I work hard at my book and give much time to my English concertina. This melodious instrument leads to the transmission of the most difficult violin literature. I am passionately fond of music; having inherited that passion from my father who had the true artistic temperament and was a gifted musician and a splendid pianist.
The life that I had to lead was entirely out of my line. I hate state receptions, state manners; grandeurs weigh heavily upon me, and etiquette to the laws of which I must submit. I have got a court like a little queen, everyone is charming to me, but I, ungrateful being, should have liked warm friendship far better than respectful homage. I had hundreds of acquaintances, and not a single intimate friend, and I was badly in need of one. I hated my reception days when callers flocked in on us, and I had to talk to people, only for the sake of talking, pretending to be pleased when all the time I want to say “Oh, do go away!” One of the disadvantages of being the wife of a Governor-General was the necessity of suffering bores gladly. As soon as the clock struck six, and the last guest had departed, I hastened to step down from my pedestal and put on with delight my dressing-gown and stretch myself in an easy chair. How I long to get away from all these ties of public life, to stay at St. Petersburg and live the life of a simple mortal, independent, and apart from the so-called world, and be free of all pomp. But there is no use my thinking about it. It’s silly to want the moon.
I am selected for President of the Benevolent Society of the city of Tashkend. The meetings of the committee are held in our house. I presided at a long table covered with green cloth. At the first assembly I felt timid and embarrassed for many eyes were on me, and for the moment I almost forgot how to get on with the formal little speech I had learned so carefully. I was grateful when Sergy, who sat opposite to me, came to my relief and did all the talking for me. All at once my courage returned to me, and I took an animated part in the project to found an asylum for old men and women. It was decided to organise for that purpose a great charity feast with theatricals, bazaar, tombola, and what not! I issued about 700 invitations, with an indirect allusion to the subject of offerings which I claimed for the forthcoming lottery.
The opening of the new asylum was celebrated with great pomp. The Directress of the establishment hurried forward to meet us and led us straight to the chapel where a Te Deum was sung, after which we were shown through the asylum, containing 600 old people of both sexes. It gave also shelter to an officer’s daughter who was not quite right in her mind. Her bridegroom had been mixed up in some political affair and sent to the galleys and she had gone mad from the shock. The poor insane woman is barely thirty years old, but looks fifty at least, arrayed in a costume which our grandmothers wore in their youth. She leads a very secluded life, and never speaks to anyone. We saw her walking in the garden her eyes fixed on the ground, pretending not to see us.
On that same day we visited an asylum for the lunatics. The whole staff of doctors came up to meet us. We walked first to the women’s section. The patients were wandering in the park in groups. One of them came up to my husband to entreat him to release her, asserting that she was in perfect health, but would certainly go raving mad if she was forced to spend one more night in such company. That woman had come a few days ago to ask Sergy to permit her to embrace the Mussulman religion. She told him also that in hatred of one of the high dignitaries of the city, she had written to him, that she cursed him and all his family. It appeared she bought a revolver with the intention of shooting him. She was seized in time, luckily, and brought into this lunatic asylum to test her sanity. Another insane creature, grinning idiotically, approached me and stared at me from head to foot. She became very fierce all at once, and began to abuse me, calling me all sorts of bad names, and accused me of having stolen her best frock. When we approached the section of the raving lunatics, roars and shouts reached our ears. Though trembling with fear I would not be led away and kept tight hold of Sergy’s arm, clinging fast to him. Behind an iron-barred window we saw a horrible moustached creature, standing with her arms folded across her chest, glaring ferociously at us with an expression so malignant, that Satan would have been jealous of her. She believes herself to be a man and becomes terribly agitated when she sees a woman. She beckoned to me suddenly making dreadful gestures and demoniac grimaces. Sergy hurried me away. We made but a short visit to the men’s section. We saw a man mad with love for the Empress. The poor maniac writes long letters every day to his lady-love, but receiving no answer, he guesses that everybody plays him false and that his letters are not sent. He was lying on his bed when we approached him and turned suddenly his face to the wall and his back to us. I heaved a sigh of relief when we left these sad quarters.
In July great festivals were arranged to celebrate the twenty-third anniversary of the taking of Tashkend. There was a parade of troops on the square before the palace, after which my husband proceeded to the tomb of our soldiers killed during the siege of the town and laid a wreath on their grave.
We gave a grand dinner that same day for about one hundred guests. An amusing incident occurred during this meal. Among the guests there were some important natives who had come from the end of the country. One of these men, who had never tasted European cooking, took a pot of mustard for a separate dish, and swallowed a whole spoonful of it. He naturally gasped, choked, whilst tears ran in rivulets down his cheeks. His neighbour at table, who had not noticed the proceeding with the mustard, asked him the cause of his grief. The native, heaving a deep sigh, answered that he had just called to mind his deceased father, and that to-day was the anniversary of his death; he had been drowned in the Amou-Daria, whilst sailing on the river in a small boat. Meanwhile his left hand neighbour, a compatriot of his, had followed his example, having also regaled himself with mustard, and with the same consequences, of course. The son of the drowned man was wickedly rejoiced at his blunder, and asked in his most velvety tone, “Why does my brother cry?” “Because I regret that thou did’st not disappear beyond the mysterious regions of the Amou-Daria together with thy father!” was the cunning reply. Everybody laughed when the interpreter translated this dialogue between the two natives.
Our life had many dark moments. There had been a great excitement these last few days; bad news had arrived, a new rebellion was apprehended. We stood on a volcano that might explode at any moment; the only thing to ask ourselves was when will it begin to pour out its flames. Anonymous letters, splashed with blood, announced to my husband that on the night of the 30th July, a holy war would break out. What troublesome times we are living through!
One side of our park is joined to the native quarters of the town, and a little shiver ran down my back each time the clear voice of the muezzin chanted from the minaret of the neighbouring mosque, calling the faithful to prayer: “Allah il Allah.” (There is no God but God.)
Though things had looked serious for some time, they seemed to have quieted down again. Thanks to energetic means, the agitation in the country was soon calmed down.