23 August 1881

I was tired and tense with worry today over Dr. Bell and my involvement with the radical students. So, it was a lovely surprise when an old university chum, Dick Ferguson, sent me an invite for dinner. Dicky wasn’t in the medical program, but was an engineering student. We played on the same rugby team and had downed many a pint after an afternoon on the field.

It was an easy walk across the bridge over the Neva to his comfortable rooms on the English Embankment. He greeted me warmly and invited me into his library. My old friend wore a finely-tailored tweed suit, a silk tie, and his elegant shoes were polished to a high gloss. When I was seated in a padded chair, with my feet stretched out on an ottoman, Dick poured me a tot of fine single malt whiskey. The aroma of heather made me a bit homesick. Only a few weeks ago, I was excited to get out of Scotland, and now, my heart ached to return.

“Dick, you appear to be prospering in St. Petersburg, while I’m still wondering what to do with my life.”

Dick laughed. “It was a pure stroke of good luck. I landed a job with a Glasgow firm that is building an electrical system. Soon, all the aristocrats will have Edison lights in their homes and the street trams will run on electricity.”

I told Dick of our adventures on the ship and Dr. Bell’s extraordinary powers. I then mentioned the meeting of the students.

“Oh, laddie, stay away from those bastards or you’ll wind up rotting away your life in a cell. They are hoodlums and anarchists, intent on killing the tsar and all the nobles,” he warned.

“Is it as bad as all that?” I asked.

“Ever since the radicals murdered Alexander II, his son, Alexander III is deathly afraid of assassination. The city is practically under martial law. He has established a new secret police force, the Okhrana. The government is sending students, anarchists, and Jews to prison every day. St. Petersburg has become an unfriendly and dangerous place. But enough of that, let’s go to dinner and drink some good Russian vodka.”

It was one of those eternal, lovely St. Petersburg nights, so we trotted along the embankment to Nevsky Prospekt and the Grand Hotel Europe. It was nine o’clock in the evening, but a warm sun lit up the street so it felt like a midday stroll. We walked through the grand lobby and into the entrance to the gilded dining room. A uniformed waiter bowed and led us to a table in this most sumptuous of surroundings.

Dicky spoke enough Russian to order beef in sour cream and then salmon and rice with hard boiled eggs, which was followed with a dish of herring layered with grated boiled potatoes, carrots, beets, and onions. I stuffed myself with the luscious dishes and savored every bite. It wasn’t until we finished lemon pie and coffee and were sipping brandy that I asked about the tsar. “Maybe I’m naïve, but please tell me. Why do you think so many people hate the tsar?”

Dicky wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. “His father was a liberal who had, in fact, signed documents granting more freedom to the people just before they killed him. Unfortunately, since his death, his son has grown fearful and, as a result, repealed his father’s proclamations and keeps the status quo through fear and violence. The new tsar is in virtual seclusion for fear of assassination. He is not a bad sort, from what I hear, but is an autocrat who thinks Russia must be ruled with an iron hand. Aye, the intelligentsia wants democracy, but they won’t get it from this tsar.”

We talked about politics late into the night when I bid Dicky farewell and made my way back to my room.