Froude protested very gallantly that my articles did not require a preface, but nevertheless he most kindly wrote one which, no doubt, induced a large number of people to make themselves acquainted with my views. [Illustration: SEMINARY FOR 125 SCHOOL TEACHERS BUILT BY ALEXANDER NOVIKOFF AT NOVO-ALEXANDROFKA] Carlyle and I had one great thing in common: {81} our distrust of Disraeli and our sympathy with the oppressed Slavs. In 1878, when the jingoes were shouting their loudest over the Russian Mission to Afghanistan, which had precipitated the Afghan War, Carlyle referred to politics as "a sore subject nowadays with our damnable premier," as he called him. He was always generous with regard to the humble efforts of the "Rooshian Leddy" as he called me. He knew that whatever my literary shortcomings I was sincere, and that was the one golden key to dear old Carlyle's heart. When death came within sight, almost within touch, he regarded it not as an enemy but rather as a magician who was to open to him a new world of wonder. It might almost be said that he went part of the way to meet it. We, his friends, were always being thrilled by false alarms. One day, two and a half years before his death, he solemnly warned those about him of his approaching death. I recall on another occasion I was told the end was very near; the next I heard was that he was as devoted as ever to his omnibus rides. In those days one never knew whether Carlyle were dying or riding in an omnibus. When two years later the end was slowly approaching, I refrained from going to see him, thinking it a greater act of friendship to remain away rather than to make any claim upon his fast-ebbing vitality. I was deeply touched when he enquired of those about him: "Why does not Madame Novikoff come to see me?" I went and found him very weak, but genuinely {82} glad to see me. He talked slowly and carefully, showing that the breaking-up of the body had in no way affected his magnificent mind. I remember his complaining to me that Froude wanted him to correct proofs on his death-bed; but that he had refused! I am not what would be described as emotional, having perhaps more than the average amount of control over myself; but I felt at the bedside of that dear old man that I could not keep my self-possession. His last words to me were: "Ay, ay, when you come back here (from Russia) you will not find me alive." As to my other old friends, like Kinglake, Froude, Charles Villiers and Count Béust--who were, in fact, my daily visitors--I need not more than mention their names, having written of them so fully elsewhere.