PARIS WORLD’S FAIR
My husband’s health had failed a good deal of late, and the doctors have
ordered him an absolute change and rest. Sergy was overworked and a good
holiday will set him right. He wants to take a long leave and go abroad
for some time. Kissingen was recommended by the doctors, but we meant
to have a jolly good time and went first to Paris to visit the World’s
Fair. Mr. Shaniavski was nominated as representative of the Turkestan
section and was sent before us to Paris. He met us at the Gare du Nord,
accompanied by four Bokharians and a Turkoman, sent to the Exhibition to
look after the rich objects exposed by the Emir, and to serve also as a
vivid decoration in the Asiatic section, where the place of honour was
assigned to Turkestan. These decorative personages, when passing through
St. Petersburg, attracted much curiosity by their magnificent costumes,
it is not astonishing therefore that they produced a great sensation in
Paris. When our train came to stop at the platform, we saw a crowd of
eager spectators waiting to see the arrival of the exotic personages whom
the Orientals had come to meet, expecting to see no less a person than a
Rajah. People stood on chairs to get a peep at us, and great was their
disappointment, when simple mortals clad in European dress, stepped out
of the train.
We took a carriage and went to Passy, a western suburb of Paris, where a
villa, overgrown with lilacs, bearing the name of Villa des Lilas, was
secured for us by Mr. Shaniavski, in the quietest part of Paris, in the
neighbourhood of the Exhibition.
Mr. Shaniavski had put up with his Bokharians in a house in the Passage
des Eaux, described by Zola in his novel _Une page d’Amour_. The small
Asiatic colony consists of a Bokharian colonel, a captain, a merchant
who speaks a few words of French and serves as interpreter, and four
servants. The Bokharians, arrayed in rich “khalats,” walk about the
streets quite indifferent to the stare of wondering Parisians. When they
go out shopping, they are taken for princes, and are made to pay princely
prices. One day, when visiting the Grands Magasins du Louvre, they
were received at the entrance door by the directeur, surrounded by his
assistants, who proposed to the princes to show them through the house,
expecting to fleece the Bokharians, who asked the prices of everything
they saw without any views as to purchasing them. After having visited
in detail the section of jewellery, tapestry and other fancy goods, they
made the insignificant purchase of half a dozen crockery plates, after
which the splendid directeur, and his satellites, disappeared as by
magic, forsaking the stingy Bokharians.
Though the Exhibition has been opened a whole month, the section of
Central Asia is not quite ready yet; it is only the section of Turkestan
which came to an end, thanks to the energy of our delegate. Next to it
are the sections of the Caucasus and Siberia. A crowd of Russian workmen,
wearing red shirts, put the finishing stroke to them.
The best place at the Exhibition is assigned to Central Asia, called
“Russie des Indes,” quite near the Trocadero. This section, which is a
duplicate in miniature of the Kremlin, in Moscow, is surrounded by a
high crenelated wall with a row of turrets ornamented with the Russian
Double Eagle. When you enter it, the Russian architecture gives place
to an Arabian style. An immense panorama represents a large square in
Samarkand, with a lively crowd of natives; only when seen quite close,
one perceives that it is but a picture, not a reality. Our section is
striking by its vivid and bright colouring. A fountain plays in the
middle of an immense hall, decorated with beautiful Asiatic carpets and
armour, and filled with all kinds of products of our possessions in
Central Asia. The best appreciators of a remarkable collection of plants
and seeds, appeared to be a legion of mice; these gnawing little animals
arranged for themselves, in broad daylight, Lucullus-like repasts,
without being disturbed in the least by the crowd of visitors. The grains
disappeared visibly, and poison was put in every attractive place, but
the cunning mice, preferring the tasty grains, carried their victory on
to the battle-field.
Next to our Asiatic section stands the pavilion of Polar Russia. The
morose Siberian nature is such a contrast with our bright Turkestan. The
panels on the walls represent a seal-chase; all sorts of stuffed polar
animals fill the big halls, as well as an ethnographic collection of
manikins, which represents in a very life-like manner, different types
of the inhabitants of Siberia. The model of a sledge, harnessed with a
team of dogs, reminded me vividly of our drive on the frozen Amour during
carnival-week at Khabarovsk. On long tables, in the middle of the hall,
lay all sorts of furs: beautiful sables, blue fox, beaver, etc. It is
curious that according to official information, only 7-8 beavers are
killed yearly in Kamtchatka. How can we explain then that hundreds of
real beaver skins are sold in Russia. (It is the fur-traders only who can
unriddle the thing).
The Caucasus section is just opposite. In a large separate building a
panorama represents the new Siberian railway-line. The Sleeping-car
Company has exposed the model of a Transcaspian train, composed of an
engine and three cars belonging to the International Company, in which
one experiences the illusion of a journey through Siberia. The guard
whistles, the train seems to move, but in reality it is only the panorama
on the walls which is put into motion by a special mechanism. The
travellers perceive through the windows the whole way leading from Moscow
right to the terminus station—Pekin. When you pass through all the cars,
to the other end of the hall, you are in the Chinese section, where the
front gate represents a part of the walls of the city of Pekin.
The next day after our arrival at Paris, the section of Central Asia was
inaugurated. To get there we had to elbow our way through a throng. A
Te Deum was sung by the singers of the Russian Church, whilst all the
Kremlin bells were ringing a full peal at which my Russian heart bounded
with joy. That day we spent six hours at the Exhibition, and did not
sit down for one minute. I was awfully hungry, having eaten only one
_croissant_ since morning, and Sergy carried me off to the Trocadero to
have dinner in one of the best restaurants. The hall was full of guests.
Two very disreputable-looking creatures sat at the table next our own;
they were painted with cheap cosmetics, and the heat took off their
paint, which came out in the wrong places, and very soon the powder on
their faces was becoming paste, and the red on their cheeks and the black
of their eyebrows began to run down in streaks, metamorphosing them into
tattooed papouses, which didn’t hinder them in the least from casting
coquettish glances around. They tried to make eyes at my cavaliers, but
it was all in vain; their charms left them quite unmoved. We were too
tired to walk home and got into a cab whose driver, with folded arms
and bowed head, was nodding on his seat, his nose buried in an open
newspaper. Both coachman and horse were dozing the whole way, and it
is only a miracle that we got to our villa without running into other
carriages.
Next day President Loubet visited our section, where he was presented
with a map of France worked “in relievo,” in a frame of jasper; the seas
were made of marble, the rivers of silver and the towns of precious
stones, got from the Ural mountains. The huge emerald representing the
city of Marseilles cost eight thousand roubles. President Loubet is a
very different sort of person from what I had expected the ruler of
France to be; he is an insignificant-looking little old man, saluting
cordially from right to left. A Russian lady, who heard us speaking our
mother-tongue, mingled into our conversation. Before leaving our section
she favoured me with a condescending nod and a limp hand-shake, but when
she heard our interpreter addressing me by my rank, she rushed back and
squeezed my fingers effusively. Nasty woman!
We visited that day the Algerian village in the Trocadero Gardens. Superb
natives, arrayed in rich costumes, sat on the threshold of their open
booths, shrieking out the virtues of their wares. Close to the village
stands the Dahomey pavilion, with its straw-thatched roof. Black natives
stood on watch, perched on the top of a high tower. In the Singhalese
village I patted the small brown babies, calling to mind my sojourn in
Colombo. We entered a barrack close by, from which resounded the frantic
strains of weird native music. Inside, women clad in Oriental costumes,
gleaming with golden coins on their waists and wrists, performed the
_Danse du Ventre_ to the accompaniment of clapping hands. One of the
beautiful “odalisques” stepped down from the estrade and passed round
with a plate into which people dropped money. One glance was enough to
show that this would-be Daughter of the Desert was a typical “Parisienne”
from the “quartier des Batignolles.”
The pavilions of the different States are picturesquely scattered
along the banks of the Seine. All these magnificent buildings, made
of plaster, will be in three months’ time reduced to the level of the
“Champ de Mars.” One can’t believe that these enormous palaces are only
temporary visitors, like the people, and will be destroyed in a few
months, after the closing of the Exhibition. It is only the “Palais des
Beaux Arts,” built of brick and mortar, which will not be thrown down.
A most beautiful and interesting collection of old masters is exhibited
in this building. We became so fascinated with some of these wonders,
that we could hardly get away from the place. It amused me to see how
insufficiently cloaked statues upset the decorum of a pair of prim old
maids in large turned-down hats surrounded by green gauze veils, unlovely
and unloved creatures, belonging to that sort of Puritans who do not
admit kisses because no one ever kissed them. This part of the Exhibition
is situated near the principal entry on the side of the Place de la
Concorde, with the famous “Parisienne” made of stone and perched very
high on the top of a triumphal arch. It is queer to see the reproduction
of a fashionable lady dressed up-to-date, posted in such a dangerous and
uncomfortable place; we are accustomed to see symbolic figures in that
risky position, defying in posture to the laws of equilibrium.
There was a great crowd walking about the Exhibition, a constant going
to-and-fro of people who had come from all quarters of the globe. The
human whirlpool made me quite giddy. Several bands play in different
parts of the grounds near the “Pont Alexandre III.,” which illustrates in
stone and bronze the famous Russian Czar. We listened to the music of an
American orchestra led by Sousa, the king of marches, in like manner as
Strauss and Waldteufel had been the kings of the waltz in times of yore.
Our walks through the Exhibition lightened visibly our pockets. The
prices of all the objects exposed for sale are exorbitant, money melted
like snow and we came home utterly penniless.
There are different means of locomotion through the great extent of
the Exhibition, beginning by the Tonqinoise “puss-puss,” to the last
technical invention—the “trottoir roulant,” moving sidewalks, three rows
of which run along without stopping. The first row moves very slowly, and
it is easy to jump on it; the second row moves faster, and the third one
races with the swiftness of an express train. Great agility is needed to
pass from one trottoir to the other, and it happens sometimes that the
backs of clumsy pedestrians rest on one trottoir, whilst his legs are
being dragged on the neighbouring one.
In the Rue de Paris, near the Eiffel Tower, different attractions
are to be found: bearded women, mermaids, and other marvels of past,
present, and future life. In a miorama we crossed from Marseilles to
Constantinople without leaving Paris. Another panorama gives the illusion
of a sea-voyage round the world. In the Palais des Optiques we went down
under the sea, and were introduced to horrid monsters. We came upon a
gigantic telescope showing the moon at the distance of sixty kilometres.
A huge wheel 177 metres high, with thirty-two waggons, wheels round
intrepid passengers. The Palais de la Femme contains amazing toilettes of
past and ultra modern times. I fell in love with a costume of the last
note of modernity, which Sergy wanted to purchase, but I was reasonable
enough to refuse the present, for the price was unheard of. The Panorama
du Mont Blanc shows a group of excursionists climbing up the Alps, which
reminded me of our ascent on the Mont Blanc.
To come into the Vieux Paris representing the Paris of past centuries,
we had to cross a drawbridge and enter through a tower-gate guarded
by sentinels of the middle ages, holding long lances, into the Rue
des Remparts, a corner of a street in the fourteenth century, with
dwellings filled with mediæval attributes. On the front of the houses,
instead of numbers, the pictures of different birds are reproduced. In
the narrow, tortuous streets we found ourselves surrounded by people
dressed according to the fashion of ancient times; knights in armour
and ladies of the middle-ages walked to-and-fro. My imagination
travelled, transporting me to the days of long ago, and I felt as if the
clock had been put back several centuries. When we passed the Tour du
Châtelet, the fourteenth century had vanished by magic into the time of
the Tudors, making a jump through the space of over two hundred years.
Chants resounded from the church of St. Julien, which belonged formerly
to the “Minstrels Brotherhood.” On the Square we saw the gibbet watched
over by mousquetaires armed with muskets and wearing three-cornered
hats. In the Rue des Vieilles Écoles, the house inhabited by Molière is
exactly reproduced. Ladies in paniers and powdered perukes promenaded,
escorted by their cavaliers dressed as marquesses. Different processions
circulated. Here is a band of clerks directing their steps towards the
Court of Justice, with inkstands adjusted to their girdles, carrying in
their hands burning torches. In the Criminal Hall, instead of law suits,
Mysteries are represented.
Not far from the Vieux Paris is the Andalousie du temps des Maures.
The entry represents the exact copy of the Alcazar in Seville; on
the Plaza de Toros, instead of horrid bull-fights, pretty Andalusian
gitanas (Spanish gypsies) with a rose placed above the left ear in their
jet-black hair, dance seguedillas and habaneras. It was fire which ran in
their veins. I was very much astonished to see our Turkoman promenading
amongst the audience. We were told that the impressario had invited him
to come every night gratis to his establishment, as a living decoration.
I cannot conceive what can be in common between an inhabitant from
Central Asia and Spanish life.
Opposite Andalousia an Alpine village has spread itself ungeographically,
with its cattle, shepherds, watchmaker-shops and wooden toy-makers.
Amidst natural glaciers and water-falls, an animated crowd dressed in the
costumes of all the Swiss cantons, walk about. We saw the house where
Bonaparte passed the night on his march with his army of 30,000 men
across the St. Gothard pass, with all the furniture just as it was then.
There was the armchair by the hearth in which the great man sat, gazing
into the glowing coals. What pictures did he see in the flames? Did his
thoughts wander back to Josephine, or to new laurels and glory?
The Exhibition opened at ten. We went there as soon as the gates were
thrown open and left it only when we found ourselves almost too tired to
stand. We met there many friends from Russia, Mr. Radde amongst them,
director of the Museum in Tiflis, an eminent biologist versed in all the
antiquities and questions of the past. He is awfully abstruse-minded, and
always looking as if he just descended from the clouds. One day, when Mr.
Radde called upon us at the Villa des Lilas, he made the acquaintance of
our landlord, who had nothing of the Adonis about him, with his round
moon face, and a tiny baby nose disappearing between his fat cheeks. In
a fit of absent-mindedness he began to pity the cherub-faced gentleman
for having such a terrible inflammation, and on both sides of the face
all the more. Our landlord thanked him for his compassion, but said
that happily, he never suffered from toothache, and was not afflicted
therefore, with inflammation of any kind. I had to make a desperate
effort to be serious when witnessing this comic scene.
We knew our Paris well, and had a jolly good time at night, enjoying
theatres and café-chantants. I did feel gay going to naughty places in
the quartier Montmartre without caring whether it was proper or not.
At the Chat Noir the programme was very varied, exhibiting celebrities
dressed in a costume remarkable for its lack of stuff, and famed for
the height to which they could raise one leg and knock their own noses
with it while standing upon the other. We visited the Cabaret du Ciel
and the Cabaret de l’Enfer, two rather disreputable establishments with
quaint representations of bliss in heaven and tortures in hell. In the
first cabaret the customers are received by a bevy of white-winged,
long-haired masculine beings, and in the second one, an establishment
where the lights blaze red, the attendants, attired as devils, greet
the visitors making demoniac grimaces. The Cabaret Alexandre Bruyant
is very amusing; the proprietor of this establishment well merits his
surname of Bruyant—(noisy.) He meets his guests shouting in a voice of
thunder, and making mocking jeers. When an old lady with orange-coloured
hair and a very powdered face came in, he exclaimed, “_Oh, la belle
brune, n’a-t-elle pas un teint eclatant?_” (Oh, the dark beauty, hasn’t
she got a dazzling complexion?) A general laugh arose. Then he came up
to me and patting my shoulder roared, “_Pauvre petite créature, comme
elle a l’air maladif!_” (“Poor little thing, how ailing and sickly she
looks!”) The newcomers, feeling rather scared at being addressed in
such a rough manner, and displeased at being made to appear ridiculous,
wanted to get away, but when they saw that this queer reception was one
of the peculiarities of the house, they settled themselves comfortably at
separate little tables, and laughed in their turn good-humouredly at the
reception of new arrivals.
The distribution of prizes at the Exhibition took place a few days before
we left Paris. My husband received for our Turkestan section the Great
Cross of the Légion d’Honneur. The Russian Commissaire, when packing up
different objects, found it difficult to bring back to Tashkend a huge
“arba” (a two-wheeled cart) and it was decided to leave it here and
present it to some collector of curiosities. But no one wanted such a
gift, and the commissaires had recourse to another means of getting rid
of this encumbering “arba,” they asked a carter, promising him a good
tip, to harness his horse to the cart and take it along as far as the
highway leading to Versailles, and then leave it there to its own fate.