
the swiftest speed, that closed the first half of the
concert. The performers, led by Marscha, quitted
the stage for a time, and descended to earth,
to take tea, "grogs," and champagne in the
refreshment-room.

They moved about the garden with royal
condescension. They nodded to officers, who praised
and flattered them with a high-bred gallantry
worthy of the imperial salons. They collected in
gaily-dressed groups round the back door of the
theatre. They held animated converse with their
chief, the young man in the scarlet shirt, who
cantered about the gardens with a purposeless
violence on a weedy brown horse. As for Marscha,
she wrapped herself in her ermines, and,
retiring to a quiet corner of the refreshment-room
with a sallow droll-looking woman in a sort of
chintz dress, sipped a tumbler of boiling tea in
her own grand bewitching way, the cynosure
of all neighbouring eyes.

Presently there was a clash of brass, and a
fizzing of violin-strings, as the crowd drifted
back to their seats under the leaf-roof with
much cackle of cheery talk, and much conjecture
as to Part Two of the gipsy performance. We
jostled down into our places; there was some
marrow-bone-and-cleaver music of the
Nabuchadonosor order, and the curtain drew up.

No actors in London or Paris could have
grouped the scene better. It was an encampment
of Russian gipsies preparing for the
ceremonies of a marriage. All was drollery and
bustle. There were some rough-bearded fellows
on one side wrangling at cards, and being scolded
by a witch of an old woman, who, ladle in hand,
kept alternately reviling every one for not helping
more in the preparations, and stirring a
caldron of cabbage-soup, that, hanging from
a tripod of sticks, seethed over a fire. There
were boys dancing, shouting, and playing
mischievous tricks. There were women arranging
seats for the bride and bridegroom.

There was a distant shout of welcome, a
trample of feet, and in came the bride and her
attendants (Marscha, of course, looking charming
in her bridal finery and streaming veil); then
came a clatter of hoofs, and in, at a great pace,
dashed the chief on horseback—the skilful beast
he bestrode whirling round and round with
artfully feigned impetuosity, and dispersing, at
every turn, the gipsy retinue, who, with equal
art, made way for it, with a pretence of fear.

The bride was seated at a table, on which
stood the bridal offerings covered with muslin.
With delightfully acted shyness she received the
homage of the bearded portly visitors, who, in
their blue cloth caftans and high boots, acted
the part of small tradesmen, and other well-to-
do guests. It was all in dumb show, for no
one spoke a word, but the men bowed, smiled,
and gesticulated, and the twenty or thirty
actors bustled about to express their pleasure
at seeing each other, and at the general
splendour of the entertainment.

Through the crowd all at once broke the old
Canidia of a cook, her grey hair about her ears,
her ladle in her hand. She executed a
grotesque dance, quite tipsy in its drollery, its
vigour somewhat retarded by assumed age.
Take it altogether, it partook of the hornpipe
character, and was, perhaps, better adapted for
male than female performance. At intervals she
barked and yelped, and all the gipsies shouted
in the Irish manner.

Then a smart boy of fourteen, red-shirted
and booted, his lank hair of an oily blackness,
his face brown and sly, accepts the crone's
challenge. He comes forward, amidst hand-
clappings and chorus-singing, with a handkerchief
in one hand, and executes a wild, breakdown
dance, more subtle than our nigger dances,