My plan was a very simple one: to let England know real Russians and Russian views, and to let Russia know England and English views.
CHAPTER III
MR. GLADSTONE AND I STRIVE FOR PEACE
The Real England—The St. James's Hall Meeting—Remarkable Enthusiasm—Mr. Gladstone's Speech—He Escorts me Home—Newspaper Comment—Lord Salisbury and General Ignatieff—Mutual Regard—The Turks Displeased—An Embarrassing Tribute—The End of the Constantinople Conference—Mr. Gladstone Compromised—War Declared—"What Will England Do?"—Bismarck's Policy—Prince Gortschakoff's Opinion
England's attitude towards Russia had been frankly hostile: but a revulsion of feeling soon set in. I had always maintained that the real England was represented by Mr. Gladstone and not Mr. Disraeli. The first sign came from the north, and meetings of protest were held in different large towns, the upshot of which was the calling of a National Conference on non-party terms. Many of the most distinguished men in the country heartily supported the idea, and a great meeting was arranged to be held in the old St. James's Hall on November 27, 1876.
I was present during the whole conference, to which I received ten separate invitations. The enthusiasm was tremendous throughout the proceedings: but when Mr. Gladstone rose to speak he received an ovation, and it was some minutes before the uproar subsided sufficiently to allow of his being heard. I was thrilled as I had never been thrilled before. The speech was a magnificent effort and I need not describe it here. I had never before heard Mr. Gladstone speak in public, and I was glad that it should be on the subject of the downtrodden Slavs.
He spoke for upwards of an hour and a half, and when he finished there was another outburst from the audience. It was nearly eight o'clock when I rose to leave the hall. As I was slowly making my way down the staircase, pushed and buffeted by the vast throng that was pouring out of the hall, I heard my name called and I recognised Mr. Gladstone's voice. He had seen me as he, too, was making his way out, and, offering me his arm, he conducted me into the street. In spite of his having delivered a long speech and that he was due at a dinner party, he insisted on accompanying me to Claridge's, where I was staying, talking with interest and animation as we walked.
Leaving me at my door, where I strove to thank him for what he had done for Russia in striking a blow at Turkish prestige in England, he strode off to keep his appointment to dine with the Corps Diplomatique.
When he arrived it was to find himself an hour late, and half the Ambassadors to the Court of St. James's hungry and diplomatically impatient. He tendered his apologies, also for the fact that he had not had time to dress, adding, "I have just been taking Madame Novikoff home to her hotel, which caused me to be a little late."
This explanation was regarded by the diplomatists rather as adding insult to injury. To them it seemed an indiscretion for a British politician to see to her hotel the "agent" of a foreign Power with whom relations were somewhat strained. The jingo and Turkish newspapers seized upon the incident as an admirable means of prejudicing Mr. Gladstone in the eyes of their countrymen. Thus was a simple act of courtesy on the part of an English gentleman, who happened also to be a politician, magnified into something of an international incident.
Mr. Gladstone, however, was fearless. He never did anything that he was not convinced was right, and then he faced the world with that lion-like courage that seemed to say "Come on—if you dare."
Of that memorable day I wrote soon after Mr. Gladstone's death, and although what I said has already been partly printed, it so clearly shows the fearlessness of Mr. Gladstone that I venture to quote it here.
"On more than one occasion it has happened that he has acquainted me of his intentions, the daring of which both charmed and affrighted me. But hesitation before a goal firmly resolved upon he never knew. 'God indeed he feared, and other fear had none!' So, after the famous Conference at St. James's Hall, organised under his superintendence in favour of the Orthodox Slavs in Turkey, I remarked that, in opposing thus the policy of Disraeli and the Queen, he was waging a revolution. He interrupted me: 'Quite so, that is just the word for it. But my conscience has nothing to upbraid me with, for it is pre-eminently a Christian revolution. Besides,' he went on more slowly, 'I am not the only one who is doing so. The four thousand people who were present in the hall were almost unanimous in their adherence, and did not hesitate to express their sympathy with the noble part played by Russia in the Balkans. 'Did you not notice,' he asked quickly, with a slight smile, 'that the only speaker hissed by the public merited this disgrace only because he sought to prove his impartiality by declaring that he was not specially a friend of Russia? The funny thing about it,' he added, 'is that the poor orator is by no means a Russophobe. I know him personally.' I shall never forget that incident as long as I live!"
Following the Conference was the Conference of the Powers in Constantinople. When Lord Salisbury went as the British Plenipotentiary it was with a heart full of suspicion of General Ignatieff, the Russian Ambassador at Constantinople. Poor Ignatieff had been the text for many journalistic sermons upon the duplicity of Russians in general, and the Russian Ambassador to Turkey in particular. He was a veritable Machiavelli, Lord Salisbury was told, who must be carefully watched.
Lord Salisbury was, however, a man given to judging for himself, and much to the chagrin of the Turks, he soon threw his suspicions aside and entered into cordial personal relations with the man whom he had been sent to circumvent.
Lord Salisbury soon discovered that underneath a bluntness that was sometimes a little disconcerting, there was a man of honour and conviction. The British plenipotentiary was a just man who recognised that he had to deal with one who was too fearless to be diplomatically suave.
Soon the two men came to appreciate each other's qualities. Ignatieff told Lord Salisbury not to believe anything he told him until he had first assured himself of its truth. There is one quality in an Englishman that no one appeals to in vain, and that is his sportsmanship. Whether by accident or design, Ignatieff had struck the right note, and henceforth Lord Salisbury and he worked loyally together for peace.
The Turks were far from pleased with the course events were taking, and Lord Salisbury became extremely unpopular. Sir Edwin Pears in his fascinating book, Forty Years in Constantinople, has written that "Lord Salisbury may even be said to have been hooted out of the city."
He could not, however, succeed in the face of Disraeli's policy of antagonism, and the sending of a plenipotentiary to Constantinople was little more than a farce,—a sop to British public opinion.
After he left Constantinople, General (or to give him his full title Count Nicholas) Ignatieff, became Minister of the Interior, and at one time President of the Slavonic Society.
On the day of the Slavonic Saints, Cyril and Methodius, this Society generally holds its Annual Meeting, attended by from 1000 to 2000 members. On one such occasion the Ignatieffs invited me to dine at their house and to go to the meeting with them. The Countess, by the way, was as good a Slavophil as her husband. At the conclusion of the meeting, the Count made a very enthusiastic and eloquent speech, to which we both listened attentively. Suddenly, to my great dismay and annoyance, I heard him say in a loud voice: "And here is a Russian lady who is serving our patriotic cause abroad," etc. etc.
Taken aback by this unexpected demonstration, I heartily wished myself at the Antipodes, and this wish increased when almost the entire audience surrounded me to express their effusive gratitude. It really was a terrible moment, though of course it was kindly meant....
But to return to 1876. The Conference at Constantinople had broken up, I was then in Russia, and Lord Salisbury had left the city conscious of his own unpopularity. He had endeavoured to impress upon the Turks that against Russia they stood alone, that is as far as Great Britain was concerned. Abdul Hamid knew Great Britain's suspicions of Russia, and upon this he relied. The awakening came on April 24 (1877) when Russia declared war against Turkey and Great Britain remained neutral, holding a watching brief.
The public attitude towards myself at this period was one of very obvious hostility. The frank and open friendship existing between Mr. Gladstone and the "notorious agent of the Russian Embassy in London," did not pass without comment, and certain busybodies became very active. Mr. Gladstone was said to have "compromised" himself politically by writing letters to the "agent" of a foreign Power which was at the very time being threatened with war by Great Britain. It all seems very absurd now, but in those days, when public opinion was at boiling point, it was not a matter to be treated lightly. We were accused by the Press of conspiracy.
We in Russia were constantly asking each other what would be the attitude of England. On the eve of war our newspapers ascribed to England the following plans: (1) To occupy Athens and Crete, preventing Greece by all means from rising and helping us; (2) refusal to permit Russian vessels to pass Gibraltar; (3) and occupy Constantinople if Turkey gets too great a thrashing. I confess that I was at a loss as all these suggestions were tantamount to a declaration of war against Russia. Those were days of terrible anxiety.
News of the declaration of war was received in Petrograd on April 24/12, at 2 p.m. At 5 p.m. the Moscow Douma assembled in the Hotel de Ville. There was immense enthusiasm. The Douma at once offered a million roubles and 1000 beds for the wounded. Cries were heard from different directions. "It was too little, far too little." Then it was decided to consider the sum as a simple beginning. The merchants also met together and the same thing was repeated; also a voluntary donation of a million; 160 ladies offered their services as Sisters of Charity; 100 of them having already passed their examinations. Russia seemed quite revived. "What will England do?" I wrote on that day to Mr. Gladstone. "I know what she would do if you were at the head of the Government. But as it is now—well, we'll do our duty and let happen what may."
England's decision was to do nothing—for the present. In the meantime a great wave of feeling was passing over Russia; yet in England it appeared impossible for people to see that this was not a piece of political jobbery. When I went to Russia at the end of 1876 I despaired of peace; but hoped that the courageous stand made by Mr. Gladstone might after all prevent war.
Those were very dark and gloomy days. We in Russia were victims of all sorts of rumours as to what England intended to do, whilst in England there seemed to be a conviction that whatever Russia might do it would constitute an unfriendly act.
I have been proudly described by my brother Alexander as maintaining a splendid, although a forlorn, struggle in the interests of peace. It may have been splendid, I do not know, but it was certainly forlorn. For a woman to endeavour to keep apart two nations who seemed determined to misunderstand each other, was a folly which, had I been more versed in the ways of the political world, I might have never attempted. Out of my ignorance came my strength; for I dared to hope things at a period when hope was not 'quoted' on the political exchange.
One of the curious anomalies of the situation was that, although Bismarck's policy of getting England embroiled with Russia was not overlooked in Britain, yet everyone seemed to be doing their utmost to assist the Iron Chancellor in his designs.
It was said that Queen Victoria herself was quite aware that Germany was doing all she could to get the British Army to the East so that her hands might be freed in the West, and the very newspapers that called most loudly for war frankly admitted their conviction that Germany had designs on Belgium.
All this puzzled me excessively. With a woman's impatience I felt that I wanted to shake the silly men who would not understand that they were being used as catspaws of the master-mind of Europe.
Bismarck was playing his game as only Bismarck could. How he must have smiled to himself! No words of mine can give the slightest idea of what I suffered in those days. I could not sleep and I could not think. My mind was in a whirl. I felt again the torture which came over me when I heard of Nicholas' death.
In February I wrote from Moscow as one almost distraught: "I would willingly give my life, a very poor gift indeed, for peace."
Soon after the St. James's Hall Conference, as I was passing through Petrograd, I made a point of seeing Prince Gortschakoff: to urge him as well as I could, to do justice to the better part of England.
I gave him as vivid a description as I could of the magnificent Conference, and of the sympathies of the real representatives of well-thinking Englishmen. That same evening, as I afterwards heard, he related to the Czar our conversation in every detail.
I remember Prince Gortschakoff observing that the British people were powerless and that Beaconsfield would hoodwink them at a moment's notice. I could only reply that I hoped not. But I insisted on rendering justice to a people who, after meeting, had convinced me were as noble, as generous and true as we were ourselves.
"You are partial," the Prince said to me.
"No," I replied, "I am true."
I felt that in all Russia I was the only one who was never tired of showing the difference between these two Englands, the official England and the popular England. Thus many of my countrymen and countrywomen who favoured a rupture with "Perfidious England" were angry with me. They thought that I showed them only one side of the question, and that the whole country would yield to Disraeli.
CHAPTER IV
MR. GLADSTONE
His Last Utterance—His Fearlessness—His Opinion of Russia and England—Cardinal Manning's Tribute—Gladstone and the Old Catholics—The Question of Immortality—Mr. Gladstone's Remarkable Letter—A Delightful Listener—His Power of Concentration—Hayward and Gladstone—Their Discussion—Miss Helen Gladstone—We Talk Gladstone—The Old Lady's Delight—I Miss My Train
Somebody once compared life to an education that can never be completed—and indeed, the more deeply one studies events and people, the more emphatically one realises how much must always remain that it is hopeless to try to understand. Nevertheless, the very contact with certain characters, even if we cannot always fathom their depths, is ennobling and edifying, and however much time may have passed since they left us to go to a better sphere, it is always good to linger over memories of great men whom we have had the privilege to meet. I hope, therefore, that I may be allowed to add in this book a few words about my friendship with Mr. Gladstone.
I have been told that the last word to fall from the lips of the great statesman several moments before his death, was "Amen." What a fitting and characteristic ending! The whole life and activity of this grand old man, indeed, reminds one of nothing so much as of some nobly worded prayer or confession of faith. All his existence was based upon his religious ideals and convictions, which he put into practice simply and naturally in every word and action of his everyday life. Christian love and charity permeated his activities in a way that is rare indeed among public men, surrounded as they are by intrigues and rivalries and difficulties. He was generous, as only so great and noble a character can be, to the many enemies that surrounded him, supported even by Queen Victoria herself, whose sympathies were all in favour of Gladstone's opponent Beaconsfield.
Another trait in Mr. Gladstone's character, that always aroused my admiration, was the firm, unhesitating manner in which he would demolish all obstacles and, without looking to right or to left, make straight for his goal, in the face of opposition, animosity, even danger, once he had decided that the goal in question was the right one, the one pointed out by his conscience and his principles. He was entirely fearless in his opinions and convictions—he knew indeed only one fear: the fear of God. It seems to me that his courage could only be compared to his kindness, and I should like, in this connection, to mention an incident that comes to my mind, and that can surely be no secret now after so many years. It happened in the year 1884, during the great political crisis, when one heard on all sides the query: 'Will he return to power?' Everyone knew very well who was meant by the word "he." Just at that time I published my Russia and England, which cost me four years of work and fatigue, and also some hesitation. Mr. Gladstone called with his wife to express his sympathetic approval, which he did in the most encouraging terms.
"I will write a review of your book," he said,—to which generous offer I replied protestingly, to Mrs. Gladstone's surprise and almost indignation: "No, no!" I exclaimed. "On no account! Not at this critical moment. Such a step may do you much harm. Besides, in these emotional times, English people will never read my book at all!"
In answer, Mr. Gladstone struck his hand angrily on the table, "I will compel them to read it," he said in a determined voice. "Every Englishman should not only read but study it!"
And truly enough, in spite of my remonstrances, the review was published in The Nineteenth Century, and contained the above recommendation to Mr. Gladstone's countrymen.
Could anyone be kinder or show greater political courage?
How the events and incidents of those exciting days linger in one's memory! It is indeed certain that I shall never forget them!
A few days after that glorious St. James's Hall meeting, there was a great reaction in public opinion. A large section of the Press began to ridicule Mr. Gladstone, calling him Gladstonoff (English people at that time, having the scantiest knowledge of things Russian, imagined that all Russian names ended in off!), and even insinuating that he was an agent in the Russian pay! But although one must admit that his responsibilities weighed heavily upon him, nothing shook the courage and the determination of this dauntless English Slavophil to continue along the path he considered the right one.
Afterwards, when, at the summit of his greatness, he was for the second time re-elected Prime Minister, he wrote in his diary:
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden!
Too heavy for a man that hopes for Heaven!
And yet, how nobly and unflinchingly did he bear that burden all through his life!
Mr. Gladstone has been discussed and appraised and honoured all the world over as a great statesman. To me, however, his supreme claim to greatness lay even beyond his genius, in his rare and irreproachable moral qualities. Cardinal Manning once remarked that Mr. Gladstone was a more fitting person to receive Holy Orders than himself. "In fact," added the Cardinal frankly, "he is as perfectly suited for the Church as I am unsuited for it!"
Already in his childhood, Gladstone seems to have exercised a beneficial influence over his companions. Bishop Hamilton, famed for his many virtues, and treated by his contemporaries almost as a saint, has admitted that little Willie Gladstone saved him from many an escapade at Eton!
Much later, in 1838, Gladstone wrote his famous work, The State in its Relations to the Church; in 1845 he gave up his position as chief of the Ministry in order to remain true to his religious convictions, and still later, in 1857, he opposed, with all his energy, the "Divorce Bill," on the ground of his belief that a union consecrated by the Church cannot be broken by human law.
I will not dwell upon a fact so well known as the sensation produced by the great English statesman's pamphlet on The Vatican. I will only say that it was the general public, and not Mr. Gladstone's personal friends, who were so astonished at the views expounded in that pamphlet. In his own intimate circle, I constantly heard him repeat his opinion that "Roman Catholicism is the systematic tyranny of the priest over the layman, the Bishop over the priest, and the Pope over the Bishop."
Feeling in his soul, on the one hand, almost a horror of Rome, and on the other a deep religious inspiration, Mr. Gladstone's sympathy with and admiration for the great cause of the Old Catholics were almost a foregone conclusion. He first came in contact with this movement through his friend Döllinger, and he never ceased to express his confidence in its ultimate success. Whenever he spoke of the Old Catholics, and he did so very frequently, it was always to express himself about them in terms of deep sympathy and approval, as of true Christians who strive, with such inspired faith and steadfast purpose, to propagate the doctrines of the original Christian Church, robbed of all the human errors that have crept into it and are represented by the ambitious and tyrannical Papacy of the Vatican. Mr. Gladstone was one of the first subscribers to the Revue internationale de Théologie, which always occupied a place of honour in his library, and which, in January, 1895, published his long letter to me on the subject of Old Catholicism and Döllinger. This letter is reproduced in my pamphlet: "Christ or Moses? Which?" For Döllinger, Mr. Gladstone had the warmest admiration and friendship, looking upon him as one of the most remarkable men in the contemporary Christian Church.
The following letter from Mr. Gladstone will, I think, have some interest for my readers:—
HAWARDEN CASTLE, CHESTER,
Oct. 6, 1894.
MY DEAR MADAME NOVIKOFF,
I can hardly ever write anything upon suggestion, what is more, is that I have before me continuous operations, long ago planned, and must refrain from those that are fragmentary. So I can undertake nothing new.
My interest in the Old Catholics is cordial. A sister of mine died in virtual union with them after having been Roman for over 30 years.
I remember suggesting to Dr. Döllinger that their future would probably depend in great measure upon their being able to enter into some kind of solid relations with the Eastern Church. And I earnestly hope this may go forward. Dr. Döllinger agreed in this opinion. They may do great good, and prevent the Latin Church by moral force from further Extravagances. All this you will think disheartening with reference to the object of your Letter. But I have a little more to say.
I have been drawn into writing a Preface to a Pictorial Edition of the Bible, which will probably have a very wide circulation in America, but will be confined to English-speakers. My Preface will have no reference to that Edition, but to the Authority and Value of the Scriptures. I think there will be nothing to which you or Old Catholics would object....
Believe me, sincerely yours,
W. E. GLADSTONE.
One of the most interesting letters I ever received from Mr. Gladstone, and one which showed his extreme kindness to me when I was in some theological difficulties, involves a story.
A very eminent and scientific friend, discussing with me some years ago the weighty question of Immortality according to the Old Testament, emphatically said:
"The Old Testament knows no Immortality! This is a fact which almost every student of theology understands perfectly well, and which, at the same time, nobody outside that class appears to have the least inkling of. The Old and New Testaments are commonly spoken and thought of as one book—one inspired work—instead of as two volumes, based on opposite and irreconcilable principles. The doctrine of the first is principally materialistic. The doctrine of the second is purely idealistic. The Old Testament represents God as Jehovah, quite otherwise than He is pictured by Jesus Christ. God, as pictured by the Jews, manifested Himself in the terrible 'Lex Talionis,' described in Exodus xxi. 24, 25: 'Eye for eye, burning for burning, wound for wound.' Whilst we are ordered by Jesus Christ to 'do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.'"
I was greatly impressed by that conversation. It is obvious that once we deny immortality, we, at the same time, reject the existence of the soul. An ardent desire seized me to discuss that most important question from different points of view. I pressed my friend to sum up all his arguments and publish them to the world. After much hesitation he consented to do so, provided I took upon myself the responsibility of the publication and the distribution of his pamphlet amongst well-known professors of different European Universities.
Beyond this, a condítío sine qua non was my promise not to reveal his name during his lifetime. Of these stipulations the latter was, of course, the easiest; but I carefully carried out all of them. But now that he is dead I am at liberty to disclose his name. It was Count Alexander Keyserling, to whom Bismarck offered the post of Minister of Public Instruction in Germany, but which Keyserling refused.
I published, for private circulation, the German pamphlet Unsterblichkeítslehre nach der Bibel, and sent it to one hundred professors, including Frohschammer, Albert Réville, Treitschke, Blunschli, Aloïs Riehl, etc., etc., asking their opinion. In the great majority of cases they returned answer that the facts set forth were already well known to them, and, in fact, were generally admitted. One of the fraternity, a Roman Catholic priest, abused me roundly for dragging such a subject into public discussion.
But I bore this censure with equanimity. "Du choc des opíníons jaillit la vérité," and the more we study and investigate questions which guide our life the better.
Since then my desire to have the question more deeply investigated has been increased greatly by the assertion of a talented and outspoken Jewish writer that Judaism, or rather its teaching, is spreading. In the August number of the Fortnightly Review, 1884, he says: "This virtual assumption that the limits of human knowledge can extend no farther than those of the visible world, appears to me to be the central idea of Judaism." And he further asserts: "Judaism, the materialistic teaching, is then found to have resulted in Judaism the physical force." The author finishes thus: "History will show that ... it has been silently engaged in that further Judaisation of mankind, which is the sole ideal of its singularly practical teaching." Be it noted that the above is quoted from a panegyric of the Jewish doctrine!
Amongst those who wrote to me was Professor E. Michaud, one of the most distinguished representatives of the Old Catholic movement, and the editor of the La Revue internationale de Théologie (Berne, Suisse) who wrote as follows: "From a habit of detesting the Jews, people are sometimes brought to depreciate Judaism and ascribe to it almost materialistic doctrines. Judaism is certainly not Christianity; but neither is it Materialism."
Somewhat bewildered by these unexpected, and, as I think, exaggerated protests, I appealed to Mr. Gladstone, whose kindness in these matters had for years been unfailing to me. My letter appears to have given him the mistaken impression that I was venturing on my own account into the polemical arena. Hence his reply, cautioning me against an undertaking so obviously beyond my powers.
His letter is most important, and I am glad to be able to publish so weighty a judgment on the most serious of all subjects, by the greatest Englishman of his century. Here it is:—
HOTEL CAP MARTIN, MENTONE,
Feb. 13th, 1895.
MY DEAR MADAME NOVIKOFF,
I am sorry you have not a better adviser, but I will discharge as fairly and frankly as I can the part which you desire me to undertake.
I do not see why the word "heresy" should be flung at you. Heresy is a very grave matter, and should not be charged except in cases where not only the subject matter is grave, but also the whole authority of the Church or Christian community has been brought to bear. I conceive, however, that the question of Jewish opinion on a future state, as opened in the Old Testament, is a question quite open to discussion.
I have myself been a good deal engaged latterly in examining the question of a future state, and have had occasion to touch more or less upon Jewish opinion. The subject is very interesting, but is also large and complex, and I would advise you as strongly as I may against publishing anything upon it without a previous examination proportioned in some degree to the character of the subject. How can you safely enter upon it without some attention to the researches and the opinions of the writers who have examined it?
My own state of information is by no means so advanced as to warrant the expression of confident and final conclusions. But I think there are some things that are clearly enough to be borne in mind. We cannot but notice the wise reserve with which the Creeds treat the subject of the future state. After the period when they were framed, Christian opinion came gradually, I believe, to found itself upon an assumption due to the Greek philosophy, and especially to Plato, namely, that of the natural immortality of the human soul. And this opinion (which I am not much inclined to accept) supplies us, so to speak, with spectacles through which we look back upon the Hebrew ideas conveyed in the Old Testament.
Another view of the matter is, that man was not naturally immortal, but immortalíable. That had he not sinned, he would have attained regularly to immortality; but after his eating from the tree of knowledge he was prevented, as the text informs us, from feeding on the tree of life, and the subject of his immortality was thus thrown into vague and obscure distance.
I suppose it to be a reasonable opinion that there was a primitive communication of divine knowledge to man, but of this revelation we have no knowledge beyond the outline, so to call it, conveyed in the Book of Genesis. That outline, however, appears to show in the case of Enoch that one righteous man was specially saved from death; and the words of our Saviour in the Gospel give us to understand that there were at any rate glimpses of the future state underlying Jewish opinion. We must not, I think, forget the respect with which our Saviour treats that opinion.
Nor can we forget that the Mosaic dispensation, coming as it were upon the back of the old patriarchal religion, being essentially national, was also predominantly temporal, and tended very powerfully to throw the idea of the future state into the shade.
Nevertheless, it is, I think, generally admitted that, while in certain passages the Psalmist speaks of it either despairingly or doubtfully, in some Psalms the subject is approached with a vivid and glowing belief; as when, for example, it is said: "When I awake up after Thy likeness I shall be satisfied with it."
You know how much upon some occasions I have both sympathised with and admired your authorship. I do not dissuade you from following up the task to which you are now drawn. But I do not think you have as yet quite reached the point at which publication would do honour to yourself or justice to your theme. And I am sure this very imperfect reply will serve to show that I do not treat your letter with levity nor try wantonly to throw obstacles in your path.
I shall be interested to know what you decide about writing—with or without further study.
W. E. GLADSTONE.
P.S.—Your letter, dated 6th, reached me yesterday.
Mr. Gladstone's letter may be regarded as the first and most interesting of those authoritative opinions which it is my sole object to elicit.
People who met Gladstone at my house always found in him not only an excellent and charming listener, but also a man who was ever ready to hear new suggestions, and who delighted in original opinions or ideas that seemed worthy of closer investigation. On some occasions, he was eloquent and talkative; at other times, quite the contrary. One afternoon, for instance, he was in the midst of arguing an interesting point with me, when he suddenly perceived on my table a catalogue of recent works on Shakespeare. It happened that he had never seen this particular catalogue before, and being an ardent Shakespeare enthusiast, the title attracted his attention. He picked up the book, approached a lamp, and began interestedly turning over the pages. Presently he sank into a chair, and having clearly quite forgotten his surroundings, was soon lost in study of his favourite literary subject.
Among my other visitors on that particular afternoon was Hayward, a well-known critic, also a dabbler in poetry and a would-be man of the world. Hayward had a great weakness for people with sounding names and assured positions, and was, of course, always more than pleased to be seen in conversation with the great Prime Minister of England. I was quite aware of this, and inwardly somewhat amused, for indeed, though myself belonging to the class patronised by Hayward, I often invited to my house people whose present was perhaps humble, but whose future seemed to me promising. I have every sympathy and admiration for family traditions, and aristocratic manners and associations—but I have always felt that if one never comes in contact with self-made, energetic, persevering people with ideas and ideals, one is inclined to grow narrow and prejudiced. This has always particularly struck me during my visits to Vienna. The Viennese aristocracy, in spite of loud voices and a bad habit of shouting as though one were deaf, is distinguished for its graceful and charming manners. However, beyond references to ballets and to sport, punctuated by gossip about mutual friends, conversation is practically non-existent. There is only a perpetual buzz of small talk, tedious to the highest degree, and to me at least, acceptable only in homoeopathic doses!
Self-made men, as I have found, always have something more interesting to say; their characters are often worth studying, give one food for reflection, and, being a new element in society, introduce new ideas to broaden our minds. This has always been my view, and I have followed it out, often in the face of protests from my friends who urged me to be more exclusive, and who failed to understand that ideas are better than empty grandeur.
Gladstone, Froude, Kinglake, Tyndall and many others, however, fortunately shared my peculiar tastes in this matter, and perhaps this was one of the reasons why my association with them was always, as I think, pleasant for us all.
But I have made a long digression, and must return to my party.
Hayward, as I have said, was always greatly attracted by the presence of Gladstone, and made every effort to draw him into conversation. Alas, however, nothing could divert him from his book (the Shakespeare Catalogue). His answers to all Hayward's remarks were vague and monosyllabic, and only after some time did he look up and reply quite irrelevantly to some question on current events. "Strange, I have never seen this catalogue before," observed Gladstone. Hayward was indignant. "There is nothing to see," he grumbled testily, "it is only a list of reprints, and an incomplete list at that."
"No, no," remonstrated Gladstone enthusiastically, "that is just the charm of it—there really seems to be nothing missing."
"Oh, yes," objected Hayward angrily, "there are many things missing. I know all the Shakespearean literature as well as anyone. I can show you at once."
"Oh, but show me, show me," exclaimed Gladstone, highly interested.
Hayward took the volume somewhat resentfully, and it was now his turn to lose himself in its pages, while Gladstone waited in silence, and my remaining visitors looked at me almost in distress! The incident ended as unexpectedly as it began. After having almost quarrelled with Hayward about some published or unpublished works, Gladstone suddenly remembered that he had promised Mrs. Gladstone to be back at a certain hour, rose hurriedly, and took his leave. I was exceedingly amused; not so, however, my remaining guests.
"You can hardly say that these manners are good!" remarked someone to me. "Well," I answered, "I never find fault with my friends. Besides, is it not natural that an Englishman should be carried away with enthusiasm for your great English genius Shakespeare, who is honoured all the world over?"
This was not the only occasion on which I remarked that Gladstone had an almost morbid love of books. In Russia, we had only one man who was a match for the great English Premier in this respect: this was the head of our Holy Synod, Pobyedonostzeff. I used to send new books that I came across to both these friends, but I confess that I seldom had the satisfaction to find that my gifts were not already known to them.
Pobyedonostzeff being, of course, incessantly busy and in demand, and rarely having a moment to himself, would on receiving a new book that interested him, take a train from Petrograd to Moscow, and back in order to enjoy some hours of solitude and the possibility of reading his book undisturbed during this improvised journey!
Another of my book-lover friends who has left so warm an impression in my remembrance, and whose name comes to my mind as I write, is Tyndall. How good and kind-hearted he always was, and how responsive and eager to do good and to help others!
As I have said, Mr. Gladstone was greatly interested in the Old Catholics. On one occasion when we were both dining with Dr. Döllinger, one of the leaders of the Old Catholic movement, at Munich, we were discussing the Old Catholicism and Mr. Gladstone repeated how greatly interested he was in the movement. I remember the way in which he spoke to me afterwards of his sister in connection with the Old Catholic question. I thought it only natural to tell him that, as I should pass Cologne on my way to Russia, I would like to call on her. Mr. Gladstone's face brightened at my suggestion.
When I called on Miss Helen Gladstone I found that she already expected my visit, and had heard a great deal not only about me, but about the Old Catholic question.
"Yes," she said, "my brother is quite a superior man. But if you knew what an original he is! For instance, once when he was travelling abroad already in his capacity of Prime Minister, his wife desired him to take a drive and off they went. But what vehicle do you think they took? A little one-horsed cart, just as if they were two paupers sent on some business!"
"Don't you think it is natural," said I, "for a man like Mr. Gladstone, who has so many grand ideas and splendid schemes, to pay no attention to the trivialities of this conventional world? Let me tell you what happened to us once, when the Gladstones and myself met at Munich. We went to a Museum, the President of which was very anxious to make the 'honneurs' of some very rare specimens. He showed us a certain dish, and seemed particularly proud of it. Your brother took it in his hand, examined it very carefully, and then said: 'But you know, Professor, this is not genuine. In a genuine dish there would be here a special little mark that is not to be found here,' The President actually turned pale—would you believe it?"
Dear Miss Gladstone seemed quite charmed with this story. "Oh, how like him!" she exclaimed. "He knows everything. But you promised to tell me something more about him," she pressed.
"Well," I said, "my second recollection refers to our meeting in Paris. When I arrived there the celebrated politician and journalist, Emile de Girardin, asked me to a large dinner party that he was giving. A few days before this event, I heard of the Gladstones' arrival in Paris and mentioned it to Monsieur de Girardin, with the suggestion how nice it would be if he were to invite them also. My old Frenchman was delighted. 'Oh, do try to arrange that!' he exclaimed; 'I do not know them personally, but have always longed to make their acquaintance. I shall send you the list of all my guests, and hope you will try to ascertain whom they would like to meet, and whom to avoid.' This was an easy task, and I fulfilled it. Mr. Gladstone said: 'I would very much like to meet your brother, General Kiréeff (who had already been invited), and the Contributor of the Revue des Deux Mondes, Scherer'—(Scherer was a celebrated senator, politician and literary critic). It so happened that by chance I knew some of his work, and was delighted at the prospect of this meeting. But Mr. Gladstone frankly admitted that he would not like to meet Gambetta. This desire was also observed at the end of the dinner; one of the guests addressed a long speech of welcome to Mr. Gladstone, of course in French. But just fancy my surprise, when Mr. Gladstone rose and answered, also in French, to the delight of the whole assembly. No one had suspected that he possessed such a mastery of the French language. As to my brother, who took Miss Helen Gladstone in to dinner, they turned out to be both great admirers of Botticelli and well agreed on their favourite subject."
Dear old Miss Gladstone seemed delighted with all these details about her relations, and pressed me to prolong my visit, which I did to the point of losing my train!
CHAPTER V
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 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 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, 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 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 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.
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 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 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.
SEMINARY FOR 125 SCHOOL TEACHERS BUILT BY ALEXANDER NOVIKOFF AT NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA
Carlyle and I had one great thing in common: 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 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:
"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 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 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 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 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 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.