On Christmas night a group of maskers, wrapped up in red dominoes, with little round bells hanging all around, appeared unexpectedly, followed by a band of music. After having performed a kind of ballet, they took off their dominoes and we saw before us a fantastical crowd of people in fancy dress. There were clowns daubed with chalk among them, and pirates, monks, pierrots, Columbines, etc. One of the aide-de-camps proved a tremendous success; he represented a gigantic doll dressed all in red, and walking on stilts right up to the ceiling. In one of the corners of the big hall suddenly a small booth appeared, in which an old wizard began selling curious advertisements. He offered, for instance, ten thousand roubles for a faithful woman. (And for the fidelity of a man it is ten millions that he ought to offer, shouldn’t he?) The people who approached this booth were caught by the hook of this old man, who sprinkled them all over with scent out of an invisible sprinkler. Everybody seemed to enjoy themselves thoroughly. The floor was strewn with confetti. I did not at all like to have bits of paper poured down my back. The ball-room presented a very gay appearance with its merry couples swinging to-and-fro to the music of one of Tashkend’s best bands. I had not danced for years, not since I was married, and enjoyed it greatly, I must confess. We did not stop dancing till late. When the last people went away it was broad daylight.
The winter this year was a particularly severe one. The thermometer has gone down very low. Our apartments though supposed to be thoroughly heated, are very chilly. The wind whistles down the chimney its monotonous song, and I am so dull, so dull! Oh, how I long to leave Tashkend for good and all!
My wish was realised sooner than I expected. In the middle of January my husband was called away to St. Petersburg on business. It seemed too good to be true! St. Petersburg was to me the summit of earthly bliss. I longed for the life, the beauty, the movement of the Great City.
January 6th.—We started to-day for St. Petersburg. Our train advances very slowly because of the snow which covers the line. We have recourse to means used in America: a sort of brush is fastened to our engine to clear the way and sweep away the snow.
January 9th.—The weather is horrible. A snow-storm arose. The wind whistles and howls in the plain; flakes of snow adhere to the glass and it is impossible to see anything outside.
January 10th.—The cold keeps increasing. It is difficult to believe that it was a hot inferno I had to endure in these places not very long ago.
January 11th.—The cold keeps increasing; though well wrapped up with furs, I sat shivering in the train. The pale rays of the sun appear from time to time, piercing the sky clouds, and the road covered with a heavy carpet of snow shines like diamonds.
Early in the morning we arrived at Kizil-Arvat, having to stop here for twenty-four hours: the train could not move for the heaps of snow on the line and soldiers were sent out to clear the way for us. The principal offices of the railroad are stationed here. There is a working-men’s club with a bar, but without alcoholic drinks, a library and a large hall where concerts and theatricals are held. It would have been desirable to increase the number of such clubs, for it is not only by tedious, boring preaching that the workmen are kept away from drunkenness, and if you made them happy and comfortable they would not want to go off in the evening to public ale-houses.
January 12th.—We continued our journey at daybreak. When I awoke I found the snow had completely disappeared. Towards noon we arrived at Krasnovodsk and took our passage on the Tropic.
We are once more convinced that the geographers are often mistaken. The Caspian Sea, which never freezes according to them, appears to be frozen for forty miles out. It is not an agreeable prospect to have to cut through the ice, but we have a compensation—we shall not be tossed about.