HUMBLE JOBS OF FORMER RUSSIAN ARISTOCRATS.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19001, 25 October 1923, Page 11

HUMBLE JOBS OF FORMER RUSSIAN ARISTOCRATS.

From Prince to pauper, from leisure to labour—such is the fate which apparently has; overtaken the members of the former Russian aristocracy since their fleeing from their native land when the .Bolsheviks began to rule with the “mailed fist.” “There is nothing like it in all history,” the Grand Duchess Marie Pavlovna is quoted as saying : ‘‘two million human beings being driven from their homes and being scattered throughout the world.” It is difficult for us to comprehend the misfortune which has befallen these erstwhile nobles. But Frederick L. Collins, in his new book, “This King Business'’ (The Century Company), tries to give us some idea of the situation by declaring that “it is as if the President of the United States, the governors of all the States, most of tho doctors ands teachers and judges and preachers and bankers and manufacturers and merchants of Kansas City and Chicago and Seattle and New York and every other American city, most of the big men of tho small towns—-with their wives and grown children and little babies —were to be suddenly expunged from our American life and dumped without warning or resources into foreign lands and foreign conditions. It is as if you and I and all the neople we know- were pauperised and exiled.” Pans, the centre of so many activities in Continental Europe, was the Mecca toward which many of the outcast ausrian nobles instinctively turned upon their hegira, although “the largest group of Royalist refugees that ever left Russia' is said to have been on board that strange squadron which tho Russian Admiral Stark led into Manila harbour early this year. The present article describes how some of the exiles who went to Paris fared. Many and amazing are the tales which have been told from time to time about the way these reiugees managed to eke out a scanty livelihood. There is, for example,

The Grand Duke Dimitri,— lirsfc cousin of the late Czar, and the one who is credited with killing “that old rascal Rasputin.” Mr Collins informs us that Dimitri is recognised in some circles as the hope of Russian Imperialism, and is; in his slender, well-groomed person, all that a Grand Duke should be—especially if you like a Grand Duke young, clean-shaven, and concave at the waistline. The Grand Duke told the author about his escape from Russia after the collapse of the Imperial Army, his wanderings about Europe, and his arrival in Paris with less than 100 francs in his grand ducal pockets and only one extra shirt.

“How did I live';” The young man smiled at the directness of my question. •‘How did all my class live? We knew nothing, that is, how to do nothing. We had no money'. But, my dear sir, we had friends! The first year I made a loan. Last year I made a loam But I could not go on that way. This y'ear I am working on such a grand plan a plan to pay back my loans and live.” “And what is the plan?” _ “Floating a company, monsieur,” The Grand Duke smiled as he used the current American phrase, and I smiled too, hut not at his facility in the idiom so much as at the thought of this untried, unworldly aristocrat embarking on the stormy sea of commercial endeavours. “But I can not tell you what kind of a company it is until I see if it is successI asked my French friends about “the grand plan,” the company that this ingenious young man was trying to “float,” and' they shook their wise old Gallic heads. “A dressmaking establishment,” it is said, and then they would wink to indicate that the monseigneur was probably more interested in the dressmaker than the dressmaking. I saw visions of a gilt-chaired establishment on the Rue de la Paix or the Rue de Royale, where the Grand Duke’s reputation would be capitalised to lure the unwary dollar and the more conservative crown. It wasn't until I met the Grand Duke's brother-in-law that I learned the truth. I didn’t find Prince Poutiatine in any gilded Rue de la Paix establishment, but in a little embroidery factory which he and his wife, the Grand Duchess Marie Pavlovna and her brother Dimitri of the “grand plan” had started in the servants’ ell of a modest house in the Harlem of Paris. This little embroidery factory was the “dressmaking establishment” of current rumour. ...

•‘The grand plan” that Dimitri was trying to ‘‘float” was to give employment to emigres of noble birth who, like himself, are willing to work for a living while they await ‘‘the future day’’ (when they hope the imperialists will return to power). The writer made a tour of inspection through the shop and found there —The Dowager Princess Poutintine—plying her trade as forewoman and saleswoman of its exquisite products. We are told that— Sixty-five she was, and tired and thin and silently sad except when her eyes liohted up over some beauty in her daughter-in-law’s designs or some prospect of aiding financially the wonderful work in which she was engaged. I asked her if she wanted to go back to Russia. Her face clouded) “No, no,” she said almost violently; “I have here my hus’band and my son. I am content.” “Tour husband?”

‘Yes, monsieur.” She reached down into the pile of embroideries and brought up a pattern of exquisite workmanship. “My husband’s design. He is our hardest worker. .. e live here, in the shop, sleep her, eat here, my husband and I.” Her fine old eyes had strayed from me to the embroidery in her hand, and thence through the open door, up two rickety steps into a room where a man was vigorously ironing—engaged, as I afterwards learned, in transferring designs from the patterns to the cloth. But this workman was dressed as a retired banker might be dressed of a late afternoon at his home on Chicago’s North Side, in a clean, starched collar, a light silk tie, and a well-cut buff-coloured summer suit. His face, his whole head, was like the late King Edward’s, a high noble forehead above a closely clipped, white beard. He was the most significant figure I had yet met. Dimitri, for instance, was still young. There was hope in his future day. Poutiatiue’s son was strong and busy, and, in a way, happier than he would have been in a less active life. Even the old Princess, with her armful of embroideries, was a woman doing a woman’s work—and, besides, she was content. But this courtly old gentleman, for whom there could be no future day, no active career, no congenial occupation, bent over an ironing-board like a tailor’s apprentice—hero was the picture of a race declassed ! . . . The old Prince led me up another narrow, gray flight of stairs to

The Workroom, — where a dozen embroidery machines—not unlike the old-fashioned sewing machine that mother kept in the spare bedroom—were ticking off thousands of minute stitches. Bent over these machines, their eyes scarcely leaving their work as we interviewed them were a dozen members of the Hussion nobility—working for a wage of two francs an hour! A franc at "the moment was worth about ehrht cents. Two francs were a tip to the boy who carried your bag. Fight hours of this exacting ‘ work moduced a wage of a dollar and a-half. . . . But it,.was enough—and this was the poinC-lo keep that fragile young woman in the widow s veil, the Countess Apracsine, from starvation. It was enough to support, in part, at least, the families of those other ladies of the Czar’s own household. The venerable Princess confided to Mr Collins that she and her royal associates learned the embroidery art by hiring “what you call professionals, two Frenchmen.’’ but that in two week’s time they could outwork the professionals. Fascinated by the cryptic word Yteb in silver letters ‘on the street door of a fashionable dressmaking establishment, to which the Grand Duchess Marie sold some embroidery work, the author entered and learned that Madame Yteb was in reality the Baroness Wrangel, sister-in-law of the General Wrangel, who had failed in his campaign against the Bolshevik Amy. Mr Collins remarks: In the most Parisian of Parisian atmospheres 1 had stumbled once more upon

these inevitable Russians. I had followed their trail for weeks through most of the capitals of Europe, only to land at lastin a French dressmaking salon —French in -appearance and French in location, but Russian-owned and Russian-oper-ated. ...

1 looked with new eyes nt the efficient young business woman in front of me, for I knew that this was

-—Tile Famous Princess Kougouchcff, — who, through her courage and devotion, had saved her mother and her old governess and her two young children from the horrors of Rolshevism ; who was personally responsible for the care of 48,000 refugees and the distribution of more than 300,000 articles of clothing in Constantinople, in those dark days following the Russian hegira. I was familiar with every detail of this young woman’s heroism, for it is on the lips of thousands of Russian emigres .from the Black Sea to the Atlantic. ... “That young woman over there,” said the Princess, “is the Countess Oourno. She has become one of the best fitters in Paris.” The Countess had just brought in on her arm a finished garment from the workroom, and was hanging it affectionately in a wardrobe behind one of the long mirrors that lined the pale, gray room. “And several of the mannikins arc also Russian women of the nobility. We have had many such in the house, the two Baronesses Meinard. for instance. Madame is very kind. She gives our people a chance whenever she can. But she is fair,” she added proudly, “the Russian ladies can not keep their places unless they are good —as good as the French women.” But Russian refugees are also finding employment of a very different sort. lor instance, Mr Collins discovered that three charming girls belonging to the exiled nobility were making a living by —Dancing in the Chorus — of the Folios Bergere, that centre of the night life of Paris, which is half-way up the Montmartre. We read:

Behind the scenes at the Folios Bergere —in a glittering confusion of paint and powder, tramped on by hurrying choruses of flower-girls and Roman beauties—sits a- dear old lady*, in a bonnet. You think you have seen the motherly face before, the kind, wide eyes, the friendly smile; perhaps in your own home, long ago; perhaps in “Cranford.” Perhaps her name is Marv Wilkins or Alice Brown. No, she is, ~or was, a lady of the Romanoff court. And her three young daughters, noblewomen like herself, are dancing in the Folies chorus!

I saw them that night in gorgeous pearl and silver trappings, dancing with, the American premiere danseuse, Miss Nina Payne, and in black and white costumes of velvet and fur,' which made the spectacular “snow scene” a dazzling glory. Every night, os they prance down the stage through tinsel snows, they must turn back their memories to another night, another snow scene, far from tnc footlights of the Folies Bergere, on inj sombre, silent shores of the Baltic Sea. . . .

The old noblewoman is unwilling to expose her daughters 'o the temptatmis of this palace of pleasure; but her daughters can not see her starve. They apply for a job at the Folies and get it. They earn 600 francs a month—about 50dol —a fortune for womeh horn to wear jewels in their hair! I have promised for the present to conceal the names of these four women They have relatives, still wßlnn ti e rea, h of Bolshevik terror, who might softer the publicity. But every night r.n the Folies stage you may ~ee these ihree daughters of the Russian Court— ’lrce daughters, in fact, of a famous Russian general, the personal ward the Czar And later, at the stage door, you can not fail to identify them. They are the ones with a chaperon! Their me her never leaves them. Pathetic as the lot of these young emigres doubtless is, Mr t obins is i f the opinion that the plight of The Older Outcasts

is far more deplorable, especially that of the former military and naval commanders who have evidently outlived their usefulness in the only field ' for which they were fitted. “Those old men get me, ' he says somewhat colloquially, and tells of a visit to Admiral Possokhow, 76 years of age. Into a smelly side street, through a low doorway, across a cobble courtyard, up three flights of shadowy stairs, to a door which bore the inevitable inscriptions, “Furnished Rooms,” lay the way to the hall bedroom of the former corn-mander-in-chief of the Imperial forces at Archangel. Behind the soiled lady in a calico wrapper loomed the monumental figure of Admiral Possokhow—big body, big hands and feet, massive head and noble features, built on the Michelangelo plan. He filled the. room with his size and dignity, and presently he illumined it with his sad and sweet smile. The old hero seemed anxious to talk—about others. There was his middleaged friend. General Sonicbody-or-other, who was wonderfully successful driving trucks; another younger nobleman who washed cars in ‘a Paris garage; the colonel, decorated for bravery by the Czar, who made a fair living, working all day a.S a chauffeur and all evening until midnight as a waiter; and many young officers of the Imperial Guard, who were chauffeurs and taxi men in the streets of Paris. “They say I am too old to he a. chauffeur,” commented the Admiral. He had owned four Rolls-Royces at his place near Petrograd! Then he told of his older friends, ot General Wadinow, upholsterer of chairs in a little shop near the Gate de Lyon ; of his fellow admiral, happy in the post of porter at the entrance to a Constantinonle hospital. The latter’s wife lives with him, a fact which appealed especially to the lonely old man before me. . - .

“And you?” “Oh, 1 have work. I should not complain. And I have a little silver which 1 left with the British Consul at Archangel, and when I do not earn enough 1 sell a piece. That is all right, you see, only it is most gone, and 1 must move. With only 2000 francs one cannot afford to live in a. place like this!” . . . I am not sure, but I think there was a tear on the wrinkled cheek, a tear shed not for himself, but for his people. He might well shed a tear in self-pity, for the next day, which would be Monday, he must again become a peddler, a peddler who goes from door to door selling woollen to he made up into men’s suits and overcoats. It was not very congenial work for this courtly old gentleman of 76, who had earned by a lifetime of kindly service the right to sit quietly in his library, alone with his books” and his memories. “It is not such hard work,” the old hero insisted, “only it doesn’t pay much; and sometimes they send me away—like this.” He imitated a gesture that I felt sure he had never himself used in the days of his authority at Archangel. “It is too bad, isn’t it,” he said, without bitterness, “that people are not always kind?” It is heartening to learn from the author that Exile Does no Always Mean Tragedy for these Enssians, but that sometimes it means relief, and that even this hegira is not without its lighter- side. For msttincc * In a suburb qf Paris • the old Duke Peter is doing odd jobs for one of his former servants, and living humbly in the servant’s cottage ; but he is, for the first time in his long life, a happy man. He has rid himself of one of those marriages of convenience, which had long been a decided inconvenience to him. He has married the woman of his choice, who would long since have been his wife except for Imperial decree, and the bride, in her sixtieth year, added a serincomic touch to the long-delayed nuptials hv going to the altar in white lace veil aiid orange blossoms! Peter and his first wife would have been very good freiends if they had not been married; and they are good friends now. In fact, Peter celebrated his union with his second wife by sending a long telegram to his first. He must have described the bride’s girlish costume, for the Grand Duchess, who was visiting the Dowager Empress of Russia, in Copenhagen, sent the following congratulatory reply: “When Auntie [meaning the Empress] and I received your telegram we laughed for two hours until we fell down pa the

floor. Wc are delighted and wish yon every happiness.—Olga.” The Orand Duchess could afford to laugh. She had just married the Duke's aide-de-camp, a young fellow half Peter's age, and was keeping house for him in a cottage all their own. ... In this ease four people at least had been exiled into happiness. Olliers may live to bless the cataclysm that sent them out into the world of men and labour. For the present, however, their problem seems insoluble.