On landing we took the Elevated, which brought us in a few minutes to Brighton Beach, a sea-side resort, the meeting-place for members of fashionable high life. We walked along the sea-shore and met ladies and gentlemen in bathing suits, and bare-legged children with toy spades, playing merrily with sand and bright sea-washed shells. We found ourselves soon in the midst of a large fair with all sorts of show-tents of various shapes, displaying brilliant banners, and queer little booths where you could get your fortune told. The feast was in full swing. We looked at the many merry-go-rounds, flying wooden horses, donkey races, etc. We mounted, for fun, the flying horses, and had a good gallop. We walked for nearly half-an-hour, exposed to the rays of the pitiless sun, in search of a restaurant; we had eaten nothing since our breakfast and were horribly hungry. Mr. Holland, who was completely ruled by his imperious spouse, at times had rebellious fits; he wanted to dine in one place, his wife in another, which made them both cross. He wrangled for about a quarter-of-an-hour; I was a good deal flushed and so weary that I could scarcely drag myself along. I wasn’t able to bear the heat and the fatigue any longer and begged Mr. Holland, who led the party, to take pity on us and pause to draw breath, but he paid no attention whatever to my entreaties and pushed on stubbornly, both hands in his pockets, panting like an engine and mopping his forehead from time to time. There was nothing to do but walk on with a sigh of submission. Mrs. Holland got her way in the end, and announced, in a tone which didn’t suffer contradiction, that she would enter the first hotel on our way. We stopped before the porch of the Oriental Hotel, and were told by the porter that there was a table d’hôte at the hotel, at which the lodgers only could partake. We were ready to retreat, famished and awfully disappointed, but Mrs. Holland, flying into a violent temper, forced herself in, declaring authoritatively, “Here we are, and here we remain!” and made her entrance into the hotel with the step and mien of a woman perfectly determined to have her dinner. Whilst she went to speak to the manager, we came into a large entrance hall, where a long row of negro boys were ranged along the walls, armed with cleaning brushes. They rushed at us and began to dust our clothes. Mrs. Holland must have had a very persuasive way with the head-waiter, for she returned triumphant. We had a very good dinner to which we did ample honour, and were in no way bashful about our appetites. Fortified by our meal, we soon recovered our good spirits, and went by train to Brooklyn. We crossed East River to New York on a ferry full of passengers, horses and carriages. The ferry was sumptuous, the walls of the state cabin entirely of looking-glass.
When we returned to our hotel we found the captain and two ship officers of our cruiser the Admiral Nakhimoff who had come to invite us, as well as all our companions, including the Hollands, to come and take a cup of tea on board that night. Being awfully tired, I was not fit for visitors just then, and as our guests settled themselves into a comfortable position in their chairs, making no attempt to go away, I went to my room under the pretext of a bad headache.
Oh! that “Nakhimoff!” I shall never forget the trouble that cruiser gave us. All the way to the port I felt more dead than alive. The streets were transformed into a veritable battle-field, crackers were exploded under our horses’ feet, rockets were let off and guns fired in the air for joy. The horses, taking fright, began to fidget and prance. I heaved a sigh of relief when we reached the port. The “Nakhimoff” had sent a boat rowed by fourteen sailors to fetch us. We had already pushed off, when Mrs. Holland suggested that it was dangerous to go on the water to-day, because the captains of the numerous excursion boats must surely be drunk and would sink us in no time. She frightened me out of my wits. I was desperately afraid that our boat would be upset, especially when Mrs. Holland, with a very red face, and an expression of desperate determination, declared that she would jump overboard if we were not rowed back to the shore immediately. “Tell them to go back! I shall go back!” shouted the rebellious lady at the top of her voice. Our husbands tried to persuade us that there was no danger whatever, but they couldn’t bring us to reason. They landed us on the beach under the charge of Mr. Shaniawski and were rowed back to the “Nakhimoff.” A crowd of spectators, chiefly women, gathered round us and laughed openly at us, bestowing various uncomplimentary remarks on our cowardice. Awfully confused on being the laughing stock of the place, we decided to cross to the “Nakhimoff” at any price, and were so pleased to see the row-boat coming back to fetch us, in case we had changed our minds, with two ship-officers this time. When we stepped into the boat I became aware that the officer at the rudder, who was intrusted to bring us safely on board, wore two pairs of spectacles. He must surely be short-sighted! But come what may! We pushed off and got to the “Nakhimoff” in ten minutes’ time, somewhat confused, but awfully pleased to rejoin our husbands. The cruiser had hoisted the Russian flag which made me feel all I don’t know how, to look at it hanging there so far from home.
We were taking our tea in the mess-cabin when we heard the sounds of a band striking up our anthem, and shouts of “Hip, hip, hurrah!” We hastened upon the deck, and glancing eagerly in the direction from where the welcome music came we saw an American man-of-war passing before the “Nakhimoff” and saluting us thus gallantly, which roused me to a high pitch of patriotic exaltation. Night coming on, we had to hasten back on shore. The crew of the “Nakhimoff” cheered us as we left her deck and the officers assisted us down the ship’s ladder. We reached the coast all right. All is well that ends well!
The next day the papers said that there were about 200 persons killed in the streets of New York and more than 2,000 wounded during the national festivities, and that the rockets had set on fire a great number of houses. We have had a narrow escape, I must say!
New York is full of Russian anarchists. Quite recently a Russian general, Seliverstoff, has been assassinated by one of them. They managed to lay hands on his murderer, whose beard and moustaches are kept by Mr. Olarowski. Oh, the horror!
On the very morning when we read our names in the list of the arrivals at the “Clarendon,” Sergy gave audience to a suspicious-looking compatriot of ours, who had come expressly to ask my husband’s opinion upon the treaty between Russia and America, concerning the terms on which both countries had to deliver up their respective criminals.
The newspapers were full of us. Our hotel was besieged by reporters waiting in the ante-room for hours to have a word from us. The Harper’s Magazine asks for our photographs, and a type-writing machine office proposes to issue 250 correspondences concerning my husband. We received a lot of letters from autograph-hunters. Mrs. Vanderbilt, one of the richest women in America, wrote to Sergy requesting his autograph in order that she might add it to her collection of celebrities.
Glancing this morning over an illustrated paper, in the middle of the column I saw our faces, but couldn’t believe they were really there, in an American paper. I began to think I wasn’t awake yet. I am sure it is the Hollands who have given our photos to the papers, for we are carried about as a show by them. Under our pictures the magazine has printed our biography, with a number of ridiculous stories concerning us. There was a whole sheet with dark hints as to our private lives, every syllable false. My husband, according to the press, was an oppressor of the people, little better than “Nero,” and Colonel Serebriakoff, who was not able to hurt a fly, is also said to be noted for his cruelty. How do such revolting things get into papers? It is too ridiculous, but I didn’t laugh, I was too angry. The imaginative reporters described me as a Princess with Imperial blood in her veins, endowed with no end of beauty and money, and Mr. Shaniawski as a world-known traveller and explorer. Stupid fellows!
The Hollands are living all the year round at the “Windsor,” where they keep a splendid apartment, like a great number of Americans, who live in hotels to avoid the bother of servants and housekeeping. The Hollands had us to dinner at the “Windsor,” and Mrs. Holland wanted me to look my best in order to make the conquest of the paper-reporters, who take their meals at the “Windsor.” She insisted that I should wear my prettiest dress, but I didn’t take any pains to impress the journalists, and put on my walking costume. I wish the Hollands wouldn’t put me forward always!