I counted the last hours of my stay at Tashkend. At last the happy day of our departure arrived. Swarms of people came to see us start and wish a happy journey and a safe and speedy return to them. The leave-taking was very warm. How happy I should have been to say good-bye to Tashkend for ever! “Au revoir,” said my lips, and “adieu” whispered to me the presentiment that we shall never meet again.
The train began to move amidst loud cheers. I stood at the window of my car, with my arms full of flowers, exchanging smiles and nods.
We are back at St. Petersburg. I am so happy to push etiquette aside and live the life of a simple mortal. But the sword of Damocles was hanging over my head all the time. My husband’s illness had taken a sudden turn for the worse; he became thinner and paler every day, and the doctors ordered him a complete rest. This put an end to Sergy’s hesitations, and he begged the Emperor to permit him to resign his post in Turkestan.
On New Year’s Day my husband was named member of the State Council. Oh, how blessed it was to have done with Tashkend and all! Our wandering life was over now, the thing I had longed for year after year. I lulled myself with such sweet dreams for the future. But my joy was a short one. I soon saw sinister black clouds darkening my bright sky. Sergy was sinking fast, and was confined to his bed. I hated to see him in pain, and would have given all my blood to save him, but the Almighty predetermined it otherwise. On March 1, my beloved husband passed away. The awful circumstances of my dream, during my railway-journey to Tashkend, were realised, and the world suddenly took a cold and dismal aspect; everything around and within me grew dark and chill. Ever since I was born, good fortune had marked me her own; there were many fairies at my cradle. Life had been too smooth for me, and so it took vengeance now for all my felicity of by-gone years!
The Emperor was present at a Requiem-Mass sung in our house. His Majesty said kind words of condolence to me, but I scarcely heard them. Happiness, peace, all that was scattered to the ground like a house built on sand, nothing remained of it!
There are griefs that are too deep to speak of, and too secret for pen and ink. I end my remembrances by these sad words:—
“Sic transit gloria mundi.”
The End
John Long, Ltd., Publishers, London. 1917