By the end of September we returned to town. Our new home was ready to welcome us: our house is said to be haunted, and the first thing we did was to order a Te Deum to be sung in our apartments. Now I hope we won’t come across visitants from the other world!
We have been very busy settling into our new quarters. When all was arranged, we began to lead a gay life, and went to the best concerts and theatricals of the season. Sarah Bernhardt, an actress of world-wide renown, the greatest tragedian of the age, having conquered New York, achieved her next success in Moscow, which she took by storm. I was deeply interested to see her in La Dame aux Camelias, where she is at her best. Sarah, who is already well up in years, is a delicate-looking woman with a waist of painful slenderness. Her acting is simply wonderful. She was a glorious incarnation of Violetta, in the death scene, though I am not readily moved to the tears, I wiped from my eyes “Una furtiva lagrime” as Donizetti’s song has it. The audience, which packed the house from floor to ceiling, was enthusiastic and applauded her much.
Sarah’s name was on everybody’s lips. The best milliners and dressmakers of Moscow went to her performances to copy her costumes, and the confectioners promised her portrait for every pound of bonbons. On our “At-home days,” when I found myself searching for a suitable topic of conversation, the name of the great artist came to my aid, and I had every reason to be grateful to her without her being aware of it, for having helped me to entertain my guests. In comparison with Sarah the rest of her troop was very insignificant. The actor performing the leading part of lover, a gentleman by birth, had fallen under the spell of the enchantress and lost his heart to her. For her sake he became an actor and always accompanied her on her tours, following her wherever she went like the traditional lamb. The love-sick Jeune Premier looked extremely foolish when making love to Sarah on the stage, casting sheep’s eyes at her. My goodness, what ridiculous creatures men are!
Anthony Rubinstein, the king of the piano, was giving his last public concert in Moscow. The whole town came in to be present at the leave-taking. When the great pianist appeared on the estrade, he was met by a roar of applause; the wild enthusiasm of the house was indescribable. Rubinstein was a real treat, and bewildered me by his marvellous execution. This incomparable artist gave an interpretation of Chopin which sent a thrill through me. His touché and his technique were wonderful and perfect, he made the instrument positively sob and sing. I was in an ecstasy of delight and listened entranced, having never heard anything so beautiful before. Rubinstein looks something like Beethoven, clean-shaven, with a powerful face; his long locks, shaggy and picturesque, waved in sympathy with his excitement. When he had ceased, there was a moment of entire silence, that finest homage due to beautiful playing.
During Rubinstein’s stay in Moscow he was bothered by a crowd of artists “in embryo,” who all wanted to sing for “opera” without having the remotest idea how to sing, coming to ask him if he would try their voices and tell them if they had talent enough to follow the artistic career. A friend of ours happened to come on a visit to Rubinstein just at the moment when a fat, neckless lady of about fifty summers was making her rehearsal. She sang like an old cat; her one idea was to be heard and she howled all her top notes so hard as to make all the dogs bark in the street. Dumfounded and horrified, our friend stopped his ears and took to his heels, running away as fast as his legs could carry him.
One day we went to see a bird Exhibition at the Manège and were present at a horrible cock-fight—a most disgusting sight! White and red cocks were taken out of their narrow cages and settled on a small estrade covered with sand and surrounded by a railing. The combat began, the winged champions struck against one another, with bristled feathers which flew about on all sides, croaking piercingly all the time. By refinement of cruelty they had steel spurs fastened on their legs. The enraged birds picked off each others’ skins by morsels, and long streams of blood spread on the sand. The white cock soon became purple-coloured; his red antagonist after having plucked out both his eyes, won the battle. I was boiling all over with indignation, but the cruel audience exhausted itself in frantic applause, admiring this miserable sport. The ganders’ fight was not a less sickening spectacle. The males with wings outspread, prepared to battle, but only in the presence of their better-halves, who ran after their “pachas” gabbling loudly.
I regretted still more to have accepted an invitation to be present at a wolf hunting on the race ground. The poor animals were brought on the arena in big wooden boxes. Exposed to the light of day and scared by the crowds of noisy spectators, the unfortunate wolves had scarcely the time to make two or three limping steps, both their hind legs being tied fast together, when a pack of starving hounds rushed upon them and tore them to pieces. It was a shame, a crying shame! Oh, how barbarous mankind is, I thought.
The Terrorists are continuing their work. It’s getting positively dreadful, everyone’s nerves are set on edge. Many rumours are circulating in St. Petersburg. The story goes now that the late Tzar Alexander II., proceeds slowly every night from the Winter Palace to the Kazan Cathedral, where he appears to the people. One of the chief rioters profited by this report, and one evening, during vespers, the Emperor’s ghost made its usual appearance, pronouncing in a loud voice the following words: “Warn my son that I am waiting for him.” But hardly had the admirably disguised sham-Emperor finished his public address, when the police laid hands upon him.
Moscow is now the rallying place of the anarchists. A band of malefactors had just been caught setting themselves upon undermining one of the theatres which was being built in the enclosure of the future French Exhibition on the “Khodinka Field,” a few paces from the Imperial pavilion which will be inaugurated in the month of May. By a lucky chance a factory where imitation oranges stuffed with dynamite were being made, was also discovered. The terrorists disguised as errand boys were to throw this murderous fruit into the midst of assemblages in order to produce a panic. I am greatly alarmed by all this!
Towards the beginning of May, in consequence of a sudden burst of hot weather, we left the town and betook ourselves to Petrovski Palace, the French Exhibition was just opposite the Palace. It was a grand affair; lots of people were flocking in to see the splendid show. Punctually at ten o’clock in the morning we heard the whistle announcing the opening of the Exhibition. Every time I visited it I felt myself as if transported by magic from Moscow to Paris. All the sections are very interesting and instructive. My cousin, Prince Leon Galitzine, one of the richest wine makers in the Crimea, had a splendid stand where he regaled everybody gratis with his wines. I dreaded to pass close by, because my cousin always forced me to taste the different sorts of wines, which made my cheeks, already burning like fire because of the great heat, pass gradually from red to crimson, and it was most unbecoming.