The Grand Duke Constantine was with the Tsar, and as he had recently returned from governing Poland, he was recognized and received a special ovation, upon which the Emperor drank to him and kissed him—he was his favourite brother, to whom he was deeply attached; the Grand Duke kissed him in return on the left breast—a pretty token of love and duty. The Poles looked very picturesque and quaint in their national costume, but it was impossible not to be struck by the far finer appearance of their Russian compeers (of course both parties were made up more or less of picked men). Then the Russians wore beards, which so well befit the kaftan and northern dress, besides covering a multitude of sins against beauty, while the Poles were shaven, showing all their imperfections of feature. I was well pleased to have the opportunity of seeing this historic banquet. Lord Napier was the only foreigner invited, and I went in attendance upon him. The Emperor’s staff were always worthy of his own imposing appearance. The Imperial family who surrounded him were all men of great stature and good carriage, while old Prince Suvoroff, Monsieur Valouieff, the Minister of the Interior, and many of the general officers and aides-de-camp were fine, strikingly tall men. It was a goodly company of Anakim. Monsieur Valouieff, although in civilian dress, was so handsome a figure as to be always conspicuous, even among the brilliantly accoutred warriors; perhaps, like Lord Castlereagh at Vienna, he was only the more distinguished! It seemed a pity that in so beautiful a city, where there is a wealth of magnificent buildings, there should have been no worthier place for a really memorable feast than this mean semblance of a town hall, which certainly did not beseem the occasion. * * * * * Well may the Russians call the sennight that goes before Lent “the mad week.” Another name for it is _maslianitza_, or “butter week,” but I prefer the first, for indeed Bedlam is let loose and plays the wildest pranks, and no one can say that the _mujik_ takes his pleasures sadly. At the beginning of the week my coachman came to me and, according to treaty, asked leave to go and get drunk. These coachmen are really great characters. They are out in all weather, and never grumble at being kept waiting for hours when the mercury in the thermometer has almost fallen out of sight. They show no signs of boredom or weariness. My man, Mikhail, for want of better company would conjure away the tedium by talking out loud to himself. I sometimes watched him out of my window enjoying his own conversation, shaking his head, cracking jokes and laughing his heart out at them, or telling himself some tear-compelling tale of woe. He was the ugliest man in the town and as true as steel—on one condition: every now and then he must get drunk; so we entered into a solemn compact which he never broke.