ST. PETERSBURG
We are back from our exile; home in Russia! At last our wanderings have
come to an end. We have crossed the globe almost in all directions by
land and sea, but I know of no place as dear as St. Petersburg.
We are staying at the Grand Hôtel, and have had such a good time since
we came here, and no end of a better one in prospect. I feel myself free
of all constraint and etiquette; all my words and acts are not taken up
and discussed as at Khabarovsk. We were full of lovely plans for spending
the summer abroad, but man proposes and circumstances master him. We
have just been at St. Petersburg for a week, when an event occurred
which upset all our plans. My husband was offered, quite unexpectedly,
the brilliant post of Governor-General of Turkestan, a territory in
Central Asia, between Siberia and Afghanistan. He accepted the post. I
was awfully taken by the rapidity of the events—it gave me quite a shock!
All my little castles in the air have been shattered at one blow, and my
day-dreams have come to nothing. It was such a sorrow for me to leave St.
Petersburg, and a great sacrifice to give up going abroad. I am so tired
of being a bird of passage, hunting about from place to place, until I
could scream for rest, leading a life of constant travel in overheated
trains and on rolling seas. And we are obliged now to undertake another
long journey! A new existence is in store for us at the other extremity
of our spacious native country. A new home, a new life! What will it be
like? But the die is cast; there is nothing to do but submit. I must be
reasonable and look the matter fairly in the face and endeavour to take a
philosophic view of what can’t be helped.
It is said in a Persian sacred book, the “Zend-Avesta,” written two
hundred years before Christ, that Turkestan is one of the most ancient
cradles of humanity. Tashkend, our new home, is a city a thousand years
old. It was captured in 1865 by General Tsherniaeff. That country is as
big as France and England put together, and has a population of eight
millions.
The Emir of Bokhara, Saïd-Abdul-ul-Akhad-Khan, announced to my husband
by wire his forthcoming arrival at St. Petersburg. He came to call on
us, accompanied by his ministers, speechless with awe and veneration
in his presence. The Sovereign of Bokhara was very magnificently clad
in a superb khalat of brocade, a long robe cut straight, girded with a
silver sash, wearing on his head a turban studded with precious stones,
his breast adorned with decorations. When the official compliments were
exchanged, it was my turn to entertain the Emir with the aid of an
interpreter. Somewhat at a loss to open the conversation, I was trying
to think of something to say that was suitable for the situation, and
nearly began to make unnecessary announcements about the weather. In
taking leave the Emir bestowed on my husband the Bokharian Order studded
with big diamonds, and that same day there came a package for me from the
Emir, a golden case containing a beautiful necklace of massive gold of
the finest Oriental work, inlaid with precious stones.
It is impossible to postpone our journey to Tashkend any longer, my
husband being called to his new post of duty because of the disturbances
taking place in Andidjan, the capital of Fergan, a district of Turkestan.
During the night from the 17th to 18th May, a revolt burst out. A
band of Mussulmans, about 1,000 men, under the command of their ishan
Mahomet-Ali-Halif, attacked the camp of our garrison from the side of the
village Don Kishlak, adjoining the camp. The natives crept stealthily
to the first barrack in which our soldiers were sleeping peacefully,
and began to cut their throats. Starting up out of their sleep, the
men of the neighbouring barracks drove their assailants back with the
points of their bayonets. All the camp was soon astir and the Mussulmans
retreated, carrying away their wounded. The “imam,” a pilgrim from
Mecca, was one of the first to be killed, whilst he was reading the
Koran to the rioters, who, in attacking our garrison, had planned the
extermination of the whole Russian population, and putting everything to
fire and sword, after having taken possession of our camp. The agitation
in the country is settled down and active measures are taken against the
rebels. The “ishan” is sentenced to death, together with the principal
mutineers, whilst 500 natives will be exported to penal servitude to the
Isle of Saghalien. I do pity these poor fanatics! Legends are told about
this ishan; the story goes that some time before the last rebellion, a
message from the Sultan had delivered to him a venerable relic, the hair
and beard of the prophet, with the permission to commence a sacred war
against the infidels. The population of Fergan, recently submitted to
Russia, had attempted several times to raise a general rebellion against
the Russians, nourishing towards them an implacable hatred. My husband
will have to take strong measures to avoid a new outburst.