The most unhappy time I ever spent at my home was during the terrible famine in Russia in 1892. I could not remain in England while my country was suffering so. I felt that my place was at Tamboff, and I accordingly left a land of plenty for poor, desolate Russia. I remember only too vividly those terrible days of famine. At one time my son Alexander had under his charge no less than 33,000 men, women and children, all depending upon him to find them food. I call to mind one terrible day that brought from Alexander this tragic telegram: "Funds exhausted, send me something, position indescribable." It was terrible, tragic. All the work done by the Relief Committees was voluntary. The Grand Duchess Constantine fed 2000 people a day. Even in those days we strove to guard against reckless charitable effort, which can only have a demoralising influence. I call to mind one person who insisted on his name being unknown, offered my son 1000 roubles to be spent in providing food {126} for the inhabitants of a certain village on the condition that the amount were regarded only as a loan, which should be repaid and subsequently spent on that same village for educational purposes. This donor was doubly a donor by the proviso he made. It was a tragedy to see splendid men in the prime of their lives, walking about with stony faces and hollow eyes. With them were women clothed only in wretched rags, and little children shivering in the cold wind. They would crowd round the relief parties, which drove about in sledges, holding out their hands saying: "We have sold our last horses, cows and sheep, we have pawned all our winter clothing; we have nothing left to sell. We eat but once a day, stewed cabbage and stewed pumpkin, and many of us have not eaten that." This was true. There were some among them who had not tasted food for days. It was agonising to hear these poor people pleading to us for mercy lest they die of starvation. As they spoke in dull voices, tears would spring up into the eyes of strong men and course slowly down their cheeks into their rough beards; but there were no complaints, no cries, just the slow, monotonous chant, broken by the sobs of worn-out mothers and the cries of hungry children. We had neither wood nor coal, only straw and the refuse of stables, for fuel. The Volga was frozen, and in some provinces corn was absolutely unprocurable. [Illustration: MY SON. ALEXANDER NOVIKOFF]