ST. PETERSBURG
August 18th.—It was pouring with rain this morning when we arrived at St.
Petersburg. My mother was at the station to meet me, and took me to the
new house my husband had bought in one of the most fashionable quarters
of the city.
I had a letter four pages long from Sergy, full of interesting detail
about his interview with the Emir at Kermineh, and of his journey to
Andidjan, where the recent mutiny had taken place. A crowd of prostrated
figures, their faces against the ground, were awaiting his arrival. After
a Te Deum sung on the square before the cathedral, my husband distributed
to the wounded soldiers a whole lot of crosses of the order of St.
George, whilst cannons were fired. From Andidjan Sergy travelled on to
Asch, a town situated near the frontier of the Pamir, in a mountainous
region named The Roof of the World. An old Kirghise woman, called The
Queen of the Alai, aged 87, came up to my husband supported by her two
sons, white-bearded old men. This Asiatic Princess reminded one of the
antique “Mother of the Gracchi.” A few days after his return to Tashkend
Sergy received the visit of the heir to the throne of Khiva.
I saw no visitors and went nowhere, working hard at my book till late
in the night, keeping awake with black coffee. At the end of the week I
found solitude intolerable and began to feel awfully dull. Every day was
the same, the hours seemed years. It was so hard to be alone here! I had
seldom experienced much of my own society and was sick of my own company.
Sergy being absent, the world seemed one great blank. I never had him out
of my thoughts for one minute. Sometimes I had the impulse to take the
first train and fly back to Tashkend.
October had passed and Sergy did not come. I bombarded him with desperate
letters full of exclamation points, always putting the stereotyped
question when he would arrive.
I read in the papers that the plague had broken out near Samarkand,
carrying away every day a great many victims, and that the Prince of
Oldenbourg was going there with a medical expedition. I was getting
awfully anxious about Sergy and felt tempted to throw up everything
and rush back to him. I had the most awful dreams and imagined all
sorts of calamities and spoiled my eyes with tears, having only one
thought, to rejoin my husband. I could endure my suspense no longer
and telegraphed to Sergy, imploring him to let me come to Tashkend. I
waited with feverish impatience for his permission to start instantly,
but my husband, who never refused me in trifles, did not give in when
it concerned serious matters. He would not hear of this; he firmly
opposed my arrival, and wired to me to be reasonable and have patience;
but patience, alas, was contrary to my temperament. My hundred and one
wishes were always fulfilled until now, and when it has come to the
hundred and second wish—stop? Oh on! Sergy’s opposition made me only
the more obstinately determined to have my own way. I despatched him a
long letter, an ultimatum in fact. I wrote that if he did not arrive at
St Petersburg in the course of a fortnight, I should start to Tashkend
without awaiting his permission. I worried Sergy till I finally got him
to consent to my going over to rejoin him. My maid brought me a telegram
from my husband with my tea one morning. I opened it, and read one word.
“Come!” I wanted to leave at once in spite of mother and some friends who
tried to make me understand the danger I was running in going to meet the
plague; but I am a fatalist and fear nothing. All their persuasions fell
on stony ground. If they think that they will stop me, they are very much
mistaken; no consideration of wisdom will ever induce me not to do what
I want to do. I would not hear reason and was in a hurry to go back to
Tashkend. With me to think has always been to act. The sooner I start the
better.
October 17th.—I am off to Tashkend to-day, with Maria Michaelovna and
my maid Mina. All the cars of our train are occupied by the members of
the medical expedition sent to Tashkend to fight against the plague. It
consists of forty doctors and ten sisters of mercy. The rain is coming
down in torrents, but when I felt happy I was not in the least aware that
the sun was not shining, and I am so happy now to rejoin Sergy! Our train
is an express and rushes past nearly all the stations. We hadn’t time for
dinner and snatched a sandwich at a railway buffet, that had probably
been waiting more than a week for travellers to arrive.
October 21st.—We are at Petrovsk at ten o’clock in the morning. I saw the
_Tzarevitch_, a great ship ready for sea, with steam up, making ready to
cast off and be gone; the gang way was just about to be withdrawn when we
got on board.
I am again on the hateful element. The sea is covered with foam, the wind
blows impetuously, rising in enormous billows. We have to struggle both
with the hurricane and the swift current which does not permit us to
approach the coasts of Derbent where we had to put in. I suffer a great
deal from sea-sickness, although I have made three voyages round the
world. All the passengers look green and miserable.
October 22nd.—At eleven o’clock we arrived at Baku, where a very
disagreeable surprise awaited us. We have to leave the boat and go over
to the _Prince Bariatinsky_, a poor little thing, little more than a
yacht. The _Tzarevitch_ is retained for the Prince of Oldenbourg.
We made ourselves as comfortable as we could in our stuffy little cabin.
Towards evening we entered a dense fog, and could not see four paces
ahead. The captain does not leave the poop, and every five minutes the
fog-horn throws piercing shrieks into the black night.
October 23rd.—At daybreak the fog cleared away. The sea is quite smooth.
We are going full speed, making fifteen knots an hour.
At ten o’clock we entered the port of Krasnovodsk. My car was attached to
the express of the Prince of Oldenbourg, who arrived in the afternoon on
the _Tzarevitch_. Before starting the Prince sent his aide-de-camp to ask
if I could receive him. I replied that I felt very tired for the moment
but hoped that I should be able to see His Highness during our long
railway journey.
October 25th.—I found a telegram from Sergy waiting for me at Kermineh,
telling me by what train he would meet me at the station of Kata-Kourgan.
I am happy, happy, happy!
We had a long time to wait at Kermineh because the Emir had come to see
the Prince of Oldenbourg, and our train was not due to start for two
mortal hours. I must just have patience and wait, but as patience is an
unknown word in my vocabulary, I grumbled awfully at the delay. This time
I travelled incognito and was left in peace; my blinds were scrupulously
drawn down. Trying to shorten the hours that separated me from my
husband, I went to bed directly after dinner. Oh, I wish it was to-morrow!
October 26th.—It was only in the middle of the night that we arrived at
Kata-Kourgan, where Sergy’s waggon was joined to our train. I can’t find
words to express my joy!
It was about eleven o’clock when we stopped at the station of Samarkand.
Everywhere was the smell of pungent disinfectant. We are going to remain
two days here. Sergy put up at the house of General Fedoroff, Governor of
Samarkand. The town is ten miles from the station, but I prefer to remain
in my car, standing alone in a side-track of the line. The road leading
to the station was illuminated at night with different coloured lanterns
hanging from the trees.
October 27th.—The chief of the station, who took care of my sleep, and
was afraid that I should be aroused by the shrieks of the manœuvring
engines, gave order to the engine-drivers to moderate their transports
when blowing their whistles.
The Medical Expedition has arrived this morning. Four lady-physicians,
accompanied by twelve sisters of mercy, called upon me in the afternoon.
They told me that a part of the expedition had been sent to Anzob, a
pestilence-stricken village, and got there with great difficulty. There
was no carriage-road and they had to make their way by precipitous paths
in the mountains.
My husband proposed to the Medical Expedition to organise an ocular
ambulatory inspection during their stay at Samarkand which was especially
necessary in this country, where eye-diseases predominate, thanks to the
rare and superficial connection of the natives with water. Their famous
religious ablutions consist in the submersion of their hands in a vase
filled with water of doubtful cleanliness, in which they wash away their
sins; and after that they dash the water over their faces, and it happens
sometimes that a whole crowd of natives have already performed their
ablutions in that basin of water! One can easily imagine the hygiene of
this ceremony.
October 28th.—This morning a group of Asiatic princes were presented
to my husband in his railway-car; amongst them there was the pretender
to the throne of Afghanistan Isaac-Khan—leading his little son by the
hand. Before that Prince several pretenders to the throne of Afghanistan
had chosen Samarkand for their residence, amongst them the famous
Abdurakham, who, after having been raised to the throne, had shown his
gratitude to the friendliness of the Russians, by playing false. Under
pain of death, the entrance of Russian subjects into his territory
was forbidden. Isaac-Khan is poor as a rat; he is living on a petty
allowance of the Russian government, and though he has very little hope
of succeeding to the throne of Afghanistan, he brings up his son as if
the throne would belong to him one day or other. When the boy is asked
who he is, he answers with an air of great importance: “I am Grand
Sirdar” (General-in-Chief), but for the moment his army consists only
of half a dozen ragged servants. I took an instinctive dislike to his
father, and saw “Borgia” written all over him. In fact I believe the
prince a man capable of anything, and though honied words come readily
to his lips, his eyes flash an evil look, and hardly ever meet those of
the person with whom he talks. There was something in his appearance
which distinctly alarmed me. He would have made a perfect villain in a
melodrama, with a beard growing almost reaching his eyes. It was not a
face that one would care to meet when alone in the dark. Amongst the
exotic princes I saw the suzerain of a small principality, who after
having become a Russian subject, received as recompense the grade of
major. He wears a “khalat” with Russian epaulettes, girded with a
green sash, a sign that he is a descendant of the Prophet. When the
presentations ended, my husband distributed medals and “khalats” to the
native notables who came up to him preparing their most engaging smiles.
After having received their gift, they retired backwards murmuring
profuse thanks and touching their forehead, mouth and heart, contriving
to stimulate on their faces sentiments of profound gratitude, though
nourishing a profound hatred towards the Russians. From these treacherous
people one can expect anything; it is an eternal armed-peace with them.
October 30th.—At ten o’clock precisely we arrived at Tashkend-station. My
unexpected arrival was welcomed with joy and cordiality. I distributed my
nods and smiles on each hand; the back of my neck was sore with bowing.
Energetic measures are being taken to check the progress of the epidemic.
The plague is daily decreasing, and the Emperor charged the Prince of
Oldenbourg to thank my husband for the energetic measures he had taken to
battle with it.
The first leaves begin to fall and the park looks very dismal. The
weather is horrible, the sky leaden-grey. I hear the monotonous wail of
the wind and the rain beating against the window-panes.
This time my stay at Tashkend was but a very short one. At the end of a
fortnight I was on my way back to St. Petersburg.
November 12th.—When I arrived at Samarkand, a telegram from the Emir
was brought to me. The Asiatic Sovereign asked to be warned in advance,
so that I could be received with fitting ceremony at Kermineh where he
wanted to meet me, but I refused and begged him by wire not to trouble
himself, because we passed Kermineh by night.
November 14th.—The Amou-Daria is very low at this season. The big river
in several places forms wide sandbanks, and this time I was not a bit
afraid to cross the bridge.
November 16th.—We arrived this morning at Krasnovodsk, where I took my
passage on the _Korniloff_. The weather is bright and clear; the sea is
shining in the sun, promising us a favourable crossing.
November 17th.—The wind has changed during the night, bringing bad
weather. After dinner the captain came to ask how I was and told me that
the lights of Petrovsk had been sighted, and that another half-hour will
find us on shore. We had four hours to wait before the train started.
November 21st.—I arrived safe and sound at St. Petersburg, having had
quite enough of railway and sea.
Our capital was very animated this season: soirées, dinners, concerts,
the whirl went on, but I shut myself within four walls and scarcely saw
anyone, I can’t enjoy anything when Sergy is not there. I am reckoned as
being eccentric in leading the life of a nun in her cell—a very spacious
one, it is true—but I have a sublime indifference to public opinion,
having my own way of looking at things, and am not, as a rule, meddling
with other people’s business; why do they meddle with mine? I am free
of my own actions, and can do as I like, I suppose! Goethe says: “The
happiest of mortals is he who finds his happiness in his own home.” I
can, therefore, be placed among the happy ones.
It is music which is my passion. In my spare moments I had some lessons
on the guitar, but I soon put an end to them, the cords of the instrument
hurting my fingers. Then I bought a cithern, the cords of which hurt me
still more, and resolved to give myself up, as before, to the concertina.
At last I decided to come out of my shell and went sometimes to theatres
and concerts. Volodia Rougitzki, a gifted boy-pianist of thirteen,
enchanted me by his performance of the works of Chopin, Liszt and
Rubinstein. I wonder if this “Wunderkind” will ever become a “Wundermann!”
Antonine Kontski came to St. Petersburg to give a concert. He had a
tremendous success; the audience was enthusiastic and the applause was
deafening. I enjoyed his concert a great deal and applauded so much that
I split my gloves. For the last encore the audience demanded “Le Réveil
du Lion,” one of Kontski’s masterpieces. Then the old mæstro returned and
bowed to the wildly excited people and said: “My Lion is weary, he is
going to bed, but next week I’ll bring out my wild animal, if you still
desire to hear his roaring.”
My husband is promoted to the rank of General-in-Chief. He was
Brigadier-General when I married him, and it is now the third and last
rank that I enjoy with him.
In the middle of December Sergy sent me a telegram to say that he had
taken a six months’ leave. We decided to spend Christmas in Mertchik, the
beautiful estate belonging to my husband’s elder brother, situated in
the government of Kharkoff. I started for Mertchik to meet Sergy in the
highest of spirits. A week later, we were both back to St. Petersburg.
When Spring came on, I began to learn to ride the bicycle. After some
inevitable tumbles, I soon surmounted the difficulties of this sport.
May 17th.—The day of our departure for Tashkend has come. This time we
decided to steam down the Volga from Nijni-Novgorod to Astrakhan. When we
arrived at Nijni-Novgorod we went straight to the boat. Numerous porters
with heavy loads on their backs invaded the deck; they are able to bear
extraordinary burdens. We saw a man carrying a piano, coming up a narrow
plank on to our steamer, just as easily as a world-famed athlete would
have performed it.
Our boat has weighed anchor. The weather is beautiful. After dinner
we lay stretched on our rocking-chairs on deck, inhaling with delight
the fresh evening breeze; sea-gulls followed us. An obliging sailor,
a good-looking sun-tanned young fellow, brought me big lumps of black
bread to feed them. We ply between two low and flat banks, only reeds
round about and fishing men’s huts here and there. I must say, though
it is not very patriotic of me, that the Volga is not to be compared to
the romantic Rhine, which, in its turn, is not to be compared to the
lovely shores of the Amour, one of the most beautiful rivers in the
world. During our numerous voyages we had seen the Mississippi, the
Yan-tze-Kiang, the river of Saint Lawrence and many other big rivers, and
I find that the Amour surpasses them all by the beauty of its banks.
May 18th.—This morning we arrived at Kazan. Large barges come up to
unload our cargo of coal. We remained here till six o’clock and Sergy
went to see the Governor of the city, having to discuss different
questions concerning the Mussulmans, who compose the ninth part of the
population of Russia. The principal centre of their domicile is the
Caucasus, Crimea, Turkestan and the Government of Kazan. At first sight
it seems that the Mussulmans of Turkestan and those of Kazan differ
widely in conditions and characteristics. They have different histories,
and last but not least, quite different modes of life, but in reality it
is not so, the dream of the splendour and glory of their Prophet unites
them all. That refers not only to the Mussulmans inhabiting Russia, but
just as much to the millions of believers peopling India, Turkey and
other Mussulman countries. The task of administering equal justice to
Moslems and Christians is a difficult one. The Mussulmans are all clever
diplomatists from their youth. Talleyrand said that the tongue was given
to the man to hide his thoughts, and the Mussulmans, who have understood
it long before him, profit largely by this principle. I was present at
an interesting interview which took place between my husband and some
Buriate syndics during our travel through the Transbaikalia provinces;
they were Buddhists all of them. The interview took place soon after
the nomad Buriates were placed on a level with the Russian population,
perhaps not quite to the satisfaction of the Buriates. When Sergy asked
them if they were satisfied with the change of their social position,
the syndics replied frankly that they were but tolerably pleased. With
these people one could come to an understanding somehow, but it is quite
different with the Mussulmans. This is a discourse that my husband held
with a group of Moslem syndics who were presented to him in one of his
voyages in the provinces of Turkestan, all standing with sweeping salaams
from floor to forehead, their turbaned heads bent low. Sergy’s words were
translated into their native tongue by an interpreter: “Do you remember
the everlasting wars you had in the time when you were under the dominion
of your khans, when nobody knew that, leading a peaceful and easy-going
life to-day, your blood would not be shed to-morrow? Do you not feel
happier now, when the labourer can gather in his harvest quietly, and
the merchant sell his wares in safety?” And all the syndics, smoothing
their long white beards, replied in chorus: “_Hosch, Taksir!_” (It is
true, master) “Do you remember that not long ago spears were driven into
you and that you were condemned to death without any judgment? Are you
punished now without any plausible cause?” “_Hosch, Taksir!_” asserted
the syndics bowing very low. “Did your administrators ever build schools,
hospitals, nicely-paved roadways? Did they give you an impartial court of
justice, and incorruptible functionaries?” At these last words a swift
change swept over their faces, with a malicious smile they exchanged a
look, and their countenances again remained expressionless, as if carved
in wood, and the same stereotype answer was heard: “_Hosch, Taksir!_” And
only accidentally, you could learn from the junior natives, that their
elders remembered with veneration the time when they were not sure of
the following day and when they were pierced through with spears. They
weren’t in want of any innovation either, provided that their “Crescent”
should be glorified everywhere. In such conditions, when the population
does not come to meet the enterprises of the administration, all the
measures concerning the Mussulmans, scattered about Russia, must be taken
by the administrators. It is precisely on this subject that my husband
had conferred with the Governor of Kazan, whilst I pined alone in my
stuffy cabin.
As soon as Sergy returned on board, we continued our way. The smell of
naphtha pursues us. The surface of the water is covered with large spots
of naphtha all the colours of the rainbow. It is pretty to look at, but
this substance is injurious to the fish; the best species of which have
disappeared from the Volga.
The night is splendid, the sky is all studded with stars, and I have no
wish to go to bed.
May 20th.—The weather has changed, and the Volga is stirred into little
rippling waves by the passing of the wind.
We are at Samarkand in the afternoon. A large company of young ladies,
pupils of the Institute of Orenbourg and scholars of the corps of cadets,
came on board our steamer; they are bound for Turkestan to spend their
summer holidays. An elderly grandmother of one of the cadets had charge
of the young people. The officers and functionaries serving in Tashkend
have the right to send their children to be educated in Orenbourg on the
government’s account.
From Samara to Saratov the Volga is more like a lake than a river. We
pass under an immense iron bridge, the building of which cost seven
million roubles. I remained all the time on deck, admiring the beautiful
banks along which rise forest-clothed hills.
Towards four o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at Saratov. A company
of Cossacks took passage on our boat. The men came from Orenbourg and
are going to serve their time in Turkestan for three years. After dinner
the Cossacks sang in chorus and danced wild jigs on the deck, whilst, on
the other hand, a man with a green turban, which indicated that he was a
Mecca pilgrim, went through the necessary forms of prayer on the rug at
his feet, with his face to the East, first standing, then kneeling, then
prostrating himself.
May 21st.—The banks of the Volga are low and sandy in these parts; the
sky has become grey, the water has taken a dull colour, and the rain is
beginning to fall heavily.
In the afternoon we arrived at Astrakhan and were immediately surrounded
by a noisy crowd of Kalmucks, Tartars and Persians. We had a jolly dinner
on deck. My husband’s aide-de-camps and attachés were so amusing and
merry. They ordered champagne and drank my health. Mr. Baumgarten, one
of the attachés, the soul of the company, when raising his glass to me,
made a most charming speech; he said that my presence embellished their
journey and that they regretted awfully that our arrival at Tashkend
would put an end to the pleasure of having a good deal of my company, for
we only met at meals.
Dinner over, we had music in the saloon. After my solo on the concertina,
Mr. Baumgarten, who had been inspired by my performance, and was
by nature somewhat of a poet, improvised a piece of poetry of the
most tender nature, with the following dedication: “To Mrs. Barbara
Doukhovskoy, in remembrance of a never-to-be-forgotten night on the
Volga.” It is spoken there of love, moon and the rest. The poetry ended
with the words, “Oh, enchanting night on the Volga, can I ever forget
thee?” How sweetly poetical! Who could have believed fat Mr. Baumgarten
to be so gifted!
May 22nd.—The Volga is so broad that the shores disappear; only a narrow
yellow line of bank is to be seen. At dawn we changed our steamer for a
larger one—the _Equator_. We had to part from the Volga here; our boat
stole out towards the open sea.
The neighbourhood of Astrakhan plays a great part in the life of the
Transcaspian provinces; all sorts of wares and products are imported
there in great quantity. This time our steamer is loaded with barrels of
beer.
The wind raises great waves, which sweep our deck. We shall have a good
tossing about on the treacherous Caspian Sea, no doubt.
May 23rd.—I have slept very badly the whole night, because of the intense
heat and the horrid rolling of the ship; every hour I heard the change
of watch ringing. At last I saw the morning twilight entering by the
porthole. A brown-coloured lamb, brought by our sailors from Persia,
squeezed himself through the half-open door of my cabin; he was on
friendly terms with my little pug-nosed Chinese dog, Mokho, and both
animals began to chase each other, making an awful noise.
May 24th.—Horrible night! A heavy gale blowing all the time. The sailors
couldn’t hear the words of command; we rolled unmercifully.
We arrived in the morning at Krasnovodsk and walked to the train which
was waiting for us near the pier. During the short walk I had to fight
against the wind, which did its utmost to carry off my hat, and blew my
umbrella into a sail.
Before starting we were shown the railway-carriage which had just been
presented to the Emir by our Emperor; it impressed me by its splendour.
This carriage, painted blue and ornamented with golden stars, will be
very useful to the Emir when the Orenbourg railway-line is terminated,
for he goes for a cure to the Caucasus every year.
May 25th.—What a heat! The roof of my car is covered with a thick layer
of earth to protect it from the rays of the burning sun, but it is of no
use, we are roasted alive all the same.
This morning we nearly ran over a camel. The encounter with these
quadrupeds is very disagreeable, for it is only by repeated loud whistles
that our engine-driver can make them leave the rails; they kept running
before the train all the time.
May 26th.—It is Sunday to-day. When we approached the station of Merv,
church-bells began to toll. It was a church-car which was waiting to be
hooked on to our train, and thus we had Mass whilst crossing the vast
desert.
May 27th.—At seven o’clock in the morning we are at Kermineh, where the
Emir had come to welcome us. Opposite the platform was erected a large
tent in which a copious lunch was prepared; but I did not leave my car,
feigning a bad headache. A band of native musicians came to divert me
with their weird music, which made me grind my teeth. A beautiful bouquet
was brought to me from the Emir, together with a rich casket containing a
pair of ear-rings with diamonds as large as hazel nuts.
The Emir invited my husband and his suite to dine at his summer
residence, eight miles from the station. In their absence the soldiers
of the Bokharian watch-guard were lying stretched out full length in the
shade, under the trees, indulging in a _dolce far niente_.
My husband returned late in the night and we continued on our way. To
Sergy the palace of the Emir proved a disappointment. It is an ugly
building of no particular kind of architecture; the apartments are
decorated with pictures, statues and ornaments of every sort, stuck
up anyhow and everywhere. The Emir regaled my husband with a Lucullus
repast, with champagne in profusion, but the Emir drank only lemonade,
fermented drinks being forbidden by the Koran.
May 28th.—At last we are nearing Tashkend. Towards noon our train stopped
at the railway-station, full of people. After having gone through the
proceedings of hasty greetings with all present, we went to our carriage.
On our passage native musicians blew with all their might into pipes of
enormous length, raising them to the skies. They performed such beastly
sounds that I feared our horses would take fright and bolt.
A few days after our arrival, three foreign tourists paid an unexpected
visit to Tashkend: Sven-Hedin, the renowned Swedish Pamir and Thibet
explorer, who had written a book about these countries; MacSwinee, an
English colonel going out to India to command a Bengal regiment; and
Mr. Herbert Powell, an English traveller going to try the shortest way
leading from London to India, the future railway-line. For the present
the English make this journey, _via_ Brindisi and the Suez Canal, in
three weeks’ time, but as soon as the Russian and British railroad join,
the trip will take but eight days. Only five hundred miles are wanting
for the line to be completed, but political combinations are hindering
the work. Mr. Powell had passed one month in Moscow to study the Russian
language, so difficult for strangers. Nevertheless, many English officers
serving in India speak our language, and it is a great pity that the
same cannot be said of the Russian officers who serve in Turkestan.
Notwithstanding their long sojourn in that country, they do not speak the
native language. It is quite recently that a school was organised where
the Hindustani language is taught. We had also a visit from a French
Academician, Mr. St. Yves, a member of the French Academy, who was going
to Thibet to explore the lake Koukou-Nor, and of an English engineer, Mr.
Wilson, who had come to Tashkend to study the system of local irrigation.
The greater part of the soil of Turkestan, as that of India, would have
presented long ere this a veritable earthly paradise if it were not
for the want of water. The Government and the inhabitants are doing
everything in their power to overcome this difficulty. They profit by the
proximity of every river, and if there is no river, they dig artesian
wells.
The English, in general, are very much interested in everything
concerning Turkestan. I read an article about my husband which came
out in the _Daily Chronicle_. I quote the following from the London
newspaper:—“Every English officer, who understands the problem
of Oriental politics, must know of what great importance is the
centralisation of Russian powers in Asia. For the moment sixty thousand
men are united under the command of General Doukhovskoy, one of the
most able officers of the Russian army.” We gave a great dinner to the
foreign travellers. After the end of the repast, we went into the park,
illuminated with coloured lanterns to let them see the dances of the
“batchas” (native boys arrayed in woman’s dress). The women in the Orient
are not allowed to participate at public performances, and their parts
are always taken by men. The courts of the suzerains of Central Asia
and India boast of their troops of “batchas,” effeminate boys with long
plaited hair, arrayed in sumptuous silk robes. In Tashkend the “batchas”
are quite different. It was grown-up youths who were brought up to us,
wearing white calico shirts and heavy boots which had not seen any polish
for a long time. A band of native musicians, sitting on their heels on
a carpet spread upon the grass, began to beat the cords of a kind of
cithern, and the would-be “batchas” started turning around, whilst the
musicians accelerated their time. The performance could scarcely be
called a dance; it was rather a swift walk within a circle. Suddenly
wild shrieks were heard, and the “batchas” began turning round like
a spinning-top, whilst the musicians accelerated their time, and the
“batchas” made rather clumsy jumps.
Our menagerie is enlarged. A native inhabitant of Tashkend presented me
with a wild horse caught in the mountains, striped like a zebra, with
long donkey ears. The animal was placed in the same enclosure with the
reindeers, and a she-donkey was given to him as a spouse, which helped
to tame the wild horse. Donkeys are very cheap in Turkestan. One can get
a splendid specimen for the sum of twelve roubles, and a working ass for
five roubles.
A few miles from Tashkend there is a Leper Settlement. When my husband
visited it, he saw only ten lepers. He made inquiries, and was told that
all the rest were begging in the streets of Tashkend. Sergy ordered them
to be packed off immediately to their own dwelling. A collection, for
the benefit of these poor wretches, is now in the press. I take part in
it, and publish our crossing of the Pacific Ocean from San Francisco to
Yokohama.