When Autumn arrived, I started for St. Petersburg. It was arranged that my husband was to rejoin me in a few weeks’ time, and that we should return together to Tashkend in the Spring. I hated to part from Sergy; I shall want him horribly, but I must see to the publishing of the first part of my book and end the last part; absolute quiet is essential for rapid work. Our separation would not be a very prolonged one, and Sergy was to write every day.
August 9th.—My husband had to go on business to Bokhara and Andidjan, the place of the recently appeased mutiny. I will profit by it by making a part of the journey with him.
We started to-day at ten o’clock in the morning. The station was quite full. All the military and civil authorities of the town, and all the members of the committee of the Benevolence Society, came to wish me a happy journey and safe return. I had to shake hands with such a lot of people that my glove burst in several places, and I received such a lot of bouquets that they were hard to hold; the supply of beautiful flowers in my car made it look like a flower-shop.
August 11th.—This morning I had to part with Sergy and we went each our several ways. My car was coupled to the express, and when the time for parting with my husband came, I cried so awfully that I had to borrow Sergy’s pocket-handkerchief. It was a very painful moment and I found it hard to tear myself away; it seemed as if we could never finish saying good-bye. The guide gave the signal and the train moved off. Soon Sergy’s face was out of sight and I was left to my thoughts and to my loneliness. The knowledge that the train was bearing me further and further from Sergy, and that every moment was increasing the distance between us, made me wild. I threw myself back in the corner of the carriage and had a good cry.
I am well taken care of. Sergy had given me into the charge of one of his aide-de-camps who was going to Krasnovodsk, and asked him to take me to the steamer.
August 12th.—The same scenery is repeated with fatiguing uniformity; the desolate sun-baked desert spread out, and the yellow steppes joined with the horizon. The journey seems to last ages.
August 13th.—The heat is not so intense to-day. The sky is grey and big drops of rain begin to fall. At 8 o’clock in the morning we arrived at Krasnovodsk, where I was received by the agent of the steamboat company, an old admiral retired from the service. The Tropic, a boat built in England, was reserved for my crossing. I have the best cabin; a placard placed over the door bears the following inscription in English: “To accommodate four seamen,” but one could easily place a dozen of men in it. It proves to what an extent the English consider the comfort of their sailors.
I went to my lonely bed in rather a depressed frame of mind. Sleep would not come. I was seized with an ungovernable longing to see Sergy, to hear his voice, and my mind was filled with only one thought I must go back! It was too late to turn back now. The captain came at the door to wish me good-night, but it was rather a mockery, under the circumstances, for I never closed my eyes, thanks to my blue devils and the horrid rolling of the boat.
August 14th.—We had very rough weather in the night and were dancing all the time on formidable waves; our boat was creaking in every joint. I heard the sailors running on the upper-deck and the watch-officer shouting orders in a voice of thunder. What did all this uproar mean? In a terrible fright I jumped out of bed and dressing speedily hurried on deck. It was our boat changing its course and going out into the open sea instead of following the shore to avoid the breakers. The captain came to tell me that I had nothing to be afraid of and could go to sleep in security. He promised for to-morrow a sea as calm as a lake.