The Diary of a Russian Lady
[Illustration: _yours faithfully_
_Barbara Doukhovskoy_]
THE DIARY OF A
RUSSIAN LADY
_REMINISCENCES OF_
BARBARA DOUKHOVSKOY
(_née_ PRINCESSE GALITZINE)
“Lived through but not forgotten”
[Illustration]
WITH TWO PORTRAITS
LONDON
JOHN LONG, LIMITED
12, 13 & 14 NORRIS STREET, HAYMARKET
MCMXVII
Preface
This book was not intended to be published, and it is to accident that we
owe its appearance.
The author, from her childhood, followed affectionate advices and good
examples, and noted every day her impressions of everything she saw and
heard about her. She puts in these pages all the freshness and sincerity
of her woman’s heart.
Circumstances placed the author in the centre of remarkable events.
Remaining faithful to the principle of not interfering with her
husband’s business, she becomes, however, unwillingly, the spectatrix of
particularly interesting facts: the outside of war, of different centres
of Russian society, of exotic life in foreign colonies and on our remote
frontiers, including the regions of the river Amour in Eastern Siberia.
Our author does not pretend to give a thorough and complete study of
political events and society customs. But here we have vivid pictures of
different impressions which, linked together, give us a living picture
of places, events, and persons; real life in fact is delineated in this
book, which has thus become a considerable work.
The author’s innate talent, her education, her faculty of observation,
and her deep study of the best Russian and foreign writers, are the cause
of the vivid impression produced by her light and clear style. Some
portions of these studies entitled “Fragments of the Diary of a Russian
woman in Erzeroum,” were printed in one of the most famous Russian
periodicals. The welcome they received showed the author to what use she
could turn her book for her works of charity, and it is her desire to
assist the poor which gave to Barbara Doukhovskoy the idea of publishing
her “Memories,” though the great realism of them did not permit of their
publication as a whole.
Profiting by the right of having been a friend and a playmate of the
author’s husband, I insisted on the necessity of publishing this work.
Not only by the truth and the spontaneity of her impressions, but by
the profoundness of her observations and the artistic conception of the
whole, the author of this book now embellishes our literature by a work
of an exceptional and original character.
C. SLOUTCHEVSKY
Constantin Sloutchevsky, Russian poet, one of the most famous
of the end of the nineteenth century.
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
I. Early Recollections 13
II. My First Trip Abroad 19
III. My First Appearance in Society 33
IV. My Second Trip Abroad 39
V. My Second Season in St. Petersburg 42
VI. Dolgik 48
VII. In St. Petersburg Again 50
VIII. The Crimea 52
IX. Winter in St. Petersburg 56
X. The Caucasus 60
XI. Marriage 69
XII. Tiflis 73
XIII. Alexandropol 76
XIV. The Turco-Russian War 79
XV. Kars 90
XVI. On my way to Erzeroum 94
XVII. Erzeroum 98
XVIII. St. Petersburg 133
XIX. Moscow 135
XX. Our Journey Abroad 156
XXI. Boulogne-sur-mer 159
XXII. London 161
XXIII. Paris 167
XXIV. On our way to Lucerne 171
XXV. Lucerne 172
XXVI. Interlaken 179
XXVII. Montreux 182
XXVIII. Geneva 189
XXIX. Milan 192
XXX. Villa D’Este 196
XXXI. Cernobbio 199
XXXII. Venice 215
XXXIII. Florence 217
XXXIV. Rome 221
XXXV. Naples 224
XXXVI. Peissenberg 232
XXXVII. On the Rhine 236
XXXVIII. Rotterdam 238
XXXIX. London 240
XL. Moscow 248
XLI. Biarritz 250
XLII. Madrid 255
XLIII. Saragossa 257
XLIV. Barcelona 263
XLV. San Remo 265
XLVI. Paris 267
XLVII. Moscow 268
XLVIII. Copenhagen 271
XLIX. Moscow 274
L. Paris 277
LI. Trouville 282
LII. Moscow 284
LIII. A Trip to Egypt 290
LIV. Constantinople 291
LV. Athens 298
LVI. In Pharaoh Land 299
LVII. Our way Back to Russia 309
LVIII. Promotion of my Husband to the Post of
Governor-General of the Amour Province
in Siberia 313
LIX. Across the Atlantic 316
LX. New York 320
LXI. Niagara Falls 329
LXII. Chicago 332
LXIII. San Francisco 338
LXIV. Across the Pacific 340
LXV. Yokohama 347
LXVI. Tokio 352
LXVII. Kobe 356
LXVIII. Across the Inland Sea 357
LXIX. Nagasaki 359
LXX. Across the Japanese Sea 361
LXXI. Siberia—Vladivostock 362
LXXII. Our Journey to Khabarovsk 363
LXXIII. Khabarovsk 375
LXXIV. Our Voyage around the World 393
LXXV. On our way to Japan 397
LXXVI. Nagasaki 399
LXXVII. From Nagasaki to Shanghai 400
LXXVIII. Shanghai 401
LXXIX. Hong-Kong 405
LXXX. Saigon 410
LXXXI. Singapore 413
LXXXII. Java Batavia 416
LXXXIII. Singapore 421
LXXXIV. Colombo 423
LXXXV. Aden 425
LXXXVI. Suez 428
LXXXVII. Port Saïd 429
LXXXVIII. On the Mediterranean 430
LXXXIX. Marseilles 431
XC. Monte Carlo 432
XCI. Nice 433
XCII. Paris 434
XCIII. St. Petersburg—Coronation of Nicolas II 435
XCIV. Our way Back to Khabarovsk _via_ Odessa 438
XCV. Port Saïd 440
XCVI. Suez 441
XCVII. Aden 442
XCVIII. Colombo 444
XCIX. Singapore 449
C. From Singapore to Nagasaki 450
CI. Nagasaki 452
CII. Vladivostock 453
CIII. Khabarovsk 454
CIV. Back to Russia 458
CV. Vladivostock 459
CVI. Nagasaki 460
CVII. Shanghai 462
CVIII. Hong Kong 463
CIX. Canton 465
CX. Macao 468
CXI. Hong Kong 472
CXII. Saigon 474
CXIII. Singapore 475
CXIV. From Singapore to Suez 478
CXV. Suez 482
CXVI. Cairo 482
CXVII. Port Saïd 485
CXVIII. St. Petersburg 487
CXIX. Our Journey to Tashkend 489
CXX. Tashkend 495
CXXI. St. Petersburg 505
CXXII. A Short Peep at St. Petersburg and Back to
Tashkend 518
CXXIII. Paris World’s Fair 524
CXXIV. Kissingen 532
CXXV. Back to Tashkend 535
CXXVI. Definite Departure for St. Petersburg 537
Index 539
The Diary of a Russian Lady
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS
My father, Prince Theodore Galitzine, married my mother being a widower
with five children, three of whom died before my birth. My earliest vivid
recollections begin when I was two years old. I distinctly remember
feeling a terrible pain in parting with my wet-nurse, to whom I was
passionately attached. I got hold of her skirt and wouldn’t let her go,
weeping wildly. It was my first bitter affliction. I could not put up
with the new nurse, whom I hated from the depths of my little heart, and
I would not call her otherwise than _Wild Cat_, with baby petulance,
having already at that early age pronounced likes and dislikes. We were
in perpetual state of warfare. When I was about three years old that
nurse was succeeded by a pretty Belgian girl named Melle. Henriette. The
tutor of my two step-brothers, Mr. Liziar, made love to her and finished
by marrying her some time after. He seemed somewhat half-witted; by night
he went to chime the bells at the belfry of our village church in Dolgik,
a fine estate belonging to my father, in the government of Kharkoff,
and also amused himself by breaking, in the conservatory, the panes of
glass with big stones. One day he frightened his sweetheart nearly to
death by throwing a snake under her feet. After all these pranks it
is no way astonishing that Mr. Liziar finished his days in a lunatic
asylum. The tutor who succeeded him, asked my parents to bring his wife
with him. He hastened to pocket the hundred roubles taken beforehand on
account of his salary, and departed suddenly to Kharkoff to fetch her.
Meanwhile my father received a letter from this tutor’s legitimate wife
dated from St. Petersburg, in which she entreated papa to send her the
half of her husband’s monthly salary, telling him he spent all his money
on his mistress, whilst his wife and children had not a morsel of bread
to put into their mouths. Of course, this too _Don Juanesque_ tutor was
instantly dismissed.
My parents at that time kept an open house. On great occasions my smart
nurse would appear in the dining-room carrying me in her arms, attired
like a little fairy, all ribbons and lace, to be admired by our guests.
She put me down on the table, and I promenaded quite at my ease between
the flowers and fruits.
I was born under fortunate auspices, there could not be a happier
little girl; good things were thrown down upon me: presents, petting,
admiration. At an early age I chose as my motto: “_Fais ce que voudras._”
Whatever I wished for, I very certainly had, and I didn’t see how anybody
could want to refuse me in anything.
I was often sent down to the drawing-room to be admired by the afternoon
callers, and mamma ordered me to let myself be kissed by unkissable
grown-ups, who paid me those compliments shown to children, who are
precious to their parents, and which made me intolerably conceited.
I stood in great danger of being completely spoilt, and mamma, who
was afraid that I received a good deal more flattery than she thought
good for me, ordered me to answer what I was told: “_Comme Vava[1] est
jolie!_”—“_Vava n’est pas jolie, elle est seulement gentille._” But,
nevertheless, I knew that I was pretty, my glass told me so.
[1] Vava: diminutive of Barbara.
At the age of four I could read and write fairly well, and chatted freely
in French. I was immensely proud when my nurse ended putting me to bed in
the daytime, and when I was old enough to sit at table, able to handle my
knife and fork properly. My greatest delight was to ride on my brothers’
backs and to be swung by them in a sheet, that they held by the four
corners and lifted me as high as they could, whilst I crowed gleefully,
my bare legs waving happily in the air. Mamma hastened with my nurse to
my rescue, and carried me off, paying but little attention to the wild
shrieks with which I requested to be tossed higher and higher. There was
a speedy end to all this fun; destiny itself interfered to stop these
aerial gymnastics: I had a bad fall one day, tumbling out of the sheet,
and my infatuation for this sport disappeared completely.
It was a source of infinite delight to me to creep on the knees of Mr
Vremeff, an intimate friend of my parents, a charming old gentleman with
snowy white hair, and hear him relate entrancing fairy tales for which I
had an insatiable appetite. As soon as he had finished one story, I asked
for another and another.
At that time my father was marshal of nobility of the district of
Kharkoff. One day he was suddenly called to St. Petersburg, and, during
his absence, we received the news that he was appointed chamberlain to
His Majesty the Emperor. I wept bitterly when I was told that papa must
wear the chamberlain’s key, persuaded that he would be obliged to adorn
even his _robe de chambre_ with that ugly ornament, which must completely
transform my dear old dad.
[Illustration: _Princess Vava Galitzine_
_Aged 4 years._]
My parents, going to St. Petersburg, generally paid flying visits to my
aunt Galitzine, who lived in Moscow. I made my first journey with them at
the mature age of four. If the faults of children develop as they grow
older, I was to become a pickpocket, for I had the bad habit of hiding
in my pockets all sorts of broken toys belonging to the Karamzins,—two
little pupils of my aunt! When I went to bed my nurse emptied my pockets,
crying out at the enormity of my dreadful conduct.
My birthday was a great day for festivities. I received lots of lovely
presents and sweets. On the eve of my birthday I went to bed with
expectations of a pleasant awaking, and the first thing when I woke up in
the morning was to put my hand under my pillow and pull out the presents,
laid there by my parents during my sleep.
On my seventh birthday my grandmother presented me with a beautiful watch
with diamond settings. From the very first moment I harboured a guilty
determination to get the diamonds out, just as I broke my dolls’ heads in
order to see what there was in them, a resolve, alas! very soon put into
practice. Mamma entering my nursery one day saw me perched on the top
of my high stool, occupied in drawing out the diamonds with a long pin.
Moral: “It is superfluous to give such rich presents to small persons of
my age.”
The object of my first love was a simple servant-girl who lived in the
next house. Every day I watched for her, and rushing to the window I
flattened my tiny nose against the glass, and devoured her with eager
eyes.
We used to live in Kharkoff in winter and passed the summer months in
Doljik, our beautiful estate which claims to be counted amongst the
stately homes of Russia, situated forty miles distance from town. Our
removal to Doljik was a regular treat for us children, our joy and the
servants’ nuisance, for when they began to pack up, we were only in their
way, under pretence of help, poking about among the straw, scattered in
the yard, throwing it over one another whilst playing hide-and-seek.
Doljik is a delightful place. The castle, a stately white mansion of
commanding appearance, is very grand with its suite of lofty rooms;
portraits of ancestors, the former Galitzines, very good-looking all of
them, adorn the walls. The park is beautiful, with long alleys of elm
and oak and vast lawns with skilfully sorted flower-borders, I had a
doll’s house in the park, furnished with every convenience, with a garden
of my own in which I spent happy hours gardening eagerly, weeding and
watering, I also bestowed a great part of my affection on pet animals:
dogs, cats, squirrels and tame rabbits. My brothers and I were fond of
all kinds of fun; early in the morning we used to start for the meadows
with baskets to gather mushrooms for our breakfast, and went for rambles
in the woods. We also did a lot of fishing and bathing. My parents
presented me with a prefect dream of a pony. How proud I felt when I was
lifted on my “Scotchy’s” back for my first ride!
Dolls took no leading part in my childhood, and I had often wished I had
been a boy. I climbed trees and tore my frocks and engaged in all sorts
of wild pranks.
There was much excitement on my father’s birthday. The house was full
of guests, and an orchestra came down from town. At dinner when papa’s
health was drunk, two large cannons, placed at the principal entrance,
were fired, which made me crawl on my hands and knees, shamefully, under
the table. We had in the evening grand illuminations in the park, with
fireworks which did not enrapture me, for at every burst of rockets I had
to put my hands over my ears.
On the day of our village festival there was a fair on the square
opposite the church. I threw sugar-candy and handfuls of pennies to the
peasant children.
I had now passed my eighth year and the time for lessons had come. I was
given over to the care of a French governess, Melle. Rose, who was very
badly named, for she was a horrid lemon-coloured old creature, wearing a
hideous curled wig, and always looking as though she had just swallowed
a spoonful of vinegar. I hated plain people about me and could not bare
the sight of Melle. Rose, disliking her from the first. What a life I
led her! Plaguing her was a charmingly pretty sport for me. My governess
was always scolding and faultfinding; she forced me to make her every
morning and evening a low curtsey, which made me long to kick her. Melle.
Rose held up as an example to me a little friend of mine, the Princess
Mimi Troubetzkoy, who was a well-behaved child, doing credit to her
governess’s bringing up, and never giving her any trouble. But I despised
sheep-like docility and was weary of hearing of all the beautiful things
Mimi did and said.
Being deprived of the bump of respect, I did exactly what my governess
told me not to do, refusing to be put into harness. When the
fighting-blood stirred in me and made me too horribly naughty, I was
sent for punishment to bed, but I would rather be cut to pieces before
I would deign to apologise to Melle. Rose. That disagreeable person was
succeeded by Melle. Allamand, a French lady educated in England, the most
delightful of old maids, whom I loved fondly, for she was never cross,
and since she came to me, I began to understand that it was possible for
a governess to be nice, and that the term is not necessarily synonymous
to frighten and bore.
We got on very well for Melle. Allamand bore with my caprices, which
were many, I must confess. But though she was always in a good temper we
had little quarrels sometimes, which we soon made up. I studied my piano
with Melle. Allamand and learned English, which soon became a second
mother-tongue to me. When we went out walking, my governess’s soft heart
was full of pity for the poor starving homeless dogs which she picked up
in the streets and brought home to be fed; the ugliest and shabbiest had
her tenderest care. Melle. Allamand was called back to England and my
parents had to get another governess. An English young lady was engaged,
named Miss Emily Puddan. My brothers made her rage awfully in calling her
Miss Pudding. She had no authority over me whatever, being in fact rather
silly, but she was a very pleasant companion—so well up in all games. We
were enthusiastic croquet-players and had sometimes desperate quarrels,
being very near scratching each other’s eyes out. “I tell you I hit your
ball!”—“You didn’t!”—“I did!” etc., our arguments becoming very hot and
uncivil; soon we dropped our mallets and ran and complained to mamma,
both governess and pupil.
When I was past my twelfth year I grew very fond of reading the books
of the “Bibliothèque Rose.” I pitied mamma because she read deadly
uninteresting English Tauchnitz novels, when there existed such
enrapturing books as _Les petites filles modéles_, _les malheurs de
Sophie_, etc. But this childish literature did not hinder me from
flirtation. I used to long for adventures; and here I was having one,
notwithstanding that I had only just grown out of pinafores. My parents
took me sometimes to the Italian opera and I conceived a romantic
admiration for the tenor of the troop, who was, as I thought adorable
beyond words. I raved about him. When out walking with my governess, I
dragged her in the direction I knew the tenor would take, in the hope of
meeting him. I began to knit a prosaic cache-nez for the object of my
dreams, which mamma confiscated, happily, in time.
From my earliest years I had a great love for acting; we gave, from time
to time, little theatrical entertainments; we dressed up and played
fragments of Shakespeare’s dramas, and I was the leading-lady in these
rehearsals. When I took up the high tragic part of “Desdemona,” Nicolas,
the brother of my little friend Sophy Annenkoff, was the personator of
“Othello,” he sacrificed his appearance so far as to blacken his face.
During the murder scene, when the situation grew particularly tragic,
Nicolas displayed such a realism of the Shakespearian meaning, that I
began to fear being choked in reality.
I was a half-grown girl now, arrived at the age of fourteen, envied
awfully my friends, the countess Sievers and Mary Podgoritchany who were
grown-ups and wore long frocks. Some day, I said, it will be my turn to
be introduced to society. I looked forward to the day when I should reach
the age of seventeen and appear at my first ball with a long train, and
be able to flirt to my heart’s content.
I felt now that I had enough of governesses. My last one, Melle. Annaguy,
bored me awfully, being extremely particular about my manners; it was
preach, preach all day long. Melle. Anna gave me continually a string
of instructions consisting chiefly of “don’ts,” which I listened to
impatiently. I couldn’t go here, I couldn’t go there, I couldn’t eat
this, I couldn’t eat that! My governess was indeed too exasperating, and
I had a furious inclination to consign her to very warm quarters. Melle.
Anna was besides intensely devout; being very anxious about the welfare
of my soul, she crammed me with pious lectures, but books of this sort
were not in my line, and I read everything I could lay hand on. Papa’s
library was full of interesting books, and I spent whole nights greedily
devouring in bed works written by Paul de Kock, a jolly author, but
rather improper. In the morning I hid these books under my mattress. My
childhood days had passed by. Poor “Bibliothèque Rose,” thy time was well
and duly over!