August 18th.—It was pouring with rain this morning when we arrived at St. Petersburg. My mother was at the station to meet me, and took me to the new house my husband had bought in one of the most fashionable quarters of the city.
I had a letter four pages long from Sergy, full of interesting detail about his interview with the Emir at Kermineh, and of his journey to Andidjan, where the recent mutiny had taken place. A crowd of prostrated figures, their faces against the ground, were awaiting his arrival. After a Te Deum sung on the square before the cathedral, my husband distributed to the wounded soldiers a whole lot of crosses of the order of St. George, whilst cannons were fired. From Andidjan Sergy travelled on to Asch, a town situated near the frontier of the Pamir, in a mountainous region named The Roof of the World. An old Kirghise woman, called The Queen of the Alai, aged 87, came up to my husband supported by her two sons, white-bearded old men. This Asiatic Princess reminded one of the antique “Mother of the Gracchi.” A few days after his return to Tashkend Sergy received the visit of the heir to the throne of Khiva.
I saw no visitors and went nowhere, working hard at my book till late in the night, keeping awake with black coffee. At the end of the week I found solitude intolerable and began to feel awfully dull. Every day was the same, the hours seemed years. It was so hard to be alone here! I had seldom experienced much of my own society and was sick of my own company. Sergy being absent, the world seemed one great blank. I never had him out of my thoughts for one minute. Sometimes I had the impulse to take the first train and fly back to Tashkend.
October had passed and Sergy did not come. I bombarded him with desperate letters full of exclamation points, always putting the stereotyped question when he would arrive.
I read in the papers that the plague had broken out near Samarkand, carrying away every day a great many victims, and that the Prince of Oldenbourg was going there with a medical expedition. I was getting awfully anxious about Sergy and felt tempted to throw up everything and rush back to him. I had the most awful dreams and imagined all sorts of calamities and spoiled my eyes with tears, having only one thought, to rejoin my husband. I could endure my suspense no longer and telegraphed to Sergy, imploring him to let me come to Tashkend. I waited with feverish impatience for his permission to start instantly, but my husband, who never refused me in trifles, did not give in when it concerned serious matters. He would not hear of this; he firmly opposed my arrival, and wired to me to be reasonable and have patience; but patience, alas, was contrary to my temperament. My hundred and one wishes were always fulfilled until now, and when it has come to the hundred and second wish—stop? Oh on! Sergy’s opposition made me only the more obstinately determined to have my own way. I despatched him a long letter, an ultimatum in fact. I wrote that if he did not arrive at St Petersburg in the course of a fortnight, I should start to Tashkend without awaiting his permission. I worried Sergy till I finally got him to consent to my going over to rejoin him. My maid brought me a telegram from my husband with my tea one morning. I opened it, and read one word. “Come!” I wanted to leave at once in spite of mother and some friends who tried to make me understand the danger I was running in going to meet the plague; but I am a fatalist and fear nothing. All their persuasions fell on stony ground. If they think that they will stop me, they are very much mistaken; no consideration of wisdom will ever induce me not to do what I want to do. I would not hear reason and was in a hurry to go back to Tashkend. With me to think has always been to act. The sooner I start the better.
October 17th.—I am off to Tashkend to-day, with Maria Michaelovna and my maid Mina. All the cars of our train are occupied by the members of the medical expedition sent to Tashkend to fight against the plague. It consists of forty doctors and ten sisters of mercy. The rain is coming down in torrents, but when I felt happy I was not in the least aware that the sun was not shining, and I am so happy now to rejoin Sergy! Our train is an express and rushes past nearly all the stations. We hadn’t time for dinner and snatched a sandwich at a railway buffet, that had probably been waiting more than a week for travellers to arrive.
October 21st.—We are at Petrovsk at ten o’clock in the morning. I saw the Tzarevitch, a great ship ready for sea, with steam up, making ready to cast off and be gone; the gang way was just about to be withdrawn when we got on board.
I am again on the hateful element. The sea is covered with foam, the wind blows impetuously, rising in enormous billows. We have to struggle both with the hurricane and the swift current which does not permit us to approach the coasts of Derbent where we had to put in. I suffer a great deal from sea-sickness, although I have made three voyages round the world. All the passengers look green and miserable.
October 22nd.—At eleven o’clock we arrived at Baku, where a very disagreeable surprise awaited us. We have to leave the boat and go over to the Prince Bariatinsky, a poor little thing, little more than a yacht. The Tzarevitch is retained for the Prince of Oldenbourg.
We made ourselves as comfortable as we could in our stuffy little cabin. Towards evening we entered a dense fog, and could not see four paces ahead. The captain does not leave the poop, and every five minutes the fog-horn throws piercing shrieks into the black night.
October 23rd.—At daybreak the fog cleared away. The sea is quite smooth. We are going full speed, making fifteen knots an hour.
At ten o’clock we entered the port of Krasnovodsk. My car was attached to the express of the Prince of Oldenbourg, who arrived in the afternoon on the Tzarevitch. Before starting the Prince sent his aide-de-camp to ask if I could receive him. I replied that I felt very tired for the moment but hoped that I should be able to see His Highness during our long railway journey.
October 25th.—I found a telegram from Sergy waiting for me at Kermineh, telling me by what train he would meet me at the station of Kata-Kourgan. I am happy, happy, happy!
We had a long time to wait at Kermineh because the Emir had come to see the Prince of Oldenbourg, and our train was not due to start for two mortal hours. I must just have patience and wait, but as patience is an unknown word in my vocabulary, I grumbled awfully at the delay. This time I travelled incognito and was left in peace; my blinds were scrupulously drawn down. Trying to shorten the hours that separated me from my husband, I went to bed directly after dinner. Oh, I wish it was to-morrow!
October 26th.—It was only in the middle of the night that we arrived at Kata-Kourgan, where Sergy’s waggon was joined to our train. I can’t find words to express my joy!
It was about eleven o’clock when we stopped at the station of Samarkand. Everywhere was the smell of pungent disinfectant. We are going to remain two days here. Sergy put up at the house of General Fedoroff, Governor of Samarkand. The town is ten miles from the station, but I prefer to remain in my car, standing alone in a side-track of the line. The road leading to the station was illuminated at night with different coloured lanterns hanging from the trees.
October 27th.—The chief of the station, who took care of my sleep, and was afraid that I should be aroused by the shrieks of the manœuvring engines, gave order to the engine-drivers to moderate their transports when blowing their whistles.
The Medical Expedition has arrived this morning. Four lady-physicians, accompanied by twelve sisters of mercy, called upon me in the afternoon. They told me that a part of the expedition had been sent to Anzob, a pestilence-stricken village, and got there with great difficulty. There was no carriage-road and they had to make their way by precipitous paths in the mountains.
My husband proposed to the Medical Expedition to organise an ocular ambulatory inspection during their stay at Samarkand which was especially necessary in this country, where eye-diseases predominate, thanks to the rare and superficial connection of the natives with water. Their famous religious ablutions consist in the submersion of their hands in a vase filled with water of doubtful cleanliness, in which they wash away their sins; and after that they dash the water over their faces, and it happens sometimes that a whole crowd of natives have already performed their ablutions in that basin of water! One can easily imagine the hygiene of this ceremony.
October 28th.—This morning a group of Asiatic princes were presented to my husband in his railway-car; amongst them there was the pretender to the throne of Afghanistan Isaac-Khan—leading his little son by the hand. Before that Prince several pretenders to the throne of Afghanistan had chosen Samarkand for their residence, amongst them the famous Abdurakham, who, after having been raised to the throne, had shown his gratitude to the friendliness of the Russians, by playing false. Under pain of death, the entrance of Russian subjects into his territory was forbidden. Isaac-Khan is poor as a rat; he is living on a petty allowance of the Russian government, and though he has very little hope of succeeding to the throne of Afghanistan, he brings up his son as if the throne would belong to him one day or other. When the boy is asked who he is, he answers with an air of great importance: “I am Grand Sirdar” (General-in-Chief), but for the moment his army consists only of half a dozen ragged servants. I took an instinctive dislike to his father, and saw “Borgia” written all over him. In fact I believe the prince a man capable of anything, and though honied words come readily to his lips, his eyes flash an evil look, and hardly ever meet those of the person with whom he talks. There was something in his appearance which distinctly alarmed me. He would have made a perfect villain in a melodrama, with a beard growing almost reaching his eyes. It was not a face that one would care to meet when alone in the dark. Amongst the exotic princes I saw the suzerain of a small principality, who after having become a Russian subject, received as recompense the grade of major. He wears a “khalat” with Russian epaulettes, girded with a green sash, a sign that he is a descendant of the Prophet. When the presentations ended, my husband distributed medals and “khalats” to the native notables who came up to him preparing their most engaging smiles. After having received their gift, they retired backwards murmuring profuse thanks and touching their forehead, mouth and heart, contriving to stimulate on their faces sentiments of profound gratitude, though nourishing a profound hatred towards the Russians. From these treacherous people one can expect anything; it is an eternal armed-peace with them.
October 30th.—At ten o’clock precisely we arrived at Tashkend-station. My unexpected arrival was welcomed with joy and cordiality. I distributed my nods and smiles on each hand; the back of my neck was sore with bowing.
Energetic measures are being taken to check the progress of the epidemic. The plague is daily decreasing, and the Emperor charged the Prince of Oldenbourg to thank my husband for the energetic measures he had taken to battle with it.
The first leaves begin to fall and the park looks very dismal. The weather is horrible, the sky leaden-grey. I hear the monotonous wail of the wind and the rain beating against the window-panes.
This time my stay at Tashkend was but a very short one. At the end of a fortnight I was on my way back to St. Petersburg.
November 12th.—When I arrived at Samarkand, a telegram from the Emir was brought to me. The Asiatic Sovereign asked to be warned in advance, so that I could be received with fitting ceremony at Kermineh where he wanted to meet me, but I refused and begged him by wire not to trouble himself, because we passed Kermineh by night.
November 14th.—The Amou-Daria is very low at this season. The big river in several places forms wide sandbanks, and this time I was not a bit afraid to cross the bridge.
November 16th.—We arrived this morning at Krasnovodsk, where I took my passage on the Korniloff. The weather is bright and clear; the sea is shining in the sun, promising us a favourable crossing.
November 17th.—The wind has changed during the night, bringing bad weather. After dinner the captain came to ask how I was and told me that the lights of Petrovsk had been sighted, and that another half-hour will find us on shore. We had four hours to wait before the train started.
November 21st.—I arrived safe and sound at St. Petersburg, having had quite enough of railway and sea.
Our capital was very animated this season: soirées, dinners, concerts, the whirl went on, but I shut myself within four walls and scarcely saw anyone, I can’t enjoy anything when Sergy is not there. I am reckoned as being eccentric in leading the life of a nun in her cell—a very spacious one, it is true—but I have a sublime indifference to public opinion, having my own way of looking at things, and am not, as a rule, meddling with other people’s business; why do they meddle with mine? I am free of my own actions, and can do as I like, I suppose! Goethe says: “The happiest of mortals is he who finds his happiness in his own home.” I can, therefore, be placed among the happy ones.
It is music which is my passion. In my spare moments I had some lessons on the guitar, but I soon put an end to them, the cords of the instrument hurting my fingers. Then I bought a cithern, the cords of which hurt me still more, and resolved to give myself up, as before, to the concertina.
At last I decided to come out of my shell and went sometimes to theatres and concerts. Volodia Rougitzki, a gifted boy-pianist of thirteen, enchanted me by his performance of the works of Chopin, Liszt and Rubinstein. I wonder if this “Wunderkind” will ever become a “Wundermann!”
Antonine Kontski came to St. Petersburg to give a concert. He had a tremendous success; the audience was enthusiastic and the applause was deafening. I enjoyed his concert a great deal and applauded so much that I split my gloves. For the last encore the audience demanded “Le Réveil du Lion,” one of Kontski’s masterpieces. Then the old mæstro returned and bowed to the wildly excited people and said: “My Lion is weary, he is going to bed, but next week I’ll bring out my wild animal, if you still desire to hear his roaring.”
My husband is promoted to the rank of General-in-Chief. He was Brigadier-General when I married him, and it is now the third and last rank that I enjoy with him.
In the middle of December Sergy sent me a telegram to say that he had taken a six months’ leave. We decided to spend Christmas in Mertchik, the beautiful estate belonging to my husband’s elder brother, situated in the government of Kharkoff. I started for Mertchik to meet Sergy in the highest of spirits. A week later, we were both back to St. Petersburg.
When Spring came on, I began to learn to ride the bicycle. After some inevitable tumbles, I soon surmounted the difficulties of this sport.
May 17th.—The day of our departure for Tashkend has come. This time we decided to steam down the Volga from Nijni-Novgorod to Astrakhan. When we arrived at Nijni-Novgorod we went straight to the boat. Numerous porters with heavy loads on their backs invaded the deck; they are able to bear extraordinary burdens. We saw a man carrying a piano, coming up a narrow plank on to our steamer, just as easily as a world-famed athlete would have performed it.
Our boat has weighed anchor. The weather is beautiful. After dinner we lay stretched on our rocking-chairs on deck, inhaling with delight the fresh evening breeze; sea-gulls followed us. An obliging sailor, a good-looking sun-tanned young fellow, brought me big lumps of black bread to feed them. We ply between two low and flat banks, only reeds round about and fishing men’s huts here and there. I must say, though it is not very patriotic of me, that the Volga is not to be compared to the romantic Rhine, which, in its turn, is not to be compared to the lovely shores of the Amour, one of the most beautiful rivers in the world. During our numerous voyages we had seen the Mississippi, the Yan-tze-Kiang, the river of Saint Lawrence and many other big rivers, and I find that the Amour surpasses them all by the beauty of its banks.
May 18th.—This morning we arrived at Kazan. Large barges come up to unload our cargo of coal. We remained here till six o’clock and Sergy went to see the Governor of the city, having to discuss different questions concerning the Mussulmans, who compose the ninth part of the population of Russia. The principal centre of their domicile is the Caucasus, Crimea, Turkestan and the Government of Kazan. At first sight it seems that the Mussulmans of Turkestan and those of Kazan differ widely in conditions and characteristics. They have different histories, and last but not least, quite different modes of life, but in reality it is not so, the dream of the splendour and glory of their Prophet unites them all. That refers not only to the Mussulmans inhabiting Russia, but just as much to the millions of believers peopling India, Turkey and other Mussulman countries. The task of administering equal justice to Moslems and Christians is a difficult one. The Mussulmans are all clever diplomatists from their youth. Talleyrand said that the tongue was given to the man to hide his thoughts, and the Mussulmans, who have understood it long before him, profit largely by this principle. I was present at an interesting interview which took place between my husband and some Buriate syndics during our travel through the Transbaikalia provinces; they were Buddhists all of them. The interview took place soon after the nomad Buriates were placed on a level with the Russian population, perhaps not quite to the satisfaction of the Buriates. When Sergy asked them if they were satisfied with the change of their social position, the syndics replied frankly that they were but tolerably pleased. With these people one could come to an understanding somehow, but it is quite different with the Mussulmans. This is a discourse that my husband held with a group of Moslem syndics who were presented to him in one of his voyages in the provinces of Turkestan, all standing with sweeping salaams from floor to forehead, their turbaned heads bent low. Sergy’s words were translated into their native tongue by an interpreter: “Do you remember the everlasting wars you had in the time when you were under the dominion of your khans, when nobody knew that, leading a peaceful and easy-going life to-day, your blood would not be shed to-morrow? Do you not feel happier now, when the labourer can gather in his harvest quietly, and the merchant sell his wares in safety?” And all the syndics, smoothing their long white beards, replied in chorus: “Hosch, Taksir!” (It is true, master) “Do you remember that not long ago spears were driven into you and that you were condemned to death without any judgment? Are you punished now without any plausible cause?” “Hosch, Taksir!” asserted the syndics bowing very low. “Did your administrators ever build schools, hospitals, nicely-paved roadways? Did they give you an impartial court of justice, and incorruptible functionaries?” At these last words a swift change swept over their faces, with a malicious smile they exchanged a look, and their countenances again remained expressionless, as if carved in wood, and the same stereotype answer was heard: “Hosch, Taksir!” And only accidentally, you could learn from the junior natives, that their elders remembered with veneration the time when they were not sure of the following day and when they were pierced through with spears. They weren’t in want of any innovation either, provided that their “Crescent” should be glorified everywhere. In such conditions, when the population does not come to meet the enterprises of the administration, all the measures concerning the Mussulmans, scattered about Russia, must be taken by the administrators. It is precisely on this subject that my husband had conferred with the Governor of Kazan, whilst I pined alone in my stuffy cabin.
As soon as Sergy returned on board, we continued our way. The smell of naphtha pursues us. The surface of the water is covered with large spots of naphtha all the colours of the rainbow. It is pretty to look at, but this substance is injurious to the fish; the best species of which have disappeared from the Volga.
The night is splendid, the sky is all studded with stars, and I have no wish to go to bed.
May 20th.—The weather has changed, and the Volga is stirred into little rippling waves by the passing of the wind.
We are at Samarkand in the afternoon. A large company of young ladies, pupils of the Institute of Orenbourg and scholars of the corps of cadets, came on board our steamer; they are bound for Turkestan to spend their summer holidays. An elderly grandmother of one of the cadets had charge of the young people. The officers and functionaries serving in Tashkend have the right to send their children to be educated in Orenbourg on the government’s account.
From Samara to Saratov the Volga is more like a lake than a river. We pass under an immense iron bridge, the building of which cost seven million roubles. I remained all the time on deck, admiring the beautiful banks along which rise forest-clothed hills.
Towards four o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at Saratov. A company of Cossacks took passage on our boat. The men came from Orenbourg and are going to serve their time in Turkestan for three years. After dinner the Cossacks sang in chorus and danced wild jigs on the deck, whilst, on the other hand, a man with a green turban, which indicated that he was a Mecca pilgrim, went through the necessary forms of prayer on the rug at his feet, with his face to the East, first standing, then kneeling, then prostrating himself.
May 21st.—The banks of the Volga are low and sandy in these parts; the sky has become grey, the water has taken a dull colour, and the rain is beginning to fall heavily.
In the afternoon we arrived at Astrakhan and were immediately surrounded by a noisy crowd of Kalmucks, Tartars and Persians. We had a jolly dinner on deck. My husband’s aide-de-camps and attachés were so amusing and merry. They ordered champagne and drank my health. Mr. Baumgarten, one of the attachés, the soul of the company, when raising his glass to me, made a most charming speech; he said that my presence embellished their journey and that they regretted awfully that our arrival at Tashkend would put an end to the pleasure of having a good deal of my company, for we only met at meals.
Dinner over, we had music in the saloon. After my solo on the concertina, Mr. Baumgarten, who had been inspired by my performance, and was by nature somewhat of a poet, improvised a piece of poetry of the most tender nature, with the following dedication: “To Mrs. Barbara Doukhovskoy, in remembrance of a never-to-be-forgotten night on the Volga.” It is spoken there of love, moon and the rest. The poetry ended with the words, “Oh, enchanting night on the Volga, can I ever forget thee?” How sweetly poetical! Who could have believed fat Mr. Baumgarten to be so gifted!
May 22nd.—The Volga is so broad that the shores disappear; only a narrow yellow line of bank is to be seen. At dawn we changed our steamer for a larger one—the Equator. We had to part from the Volga here; our boat stole out towards the open sea.
The neighbourhood of Astrakhan plays a great part in the life of the Transcaspian provinces; all sorts of wares and products are imported there in great quantity. This time our steamer is loaded with barrels of beer.
The wind raises great waves, which sweep our deck. We shall have a good tossing about on the treacherous Caspian Sea, no doubt.
May 23rd.—I have slept very badly the whole night, because of the intense heat and the horrid rolling of the ship; every hour I heard the change of watch ringing. At last I saw the morning twilight entering by the porthole. A brown-coloured lamb, brought by our sailors from Persia, squeezed himself through the half-open door of my cabin; he was on friendly terms with my little pug-nosed Chinese dog, Mokho, and both animals began to chase each other, making an awful noise.
May 24th.—Horrible night! A heavy gale blowing all the time. The sailors couldn’t hear the words of command; we rolled unmercifully.
We arrived in the morning at Krasnovodsk and walked to the train which was waiting for us near the pier. During the short walk I had to fight against the wind, which did its utmost to carry off my hat, and blew my umbrella into a sail.
Before starting we were shown the railway-carriage which had just been presented to the Emir by our Emperor; it impressed me by its splendour. This carriage, painted blue and ornamented with golden stars, will be very useful to the Emir when the Orenbourg railway-line is terminated, for he goes for a cure to the Caucasus every year.
May 25th.—What a heat! The roof of my car is covered with a thick layer of earth to protect it from the rays of the burning sun, but it is of no use, we are roasted alive all the same.
This morning we nearly ran over a camel. The encounter with these quadrupeds is very disagreeable, for it is only by repeated loud whistles that our engine-driver can make them leave the rails; they kept running before the train all the time.
May 26th.—It is Sunday to-day. When we approached the station of Merv, church-bells began to toll. It was a church-car which was waiting to be hooked on to our train, and thus we had Mass whilst crossing the vast desert.
May 27th.—At seven o’clock in the morning we are at Kermineh, where the Emir had come to welcome us. Opposite the platform was erected a large tent in which a copious lunch was prepared; but I did not leave my car, feigning a bad headache. A band of native musicians came to divert me with their weird music, which made me grind my teeth. A beautiful bouquet was brought to me from the Emir, together with a rich casket containing a pair of ear-rings with diamonds as large as hazel nuts.
The Emir invited my husband and his suite to dine at his summer residence, eight miles from the station. In their absence the soldiers of the Bokharian watch-guard were lying stretched out full length in the shade, under the trees, indulging in a dolce far niente.
My husband returned late in the night and we continued on our way. To Sergy the palace of the Emir proved a disappointment. It is an ugly building of no particular kind of architecture; the apartments are decorated with pictures, statues and ornaments of every sort, stuck up anyhow and everywhere. The Emir regaled my husband with a Lucullus repast, with champagne in profusion, but the Emir drank only lemonade, fermented drinks being forbidden by the Koran.
May 28th.—At last we are nearing Tashkend. Towards noon our train stopped at the railway-station, full of people. After having gone through the proceedings of hasty greetings with all present, we went to our carriage. On our passage native musicians blew with all their might into pipes of enormous length, raising them to the skies. They performed such beastly sounds that I feared our horses would take fright and bolt.
A few days after our arrival, three foreign tourists paid an unexpected visit to Tashkend: Sven-Hedin, the renowned Swedish Pamir and Thibet explorer, who had written a book about these countries; MacSwinee, an English colonel going out to India to command a Bengal regiment; and Mr. Herbert Powell, an English traveller going to try the shortest way leading from London to India, the future railway-line. For the present the English make this journey, via Brindisi and the Suez Canal, in three weeks’ time, but as soon as the Russian and British railroad join, the trip will take but eight days. Only five hundred miles are wanting for the line to be completed, but political combinations are hindering the work. Mr. Powell had passed one month in Moscow to study the Russian language, so difficult for strangers. Nevertheless, many English officers serving in India speak our language, and it is a great pity that the same cannot be said of the Russian officers who serve in Turkestan. Notwithstanding their long sojourn in that country, they do not speak the native language. It is quite recently that a school was organised where the Hindustani language is taught. We had also a visit from a French Academician, Mr. St. Yves, a member of the French Academy, who was going to Thibet to explore the lake Koukou-Nor, and of an English engineer, Mr. Wilson, who had come to Tashkend to study the system of local irrigation. The greater part of the soil of Turkestan, as that of India, would have presented long ere this a veritable earthly paradise if it were not for the want of water. The Government and the inhabitants are doing everything in their power to overcome this difficulty. They profit by the proximity of every river, and if there is no river, they dig artesian wells.
The English, in general, are very much interested in everything concerning Turkestan. I read an article about my husband which came out in the Daily Chronicle. I quote the following from the London newspaper:—“Every English officer, who understands the problem of Oriental politics, must know of what great importance is the centralisation of Russian powers in Asia. For the moment sixty thousand men are united under the command of General Doukhovskoy, one of the most able officers of the Russian army.” We gave a great dinner to the foreign travellers. After the end of the repast, we went into the park, illuminated with coloured lanterns to let them see the dances of the “batchas” (native boys arrayed in woman’s dress). The women in the Orient are not allowed to participate at public performances, and their parts are always taken by men. The courts of the suzerains of Central Asia and India boast of their troops of “batchas,” effeminate boys with long plaited hair, arrayed in sumptuous silk robes. In Tashkend the “batchas” are quite different. It was grown-up youths who were brought up to us, wearing white calico shirts and heavy boots which had not seen any polish for a long time. A band of native musicians, sitting on their heels on a carpet spread upon the grass, began to beat the cords of a kind of cithern, and the would-be “batchas” started turning around, whilst the musicians accelerated their time. The performance could scarcely be called a dance; it was rather a swift walk within a circle. Suddenly wild shrieks were heard, and the “batchas” began turning round like a spinning-top, whilst the musicians accelerated their time, and the “batchas” made rather clumsy jumps.
Our menagerie is enlarged. A native inhabitant of Tashkend presented me with a wild horse caught in the mountains, striped like a zebra, with long donkey ears. The animal was placed in the same enclosure with the reindeers, and a she-donkey was given to him as a spouse, which helped to tame the wild horse. Donkeys are very cheap in Turkestan. One can get a splendid specimen for the sum of twelve roubles, and a working ass for five roubles.
A few miles from Tashkend there is a Leper Settlement. When my husband visited it, he saw only ten lepers. He made inquiries, and was told that all the rest were begging in the streets of Tashkend. Sergy ordered them to be packed off immediately to their own dwelling. A collection, for the benefit of these poor wretches, is now in the press. I take part in it, and publish our crossing of the Pacific Ocean from San Francisco to Yokohama.