There was no way to record this. So much for the earlier promise to stream the event and broaden everyone's horizons.
Refunding the tickets wasn't an option either. The concert hall allowed cancellations only up to one hour before the performance, and now there were barely thirty minutes left.
An Jiu sighed in frustration. She checked her balance—just over two thousand yuan left on her Alipay—and today was only the 12th.
Still, opera and bel canto had their charm. Listening to it could help cultivate the soul, right?
She had to like it. She absolutely had to like it.
She kept hypnotizing herself into accepting this new hobby. Telling yourself sour grapes when you couldn't eat them was also a decent mental defense strategy.
Walking to the side, An Jiu opened her camera again. She said, "Guys, as you heard, I can't record anything here. I also can't refund your gifts since I only get half of what you donated. So how about this? Remember that thing I mentioned before? About me blowing a fortune to watch traditional dance in Russia? I'll do it next month. Sell an organ if I have to. I'll take you all with me to see it."
Russia had many traditional dances—quadrilles, lezginka, khorumi—but the women's circle dance was one of the oldest and rarest. Even among locals, few knew it, and only the Moscow Song and Dance Academy still preserved live performances of it.
And of course, tickets to the Moscow Opera House didn't come cheap.
["I saw reporters getting in, why can they film?"]
["Welp, show's over."]
["Feels like forced spending, just like not letting you bring your own drinks."]
Comments like that filled the screen.
She also noticed that a bunch of media reporters had gone inside already. An Jiu sighed again. How could a small-time streamer like her compete with the media?
Yun Yong: [Tickets are so expensive, I don't want you starving. How about this? Use your insane social energy and try to interview one of the big performers. If not, just tell us what happened when you're back.]
"You're literally my second dad, thank you so much. I'll do my best to suck up to one of the guests," An Jiu said after seeing a message from top supporter Yun Yong and let out a breath of relief.
She chatted with her stream viewers for a few more minutes. Right as there were ten minutes to showtime, she ended the stream and went to the ticket check.
The Saint Petersburg Philharmonic Hall was the very place where Tchaikovsky had once conducted his Pathétique Symphony. For classical music lovers, it was sacred ground.
But not for An Jiu.
She was a physics major. Opera and classical music weren't exactly her thing.
Still, the interior was undeniably grand. Ornate ceilings, intricately carved domes, and countless chandeliers—each different yet equally extravagant. The overall palette was white, with touches of gold on window frames, ceilings, and chandelier bases in delicate patterns.
"If it didn't look this fancy, you'd definitely feel like the ticket wasn't worth it," An Jiu muttered. The hall had many rooms, and following the signs, she entered the main theater, which could hold up to 1,500 people.
Unlike the lobby and hallways, which were lavish and theatrical, the main auditorium featured rows of towering white Corinthian columns. The capitals were adorned with layered acanthus leaves, flower buds, and curling vines. From a distance, they looked like baskets of flowers placed atop pillars. Supposedly, the number of columns served acoustic purposes, but An Jiu didn't really understand the theory.
Her seat was far in the back, despite having paid over ten thousand rubles.
The first three rows were reserved for performers and VIPs.
In the first row sat Saint Petersburg's Deputy Executive Officer, the Director of the Russian Center for Cultural Exchange, the district governor, and the Philharmonic Hall's manager.
The second row held established vocalists like Li Weiwen, Dang Kai, Han Xiyan, Gustav, Leipzig, and Leonid.
Only in the third row were younger guests like Chu Zhi and Ma Banan seated.
What struck An Jiu as odd was that each row had small double doors between the aisles, about the same height as the seats. They weren't locked, but it would be annoying to leave mid-show for something like the bathroom.
"Pravda, Guangming Daily from our country, and Le Monde from France—they're all here," An Jiu murmured. She originally planned to sneak some photos, but looking at the scale of the event, she figured she'd better behave.
With so many media outlets and TV stations present, if she got kicked out, it'd be a real loss of face.
All eyes were on the stage as the performance began.
Opening with Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, the lead role of Ismailov was performed by the Bear Country's famous basso profondo, Gustav. His voice part was a low baritone.
Opera in the Bear Country was often adapted from novels, then set to music by composers, forming a multidisciplinary art form that combined music, dance, costume, poetry, and theater.
Li Weiwen performed in The Queen of Spades, adapted from Pushkin's novel and composed by Tchaikovsky. It was a true classic. As a tenor, he naturally played the role of Hermann.
The plot was intriguing—a poor German officer fell in love with the noblewoman Liza, but they came from two different worlds. To marry her, the officer tried to get his hands on her grandmother's legendary three-card secret that supposedly guaranteed a win in any gamble.
Pushkin's original story aimed to expose the darkness of Russian society. It was already a sharp tale, but Tchaikovsky made it even more tragic during the musical adaptation. In the original, Liza had a happy ending. But in the opera, she ended up throwing herself into the Neva River.
"No one does tragic like Old Tchaikovsky," Chu Zhi muttered, clapping along with the crowd.
At first, it was a novelty. Kinda fun to watch. But as time went on, An Jiu grew increasingly sleepy. Honestly, opera just wasn't for everyone. Some preferred stage plays or puppetry.
Clap clap clap— Thunderous applause startled An Jiu awake again.
She often wondered—did the audience members sitting upright and watching so intently really understand what was going on? Or were they just pretending? Every piece ended with roaring applause.
Was she the only one not getting it?
An Jiu would've rather gone to a concert.
All in all, over five hours passed with three operas. There were no hosts in between. During transitions, light classical music played while stagehands prepared the next set.
She truly felt like she was about to collapse. During the thirty-minute intermission, she seized the chance to stretch and make a bathroom run.
The second half would be focused on vocal performances. While the audience rested, the guest singers prepared backstage.
"You've improved," Li Weiwen said to Ma Banan.
"Your third act in The Nutcracker was what really blew me away," Ma Banan replied.
"You'll surpass me one day," Li Weiwen said, then turned to encourage Chu Zhi. "Old Kai used to be the lead in the Moscow Choir. You'll learn a lot from him."
He said it to ease the pressure, helping the younger man relax.
"I'll definitely learn as much as I can from Teacher Dang Kai," Chu Zhi replied politely.
"Looking forward to hearing your duet with Old Kai." With that, Li Weiwen went to rest.
"I'm finally free," Ma Banan stretched, having finished his own performance. "Jiu-ge, your slot's not right after Leipzig and Teacher Dang, is it?"
"Dang Kai goes first. I'm second," Chu Zhi said. It seemed the order followed nationalities—Chinese singers first, then German, then Russian.
"Ah, not too bad. Good luck," Ma Banan yawned. With his already horse-like face, the yawn made it even longer, like a shoehorn.
Chu Zhi said, "Time to get ready."
Two hours of vocals, five hours of opera. From a programming perspective, it seemed opera was the highlight of the hall. But really, the two genres were just different in form.
The thirty-minute break flew by. The stage was now set, a large screen lit up with the next performer's details:
Performer: Dang Kai
Representative Works: Three Nights, Sorrow
No awards listed, but his name carried weight.
"A well-known Chinese vocalist. He sings beautifully," a reporter from Le Monde commented.
"Three Nights is his song. I like it a lot," said a journalist from Pravda.
Other reporters chimed in too.
Most of the journalists here either had deep knowledge of opera and vocals or had done plenty of homework.
Leipzig, a French vocalist, leaned forward, clearly eager to hear Dang Kai's performance.
Three Nights
===
Song Title: "三个夜晚" (Sān Gè Yèwǎn / "Three Nights")