TASHKEND
At ten o’clock in the morning the train stopped at Tashkend station,
where we met a royal reception. A great crowd was on the platform and
all around the station. The courtyard was full of carriages and natives
curious to see us. I think all the inhabitants were gathered there
to stare. We mounted into our carriage, drawn by a pair of splendid
long-tailed horses which my husband had bought from the widow of the late
Governor-General. A hundred Cossacks, and a great number of natives on
horseback, escorted us from the station to our house, called a palace.
The horses flew along the streets full of people; enthusiastic cheers
resounded as we passed. We nodded to right and left. Great preparations
were made to greet us; the streets were all dressed with flags, the
windows and balconies hung with carpets and wreaths of flowers. The
photographers made the best of their opportunities and prepared their
kodaks for action. We drove fast and soon reached the cathedral, where
a Te Deum was sung in our honour. The Bishop in a few hearty words
bade us welcome to Tashkend, and pointed out to Sergy that it was the
third Asiatic country already which had been confided to him—Erzeroum,
Khabarovsk and Tashkend.
From the cathedral we walked to the palace; a very large crowd, which was
waiting outside the church, followed us.
The excitement of the day had utterly exhausted me. I had gone to rest,
and slept the sleep of the weary and the just, when the Grand Duke called
upon my husband and asked him to give me a beautiful bouquet of roses,
freshly cut by the Grand Duke from the garden of his palace, bound with
a sand-coloured ribbon, the emblem of the Starving Plain, which was also
welcoming me.
On the next day after our arrival, Sergy, surrounded by a brilliant
escort of generals and officers, gave audience, as representative of
His Imperial Majesty Nicolas II., to the members of Municipal Council,
wearing voluminous turbans, who presented to him different deputations.
First came a deputation of native notables who delivered to my husband
the sum of four thousand roubles, all in gold, offered by the natives
for the benefit of the bereaved families of the soldiers killed during
the mutiny in Andidjan. They asked Sergy to transmit many expressions of
loyalty to the Tzar, as well as their profound indignation on account of
the murder of our soldiers. Sergy promised to carry out their wishes,
but when the deputies began to comb their beards with their fingers,
expressing their satisfaction by sounds reminding one of the howls of
wild beasts, my husband, who knew that they were not to be trusted
for all their promises and soft speeches, told them, by the aid of an
interpreter, that he would take great care that they should keep their
word to the very letter. He said besides that the Tzar had more than one
hundred and fifty million subjects, and such numbers of soldiers that, in
case of a new rebellion, a whole battalion could easily be quartered in
every village of Turkestan. The deputies’ faces showed disappointment,
and fell several degrees. Whence came the representatives of a deputation
from the Hindoo colony established at Tashkend, fire-worshippers and
traders most of them, bizarre-looking individuals dressed in a sort
of long frock-coat, with black velvet caps on their heads? After the
presentation was over, Sergy visited the Mussulman quarters of the town
and gave his portrait to some of the most notable natives. One of the
“imams,” who could express himself in Russian pretty well, said to my
husband that up to the present the inhabitants of Tashkend celebrated
yearly two great feasts—the _Ramadan_ and the _Bairam_—but henceforth,
after Sergy’s appearance amongst them, they would celebrate a third
one—his visit to them. For flattering words the Oriental people have not
their equal.
Our house is furnished with every luxury one can imagine. There is a fine
suite of state rooms with beautiful tapestry and pictures. A sitting-room
is coloured mosaic, the ball-room of immense size, with full-length
portraits of our Imperial Family hung on the walls, is capable of
accommodating about three hundred persons. In the library long tables are
covered with illustrated magazines and papers. The centre of the house is
topped with a dome of glass; under it is a large winter garden full of
beautiful palms and flourishing plants. In the middle of it a fountain
bubbled up in a basin of white marble. The house is surrounded by
extensive grounds with long shady alleys; it is cool under them even in
the most intense heat. Kiosques, grottos and rustic bridges are scattered
here and there. A water-fall, three metres high, rushes into a reservoir
just opposite my bedroom windows. The gardens are overloaded with fruit,
peaches, grapes, apricots, melons, ripening on every side. In Turkestan,
fruit of all kind abounds; peaches and apricots are here a common food
for pigs. White and black swans swim in the broad arik (canal) winding
like a river in the park. A troop of deer walk about freely on the
meadows; they come up and examine us fearlessly. About a dozen foxes live
at the end of the park, in a large den formerly occupied by a family of
bears. In a big cage walk peacocks who wake me every morning by their
piercing shrieks.
Our park is a veritable labyrinth; it is surrounded by a wall twenty feet
high. Sergy lost himself when he went out riding in the park for the
first time.
Our numerous household is cosmopolitan; it consists of Sartes, Tartars,
Poles, Cossacks and Germans. At twelve o’clock punctually, when the
cannon is fired from the citadel, the head-butler, a very solemn
personage, comes to announce that luncheon is on the table. He wears a
Bokharian decoration and looks very important with his star. A smart
waiter arrayed in a magnific “khalat” attends behind my husband’s chair.
The aide-de-camps and functionaries on duty are invited to lunch and
dinner every day.
The balcony of my bedroom looks out into the park. I used to lounge there
for hours in a rocking-chair after dinner. The steps of the sentinel,
walking to-and-fro with his gun on his shoulder, were sharply audible. I
did not move, I was so cosy here, listening to the monotonous splash of
the fountain and the gentle rustling of the wind amongst the branches of
the trees. The light breeze brought me the perfume of flowers; from the
garden came the scent of heliotropes from a bed beneath the balcony. My
thoughts flew away—far, very far, to darling St Petersburg.
For two days the rain never ceased pouring; there are mud-pools of water
everywhere. When the sun had sufficiently dried the streets, we went for
a drive through the town, escorted by a platoon of Cossacks. We drove
through wide, tree-shaded streets. The flat-topped houses, generally not
more than a storey high, are covered with verdure. It is dangerous to
build high edifices in the country because of the frequent earthquakes.
We were in the hottest part of the day and saw but few people in the
streets. From noon to four o’clock the inhabitants of Tashkend take
their siesta. When the heat decreases, the native quarters begin to
fill with life and local colour. We drove along arcaded streets like
narrow corridors towards the bazaar, passing by numerous “tschai-khans”
(tea-houses), and were saluted on our passage by profound salaams; the
natives pass their hands over their faces and beards, a gesture which
signifies that their sentiments towards us are as clear as a well-washed
face. Steady-handed barbers are shaving customers on the threshold
of their shops. Vociferating sellers sit on low tables behind piles
of fruit and vegetables. Imperturbable and passive Sartes, sitting
cross-legged on rugs, smoke their kalyans and appear to be plunged in
profound meditation. Here is a group of “douvanas” (Mecca pilgrims)
wearing sharp-pointed caps; they are listening to a “maddah” (street
story-teller). The Sarte women leave their houses hidden beneath their
“farandja,” a dark mantle which covers them from head to foot, and makes
them look like guys. They follow more strictly than any other daughters
of the Orient the principles of the Mussulman religion, and cover their
faces with black horse-hair nets. I have seen veiled Turkish women at
Constantinople, but in such a transparent manner, that they differed
but little from our European ladies wearing slight veils over their
hats. At Cairo the veils are thicker, but for that, the Egyptian women
leave their eyes uncovered. The Mussulman women in India go out in the
streets unveiled, just the same as our Kirghis women. The natives are
very fond of music; in every tent of the nomad tribes, in every “khaoul”
(house) one can see a two-stringed instrument called “doutarra,” a
sort of guitar. The Sarte makes even of his “arba,” a massive cart, an
instrument of barbaric music, putting a stick into the wheels, so that
the stick catching the spokes, reproduces the sound of the drum, which
resounds through the streets of Tashkend, to the accompaniment of the
monotonous singing of the proprietor of the “arba,” a wailing, winding
chant which, as it had no end, may well have had no beginning. The Sarte
sings always in a high-pitched voice, for to sing in a basso voice is
considered unbecoming. The “arba” is put upon two enormous wooden wheels
and driven by one horse, on whose back sits astride the carter, his legs
stretched on the shafts. The Sartes never grease their “arbas,” and the
noise produced by these screeching wheels compose a terrible discord,
accompanied by the piercing cry of the camels, and the howling of vagrant
dogs.
The Sartes are perfectly indifferent to the change of temperature;
neither heat nor cold affects them in any way. They have no stoves in
their houses; a hole in the floor is the family cooking place, and an
opening is broken through the roof for the emission of smoke.
The streets are watered several times a day, which lays the dust,
but contributes also to increase pernicious fevers. The climate is
very unwholesome in Turkestan; immediately after sunset it becomes so
damp that it is dangerous to remain out of doors. In June the heat is
intolerable.
I held a reception once a week; between two and five about a hundred
persons would pass through our saloons. The day I held my first
reception, the large drawing-room was crowded with guests. I had to take
up the subject of politics and be amiable to everyone. I was so tired
with having had to talk all the time that my tongue, having refused to
obey me, I said good-bye instead of good-afternoon to a belated visitor.
The Grand-Duke was amongst our guests and gained my sympathy at once. He
is not a bit haughty and altogether charming, and I felt perfectly at
ease with him. He is such a nice-looking man, towering nearly a head over
everyone. When taking leave the Duke asked me to come and drink a cup of
chocolate the next day. He was awfully amiable to me, and took me all
over his palace—a veritable museum. Amongst other curiosities he showed
me a watch made by Briguet, which goes without being wound up. It is
put into the pocket, and after you have taken a few steps, the watch is
already set going for twenty-four hours. There exists only two examples
of such watches; Briguet valued them at ten thousand francs each.
Alexander II. possessed the first one. Being free from all household
management, I feel myself on a visit here. The first days of my arrival,
I did not know how to while away the time, wishing for even the mildest
adventure, something that would put a little spice into the insipidity
of our lives. I would like a row now and then just to enliven things a
little. For distraction I tried to pick a quarrel with Sergy, making
tragedies of pure nonsense, but it takes two to make a quarrel, and
Sergy is a man of peace and is a desperately calm person, and finds it
necessary for the sake of domestic quiet to put up with all my tempers;
nothing could put him out of patience.
Every day I grew more and more home-sick. I often was in tears, not
taking interest in anything. The awful climate was injurious to my
health. I have no appetite, no sleep. The pink has gone out of my cheeks.
Someone had cast an evil eye upon me to be sure. I’ve got so thin and
pale that I am afraid to look at myself in the glass. Sergy, who reads my
face, which is a mirror of all passive emotions, like a familiar book,
grew alarmed and called in a doctor, but no doctor’s prescriptions were
any good for my complaint. Mephistopheles whispered into my ear that
instead of making me swallow horrid mixtures, the best remedy for me
would be to fly back to Petersburg, but I have decided not to let myself
be tempted by the enemy of mankind. At the end of a month I began to feel
myself at home.
I work hard at my book and give much time to my English concertina. This
melodious instrument leads to the transmission of the most difficult
violin literature. I am passionately fond of music; having inherited that
passion from my father who had the true artistic temperament and was a
gifted musician and a splendid pianist.
The life that I had to lead was entirely out of my line. I hate state
receptions, state manners; grandeurs weigh heavily upon me, and etiquette
to the laws of which I must submit. I have got a court like a little
queen, everyone is charming to me, but I, ungrateful being, should have
liked warm friendship far better than respectful homage. I had hundreds
of acquaintances, and not a single intimate friend, and I was badly in
need of one. I hated my reception days when callers flocked in on us,
and I had to talk to people, only for the sake of talking, pretending to
be pleased when all the time I want to say “Oh, do go away!” One of the
disadvantages of being the wife of a Governor-General was the necessity
of suffering bores gladly. As soon as the clock struck six, and the last
guest had departed, I hastened to step down from my pedestal and put on
with delight my dressing-gown and stretch myself in an easy chair. How
I long to get away from all these ties of public life, to stay at St.
Petersburg and live the life of a simple mortal, independent, and apart
from the so-called world, and be free of all pomp. But there is no use my
thinking about it. It’s silly to want the moon.
I am selected for President of the Benevolent Society of the city of
Tashkend. The meetings of the committee are held in our house. I presided
at a long table covered with green cloth. At the first assembly I felt
timid and embarrassed for many eyes were on me, and for the moment I
almost forgot how to get on with the formal little speech I had learned
so carefully. I was grateful when Sergy, who sat opposite to me, came to
my relief and did all the talking for me. All at once my courage returned
to me, and I took an animated part in the project to found an asylum
for old men and women. It was decided to organise for that purpose a
great charity feast with theatricals, bazaar, tombola, and what not! I
issued about 700 invitations, with an indirect allusion to the subject of
offerings which I claimed for the forthcoming lottery.
The opening of the new asylum was celebrated with great pomp. The
Directress of the establishment hurried forward to meet us and led us
straight to the chapel where a Te Deum was sung, after which we were
shown through the asylum, containing 600 old people of both sexes. It
gave also shelter to an officer’s daughter who was not quite right in
her mind. Her bridegroom had been mixed up in some political affair and
sent to the galleys and she had gone mad from the shock. The poor insane
woman is barely thirty years old, but looks fifty at least, arrayed in
a costume which our grandmothers wore in their youth. She leads a very
secluded life, and never speaks to anyone. We saw her walking in the
garden her eyes fixed on the ground, pretending not to see us.
On that same day we visited an asylum for the lunatics. The whole staff
of doctors came up to meet us. We walked first to the women’s section.
The patients were wandering in the park in groups. One of them came up
to my husband to entreat him to release her, asserting that she was in
perfect health, but would certainly go raving mad if she was forced to
spend one more night in such company. That woman had come a few days ago
to ask Sergy to permit her to embrace the Mussulman religion. She told
him also that in hatred of one of the high dignitaries of the city, she
had written to him, that she cursed him and all his family. It appeared
she bought a revolver with the intention of shooting him. She was seized
in time, luckily, and brought into this lunatic asylum to test her
sanity. Another insane creature, grinning idiotically, approached me and
stared at me from head to foot. She became very fierce all at once, and
began to abuse me, calling me all sorts of bad names, and accused me
of having stolen her best frock. When we approached the section of the
raving lunatics, roars and shouts reached our ears. Though trembling with
fear I would not be led away and kept tight hold of Sergy’s arm, clinging
fast to him. Behind an iron-barred window we saw a horrible moustached
creature, standing with her arms folded across her chest, glaring
ferociously at us with an expression so malignant, that Satan would
have been jealous of her. She believes herself to be a man and becomes
terribly agitated when she sees a woman. She beckoned to me suddenly
making dreadful gestures and demoniac grimaces. Sergy hurried me away. We
made but a short visit to the men’s section. We saw a man mad with love
for the Empress. The poor maniac writes long letters every day to his
lady-love, but receiving no answer, he guesses that everybody plays him
false and that his letters are not sent. He was lying on his bed when we
approached him and turned suddenly his face to the wall and his back to
us. I heaved a sigh of relief when we left these sad quarters.
In July great festivals were arranged to celebrate the twenty-third
anniversary of the taking of Tashkend. There was a parade of troops on
the square before the palace, after which my husband proceeded to the
tomb of our soldiers killed during the siege of the town and laid a
wreath on their grave.
We gave a grand dinner that same day for about one hundred guests. An
amusing incident occurred during this meal. Among the guests there
were some important natives who had come from the end of the country.
One of these men, who had never tasted European cooking, took a pot of
mustard for a separate dish, and swallowed a whole spoonful of it. He
naturally gasped, choked, whilst tears ran in rivulets down his cheeks.
His neighbour at table, who had not noticed the proceeding with the
mustard, asked him the cause of his grief. The native, heaving a deep
sigh, answered that he had just called to mind his deceased father, and
that to-day was the anniversary of his death; he had been drowned in
the Amou-Daria, whilst sailing on the river in a small boat. Meanwhile
his left hand neighbour, a compatriot of his, had followed his example,
having also regaled himself with mustard, and with the same consequences,
of course. The son of the drowned man was wickedly rejoiced at his
blunder, and asked in his most velvety tone, “Why does my brother cry?”
“Because I regret that thou did’st not disappear beyond the mysterious
regions of the Amou-Daria together with thy father!” was the cunning
reply. Everybody laughed when the interpreter translated this dialogue
between the two natives.
Our life had many dark moments. There had been a great excitement these
last few days; bad news had arrived, a new rebellion was apprehended. We
stood on a volcano that might explode at any moment; the only thing to
ask ourselves was when will it begin to pour out its flames. Anonymous
letters, splashed with blood, announced to my husband that on the night
of the 30th July, a holy war would break out. What troublesome times we
are living through!
One side of our park is joined to the native quarters of the town, and a
little shiver ran down my back each time the clear voice of the muezzin
chanted from the minaret of the neighbouring mosque, calling the faithful
to prayer: “_Allah il Allah_.” (There is no God but God.)
Though things had looked serious for some time, they seemed to have
quieted down again. Thanks to energetic means, the agitation in the
country was soon calmed down.
When Autumn arrived, I started for St. Petersburg. It was arranged that
my husband was to rejoin me in a few weeks’ time, and that we should
return together to Tashkend in the Spring. I hated to part from Sergy; I
shall want him horribly, but I must see to the publishing of the first
part of my book and end the last part; absolute quiet is essential for
rapid work. Our separation would not be a very prolonged one, and Sergy
was to write every day.
August 9th.—My husband had to go on business to Bokhara and Andidjan, the
place of the recently appeased mutiny. I will profit by it by making a
part of the journey with him.
We started to-day at ten o’clock in the morning. The station was quite
full. All the military and civil authorities of the town, and all the
members of the committee of the Benevolence Society, came to wish me a
happy journey and safe return. I had to shake hands with such a lot of
people that my glove burst in several places, and I received such a lot
of bouquets that they were hard to hold; the supply of beautiful flowers
in my car made it look like a flower-shop.
August 11th.—This morning I had to part with Sergy and we went each our
several ways. My car was coupled to the express, and when the time for
parting with my husband came, I cried so awfully that I had to borrow
Sergy’s pocket-handkerchief. It was a very painful moment and I found it
hard to tear myself away; it seemed as if we could never finish saying
good-bye. The guide gave the signal and the train moved off. Soon Sergy’s
face was out of sight and I was left to my thoughts and to my loneliness.
The knowledge that the train was bearing me further and further from
Sergy, and that every moment was increasing the distance between us, made
me wild. I threw myself back in the corner of the carriage and had a good
cry.
I am well taken care of. Sergy had given me into the charge of one of his
aide-de-camps who was going to Krasnovodsk, and asked him to take me to
the steamer.
August 12th.—The same scenery is repeated with fatiguing uniformity; the
desolate sun-baked desert spread out, and the yellow steppes joined with
the horizon. The journey seems to last ages.
August 13th.—The heat is not so intense to-day. The sky is grey and big
drops of rain begin to fall. At 8 o’clock in the morning we arrived at
Krasnovodsk, where I was received by the agent of the steamboat company,
an old admiral retired from the service. The _Tropic_, a boat built in
England, was reserved for my crossing. I have the best cabin; a placard
placed over the door bears the following inscription in English: “To
accommodate four seamen,” but one could easily place a dozen of men in
it. It proves to what an extent the English consider the comfort of their
sailors.
I went to my lonely bed in rather a depressed frame of mind. Sleep would
not come. I was seized with an ungovernable longing to see Sergy, to hear
his voice, and my mind was filled with only one thought I must go back!
It was too late to turn back now. The captain came at the door to wish me
good-night, but it was rather a mockery, under the circumstances, for I
never closed my eyes, thanks to my blue devils and the horrid rolling of
the boat.
August 14th.—We had very rough weather in the night and were dancing
all the time on formidable waves; our boat was creaking in every joint.
I heard the sailors running on the upper-deck and the watch-officer
shouting orders in a voice of thunder. What did all this uproar mean? In
a terrible fright I jumped out of bed and dressing speedily hurried on
deck. It was our boat changing its course and going out into the open sea
instead of following the shore to avoid the breakers. The captain came
to tell me that I had nothing to be afraid of and could go to sleep in
security. He promised for to-morrow a sea as calm as a lake.
The captain is awfully nice to me, and performs an endless series
of little attentions, looking to my comfort. He has, as it appears,
the intention to fatten me up like the cattle destined for the
slaughter-house, but sea-sickness takes away all my appetite.
August 15th.—The distant coasts of the Caucasus appear like a grey
outline. Towards ten o’clock in the morning the _Tropic_ landed us at
Petrovsk five hours behind time. The captain insisted upon my passage
being free, which cost me a great deal more in tips for the crew. He
accompanied me with his officers to the railway-station.