I shall never forget the quiet resigned smile on His Imperial Majesty’s countenance when he returned to the Palace—it seemed almost unearthly. In the street an unfortunate mounted policeman was killed, and on the floor beneath ours—the ground floor—five people were seriously wounded.
Seeing that the Emperor was safe we congratulated ourselves by saying: “Comme c’est chic! Nous avons eu même un attentat!”
After having met a number of friends, ladies and gentlemen in waiting, I was conducted into the dining-room on the arm of Monsieur Merghelynck, Councillor of the Belgian Legation, where a copious luncheon at small tables was prepared, and which we partook of with relish in spite of the regrettable incident.
Each table was presided over by a maid-of-honour, ours being a very cosmopolitan one, made up principally of diplomats, Russians, Germans, Austrians, and even a Turk.
On my right sat the War Minister, Sakharoff, who not long afterwards fell a victim to a bomb outrage.
Fate seemed to decree that poor Merghelynck should be continually the victim of some tragedy or other: he was in China during the siege of Pekin by the Boxers, where for his gallant behaviour while helping to defend the French legation he was the proud recipient of the Legion of Honour; he was in Serbia when King Alexander and Queen Draga were assassinated; and now that he is dead even his ashes are not allowed to remain in peace, for he was buried at or near Ypres, which is now, alas, only a heap of ruins.
During the winter 1904-1905 no ball took place at the Palace, both on account of the war with Japan and also on account of the internal troubles, so unfortunately I am unable to give a description of the supper which under ordinary conditions would have taken place in the Great Palm Hall which I had hoped to admire so much.
At Petrograd one is continually coming across small chapels at unexpected places, erected on the site of some Nihilist outrage against members of the Imperial family.
The Russian makes a great show of his religion, and he places an Icon in every room of his house, hung in a corner, very high up, just under the ceiling; and he causes every room in his house to be blessed once a year.
At my Aunt de Baranoff’s the annual ceremony is carried out to the letter. Each member of the family, holding in his right hand a candle, follows in procession the “Winter Palace” pope, with his long curly hair carefully arranged, while he carries out the blessing by sprinkling holy water on his way.