To-morrow will be a busy day, as all the packing must be done. One of the French couturières here will send a packer, and will come herself to help the maids. Lhermite, with his cooks, footmen, etc., start Wednesday morning early. They must cook us our last dinner Tuesday night. Hubert, too, with carriages, horses, etc.
To H. L. K.
Ambassade de France à Moscow,
Maison Klein, Malaia Dimitrofska,
Monday, June 11th, 1883.
Well, Dear, this is my last letter from Moscow—you will certainly never again have any letter from Maison Klein, Malaia Dimitrofska, and I suppose I shall never see Moscow again. The court is again most lively (it is certainly an unfailing interest to me, and I am always looking out of the window). Someone has come from one of the Grand Dukes, Michel, I think, to see the big horses. Hawes was very anxious we should sell them in Russia, if we could get a fair price. They have always excited much attention and admiration, but they are very big, and here the Russians are accustomed to a much smaller race, prefer three small ones to one larger pair. I don't know either if they could stand the climate. There seems to be a perfect army of helpers packing carriages, saddles, harness, and all the stable equipment. Mdme. Gille (my couturière) has arrived. She has made me a very nice little blue foulard shirt, I couldn't stand my cloth body these hot days, and yet must travel in that dress, as I have no other. When I think of the furs that have always remained at the bottom of one of the trunks—so many people told me that it would be impossible to be in Russia in May and June without furs. It is fair to say that Mdme. Jaurès told me it was freezing still the morning they left Petersburg—which seems incredible now. I send back all my big trunks and swell garments with the Huberts. I shall keep out only one or two dinner dresses for Petersburg. Poor Mdme. Hubert is rather sad at leaving me, and going back to France without having seen Petersburg, but of course I don't want two maids any longer.
This afternoon I went out with Richard for some last shopping. The city is completely changed—not a creature nor a carriage, nor servants in livery, nothing but a deserted city. We met the Austrian Ambassador walking about in a blue flannel vest and a pot hat. The courts of the Kremlin were méconnaissables, not a soul, hardly a soldier—one or two small detachments of Cossacks at the gates. It is an extraordinary change in such a short time. It has become a sleepy little provincial town.
We had two or three gentlemen to dinner, M. d'Orval, ancien officier de Chasseurs, just back from a tour in the Caucasus with the Duc de Chartres, and a Russian merchant for whom Richard had letters—the first person I have seen in Russia who was neither noble nor peasant. Both men were interesting enough. The Russian talked prudently, but fairly openly—said there must be a great change—things couldn't go on as they did now, there was a young generation to be reckoned with, active, educated, intelligent, and they must have their say—that when the uprising came there would be a Revolution such as Europe had never seen. I wonder.
After dinner we went to the Hermitage, the great public gardens. They are pretty enough, large, with trees and bosquets, and every variety of amusement—theatres, concerts, dancing, and even conjurors. Some shepherds from the Wladimir Government with long yellow cloaks and high hats were playing a sort of reed pipe, curious enough. At last I heard some of the Russian national songs—a quartette was singing them in one of the theatres. They are very pretty, monotonous, with an undercurrent of sadness. They sang very true, and the voices are rich, not at all the thin, high northern voice that one expected to hear. We stayed there so long, looking at the various things, that we didn't get home until 12.30—much the latest entertainment I have been to in Moscow, except the Palace ball, where the supper of course prolonged the festivities.
Monday, June 11th.
It was so warm to-day and I had so much to do with the trunks—separating the things—that I only went out after tea, and of course did a little more shopping. I wanted some photographs and also some music—however Benckendorff said he would see about that for me. We dined quite alone with the Embassy—a good dinner perfectly served, tho' Lhermite leaves to-morrow. He came up to get his last instructions from W. while we were having tea. His experiences are most amusing—he says he has learnt a great deal of the language and the Russian ways of doing business, and if ever he comes back he will know how to take care of himself. He became quite excited at remembering various occasions when he had been "roulé."
After dinner W. and I went for a last drive, to look at the Kremlin by moonlight—and beautiful it was—the sky was so blue one could almost see it like the Italian summer sky, and all the great white buildings and towers stood out gloriously. The great church of St. Basile was extraordinary. The colours, pink, green, red, yellow, all so vivid that even at night one quite made them out. It is a mass of towers, domes, and cupolas, every one different in shape, work, and colour. It was planned and executed by an Italian architect, and the story is that the Czar (of the epoch) was so pleased, and at the same time so afraid he might make another like it, that he had his eyes put out. It was curiously dark and quiet inside—scarcely any light; here and there a glimmer high up in one of the Palace rooms. We met two or three carriages with colleagues driving about in the moonlight like ourselves. The river, too, looked beautiful from the terrace—a broad silver band with moonlight full upon it. I took a last look at the black Madonna in the gateway, and the little guard of Cossacks. I shall often think of that last night in the Kremlin when I have returned to civilization and modern life.