Our life went on much as usual. I have just come back, and the longing for St. Petersburg overcame me already. The weather is horrid. The rain beats against the window-panes. Pressing my face against the glass, I looked at the Amour, black and tempestuous, and my nerves began to give way. Oh, I do want to go back to Russia so badly!
There has been a great inundation at Nikolaievsk, caused by the diluvian rains which had filled the Amour to overflowing. The streets were transformed into torrents, and many houses are completely ruined by the flood. The corn in the fields, the wood for fuel—all has been carried away by the water.
Tigers have appeared in the neighbourhood of Khabarovsk. They come at night, travelling long distances from inland to drink; their roar is heard some miles around. Quite recently a man-eating tiger had devoured a soldier who was washing his linen on the banks of the Amour. Only his head and a few bones were found. A hunt has been organised, and several tigers were shot near Khabarovsk.
Tifountai, the rich Chinese merchant, introduced his new wife to me. He had brought her recently from Shanghai. She advanced slowly towards me on her deformed little feet, supported by her husband, gorgeously dressed in brocade silks and covered with jewels. She had a quantity of paint put on her face, which bore an expression of idleness and ennui.
The brother of the late Queen of Corea, who had been murdered by her subjects, passed through Khabarovsk on his way to St. Petersburg, where he went to ask the Emperor to take under his protection and ensure the safety of the King of Corea, who was hiding at the Russian mission at Seoul, the capital of Corea. We gave a grand dinner to this important personage.
I began to learn the English concertina. Sergy has ordered one from London for me. I took a great liking to this melodious instrument, on which all the musical literature written for the violin can be produced. I now play the mandolin only in my spare moments.
In April Sergy went on a tour through Siberia; he visited Kamtchatka and the island of Saghalien, to which the Russian government transports convicts. He will be away a month at least, and I shall miss him terribly. A month is such a long time to wait. In his absence I remained in complete seclusion, refusing myself to callers.
On the 6th May, the Emperor’s namesday, Sergy landed at Petropavlovsk, the capital of Kamtchatka, with only 400 inhabitants in it. There was still snow on the ground in this polar region, and the breaking of ice had not yet commenced. Visitors are quite unknown in this desolate place, and Sergy’s arrival created the greatest excitement, nothing like it had been known for years. There, in far off Kamtchatka, the inhabitants don’t hear much of what happens in the world. All the town was upside down. That same day the population of Petropavlovsk celebrated the second centenary of the occupation of the territory of Kamtchatka by the Russians. After stepping on shore, Sergy and his suite were driven to the cathedral to hear mass, in sleighs drawn by a team of dogs, who barked and made a terrible noise during the service. Before the arrival of my husband the inhabitants of that dreary, God-forsaken place were as if cut off from everything, and had no communication whatever with the outer world for several months. Whilst the authorities of the town were presented to my husband, they asked in the first place what day it was—they had confounded the dates—and then inquired if the Empress had not given birth to an heir to the throne. When Sergy told the magistrates that it was high time to join Petropavlovsk by telegraphic cable with the other parts of the world, they replied that they had done perfectly well without any telegraph, and would continue to do without it. Some time before, an officer had been sent by my husband to teach the inhabitants of Petropavlovsk target-shooting. In the first place they asked their teacher if he could hit the eye of a sable at three hundred paces with his gun, and the officer replied that he couldn’t. “Then we have nothing to learn from you,” exclaimed his unsubmissive pupils, “for we never miss our aim even with our old-fashioned guns!”
From Kamtchatka Sergy went to the Commander Islands, where a number of seals were caught in his presence. It is the only spot in the world where seals gather in masses in summer; in winter they emigrate to the South Pole.
On his way back Sergy was overtaken by a terrible storm in the Sea of Okhotsk. His steamer arrived at Vladivostock covered with ice.
In August my husband made a second long voyage beyond the Baikal Lake. Since his departure I have not known an hour of peace. I followed him in my thoughts through the washed-away roads by a recent flood. The streams had become rivers, bridges had been carried far away by the rush of the waters; the horses harnessed to Sergy’s carriage had to ford the river with water up to their knees. For a fortnight I had no news of my husband; the telegraph didn’t work and the postal communications were interrupted. One afternoon that I was especially out of sorts, I had a telegram from Antoine Kontski, asking if he might come with his wife and spend a few days with us on their return journey to Europe. Though I didn’t feel able in the present to enjoy anybody’s society, I proposed to them, nevertheless, to stop at our house. I never left my bedroom during their stay pleading indisposition. Mrs. Kontski came up to keep me company; as to her husband I only saw him on the day of his departure, when he came to bid me good-bye. Before leaving he played for me his famous Réveil du Lion. I had all the doors opened, and I could hear the piano plainly. It was refreshing to hear good music after having been deprived of it so long. Kontski gave three concerts during his stay at Khabarovsk, with immense success. When his evenings were unoccupied the old mæstro was deeply engrossed in a game of chess with his wife, or played patience.
The chief of the Japanese army, Viscount Kawakami, who belonged to the small number of Japs well disposed to Russia, came to Khabarovsk during Sergy’s absence and dropped a card for me.
Oh, joy! At last my husband announced his arrival by wire. He was to arrive on board the Ataman, on the 23rd August, towards six o’clock in the evening. I sat on the window-sill watching for the longed-for ship, and looked at the clock every three minutes, but it did not make it go any faster, nor would sitting at the window make Sergy arrive the sooner. The dinner hour came, and still there was no sign of my husband. I began to be seriously anxious; perhaps something might have happened to him! Eleven, twelve o’clock struck, but Sergy did not come. I wandered about the room unable to rest, and went from one window to the other, imitating a wild beast in his cage. At last, after seven mortal hours of watch, I saw a bright spot advancing on the “Amour.” It was the Ataman bringing back my husband! A slight damage to the boat was the cause of her long delay. And thus, Sergy has gone all over the vast territory of the Amour, from the Commander Islands to the Lake Baikal, having travelled about eight thousand miles.
A great event occurred, the completion of the new railway-line between Khabarovsk and Vladivostock. My husband went by an express-train, about eight miles beyond Khabarovsk, to the station “Doukhovskaia,” named thus in our honour. Another train arrived at the same time, bringing among other authorities Count Permodan, the French military agent at Pekin. Several hundred workmen were hurrying to join both lines. The last bolt was driven in by my husband and both trains advanced simultaneously, joining each other in the dead of night, to the dim lights of some lanterns taken from the engines. Thus, the first train which united the Pacific Ocean to the Amour, arrived at Khabarovsk on the 1st September, 1897. Over the portal of the railway-station an inscription bears: “9,877 verstes from St. Petersburg.” How far away we are from the world!