On the next day after our arrival, Sergy, surrounded by a brilliant escort of generals and officers, gave audience, as representative of His Imperial Majesty Nicolas II., to the members of Municipal Council, wearing voluminous turbans, who presented to him different deputations. First came a deputation of native notables who delivered to my husband the sum of four thousand roubles, all in gold, offered by the natives for the benefit of the bereaved families of the soldiers killed during the mutiny in Andidjan. They asked Sergy to transmit many expressions of loyalty to the Tzar, as well as their profound indignation on account of the murder of our soldiers. Sergy promised to carry out their wishes, but when the deputies began to comb their beards with their fingers, expressing their satisfaction by sounds reminding one of the howls of wild beasts, my husband, who knew that they were not to be trusted for all their promises and soft speeches, told them, by the aid of an interpreter, that he would take great care that they should keep their word to the very letter. He said besides that the Tzar had more than one hundred and fifty million subjects, and such numbers of soldiers that, in case of a new rebellion, a whole battalion could easily be quartered in every village of Turkestan. The deputies’ faces showed disappointment, and fell several degrees. Whence came the representatives of a deputation from the Hindoo colony established at Tashkend, fire-worshippers and traders most of them, bizarre-looking individuals dressed in a sort of long frock-coat, with black velvet caps on their heads? After the presentation was over, Sergy visited the Mussulman quarters of the town and gave his portrait to some of the most notable natives. One of the “imams,” who could express himself in Russian pretty well, said to my husband that up to the present the inhabitants of Tashkend celebrated yearly two great feasts—the Ramadan and the Bairam—but henceforth, after Sergy’s appearance amongst them, they would celebrate a third one—his visit to them. For flattering words the Oriental people have not their equal.
Our house is furnished with every luxury one can imagine. There is a fine suite of state rooms with beautiful tapestry and pictures. A sitting-room is coloured mosaic, the ball-room of immense size, with full-length portraits of our Imperial Family hung on the walls, is capable of accommodating about three hundred persons. In the library long tables are covered with illustrated magazines and papers. The centre of the house is topped with a dome of glass; under it is a large winter garden full of beautiful palms and flourishing plants. In the middle of it a fountain bubbled up in a basin of white marble. The house is surrounded by extensive grounds with long shady alleys; it is cool under them even in the most intense heat. Kiosques, grottos and rustic bridges are scattered here and there. A water-fall, three metres high, rushes into a reservoir just opposite my bedroom windows. The gardens are overloaded with fruit, peaches, grapes, apricots, melons, ripening on every side. In Turkestan, fruit of all kind abounds; peaches and apricots are here a common food for pigs. White and black swans swim in the broad arik (canal) winding like a river in the park. A troop of deer walk about freely on the meadows; they come up and examine us fearlessly. About a dozen foxes live at the end of the park, in a large den formerly occupied by a family of bears. In a big cage walk peacocks who wake me every morning by their piercing shrieks.
Our park is a veritable labyrinth; it is surrounded by a wall twenty feet high. Sergy lost himself when he went out riding in the park for the first time.
Our numerous household is cosmopolitan; it consists of Sartes, Tartars, Poles, Cossacks and Germans. At twelve o’clock punctually, when the cannon is fired from the citadel, the head-butler, a very solemn personage, comes to announce that luncheon is on the table. He wears a Bokharian decoration and looks very important with his star. A smart waiter arrayed in a magnific “khalat” attends behind my husband’s chair. The aide-de-camps and functionaries on duty are invited to lunch and dinner every day.
The balcony of my bedroom looks out into the park. I used to lounge there for hours in a rocking-chair after dinner. The steps of the sentinel, walking to-and-fro with his gun on his shoulder, were sharply audible. I did not move, I was so cosy here, listening to the monotonous splash of the fountain and the gentle rustling of the wind amongst the branches of the trees. The light breeze brought me the perfume of flowers; from the garden came the scent of heliotropes from a bed beneath the balcony. My thoughts flew away—far, very far, to darling St Petersburg.
For two days the rain never ceased pouring; there are mud-pools of water everywhere. When the sun had sufficiently dried the streets, we went for a drive through the town, escorted by a platoon of Cossacks. We drove through wide, tree-shaded streets. The flat-topped houses, generally not more than a storey high, are covered with verdure. It is dangerous to build high edifices in the country because of the frequent earthquakes. We were in the hottest part of the day and saw but few people in the streets. From noon to four o’clock the inhabitants of Tashkend take their siesta. When the heat decreases, the native quarters begin to fill with life and local colour. We drove along arcaded streets like narrow corridors towards the bazaar, passing by numerous “tschai-khans” (tea-houses), and were saluted on our passage by profound salaams; the natives pass their hands over their faces and beards, a gesture which signifies that their sentiments towards us are as clear as a well-washed face. Steady-handed barbers are shaving customers on the threshold of their shops. Vociferating sellers sit on low tables behind piles of fruit and vegetables. Imperturbable and passive Sartes, sitting cross-legged on rugs, smoke their kalyans and appear to be plunged in profound meditation. Here is a group of “douvanas” (Mecca pilgrims) wearing sharp-pointed caps; they are listening to a “maddah” (street story-teller). The Sarte women leave their houses hidden beneath their “farandja,” a dark mantle which covers them from head to foot, and makes them look like guys. They follow more strictly than any other daughters of the Orient the principles of the Mussulman religion, and cover their faces with black horse-hair nets. I have seen veiled Turkish women at Constantinople, but in such a transparent manner, that they differed but little from our European ladies wearing slight veils over their hats. At Cairo the veils are thicker, but for that, the Egyptian women leave their eyes uncovered. The Mussulman women in India go out in the streets unveiled, just the same as our Kirghis women. The natives are very fond of music; in every tent of the nomad tribes, in every “khaoul” (house) one can see a two-stringed instrument called “doutarra,” a sort of guitar. The Sarte makes even of his “arba,” a massive cart, an instrument of barbaric music, putting a stick into the wheels, so that the stick catching the spokes, reproduces the sound of the drum, which resounds through the streets of Tashkend, to the accompaniment of the monotonous singing of the proprietor of the “arba,” a wailing, winding chant which, as it had no end, may well have had no beginning. The Sarte sings always in a high-pitched voice, for to sing in a basso voice is considered unbecoming. The “arba” is put upon two enormous wooden wheels and driven by one horse, on whose back sits astride the carter, his legs stretched on the shafts. The Sartes never grease their “arbas,” and the noise produced by these screeching wheels compose a terrible discord, accompanied by the piercing cry of the camels, and the howling of vagrant dogs.
The Sartes are perfectly indifferent to the change of temperature; neither heat nor cold affects them in any way. They have no stoves in their houses; a hole in the floor is the family cooking place, and an opening is broken through the roof for the emission of smoke.
The streets are watered several times a day, which lays the dust, but contributes also to increase pernicious fevers. The climate is very unwholesome in Turkestan; immediately after sunset it becomes so damp that it is dangerous to remain out of doors. In June the heat is intolerable.
I held a reception once a week; between two and five about a hundred persons would pass through our saloons. The day I held my first reception, the large drawing-room was crowded with guests. I had to take up the subject of politics and be amiable to everyone. I was so tired with having had to talk all the time that my tongue, having refused to obey me, I said good-bye instead of good-afternoon to a belated visitor. The Grand-Duke was amongst our guests and gained my sympathy at once. He is not a bit haughty and altogether charming, and I felt perfectly at ease with him. He is such a nice-looking man, towering nearly a head over everyone. When taking leave the Duke asked me to come and drink a cup of chocolate the next day. He was awfully amiable to me, and took me all over his palace—a veritable museum. Amongst other curiosities he showed me a watch made by Briguet, which goes without being wound up. It is put into the pocket, and after you have taken a few steps, the watch is already set going for twenty-four hours. There exists only two examples of such watches; Briguet valued them at ten thousand francs each. Alexander II. possessed the first one. Being free from all household management, I feel myself on a visit here. The first days of my arrival, I did not know how to while away the time, wishing for even the mildest adventure, something that would put a little spice into the insipidity of our lives. I would like a row now and then just to enliven things a little. For distraction I tried to pick a quarrel with Sergy, making tragedies of pure nonsense, but it takes two to make a quarrel, and Sergy is a man of peace and is a desperately calm person, and finds it necessary for the sake of domestic quiet to put up with all my tempers; nothing could put him out of patience.
Every day I grew more and more home-sick. I often was in tears, not taking interest in anything. The awful climate was injurious to my health. I have no appetite, no sleep. The pink has gone out of my cheeks. Someone had cast an evil eye upon me to be sure. I’ve got so thin and pale that I am afraid to look at myself in the glass. Sergy, who reads my face, which is a mirror of all passive emotions, like a familiar book, grew alarmed and called in a doctor, but no doctor’s prescriptions were any good for my complaint. Mephistopheles whispered into my ear that instead of making me swallow horrid mixtures, the best remedy for me would be to fly back to Petersburg, but I have decided not to let myself be tempted by the enemy of mankind. At the end of a month I began to feel myself at home.