SOME SOCIAL MEMORIES
My Thursdays in Russia--Khalil Pasha's Death--Lord Napier and the
Lady-in-Waiting--Madame Volnys--My Parents-in-law's _ménage_--An
Exceptional Type--Prince Vladimir Dolgorouki's Embarrassment--The Grand
Duchess Helen--A Brilliant Woman--The Emperor's Enjoyment--The
Campbell-Bannermans--A Royal Diplomatist--Mark Twain on Couriers--In
Serious Vein--Verestchagin--"The Retreat from Moscow"--The Kaiser's
Remarkable Utterance
I must say I was very fortunate with my Thursday receptions in Russia.
In the first place, my husband, who was not particularly fond of
singing or playing, never opposed either. Diplomatists like Lord
Napier, the English Ambassador at Petrograd, and the Turk, Khalil
Pasha, Turkish Ambassador (but brought up in France and devoted to
French theatres), also used to come and be as silent as mice if music
was already going on. That poor Khalil had a very dramatic end. He
returned to Constantinople, as he thought for a short time, but fell
ill. His European doctors insisted on an immediate cure at Carlsbad,
but his Sultan, for some reason unknown to me, opposed his leaving
Turkey. The poor man died mysteriously, and his enormous wealth as
mysteriously disappeared.
At one of my little receptions there happened a {73} very disagreeable
duel between Lord Napier and a lady-in-waiting belonging to the Court
of the Grand Duchess Helen. She was the sister of an ambassador, with
whom, however, she was not on very affectionate terms. Undoubtedly
pretty, she was occasionally rude and almost ill-bred. On seeing him,
Mademoiselle de ---- exclaimed: "Lord Napier, I spent last evening at
the Winter Palace with old Countess Bludoff. We talked of you and
laughed very much."
I felt simply horrified at that speech, but Napier remained quite
self-possessed.
"I know," said he, "you were asked there to be shown to my new
secretary, Mitford." Here, fortunately, the dialogue was interrupted
by Rubinstein, who started a sonata. A fortunate interruption!
Soon after that in came Madame Volnys, the celebrated French actress,
who promised to give us some scenes of Molière's _Tartuffe_, which she
did to perfection.
Madame Volnys was a remarkable woman, not only possessing great
histrionic talent, but also very superior character. She lost her only
child, whom she adored. This brought her into contact with our Empress
Marie Alexandrovna (very particular in her choice of associates), the
consort of our "Emperor Liberatas," who used to invite her to the
Palace as her lecturer fairly often.
In the same year something quite unexpected happened to me. My
husband's parents, very old people, but who had never been abroad,
suddenly decided to go to Paris, and I was asked to join them {74}
later on. Off they went, after having paid us in Petrograd a visit of
two or three weeks. They travelled in quite exceptional comfort. They
had a lady travelling-companion, my mother-in-law had her maid, my
father-in-law his valet, and to crown all there was a Russian cook,
whom my mother-in-law declared to be far superior to any foreigner,
including even the French. Whatever my mother-in-law declared was law
to the whole family, not only to her docile husband and her two sons,
but to her two daughters-in-law, and anybody coming to her house.
I remember one day my brother-in-law, who was already Ambassador at
Vienna, and my husband, who at that time was a lieutenant-general
attached to the Grand Duke Nicolas, father of the present head of our
troops, were sitting and talking together. Their mother entered the
room and they both got up and stood until she told them to sit down
again.
My mother-in-law was an exceptional type. She was the daughter of
Prince Vladimir Dolgorouki, the poet, and tremendously proud of her
origin, but in Russia all the princes Dolgorouki descended from Rurick,
who came to Russia in the ninth century, and having all the same origin
are surely fairly equal. But such was not my mother-in-law's idea, and
she once upbraided the governor-general of Moscow, having the same name
as her own, for belonging to the younger branch. The poor man looked
very much embarrassed.
Another pleasant memory is that of the Grand Duchess Helen. A woman
who loses her youth, {75} beauty and gaiety, and remains in possession
only of her immortal soul, may naturally expect to be forgotten by her
so-called "friends." But a Russian Grand Duchess enjoying an
exceptionally high position, with palaces and a numerous court at her
disposal, is a privileged person. No need for her to "request the
favour" of So-and-so's company to tea, dinner or reception. She
dictates her list, including the names of wits, artists or ministers,
whose attendance she desires. The courier transmits her orders, and
the guests arrive. _Voilà tout!_
Permission to attend service in Palace private chapels is generally
received through a lady-in-waiting or the "Grande Maitresse"--as, at
least, I know from personal experience.
The dear Grand Duchess Helen remained to the last day of her life, to
me, always brilliant and clever, and I was sincerely attached to her.
I shall never forget, however, the difficulty I had to execute one of
her orders. She was giving a ball to their Majesties, at which,
punctually at midnight, dominoes were to appear in a prearranged set.
I was asked to secure these mysterious apparitions. But this proved a
far from easy task. For not only had I to find ladies who were witty,
amusing and sprightly, but also those who would be willing to deprive
themselves of being seen as invited guests, in order to pass through
the rooms as apparitions--carefully masked.
Now one of my candidates had the misfortune to possess very ugly
prominent egg-like eyes, "but"--thought I--"there is the mask, it will
conceal all sorts of imperfections." Nevertheless, I thought {76} it
prudent to warn her. "Remember," said I, "the orders are that identity
must be _strictly_ concealed."
"Oh, that is quite impossible in my case," she proudly replied, "for my
bright and almost oriental eyes are well known and would certainly be
recognised by everyone."
So I dropped the oriental-eyed creature and secured a substitute.
The Emperor assured his aunt afterwards that he had greatly enjoyed her
party.
The Grand Duchess, as well as her other nephew--the Grand Duke
Constantine Nicolaevitch--was devoted to the Emperor's reforms,
especially to his scheme concerning the abolition of Serfdom in Russia.
That plan, no doubt, was of tremendous magnitude. It not only granted
personal freedom to forty-eight millions of serfs, but half the number
of them had to become freeholders.
That reform, by the by, was carried out in two years' time. Was it not
a miraculous rapidity?
There was another detail of this measure, which was really a very noble
and grand one; we, the nobility of all the country, have lost, through
that measure, nearly half of all we possessed. An important fact, no
doubt, but I never heard any indignation, protest or murmur evoked by
that change. Everybody felt its urgency, and a feeling of justice
prevailed with all the others.
Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman was very much interested in that question,
and plied me with many questions. Not being able to satisfy his
curiosity during our meetings at Carlsbad, I promised to {77} procure
from Russia the desired information, and did so eventually on my
arrival at London.
It was at the Grand Duchess Helen's villa at Carlsbad, where we were
invited every evening during her stay, that I met the
Campbell-Bannermans for the first time. Those were immensely
interesting evenings, when one met only people worth knowing.
One of the charming characteristics of these gatherings was their
unpretentiousness and simplicity. Many of the guests were invalids,
melancholy slaves to all sorts of hygienic regulations. Fortunately, I
was not one of these, and could enjoy my moral food as well as the
beautiful fruit that the rest of the world could only contemplate. My
friend, Count Alexander Keyserling, was attached to the Grand Duchess
Helen's court during her foreign trip of that year, and he alone could
make any gathering most interesting.
Before leaving Carlsbad, the Campbell-Bannermans insisted upon my
promising to see them often in London, and they soon became a new
attraction for me during my stays in England.
The first years of my travels, my winter visits to London were of very
short duration--but dear England grows upon one, and little by little
my sojourns extended themselves from October till May.
Few people have left me such dear memories as Sir Henry
Campbell-Bannerman and his wife. I visited them in their English
country house, but never in Scotland, as I was always afraid of being
too much carried away from my work, which required unremitting
perseverance and study.
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Contrary to what often happened to me, I liked them both almost
equally, though dear Lady C.-B.'s moral qualities prevailed over her
physical charms. She had excellent qualities, greatly appreciated by
her husband and her friends. Thus, for instance, she knew her Blue
Books almost better than did her husband, and when the conversation
turned on some particular events with dates and detail she could
surpass everybody with her memory. I must add that both husband and
wife were very hospitable, and I was allowed, no, even pressed, to
lunch with them whenever I liked. I did so fairly often on Sundays, as
I frequently wanted Sir Henry's advice on different subjects, and this
he never failed to give. More than once I said to him: "I recognise
your wisdom and your prudence in all you say and do, I feel sure the
day will come when you will be Prime Minister."
Though I am neither a clairvoyante nor a prophetess--still, my prophecy
turned out to be true. He always (was it simply out of modesty?)
denied the possibility of such a happening. But I was right after all,
and he was wrong.
To be with Sir Henry was always a particular pleasure to me. It was
such a delight to see a man so staunch to his principles, so firm with
people about him, and so kind to those depending on him.
He certainly, _pace_ Sydney Smith, appreciated a joke. We were talking
one day about the head of a Royal House. I related how I, along with
some diplomatists, was presented to the Court in question.
"I think I am right," said the Royal Hostess, to {79} one of the
latter, smiling graciously, "you are the successor of your
predecessor?" He bowed very deeply, and seemed quite pleased with that
platitude. I was somewhat taken aback and rather amused, but when the
reception was over, a lady-in-waiting said to me: "Is not Her Highness
admirably clever and gracious? How well she talks!" Court people are
sometimes very easily pleased. I did not commit myself to much
admiration!
Sir Henry was greatly amused at the story. The last time I saw Sir
Henry and had a long talk with him, was when he dined with me after his
return from France. He came to meet the Russian Ambassador on the 23rd
of January.
"Do you know," I said, "people assure me that you are going to the
House of Lords. I am rather surprised to hear it," I added frankly.
But he simply ridiculed the idea of such a step.
"You are quite right in being sceptical," he said. "I love my work,
and I am not going to lay it down." That was the last time he dined
out. He made a further brief appearance in the House of Commons, but
it speedily became evident that his days were numbered. Still, he
clung to the hope that he would regain strength. His colleagues, Mr.
Asquith in particular, did everything a man could to ease his burden.
Doctors declared that dropsy had set in as the result of heart
weakness. But his courage was unabated, and his faith undimmed. My
impression is that his wife's death undoubtedly accelerated his own
end. Strange reports have been spread about his last days. People who
were allowed to watch {80} around his bed heard the dying man speak
from time to time, as of old, to the life-long companion of all his
joys and sorrows, his beloved wife, as if she were present before him,
and that he would soon rejoin her in the land of another life.
Tennyson had the same experience with his son Lionel. If these visions
are actually granted, would it not be a great consolation and a reward
for deep affection?
In those days I had many friends who possessed very little in common
with each other. Carlyle and Froude would sometimes call on me, but
generally when I was likely to be alone. To me Carlyle showed only the
lovable and affectionate side of his nature. He was a dear old man,
and I loved nothing better than to see opposite me his rugged old face,
and hear his broad Scots accent.
When the publication in book form of my articles was under discussion,
he said, "You must publish all your articles."
"But who will write a preface?" I enquired. "Will you do so?" The
dear old man shook his head dolefully, and, looking at his trembling
hand, said:
"I could not, I am too old, but here is a young man"--and he looked at
Froude who was with him. "He can do it."
Froude protested very gallantly that my articles did not require a
preface, but nevertheless he most kindly wrote one which, no doubt,
induced a large number of people to make themselves acquainted with my
views.
[Illustration: SEMINARY FOR 125 SCHOOL TEACHERS BUILT BY ALEXANDER
NOVIKOFF AT NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA]
Carlyle and I had one great thing in common: {81} our distrust of
Disraeli and our sympathy with the oppressed Slavs. In 1878, when the
jingoes were shouting their loudest over the Russian Mission to
Afghanistan, which had precipitated the Afghan War, Carlyle referred to
politics as "a sore subject nowadays with our damnable premier," as he
called him.
He was always generous with regard to the humble efforts of the
"Rooshian Leddy" as he called me. He knew that whatever my literary
shortcomings I was sincere, and that was the one golden key to dear old
Carlyle's heart.
When death came within sight, almost within touch, he regarded it not
as an enemy but rather as a magician who was to open to him a new world
of wonder. It might almost be said that he went part of the way to
meet it. We, his friends, were always being thrilled by false alarms.
One day, two and a half years before his death, he solemnly warned
those about him of his approaching death.
I recall on another occasion I was told the end was very near; the next
I heard was that he was as devoted as ever to his omnibus rides. In
those days one never knew whether Carlyle were dying or riding in an
omnibus.
When two years later the end was slowly approaching, I refrained from
going to see him, thinking it a greater act of friendship to remain
away rather than to make any claim upon his fast-ebbing vitality. I
was deeply touched when he enquired of those about him: "Why does not
Madame Novikoff come to see me?"
I went and found him very weak, but genuinely {82} glad to see me. He
talked slowly and carefully, showing that the breaking-up of the body
had in no way affected his magnificent mind. I remember his
complaining to me that Froude wanted him to correct proofs on his
death-bed; but that he had refused!
I am not what would be described as emotional, having perhaps more than
the average amount of control over myself; but I felt at the bedside of
that dear old man that I could not keep my self-possession.
His last words to me were:
"Ay, ay, when you come back here (from Russia) you will not find me
alive."
As to my other old friends, like Kinglake, Froude, Charles Villiers and
Count Béust--who were, in fact, my daily visitors--I need not more than
mention their names, having written of them so fully elsewhere.
Among the many interesting personalities whom I have at various times
met, there comes to my mind the remembrance of Mark Twain. The society
of the great American humorist was always greatly sought after--a very
natural circumstance--for, unlike many famous wits who keep all their
brilliancy exclusively at the points of their pens, Mark Twain was
sociable and talkative and seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of
delightful anecdotes, ever ready and at the disposition of his friends.
He called on me one day, and, speaking of his approaching departure on
some pleasure trip with his wife and two daughters, remarked with a
humorous twinkle in his eye:
{83}
"It is fortunate that we have no courier to make a muddle with our
tickets----"
"Why should couriers make muddles?" I asked. "Have you had tragic
experiences of that kind?"
"Not personally," he answered; "but there was a millionaire who
travelled with all his huge family, the kind of family that is
described in the Old Testament. They gave themselves great airs, and
of course arrived at the station one minute before the departure of the
train, having left everything to their courier. The latter, however,
had evidently been otherwise occupied, and was late too, arriving
almost at the same moment as the family.
"'How late you are!' shouted the irate millionaire. 'Give me the
tickets--quick!' The courier, in great haste, fumbled nervously among
a confusion of papers in his pocket-book, and thrust into his
employer's hand a packet of tickets. The engine was already getting up
steam, and there was not a moment to be lost. My poor friend passed
the packet on to a guard and asked excitedly for his reserved carriage,
only to receive in reply a questioning stare. Alas! The tickets
turned out to be of little use on the railway, for they were--concert
tickets! The courier, you see, was a singer, and had been thinking too
much about his own affairs!"
Mark Twain often amused his hearers by describing in the most humorous
manner his own past jokes.
"Some time ago," he told me on one occasion, "everyone went mad about
table turning! I wrote a long article on the subject, but in spite of
the remonstrances of my publisher, refused to sign it.
"Don't you see?" he added, "I wanted to be {84} taken seriously--had I
disclosed my identity, everyone would have taken all I said for a joke!"
So there is something in a name after all, in spite of Shakespeare!
I have, indeed, seen Mark Twain very much in earnest. That was on the
Negro question. What seemed to me a great prejudice, represented, in
his eyes, a regular danger to the civilised world. Not long ago, a
very cultivated woman, just arrived from America, spoke to me with
dread about the impudence and self-conceit of the negroes. How
different her pictures were from those of Mrs. Beecher-Stowe in _Uncle
Tom's Cabin_!
Another great personality was Verestchagin, the Russian painter, a very
dear friend of mine. I have elsewhere described him as the Count
Tolstoy of painters. He had the same genius, the same fearlessness and
the same craving for what he conceived to be the truth, and possibly
occasionally the same exaggerated touch of realism. We Russians have a
way of regarding our great artists as artists, and if they
injudiciously dabble in politics, we forgive it when considering their
genius.
Verestchagin took part in many wars, and it is not strange that he
should say, as he once did to me, that men were everywhere the same,
"all animals, combatant, pugnacious, murderous animals."
His remarks upon war are peculiarly interesting at the present time,
for he was not an arm-chair philosopher, but, like Francisco Goya, had
seen the real horrors of war. He pointed out that the actual killing
of the enemy was only a very small part of war, which means hunger and
thirst and great {85} hardship, sleepless nights, marches beneath
blazing suns, or drenched by rain.
Verestchagin was a great friend of Skobeleff, and this drew us closely
together. The two had been through the same war together; and I
remember that but for the wisdom of certain Russian officials that war
might have been prolonged.
It is well known that Skobeleff was a man of very independent
character. On the eve of the Russo-Turkish War some difficulty arose
between him and the authorities, and he determined to resign his
commission and enlist as a private, as he was determined to fight, no
matter in what capacity. He was saved from this by a prudent act on
the part of the officials known in England as "climbing down." Who
knows what would have happened had the brave and glorious Skobeleff
been one of the led instead of the idolised leader?
Skobeleff was indeed one of the most charming, captivating men I ever
met. I was acquainted with his mother at a time when the son was only
known to me by his brilliant reputation. Madame Skobeleff, passing
through Moscow, once invited me to accompany her on a journey to the
Balkans, which tempting invitation, however, I did not accept, owing to
the fact that my husband was at the time ill, and I did not venture to
leave him. My matrimonial scruples probably saved my life, as Madame
Skobeleff met her death during that journey, and had I been with her I
should probably have shared her fate. To be more precise, she was
assassinated by her Montenegrin guide, Uzatis, who immediately
committed suicide, so that the motives {86} of the murder remained an
inscrutable mystery, as he did not touch her jewellery or her money.
One day I received a letter from Skobeleff, asking permission to call
on me. He came and talked, which he did to perfection. And
I--listened: the only thing _I_ do to perfection! My heart was
throbbing all the time, to a point that made me wonder whether it would
not burst, as he kept on talking of his determination to go to Egypt,
or anywhere, for some fighting, no matter in what capacity, be it even
as a humble private.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself," I exclaimed, "to risk a life so
precious to Russia? Stay at home, exercise your influence on our
foreign policy--that is also a noble work."
"Oh," he answered, "as to that I am convinced that death will find me,
not on the battlefield, but at home, in Russia. Every day I receive
scores of anonymous letters, predicting the nearness of my end."
On leaving me, he asked if I would accept his photograph, which he
afterwards sent me, with charmingly encouraging inscription: "To Mme.
Olga Novikoff from an enthusiastic admirer of her patriotic work." I
may add that this fine portrait is now in Moscow in the Roumiantzoff
Museum.
Two weeks later he was no more.
Verestchagin described to me some of the horrors of the Bulgarian war.
I would willingly have closed my ears to them, but there is a strange
and grim fascination in horror, especially when described by a man of
Verestchagin's personality.
He saw the Turkish prisoners being driven northward {87} to Russia and
the agonies they suffered. To add to the frightfulness an early frost
set in and the poor fellows, worn out through the long siege, dropped
by the wayside and were frozen to death.
These scenes enabled him to paint Napoleon's "Retreat from Moscow." It
is of peculiar interest now to recall the Kaiser's comments when he saw
Verestchagin's picture exhibited at Berlin. He looked long and
earnestly at the canvas, in particular at the figure of Napoleon
tramping through the snow. He is said to have remarked that such
pictures were our safest guarantees against war. "Yet," he added, "in
spite of that there will still be men who want to govern the world, but
they will all end the same."
Was this a prophecy, or merely a remark uttered with the object of
blinding his contemporaries to his real purpose? It is certainly very
interesting to note that the Kaiser would not allow the students of the
military schools to see the "Retreat from Moscow." People must draw
from that their own conclusions.
Verestchagin came to London on the occasion of his Exhibition, when I
saw a good deal of him. Suddenly he was called back to Russia, and he
came to me and announced his intention of returning immediately.
"But," I said, "you cannot leave your pictures."
"There are my two servants," he replied. "They will look after them."
"But," expostulated I, "they can speak only Russian, and that will not
be of much assistance to them in London. How can they look after your
{88} affairs when they cannot speak either English or French?"
"Oh, that will be all right," he replied. "They will manage."
That was Verestchagin all over. The upshot of it was that I
volunteered to look after his interests, and every morning I would go
down to the gallery to see if there was anything demanding attention,
and the people at the gallery, apparently marvelling at such devotion
in a friend, insisted upon addressing me as Madame Verestchagin.
Verestchagin was one of the first victims of the Russo-Japanese war.
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