Love of Russians for children's games—Peculiarities of Petrograd balls—Some famous beauties of Petrograd Society—The varying garb of hired waiters—Moscow—Its wonderful beauty—The forest of domes—The Kremlin—The three famous "Cathedrals"—The Imperial Treasury—The Sacristy—The Palace—Its splendour—The Terem—A Gargantuan Russian dinner—An unusual episode at the French Ambassador's ball—Bombs—Tsarskoe Selo—Its interior—Extraordinary collection of curiosities in Tsarskoe Park—Origin of term "Vauxhall" for railway station in Russia—Peterhof—Charm of park there—Two Russian illusions—A young man of 25 delivers an Ultimatum to Russia—How it came about—M. de Giers—Other Foreign Ministers—Paraguay—The polite Japanese dentist—A visit to Gatchina—Description of the Palace—Delights of the children's play-room there.
The lingering traces of the child which are found in most Russian natures account probably for their curious love of indoor games. Lady Dufferin had weekly evening parties during Lent, when dancing was rigidly prohibited. Quite invariably, some lady would go up to her and beg that they might be allowed to play what she would term "English running games." So it came about that bald-headed Generals, covered with Orders, and quite elderly ladies, would with immense glee play "Blind-man's buff," "Musical chairs," "Hunt the slipper," and "General post." I believe that they would have joined cheerfully in "Ring a ring of roses," had we only thought of it.
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I think it is this remnant of the child in them which, coupled with their quick-working brains, wonderful receptivity, and absolute naturalness, makes Russians of the upper class so curiously attractive.
At balls in my time, oddly enough, quadrilles were the most popular dances. There was always a "leader" for these quadrilles, whose function it was to invent new and startling figures. The "leader" shouted out his directions from the centre of the room, and however involved the figures he devised, however complicated the manoeuvres he evolved, he could rely on being implicitly obeyed by the dancers, who were used to these intricate entanglements, and enjoyed them. Woe betide the "leader" should he lose his head, or give a wrong direction! He would find two hundred people inextricably tangled up. I calculate that many years have been taken off my own life by the responsibilities thrust upon me by being frequently made to officiate in this capacity. Balls in Petrograd in the "'eighties" invariably concluded with the "Danse Anglaise," our own familiar "Sir Roger de Coverley."
I never saw an orchestra at a ball in Petrograd, except at the Winter Palace. All Russians preferred a pianist, but a pianist of a quite special brand. These men, locally known as "tappeurs," cultivated a peculiar style of playing, and could get wonderful effects out of an ordinary grand piano. There was in particular one absolute genius
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called Altkein. Under his superlatively skilled fingers the piano took on all the resonance and varied colour of a full orchestra. Altkein told me that he always played what he called "four-handed," that is doubling the parts of each hand. By the end of the evening he was absolutely exhausted.
The most beautiful woman in Petrograd Society was unquestionably Countess Zena Beauharnais, afterwards Duchess of Leuchtenberg; a tall, queenly blonde with a superb figure. Nature had been very generous to her, for in addition to her wonderful beauty, she had a glorious soprano voice. I could not but regret that she and her sister, Princess Bieloselskava, had not been forced by circumstances to earn their living on the operatic stage, for the two sisters, soprano and contralto, would certainly have achieved a European reputation with their magnificent voices. How they would have played Amneris and the title-rôle in "Aïda"! The famous General Skobeleff was their brother.
Two other strikingly beautiful women were Princess Kitty Dolgorouki, a piquant little brunette, and her sister-in-law, winning, golden-haired Princess Mary Dolgorouki. After a lapse of nearly forty years, I may perhaps be permitted to express my gratitude to these two charming ladies for the consistent kindness they showered on a peculiarly uninteresting young man, and I should like to add to their names that of Countess Betsy Schouvaloff. I may remark that the somewhat
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homely British forms of their baptismal names which these grandes dames were fond of adopting always amused me. Our two countries were in theory deadly enemies, yet they borrowed little details from us whenever they could. I think that the racial animosity was only skin-deep. This custom of employing English diminutives for Russian names extended to the men too, for Prince Alexander Dolgorouki, Princess Kitty's husband, was always known as "Sandy," whilst Countess Betsy's husband was invariably spoken of as "Bobby" Schouvaloff. Countess Betsy, mistress of one of the stateliest houses in Petrograd, was acknowledged to be the best-dressed woman in Russia. I never noticed whether she were really good-looking or not, for such was the charm of her animation, and the sparkle of her vivacity and quick wit, that one remarked the outer envelope less than the nimble intellect and extraordinary attractiveness that underlay it. She was a daughter of that "Princesse Château" to whom I referred earlier in these reminiscences.
In the great Russian houses there were far fewer liveried servants than is customary in other European countries. This was due to the difficulty of finding sufficiently trained men. The actual work of the house was done by hordes of bearded, red-shirted shaggy-headed moujiks, who their household duties over, retired to their underground fastnesses. Consequently when dinners or other entertainments were given recourse was had
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to hired waiters, mostly elderly Germans. It was the curious custom to dress these waiters up in the liveries of the family giving the entertainment. The liveries seldom fitted, and the features of the old waiters were quite familiar to most of us, yet politeness dictated that we should pretend to consider them as servants of the house. Though perfectly conscious of having seen the same individual who, arrayed in orange and white, was standing behind one's chair, dressed in sky-blue only two evenings before, and equally aware of the probability of meeting him the next evening in a different house, clad in crimson, it was considered polite to compliment the mistress of the house on the admirable manner in which her servants were turned out.
There is in all Russian houses a terrible place known as the "buffetnaya." This is a combination of pantry, larder, and serving-room. People at all particular about the cleanliness of their food, or the nicety with which it is served, should avoid this awful spot as they would the plague. A sensitive nose can easily locate the whereabouts of the "buffetnaya" from a considerable distance.
From Petrograd to Moscow is only a twelve hours' run, but in those twelve hours the traveller is transported into a different world. After the soulless regularity of Peter the Great's sham classical creation on the banks of the Neva, the beauty of the semi-Oriental ancient capital comes as a perfect revelation. Moscow, glowing with colour,
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is seated like Rome on gentle hills, and numbers over three hundred churches. These churches have each the orthodox five domes, and this forest of domes, many of them gilt, others silvered, some blue and gold, or striped with bands and spirals of vivid colour, when seen amongst the tender greenery of May, forms a wonderful picture, unlike anything else in the world. The winding, irregular streets lined with buildings in every imaginable style of architecture, and of every possible shade of colour; the remains of the ancient city walls with their lofty watch-towers crowned with curious conical roofs of grass-green tiles; the great irregular bulk of the Kremlin, towering over all; make a whole of incomparable beauty. There is in the world but one Moscow, as there is but one Venice, and one Oxford.
The great sea of gilded and silvered domes is best seen from the terrace of the Kremlin overlooking the river, though the wealth of detail nearer at hand is apt to distract the eye. The soaring snow-white shaft of Ivan Veliki's tower with its golden pinnacles dominates everything, though the three "Cathedrals," standing almost side by side, hallowed by centuries of tradition, are very sacred places to a Russian, who would consider them the heart of Moscow, and of the Muscovite world. "Mother Moscow," they call her affectionately, and I understand it.
The Russian word "Sobor" is wrongly translated as "Cathedral." A "sobor" is merely a
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church of peculiar sanctity or of special dignity. The three gleaming white, gold-domed churches of the Kremlin are of quite modest dimensions, yet their venerable walls are rich with the associations of centuries. In the Church of the Assumption the Tsars, and later the Emperors, were all crowned; in the Church of the Archangel the Tsars were buried, though the Emperors lie in Petrograd. The dim Byzantine interior of the Assumption Church, with its faded frescoes on a gold ground, and its walls shimmering with gold, silver, and jewels, is immensely impressive. Here is the real Russia, not the Petrograd stuccoed veneered Russia of yesterday, but ancient Muscovy, sending its roots deep down into the past.
Surely Peter prepared the way for the destruction of his country by uprooting this tree of ancient growth, and by trying to create in one short lifetime a new pseudo-European Empire, with a new capital.
The city should be seen from the Kremlin terrace as the light is fading from the sky and the thousands of church-bells clash out their melodious evening hymn. The Russians have always been master bell-founders, and their bells have a silvery tone unknown in Western Europe. In the gloaming, the Eastern character of the city is much more apparent. The blaze of colour has vanished, and the dusky silhouettes of the church domes take on the onion-shaped forms of the Orient. Delhi, as seen in later years from the fort at
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sunset was curiously reminiscent of Moscow.
I do not suppose that more precious things have ever been gathered together under one roof than the Imperial Treasury at Moscow contained in those days. The eye got surfeited with the sight of so many splendours, and I can only recall the great collection of crowns and thrones of the various Tsars. One throne of Persian workmanship was studded with two thousand diamonds and rubies; another, also from Persia, contained over two thousand large turquoises. There must have been at least a dozen of these glittering thrones, but the most interesting of all was the original ivory throne of the Emperors of Byzantium, brought to Moscow in 1472 by Sophia Palaeologus, wife of Ivan III. Constantine the Great may have sat on that identical throne. It seems curious that the finest collection in the world of English silver-ware of Elizabeth's, James I's, and Charles I's time should be found in the Kremlin at Moscow, till it is remembered that nearly all the plate of that date in England was melted down during the Civil War of 1642-1646. I wonder what has become of all these precious things now!
The sacristy contains an equally wonderful collection of Church plate. I was taken over this by an Archimandrite, and I had been previously warned that he would expect a substantial tip for his services. The Archimandrite's feelings were, however, to be spared by my representing this tip as my contribution to the poor of his parish. The Archimandrite
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was so immensely imposing, with his violet robes, diamond cross, and long flowing beard, that I felt quite shy of offering him the modest five roubles which I was told would be sufficient. So I doubled it. The Archimandrite pocketed it joyfully, and so moved was he by my unexpected largesse, that the excellent ecclesiastic at once motioned me to my knees, and gave me a most fervent blessing, which I am persuaded was well worth the extra five roubles.
The Great Palace of the Kremlin was rebuilt by Nicholas I about 1840. It consequently belongs to the "period of bad taste"; in spite of that it is extraordinarily sumptuous. The St. George's Hall is 200 feet long and 60 feet high; the other great halls, named after the Russian Orders of Chivalry, are nearly as large. Each of these is hung with silk of the same colour as the ribbon of the Order; St. George's Hall, orange and black; St. Andrew's Hall, sky-blue; St. Alexander Nevsky's, pink; St. Catherine's, red and white. I imagine that every silkworm in the world must have been kept busy for months in order to prepare sufficient material for these acres of silk-hung walls. The Kremlin Palace may not be in the best of taste, but these huge halls, with their jasper and malachite columns and profuse gilding, are wonderfully gorgeous, and exactly correspond with one's preconceived ideas of what an Emperor of Russia's palace ought to be like. There is a chapel in the Kremlin Palace with the quaint title of
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"The Church of the Redeemer behind the Golden Railing."
The really interesting portion of the Palace is the sixteenth century part, known as the "Terem." These small, dim, vaulted halls with their half-effaced frescoes on walls and ceilings are most fascinating. It is all mediæval, but not with the mediævalism of Western Europe; neither is it Oriental; it is pure Russian; simple, dignified, and delightfully archaic. One could not imagine the old Tsars in a more appropriate setting. Compared with the strident splendours of the modern palace, the vaulted rooms of the old Terem seem to typify the difference between Petrograd and Moscow.
It so happened that later in life I was destined to become very familiar with the deserted palace at Agra, in India, begun by Akbar, finished by Shah Jehan. How different the Oriental conception of a palace is from the Western! The Agra Palace is a place of shady courts and gardens, dotted with exquisitely graceful pavilions of transparent white marble roofed with gilded copper. No two of these pavilions are similar, and in their varied decorations an inexhaustible invention is shown. The white marble is so placed that it is seen everywhere in strong contrast to Akbar's massive buildings of red sandstone. During the Coronation ceremonies, King-Emperor George V seated himself, of right, on the Emperor Akbar's throne in the great Hall of Audience in Agra Palace.
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Though Moscow may appear a dream-city when viewed from the Kremlin, it is an eminently practical city as well. It was, in my time, the chief manufacturing centre of Russia, and Moscow business-men had earned the reputation of being well able to look after themselves.
Another side of the life of the great city could be seen in the immense Ermitage restaurant, where Moscow people assured you with pride that the French cooking was only second to Paris. The little Tartar waiters at the Ermitage were, drolly enough, dressed like hospital orderlies, in white linen from head to foot. There might possibly be money in an antiseptic restaurant, should some enterprising person start one. The idea would be novel, and this is an age when new ideas seem attractive.
A Russian merchant in Moscow, a partner in an English firm, imagined himself to be under a great debt of gratitude to the British Embassy in Petrograd, on account of a heavy fine imposed upon him, which we had succeeded in getting remitted. This gentleman was good enough to invite a colleague and myself to dine at a certain "Traktir," celebrated for its Russian cooking. I was very slim in those days, but had I had any idea of the Gargantuan repast we were supposed to assimilate, I should have borrowed a suit of clothes from the most adipose person of my acquaintance, in order to secure additional cargo-space.
In the quaint little "Traktir" decorated in
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old-Russian style, after the usual fresh caviar, raw herrings, pickled mushrooms, and smoked sturgeon of the "zakuska," we commenced with cold sucking-pig eaten with horse-radish. Then followed a plain little soup, composed of herrings and cucumbers stewed in sour beer. Slices of boiled salmon and horse-radish were then added, and the soup was served iced. This soup is distinctly an acquired taste. This was succeeded by a simple dish of sterlets, boiled in wine, with truffles, crayfish, and mushrooms. After that came mutton stuffed with buckwheat porridge, pies of the flesh and isinglass of the sturgeon, and Heaven only knows what else. All this accompanied by red and white Crimean wines, Kvass, and mead. I had always imagined that mead was an obsolete beverage, indulged in principally by ancient Britons, and drunk for choice out of their enemies' skulls, but here it was, foaming in beautiful old silver tankards; and perfectly delicious it was! Oddly enough, the Russian name for it, "meod," is almost identical with ours.
Only once in my life have I suffered so terribly from repletion, and that was in the island of Barbados, at the house of a hospitable planter. We sat down to luncheon at one, and rose at five. The sable serving-maids looked on the refusal of a dish as a terrible slur on the cookery of the house, and would take no denial. "No, you like dis, sar, it real West India dish. I gib you lilly piece." What with turtle, and flying-fish, and calipash and calipee, and pepper-pot, and devilled land-crabs, I
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felt like the boa-constrictor in the Zoological Gardens after his monthly meal.
I was not fortunate enough to witness the coronation of either Alexander III or that of Nicholas II. In the perfect setting of "the Red Staircase," of the ancient stone-built hall known as the "Granovitaya Palata," and of the "Gold Court," the ceremonial must be deeply impressive. On no stage could more picturesque surroundings possibly be devised. During the coronation festivities, most of the Ambassadors hired large houses in Moscow, and transferred their Embassies to the old capital for three weeks. At the coronation of Nicholas II, of unfortunate memory, the French Ambassador, the Comte de Montebello, took a particularly fine house in Moscow, the Shérémaitieff Palace, and it was arranged that he should give a great ball the night after the coronation, at which the newly-crowned Emperor and Empress would be present. The French Government own a wonderful collection of splendid old French furniture, tapestries, and works of art, known as the "Garde Meubles." Under the Monarchy and Empire, these all adorned the interiors of the various palaces. To do full honour to the occasion, the French Government dispatched vanloads of the choicest treasures of the "Garde Meubles" to Moscow, and the Shérémaitieff Palace became a thing of beauty, with Louis Quatorze Gobelins, and furniture made for Marie-Antoinette. To enhance the effect, the Comte and Comtesse de Montebello
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arranged the most elaborate floral decorations, and took immense pains over them. On the night of the ball, two hours before their guests were due, the Ambassador was informed that the Chief of Police was outside and begged for permission to enter the temporary Embassy. Embassies enjoying what is known as "exterritoriality," none of the police can enter except on the invitation of the Ambassador; much as vampires, according to the legend, could only secure entrance to a house at the personal invitation of the owner. It will be remembered that these unpleasing creatures displayed great ingenuity in securing this permission; indeed the really expert vampires prided themselves on the dexterity with which they could inveigle their selected victim into welcoming them joyfully into his domicile. The Chief of Police informed the French Ambassador that he had absolutely certain information that a powerful bomb had been introduced into the Embassy, concealed in a flower-pot. M. de Montebello was in a difficult position. On the previous day the Ambassador had discovered that every single electric wire in the house had been deliberately severed by some unknown hand. French electricians had repaired the damage, but it was a disquieting incident in the circumstances. The policeman was positive that his information was correct, and the consequences of a terrific bomb exploding in one's house are eminently disagreeable, so he gave his reluctant permission to have the Embassy searched, though his earlier
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guests might be expected within an hour. Armies of police myrmidons appeared, and at once proceeded to unpot between two and three thousand growing plants, and to pick all the floral decorations to pieces. Nothing whatever was found, but it would be unreasonable to expect secret police, however zealous, to exhibit much skill as trained florists. They made a frightful hash of things, and not only ruined the elaborate decorations, but so managed to cover the polished floors with earth that the rooms looked like ploughed fields, dancing was rendered impossible, and poor Madame de Montebello was in tears. As the guests arrived, the police had to be smuggled out through back passages. This was one of the little amenities of life in a bomb-ridden land.
During the summer months I was much at Tsarskoe Selo. Tsarskoe is only fourteen miles from Petrograd, and some of my Russian friends had villas there. The gigantic Old Palace of Tsarskoe is merely an enlarged Winter Palace, and though its garden façade is nearly a quarter of a mile long, it is uninteresting and unimpressive, being merely an endless repetition of the same details. I was taken over the interior several times, but such a vast quantity of rooms leaves only a confused impression of magnificence. I only recall the really splendid staircase and the famous lapis-lazuli and amber rooms. The lapis-lazuli room is a blaze of blue and gold, with walls, furniture, and chandeliers encrusted with that precious substance.
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The amber room is perfectly beautiful. All the walls, cabinets, and tables are made of amber of every possible shade, from straw-colour to deep orange. There are also great groups of figures carved entirely out of amber. Both the lapis and the amber room have curious floors of black ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, forming a very effective colour scheme. I have vague memories of the "gold" and "silver" rooms, but very distinct recollections of the bedroom of one of the Empresses, who a hundred years before the late Lord Lister had discovered the benefits of antiseptic surgery had with some curious prophetic instinct had her sleeping-room constructed on the lines of a glorified modern operating theatre. The walls of this quaint apartment were of translucent opal glass, decorated with columns of bright purple glass, with a floor of inlaid mother-of-pearl. Personally, I should always have fancied a faint smell of chloroform lingering about the room.
Catherine the Great had her monogram placed everywhere at Tsarskoe Selo, on doors, walls, and ceilings. It was difficult to connect her with the interlaced "E's," until one remembered that the Russian form of the name is "Ekaterina." How wise the Russians have been in retaining the so-called Cyrillian alphabet in writing their tongue!
In other Slavonic languages, such as Polish and Czech, where the Roman alphabet has been adopted, unholy combinations of "cz," "zh," and "sz" have to be resorted to to reproduce sounds which the
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Cyrillian alphabet could express with a single letter; and the tragic thing is that, be the letters piled together never so thickly, they invariably fail to give the foreigner the faintest idea of how the word should really be pronounced. Take the much-talked-of town of Przemysl, for instance.
The park of Tsarskoe is eighteen miles in circumference, and every portion of it is thrown open freely to the public. In spite of being quite flat, it is very pretty with its lake and woods, and was most beautifully kept. To an English eye its trees seemed stunted, for in these far Northern regions no forest trees attain great size. Limes and oaks flourish moderately well, but the climate is too cold for beeches. At the latitude of Petrograd neither apples, pears, nor any kind of fruit tree can be grown; raspberries and strawberries are the only things that can be produced, and they are both superlatively good. The park at Tsarskoe was full of a jumble of the most extraordinarily incongruous buildings and monuments; it would have taken a fortnight to see them all properly. There was a Chinese village, a Chinese theatre, a Dutch dairy, an English Gothic castle, temples, hanging gardens, ruins, grottoes, fountains, and numbers of columns, triumphal arches, and statues. On the lake there was a collection of boats of all nations, varying from a Chinese sampan to an English light four-oar; from a Venetian gondola to a Brazilian catamaran. There was also a fleet of miniature men-of-war, and three of Catherine's great
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gilt state-barges on the lake. One arm of the lake was spanned by a bridge of an extremely rare blue Siberian marble. Anyone seeing the effect of this blue marble bridge must have congratulated himself on the fact that it was extremely improbable that any similar bridge would ever be erected elsewhere, so rare was the material of which it was constructed.
I never succeeded in finding the spot in Tsarskoe Park where a sentry stands on guard over a violet which Catherine the Great once found there. Catherine, finding the first violet of spring, ordered a sentry to be placed over it, to protect the flower from being plucked. She forgot to rescind the order, and the sentry continued to be posted there. It developed at last into a regular tradition of Tsarskoe, and so, day and night, winter and summer, a sentry stood in Tsarskoe Park over a spot where, 150 years before, a violet once grew.
The Russian name for a railway station is "Vauxhall," and the origin of this is rather curious. The first railway in Europe opened for passenger traffic was the Liverpool and Manchester, inaugurated in 1830. Five years later, Nicholas I, eager to show that Russia was well abreast of the times, determined to have a railway of his own, and ordered one to be built between Petrograd and Tsarskoe Selo, a distance of fourteen miles. The railway was opened in 1837, without any intermediate stations. Unfortunately, with the exception of a few Court officials, no one ever wanted to go to Tsarskoe, so the line could hardly be called a commercial
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success. Then someone had a brilliant idea! Vauxhall Gardens in South London were then at the height of their popularity. The Tsarskoe line should be extended two miles to a place called Pavlosk, where the railway company would be given fifty acres of ground on which to construct a "Vauxhall Gardens," outbidding its London prototype in attractions. No sooner said than done! The Pavlosk "Vauxhall" became enormously popular amongst Petrogradians in summer-time; the trains were crowded and the railway became a paying proposition. As the Tsarskoe station was the only one then in existence in Petrograd, the worthy citizens got into the habit of directing their own coachmen or cabdrivers simply to go "to Vauxhall." So the name got gradually applied to the actual station building in Petrograd. When the Nicholas railway to Moscow was completed, the station got to be known as the "Moscow Vauxhall." And so it spread, until it came about that every railway station in the Russian Empire, from the Baltic to the Pacific, derived its name from a long-vanished and half-forgotten pleasure-garden in South London, the memory of which is only commemorated to-day by a bridge and a railway station on its site. The name "Vauxhall" itself is, I believe, a corruption of "Folks-Hall," or of its Dutch variant "Volks-hall." Even in my day the Pavlosk Vauxhall was a most attractive spot, with an excellent orchestra, myriads of coloured lamps, and a great semicircle of restaurants and refreshment booths. When I
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knew it, the Tsarskoe railway still retained its original rolling-stock of 1837; little queer over-upholstered carriages, and quaint archaic-looking engines. It had, I think, been built to a different gauge to the standard Russian one; anyhow it had no physical connection with the other railways. It was subsequently modernised.
Peterhof is far more attractive than Tsarskoe as it stands on the Gulf of Finland, and the coast, rising a hundred feet from the sea, redeems the place from the uniform dead flat of the other environs of Petrograd. As its name implies, Peterhof is the creation of Peter himself, who did his best to eclipse Versailles. His fountains and waterworks certainly run Versailles very close. The Oriental in Peter peeped out when he constructed staircases of gilt copper, and of coloured marbles for the water to flow over, precisely as Shah Jehan did in his palaces at Delhi and Agra. As the temperature both at Delhi and Agra often touches 120° during the summer months, these decorative cascades would appear more appropriate there than at Peterhof, where the summer temperature seldom rises to 70°.
The palace stands on a lofty terrace facing the sea. A broad straight vista has been cut through the fir-woods opposite it, down to the waters of the Gulf. Down the middle of this avenue runs a canal flanked on either side by twelve fountains. When les grandes eaux are playing, the effect of this perspective of fountains and of Peter's gilded water-chutes is really very fine indeed. I think that the
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Oriental in Peter showed itself again here. There is a long single row of almost precisely similar fountains in front of the Taj at Agra.
As at Tsarskoe, the public have free access to every portion of the park, which stretches for four miles along the sea, with many gardens, countless fountains, temples and statues. There was in particular a beautiful Ionic colonnade of pink marble, from the summit of which cataracts of water spouted when the fountains played. The effect of this pink marble temple seen through the film of falling water was remarkably pretty. What pleased me were the two small Dutch châteaux in the grounds, "Marly" and "Monplaisir," where Peter had lived during the building of his great palace. These two houses had been built by imported Dutch craftsmen, and the sight of a severe seventeenth-century Dutch interior with its tiles and sober oak-panelling was so unexpected in Russia. It was almost as much of a surprise as is Groote Constantia, some sixteen miles south of Cape Town. To drive down a mile-long avenue of the finest oaks in the world, and to find at the end of it, amidst hedges of clipped pink oleander and blue plumbago, a most perfect Dutch château, exactly as Governor Van der Stell left it in 1667, is so utterly unexpected at the southern extremity of the African Continent! Groote Constantia, the property of the Cape Government, still contains all its original furniture and pictures of 1667. It is the typical seventeenth-century Continental château, the main building with its façade
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elaborately decorated in plaster, flanked by two wings at right angles to it, but the last place in the world where you would look for such a finished whole is South Africa. To add to the unexpectedness, the vines for which Constantia is famous are grown in fields enclosed with hedges, with huge oaks as hedgerow timber. This gives such a thoroughly English look to the landscape that I never could realise that the sea seen through the trees was the Indian Ocean, and that the Cape of Good Hope was only ten miles away. Macao, the ancient Portuguese colony forty-five miles from Hong-Kong, is another "surprise-town." It is as though Aladdin's Slave of the Lamp had dumped a seventeenth-century Southern European town down in the middle of China, with churches, plazas, and fountains complete.
There is really a plethora of palaces round Peterhof. They grow as thick as quills on a porcupine's back. One of them, I cannot recall which, had a really beautiful dining-room, built entirely of pink marble. In niches in the four angles of the room were solid silver fountains six feet high, where Naiads and Tritons spouted water fed by a running stream. I should have thought this room more appropriate to India than to Northern Russia, but one of the fondest illusions Russians cherish is that they dwell in a semi-tropical climate.
In Petrograd, as soon as the temperature reached 60°, old gentlemen would appear on the Nevsky dressed in white linen, with Panama hats, and white
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umbrellas, but still wearing the thickest of overcoats. Should the sun's rays become just perceptible, iced Kvass and lemonade were at once on sale in all the streets. On these occasions I made myself quite popular at the Yacht Club by observing, as I buttoned up my overcoat tightly before venturing into the open air, that this tropical heat was almost unendurable. This invariably provoked gratified smiles of assent.
Another point as to which Russians were for some reason touchy was the fact that the water of the Gulf of Finland is perfectly fresh. Ships can fill their tanks from the water alongside for ten miles below Kronstadt, and the catches of the fishing-boats that came in to Peterhof consisted entirely of pike, perch, eels, roach, and other fresh-water fish. Still Russians disliked intensely hearing their sea alluded to as fresh-water. I tactfully pretended to ignore the fringe of fresh-water reeds lining the shore at Peterhof, and after bathing in the Gulf would enlarge on the bracing effect a swim in real salt-water had on the human organism. This, and a few happy suggestions that after the intense brine of the Gulf the waters of the Dead Sea would appear insipidly brackish, conduced towards making me amazingly popular.
In my younger days I was never really happy without a daily swim during the summer months.
The woods sloping down to the Gulf are delightful in summer-time, and are absolutely carpeted with flowers. The flowers seem to realise how short the
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span of life allotted to them is, and endeavour to make the most of it. So do the mosquitoes.
I have very vivid recollections of one especial visit to Peterhof. In the summer of 1882, the Ambassador and two other members of the Embassy were away in England on leave. The Chargé d'Affaires, who replaced the Ambassador, was laid up with an epidemic that was working great havoc then in Petrograd, as was the Second Secretary. This epidemic was probably due to the extremely unsatisfactory sanitary condition of the city. Consequently no one was left to carry on the work of the Embassy but myself and the new Attaché, a mere lad.
The relations of Great Britain and France in the "'eighties" were widely different from those cordial ones at present prevailing between the two countries. Far from being trusted friends and allies, the tension between England and France was often strained almost to the breaking-point, especially with regard to Egyptian affairs. This was due in a great measure to Bismarck's traditional foreign policy of attempting to embroil her neighbours, to the greater advantage of Germany. In old-fashioned surgery, doctors frequently introduced a foreign body into an open wound in order to irritate it, and prevent its healing unduly quickly. This was termed a seton. Bismarck's whole policy was founded on the introduction of setons into open wounds, to prevent their healing. His successors in office endeavoured to continue this policy, but did
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not succeed, for though they might share Bismarck's entire want of scruples, they lacked his commanding genius.
Ismail, Khedive of Egypt since 1863, had brought his country to the verge of bankruptcy by his gross extravagance. Great Britain and France had established in 1877 a Dual Control of Egyptian affairs in the interest of the foreign bondholders, but the two countries did not pull well together. In 1879 the incorrigible Ismail was deposed in favour of Tewfik, and two years later a military revolt was instigated by Arabi Pasha. Very unwisely, attempts were made to propitiate Arabi by making him a member of the Egyptian Cabinet, and matters went from bad to worse. In May, 1882, the French and British fleets appeared before Alexandria and threatened it, and on June 11, 1882, the Arab population massacred large numbers of the foreign residents of Alexandria. Still the French Government refused to take any definite action, and systematically opposed every proposal made by the British Government. We were perfectly well aware that the opposition of the French to the British policy was consistently backed up by Russia, Russia being in its turn prompted from Berlin. All this we knew. After the massacre of June 11, the French fleet, instead of acting, sailed away from Alexandria.
Amongst the usual daily sheaf of telegrams from London which the Attaché and I decyphered on July 12, 1882, was one announcing that the
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British Mediterranean Squadron had on the previous day bombarded and destroyed the forts of Alexandria, and that in two days' time British marines would be landed and the city of Alexandria occupied. There were also details of further steps that would be taken, should circumstances render them necessary. All these facts were to be communicated to the Russian Government at once. I went off with this weighty telegram to the house of the Chargé d'Affaires, whom I found very weak and feverish, and quite unable to rise from his bed. He directed me to go forthwith to Peterhof, to see M. de Giers, the Russian Minister for Foreign Affairs, who was there in attendance on the Emperor, and to make my statement to him. I placed the Attaché in charge of the Chancery, and had time admitted of it, I should certainly have smeared that youth's cheeks and lips with some burnt cork, to add a few years to his apparent age, and to delude people into the belief that he had already begun to shave. The dignity of the British Embassy had to be considered. I begged of him to refrain from puerile levity in any business interviews he might have, and I implored him to try to conceal the schoolboy under the mask of the zealous official. I then started for Peterhof. It is not often that a young man of twenty-five is called upon to deliver what was virtually an Ultimatum to the mighty Russian Empire, and I had no illusions whatever as to the manner in which my communication would be received.
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I saw M. de Giers at Peterhof, and read him my message. I have never in my life seen a man so astonished; he was absolutely flabbergasted. The Gladstone Government of 1880-85 was then in power in England, and it was a fixed axiom with every Continental statesman (and not, I am bound to admit, an altogether unfounded one) that under no circumstances whatever would the Gladstone Cabinet ever take definite action. They would talk eternally; they would never act. M. de Giers at length said to me, "I have heard your communication with great regret. I have noted what you have said with even deeper regret." He paused for a while, and then added very gravely, "The Emperor's regret will be even more profound than my own, and I will not conceal from you that his Majesty will be highly displeased when he learns the news you have brought me." I inquired of M. de Giers whether he wished me to see the Emperor, and to make my communication in person to His Imperial Majesty, and felt relieved when he told me that it was unnecessary, as I was not feeling particularly anxious to face an angry Autocrat alone. I left a transcript I had myself made of the telegram I had decyphered with M. de Giers, and left. A moment's reflection will show that to leave a copy of decoded telegram with anyone would be to render the code useless. The original cypher telegram would be always accessible, and a decypher of it would be tantamount to giving away the code. It was our practice to make transcripts, giving the
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sense in totally different language, and with the position of every sentence altered.
After that, as events in Egypt developed, and until the Chargé d'Affaires was about again, I journeyed to Peterhof almost daily to see M. de Giers. We always seemed to get on very well together, in spite of racial animosities.
The clouds in Egypt rolled away, and with them the very serious menace to which I have alluded. Events fortunately shaped themselves propitiously, On September 13, 1882, Sir Garnet Wolseley utterly routed Arabi's forces at Tel-el-Kebir; Arabi was deported to Ceylon, and the revolt came to an end.
A diplomat naturally meets Ministers of Foreign Affairs of many types. There was a strong contrast between the polished and courtly M. de Giers, who in spite of his urbanity could manage to infuse a very strong sub-acid flavour into his suavity when he chose, and some other Ministers with whom I have come in contact. A few years later, when at Buenos Ayres, preliminary steps were taken for drawing up an Extradition Treaty between Great Britain and Paraguay, and as there were details which required adjusting, I was sent 1,100 miles up the river to Asuncion, the unsophisticated capital of the Inland Republic. Dr. ——, at that time Paraguayan Foreign Minister, was a Guarani, of pure Indian blood. He did not receive me at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, for the excellent reason that there was no such place in that primitive
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republic, but in his own extremely modest residence. When his Excellency welcomed me in the whitewashed sala of that house, sumptuously furnished with four wooden chairs, and nothing else whatever, he had on neither shoes, stockings, nor shirt, and wore merely a pair of canvas trousers, and an unbuttoned coat of the same material, affording ample glimpses of his somewhat dusky skin. In the suffocating heat of Asuncion such a costume has its obvious advantages; still I cannot imagine, let us say, the French Minister for Foreign Affairs receiving the humblest member of a Foreign Legation at the Quai d'Orsay with bare feet, shirtless, and clad only in two garments.
Dr. ——, in spite of being Indian by blood, spoke most correct and finished Spanish, and had all the courtesy which those who use that beautiful language seem somehow to acquire instinctively. It is to be regretted that the same cannot be said of all those using the English language. Not to be outdone by this polite Paraguayan, I responded in the same vein, and we mutually smothered each other with the choicest flowers of Castilian courtesy. These little amenities, though doubtless tending to smooth down the asperities of life, are apt to consume a good deal of time.
Once at Kyoto in Japan, I had occasion for the services of a dentist. As the dentist only spoke Japanese, I took my interpreter with me. After removing my shoes at the door—an unusual preliminary to a visit to a dentist—we went upstairs, where
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we found a dapper little individual in kimono and white socks, surrounded by the most modern and up-to-date dental paraphernalia, sucking his breath, and rubbing his knees with true Japanese politeness. Eager to show that a foreigner could also have delightful manners, I sucked my breath, if anything, rather louder, and rubbed my knees a trifle harder. "Dentist says," came from the interpreter, "will you honourably deign to explain where trouble lies in honourable tooth?"
"If the dentist will honourably deign to examine my left-hand lower molar," I responded with charming courtesy, "he will find it requires stopping, but for Heaven's sake, Mr. Nakimura, ask him to be careful how he uses his honourable drill, for I am terrified to death at that invention of the Evil One." Soon the Satanic drill got well into its stride, and began boring into every nerve of my head. I jumped out of the chair. "Tell the dentist, Mr. Nakimura, that he is honourably deigning to hurt me like the very devil with his honourable but wholly damnable drill." "Dentist says if you honourably deign to reseat yourself in chair, he soon conquer difficulties in your honourable tooth." "Certainly. But dentist must not give me honourable hell any more," and so on, and so on. I am bound to admit that the little Jap's workmanship was so good that it has remained intact up to the present days. I wonder if Japs, when annoyed, can ever relieve themselves by the use of really strong language, or whether the crust of conventional politeness is too thick to
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admit of it. In that case they must feel like a lobster afflicted with acute eczema, unable to obtain relief by scratching himself, owing to the impervious shell in which Nature has encased him.
I dined with the British Consul at Asuncion, after my interview with Dr. ——. The Consul lived three miles out of town, and the coffee we drank after dinner, the sugar we put into the coffee, and the cigars we smoked with it, had all been grown in his garden, within sight of the windows. I had ridden out to the Quinta in company with a young Australian, who will reappear later on in these pages in his proper place; one Dick Howard. It was the first but by no means the last time in my life that I ever got on a horse in evening clothes. Dick Howard, having no evening clothes with him, had arrayed himself in one of his favourite cricket blazers, a pleasantly vivid garment. On our way out, my horse shied violently at a snake in the road. The girths slipped on the grass-fed animal, and my saddle rolled gently round and deposited me, tail-coat, white tie and all, in some four feet of dust. The snake, however, probably panic-stricken at the sight of Howard's blazer, had tactfully withdrawn; otherwise, as it happened to be a deadly Jararaca, it is highly unlikely that I should have been writing these lines at the present moment. The ineradicable love of Dick Howard, the cheery, laughing young Antipodean, for brilliant-hued blazers of various athletic clubs will be enlarged on later. In Indian hill stations all men habitually ride out to dinner-parties,
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whilst ladies are carried in litters. During the rains, men put a suit of pyjamas over their evening clothes to protect them, before drawing on rubber boots and rubber coats and venturing into the pelting downpour. The Syce trots behind, carrying his master's pumps in a rubber sponge-bag.
All this, however, is far afield from Russia. Alexander III preferred Gatchina to any of his other palaces as a residence, as it was so much smaller, Gatchina being a cosy little house of 600 rooms only. I never saw it except once in mid-winter, when the Emperor summoned the Ambassador there, and I was also invited. As the far-famed beauties of Gatchina Park were covered with four feet of snow, it would be difficult to pronounce an opinion upon them. The rivers and lakes, the haunts of the celebrated Gatchina trout, were, of course, also deep-buried.
Alexander III was a man of very simple tastes, and nothing could be plainer than the large study in which he received us. Alexander III, a Colossus of a man, had great dignity, combined with a geniality of manner very different from the glacial hauteur of his father, Alexander II. The Emperor was in fact rather partial to a humorous anecdote, and some I recalled seemed to divert his Majesty. Outside his study-door stood two gigantic negroes on guard, in Eastern dresses of green and scarlet. The Empress Marie, though she did not share her sister Queen Alexandra's wonderful beauty, had all of her subtle and indescribable charm of manner,
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and she was very gracious to a stupid young Secretary-of-Embassy.
The bedroom given to me at Gatchina could hardly be described by the standardised epithets for Russian interiors "bare, gaunt, and whitewashed," as it had light blue silk walls embroidered with large silver wreaths. The mirrors were silvered, and the bed stood in a species of chancel, up four steps, and surrounded by a balustrade of silvered carved wood. Both the Ambassador and I agreed that the Imperial cellar fully maintained its high reputation. We were given in particular some very wonderful old Tokay, a present from the Emperor of Austria, a wine that was not on the market.
We were taken all over the palace, which contained, amongst other things, a large riding-school and a full-sized theatre. The really enchanting room was a large hall on the ground floor where many generations of little Grand-Dukes and Grand-Duchesses had played. As, owing to the severe winter climate, it is difficult for Russian children to amuse themselves much out-of-doors, these large play-rooms are almost a necessity in that frozen land. The Gatchina play-room was a vast low hall, a place of many whitewashed arches. In this delightful room was every possible thing that could attract a child. At one end were two wooden Montagnes Busses, the descent of which could be negotiated in little wheeled trollies. In another corner was a fully-equipped gymnasium. There were "giants' strides," swings, swing-boats and a
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merry-go-round. There was a toy railway with switches and signal-posts complete, the locomotives of which were worked by treadles, like a tricycle. There were dolls' houses galore, and larger houses into which the children could get, with real cooking-stoves in the little kitchens, and little parlours in which to eat the results of their primitive culinary experiments. There were mechanical orchestras, self-playing pianos and barrel-organs, and masses and masses of toys. On seeing this delectable spot, I regretted for the first time that I had not been born a Russian Grand-Duke, between the ages though of five and twelve only.
I believe that there is a similar room at Tsarskoe although I never saw it.