The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 17, 1897, Page 31

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY OCTOBER 17 A FAIR YOUNG ARMENIAN REFUGEE TELLS OF HER TRIALS If the pen ba mightier than the sword, | the sword is to be conuaoled with. Forthe | pen is so pitiably weak I never realized how little power there is | in making great wrongs puolic tili I was | on my way home from an interview I had with an Armenian refuzee—a giri—the other day. All the world knows vacuely that the | Armenians in Turkey are biiterly perse- | cuted. Ail the worid knows anc¢ has| grown accustomed to and weary of know- | ing that innocent peoplc are massacred there. Armenian has become synouy- mous with martyr. The pen has told it all again and again. Kverybody knows, J‘ but who cares? With the rest of the magazine-taking | worid 1 have read of Armenian massacres | and of Turkish cruelty. I have looked | idly or interestediy upon pietures of peo- | ple in queer garments being haulea about | or tortured or beheaded by other people in | queerer garments, But I shall never dare to vead another article or to look at an- | other picture about the Armenian ques- | tion. For the story has “‘come true'’ to me. | The easily borne, abyiract case has become ularized, personitied. It'sonething ad about something that happened thousands of miles away. It's d.flerent and a painful thing to| come face to face, to talk with one who hes lived through what seemed dim and distant; who has suffered | and sorrowed over what was to me merely a magazine article or a newspaper story; whose preseccein America to-day is the most significant testimony to the truth of the tales of Turkish barbarity. Iu every account of sufferers from the Turks’ inhuman cruelty I shall see faces ke those I saw yesterdav—pale, strong es, with strongly marked dark brows | and black eyes. I shall remember the steady, unflinching, low voice of the Ar- meniin who said to me: ‘We have no hope, The world is be- d Turkey.” “But the United States—"" | “What has the United States done? American missionaries are massacred Is the Turk compelled even to pay an indemnity? Noj the world is very selfist—-very cruel. The powers are back of the Sultan’s hand. It's plain to be seen in the case of Crete. There is no h-pe for Armenians in Turkey. No one wiil interfere. But while they live they will never be conquered; they will never —never!" I can well believe it. The Turks them- . I've read somewhere, call the revo- y Armenians ‘' Fedai'’—those who | have dedicated themselves to death. And the Kurds, whose savagery is responsible for haif the 300,000 massacred Armenians, have a prove:h: *The Fedai’s ball tracks | the Kurd; findshim; kills him.” S This gir! wi.l not talk 10 you,” said an Armenian who w that I wishea to nieet the young refugee. The speaker leit rkey about seven vears ago and is at present corresponaent of various rvapers in Mars illes, London and Melbourne. He writes as be talks, al- sbout Armenia, inteilicentiy, with strongest conv.ction and most interest- | “Why not?” I asked. " “Becau-e sue has relatives in Turkey.” | “Well? { *“You cannot realize it, can you? Hnt if this Armenian girl were to give you her . if shie were to tell you irankly and the ci mstances that led to her | ng Consiantinople and the manner | her escape, the persecution, the im- | vrisonment—the death, p rhaps—of her | people in Turkey would follow.” * Ob, impossible!” [ exciaimed. ¢ 1t did seem ab-urd 10 me, almost melo- dramatic. *I Kuow you Americans cannot con- ceiva of such a state of affairs, but it is qui‘e true. I could tell you—" “But upon w at erounds could her peo- ple be arrested? Even tte Turks mus! neve a pretense, you “Well, this is the pretenss: In Turkey, where the Armenians are fearfully perse- cu ed—"’ “Why?* “Because of thing,” he said *In the nin fain “You see how hard it 1s for an Ameri- H can to realize i.! Why, here youconsider it no shame—1 mean nothing dreadful—if a Jew marries a Christian, or—"' And do you Armenians?”’ Ces, we do,”” Le said atif buked and a little iike a heathen. ed refuge in qu-stions. | 1t the Turks' pretex —* rever people are persecuted revo- lutionary societies spring up. In Turkey | there are the Henichakistes. I do not approve, you must know, of dynamite, of | bomb-throwing and that, The bomb- l their religion, for one eenth centuryl” I said, | come that way. | " a very | merchant at Tokat. | of iron. | knew nothing more. throwing at Galata late'y was a foolish as | well as a terrible thing. No good can! I am no anarchis. But| 1do sympathize, with all my soul Isym- | pathize with the Henichakistes—and if 1 were to say as much as this in Constanti- norle to-day I should lose liberiy and life.” “But this girl—" “Whenever the Turkish Government | wishes to do a cruel thing—when it wishes to punish, or steal, or aefraud, or re- venge itself—:t arres's people on susp ion of being revolution'sts. If this girl speaks to you and accuses the Tutk sh Government the story you print will be | telegraphed back to Constantinople and‘ ber people there will suffer for it. If a man is guilty or is suspected of beinga revolutionist—to make tnem confess his guilt or their own—all his family, his rel- atives, are arrested and tortured.” “0h1” “You do not believe it? Look here.” He brought out a Melbourne paper and | pointed to an article headed ‘A Refugee From Armenia. Now, I know this man Balakian,” he said. ‘‘He escaped from Constantinople and fled to Melbourne, where he had just arrived when this ariicle was written. He is 25 years old, and was with his fatner, a He was accused of being president of a secret revolution: society. See, yourself, what thes paper says. His father paid a fine of £70, Then | the son was rearrested, and because he | would not confess he was tortured. | | Listen!” i 7l il PROFESSOR MINAS TCHERAZ. He read from the paper: “ ‘After questioning me and striking me they put me in a small cell just the size of a man, but I could hardly stand up. Then in three hours there was more questioning and while tuis went on they kept floeging me with a baton; then back in that cell ‘ too narrow to sit dowh and too low to stand up, when I was brought into the prresence of the Chief Commissioner o Police, Hussein Hussnu, in the torture- chamber. Here 1 was flogged again with | the sticks, then with the whips. The | whips are thi tripes of oxnide with tips Iwas owndown on ti:eground | und beaten chiefly on the bare feet, but also on the tbighs and body. Hus:wein Hussnu himself struck me on the face with his closed fist while I was on the ground, knocking out my teeth. ** ‘Tney went on at me till I fainted. * * ¥ This torturing began regularly | every might at 9 o'clock and went on for | forty-two nig ts, except on some dnysl when 1 was too faint or insensible to stand | like a horrible dream, but it 18 impossivle | to forget it. But tne most fearful pain | was that caused by the thumbscrews. | * % * I had to sitin achair and hold | out my hands. The pain does not become | territle till the third turn of the screw. Then, I thank God, I soon fainted and ** ‘At last it seemed they got tired of tor- turing and determined to try a different method. They first stripped off all my ciothes, including boots, and lelt me with nothing but a jersey and drawers, and | opening a very dark dungeon they said in | Turkish, ‘Go in there. You are going lol die there!” All the time I wasthere 1 had no food of any kind, and I became uncon- scious. For the first forty-eight hours I unthinking, unreasoning reverence for great men is most in danger. | I'must confess that since I left school I ! here—I assure you I would tell you will- ingly all,” she said, when I told ber how her story had interestid me. “Why, 1 *The wife of onz of the foreign Embas- sadors. Such a woman! The finest, noblest character! She helped me and I had kept myself up from failing in the | baven’t u ed—I haven't thought of this | would go befor: the people—I would lec- | esc ped—in disguis~. The captain kuew slizge and mud, which covere | the floor up to my ankles. But 1 was starving for a mouthful of food, and so weak that at length I feli down faiwt, with my head on the step by the door and my body in the mud. Thatisail I know or remember of these sixty hours, and the next thing 1 was conscious of was a doctor bending over me in a lighted room. ‘*‘After this I was kept in a different dark cell for some six months. [ was im- prisoned here alone in the dark, without any change of clothing and covered with vermin. They gave me no bed or chair and only one pound of black bread each day and dirty water. In the meantime my mother and others had been ceaselessly petitioning the Em- | bassadors of the graat powers, and they at length obtained my release. After my release I was in a hospital titl the Embas- eador sent me word that I must not stay in Constantinople any longer. I was <e- cretiy taken off in a foreign steamer. My mother even sold her jewelry and paid | some hundreds of poundsin bribes; but the Turks just took the money and said A | word *‘liberty" seriousiy. | it spoken with dramatic fervor upon the | | stage, where the theatrical unreality lent | it effectiveness; where from fifeand drums | | ana flyinz flags and good acung it bor- | rowed sigmiticance. 1 But one is accustomel, if one i+ an | | American, to feel the thrill of patriotism | only once a yearand at other times in a | | sort of second-hand way—to watch the | | glowing ‘aceiof a bov in the gal ry when !a war playis on and enviou-ly borrow from h s emotion or to 1 sien h.If amused, ha!f incredulous to the shuddering gasps of the excitab'e girl beside one and to suf- | fer and grow calm with her—to be a satel- | lite, feeling a milder reflacied agony. But a sort of comprehension of that to | which we Americans are so accustomed | | that we take it for granted and accep: it with a graceless, animal-like ingratitude, | was borne fu upon me yesterday. It isn’t the loftiest nature, 1 suppose, whose | thankfulness for versonal favors is awak- ened by the knowl:dge of others’ misery. But not the longest of long-worded, ec- | static Fourth of July orations, nor the | | discordant shrieking and wild-wing flap- streets of Constaniinuple Armenian men have been murdered, and women—women Lave been kianaped and never again seen by their people.” My interview with the Armecnian girl was conduc ed in French; that i, she spoke French. I—wel! this gracious litile Armenian was kin i enougn to meet amy stumbling questions hatf way and help | them over the tuhresnold of her con- sciousness, AsIaddres:ed her then itis natural now 10 speak of her as Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle is not tall. She is much shorter tnan L She is plump, with a | smaller waist than most American women have in these corsetless days, with a small wrist and pretty hand. Her face is very pale, her eyebrows are heavy, hereyes bleck and large and unsmiling. The nose is thin and slightly drooping. The lips are not full, bat they are red. Her dark hairis worn pompadoured back from nher | forehead and coiled upon her well-poised head. Her voice i< low, with a plaintive for- eign rising inflection, a1d it comes from ARMENIAN CONVENT OF MAGAR IN CHYPRA. At any other time I might have read this article—if I happened to come across the Melbourne Age of last Angust—with a sort of unbelieving, hope-it’s-exaggerated feeling. When one is powerless it is so comforting to doubt. But this man’s quiet voice, his com- ments, his unaffected, simple, despairing sincerity and his nationality, too, made it all horribly real. I di! not exclaim in disbeliefany more. Isatand sort of eremped terror taking possession of my mind. The modern American is not very patri- otic. Perhaps because he has experienced none of the pains of political tyranny he does not value the peace and p'e sures of liberty. We lose our chiidish tendency to | anything. As I look back it seems now | Lero-worship early. We have become a | little cynical. We hear disillusionizing stories which cheapen the names we had learned to venerate. And the newspapers have brought contemporary great men | s0 near o the public that their foinles and failings are like blots which, being close 10 the eve, obscure the giory of the sun on bigh. “Country’’ stands for an ageregation o! men and man-made laws and customs. 1 think one’s love for the one is very de- pendent upon one's respect for ti:e other. And of ali the conventional citade!s whicn Fin de Sicele, that mocking giant, is threstening with thedynamite of ridicu'e, istenel, a | ping of the American eagle, nor the burn- | lips that sre not well opened when she | in;; of unlimited quantities of powder and | the fiving of innumerable crackers has | taught me what I learned from the quiet | tones of a man’s voice yesterday. For | this —— merci monsieur le correspondent | Armenien. When 1 left the little house which hides such sore, sore hearts—such troubled, fearful souls—and siepped out into the street 1 could have sainted our flag had it | been flying in sight—humbiy and apolo- getically, es befi s one whose faith hasnot | always been strong, but in all gravity and | sincerity and patriotic exaltation. | Anl a passing policeman would prob- | ably have thought me mad. B I have promised the Armenian girl | | with whom I talked yesterday that I would not mention her name, that I would eliminate from my story any detail | wirich mi;ht identify this as the recital of her case. The fac: that such a promise is nece: | sary 1s sign:ficant. When the oppre dare not even ccmplain of opp-e sion, when a girl thousands of miles from Con- stantinople dares not speak her mind for | fear of the loved ones she has been com- pelled to leave behind, even the most | evnical must believe that Armenian perse- cution is not all a myth, “If it were not for them—it they were ' | American wom n heve. speaks. But she speaks with decision; ske moves about in a quick, capable way that tells of a resolute spirit. ‘‘Armenian girls in Constantinople, where I lived, have nct the priviieges you We go atout from house 0 house, or a short distance to shop, but no gir! would cross aferry alone. alone in tle evening, even two of them— you understand ?'’ “And yet you traveled, and quite alone, from Coustantinopie to San Francisco. Why, it’s haif way around the world!” She nodded her head gravely. “I had to, there. 1 knew that I must leave or—you understand—I was not safe there. I had to leave my moth~r, my old mother. Would I be here and she there—but I bad to leave.” “You tried to get a passport?” “I applied for a passport; yes. But they would not give me one. They wanted to know why I wished to leave. They put me off—postponed giving me the passport from day to day, from week to week. I told them then they were deceiving me—that they did not intend to give me a passport. Finally I dared not wait longer, and a friend—" “A woman?"’ ke from San Francisco to Oak- | land, and of course girls do not goout I was in—in personal danger | 1 nave heard | ture if 1could, and tell them how in the | ab ut me, of course, bu: none of the pas- | sengers did. S8til, they were very, iki 'd to me—a girl, you kuow, traveling { ulone. | “When I reached London T wasmet ty | Minas Tscheraz. D> you know—you do | not know who he is? | msn the Turkish whom Gove nment would give a great deal to get Loid of. | | He would not be free twenty-four hoa after he arrived in Turkey. But he will ! not go back tbere. Heis a profe-sor at vresent in an En:lish college. He lives n London and publishes L'Armenia | there. He ix a wond riul man great linguist. You know he was in 1 Chicago during the World’s Fair, and he has been interpreter at important inter- national meetings all over Europe. He | was my brother's professor in Turkey | years ago, and he was very good to me in | London and saw me ssfely on my way here.”” Mademoiselle did not laugh once dur- ing our talk, though the interviewer's | French was absurd emough. But she smiled now a: my question. She seemed surprised that there should be any question on such a point. | how a girl brou.ht up in comparative se. | elusion would think on this topi live here—if you stay in America would you wish to voie? Do you approve of | woman suftrage?” It was the hardest tangle of all that troub ed the s.randsof our conversation yesterday. The more I strove iostraight- en things the more intricately did the strings become twisted. Buat when at last the tkein was all straight and smooth Mademoiselle answersd the guestion in such a matter-of-fact way that it seemed hardly worth the trouble. | “Yes —yes," she said seriously. would vote if I could. Whny not?” *‘Some people think it immodest, you know, like wearing bloomers. Do you | ride?” “1 used to ride a bicyecle.” “In bloomers?” *“No, in a skirt.” “Have you—jyou seen the b'oomer cos- tume 2’ 4 *Oh, yes. In Constantinople it is not customary for women to wear them. But | I do not think bloomers immodest. The | skirt 1s more app op iate, I think, but—if a woman is n good woman, wearing | bloomers or voting will not change her. | You und:rstand what [ mean?” | “Yes. Do Armenian women wear the | national costume?” “In tihe country—in parts of Turkey, | yes. But not in Constantinople,” | “How did you dress there?” | “But—but hike this,"” touching her skirt. “As I do here. You kunow the fashions come direct from France there.” **Ob! Then you probab!y find us a bit behind the style?”’ I laughed. “Oh, no, ne,” she said gentiy. | world dresses alike | dressed.” +Mademoiselle,” I asked, *‘now will you communicate with your mother?” In 2 moment her face was serious again. “All the nOwW—as you are very | M:nas Tscheras is a | such a | “Tell me,’ I asked, curious to know | | “Iwil write, arid I will send her money | —when I can earn it—but not thiough the prstoffice. 1 will send it toa friend, to oneof the ioreign embassies, you unders | stand.” “*And you intend to work?" *‘On, if Ican, I must work—I will work 10 bring her here, 1o g-t her away from there. Icansew; Inh tosew. What I wish 1s to become a modiste. Of course, it will be haid .or mw. Iam astranger. 1 have no friends, I must learn English, too. But We Armen ans hav: a gift for learning languages—see, it i< not egotism for my people on my pari—:reater even than the Russians have. We cun learn the Asiatic tongues, which the Russians cannot master. I snall learn Englisk and Isball become a modiste.” And she wiil—the brave little body! Taere is energy, capability, determina- tion in her every world. And whata mo- tive she has, what an incentive 1o work! { “Youmust be lonesome—homesick,” I said. *“You liked Constantinople?” *'Who does not love his own country?” She asked. “Constantinople is a beauti- | ful, a fine city. I have not been here long. Idonotknow about America. If I ¢ uld go back,” she went on, longingly, “and be at peace with my people; but I ¢o not hope for that. I am verv much troubled now for Armenia. There is no hove now for my people—and my mother! I will work to bring her nere to me—my poor old mother! You see we Armenians live close together. Three or four houses are connected. Evenings we spend now at one house, now ai another. We do not goout much in the evening—neither men nor women. We live much with our neighbors, our people. Here, you see, I do not know any one. I miss my friend« I miss my mother.” She spoke rapidly, softly; her low voice was full of anxiety. “Wait, I will show you her picture.” She hurried out «f the little parlor and ran upstairs. “‘See,” she said, returning. It was the picture of a very tall ola | woman, who once mu-t have been a very strune woman, mentally and physically. She sat so erect, her head was held so | well, ner dark eves were clear, strong and brave, and her mouth was firm but gentle. A fine, interesting old face—stronger, finer than tnat of the daughter, whose hand es she beld the picture caressed 1t in a way that brought tears to one’s eyes. ‘“Ab, la Pauvrette!” she murmured, looking over my shoulder asif she were speaking to the face. “‘See. she is old—very old. Andshe has been ill; itis for ber— ot her I think. They worry her—they trouble, they frighten her.” “You think of her always?" “Every hour—always I think of her. You understand; now you see why I am afraid to talk to you. Think of her, old | and sick, and if what you write should harm her—you would not harm her?"’ Harm her! Who could harm a woman Jike that? A woman upon whose old face is written the story of, perhaps, 70 brave, patient, industrious years. A woman who, in her old age, has had to endure | the crowning suffering of separation from | this girl she must have leaned upon, | yearned over. Ii T thought that despite my care there was the smallest indiscretion that might cause a moment’s uneasiness to that poor | old Armenian mother I stoula not dare | to print it. I wouldn’t barm your mother, Mad- | emoiselle, But [ would help—if I could— your mother’s brave, faithful, loving daughter. I would put her story before the rich women of this city and ask them what is their duty in the case. 1 have probably failed in reproducing | the impre-sion that this pathetic story made upon me. There are t0oo many small detaiis that I am not pormitted to publish. The tale lacks the personal in- terest the girl's name and face would give it. | Still, hero’s an Armenian refugee in San Francisco, Mesdames. You could do nothing for her when she was in Turkey. | Her own courage and her friends’ devo- tion have rescued her from the herrible fate of thcusands of her countrywomen. | What are you going to do with her now that she is here? itisn’t a case for charity. That woman would need all a fool's courage who { would treat this self-reliant, loyal girl as | if she were a beggar. She needs the aid that greater, nobler women, and men too, have needed—belp to help herself. She needs the upholaing arm of some | great-hrarted woman of affairs, who will | recognize thc talent for work there lies in this strong soul; who will give this Armenian girl, this young stranger thou- sands of miles from home, with an ever- present, wearing fil‘al anxiety to burden her additionally, the temporary support which will enable her, in time, to stand lone. MrIriaM MIcHELSON. CALIFORNIA GIRL IN THE OLD STUDIO OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFFE feven years ago while in Pari« I went to vi-it the studio of Marie Bashkirteeff— | that wonderful young girl who shot like | 2 meteor across the literature of the last | decade. The hotel of Mme. Bashkirtseff | in the Rue Ampere was a large four-story | building of plain appearance. Here is Marie’s own description of i “It con- sists of a basement with a kitchen and a b.liard-room. The ground flor, to which one ascerds by a flicht of ten steps, has a vestibule; then there is a pretty glass dour opening on an ante-chamber from which the staircase to the other stories ascends; to the right is a room which they have converted into 2 parlor by making an entrance from it into a little ¢ amber which opens on the garden; a dining-room and a courtyara where car- riages can enter, and into which one de- | scends by steps from the drawing-room | and from the dining-room. | *On the first story there are five bed- rooms, with dressing-rooms adjoining, and a hall with baths. Asior the second or top story it belongs to me, and consists | cf an antechumber, two bedrooms, a| library, a studio and & storeroom. The | library and studio open into each otier, | forming a large apartment nearly 36 feet | long and 21 feet wide. The light is superb. | eniering on three rides as well as from | above. Inshort, for a hired house there | couid be nothing that would suit me bet- ter. It is 30 Rue Ampere, on the corner of the Rue Bremoutier, and may be seen from the Avenue de Villiers.”” On ringing the beil atthe Hotel Bash- kiriseff a solemn butler appeared to take ouar cards, and, our errand be.ng made known, te conducted us without a word through a large hail carpeted in red, from | which we caught ylimpses of elegantiy furnished apartments opening on either side, up several flighis of stairs and through a long passage to the studio of the voung artist. | everywhere were silken scar | inette draperies of rich, warm colors. The As Marie mentions, the Iatter is ranllv‘ two rooms—the iarge one, in which she | painted, and the small one adijoining, where she retired to read. KEverything re- | mained just as she had left it, except that | her most famous paintings, “The Meel- | ing,” “Spring,” *Jean and Jacques,” and others, had been taken to the Luxem- | bourg. The polished floor was bare, save | for a piece of Persian carpet, some Chi- | | eled, golden bair, dark eyes kindling with nese matting and a few oriental rugs scat- terea about. On the wall hung two Gobe- lin tapestries, large and shaboy, and and sat- furniture consisted of a table for model- ing, on which stood a partly finished statue, a square Algerian srat richly carved, a stove, a clock, a tea-tray, a box ot carpenter's toels and an oak chest of | drawers with the upper part serving as a color-box and bolding an inkstand and | pens, a pail and a jug. All about were casts ana lay-figures, while on the walls and up in the little gallery running alocg one side of the apartment were a great number of canvases—studies, sketches, caricatures—in all stages of incompletion, some only barely begun. Three or four uninished portraits were slit from top to | bottom by the fiery-spiriced artist, so am- bitious, yet ever dissatisfied, in a sudden fit of anger or disgust. Next in interest after the paintings came a small showcase displaying a co- lection of the fair Marie’s footgear—dainty boudoir siippers of pink and blue and white satin, chic high-heeled French ones for evening wear, stout walking boots, and comfortable sloes of soft leather without beels which Mademoiselle wore while working in the atelier Julian. The photographs of Marie Bashkirtseff, while exiremely interesting and atirac- tive, do not by any means exhibit the face of wondrous beauty which the Journal wou'd have us believe she possessed, but | hour, in ber painted vortraits we get the ex- quisite coloring of +kin and hair, and can then appreciate Francois Coppee's en- thusiastic description of her: *“At this moment Mile. Bashkirtseff appeared. I saw ber but once. Isaw heronly for an I shail never forger her. Twenty- three years old, but she appeared much younger. Rather short, but with a per- fect ngure, an oval facs exquisitely mod- intelligence—eyes consumed by the de- sire to see and know everything, a firm mouth, tender and thoughtful, nostrils quivering like those of a wild horse of the Ukraine. ‘“*At first glance Mlle. Bashkirtseff gave me the rare impression of being pos- sessed of strencih in gentleness, dignity in grace. Kverything in this adorable young girl beirayed a superior mind. Be- neath ner womanly charms she had a tru'y masculine wiil of iron, and one was | reminded of the gift of Ulysses to the young Achilles—a sword h:idden within the garments of a woman.” For nerself Marie seems to prefer the portrait of which she speaks in the Jour- nal: “For some davs past I have been thinking cf Nice. I was 15 when I was there, and how pretty I was! My fizure, my feet and my hands were not perhaps as perfect as now, but my face was ravish- ing. It hasnever been the same since. On my return to Rome Count Laurenti almost made a scene about me. “‘Your face has changed,’ he said to me; ‘the features, the coloring are as be- fore, but the expression is not the same. You will never again be like that por- trait. “He alluded to the portrait in which I am represented resting my elbows on the table and my cherk on my clasped hanis. ‘You look as if you had fallen paturally into that position and, with your eyes fixed upon the future, we: ing yourself, half in terror, *Is that what life is like 2" “‘At 15 there was « childlike expression |in my face that was not there before and has not been since, and this is the most captivating of all expressions.” | While again in Paris a year ago this month I read in the papers a notice ot the | | solemn reguiem mass which is annual'y sung in commemoration of the death of Marie Bashkirtseff on the 3lst of October, 1884. I determined to attend, as 1 was in- formed that tne music alone would be worth going many miles to hear, and 1 was, basidas, curious to learn whether or not Marie's wish expres<ed in her Journa! | bad been carried out: “And my will?| All Ishall ask in it will be a statue and a | picture, the one by Saint-Marceau, the | otner by Jules Bastien-Lepage, placed in a conspicuous position in & chapel in Paris and surrounded by flowers; and on each | snniversary of my death that a mass of Verdior Pergolesi and other music may be sung by the most celebrated singersin | remembrance of me."” The Russian church, in which the anni- | versary services were held, was situated on the Rue Daru, nedr the Champs Elys- sex, in the residence portion of the city. It is a comparatively new church, not | large, but very Leauiifgl, built in the sbape of 8 Gre“k cross with intersecting domes meeting in the middle in one | immense dome. The light all came from windows in the domes above, the latter being most beautifully gilded and deco- rated with frescoes ol saints. The icono- stase or screen that hides the altar, whose | top on'y could be seen glittering afar from the main body of the church, was about twelve feet high, most gorgeously carved and giided and containing three gates of scrollwork. In the panels of the screen ware small portraits of the Virgin nd the saints either painted or inlaid with silver and gold. ! | J | | first 8o soft and The floor was carpeted in red, and there were no seats of any kind save a few chairs for Mme. Bashkirtseff and her triends. Toe Iatter had aiready arrived and Marie’s mother was to be seen sitting alone under the middle dome, while ten or fifteen friends sat some d stance away against the wall. As for the spectators, of wiom there were about thirty, mostly French, Americans and Rus<ians, we were only allowed to stand near the door at the outer edge of the great dome. Suddenly music was heard, and leaving her seat Mme. Bashkiriseff knelt and prayed with her fica to the altar, remain- ing so throughout the service—a truly pathetic figure clad all in deepest mourn- ing with a long crape veil. Meanwhile | the strains of music from the hidden singers—an unaccompanied cholrof men and toys—which had been wafted tousat sweet and low, now gatiered in volume until they became a magnificent cuant which rolled sonorously througn the church, thundering and vibrating back and forth, until it finally softened again and as gentiy ebbed away into husied, weird tones) of tenderest melancholy. The whole effect was superb, awe-inspiring, heavenly! Presently a door in thescreen opened, admitting three priests, and the service be- gan, the solemn chanting with iis rise and fall continuing all the while, All three | were clad in garments stiff with gold and mest delicately embroidered in red and pink and green flowers. 1n addition the principal priest wore a hich, square cap, also of gold. The whole eff ct was not in the least tawdry, but rich and harmonious in the extreme, A< to the meaning of the service that was quite beyond my comprenension. There was a great deal of opening and closing the doors in the iconostase, and little processions of the three priests pass- ing 1n and out, bowing to the altar and each other. Also a certain stand covered with an embroidered cloth and bearing a heavy gilt Bible was brought out some ten different times, and, after a short reading, as often removed. Presently a man in citizen's dress — probablv a friend of Marie’s mother—gave a light:d candle to each person present, and a fow minstes later gathered them all up again. Hinally the priest with the cap appeared with a tray bearing a number of curious little two-story loaves of bread, one loaf above the other. These were passed to Murie’s mother, who took one, and then all three priests in a procession disap- peared torough the gates and the service was at an end. Mme. Bashkirtseff rose, and her friends flocked to her site to ten- | derly embrace her and kiss her on both | cheeks, a ter the Russian iashion. Then they all stood aside and she passed slowiy on down the church and out the acor and drove away. But what a disap- pointment her facs was! since Marie her- self in the famous Journal had led us to | expect something quite difterent. But these features, althou:h red and swollen with weeping, were in them<elves decid- ediy heavy, even to coarseness, so that Mme. Ba<hkirtseff wasin appearance an extremely plain, common-looking person. Was this the woman, then, with whose biind, self-abnegating idolization of her child the whole worid is familiar? Was it possible that this short, dumpy little lady with a most unromantic face could have written the pitiful letter Iread so full of adoration for that cold-natured girl, so encrusted in her astounding ego- tism, who accepted everything as her en- tire due—when she did not heartlessly repel it? Here is the letter: “My adored angel, my cherishea child Moussia, if vou but knew how unhappy 1 am without you, especially as I am un- easy on account of your health, and how Llong to go to you at the earitest possible ymoment. My pride, my glory, my happi- | ness, my joy. If you couid imagine the | sufforings I endure without you. Your letter to Mme. Anitskoff is before me; [ | read it over and over again like a lover, and I water it with my tears. I kiss your little hands and your little feet, and I pray the good God that I may soon be able to do so in reality.” On the next afternoon, which was All Souls’ day, I took the train out to Passy to see the large and beautiful monument erected to the memory of Marie Bash- kirtseff. The pretty littie cemetery lies on a high piece of ground close by the great iront of the Trocadero Palace. Here Ifound all the tombs open and decked with flowers and banners, and crowds ot people passing to and fro. The tomb of the young Russian artist stood at the en- | trance o the grounds and was built of | what appeared to be limestone, taste- fully scuiptured in flowers, foliage and friezes of pale!ts with a grouping of small pinnacles about a large central one. Beveral beautiful lines in golden letters commemorate the virtues of the de- ceased, and above is a palm-branch in bronze. The glass door stood open and soft, sad music floated out to us. Within the tomb, which was simply a mass of flowers, sat Mme. Bashkirtseff receiving her friends. About the room were ranged a number of the dead girl’s personal pos- sessions and also a portrait of herself, while opposite the door stood a marble bust, most beautifully decorated with tlowers ai.d chaplets. And so Murie Bashkirtseff has had her dying wish carried out as nearly as pos- sible — though Bastien-Lepage himseif passed away fourteen aays afier her death. EveeNia B. MaBury. Soldisrs in the Italian army are per- mitted to sleep a couple of hours at mide day.