There was one man who occupied a powerful position in Russia and, as I have said, was well known in the world, and who boasted that though he never signed the Paris Treaty, he did all in his power to abolish the consequences of that detestable document. I mean the Chancellor of Russia, the Prince Gortschakoff. My last interview with him was not altogether pleasant: with one hand he gave "his praise," with the other "his blame." (His right hand really did {106} not know what his left was doing!) But here are a few facts, now known in Russia, but unknown in England. I think I have said that for several years I carefully concealed my literary identity. In Russia it was known to Katkoff, the editor of the _Moscow Gazette_, in England chiefly to Stead, my English editor, and to Mr. Gladstone, who was my energetic political confidant. For that purpose I used my maiden initials "O.K." (Olga Kiréeff). On my return home from England I received a note from the Chancellor asking me to call on him "as he was too ill to make calls." By the by, I must say that in Russia it is quite customary, even for a very young woman, to call on business, either at a Cabinet Minister's Office or on an Ambassador at his Embassy. In both cases the Office and the Embassy take the place of the absent wives, and such visits are fully understood. Still, people make some jokes about wives being thus replaced. But let me return to my unpleasant interview. The Prince received me, as usual, very cordially, flattering and complimenting me, but after which he said: "But, dear Madame Novikoff, I must insist upon one point and draw your serious attention to something very important. You really must not mention the word 'Slav.' Europe hates that word, and Russia must ignore it." "But Russians are Slavs, every schoolboy must know that," I exclaimed. "Of course, of course," admitted the old Chancellor, "but Europe hates that word. It is the red rag thrown to an infuriated bull," etc. etc. {107} If I indulged in fainting fits I really think that such friendly advice would have made me sink to the floor, but that is not in my line. Still, I protested. "But, Prince," said I, "you forget that my brother died for the Slavs, that I, in memory of that death, am working for that Cause, that Mr. Gladstone, in his review of my book, _Russia and England_, distinctly recommended every Englishman to read it, and that he himself wrote a pamphlet on the Bulgarian horrors. Your advice to a Russian, who naturally is a Slav, means--give up your nationality, forget it. No, that I cannot do, for that would be suicide." I think my vehement indignation amused the old Chancellor, and he said: "Well, well, but do you know that people actually think that you are my agent?" "It only shows," I said, "how important people's opinions sometimes are. Let them know that I am my own agent and nobody else's." He smiled, I smiled, and we parted--never to meet again.