My Thursdays in Russia—Khalil Pasha's Death—Lord Napier and the Lady-in-Waiting—Madame Volnys—My Parents-in-law's ménage—An Exceptional Type—Prince Vladimir Dolgorouki's Embarrassment—The Grand Duchess Helen—A Brilliant Woman—The Emperor's Enjoyment—The Campbell-Bannermans—A Royal Diplomatist—Mark Twain on Couriers—In Serious Vein—Verestchagin—"The Retreat from Moscow"—The Kaiser's Remarkable Utterance


I must say I was very fortunate with my Thursday receptions in Russia. In the first place, my husband, who was not particularly fond of singing or playing, never opposed either. Diplomatists like Lord Napier, the English Ambassador at Petrograd, and the Turk, Khalil Pasha, Turkish Ambassador (but brought up in France and devoted to French theatres), also used to come and be as silent as mice if music was already going on. That poor Khalil had a very dramatic end. He returned to Constantinople, as he thought for a short time, but fell ill. His European doctors insisted on an immediate cure at Carlsbad, but his Sultan, for some reason unknown to me, opposed his leaving Turkey. The poor man died mysteriously, and his enormous wealth as mysteriously disappeared.

At one of my little receptions there happened a {73} very disagreeable duel between Lord Napier and a lady-in-waiting belonging to the Court of the Grand Duchess Helen. She was the sister of an ambassador, with whom, however, she was not on very affectionate terms. Undoubtedly pretty, she was occasionally rude and almost ill-bred. On seeing him, Mademoiselle de —— exclaimed: "Lord Napier, I spent last evening at the Winter Palace with old Countess Bludoff. We talked of you and laughed very much."

I felt simply horrified at that speech, but Napier remained quite self-possessed.

"I know," said he, "you were asked there to be shown to my new secretary, Mitford." Here, fortunately, the dialogue was interrupted by Rubinstein, who started a sonata. A fortunate interruption!

Soon after that in came Madame Volnys, the celebrated French actress, who promised to give us some scenes of Molière's Tartuffe, which she did to perfection.

Madame Volnys was a remarkable woman, not only possessing great histrionic talent, but also very superior character. She lost her only child, whom she adored. This brought her into contact with our Empress Marie Alexandrovna (very particular in her choice of associates), the consort of our "Emperor Liberatas," who used to invite her to the Palace as her lecturer fairly often.

In the same year something quite unexpected happened to me. My husband's parents, very old people, but who had never been abroad, suddenly decided to go to Paris, and I was asked to join them {74} later on. Off they went, after having paid us in Petrograd a visit of two or three weeks. They travelled in quite exceptional comfort. They had a lady travelling-companion, my mother-in-law had her maid, my father-in-law his valet, and to crown all there was a Russian cook, whom my mother-in-law declared to be far superior to any foreigner, including even the French. Whatever my mother-in-law declared was law to the whole family, not only to her docile husband and her two sons, but to her two daughters-in-law, and anybody coming to her house.

I remember one day my brother-in-law, who was already Ambassador at Vienna, and my husband, who at that time was a lieutenant-general attached to the Grand Duke Nicolas, father of the present head of our troops, were sitting and talking together. Their mother entered the room and they both got up and stood until she told them to sit down again.

My mother-in-law was an exceptional type. She was the daughter of Prince Vladimir Dolgorouki, the poet, and tremendously proud of her origin, but in Russia all the princes Dolgorouki descended from Rurick, who came to Russia in the ninth century, and having all the same origin are surely fairly equal. But such was not my mother-in-law's idea, and she once upbraided the governor-general of Moscow, having the same name as her own, for belonging to the younger branch. The poor man looked very much embarrassed.

Another pleasant memory is that of the Grand Duchess Helen. A woman who loses her youth, {75} beauty and gaiety, and remains in possession only of her immortal soul, may naturally expect to be forgotten by her so-called "friends." But a Russian Grand Duchess enjoying an exceptionally high position, with palaces and a numerous court at her disposal, is a privileged person. No need for her to "request the favour" of So-and-so's company to tea, dinner or reception. She dictates her list, including the names of wits, artists or ministers, whose attendance she desires. The courier transmits her orders, and the guests arrive. Voilà tout!

Permission to attend service in Palace private chapels is generally received through a lady-in-waiting or the "Grande Maitresse"—as, at least, I know from personal experience.

The dear Grand Duchess Helen remained to the last day of her life, to me, always brilliant and clever, and I was sincerely attached to her.

I shall never forget, however, the difficulty I had to execute one of her orders. She was giving a ball to their Majesties, at which, punctually at midnight, dominoes were to appear in a prearranged set. I was asked to secure these mysterious apparitions. But this proved a far from easy task. For not only had I to find ladies who were witty, amusing and sprightly, but also those who would be willing to deprive themselves of being seen as invited guests, in order to pass through the rooms as apparitions—carefully masked.

Now one of my candidates had the misfortune to possess very ugly prominent egg-like eyes, "but"—thought I—"there is the mask, it will conceal all sorts of imperfections." Nevertheless, I thought {76} it prudent to warn her. "Remember," said I, "the orders are that identity must be strictly concealed."

"Oh, that is quite impossible in my case," she proudly replied, "for my bright and almost oriental eyes are well known and would certainly be recognised by everyone."

So I dropped the oriental-eyed creature and secured a substitute.

The Emperor assured his aunt afterwards that he had greatly enjoyed her party.

The Grand Duchess, as well as her other nephew—the Grand Duke Constantine Nicolaevitch—was devoted to the Emperor's reforms, especially to his scheme concerning the abolition of Serfdom in Russia. That plan, no doubt, was of tremendous magnitude. It not only granted personal freedom to forty-eight millions of serfs, but half the number of them had to become freeholders.

That reform, by the by, was carried out in two years' time. Was it not a miraculous rapidity?

There was another detail of this measure, which was really a very noble and grand one; we, the nobility of all the country, have lost, through that measure, nearly half of all we possessed. An important fact, no doubt, but I never heard any indignation, protest or murmur evoked by that change. Everybody felt its urgency, and a feeling of justice prevailed with all the others.

Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman was very much interested in that question, and plied me with many questions. Not being able to satisfy his curiosity during our meetings at Carlsbad, I promised to {77} procure from Russia the desired information, and did so eventually on my arrival at London.

It was at the Grand Duchess Helen's villa at Carlsbad, where we were invited every evening during her stay, that I met the Campbell-Bannermans for the first time. Those were immensely interesting evenings, when one met only people worth knowing.

One of the charming characteristics of these gatherings was their unpretentiousness and simplicity. Many of the guests were invalids, melancholy slaves to all sorts of hygienic regulations. Fortunately, I was not one of these, and could enjoy my moral food as well as the beautiful fruit that the rest of the world could only contemplate. My friend, Count Alexander Keyserling, was attached to the Grand Duchess Helen's court during her foreign trip of that year, and he alone could make any gathering most interesting.

Before leaving Carlsbad, the Campbell-Bannermans insisted upon my promising to see them often in London, and they soon became a new attraction for me during my stays in England.

The first years of my travels, my winter visits to London were of very short duration—but dear England grows upon one, and little by little my sojourns extended themselves from October till May.

Few people have left me such dear memories as Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman and his wife. I visited them in their English country house, but never in Scotland, as I was always afraid of being too much carried away from my work, which required unremitting perseverance and study.

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Contrary to what often happened to me, I liked them both almost equally, though dear Lady C.-B.'s moral qualities prevailed over her physical charms. She had excellent qualities, greatly appreciated by her husband and her friends. Thus, for instance, she knew her Blue Books almost better than did her husband, and when the conversation turned on some particular events with dates and detail she could surpass everybody with her memory. I must add that both husband and wife were very hospitable, and I was allowed, no, even pressed, to lunch with them whenever I liked. I did so fairly often on Sundays, as I frequently wanted Sir Henry's advice on different subjects, and this he never failed to give. More than once I said to him: "I recognise your wisdom and your prudence in all you say and do, I feel sure the day will come when you will be Prime Minister."

Though I am neither a clairvoyante nor a prophetess—still, my prophecy turned out to be true. He always (was it simply out of modesty?) denied the possibility of such a happening. But I was right after all, and he was wrong.

To be with Sir Henry was always a particular pleasure to me. It was such a delight to see a man so staunch to his principles, so firm with people about him, and so kind to those depending on him.

He certainly, pace Sydney Smith, appreciated a joke. We were talking one day about the head of a Royal House. I related how I, along with some diplomatists, was presented to the Court in question.

"I think I am right," said the Royal Hostess, to {79} one of the latter, smiling graciously, "you are the successor of your predecessor?" He bowed very deeply, and seemed quite pleased with that platitude. I was somewhat taken aback and rather amused, but when the reception was over, a lady-in-waiting said to me: "Is not Her Highness admirably clever and gracious? How well she talks!" Court people are sometimes very easily pleased. I did not commit myself to much admiration!

Sir Henry was greatly amused at the story. The last time I saw Sir Henry and had a long talk with him, was when he dined with me after his return from France. He came to meet the Russian Ambassador on the 23rd of January.

"Do you know," I said, "people assure me that you are going to the House of Lords. I am rather surprised to hear it," I added frankly. But he simply ridiculed the idea of such a step.

"You are quite right in being sceptical," he said. "I love my work, and I am not going to lay it down." That was the last time he dined out. He made a further brief appearance in the House of Commons, but it speedily became evident that his days were numbered. Still, he clung to the hope that he would regain strength. His colleagues, Mr. Asquith in particular, did everything a man could to ease his burden.

Doctors declared that dropsy had set in as the result of heart weakness. But his courage was unabated, and his faith undimmed. My impression is that his wife's death undoubtedly accelerated his own end. Strange reports have been spread about his last days. People who were allowed to watch {80} around his bed heard the dying man speak from time to time, as of old, to the life-long companion of all his joys and sorrows, his beloved wife, as if she were present before him, and that he would soon rejoin her in the land of another life.

Tennyson had the same experience with his son Lionel. If these visions are actually granted, would it not be a great consolation and a reward for deep affection?

In those days I had many friends who possessed very little in common with each other. Carlyle and Froude would sometimes call on me, but generally when I was likely to be alone. To me Carlyle showed only the lovable and affectionate side of his nature. He was a dear old man, and I loved nothing better than to see opposite me his rugged old face, and hear his broad Scots accent.

When the publication in book form of my articles was under discussion, he said, "You must publish all your articles."

"But who will write a preface?" I enquired. "Will you do so?" The dear old man shook his head dolefully, and, looking at his trembling hand, said:

"I could not, I am too old, but here is a young man"—and he looked at Froude who was with him. "He can do it."

Froude protested very gallantly that my articles did not require a preface, but nevertheless he most kindly wrote one which, no doubt, induced a large number of people to make themselves acquainted with my views.

SEMINARY FOR 125 SCHOOL TEACHERS BUILT BY ALEXANDER NOVIKOFF AT NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA
SEMINARY FOR 125 SCHOOL TEACHERS BUILT BY ALEXANDER NOVIKOFF AT NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA

Carlyle and I had one great thing in common: {81} our distrust of Disraeli and our sympathy with the oppressed Slavs. In 1878, when the jingoes were shouting their loudest over the Russian Mission to Afghanistan, which had precipitated the Afghan War, Carlyle referred to politics as "a sore subject nowadays with our damnable premier," as he called him.

He was always generous with regard to the humble efforts of the "Rooshian Leddy" as he called me. He knew that whatever my literary shortcomings I was sincere, and that was the one golden key to dear old Carlyle's heart.

When death came within sight, almost within touch, he regarded it not as an enemy but rather as a magician who was to open to him a new world of wonder. It might almost be said that he went part of the way to meet it. We, his friends, were always being thrilled by false alarms. One day, two and a half years before his death, he solemnly warned those about him of his approaching death.

I recall on another occasion I was told the end was very near; the next I heard was that he was as devoted as ever to his omnibus rides. In those days one never knew whether Carlyle were dying or riding in an omnibus.

When two years later the end was slowly approaching, I refrained from going to see him, thinking it a greater act of friendship to remain away rather than to make any claim upon his fast-ebbing vitality. I was deeply touched when he enquired of those about him: "Why does not Madame Novikoff come to see me?"

I went and found him very weak, but genuinely {82} glad to see me. He talked slowly and carefully, showing that the breaking-up of the body had in no way affected his magnificent mind. I remember his complaining to me that Froude wanted him to correct proofs on his death-bed; but that he had refused!

I am not what would be described as emotional, having perhaps more than the average amount of control over myself; but I felt at the bedside of that dear old man that I could not keep my self-possession.

His last words to me were:

"Ay, ay, when you come back here (from Russia) you will not find me alive."

As to my other old friends, like Kinglake, Froude, Charles Villiers and Count Béust—who were, in fact, my daily visitors—I need not more than mention their names, having written of them so fully elsewhere.

Among the many interesting personalities whom I have at various times met, there comes to my mind the remembrance of Mark Twain. The society of the great American humorist was always greatly sought after—a very natural circumstance—for, unlike many famous wits who keep all their brilliancy exclusively at the points of their pens, Mark Twain was sociable and talkative and seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of delightful anecdotes, ever ready and at the disposition of his friends. He called on me one day, and, speaking of his approaching departure on some pleasure trip with his wife and two daughters, remarked with a humorous twinkle in his eye:

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"It is fortunate that we have no courier to make a muddle with our tickets——"

"Why should couriers make muddles?" I asked. "Have you had tragic experiences of that kind?"

"Not personally," he answered; "but there was a millionaire who travelled with all his huge family, the kind of family that is described in the Old Testament. They gave themselves great airs, and of course arrived at the station one minute before the departure of the train, having left everything to their courier. The latter, however, had evidently been otherwise occupied, and was late too, arriving almost at the same moment as the family.

"'How late you are!' shouted the irate millionaire. 'Give me the tickets—quick!' The courier, in great haste, fumbled nervously among a confusion of papers in his pocket-book, and thrust into his employer's hand a packet of tickets. The engine was already getting up steam, and there was not a moment to be lost. My poor friend passed the packet on to a guard and asked excitedly for his reserved carriage, only to receive in reply a questioning stare. Alas! The tickets turned out to be of little use on the railway, for they were—concert tickets! The courier, you see, was a singer, and had been thinking too much about his own affairs!"

Mark Twain often amused his hearers by describing in the most humorous manner his own past jokes.

"Some time ago," he told me on one occasion, "everyone went mad about table turning! I wrote a long article on the subject, but in spite of the remonstrances of my publisher, refused to sign it.

"Don't you see?" he added, "I wanted to be {84} taken seriously—had I disclosed my identity, everyone would have taken all I said for a joke!"

So there is something in a name after all, in spite of Shakespeare!

I have, indeed, seen Mark Twain very much in earnest. That was on the Negro question. What seemed to me a great prejudice, represented, in his eyes, a regular danger to the civilised world. Not long ago, a very cultivated woman, just arrived from America, spoke to me with dread about the impudence and self-conceit of the negroes. How different her pictures were from those of Mrs. Beecher-Stowe in Uncle Tom's Cabin!

Another great personality was Verestchagin, the Russian painter, a very dear friend of mine. I have elsewhere described him as the Count Tolstoy of painters. He had the same genius, the same fearlessness and the same craving for what he conceived to be the truth, and possibly occasionally the same exaggerated touch of realism. We Russians have a way of regarding our great artists as artists, and if they injudiciously dabble in politics, we forgive it when considering their genius.

Verestchagin took part in many wars, and it is not strange that he should say, as he once did to me, that men were everywhere the same, "all animals, combatant, pugnacious, murderous animals."

His remarks upon war are peculiarly interesting at the present time, for he was not an arm-chair philosopher, but, like Francisco Goya, had seen the real horrors of war. He pointed out that the actual killing of the enemy was only a very small part of war, which means hunger and thirst and great {85} hardship, sleepless nights, marches beneath blazing suns, or drenched by rain.

Verestchagin was a great friend of Skobeleff, and this drew us closely together. The two had been through the same war together; and I remember that but for the wisdom of certain Russian officials that war might have been prolonged.

It is well known that Skobeleff was a man of very independent character. On the eve of the Russo-Turkish War some difficulty arose between him and the authorities, and he determined to resign his commission and enlist as a private, as he was determined to fight, no matter in what capacity. He was saved from this by a prudent act on the part of the officials known in England as "climbing down." Who knows what would have happened had the brave and glorious Skobeleff been one of the led instead of the idolised leader?

Skobeleff was indeed one of the most charming, captivating men I ever met. I was acquainted with his mother at a time when the son was only known to me by his brilliant reputation. Madame Skobeleff, passing through Moscow, once invited me to accompany her on a journey to the Balkans, which tempting invitation, however, I did not accept, owing to the fact that my husband was at the time ill, and I did not venture to leave him. My matrimonial scruples probably saved my life, as Madame Skobeleff met her death during that journey, and had I been with her I should probably have shared her fate. To be more precise, she was assassinated by her Montenegrin guide, Uzatis, who immediately committed suicide, so that the motives {86} of the murder remained an inscrutable mystery, as he did not touch her jewellery or her money.

One day I received a letter from Skobeleff, asking permission to call on me. He came and talked, which he did to perfection. And I—listened: the only thing I do to perfection! My heart was throbbing all the time, to a point that made me wonder whether it would not burst, as he kept on talking of his determination to go to Egypt, or anywhere, for some fighting, no matter in what capacity, be it even as a humble private.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself," I exclaimed, "to risk a life so precious to Russia? Stay at home, exercise your influence on our foreign policy—that is also a noble work."

"Oh," he answered, "as to that I am convinced that death will find me, not on the battlefield, but at home, in Russia. Every day I receive scores of anonymous letters, predicting the nearness of my end."

On leaving me, he asked if I would accept his photograph, which he afterwards sent me, with charmingly encouraging inscription: "To Mme. Olga Novikoff from an enthusiastic admirer of her patriotic work." I may add that this fine portrait is now in Moscow in the Roumiantzoff Museum.

Two weeks later he was no more.

Verestchagin described to me some of the horrors of the Bulgarian war. I would willingly have closed my ears to them, but there is a strange and grim fascination in horror, especially when described by a man of Verestchagin's personality.

He saw the Turkish prisoners being driven northward {87} to Russia and the agonies they suffered. To add to the frightfulness an early frost set in and the poor fellows, worn out through the long siege, dropped by the wayside and were frozen to death.

These scenes enabled him to paint Napoleon's "Retreat from Moscow." It is of peculiar interest now to recall the Kaiser's comments when he saw Verestchagin's picture exhibited at Berlin. He looked long and earnestly at the canvas, in particular at the figure of Napoleon tramping through the snow. He is said to have remarked that such pictures were our safest guarantees against war. "Yet," he added, "in spite of that there will still be men who want to govern the world, but they will all end the same."

Was this a prophecy, or merely a remark uttered with the object of blinding his contemporaries to his real purpose? It is certainly very interesting to note that the Kaiser would not allow the students of the military schools to see the "Retreat from Moscow." People must draw from that their own conclusions.

Verestchagin came to London on the occasion of his Exhibition, when I saw a good deal of him. Suddenly he was called back to Russia, and he came to me and announced his intention of returning immediately.

"But," I said, "you cannot leave your pictures."

"There are my two servants," he replied. "They will look after them."

"But," expostulated I, "they can speak only Russian, and that will not be of much assistance to them in London. How can they look after your {88} affairs when they cannot speak either English or French?"

"Oh, that will be all right," he replied. "They will manage."

That was Verestchagin all over. The upshot of it was that I volunteered to look after his interests, and every morning I would go down to the gallery to see if there was anything demanding attention, and the people at the gallery, apparently marvelling at such devotion in a friend, insisted upon addressing me as Madame Verestchagin.

Verestchagin was one of the first victims of the Russo-Japanese war.