Personally, I thought that one soon tired of this gipsy singing; not so my Russian friends—it appeared to have an irresistible attraction for them. I always dreaded the consequences when some foolish person, usually at 1 or even 2 a.m., proposed a visit to the gipsies, for all the ladies present would instantly jump at the suggestion, and I knew full well that it entailed a forcible separation from bed until six or possibly seven next morning.
Troikas would at once be sent for. A troika is a thing quite apart. Its horses are harnessed as are no other horses in the world, since the centre horse trots in shafts, whilst the two outside horses, the "pristashkui" loose save for long traces, gallop. Driving a troika is a special art. The driver stands; he has a special badge, peacock's feathers set in a round cap; he has a special name, "yamshchik," and he charges quite a special price.
To my mind, the drive out to the islands was the one redeeming feature of these expeditions. Within the confines of the city, the pace of the troikas was moderate enough, but as the last scattered houses of the suburbs merged into the forest, the driver would call to his horses, and the two loose horses broke into a furious gallop, the centre horse in shafts moving as swiftly as any American trotter. Smoothly and silently under the burnished steel of the starlit sky, they tore over the snow, the vague outlines of the fir trees whizzing past. Faster and faster, until the wild excitement of it made one's blood tingle within one, even as the bitter cold made one's cheeks tingle, as we raced through the keen pure air. That wild gallop through the forest was perfectly glorious. I believe that on us sons of the North real cold has the same exhilarating effect that warmth and sunshine have on the Lotos-eating dwellers by the blue Mediterranean.
The troika would draw up at the door of a long, low, wooden building, hidden away amongst the fir trees of the forest. After repeated bangings at the door, a sleepy-eyed Tartar appeared, who ushered one into a great gaunt, bare, whitewashed room, where other little yellow, flat-faced, Tartar waiters were lighting countless wax candles, bringing in many slim-shouldered, gold foil-covered bottles of champagne, and a samovar or two, and arranging seats. Then the gipsy troupe strolled in, some twenty-five strong; the younger members passably good-looking, with fine dark eyes, abundant eyelashes, and extremely indifferent complexions. The older members of the company made no attempt at coquetry. They came muffled in woollen shawls, probably to conceal toilet deficiencies, yawning openly and undisguisedly; not concealing their disgust at being robbed of their sleep in order to sing to a pack of uninteresting strangers, to whom, incidentally, they owed their entire means of livelihood. Some ten swarthy, evil-faced, indeterminate males with guitars filled up the background.
One of the younger members of the troupe would begin a song in waltz time, in a curious metallic voice, with a ring in it of something Eastern, barbaric, and utterly strange to European ears, to the thrum of the guitars of the swarthy males in the background. The elderly females looked inexpressibly bored, and hugged their woollen shawls a little closer over their heads. Then the chorus took up the refrain. A tempest of wild, nasal melody arose, in the most perfect harmony. It was metallic, and the din was incredible, but the effect it produced on the listeners was astounding. The old women, dropping their cherished shawls, awoke to life. Their dull eyes sparkled again, they sang madly, frenetically; like people possessed. The un-European timbre of the voices conduced doubtless to the effect, but the fact remains that this clamour of nasal, metallic voices, singing in exquisite harmony, had about it something so novel and fresh—or was it something so immemorially old?—that the listeners felt absolutely intoxicated.
On the Russians it acted like hypnotism. After the first song, they all joined in, and even I, the dour and unemotional son of a Northern land, found myself, as words and music grew familiar, shouting the bass parts of the songs with all the strength of my lungs. The Russian language lends itself admirably to song, and the excess of sibilants in it is not noticeable in singing.
These Russian gipsies, like the Austrian bands, produced their effects by very simple means. They harmonised their songs themselves, and they always introduced a succession of "sixths" or "thirds"; emphasising the "sixth" in the tenor part.
One can, however, have too much of a good thing. I used to think longingly of my far-off couch, but there was no tearing Russians away from the gipsies. The clock ticked on; they refused to move. The absorption of much champagne has never afforded me the smallest amusement. The consumption of tea has also its limits, and my longed-for bed was so far away! The really staggering figure one had to disburse as one's share for these gipsy entertainments seemed to me to be a very long price to pay for a sleepless night.
Once a fortnight the "Queen's Messenger" left Petrograd at noon, on his return journey to London. On "Messenger mornings" we had all to be at the Embassy at 9 a.m. punctually. One morning, after a compulsory vigil with the gipsies, I was awakened by my servant with the news that it was close on nine, and that my sledge was already at the door. It was impossible to dress in the time, so after some rapid ablutions, I drew the long felt boots the Russians call "Valinki" over my pyjamas, put on some heavy furs, and jumped into my sledge. Lord Dufferin found me writing hard in the steam-heated Chancery, clad only in silk pyjamas, and with my bare feet in slippers. He made no remark, but I knew that nothing ever escaped his notice. By noon we had the despatches finished, the bags sealed up, the "waybill" made out, various precautionary measures taken as to which it is unnecessary to enlarge, and the Messenger left for London. I called to the hall porter to bring me my furs, and told him to order my sledge round. "His Excellency has sent your sledge home," said the porter, with a smile lurking round the corners of his mouth. "Then call me a hack sledge." "His Excellency hopes that you will give him the pleasure of your company at luncheon." "But I must go home and dress first." "His Excellency's orders were that you are to go as you are," answered the grinning porter. Then I understood. Nothing is ever gained by being shy or self-conscious, so after a hasty toilet, I sent for my heavy fur "shuba." Furs in Russia are intended for use, not ornament, and this "shuba" was an extremely weighty and voluminous garment, designed to withstand the rigours of the North Pole itself. A glance at the mirror convinced me that I was most indelicately décolleté about the neck, so I hooked the big collar of the "shuba" together, and strode upstairs. The heat of this fur garment was unendurable, but there was nothing else for it. Certainly the legs of my pyjamas protruded below it, so I congratulated myself on the fact that they were a brand-new pair of very smart striped mauve silk. My bare feet too were encased in remarkably neat Persian slippers of green morocco. Lady Dufferin received me exactly as though I had been dressed in the most immaculate of frock-coats. Her children though, gazed at my huge fur coat, round-eyed with astonishment, for neither man nor woman ever comes into a Russian house with furs on—an arrangement which would not at all suit some of my London friends, who seem to think that furs are designed for being shown off in hot rooms. The governess, an elderly lady, catching sight of my unfortunate pyjama legs below the fur coat, assumed a highly scandalised attitude, as though she could scarcely credit the evidence of her eyes. (I repeat that they were exceptionally smart pyjamas.)