Chapter I—A LETTER HOME

The Palace, St. Petersburg.

MY Dear Miller,—
Your letter, which was as short as old Canfield’s temper, reached me in Berlin as I was starting for here.
I’m off to Khiva, this wise.
You’ll remember my old yarn about the Czar having saved my life years ago in a pig-sticking do in
Germany—he shoved or kicked me into a bush just in the nick of time when the brute made his rush—
and how we then discovered the strong resemblance between us? Well, it’s still true, and things have
been happening in consequence.
I ran across Burnaby’s book about Khiva a while back and resolved to go there. He says that three
Tartars can eat a whole sheep at a single meal, and I want to see if it’s true. Any old tag’s good enough
excuse for a globe-trotter, so I wrote to the Czar, reminded him of the pig incident, and asked
permission to go East. As a result, I’m here as his guest; we’ve had a chat over the old time, and I’m to
go where, when and how I like all over his dominions. He’s an awfully decent sort, and I’m in for a real
good time. But it’s been a queer show.
There’s a woman in it of course—and a glorious woman too. A tall, queenly creature, as handsome as a
Greek, with the free carriage of one of our own American girls. I saw her on the train, or rather she saw
me and seemed particularly interested in me, and it was suiting me very nicely when out came the
reason. We stopped at a station some miles from the capital,[2] and as the girl and I were separated
from the rest of the people, she said in an undertone—
“Your Majesty does not count the risks of travelling incognito, alone?”
“There are pleasures to counterbalance any risks, mademoiselle,” I answered. “Your solicitude is one of
them.” And I smiled, partly at her amazing mistake and partly because she was so pretty. Then to put
myself right, I added: “But you mistake, I am no Majesty. I am an American, Harper C. Denver is my
name.” She lifted her eyebrows and smiled again, in obvious disbelief, and replied in French—
“An American who understands Russian, speaks French, and resembles His Majesty the Czar.”
“An American who would gladly welcome an opportunity of seeing you again, mademoiselle.”
“An American who does not desire it more fervently than I. Meanwhile, accept my warning, sire.” She
spoke with intense earnestness, and then left the train.
How’s that for an adventure, eh? But that was only scene one. I sat thinking it over until the train ran
into the station at Petersburg, and then came scene two.
The moment I stepped from the cars I saw that considerable preparations had been made to receive
some one of importance, and while I stood looking about for him an old man, tightly bound in a
somewhat rich uniform, with two or three companion volumes in attendance and a shelf of soldiers
behind, came up to me. He waved everybody else out of earshot, and then with an almost reverential
salute, said, in a low voice—
“Mr. Denver, I am sure.”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“Allow me to welcome you to the capital in my august master’s name. I am Prince Kalkov, and His
Majesty has instructed me to conduct you to the Palace. Will you accompany me?”
By this time the people on the platform had begun to show considerable interest in the proceedings,
to[3] my intense amusement, and came crowding around a bit.
“I shall be delighted,” I replied; and accordingly the Prince gave a word of command to those in
attendance, a guard of soldiers was formed, and I was in this way escorted to the first of a string of
carriages in waiting.
“To the Palace at full gallop,” cried the Prince in a tone loud enough to reach the by-standers. Some
one raised a shout of “God save the Emperor,” and in another minute we were off to the
accompaniment of loud cries and ringing cheers from the crowd, which was by that time a pretty big
one.
That was my sensational entrance into the capital. Here I am at the Czar’s Palace, and from what I can
judge there’s a great deal more of the same kind to follow.
“Which is why I remark,
And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark
And for tricks that are vain,
The Russian at Home is peculiar.
And the same I shall hope to explain”—another time.
Comic opera with a dash of mysticism seems about a fair description of things up to now. More, when
I’ve time to write.
By the way, couldn’t you manage to leave Wall Street and the dollar raking process for a while and
meet me on my return? I mean to go on from Khiva through India to China. Come and lunch with me,
say in Pekin, and have a time among the pigtails. Wire me at our Legation and our people will forward
to me. Seriously, you might do many things worse. Your old friend,
Harper C. Denver.
N.B.—I’m not monkeying about the Pekin business. Come and meet me like the good fellow you are,
and hang Wall Street.
H. C. D.