It is well known that Skobeleff was a man of very independent character. On the eve of the Russo-Turkish War some difficulty arose between him and the authorities, and he determined to resign his commission and enlist as a private, as he was determined to fight, no matter in what capacity. He was saved from this by a prudent act on the part of the officials known in England as "climbing down." Who knows what would have happened had the brave and glorious Skobeleff been one of the led instead of the idolised leader?
Skobeleff was indeed one of the most charming, captivating men I ever met. I was acquainted with his mother at a time when the son was only known to me by his brilliant reputation. Madame Skobeleff, passing through Moscow, once invited me to accompany her on a journey to the Balkans, which tempting invitation, however, I did not accept, owing to the fact that my husband was at the time ill, and I did not venture to leave him. My matrimonial scruples probably saved my life, as Madame Skobeleff met her death during that journey, and had I been with her I should probably have shared her fate. To be more precise, she was assassinated by her Montenegrin guide, Uzatis, who immediately committed suicide, so that the motives of the murder remained an inscrutable mystery, as he did not touch her jewellery or her money.
One day I received a letter from Skobeleff, asking permission to call on me. He came and talked, which he did to perfection. And I—listened: the only thing I do to perfection! My heart was throbbing all the time, to a point that made me wonder whether it would not burst, as he kept on talking of his determination to go to Egypt, or anywhere, for some fighting, no matter in what capacity, be it even as a humble private.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself," I exclaimed, "to risk a life so precious to Russia? Stay at home, exercise your influence on our foreign policy—that is also a noble work."
"Oh," he answered, "as to that I am convinced that death will find me, not on the battlefield, but at home, in Russia. Every day I receive scores of anonymous letters, predicting the nearness of my end."
On leaving me, he asked if I would accept his photograph, which he afterwards sent me, with charmingly encouraging inscription: "To Mme. Olga Novikoff from an enthusiastic admirer of her patriotic work." I may add that this fine portrait is now in Moscow in the Roumiantzoff Museum.
Two weeks later he was no more.
Verestchagin described to me some of the horrors of the Bulgarian war. I would willingly have closed my ears to them, but there is a strange and grim fascination in horror, especially when described by a man of Verestchagin's personality.
He saw the Turkish prisoners being driven northward to Russia and the agonies they suffered. To add to the frightfulness an early frost set in and the poor fellows, worn out through the long siege, dropped by the wayside and were frozen to death.
These scenes enabled him to paint Napoleon's "Retreat from Moscow." It is of peculiar interest now to recall the Kaiser's comments when he saw Verestchagin's picture exhibited at Berlin. He looked long and earnestly at the canvas, in particular at the figure of Napoleon tramping through the snow. He is said to have remarked that such pictures were our safest guarantees against war. "Yet," he added, "in spite of that there will still be men who want to govern the world, but they will all end the same."