Another great personality was Verestchagin, the Russian painter, a very dear friend of mine. I have elsewhere described him as the Count Tolstoy of painters. He had the same genius, the same fearlessness and the same craving for what he conceived to be the truth, and possibly occasionally the same exaggerated touch of realism. We Russians have a way of regarding our great artists as artists, and if they injudiciously dabble in politics, we forgive it when considering their genius. Verestchagin took part in many wars, and it is not strange that he should say, as he once did to me, that men were everywhere the same, "all animals, combatant, pugnacious, murderous animals." His remarks upon war are peculiarly interesting at the present time, for he was not an arm-chair philosopher, but, like Francisco Goya, had seen the real horrors of war. He pointed out that the actual killing of the enemy was only a very small part of war, which means hunger and thirst and great {85} hardship, sleepless nights, marches beneath blazing suns, or drenched by rain. Verestchagin was a great friend of Skobeleff, and this drew us closely together. The two had been through the same war together; and I remember that but for the wisdom of certain Russian officials that war might have been prolonged. It is well known that Skobeleff was a man of very independent character. On the eve of the Russo-Turkish War some difficulty arose between him and the authorities, and he determined to resign his commission and enlist as a private, as he was determined to fight, no matter in what capacity. He was saved from this by a prudent act on the part of the officials known in England as "climbing down." Who knows what would have happened had the brave and glorious Skobeleff been one of the led instead of the idolised leader? Skobeleff was indeed one of the most charming, captivating men I ever met. I was acquainted with his mother at a time when the son was only known to me by his brilliant reputation. Madame Skobeleff, passing through Moscow, once invited me to accompany her on a journey to the Balkans, which tempting invitation, however, I did not accept, owing to the fact that my husband was at the time ill, and I did not venture to leave him. My matrimonial scruples probably saved my life, as Madame Skobeleff met her death during that journey, and had I been with her I should probably have shared her fate. To be more precise, she was assassinated by her Montenegrin guide, Uzatis, who immediately committed suicide, so that the motives {86} of the murder remained an inscrutable mystery, as he did not touch her jewellery or her money.