The diary of a Russian lady E-Book

Barbara Doukhovskoy

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

My father, Prince Theodore Galitzine, married my mother being a widower with five children, three of whom died before my birth. My earliest vivid recollections begin when I was two years old. I distinctly remember feeling a terrible pain in parting with my wet-nurse, to whom I was passionately attached. I got hold of her skirt and wouldn’t let her go, weeping wildly. It was my first bitter affliction. I could not put up with the new nurse, whom I hated from the depths of my little heart, and I would not call her otherwise than Wild Cat, with baby petulance, having already at that early age pronounced likes and dislikes. We were in perpetual state of warfare. When I was about three years old that nurse was succeeded by a pretty Belgian girl named Melle. Henriette. The tutor of my two step-brothers, Mr. Liziar, made love to her and finished by marrying her some time after. He seemed somewhat half-witted; by night he went to chime the bells at the belfry of our village church in Dolgik, a fine estate belonging to my father, in the government of Kharkoff, and also amused himself by breaking, in the conservatory, the panes of glass with big stones. One day he frightened his sweetheart nearly to death by throwing a snake under her feet. After all these pranks it is no way astonishing that Mr. Liziar finished his days in a lunatic asylum. The tutor who succeeded him, asked my parents to bring his wife with him. He hastened to pocket the hundred roubles taken beforehand on account of his salary, and departed suddenly to Kharkoff to fetch her. Meanwhile my father received a letter from this tutor’s legitimate wife dated from St. Petersburg, in which she entreated papa to send her the half of her husband’s monthly salary, telling him he spent all his money on his mistress, whilst his wife and children had not a morsel of bread to put into their mouths. 

Leseprobe

The Diary of a Russian Lady

yours faithfully

Barbara Doukhovskoy

THE DIARY OF A RUSSIAN LADY

REMINISCENCES OF BARBARA DOUKHOVSKOY (néePrincesse Galitzine)

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385747633

Preface

This book was not intended to be published, and it is to accident that we owe its appearance.

The author, from her childhood, followed affectionate advices and good examples, and noted every day her impressions of everything she saw and heard about her. She puts in these pages all the freshness and sincerity of her woman’s heart.

Circumstances placed the author in the centre of remarkable events. Remaining faithful to the principle of not interfering with her husband’s business, she becomes, however, unwillingly, the spectatrix of particularly interesting facts: the outside of war, of different centres of Russian society, of exotic life in foreign colonies and on our remote frontiers, including the regions of the river Amour in Eastern Siberia.

Our author does not pretend to give a thorough and complete study of political events and society customs. But here we have vivid pictures of different impressions which, linked together, give us a living picture of places, events, and persons; real life in fact is delineated in this book, which has thus become a considerable work.

The author’s innate talent, her education, her faculty of observation, and her deep study of the best Russian and foreign writers, are the cause of the vivid impression produced by her light and clear style. Some portions of these studies entitled “Fragments of the Diary of a Russian woman in Erzeroum,” were printed in one of the most famous Russian periodicals. The welcome they received showed the author to what use she could turn her book for her works of charity, and it is her desire to assist the poor which gave to Barbara Doukhovskoy the idea of publishing her “Memories,” though the great realism of them did not permit of their publication as a whole.

Profiting by the right of having been a friend and a playmate of the author’s husband, I insisted on the necessity of publishing this work.

Not only by the truth and the spontaneity of her impressions, but by the profoundness of her observations and the artistic conception of the whole, the author of this book now embellishes our literature by a work of an exceptional and original character.

C. Sloutchevsky

Constantin Sloutchevsky, Russian poet, one of the most famous of the end of the nineteenth century.

The Diary of a Russian Lady

Preface

The Diary of a Russian Lady

BOOK I

CHAPTER VI DOLGIK

CHAPTER VIII THE CRIMEA

CHAPTER XI MARRIAGE

CHAPTER XII TIFLIS

CHAPTER XIII ALEXANDROPOL

CHAPTER XV KARS

CHAPTER XVII ERZEROUM

CHAPTER XVIII ST. PETERSBURG

CHAPTER XIX MOSCOW

CHAPTER XXII LONDON

CHAPTER XXIII PARIS

CHAPTER XXV LUCERNE

CHAPTER XXVI INTERLAKEN

CHAPTER XXVII MONTREUX

CHAPTER XXVIII GENEVA

CHAPTER XXIX MILAN

CHAPTER XXX VILLA D’ESTE

CHAPTER XXXI CERNOBBIO

CHAPTER XXXII VENICE

CHAPTER XXXIII FLORENCE

CHAPTER XXXIV ROME

CHAPTER XXXV NAPLES

CHAPTER XXXVI PEISSENBERG

CHAPTER XXXVII ON THE RHINE

CHAPTER XXXVIII ROTTERDAM

CHAPTER XXXIX LONDON

CHAPTER XL MOSCOW

CHAPTER XLI BIARRITZ

CHAPTER XLII MADRID

CHAPTER XLIII SARAGOSSA

CHAPTER XLIV BARCELONA

CHAPTER XLV SAN REMO

CHAPTER XLVI PARIS

CHAPTER XLVII MOSCOW

CHAPTER XLVIII COPENHAGEN

CHAPTER XLIX MOSCOW

CHAPTER L PARIS

CHAPTER LI TROUVILLE

CHAPTER LII MOSCOW

CHAPTER LV ATHENS

CHAPTER LX NEW YORK

CHAPTER LXII CHICAGO

CHAPTER LXIII SAN FRANCISCO

CHAPTER LXV YOKOHAMA

CHAPTER LXVI TOKIO

CHAPTER LXVII KOBE

CHAPTER LXIX NAGASAKI

CHAPTER LXXIII KHABAROVSK

CHAPTER LXXVI NAGASAKI

CHAPTER LXXVIII SHANGHAI

CHAPTER LXXIX HONG-KONG

CHAPTER LXXX SAIGON

CHAPTER LXXXI SINGAPORE

CHAPTER LXXXII JAVA—BATAVIA

CHAPTER LXXXIII SINGAPORE

CHAPTER LXXXIV COLOMBO

CHAPTER LXXXV ADEN

CHAPTER LXXXVI SUEZ

CHAPTER LXXXVII PORT SAÏD

CHAPTER LXXXIX MARSEILLES

CHAPTER XC MONTE-CARLO

CHAPTER XCI NICE

CHAPTER XCII PARIS

CHAPTER XCV PORT SAÏD

CHAPTER XCVI SUEZ

CHAPTER XCVII ADEN

CHAPTER XCVIII COLOMBO

CHAPTER XCIX SINGAPORE

CHAPTER CI NAGASAKI

CHAPTER CII VLADIVOSTOCK

CHAPTER CIII KHABAROVSK

CHAPTER CVI NAGASAKI

CHAPTER CVII SHANGHAI

CHAPTER CVIII HONG-KONG

CHAPTER CIX CANTON

CHAPTER CX MACAO

CHAPTER CXI HONG-KONG

CHAPTER CXII SAIGON

CHAPTER CXIII SINGAPORE

CHAPTER CXV SUEZ

CHAPTER CXVI CAIRO

CHAPTER CXVII PORT SAÏD

CHAPTER CXVIII ST. PETERSBURG

CHAPTER CXX TASHKEND

CHAPTER CXXIV KISSINGEN

INDEX

The Diary of a Russian Lady

BOOK I

CHAPTER IEARLY RECOLLECTIONS

My father, Prince Theodore Galitzine, married my mother being a widower with five children, three of whom died before my birth. My earliest vivid recollections begin when I was two years old. I distinctly remember feeling a terrible pain in parting with my wet-nurse, to whom I was passionately attached. I got hold of her skirt and wouldn’t let her go, weeping wildly. It was my first bitter affliction. I could not put up with the new nurse, whom I hated from the depths of my little heart, and I would not call her otherwise than Wild Cat, with baby petulance, having already at that early age pronounced likes and dislikes. We were in perpetual state of warfare. When I was about three years old that nurse was succeeded by a pretty Belgian girl named Melle. Henriette. The tutor of my two step-brothers, Mr. Liziar, made love to her and finished by marrying her some time after. He seemed somewhat half-witted; by night he went to chime the bells at the belfry of our village church in Dolgik, a fine estate belonging to my father, in the government of Kharkoff, and also amused himself by breaking, in the conservatory, the panes of glass with big stones. One day he frightened his sweetheart nearly to death by throwing a snake under her feet. After all these pranks it is no way astonishing that Mr. Liziar finished his days in a lunatic asylum. The tutor who succeeded him, asked my parents to bring his wife with him. He hastened to pocket the hundred roubles taken beforehand on account of his salary, and departed suddenly to Kharkoff to fetch her. Meanwhile my father received a letter from this tutor’s legitimate wife dated from St. Petersburg, in which she entreated papa to send her the half of her husband’s monthly salary, telling him he spent all his money on his mistress, whilst his wife and children had not a morsel of bread to put into their mouths. Of course, this too Don Juanesque tutor was instantly dismissed.

My parents at that time kept an open house. On great occasions my smart nurse would appear in the dining-room carrying me in her arms, attired like a little fairy, all ribbons and lace, to be admired by our guests. She put me down on the table, and I promenaded quite at my ease between the flowers and fruits.

I was born under fortunate auspices, there could not be a happier little girl; good things were thrown down upon me: presents, petting, admiration. At an early age I chose as my motto: “Fais ce que voudras.” Whatever I wished for, I very certainly had, and I didn’t see how anybody could want to refuse me in anything.

I was often sent down to the drawing-room to be admired by the afternoon callers, and mamma ordered me to let myself be kissed by unkissable grown-ups, who paid me those compliments shown to children, who are precious to their parents, and which made me intolerably conceited. I stood in great danger of being completely spoilt, and mamma, who was afraid that I received a good deal more flattery than she thought good for me, ordered me to answer what I was told: “Comme Vava[1] est jolie!”—“Vava n’est pas jolie, elle est seulement gentille.” But, nevertheless, I knew that I was pretty, my glass told me so.

[1] Vava: diminutive of Barbara.

At the age of four I could read and write fairly well, and chatted freely in French. I was immensely proud when my nurse ended putting me to bed in the daytime, and when I was old enough to sit at table, able to handle my knife and fork properly. My greatest delight was to ride on my brothers’ backs and to be swung by them in a sheet, that they held by the four corners and lifted me as high as they could, whilst I crowed gleefully, my bare legs waving happily in the air. Mamma hastened with my nurse to my rescue, and carried me off, paying but little attention to the wild shrieks with which I requested to be tossed higher and higher. There was a speedy end to all this fun; destiny itself interfered to stop these aerial gymnastics: I had a bad fall one day, tumbling out of the sheet, and my infatuation for this sport disappeared completely.

It was a source of infinite delight to me to creep on the knees of Mr Vremeff, an intimate friend of my parents, a charming old gentleman with snowy white hair, and hear him relate entrancing fairy tales for which I had an insatiable appetite. As soon as he had finished one story, I asked for another and another.

At that time my father was marshal of nobility of the district of Kharkoff. One day he was suddenly called to St. Petersburg, and, during his absence, we received the news that he was appointed chamberlain to His Majesty the Emperor. I wept bitterly when I was told that papa must wear the chamberlain’s key, persuaded that he would be obliged to adorn even his robe de chambre with that ugly ornament, which must completely transform my dear old dad.

Princess Vava Galitzine

Aged 4 years.

My parents, going to St. Petersburg, generally paid flying visits to my aunt Galitzine, who lived in Moscow. I made my first journey with them at the mature age of four. If the faults of children develop as they grow older, I was to become a pickpocket, for I had the bad habit of hiding in my pockets all sorts of broken toys belonging to the Karamzins,—two little pupils of my aunt! When I went to bed my nurse emptied my pockets, crying out at the enormity of my dreadful conduct.

My birthday was a great day for festivities. I received lots of lovely presents and sweets. On the eve of my birthday I went to bed with expectations of a pleasant awaking, and the first thing when I woke up in the morning was to put my hand under my pillow and pull out the presents, laid there by my parents during my sleep.

On my seventh birthday my grandmother presented me with a beautiful watch with diamond settings. From the very first moment I harboured a guilty determination to get the diamonds out, just as I broke my dolls’ heads in order to see what there was in them, a resolve, alas! very soon put into practice. Mamma entering my nursery one day saw me perched on the top of my high stool, occupied in drawing out the diamonds with a long pin. Moral: “It is superfluous to give such rich presents to small persons of my age.”

The object of my first love was a simple servant-girl who lived in the next house. Every day I watched for her, and rushing to the window I flattened my tiny nose against the glass, and devoured her with eager eyes.

We used to live in Kharkoff in winter and passed the summer months in Doljik, our beautiful estate which claims to be counted amongst the stately homes of Russia, situated forty miles distance from town. Our removal to Doljik was a regular treat for us children, our joy and the servants’ nuisance, for when they began to pack up, we were only in their way, under pretence of help, poking about among the straw, scattered in the yard, throwing it over one another whilst playing hide-and-seek.

Doljik is a delightful place. The castle, a stately white mansion of commanding appearance, is very grand with its suite of lofty rooms; portraits of ancestors, the former Galitzines, very good-looking all of them, adorn the walls. The park is beautiful, with long alleys of elm and oak and vast lawns with skilfully sorted flower-borders, I had a doll’s house in the park, furnished with every convenience, with a garden of my own in which I spent happy hours gardening eagerly, weeding and watering, I also bestowed a great part of my affection on pet animals: dogs, cats, squirrels and tame rabbits. My brothers and I were fond of all kinds of fun; early in the morning we used to start for the meadows with baskets to gather mushrooms for our breakfast, and went for rambles in the woods. We also did a lot of fishing and bathing. My parents presented me with a prefect dream of a pony. How proud I felt when I was lifted on my “Scotchy’s” back for my first ride!

Dolls took no leading part in my childhood, and I had often wished I had been a boy. I climbed trees and tore my frocks and engaged in all sorts of wild pranks.

There was much excitement on my father’s birthday. The house was full of guests, and an orchestra came down from town. At dinner when papa’s health was drunk, two large cannons, placed at the principal entrance, were fired, which made me crawl on my hands and knees, shamefully, under the table. We had in the evening grand illuminations in the park, with fireworks which did not enrapture me, for at every burst of rockets I had to put my hands over my ears.

On the day of our village festival there was a fair on the square opposite the church. I threw sugar-candy and handfuls of pennies to the peasant children.

I had now passed my eighth year and the time for lessons had come. I was given over to the care of a French governess, Melle. Rose, who was very badly named, for she was a horrid lemon-coloured old creature, wearing a hideous curled wig, and always looking as though she had just swallowed a spoonful of vinegar. I hated plain people about me and could not bare the sight of Melle. Rose, disliking her from the first. What a life I led her! Plaguing her was a charmingly pretty sport for me. My governess was always scolding and faultfinding; she forced me to make her every morning and evening a low curtsey, which made me long to kick her. Melle. Rose held up as an example to me a little friend of mine, the Princess Mimi Troubetzkoy, who was a well-behaved child, doing credit to her governess’s bringing up, and never giving her any trouble. But I despised sheep-like docility and was weary of hearing of all the beautiful things Mimi did and said.

Being deprived of the bump of respect, I did exactly what my governess told me not to do, refusing to be put into harness. When the fighting-blood stirred in me and made me too horribly naughty, I was sent for punishment to bed, but I would rather be cut to pieces before I would deign to apologise to Melle. Rose. That disagreeable person was succeeded by Melle. Allamand, a French lady educated in England, the most delightful of old maids, whom I loved fondly, for she was never cross, and since she came to me, I began to understand that it was possible for a governess to be nice, and that the term is not necessarily synonymous to frighten and bore.

We got on very well for Melle. Allamand bore with my caprices, which were many, I must confess. But though she was always in a good temper we had little quarrels sometimes, which we soon made up. I studied my piano with Melle. Allamand and learned English, which soon became a second mother-tongue to me. When we went out walking, my governess’s soft heart was full of pity for the poor starving homeless dogs which she picked up in the streets and brought home to be fed; the ugliest and shabbiest had her tenderest care. Melle. Allamand was called back to England and my parents had to get another governess. An English young lady was engaged, named Miss Emily Puddan. My brothers made her rage awfully in calling her Miss Pudding. She had no authority over me whatever, being in fact rather silly, but she was a very pleasant companion—so well up in all games. We were enthusiastic croquet-players and had sometimes desperate quarrels, being very near scratching each other’s eyes out. “I tell you I hit your ball!”—“You didn’t!”—“I did!” etc., our arguments becoming very hot and uncivil; soon we dropped our mallets and ran and complained to mamma, both governess and pupil.

When I was past my twelfth year I grew very fond of reading the books of the “Bibliothèque Rose.” I pitied mamma because she read deadly uninteresting English Tauchnitz novels, when there existed such enrapturing books as Les petites filles modéles, les malheurs de Sophie, etc. But this childish literature did not hinder me from flirtation. I used to long for adventures; and here I was having one, notwithstanding that I had only just grown out of pinafores. My parents took me sometimes to the Italian opera and I conceived a romantic admiration for the tenor of the troop, who was, as I thought adorable beyond words. I raved about him. When out walking with my governess, I dragged her in the direction I knew the tenor would take, in the hope of meeting him. I began to knit a prosaic cache-nez for the object of my dreams, which mamma confiscated, happily, in time.

From my earliest years I had a great love for acting; we gave, from time to time, little theatrical entertainments; we dressed up and played fragments of Shakespeare’s dramas, and I was the leading-lady in these rehearsals. When I took up the high tragic part of “Desdemona,” Nicolas, the brother of my little friend Sophy Annenkoff, was the personator of “Othello,” he sacrificed his appearance so far as to blacken his face. During the murder scene, when the situation grew particularly tragic, Nicolas displayed such a realism of the Shakespearian meaning, that I began to fear being choked in reality.

I was a half-grown girl now, arrived at the age of fourteen, envied awfully my friends, the countess Sievers and Mary Podgoritchany who were grown-ups and wore long frocks. Some day, I said, it will be my turn to be introduced to society. I looked forward to the day when I should reach the age of seventeen and appear at my first ball with a long train, and be able to flirt to my heart’s content.

I felt now that I had enough of governesses. My last one, Melle. Annaguy, bored me awfully, being extremely particular about my manners; it was preach, preach all day long. Melle. Anna gave me continually a string of instructions consisting chiefly of “don’ts,” which I listened to impatiently. I couldn’t go here, I couldn’t go there, I couldn’t eat this, I couldn’t eat that! My governess was indeed too exasperating, and I had a furious inclination to consign her to very warm quarters. Melle. Anna was besides intensely devout; being very anxious about the welfare of my soul, she crammed me with pious lectures, but books of this sort were not in my line, and I read everything I could lay hand on. Papa’s library was full of interesting books, and I spent whole nights greedily devouring in bed works written by Paul de Kock, a jolly author, but rather improper. In the morning I hid these books under my mattress. My childhood days had passed by. Poor “Bibliothèque Rose,” thy time was well and duly over!

CHAPTER IIMY FIRST TRIP ABROAD

When I was fifteen, mamma decided to take me abroad to be “finished.” Stuttgart was chosen for our winter residence; we were to get there towards the end of October, after having visited Paris and made a water-cure at Spa.

I was intensely interested in all my surroundings; it was all new to me. We spent a fortnight in Paris, visiting the curiosities of that splendid city from morning till night.

I delighted to walk on the boulevards. Though a minx of fifteen I had already an insatiable thirst for admiration, and loved to attract attention, I did not look a “bread and butter Miss” and men stared at me in the streets. One day a passer-by, giving me a glance of approval, said to his companion: “Look at this little girl, she promises much!” I need not say that I was much flattered and laughed outright, but mamma didn’t.

From Paris we went to Spa, a bright watering place, lying in a high valley of the Belgian Ardennes, three hours by rail from Brussels.

We took an apartment in the house of a coach-maker; his daughter waited on us. Insignificant in her work-a-day clothes, she looked quite a lady on Sundays, dressed in her smartest frock; but her work was badly done that day.

Our programme was as follows: we rose at six, swallowed hastily a glass of mineral water and went to take a walk on the broad avenue named Allée de sept heures. In the afternoon we listened to the band playing in the principal square bearing the name of Pierre le Grand. (Spa’s iron waters had saved the life of our Tzar, Peter the Great, nearly two hundred years before).

Profiting by the occasion of being in the neighbourhood of Brussels, we went to visit the famous lace factory. I remarked that the poor workwomen all had sore, inflamed eyes.

On our return to Spa, we took a wrong train and arriving at the humble little station of Pepinster, which stood in the open country, we were very much disconcerted on being told to get out, for our train took an opposite direction to Spa, and there was no other train that day. And thus we had the cheery prospect of spending the night in this solitary station with no dwelling in sight. It was too bad! We quitted the train rather out of sorts, and looked round about in helpless bewilderment. The station consisted of a bare hall only, giving one the impression of being all windows, with a telegraphic office at one end. As there was no lock on the outer door, the porter advised us to barricade it with a large table. But we were not left alone, however, someone put his long nose through the small ticket-window, which troubled us somewhat; nevertheless we laid ourselves down on the hard benches to sleep, which was easier said than done, for we had just begun to doze, when the table, which being weak on its legs performed very badly the function of safety-lock, gave way with a bang and six tipsy porters, arrayed in blue cotton blouses, precipitated themselves in the hall, disposed to pass the night in our company. What was to be done to turn them out of doors? The situation was becoming critical, but mamma did not lose her presence of mind, and spreading a shawl over me, she whispered into my ear not to give the slightest sign that I was awake, and approaching bravely these rascals, she ordered them out, telling them that the station-master had promised that no one should disturb us. After many debates five men went out, but the sixth declared that he had the settled resolution to sleep there. My poor mamma half dead with fright, sat down on the bench by my side, and holding up a warning finger, she entreated the man, in an anxious whisper, not to wake her poor invalid child. Feigning sleep, I had much ado to stifle the laughter which bubbled in my throat. Then our night-mate drew nearer to mamma and said: “I see, madam, that you are not a bit sleepy, nor am I either, so let us chat together.” To cut him short mamma began to tell him all sorts of fibs; she announced that she was the wife of the Russian Ambassador in Brussels, and invited him to come and pay her a visit at Spa, giving him a false address. Flattered and stunned by all this magnificence, her interlocutor removed to the opposite end of the hall, and very soon we heard him snoring in Wagnerian volume; and in the morning how astonished he was to see the wonderful transformation of the poor invalid child into a tall, rosy-cheeked maiden, looking the very picture of health. As I was getting into the train I heard the porters saying, pointing me out: “Tiens, la petite moribonde d’hier, est-elle tout plein gentille!”

From Spa the doctor sent us to Boulogne-sur-mer. From the top of the belfry of the cathedral of “Notre Dame de Boulogne,” one discerns the shores of England in fine weather. I burned with impatience to cross the channel, and one bright morning my desire was accomplished; we embarked on a ship going to Dover. It was the first experience I ever had of the sea, and nevertheless I proved a very good sailor, though the passage of the “Pas-de-Calais” was not at all pleasant; there was a heavy swell and the sea-breeze was so sharp, that I had to hold my hat all the time. There was a curate on board with his son, an Eton boy, who fell in love with me on the spot, but I did not take much notice of him, for he looked such a baby that one would be positively ashamed to bother with him.

When we reached Dover we caught the special train waiting to take us to London. When it drew up at Charing-Cross station, a porter took possession of us and our luggage, and conveyed us across to the Charing-Cross Hotel. I was somewhat abashed when we were invited to enter a small cage, which shut upon us with a vicious snap and then tossed us up, and before I had time to do more than gasp, we were on the sixth storey. It was my first acquaintance with the lift, a means of conveyance which substitutes so advantageously the legs of fatigued travellers. A new surprise awaited us: when we rang for the maid, ordering her to bring us some sandwiches, she whispered something into a pipe-tube in the wall, and in a moment a shutter was set open and the sandwiches, appeared like magic, served automatically on a tray.

I was delighted with London. In this great city life is full and stirring; but the English Sunday is rather a trying affair, for there are no theatres, no entertainments whatever. We wanted to explore the British Museum that day, and it was with great difficulty that we caught a drowsy porter who turned on his heel and went away after having declared, very rudely, that we were troubling him in vain, the Museum being closed, considering that the day of Sabbath was for rest and peace, and that all good Christians kept it holy. We turned sorrowfully away and went to our Russian church. When the service was over our priest, a charming old gentleman, invited us for a cup of tea. My patriotic sentiment was agreeably flattered when I saw the works of Tourgeneff, our great writer, translated into English, in his drawing-room.

From London we went straight to Stuttgart, where we settled down to a peaceful winter. We looked about for furnished apartments and took one in König-Strasse, the principal street.

Mamma devoted herself to give me the best finish in her power. Our Grand-Duchess, Olga Nikolaevna, queen of Würtenberg, was at that time educating her niece, the Grand-Duchess Vera, and I had the benefit of her masters. I worked terribly hard, remaining at my studies till dinner-time. Trying to stimulate my zeal, mamma resolved to give me two marks for my weekly reports if they were all fives, permitting me to spend my pocket-money on theatre tickets.

A singing mistress was sought for me, who rejoiced in the poetical name of “Fräulein Rosa.” When I was presented to her I gave way to a fit of most indecent laughter, for this Rose looked such a guy—a veritable old caricature. Outraged she left the room and never after returned. I was very glad to be rid of that fright, and clapped my hands in naughty glee.

I took a great liking to a young compatriot of mine, Mary Vietinghoff, who lived abroad with her mother, by reason of her delicate health. She was one year younger that I, but for good senses she was ten years my senior. I used also to see a great deal of the Rydes. Mrs. Ryde was the widow of a Scotch curate and the mother of twelve children. I liked the Ryde family tutti quanti, especially Ettie, a girl of my own age, a most jolly lassie. Her brother, Willie, a youngster of fourteen, took a fancy to me. This shrewd young Scot glided one day on tiptoe behind me and stroked my cheek, exclaiming: “How smooth it is.” He wanted to repeat this manipulation with his lips, but received a smart slap across the face in recompense; a very rude demonstration, indeed, but I was an awfully quick-tempered young lady and hated to be touched. The Rydes were astonished at what they termed my “colossal good English,” which I had got from my childhood. To complete my education, Willie offered to teach me some of his best slang.

Though I was still in short frocks, I was already a dreadful flirt and had all sorts of love affairs, but all the stock of my affection was exclusively bestowed upon Robert Jeffrey, a pupil of the English school in Cannstadt, a small town in the neighbourhood of Stuttgart. He was a Scotch lad of eighteen summers, blue-eyed, brown-haired and white-toothed. I was drawn to him from the beginning, for Bobbie was a real darling, and I considered him the sweetest boy in the world. I had other admirers, but Jeffrey was by far the handsomest and the dearest; I was quite silly about him and had eyes and ears only for him alone. He was my “Prince Charming;” my imagination adorned him with the attributes of all possible and impossible heroes. It was my first serious affair, the first love of my girlhood. The passion was reciprocal and Jeffrey said I was the first girl who had yet disturbed his peace. Mamma went to Paris for a few days, leaving me under the care of the Baroness Vietinghoff. She hoped that Mary, who considered herself a sort of guardian of mine, would prevent me doing anything rash while she was away. Part of her duty was to keep off boys, (other boys, not Jeffrey.) Mary promised mamma to play a mother’s part to me; she wouldn’t let me commit any eccentricity. But I did an enormous one. Jeffrey was a somewhat green and inexperienced youth, too timid for my taste, and wanted a little go and rousing up. Wishing to sharpen his wits I sent him a wild letter, telling him that he was all the world to me. I did not expect that he would answer personally, that same day, my foolish billet-doux, and when Mary announced that my youthful sweetheart was waiting for me in the drawing-room, I sat down on my trunk, declaring that nothing in the world would force me to move from my place. I don’t believe I am weak in the way of shyness, but I didn’t find strength at the moment to think of facing Jeffrey. Mary went to fetch him and left the room, feeling herself an uncomfortable third. I continued to stick to my box, my chin upon my folded hands. At first we did not utter a single word, as silent as two stones. Some minutes later we were quite ourselves again, and Jeffrey from that day proved extremely teachable, and soon lost his shyness; I had trained him thoroughly.

This foolish “boy and girl love” lasted during all our stay in Stuttgart. We arranged clandestine meetings at the Rydes. Ettie was a staunch friend, full of sympathy, and we poured into her willing ears the story of our love, having found a comfortable ally in her. We used to have great fun together. One evening we were in the wildest spirits, playing charades, and Jeffrey was just going to accomplish one of his forfeits: he had to kneel down beside the prettiest girl of all the company and kiss the one he loved best. He had chosen me for both manifestations. In the midst of the fun mamma appeared. Tableau! She didn’t approve of kissing, mamma—and soon put a stop to the delightful game.

Mamma kept me very strictly, and did a good deal of weeding in the selection of my friends. She did not consider, alas! the Rydes the best of companions for a girl of my temperament, who was always on the look out for wickedness, fearing that they stuffed my head with all sorts of silly nonsense. On holidays she caught me flat-nosed, with my face glued to the window, looking out for the Rydes.

I went with Mary Vietinghoff to Dr. Roth’s gymnastic class, and enjoyed meeting there girls of different social classes. Forgetting that our stations in life were widely apart, it amused me to shake hands with daughters of shopkeepers as well as ladies by birth, without distinction. Dr. Roth made us march up and down the hall with our hands clasped behind our backs. At each step we made he repeated like a pendulum, “Kopf, Rücken, Kopf, Rücken!” and I mimicked him in the ante-room where we put on our hats, throwing my audience into convulsions of giggling. My foolish tricks drove Dr. Roth to despair. When his back was turned I dashed on to the window, raised up a corner of the blind which was generally let down during our exercises, and stared at the passers-by.

As we lived within two minutes’ walk of Dr. Roth’s dwelling, I begged mamma to allow me to go unaccompanied to his class. Mamma objected at first, for she said she could not have me running alone in the streets, but I soon overcame her prejudice and profited by my liberty for paying flying visits to the Rydes on my way home from Dr. Roth’s. Being such a romp I wanted a lot of looking after and gave much trouble to poor mamma, who never knew what I would do next. My apparent frivolity deeply wounded her, but remonstrance always led to scenes. One night, coming home from a dancing-party, where my conduct had been more disgraceful than usual, after a miserable scene that we had had together, mamma fell into hysterics. It drove me nearly mad to see her in such a state, and I dashed into the street and raced headlong, hatless, my hair loose, flying wildly about my shoulders and waving in the wind. Whilst I fled in terror across the street I heard two well-known voices calling: “Vava! Vava!” screamed mamma, “Fräulein Princess!” roared our cook, running after me in pursuit. This only increased my speed, and I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. A group of students, wearing coloured caps and followed by huge dogs, who were coming out of a restaurant before which I was galloping at that moment, were soon at my heels. I never stopped running till I found myself breathless at the door of the Vietinghoffs, having taken that way by instinct, and I flung myself panting into their apartment, where I felt safe at last.

On Sundays we went to the Russian chapel. It amused me enormously to watch the secretary of the queen, a gentleman looking excessively pleased with himself, who made the sign of the cross only when the priest pronounced the names of the queen or the Grand Duchess Vera.

My health began to alarm Mamma; I was growing thin and pale. Our doctor believed I was overstraining myself with lessons, and instead of prescribing me a lot of horrid drugs, he had the capital idea of sending us to sun ourselves for a week or two on the Riviera. We followed willingly his agreeable prescription and set off speedily to Nice.

Mere child as I was, I already indulged in a decided taste for adventures, and experienced one on the road. During the night, we were pushed into a railway carriage full of passengers; one of them, a very good-looking young man, made room for us and went to find for himself another place. The next morning, whilst we were breakfasting at the Station of Marseilles, a waiter brought me a beautiful bouquet, followed by our amiable fellow-passenger of the previous night, who proved to be a Mexican fresh from South America. He opened the conversation by telling us that his name was Gallardo Alvarez, and hinted that he was an unmarried millionaire, making his first pleasure tour in Europe. Studying him stealthily I decided that he would do.

We stopped at the same hotel with Señor Alvarez, who soon began to show me that he was deeply interested in me. In fact I won him entirely. He was a man of volcanic passions and inflammable as gun-cotton, his eyes said even more than his words. Unfortunately the liking was not mutual, he did not make my heart beat. Though I was a girl to change her passions in a hurry, I was so taken up with Jeffrey, that I had no thought for any one else, just then; my Mexican conquest was rather amusing and kept me from yawning, that’s all, but nevertheless I gave him a fair amount of encouragement. I suppose I am a flirt, but I cannot help being nice to men. My Transatlantic adorer followed me about like my shadow; go where I would, he was ever at my heels and at last it became quite wearisome. I was awfully bored and did the utmost to show it to him by being uncivil and not nice, and he only received hard words from me. Oh! I can easily snub anyone if I wish! I told him one day, he needn’t stick to me so, but no, in spite of my rebuffs, he wouldn’t stir from my side; he only exclaimed piteously: “Princess Vava, why are you so awfully hard on me?” He was a persevering wooer that Don Alvarez, telling me that he had already fallen a victim to my blue eyes in the sleeping-car, and that he thought of me all day and dreamt of me all night since, then and a lot more idiotic bosh. He often bothered me with compliments that I affected not to hear. He likened me to Venus and told me that I was his goddess and the wonder of the world, a being created to be fallen in love with, and that I would remain as a gem set in his mind for evermore. But I only made fun of his high-flown sentiments. One night at the Opera, whilst Faust was “cooing” his romance to Margaret, Señor Alvarez asked me suddenly: “Tell me, who is the prettiest person in this house!” I raised my opera glasses and looked about me at the audience, but he told me it was useless work, for there was no looking-glass near me.

I went out shopping with my Mexican friend one afternoon. In a shop-window, with a variety of nick-nacks offered for sale, I saw a small box of powder in the form of an ivory apple, a perfect darling, which took particularly my fancy. I had a craving to possess it, but as I had only a few coppers left in my purse, I could not purchase it, and looked at the tempting apple with longing eyes; but crushed by the scorn of the stylish person behind the counter, I left the shop dismissing it from my mind. On the same night, going to bed, I noticed a parcel lying upon my toilet table, which contained the apple that I had resisted, bought by my Mexican Paris for his Russian Helena.

We left Stuttgart in winter, and there we were in full blooming-time of violets and roses. We made several excursions and went as far as the wicked little principality of Monaco. Mamma gained large sums of money at the roulette tables of Monte-Carlo. I was also longing to try my luck, but roulette was prohibited, alas for youngsters like me.

We were invited to a ball given on an American man-of-war, the “Franklin,” which anchored in the harbour of Villefranche. The ball was too delightful; I highly enjoyed myself and nearly danced my shoes off. There never was anything to equal the amiability of the officers of the frigate; their commander, Captain Folger, was awfully charming to us and hoisted the Russian flag in our honour.

We had such a delightful fortnight in Nice. The days went like lightning and the hour of our departure approached. I detested the idea of going back to dull Stuttgart to pursue my studies, but I had a compensation in the person of my darling Bobbie.

Señor Alvarez pined with grief at being obliged to part with me. He accompanied us as far as Marseilles and delivered to me, whilst travelling with us, a Spanish poem, of his composition, dedicated to me, speaking of delirious passion, broken heart and other fiddlesticks. One of our fellow-passengers, a handsome Canadian girl begged him to dedicate at least three lines to her. Alvarez at once pulled a note-book out of his pocket and scribbled down three words only: Adieu pour toujours. Not very amiable on his part! Bidding me good-bye, Alvarez took hold of my hands, squeezing them as if they had been shut in a door, and looking at me with an expression of entreaty, he requested my permission to pay us a visit in Russia. By the manner I answered him, I would not in his place have undertaken such a long journey.

Here I was again in Stuttgart, carried back to lessons. In January, on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday, mamma gave me a coming-out dance. I considered myself fully grown now, having put up my golden mane and let down my frock for the first time that night. I was awfully unhappy to leave Stuttgart in April, for I left my heart behind. It was such a sore trial to part with Jeffrey. He was unwell on the day of our departure and could not see us off. I was in despair at not being able to bid him farewell and sobbed desperately at the thought that I should never see his darling face again. At that moment he was more indispensable to me than air and light. Being ashamed that mamma should see me cry, I swallowed my tears and tried to look cheerful, but when the train began to move, I crept into a corner of the railway-carriage and sobbed my heart out in childish grief, little fool that I was.

Before returning to Russia we made a trip to Italy and travelled as far as Naples in the company of the Italian Consul of Manchester, Signor Raphaello Giordano, middle-aged and perfectly gentleman-like. He promised to be our cicerone in Naples, where we arrived at night, rather disconcerted by the hubbub of the clamorous Neapolitans. When we found ourselves on the crowded platform, noisy fachini (porters) besieged us and snatched away our bags. Signor Giordano had to desert us on the quay, whilst we went to get our luggage through the Customs promising to be back soon. In his absence a young man began to hang about in front of us, staring at me all the time with frankest impertinence. He came close to me and managed to whisper in my ear: “What hotel are you going to? Do stop at the hotel where I am staying.” Impudent fellow! I was greatly astonished at his audacity. Fortunately Signor Giordano strolled in at the right moment and rescued me. Both men were standing nervously facing each other and Giordano exclaimed in arrogant tones, his eyes blazing with wrath: “What right have you to speak to that young lady?” “And you, how do you dare to speak to me?” was the impertinent answer. A squabble sprang up between them; it was so hateful to have a scandal! Giordano went to seek a policeman and we remained alone, dreading to move in fear of losing sight of our protector, and our boxes were so long in coming. At last we decided to be bold and wait no longer. We hailed a carriage and rode off to Victoria Hotel, recommended by Giordano, and were very glad when he made his appearance an hour after.

Early next morning I opened the shutters and was fascinated by the splendid panorama of the bay of Naples and Vesuvius with its cone rising against the azure sky. How glorious it all was!

We spent three weeks in Naples making excursions and visiting all the curiosities in the neighbourhood. Pompeii produced a very painful impression on me by its atmosphere of death and disaster. We were present at the digging up of vases, bracelets and other curious relics of by-gone days.

Wishing to give a surprise to my father, mamma had my portrait made by a horrible little hunch-backed painter of modest pretensions. After my very first sitting we did not appreciate this Quasimodo’s manner of painting. Mamma took great pains in pointing out to him his mistakes, but instead of repairing them, the little fright contemplated that abominable painting with his ugly head first on this side and then on that, as if lost in admiration, repeating all the time: “Bellissimo, grazioso!” The portrait was, as we expected, a great failure, but we had to take, nevertheless, that spoilt canvas, unworthy of preservation, paying for it the sum of 200 francs.

One day, having to change some Russian coins, we entered an American bank, where I made, as it appears, a great impression upon one of the clerks, a very good-looking chap, with light hair and brilliant black eyes. He found a pretext to come and see us at the hotel next morning. After that, we saw him nearly every day; he spent all his spare time with me. This youth, named Alphonso Shildecker, was of cosmopolitan origin, born in America of a German father and an Italian mother. Though only a banker’s clerk, Shildecker was nevertheless very well educated and spoke several languages fluently. He had an agreeable tenor voice and taught me some popular Neapolitan songs. This poor youth was getting seriously in love with me, which was perfectly ridiculous. I liked him pretty well in the beginning, and rather encouraged his hopes and accepted his advances in a friendly spirit, but if he thought I was serious, he was making a great mistake. It had all gone much deeper with him than with me. To me he was only a new toy; I was delighted with any one who could amuse me and was simply playing with him out of girlish perversity.

An American boy, Floyd Reynolds, a student of the University of Bonn, who lived in our hotel, was burning with impatience to be presented to me. One day he sent me up an enormous bouquet with his card pinned on it. Shildecker took it into his head to be detestably jealous of Floyd. Giordano was not dangerous to him being no longer young and not particularly good-looking, but he was wild at my flirting with Floyd, in who’s company he did not show to advantage. He soon became very tedious, never leaving us alone and coming in our way when we wanted to be free and quiet; he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in interrupting our conversation. I considered two a better number than three, and as for Shildecker I would have liked to have kicked him round the room. He followed me everywhere, but I turned my back and devoted myself to Floyd, and left him out in the cold. He caught me in all the available corners, when we visited churches and museums, and made love to me, telling me that he adored me to madness, and that he was going to cut his throat, or hang himself, or I know not what, unless I gave him hope. That sounded very tragical indeed! It may be all stuff and nonsense, but, nevertheless, I undoubtedly played with fire and was in a constant fear that he might do something wild and desperate; I am sure it’s enough to make any girl nervous! But I was not going to let him spoil our trip, and tried to keep away from him, thereby driving him into a more feverish condition than ever. He grew perfectly ill with jealousy. How black he looked that love-sick boy! He suffered and I enjoyed myself; that is the way of the world! The day we left Naples, Shildecker wanted to go with us to the train, but I determined he should not have the chance, and indicated to him a wrong train. I was awfully vexed when I saw him at the station, looking down the platform with anxiety. Despite all my precautions he had tracked me. When he asked permission to write to me, I looked at him as though suddenly remembering his presence, and answered with an air of royal condescension: “You may do as you like!”

We spent three days in Rome, roaming through the splendid museums and churches, and had the chance of seeing the Pope officiate in St. Peter’s Cathedral, which was a very imposing spectacle.

On the eve of our departure I received a letter from Shildecker, who wrote to me that he had taken leave of absence for a fortnight and was coming to rejoin us in Rome; but it did not detain us, to be sure, and the next morning we started for Florence without leaving our address at the hotel. I had had such an awful dose of Shildecker at Naples that it was quite enough! But “La Donna è mobile,” I found myself at intervals thinking about him, and strangely enough, I missed him now not a little that he was altogether lost and done with, and felt tenderly towards him. Such is the consistency of human nature! Being a girl of prompt action, I wrote to him, not foreboding the consequences, to come speedily to Florence. Two days later a waiter came to tell me that a young gentleman was at the door and wished particularly to speak to me. It was Shildecker in person, who rushed forward, took my hands in his and kissed them passionately, looking happy and proud beyond words, but I did not let him make too much display of his flow of tenderness and, wrenching my hands from his grasp, I told him to follow me. We entered the drawing-room together, and I blushed up to the roots of my hair when I saw mamma’s bewilderment at the unexpected appearance of Shildecker, who, without preamble, solicited my hand. Mamma with ideal composure told him that we were far too young, both of us, to talk of marriage, and that my father would certainly never give his consent. Shildecker’s face lengthened visibly, but this check did not, however, abate his hope of taking possession of me one day.

I had again enough of Shildecker, but it was no such easy matter this time to get rid of him; having gone so far, he was not to be turned back, he meant to follow us to Venice. (He would have followed me to the end of the world if I had let him!)

For some time past I had noticed that my wooer was altered, not the same fellow at all, looking like a phantom of his former self, a wreck of the handsome Shildecker of former days. I knew it was all my doing, but asked him impishly what was the matter with him and if he could ever manage to stop looking as if he were in a dentist’s chair. He told me that my coolness gave him innumerable sleepless nights, and that I ruined his life.

We arrived at Venice in the night. That aquatic town seemed very beautiful to me with its magnificent palaces reflected in the water, and poetic gondolas, but I found Venice less interesting when seen in disenchanting day; the beautiful palaces appeared ancient and decayed, and the poetic gondolas, resembling coffins, gave rise to lugubrious thoughts. How insufferably dull it would be to dwell here! To live a day, buried in that monotonous silence, is quite enough, I thought.

We parted with Shildecker in Venice. He accompanied us to the boat sailing for Trieste, and was sadly broken down, poor boy. When he bade me a dramatic farewell, his face was pale and his eyes had a world of grief in them, and he told me in a voice which trembled, that even if years were to pass, and continents and oceans divided us, I had only to say come, and he’d come. His last words were that he would ever be true to me, and always keep me in his heart, and though always is rather a tremendous word, still, to judge by his dejected aspect, he looked likely to fulfil it. When our boat swerved slowly from the shore, my poor worshipper stood forlorn, contemplating our ship with tortured eyes, and then I vanished out of his life for ever.

On my return home my father and brothers found that I looked quite grown-up with my long dress and new style of coiffure.

Though far away, I could not forget Jeffrey, and was very happy to receive a long passionate missive from him, enclosed in Mary Vietinghoff’s letter. I devoured the pages with eager joy. Jeffrey wrote that he was broken-hearted since his darling Vava went away, and that he smothered her sweet face with thousands of passionate kisses. My poor, dear, bonny lad! I too was hungering for the sight of him, but half Europe, alas, divided us!

For some time I kept up a correspondence with Ettie Ryde, and inspired her with the following poem, in well turned rhymes:—

From this large, bustling city

My friend has gone. Oh, what a pity!

With her I laughed and sang and danced,

Since she left me my love is much enhanced

She was merry, she was very, very wild,

My friend was a naughty, disobedient child.

She fell in love with handsome men and boys,

And broke their hearts, as children break their toys.

She first loved a Greek, of colour dark and sallow,

“I always thought him like a candle made of tallow.”

But she much admired that dark-eyed Greek;

She used to sit by him and softly stroke his cheek.

(White lies.)

At length of this Greek youth she grew quite tired,

And her heart with love to a young Scotchman was fired.

He was young, just turned nineteen,

Hair brown, eyes blue, by nature somewhat green.

Oh, I can’t tell of that long, long tale of love!

He thought her constant, sweet, gentle as a dove.

She believed him mild, kind-hearted, very true.

Can you tell the names of this young couple, can you?

Well, she was no other than Vava, the young princess,

She ought to have had more sense, you must confess.

He was Jeffrey, the youth from Glasgow town.

If they read these verses how they both would frown!

Oh, I should like to see dear Vava again!

She gave me pleasure, never a moment’s pain.

Now, my sweet girl, this poetry I must end,

Don’t, oh don’t forget your fond Scotch friend!

Henrietta Ryde.

I was delighted with her poetry, which incited me to write the verses that I venture to give here, written in the slang style that I had picked from my Stuttgart English friends. The lines ran thus:—

Dear Ettie, spare some minutes few,

To read this poetry, will you?

It’s awful, stupid balderdash,

And nothing better than mere trash,

But be indulgent, damsel sweet,

And mind, you puggie, be discreet,

Don’t show this rubbish to your beaus,

Nor to your friends, nor to your foes,

For I’m afraid to be laughed at,

And to be called a stupid brat.

Do you remember, darling child,

How I was fast, and oh, so wild?

But I’m not changed as yet the least,

Now, am I not a horrid beast?

Oh what a booby, dear, I was,

To care for so many fellows.

But the real object of my flame,

I truly should not know—to name.

(Ungrateful being.)

I liked Jeffrey pretty well,

Because he was such a swell,

I liked Skinner very much too,

Somebody else did, don’t you know who?

Oh, Ettie, you were an awful flirt,

The idea of my being so pert!

But it’s the truth, dear, isn’t it, dove,

You must confess it as a love.

Poor old girl, how you must feel forlorn,

Now that sweet Teddie Thomson’s gone!

He was a darling little man,

But as dark as a frying pan.

(My revenge for the comparison of my Greek adorer to a candle made of tallow.)

Just remember, at Mary’s party,

You nearly fainted, my hearty,

Then Teddie with a haggard face,

Bustled near you with a great deal of grace.

He ran for water, for Eau-de-Cologne,

And went right smartly through his besogne

Now, old girlie, I must bid you good-bye,

Really, duckie, ’tis not without a sigh!

Vava Galitzine.

CHAPTER IIIMY FIRST APPEARANCE IN SOCIETY

I was to be taken out in St. Petersburg for my first season, and presented at Court. How my heart palpitated at the idea of my first dance! I made my appearance in public in Kharkoff, at a ball given by the Count Sievers, the governor of the town. I am not afflicted with shyness, nevertheless I was seized with a sudden access of bashfulness on entering the ball-room, and feeling horribly uncomfortable with the big bouquet that my brother had given to me, I flung it on the floor in the ante-room. It was not long, however, before I was quite at my ease again, enjoying the ball enormously, and dancing to my heart’s content all through the evening.

I came to St. Petersburg full of happy hopes and expectations, and an eager desire to spread my wings in the wide world. It would be a delightful existence—every hour filled with enjoyment.