The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1878-03-02 00:00:00

THE CZAREWITCH'S RETURN.

An Occasional Correspondent of the Daily .New, writing
from Fortress Dunaburg, under date Feb. 17, gives the
following interesting account of the return of the Czare-
witch and his unexpected meeting with his wife :
It is a bright, frosty day. All the inhabitants of
our fortress arb assembled on the ice, skating or look-
ing on. The military band is playing the well-known
mazourka from The Life of the Czar. Numerous
couples are scattered on the broad expanse—gliding,
dancing, twirling round as dexterously in their skates
as if they were in satin shoes. Ladies in their fur-
trimmed dresses are here, and officers in varied
uniforms, for, besides our fortress officers, there are
strangers sent from the seat of war to fetch pro eisions
for the army, and their divers-coloured uniforms enliven
the scene. Look at this handsome pair, flying to-
wards us, with hands interlaced and feet keeping
time to the measure of the music. The cavalier, a
well-made, good-looking Hussar officer; and the lady,
quite a girl still, very tall and slender, and as she
bends slightly from one side to the other she reminds
one of the river weeds swayed to and fro by the wind.
Her rosy cheeks glow with a deeper red, her eyes
sparkle with excitement; she is enjoying herself in-
tensely. Her long, nut-brown tress flies, twisting and
turning snake-like, behind her. In her tight-fitting
sable-trimmed velvet dress and turban hat, she is a
splendid type of an aristocratic Russian girl, In
our little world of Dunaburg she is the queen of
beauty. From the top of an ice mountain skaters
are starting, and come down at a tesrific pace;
elderly ladies are being pushed about in sledges;
children of four and five yeara old c1..t0 to perfec-
tion—there are even baby novices. Our skating
ground is a pretty sight, surrounded by high walls of
snow, thickly stuslded with fir trees from the forest,
from which hang hundreds of Chinese lamps ; these
are lighted, when there is a soiree, with fireworks, &c.
There is a little wooden house with a stove, and a
" samovar " for making tea, to keep warm the papas,
mammas. and old generals whose skating days are over
and whose greatest pleasure is to talk politics whilst
sipping their glass of boiling tea. To-day they are
discussing the probability of their troops having
entered into Constantinople. In the centre of a group
stands the venerable-looking commandant of the
fortress, with his silver hair and genial face. The
conversation turns on the hundred Turkish pri-
soners lately arrived within our walls. A quadrille
strikes up. The commandant's two fair daughters
lead off the dance; they are magnificent skaters. Sud-
denly the crowd of officers in the little house makes
way for an aide-de-camp, who, entering hurriedly,
presents a telegram to the commandant. His face
brightens. "Here's good news," he says, "the
Czarevna will he here this evening to meet the Czare-
witch, who will arrive at nine. He does not expect
her; it is to be a surprise !" The news spreads quickly
from one group of dancers to another. Dancing stops
as if by magic. Everyone is delighted. The com-
mandant's voice is heard giving orders about the il-
luminations; then bouquets must be got too. There's
the rub. It's no easy matter to get flowers here at a
few hour's notice, there being but one gardener, and
he lives miles away. The ladies are all
wild with excitement—they would like to give
the Princess a bouquet. The question arises,
who will reach the gardener's first and get
the best bouquet :—may be the only one. The people
disperse, go home to dine; evening sets in; everyone
is Ring to the new station opened by the Czar when
he passed through: Dunaburg two months ago. There
is an elegant suite of apartments for the Imperial
family, and such a gem of a boudoir, all pale blue
satin and lace, quite a bon bonniere. This is expressly
for the Czarevna. The road to the new station through
the grim fortress gates, with their double-headed black
eagles, is thronged with soldiers, peasants, sledges, and
trockas, some with four and six horses abreast. The
soldiers are singing lustily in chorus as they march.
It is wonderful how the Russian soldier loves to sing.
He sings when he is happy, when he is sad, when he
works, when he walks—.he is always singing. On the
battle-field he even marches to his death with a true
Russian song on his lips. They are a brave set of
men and loyal to their heart's core.
Across two miles of snowy plain, on a height, stands
the new station, with its hundreds of lights flashing
bright and throwing a rosy hue over the snow. I
arrive rather late, just as the Czarevna steps from
the train on to the crimson carpet, followed by the
Grand A uchess Vladimir and her brother, Prince of
Mecklenberg-Schwerin, and suite. The Russian
Hymn is played, and hurrahs rend the air. There is
a striking family likeness between th 3 Princess Da".
mar and the Princess of Wales, though the former
looks stronger, and bright as the glittering snows of
her adopteti country—a very northern star. But she
lacks the touching sweetness, the inexpressible charm
which beams from her sister's eyes.
On reaching the reception-room I perceive that a
magnificent bouquet is offered to the Czarevna by the
tall slender gill who, dressed in elegant white evening
robes, looks even lovelier than in her skating costume.
Though courteous to all, the Czarevna is evidently
nervously impatient for the arrival of her husband,
whom she has not seen for eight weary months..
She has not much longer to wait; all at once the
shouting outside begins, her face becomes radiant,
and, wrapping herself in the magnificent rotondo
of renarcl bleu, she hurries to the platform, amid
renewed hurrahs and clamorous cries of joy. Her
eyes are eagerly fixed on the two red globes of the
approaching engine—there is a shrill whistle, much
puffing of steam, and the train rolls slowly into the
station. The Czarewitch being in the middle part of
the train, those who are in front, the members of the
household and suite, are the first to recognise the
Imperial party, whilst he, little guessing the surprise
in store for him, descends, saluting as he passes
the long tile of soldiers drawn up on the platform.
Suddenly he sees her; then all else is forgotten
—the station, the soldiers, the crowd of people—
and the wife is in her husband's arms held in a long
embrace. Then, like a roar of thunder, louder than
the last, burst forth deafening shouts, mixing up with
the national hymn. This unrestrained outburst of
affection, this loving meeting of the Imperial pair,
touched a chord in every heart.
Russia and the Russians are sadly misrepresented and
wrongly judged by most of my countrymen. I have
studied their character and country. I have mixed
with all classes, military and civil, from prince to
peasant, from cottrt and camp to the " moojick's "
cabane. I cannot help being struck by the inaccuracy,
the injustice of many statements contahred in the
English. papers.