The Land of Thor
by J. Ross Browne · English · Gutenberg #28329 · 949,730 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Land of Thor
Author: J. Ross Browne
Release date: March 15, 2009 [eBook #28329]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28329
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF THOR ***
Produced by David Edwards, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
THE
LAND OF THOR.
BY
J. ROSS BROWNE,
AUTHOR OF
"YUSEF," "CRUSOE'S ISLAND," "AN AMERICAN FAMILY IN
GERMANY," ETC.
Illustrated by the Author.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1867.
BY J. ROSS BROWNE.
AN AMERICAN FAMILY IN GERMANY. Illustrated by the
Author. 12mo, Cloth, $2 00.
THE LAND OF THOR. Illustrated by the Author. 12mo,
Cloth, $2 00.
CRUSOE'S ISLAND: A Ramble in the Footsteps of Alexander
Selkirk. With Sketches of Adventure in California and
Washoe. Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth. $1 75.
YUSEF; or, The Journey of the Frangi. A Crusade in the
East. With Illustrations. 12mo, Cloth, $1 75.
Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and sixty-seven, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office
of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG 9
II. A PLEASANT EXCURSION 25
III. VIEWS ON THE MOSCOW RAILWAY 39
IV. MOSCOW 52
V. TEA-DRINKING 60
VI. THE PETERSKOI GARDENS 65
VII. THE "LITTLE WATER" 73
VIII. THE MARKETS OF MOSCOW 77
IX. THE NOSE REGIMENT 88
X. THE EMPEROR'S BEAR-HUNT 92
XI. RUSSIAN HUMOR 97
XII. A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE 104
XIII. THE DENOUEMENT 125
XIV. THE KREMLIN 134
XV. RUSSIAN MANNERS AND CUSTOMS 155
XVI. DESPOTISM _versus_ SERFDOM 165
XVII. REFORM IN RUSSIA 170
XVIII. A BOND OF SYMPATHY 185
XIX. CIVILIZATION IN RUSSIA 193
XX. PASSAGE TO REVEL 209
XXI. REVEL AND HELSINGFORS 218
XXII. A BATHING SCENE 227
XXIII. ABO--FINLAND 236
XXIV. STOCKHOLM 248
XXV. WALKS ABOUT STOCKHOLM 262
XXVI. THE GOTHA CANAL 272
XXVII. VOYAGE TO CHRISTIANA 291
XXVIII. FROM CHRISTIANIA TO LILLEHAMMER 302
XXIX. HOW THEY TRAVEL IN NORWAY 310
XXX. A NORWEGIAN GIRL 317
XXXI. HOW THEY LIVE 335
XXXII. JOHN BULL ABROAD 354
XXXIII. WOMEN IN NORWAY AND GERMANY 361
XXXIV. DOWN THE DRIVSDAL 368
XXXV. A NORWEGIAN HORSE-JOCKEY 372
XXXVI. OUT OF MONEY 381
XXXVII. ICELANDIC TRAVEL 383
XXXVIII. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 387
XXXIX. VOYAGE TO SCOTLAND 398
XL. THE JOLLY BLOODS 404
XLI. THE FAROE ISLANDS 408
XLII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ICELAND 426
XLIII. REYKJAVIK, THE CAPITAL OF ICELAND 431
XLIV. GEIR ZOEGA 440
XLV. THE ENGLISH TOURISTS 445
XLVI. THE ROAD TO THINGVALLA 449
XLVII. THE ALMANNAJAU 465
XLVIII. THINGVALLA 476
XLIX. THE ROAD TO THE GEYSERS 490
L. THE GEYSERS 503
LI. THE ENGLISH SPORTS IN TROUBLE 527
LII. A FRIGHTFUL ADVENTURE 537
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Laborers and Shipwrights 10
Russian and Finn 11
Cooper's Shop and Residence 15
Merchant, Peddlers and Coachman 18
Istrovoschiks 21
Fish Peddler 29
Young Peasants 31
Dvornick and Postman 35
Glazier, Painter, Carpenters 37
Hay Gatherers 46
Prisoners for Siberia 58
Tea-sellers 61
Mujiks at Tea 63
Russian Theatre 68
The Peterskoi Gardens 72
Vodka 75
Old-clothes' Market 78
Cabinet-makers 84
Pigs, Pups, and Pans 87
Imperial Nosegay 90
Skinned and Stuffed Man 100
Frozen Animals in the Market 101
Mujik and Cats 103
Effects of "Little Water" 111
Russian Beggars 115
Gambling Saloon 122
A Passage of Politeness 157
Serfs 168
In Norseland 292
The Steamer entering the Fjord 295
Coast of Norway 297
The Islands 299
Approach to Christiania 303
Station-house, Logen Valley 313
Station-boy 321
"Good-by--Many Thanks!" 322
Norwegian Peasant Family 324
The Post-girl 330
Waiting for a Nibble 341
Snow-plow 344
A Drinking Bout 345
A Norwegian Farm 347
Norwegian Church 348
Parish Schoolmaster 349
Dovre Fjeld 353
Playing him out 356
English Sportsman 358
Bear Chase 359
Peasant Women at Work 360
Wheeling Girls 363
Justice of the Peace 365
Model Landlord 367
Drivsdal Valley 369
Passage on the Driv 371
The Prize 375
Traveling on Foot 382
The great Geyser 385
Hans Christian Andersen 394
A Dandy Tourist 406
Thorshavn 407
View in Faroe Islands 409
Faroese Children 412
Faroese Islanders 414
Kirk Goboe 421
Farm-house and Ruins 423
Faroese on Horseback 425
Natural Bridge 427
Coast of Iceland 429
The Meal-sack 430
Reykjavik, the Capital of Iceland 432
Governor's Residence, Reykjavik 434
Icelandic Houses 435
Church at Reykjavik 436
Icelanders at Work 438
Geir Zoega 441
Icelandic Horses 443
English Party at Reykjavik 447
A Rough Road 451
Taking Snuff 454
An Icelandic Bog 459
Geir Zoega and Brusa 463
Entrance to the Almannajau 466
The Almannajau 467
Skeleton View of the Almannajau 469
Outline View of Thingvalla 470
Fall of the Almannajau 472
Icelandic Shepherd-girl 473
Church at Thingvalla 477
The Pastor's House 479
The Pastor of Thingvalla 485
Skeleton View of the Logberg 488
Thingvalla, Logberg, Almannajau 489
Diagram of the Logberg 490
An Artist at Home 492
Lava-fjelds 494
Effigy in Lava 495
The Hrafnajau 497
The Tintron Rock 499
Bridge River 502
Shepherd and Family 506
The Strokhr 516
Side-saddle 519
Great Geyser and Receiver 525
Strokhr and Receiver 525
"Oh-o-o-ah!" 529
The English Party 533
Interior of Icelandic Hut 536
An Awkward Predicament 540
THE LAND OF THOR.
CHAPTER I.
IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETERSBURG.
I landed at St. Petersburg with a knapsack on my back and a hundred
dollars in my pocket. An extensive tour along the borders of the
Arctic Circle was before me, and it was necessary I should husband my
resources.
In my search for a cheap German gasthaus I walked nearly all over the
city. My impressions were probably tinctured by the circumstances of
my position, but it seemed to me I had never seen so strange a place.
[Illustration: LABORERS AND SHIPWRIGHTS.]
[Illustration: RUSSIAN AND FINN.]
The best streets of St. Petersburg resemble on an inferior scale the
best parts of Paris, Berlin, and Vienna. Nothing in the architecture
conveys any idea of national taste except the glittering cupolas of
the churches, the showy colors of the houses, and the vast extent and
ornamentation of the palaces. The general aspect of the city is that
of immense level space. Built upon islands, cut up into various
sections by the branches of the Neva, intersected by canals, destitute
of eminent points of observation, the whole city has a scattered and
incongruous effect--an incomprehensible remoteness about it, as if one
might continually wander about without finding the centre. Some parts,
of course, are better than others; some streets are indicative of
wealth and luxury; but without a guide it is extremely difficult to
determine whether there are not still finer buildings and quarters in
the main part of the city--if you could only get at it. The eye
wanders continually in search of heights and prominent objects. Even
the Winter Palace, the Admiralty, and the Izaak Church lose much of
their grandeur in the surrounding deserts of space from the absence of
contrast with familiar and tangible objects. It is only by a careful
examination in detail that one can become fully sensible of their
extraordinary magnificence. Vast streets of almost interminable
length, lined by insignificant two-story houses with green roofs and
yellow walls; vast open squares or ploschads; palaces, public
buildings, and churches, dwindled down to mere toy-work in the deserts
of space intervening; countless throngs of citizens and carriages
scarcely bigger than ants to the eye; broad sheets of water, dotted
with steamers, brigs, barks, wood-barges and row-boats, still
infinitesimal in the distance; long rows of trees, forming a foliage
to some of the principal promenades, with glimpses of gardens and
shrubbery at remote intervals; canals and dismal green swamps--not all
at one sweep of the eye, but visible from time to time in the course
of an afternoon's ramble, are the most prominent characteristics of
this wonderful city. A vague sense of loneliness impresses the
traveler from a distant land--as if in his pilgrimage through foreign
climes he had at length wandered into the midst of a strange and
peculiar civilization--a boundless desert of wild-looking streets, a
waste of colossal palaces, of gilded churches and glistening waters,
all perpetually dwindling away before him in the infinity of space. He
sees a people strange and unfamiliar in costume and expression;
fierce, stern-looking officers, rigid in features, closely shaved, and
dressed in glittering uniforms; grave, long-bearded priests, with
square-topped black turbans, their flowing black drapery trailing in
the dust; pale women richly and elegantly dressed, gliding unattended
through mazes of the crowd; rough, half-savage serfs, in dirty pink
shirts, loose trowsers, and big boots, bowing down before the shrines
on the bridges and public places; the drosky drivers, with their long
beards, small bell-shaped hats, long blue coats and fire-bucket boots,
lying half asleep upon their rusty little vehicles awaiting a
customer, or dashing away at a headlong pace over the rough
cobble-paved streets, and so on of every class and kind. The traveler
wanders about from place to place, gazing into the strange faces he
meets, till the sense of loneliness becomes oppressive. An invisible
but impassable barrier seems to stand between him and the moving
multitude. He hears languages that fall without a meaning upon his
ear; wonders at the soft inflections of the voices; vainly seeks some
familiar look or word; thinks it strange that he alone should be cut
off from all communion with the souls of men around him; and then
wonders if they have souls like other people, and why there is no
kindred expression in their faces--no visible consciousness of a
common humanity. It is natural that every stranger in a strange city
should experience this feeling to some extent, but I know of no place
where it seems so strikingly the case as in St. Petersburg. Accustomed
as I was to strange cities and strange languages, I never felt utterly
lonely until I reached this great mart of commerce and civilization.
The costly luxury of the palaces; the wild Tartaric glitter of the
churches; the tropical luxuriance of the gardens; the brilliant
equipages of the nobility; the display of military power; the strange
and restless throngs forever moving through the haunts of business and
pleasure; the uncouth costumes of the lower classes, and the wonderful
commingling of sumptuous elegance and barbarous filth, visible in
almost every thing, produced a singular feeling of mingled wonder and
isolation--as if the solitary traveler were the only person in the
world who was not permitted to comprehend the spirit and import of the
scene, or take a part in the great drama of life in which all others
seemed to be engaged. I do not know if plain, practical men are
generally so easily impressed by external objects, but I must confess
that when I trudged along the streets with my knapsack on my back,
looking around in every direction for a gasthaus; when I spoke to
people in my peculiar style of French and German, and received
unintelligible answers in Russian; when I got lost among palaces and
grand military establishments, instead of finding the gasthaus, and
finally attracted the attention of the surly-looking guards, who were
stationed about every where, by the anxious pertinacity with which I
examined every building, a vague notion began to get possession of me
that I was a sort of outlaw, and would sooner or later be seized and
dragged before the Czar for daring to enter such a magnificent city in
such an uncouth and unbecoming manner. When I cast my eyes up at the
sign-boards, and read about grand fabrications and steam-companies,
and walked along the quays of the Neva, and saw wood enough piled up
in big broad-bottomed boats to satisfy the wants of myself and family
for ten thousand years; when I strolled into the Nevskoi, and jostled
my way through crowds of nobles, officers, soldiers, dandies, and
commoners, stopping suddenly at every picture-shop, gazing dreamily
into the gorgeous millinery establishments, pondering thoughtfully
over the glittering wares of the jewelers, lagging moodily by the
grand cafes, and snuffing reflectively the odors that came from the
grand restaurations--when all this occurred, and I went down into a
beer-cellar and made acquaintance with a worthy German, and he asked
me if I had any meerschaums to sell, the notion that I had no
particular business in so costly and luxurious a place began to grow
stronger than ever. A kind of dread came over me that the mighty
spirit of Peter the Great would come riding through the scorching hot
air on a gale of snowflakes, at the head of a bloody phalanx of
Muscovites, and, rising in his stirrups as he approached, would demand
of me in a voice of thunder, "Stranger, how much money have you got?"
to which I could only answer, "Sublime and potent Czar, taking the
average value of my Roaring Grizzly, Dead Broke, Gone Case, and
Sorrowful Countenance, and placing it against the present value of
Russian securities, I consider it within the bounds of reason to say
that I hold about a million of rubles!" But if he should insist upon
an exhibit of ready cash--there was the rub! It absolutely made me
feel weak in the knees to think of it. Indeed, a horrid suspicion
seized me, after I had crossed the bridge and begun to renew my search
for a cheap gasthaus on the Vassoli Ostrou, that every fat,
neatly-shaved man I met, with small gray eyes, a polished hat on his
head drawn a little over his brow, his lips compressed, and his coat
buttoned closely around his body, was a rich banker, and that he was
saying to himself as I passed, "That fellow with the slouched hat and
the knapsack is a suspicious character, to say the least of him. It
becomes my duty to warn the police of his movements. I suspect him
to be a Hungarian refugee."
[Illustration: COOPER'S SHOP AND RESIDENCE.]
With some difficulty, I succeeded at length in finding just such a
place as I desired--clean and comfortable enough, considering the
circumstances, and not unusually fertile in vermin for a city like St.
Petersburg, which produces all kinds of troublesome insects
spontaneously. There was this advantage in my quarters, in addition to
their cheapness--that the proprietor and attendants spoke several of
the Christian languages, including German, which, of all languages in
the world, is the softest and most euphonious to my ear--when I am
away from Frankfort. Besides, my room was very advantageously arranged
for a solitary traveler. Being about eight feet square, with only one
small window overlooking the back yard, and effectually secured by
iron fastenings, so that nobody could open it, there was no
possibility of thieves getting in and robbing me when the door was
shut and locked on the inside. Its closeness presented an effectual
barrier against the night air, which in these high northern latitudes
is considered extremely unwholesome to sleep in. With the thermometer
at 100 degrees Fahrenheit, the atmosphere, to be sure, was a little
sweltering during the day, and somewhat thick by night, but that was
an additional advantage, inasmuch as it forced the occupant to stay
out most of the time and see a great deal more of the town than he
could possibly see in his room.
Having deposited my knapsack and put my extra shirt in the wash, you
will now be kind enough to consider me the shade of Virgil, ready to
lead you, after the fashion of Dante, through the infernal regions or
any where else within the bounds of justice, even through St.
Petersburg, where the climate in summer is hot enough to satisfy
almost any body. The sun shines here, in June and July, for twenty
hours a day, and even then scarcely disappears beneath the horizon. I
never experienced such sweltering weather in any part of the world
except Aspinwall. One is fairly boiled with the heat, and might be
wrung out like a wet rag. Properly speaking, the day commences for
respectable people, and men of enterprising spirit--tourists,
pleasure-seekers, gamblers, vagabonds, and the like--about nine or ten
o'clock at night, and continues till about four or five o'clock the
next morning. It is then St. Petersburg fairly turns out; then the
beauty and fashion of the city unfold their wings and flit through the
streets, or float in Russian gondolas upon the glistening waters of
the Neva; then it is the little steamers skim about from island to
island, freighted with a population just waked up to a realizing sense
of the pleasures of existence; then is the atmosphere balmy, and the
light wonderfully soft and richly tinted; then come the sweet witching
hours, when
"Shady nooks
Patiently give up their quiet being."
None but the weary, labor-worn serf, who has toiled through the long
day in the fierce rays of the sun, can sleep such nights as these. I
call them nights, yet what a strange mistake. The sunshine still
lingers in the heavens with a golden glow; the evening vanishes
dreamily in the arms of the morning; there is nothing to mark the
changes--all is soft, gradual, and illusory. A peculiar and almost
supernatural light glistens upon the gilded domes of the churches; the
glaring waters of the Neva are alive with gondolas; miniature steamers
are flying through the winding channels of the islands; strains of
music float upon the air; gay and festive throngs move along the
promenades of the Nevskoi; gilded and glittering equipages pass over
the bridges and disappear in the shadowy recesses of the islands.
Whatever may be unseemly in life is covered by a rich and mystic
drapery of twilight. The floating bath-houses of the Neva, with their
variegated tressel-work and brilliant colors, resemble fairy palaces;
and the plashing of the bathers falls upon the ear like the gambols
of water-spirits. Not far from the Izaak Bridge, the equestrian
statue of Peter the Great stands out in bold relief on a pedestal of
granite; the mighty Czar, casting an eagle look over the waters of the
Neva, while his noble steed rears over the yawning precipice in front,
crushing a serpent beneath his hoof. The spirit of Peter the Great
still lives throughout Russia; but it is better understood in the
merciless blasts of winter than in the soft glow of the summer nights.
[Illustration: MERCHANT, PEDDLERS, AND COACHMAN.]
Wander with me now, and let us take a look at the Winter Palace--the
grandest pile, perhaps, ever built by human hands. Six thousand people
occupy it during the long winter months, and well they may, for it is
a city of palaces in itself. Fronting the Neva, it occupies a space of
several acres, its massive walls richly decorated with ornamental
designs, a forest of chimneys on top--the whole pile forming an
immense oblong square so grand, so massive, so wonderfully rich and
varied in its details, that the imagination is lost in a colossal
wilderness of architectural beauties. Standing in the open plozchad,
we may gaze at this magnificent pile for hours, and dream over it, and
picture to our minds the scenes of splendor its inner walls have
witnessed; the royal _fetes_ of the Czars; the courtly throngs that
have filled its halls; the vast treasures expended in erecting it; the
enslaved multitudes, now low in the dust, who have left this monument
to speak of human pride, and the sweat and toil that pride must feed
upon; and while we gaze and dream thus, a mellow light comes down from
the firmament, and the mighty Czars, and their palaces, and armies,
and navies, and worldly strifes, what are they in the presence of the
everlasting Power? For "it is he that sitteth upon the circle of the
earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers."
But these dreamings and these wanderings through this city of palaces
would be endless. We may feast our eyes upon the Admiralty, the Winter
Palace, the Marble Palace, the Senate-house, the palace of the
Grand-duke Michael, the Column of Alexander, the colleges,
universities, imperial gardens and summer-houses, and, after all, we
can only feel that they are built upon the necks of an enslaved
people; that the mightiest Czars of Russia, in common with the poorest
serfs, are but "as grasshoppers upon the earth."
The _istrovoschik_ (sneeze and you have the word)--in plain English,
the drosky drivers--are a notable feature in St. Petersburg. When I
saw them for the first time on the quay of the Wassaly Ostrow, where
the steamer from Stettin lands her passengers, the idea naturally
impressed my mind that I had fallen among a brotherhood of Pilgrims or
Druids. Nothing could be more unique than the incongruity of their
costume and occupation. Every man looked like a priest; his long
beard, his grave expression of countenance, his little black hat and
flowing blue coat, gathered around the waist by means of a sash, his
glazed boots reaching above the knees, his slow and measured motions,
and the sublime indifference with which he regarded his customers,
were singularly impressive. Even the filth and rustiness which formed
the most prominent characteristics of the class contributed to the
delusion that they might have sprung from a Druidical source, and
gathered their dust of travel on the pilgrimage from remote ages down
to the present period. It is really something novel, in the line of
hackery, to see those sedate fellows sitting on their little droskys
awaiting a customer. The force of competition, however, has of late
years committed sad inroads upon their dignity, and now they are
getting to be about as enterprising and pertinacious as any of their
kindred in other parts of the world. The drosky is in itself a
curiosity as a means of locomotion. Like the driver, it is generally
dirty and dilapidated; but here the similitude ends; for, while the
former is often high, his drosky is always low. The wheels are not
bigger than those of an ordinary dog-cart, and the seat is only
designed for one person, though on a pinch it can accommodate two.
Generally it consists of a plank covered with a cushion, extending
lengthwise in the same direction as the horse, so that the rider sits
astride of it as if riding on horseback; some, however, have been
modernized so as to afford a more convenient seat in the usual way.
Night and day these droskys are every where to be seen, sometimes
drawn up by the sidewalk, the driver asleep, awaiting a customer, but
more frequently rattling full tilt over the pavements (the roughest
in the world) with a load, consisting, in nine cases out of ten, of a
fat old gentleman in military uniform, a very ugly old lady with a
lapdog, or a very dashy young lady glittering with jewels, on her way,
perhaps, to the Confiseur's or somewhere else. But in a city like St.
Petersburg, where it is at least two or three miles from one place to
another, every body with twenty kopecks in his pocket uses the drosky.
It is the most convenient and economical mode of locomotion for all
ordinary purposes, hence the number of them is very large. On some of
the principal streets it is marvelous how they wind their way at such
a rattling pace through the crowd. To a stranger unacquainted with
localities, they are a great convenience. And here, you see, commences
the gist of the story.
[Illustration: ISTROVOSCHIKS.]
On a certain occasion I called a drosky-man and directed him to drive
me to the United States Consulate. Having never been there myself, I
depended solely upon the intelligence and enterprise of the
istrovoschik. My knowledge of the Russian consisted of three
words--the name of the street and _dratzall kopeck_, the latter being
the stipulated fare of twenty kopecks. By an affirmative signal the
driver gave me to understand that he fully comprehended my wishes,
and, with a flourish of his whip, away we started. After driving me
nearly all over the city of St. Petersburg--a pretty extensive city,
as any body will find who undertakes to walk through it--this adroit
and skillful whipster, who had never uttered a word from the time of
starting, now deliberately drew up his drosky on the corner of a
principal street and began a conversation. I repeated the name of the
street in which the consulate was located, and _dratzall kopeck_. The
driver gazed in my face with a grave and placid countenance, stroked
his long beard, tucked the skirts of his long blue coat under him, and
drove on again. After rattling over a series of the most frightful
cobble-stone pavements ever designed as an improvement in a great
city, through several new quarters, he again stopped and treated me
to some more remarks in his native language. I answered as before, the
name of the street. He shook his head with discouraging gravity. I
then remarked _dratzall kopeck_. From the confused answer he made,
which occupied at least ten minutes of his time, and of which I was
unable to comprehend a single word, it was apparent that he was as
ignorant of his own language as he was of the city. In this extremity
he called another driver to his aid, who spoke just the words of
English, "Gooda-morkig!" "Good-morning," said I. From this the
conversation lapsed at once into remote depths of Russian. In despair
I got out of the drosky and walked along the street, looking up at all
the signs--the driver after me with his drosky, apparently watching to
see that I did not make my escape. At length I espied a German name on
a bakery sign. How familiar it looked in that desert of unintelligible
Russian--like a favorite quotation in a page of metaphysics. I went in
and spoke German--_vie gaetz?_ You are aware, perhaps, that I excel in
that language. I asked the way to the United States Consulate. The
baker had probably forgotten his native tongue, if ever he knew it at
all, for I could get nothing out of him but a shake of the head and
_nicht furstay_. However, he had the goodness, seeing my perplexity,
to put on his hat and undertake to find the consul's, which, by dint
of inquiry, he at length ascertained to be about half a mile distant.
We walked all the way, this good old baker and I, he refusing to ride
because there was only room for one, and I not liking to do so and let
him walk. The drosky-man followed in the rear, driving along very
leisurely, and with great apparent comfort to himself. He leaned back
in his seat with much gusto, and seemed rather amused than otherwise
at our movements. At length we reached the consulate. It was about
three hundred yards from my original point of departure. Any other man
in existence than my istrovoschik would have sunk into the earth upon
seeing me make this astounding discovery. I knew it by certain
landmarks--a church and a garden. But he did not sink into the earth.
He merely sat on his drosky as cool as a cucumber. I felt so grateful
to the worthy baker, who was a fat old gentleman, and perspired freely
after his walk, that I gave him thirty kopecks. The drosky-man claimed
forty kopecks, just double his fare. I called in the services of an
interpreter, and protested against this imposition. The interpreter
and the drosky-man got into an animated dispute on the question, and
must have gone clear back to the fundamental principles of droskyism,
for they seemed likely never to come to an end. The weather was warm,
and both kept constantly wiping their faces, and turning the whole
subject over and over again, without the slightest probability of an
equitable conclusion. At length my interpreter said, "Perhaps, sir,
you had better pay it. The man says you kept him running about for
over two hours; and since you have no proof to the contrary, it would
only give you trouble to have him punished." This view accorded
entirely with my own, and I cheerfully paid the forty kopecks; also
ten kopecks drink-geld, and a small douceur of half a ruble (fifty
kopecks) to the gentleman who had so kindly settled the difficulty for
me. After many years' experience of travel, I am satisfied, as before
stated, that a man may be born naturally honest, but can not long
retain his integrity in the hack business. He must sooner or later
take to swindling, otherwise he can never keep his horses fat, or make
the profession respectable and remunerative. Such, at least, has been
my experience of men in this line of business, not excepting the
istrovoschik of St. Petersburg.
CHAPTER II.
A PLEASANT EXCURSION.
I had the good fortune, during my ramble, to meet with a couple of
fellow-passengers from Stettin. One of them was a rough, weather-beaten
man of middle age, with rather marked features, but not an unkindly
expression. His mysterious conduct during the voyage had frequently
attracted my attention. There was something curious about his motions, as
if an invisible companion, to whom he was bound in some strange way,
continually accompanied him. He drank enormous quantities of beer, and
smoked from morning till night a tremendous meerschaum, which must have
held at least a pint of tobacco. When not engaged in drinking beer and
smoking, he usually walked rapidly up and down the decks, with his hands
behind him and his head bent down, talking in a guttural voice to himself
about "hemp." He slept--or rather lay down, for I don't think he ever
slept--with his head close to mine on a bench in the cabin, and it was a
continued source of trouble to me the way he puffed, and groaned, and
talked about "hemp." Sometimes he was half the night arguing with himself
about the various prices and qualities of this useful article, but I did
not understand enough of his _blat deutsch_ to gather the drift of the
argument. All I could make out was "_Zweimal zwei macht vier_--(a
puff)--_sechs und vierzig_--(a groan)--_acht und sechzig macht ein
hundert_--(a snort)--_sieben tausend_--_acht tausend fuenf und dreissig
thaler_--(a sigh)--_schilling_--_kopeck_--_ruble_--_hemphf! Mein Gott!
Zwei und dreissig tausend_--_hemphf_--_ruble_--(a terrible gritting of
the teeth)--_sechs und fuenfzig_--_Gott im Himmel!_--_Ich kann nicht
schlafen!_" Here he would jump up and shout "Kellner! Kellner! _ein
flask bier!_--_sechs und zechzig_--_zweimal acht und vierzig! Kellner,
flask bier!_--_Liebe Gott_--_was ist das?_--_Nine und sechzig_--_flask
bier!_ _Kleich! Kleich!_" When the beer came he would drink off three
bottles without stopping, then light his pipe, fill the cabin with smoke,
and after he had done that go on deck to get the fresh air. I could hear
him for hours walking up and down over my head, and thought I could
occasionally detect the words. "_Hemphf_--_ruble_--_thaler_--_fuenfmal
sechs und zwanzig_--_mein Gott!_" It was evident the man was laboring
under some dreadful internal excitement about the price of hemp. What
could it be? Was he going to hang himself? Did he contemplate buying some
Russian hemp for that purpose especially? The mystery was heightened by
the fact that he was frequently in close conversation with the young man
whom I have already mentioned as my other fellow-passenger, and they both
talked about nothing else but hemp. What in the name of sense were they
going to do with hemp in Mechlenberg, their native country, where people
were beheaded--unless they meant to hang themselves? The mystery troubled
me so much that I finally made bold to ask the young man if his friend
had committed any serious crime, and whether that was the reason he
talked so much about hemp? These North Germans are a queer people. I
don't think they ever suspect any body to be joking. They take the most
outrageous proposition literally, and never seem to understand that there
can be two meanings to any thing. As Sydney Smith says of the Scotch, it
would take a surgical operation to get a joke well into their
understanding. When I propounded this question to my young
fellow-passenger--a very amiable and intelligent young man--he looked
distressed and horror-stricken, and replied with great earnestness, "Oh
no, he is a very respectable man. I am certain he never committed a crime
in his life." "But," said I, "if he doesn't intend to hang somebody, why
should he rave about hemp all night?" "Oh, he is a rope-maker. He is
going to Russia to buy a cargo of hemp, and he's afraid prices will go up
unless he gets there soon. The head wind and chopping sea keep us back a
good deal." "Yes, yes, I understand it all now. Suppose, my young friend,
you and I go to work and help the steamer along a little? It would be
doing a great service to the cause of hemp, and enable me to sleep
besides." The Mechlenberger looked incredulous. "How are we to do it?" he
asked at length. "Oh, nothing easier!" I answered. "Just put a couple of
these handspikes in the lee scuppers--so! and hold her steady!" At this
the Mechlenberger, who was a very genial and good-natured fellow, could
scarcely help laughing, the absurdity of the idea struck him so forcibly.
Seeing, however, that I looked perfectly in earnest, he was kind enough
to explain the erroneous basis of my calculation, and accordingly entered
into an elaborate mathematical demonstration to prove that what we gained
by lifting we would lose by the additional pressure of our feet upon the
decks! After this I was prepared to believe the story of the old
Nuremberger, who, when about to set out on his travels, got on top of his
trunk and took hold of each end for the purpose of carrying it to the
post station. The question about the hemp was too good to be lost, and my
young friend had too strong a business head not to perceive the
delightful verdancy of my character. He accordingly took the earliest
opportunity to mention it to his comrade, Herr Batz, the rope-maker, who
never stopped laughing about the mistake I had made till we got to St.
Petersburg. They were both very genial, pleasant fellows, and took a
great fancy to the Herr American who thought Herr Batz was going to hang
himself, and who had proposed to steady the steamer by means of a
handspike. Such primitive simplicity was absolutely refreshing to them;
and, since they enjoyed it, of course I did, and we were the best of
friends.
On the present occasion, after we had passed the usual compliments it
was proposed that we should hire a boat, as the night was fine, and
take a trip down to the Kamennoi Island. I was delighted to have two
such agreeable companions, and readily acceded to the proposition. A
young Russian in the hemp business accompanied us, and altogether we
made a very lively and humorous party. I was sorry, however, to be
prejudiced in the estimation of the Russian by having the hemp and
handspike story repeated in my presence, but finally got over that,
and changed the current of the conversation by asking if the Emperor
Alexander would send me to Siberia in case I smoked a cigar in the
boat? To which the Russian responded somewhat gravely that I could
smoke as many cigars on the water as I pleased, although it was
forbidden in the streets on account of the danger of fire; but that,
in any event, I would merely have to pay a fine, as people were only
sent to Siberia for capital crimes and political offenses.
We got a boat down near the Custom-house, at a point of the Vassoli
Ostrou, called the Strelka, and were soon skimming along through a
small branch of the Neva, toward the island of Krestofskoi. The water
was literally alive with boats, all filled with gay parties of
pleasure-seekers, some on their way to the different islands, some to
the bath-houses which abound in every direction, and all apparently
enjoying a delightful time of it. Passing to the right of the
Petrofskoi Island, whose grass-covered shores slope down to the water
like a green carpet outspread under the trees, we soon reached the
Little Nevka, about three miles from our starting-point. We
disembarked on the Krestofskoi Island, near the bridge which crosses
from Petrofskoi. On the right is a beautiful palace belonging to some
of the royal family, the gardens of which sweep down to the waters of
the Nevka, and present a charming scene of floral luxuriance.
Gondolas, richly carved and curiously shaped, lay moored near the
stone steps; the trestled bowers were filled with gay parties;
pleasant sounds of voices and music floated upon the air, and over
all a soft twilight gave a mystic fascination to the scene. I thought
of the terrible arctic winters that for six months in the year cast
their cold death-pall over the scene of glowing and tropical
luxuriance, and wondered how it could ever come to life again; how the
shrubs could bloom, and the birds sing, and the soft air of the summer
nights come back and linger where such dreary horrors were wont to
desolate the earth.
[Illustration: FISH PEDDLER.]
The constant dread of infringing upon the police regulations; the
extraordinary deference with which men in uniform are regarded; the
circumspect behavior at public places; the nice and well-regulated
mirthfulness, never overstepping the strict bounds of prudence, which
I had so often noticed in the northern states of Germany, and which
may in part be attributed to the naturally conservative and orderly
character of the people, are not the prominent features of the
population of St. Petersburg. It appeared to me that in this respect
at least they are more like Americans than any people I had seen in
Europe; they do pretty much as they please; follow such trades and
occupations as they like best; become noisy and uproarious when it
suits them; get drunk occasionally; fight now and then; lie about on
the grass and under the trees when they feel tired; enjoy themselves
to their heart's content at all the public places; and care nothing
about the police as long as the police let them alone. I rather
fancied there must be a natural democratic streak in these people, for
they are certainly more free and easy in their manners, rougher in
their dress, more independent in their general air, and a good deal
dirtier than most of the people I had met with in the course of my
travels. I do not mean to say that rowdyism and democracy are
synonymous, but I consider it a good sign of innate manliness and a
natural spirit of independence when men are not afraid to dress like
vagabonds and behave a little extravagantly, if it suits their taste.
It must be said, however, that the police regulations or St.
Petersburg, without being onerous or vexatious, are quite as good as
those of any large city in Europe. When men are deprived of their
political liberties, the least that can be done for them is to let
them enjoy as much municipal freedom as may be consistent with public
peace. I should never have suspected, from any thing I saw in the city
or neighborhood of St. Petersburg, that I was within the limits of an
absolute despotism. If one desires to satisfy himself on this point he
must visit the interior.
[Illustration: YOUNG PEASANTS.]
I was led into this train of reflection partly by the scenes I had
witnessed during my rambles through the city and on the way down the
river, and partly by what we now saw on the island of Krestofskoi. A
bridge unites this island with the Petrofskoi, and two other bridges
with the islands of Kamennoi and Elaghinskoi. It was eleven o'clock at
night, yet the twilight was so rich and glowing that one might readily
read a newspaper in any of the open spaces. The main avenues were
crowded with carriages of every conceivable description--the grandly
decorated coach of the noble, glittering with armorial bearings and
drawn by four richly-caparisoned horses; the barouche, easy and
elegant, filled with a gay company of foreigners; the drosky, whirling
along at a rapid pace, with its solitary occupant; the kareta, plain,
neat, and substantial, carrying on its ample seats some worthy
merchant and his family; the nondescript little vehicle, without top,
bottom, or sides--nothing but four small wheels and a cushioned seat
perched on springs, with an exquisite perched astride upon the street,
driving a magnificent blood horse at the rate of 2.40; and English
boxes with stiff Englishmen in them; and French chaises with loose
Frenchmen in them; and a New York buggy with a New York fancy man in
it; and hundreds of fine horses with dashing Russian officers in
uniform mounted on them, and hundreds of other horses with secretaries
and various young sprigs of nobility struggling painfully to stay
mounted on them; and, in short, every thing grand, fanciful, and
entertaining in the way of locomotion that the most fertile
imagination can conceive. Don't do me the injustice, I pray you, to
consider me envious of the good fortune of others in being able to
ride when I had to walk, for it does me an amazing deal of good to see
people enjoy themselves. Nothing pleases me better than to see a fat
old lady, glittering all over with fine silks and jewels, leaning back
in her cushioned carriage, with her beloved little lapdog in her
arms--two elegant drivers, four prancing horses, and a splendid little
postillion in front; two stalwart footmen, in plush breeches, behind,
with variegated yellow backs like a pair of wasps. Can any thing be
more picturesque? It always makes me think of a large June-bug dragged
about by an accommodating crowd of fancy-colored flies! And what can
be more imposing than a Russian grandee? See that terrific old
gentleman, sitting all alone in a gorgeous carriage, large enough to
carry himself and half a dozen of his friends. Orders and disorders
cover him from head to foot. He is the exact picture of a ferocious
bullfrog, with a tremendous mustache and a horribly malignant
expression of eye, and naturally enough expects every body to get out
of his way. That man must have had greatness thrust upon him, for he
never could have achieved it by the brilliancy of his intellect.
Doubtless he spends much of his time at the springs, but they don't
seem to have purified his body, or subdued the natural ferocity of his
temper. His wife must have a pleasant time. I wonder if he sleeps
well, or enjoys Herzain's essays on Russian aristocracy? But make way,
ye pedestrian rabble, for here comes a secretary of legation on
horseback--make way, or he will tumble off and inflict some bodily
injury upon you with the points of his waxed mustache! I know he must
be a secretary of legation by the enormous polished boots he wears
over his tight breeches, the dandy parting of his hair, the
supercilious stupidity of his countenance, and the horrible tortures
he suffers in trying to stick on the back of his horse. Nobody else in
the world could make such an ass of himself by such frantic attempts
to show off and keep on at the same time. I'll bet my life he thinks
he is the most beautiful and accomplished gentleman ever produced by a
beneficent Creator. Well, it is a happy thing for some of us that we
don't see ourselves as others see us; if we did, my friends in the
hemp business and myself would fare badly. Beregrissa! Padi!
Padi!--have a care! make way, for here comes a cloud of dust, and in
that cloud of dust is a kibitka, drawn by three wild horses, and in
that kibitka, half sitting, half clinging to the side, is an official
courier. Crack goes the whip of the _yamtschick_; the three fiery
horses fly through the dust; the courier waves his hand to an officer
on horseback, and with a whirl and a whisk they disappear. _Pashol!_ I
hope they won't break their necks before they get through.
[Illustration: DVORNICK AND POSTMAN.]
Soon the main road branches out in various directions, and we strike
off with the diverging streams of pedestrians, families of the middle
and lower classes, young men of the town, gay young damsels with their
beaux, burly tradesmen, tinkers, tailors, and hatters, waiters and
apprentices, sailors and soldiers, until we find ourselves in the
midst of a grand old forest. Open glades, pavilions, and tables are
visible at intervals; but for the most part we are in a labyrinthian
wilderness of trees, rich in foliage, and almost oppressive in their
umbrageous density, while
"Deep velvet verdure clothes the turf beneath,
And trodden flowers their richest odors breathe."
Insects flit through the still atmosphere; the hum of human voices,
softened by distance, falls soothingly upon the ear; and as we look,
and listen, and loiter on our way, we wonder if this can be the
dreamland of the arctic regions? Can there ever be snow-storms and
scathing frosts in such a land of tropical luxuriance? Thus, as we
lounge along in the mellow twilight amid the groves of Katrofskoi,
what charming pictures of sylvan enjoyment are revealed to us at every
turn! Rustic tables under the great wide-spreading trees are
surrounded by family groups--old patriarchs, and their children, and
great-grandchildren; the steaming urn of tea in the middle; the old
people chatting and gossiping; the young people laughing merrily; the
children tumbling about over the green sward. Passing on we come to a
group of Mujiks lying camp-fashion on the grass, eating their black
bread, drinking their vodka, and sleeping whenever they please--for
this is their summer home, and this grass is their bed. Next we come
to a group of officers, their rich uniforms glittering in the soft
twilight, their horses tied to the trees, or held at a little distance
by some attendant soldiers. Dominoes, cards, Champagne, and cakes are
scattered in tempting profusion upon the table, and if they are not
enjoying their military career, it is not for want of congenial
accompaniments and plenty of leisure. A little farther on we meet a
jovial party of Germans seated under a tree, with a goodly supply of
bread and sausages before them, singing in fine accord a song of their
faderland. Next we hear the familiar strains of an organ, and soon
come in sight of an Italian who is exhibiting an accomplished monkey
to an enraptured crowd of children. The monkey has been thoroughly
trained in the school of adversity, and makes horrible grimaces at his
cruel and cadaverous master, who in ferocious tones, and without the
least appearance of enjoying the sport, commands this miniature man to
dance, fire a small gun, go through the sword exercise, play on a
small fiddle, smoke a cigar, turn a somersault, bow to the company,
and hold out his hat for an unlimited number of kopecks. Herr Batz
suggests that such a monkey as that might be taught to spin ropes, and
our younger Mechlenberger laughs, and says he once read a story of a
monkey that shaved a cat, and then cut off his own or the cat's tail,
he could not remember which. This reminds the Russian of a countess in
Moscow who owned a beautiful little dog, to which she was greatly
attached. She required her serfs to call it "My noble Prince," and had
them well flogged with the knout whenever they approached it without
bowing. One day a cat got hold of the noble Prince, and gave him a
good scratching. The countess, being unable to soothe her afflicted
poodle, caused the cat's paws to be cut off, and served up on a plate
for his unhappy highness to play with--after which the noble pug was
perfectly satisfied! Of course, we all laughed at the Russian's story,
but he assured us it was a well authenticated fact, and was generally
regarded as a most delicate _jeu d'esprit_. Not to be behindhand in
the line of cats and monkeys, I was obliged to tell an anecdote of a
Frenchman, who, on his arrival in Algiers, ordered a ragout at one of
the most fashionable restaurants. It was duly served up, and
pronounced excellent, though rather strongly flavored. "Pray," said
the Frenchman to the _maitre d'hotel_, "of what species of cat do you
make ragouts in Algiers?" "Pardon, monsieur," replied the polite host,
"we use nothing but monkeys in Africa!" Disgusted at this colonial
barbarism, the Frenchman immediately returned to Paris, where he
remained forever after, that he might enjoy his customary and more
civilized dish of cat. Herr Batz had not before heard of such a
thing, neither had the young Mechlenberger, and they both agreed that
cats must be a very disgusting article of food. The Russian, however,
seemed to regard it as nothing uncommon, and gave us some very
entertaining accounts of various curious dishes in the interior of
Russia, to which cats were not a circumstance.
[Illustration: GLAZIER, PAINTER, CARPENTERS.]
With such flimsy conversation as this we entertain ourselves till we
reach a village of summer residences on the Kamennoi Island. Here we
pause a while to enjoy the varied scenes of amusement that tempt the
loiterer at every step; the tea-drinking parties out on the porticoes,
the gambling saloons, the dancing pavilions, the cafes, the
confectioneries, with their gay throngs of customers, their gaudy
colors, their music, and sounds of joy and revelry. A little farther
on we come to a stand of carriages, and near by a gate and a large
garden. For thirty kopecks apiece we procure tickets of admission.
This is the Vauxhall of Kamennoi. We jostle in with the crowd, and
soon find ourselves in front of an open theatre.
So passes away the time till the whistle of a little steamer warns us
of an opportunity to get back to the city. Hurrying down to the wharf,
we secure places on the stern-sheets of a screw-wheeled craft not much
bigger than a good-sized yawl. It is crowded to overflowing--in front,
on top of the machinery, in the rear, over the sides--not a square
inch of space left for man or beast. The whistle blows again; the
fiery little monster of an engine shivers and screams with excess of
steam; the grim, black-looking engineer gives the irons a pull, and
away we go at a rate of speed that threatens momentary destruction
against some bridge or bath-house. It is now two o'clock A.M. The rays
of the rising sun are already reflected upon the glowing waters of the
Neva. Barges and row-boats are hurrying toward the city. Carriages are
rolling along the shady avenues of the islands. Crowds are gathered at
every pier and landing-place awaiting some conveyance homeward. Ladies
are waving their handkerchiefs to the little steamer to stop, and
gentlemen are flourishing their hats. The captain blows the whistle,
and the engineer stops the boat with such a sudden reversion of our
screw that we are pitched forward out of the seats. Some of the
passengers clamber up at the landing-places, and others clamber down
and take their places. The little engine sets up its terrific scream
again; the hot steam hisses and fizzes all over the boat; involuntary
thoughts of maimed limbs and scalded skins are palpably impressed upon
every face; but the little steamer keeps on--she is used to it, like
the eels, and never bursts up. Winding through the varied channels of
the Neva, under bridges, through narrow passes, among wood-boats,
row-boats, and shipping, we at length reach the landing on the Russian
Quay, above the Admiralty. Here we disembark, well satisfied to be
safely over all the enjoyments and hazards of the evening.
Evening, did I say? The morning sun is blazing out in all his glory!
We have had no evening--no night. It has been all a wild, strange,
glowing freak of fancy. The light of day has been upon us all the
time. And now, should we go to bed, when the sun is shining over the
city, glistening upon the domes of the churches, illuminating the
windows of the palaces, awaking the drowsy sailors of the Neva? Shall
we hide ourselves away in suffocating rooms when the morning breeze is
floating in from the Gulf of Finland, bearing upon its wings the
invigorating brine of ocean, or shall we,
"Pleased to feel the air,
Still wander in the luxury of light?"
CHAPTER III.
VIEWS ON THE MOSCOW RAILWAY.
The St. Petersburg and Moscow Railroad has been in operation some
eight or ten years, and has contributed much to the internal
prosperity of the country. In the summer of 1862 it was extended as
far as Vladimir, and now connects St. Petersburg with Nijni Novgorod,
one of the most important points in the empire, where the great annual
fair is held, where tea-merchants and others from all parts of Tartary
and China meet to exchange the products of those countries with those
of the merchants of Russia. During the present year (1862) it is
expected that the line of railway connection will be completed from
St. Petersburg to the Prussian frontier, and connect with the
railroads of Prussia, so that within twelve months it will be
practicable to travel by rail all the way from Marseilles or Bordeaux
to Nijni Novgorod.
The Moscow and St. Petersburg Railway is something over four hundred
miles in length, and consists of a double track, broad, well graded,
and substantially constructed. The whole business of running the line,
keeping the cars and track in repair, working the machine-shops, etc.,
embracing all the practical details of the operative department, is
let out by contract to an American company, while the government
supervises the financial department, and reserves to itself the
municipal control.[A] It is a remarkable fact, characteristic of the
Russians, that while they possess uncommon capacity to acquire all the
details of engineering, and are by no means lacking in mechanical
skill, they are utterly deficient in management and administrative
capacity. Wasteful, improvident, and short-sighted, they can never do
any thing without the aid of more sagacious and economical heads to
keep them within the bounds of reason. Thus, at one time, when they
undertook to run this line on their own account, although they started
with an extraordinary surplus of material, they soon ran the cars off
their wheels, forgetting to keep up a supply of new ones as they went
along; ran the engines out of working order; kept nothing in repair;
provided against no contingency; and were finally likely to break down
entirely, when they determined that it would be better to give this
branch of the business out by contract. One great fault with them is,
they labor under an idea that nothing can be done without an
extraordinary number of officers, soldiers, policemen, and employes of
every description--upon the principle, I suppose, that if two heads
are better than one, the ignorance or inefficiency of a small number
of employes can be remedied by having a very great number of the same
kind. In other words, they seem to think that if five hundred men can
not be industrious, skillful, and economical, five thousand trained in
exactly the same schools, and with precisely the same propensities,
must be ten times better. Even now there is not a station, and
scarcely a foot of the railway from St. Petersburg to Moscow, that is
not infested with an extraordinary surplus of useless men in uniform.
At the great depots in each of these cities the traveler is fairly
confused with the crowds of officers and employes through which he is
obliged to make his way. Before he enters the doorways, liveried
porters outside offer to take his baggage; then he passes by guards,
who look at him carefully and let him go in; then he finds guards who
show him where to find the ticket-office; when he arrives at the
ticket-office, he finds a guard or two outside, and half a dozen
clerks inside; then he buys his ticket, and an officer examines it as
he goes into the wirthsaal; there he finds other officers stationed to
preserve order; when the bell rings the doors are opened; numerous
officers outside show him where to find the cars, and which car he
must get into; and when he gets into a car he sits for a quarter of an
hour, and sees officers going up and down outside all the time, and
thinks to himself that people certainly can not be supposed to have
very good eyes, ears, or understanding of their own in this country,
since nobody is deemed capable of using them on his individual
responsibility. I only wonder that they don't eat, drink, sleep, and
travel for a man at once by proxy, and thereby save him the trouble of
living or moving at all. In fact, I had some thought of asking one of
these licensed gentlemen if the regulations could not be stretched a
point so as to embrace the payment of my expenses; but it occurred to
me that if I were relieved of that responsibility, they might
undertake at the same time to write these letters for me, which would
be likely to alter the tone and thereby destroy my individuality. But
it must be admitted that good order, convenience, politeness, and
comfort are the predominant characteristics of railway travel in
Russia. The conductors usually speak French, German, and English, and
are exceedingly attentive to the comfort of the passengers. The hours
of starting and stopping are punctually observed--so punctually that
you can calculate to the exact minute when you will arrive at any
given point. Having no watch, I always knew the time by looking at my
ticket. Between St. Petersburg and Moscow there are thirty-three
stations, seven of which are the grand stations of Lubanskaia,
Malovischerskaia, Okoulourskaia, Bologovskaia, Spirovskaia, Tver, and
Klinskaia. The rest are small intermediate stations. At every
seventy-five versts--about fifty miles--the cars stop twenty minutes,
and refreshments may be had by paying a pretty heavy price for them.
At the points above-named there are large and substantial edifices
built by the company, containing various offices, spacious
eating-saloons, ante-chambers, etc., and attached to which are
extensive machine-shops, and various outbuildings required by the
service. Occasionally towns may be seen in the vicinity of these
stations, but for the most part they stand out desolate and alone in
the dreary waste of country lying between the two great cities. At
every twenty-five versts are sub-stations, where the cars stop for a
few minutes. These are also large and very substantial edifices, but
not distinguished for architectural beauty, like many of the stations
in France and Germany. Usually the Russian station consists of an
immense plain circular building, constructed of brick, with very
thick walls, and a plain zinc roof, the outside painted red, the roof
green; wings or flanges built of the same material extending along the
track; a broad wooden esplanade in front, upon which the passengers
can amuse themselves promenading, and a neat garden, with other
accommodations, at one end. Some of the large stations are not only
massive and of enormous extent, but present rather a striking and
picturesque appearance as they are approached from the distance,
standing as they do in the great deserts of space like solitary
sentinels of civilization. The passengers rush out at every
stopping-place just as they do in other parts of the world, some to
stretch their limbs, others to replenish the waste that seems to be
constantly going on in the stomachs of the traveling public. I don't
know how it is, but it appears to me that people who travel by railway
are always either tired, thirsty, or hungry. The voracity with which
plates of soup, cutlets, sandwiches, salad, scalding hot tea, wine,
beer, and brandy are swallowed down by these hungry and thirsty
Russians, is quite as striking as any thing I ever saw done in the
same line at Washoe. But it is not a feature confined to Russia. I
notice the same thing every where all over the world; and what vexes
me about it is that I never get tired myself, and rarely hungry or
thirsty. Here, in midsummer, with a sweltering hot sun, and an
atmosphere that would almost smother a salamander, were whole legions
of officers, elegantly-dressed ladies, and a rabble of miscellaneous
second and third class passengers like myself, puffing, blowing,
eating, drinking, sweating, and toiling, as if their very existence
depended upon keeping up the internal fires and blowing them off
again. It is dreadful to see people so hard pushed to live. I really
can't conjecture what sort of a commotion they will make when they
come to die. A sandwich or two and a glass of tea lasted me all the
way to Moscow--a journey of eighteen hours, and I never suffered from
hunger, thirst, or fatigue the whole way. If I had "gone in" like
other people, I would certainly have been a dead man before I got half
way; and yet, I think, two sandwiches more would have lasted me to the
Ural Mountains. It continually bothers me to know how the human
stomach can bear to be tormented in this frightful way. Per Baccho! I
would as soon be shot in the hand with an escopette ball as drink the
quantity of wine and eat the quantity of food that I have seen even
women and children dispose of, as if it were mere pastime, on these
railway journeys. I think it must be either this or the frost that
accounts for the extraordinary prevalence of red noses in Russia, and
it even occurred to me that the stations are painted a fiery red, so
that when travelers come within range of the refracted color their
noses may look pale by contrast, and thereby remind them that it is
time to renew the caloric.
[A] This contract terminated last year (1865).
With the exception of the seventy-five versts between Moscow and Tver,
I can not remember that I ever traveled over so desolate and
uninteresting a stretch of country as that lying between St.
Petersburg and Moscow. For a short distance out of St. Petersburg
there are some few villas and farms to relieve the monotony of the
gloomy pine forests; then the country opens out into immense
undulating plains, marshy meadows, scrubby groves of young pine,
without any apparent limit; here and there a bleak and solitary
village of log huts; a herd of cattle in the meadows; a wretched,
sterile-looking farm, with plowed fields, at remote intervals, and so
on hour after hour, the scene offering but little variety the whole
way to Tver. The villages are wholly destitute of picturesque effect.
Such rude and miserable hovels as they are composed of could scarcely
be found in the wildest frontier region of the United States. These
cabins or hovels are built of logs, and are very low and small,
generally consisting of only one or two rooms. I saw none that were
whitewashed or painted, and nothing like order or regularity was
perceptible about them, all seeming to be huddled together as if they
happened there by accident, and were obliged to keep at close quarters
in order to avoid freezing during the terrible winters. Some of them
are not unlike the city of Eden in Martin Chuzzlewit. The entire
absence of every thing approaching taste, comfort, or rural beauty in
the appearance of these villages; the weird and desolate aspect of the
boggy and grass-grown streets; the utter want of interest in progress
or improvement on the part of the peasantry who inhabit them, are well
calculated to produce a melancholy impression of the condition of
these poor people. How can it be otherwise, held in bondage as they
have been for centuries, subject to be taxed at the discretion of
their owners; the results of their labors wrested from them; no
advance made by the most enterprising and intelligent of them without
in some way subjecting them to new burdens? Whatever may be the result
of the movement now made for their emancipation, it certainly can not
be more depressing than the existing system of serfage. Looking back
over the scenes of village life I had witnessed in France and
Germany--the neat vine-covered cottages, the little flower-gardens,
the orchards and green lanes, the festive days, when the air resounded
to the merry voices of laughing damsels and village beaux--
"The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made"--
the joyous dancers out on the village green, the flaunting banners and
wreaths of flowers hung in rich profusion over the cross-roads--with
such scenes as these flitting through my memory, I could well
understand that there is an absolute physical servitude to which men
can be reduced, that, in the progress of generations, must crush down
the human soul, and make life indeed a dreary struggle. In the
splendor of large cities, amid the glitter and magnificence of palaces
and churches, the varied paraphernalia of aristocracy and wealth, and
all the excitements, allurements, and novelties apparent to the
superficial eye, the real condition of the masses is not perceptible.
They must be seen in the country--in their far-off villages and homes
throughout the broad land; there you find no disguise to cover the
horrible deformities of their bruised and crushed life; there you see
the full measure of their civilization. In the huts of these poor
people there is little or no comfort. Many of them have neither beds
nor chairs, and the occupants spend a sort of camp life within doors,
cooking their food like Indians, and huddling round the earthen stove
or fireplace in winter, where they lie down on the bare ground and
sleep in a mass, like a nest of animals, to keep each other warm.
Their clothing is of the coarsest material, but reasonably good, and
well suited to the climate. The men are a much finer-looking race,
physically, than their masters. I saw some serfs in Moscow who, in
stature, strong athletic forms, and bold and manly features, would
compare favorably with the best specimens of men in any country. It
was almost incredible that such noble-looking fellows, with their
blue, piercing eyes and manly air, should be reduced to such a state
of abject servitude as to kiss the tails of their master's coats! Many
of them had features as bold and forms as brawny as our own California
miners; and more than once, when I saw them lounging about in their
big boots, with their easy, reckless air, and looked at their
weather-beaten faces and vigorous, sunburnt beards, I could almost
imagine that they were genuine Californians. But here the resemblance
ceased. No sooner did an officer of high standing pass, than they
manifested some abject sign of their degraded condition.
[Illustration: HAY GATHERERS.]
Some of the agricultural implements that one sees in this country
would astonish a Californian. The plows are patterned very much after
those that were used by Boaz and other large farmers in the days of
the Patriarchs; the scythes are the exact originals of the old
pictures in which Death is represented as mowing down mankind; the
hoes, rakes, and shovels would be an ornament to any museum, but are
entirely indescribable; and as for the wagons and harnesses--herein
lies the superior genius of the Russians over all the races of earth,
ancient or modern, for never were such wagons and such harnesses seen
on any other part of the globe. To be accurate and methodical, each
wagon has four wheels, and each wheel is roughly put together of rough
wood, and then roughly bound up in an iron band about four inches
wide, and thick in proportion. Logs of wood, skillfully hewed with
broad-axes, answer for the axle-tree; and as they don't weigh over
half a ton each, they are sometimes braced in the middle to keep them
from breaking. Upon the top of this is a big basket, about the shape
of a bath-tub, in which the load is carried. Sometimes the body is
made of planks tied together with bullock's hide, or no body at all
is used, as convenience may require. The wagon being thus completed,
braced and thorough-braced with old ropes, iron bands, and leather
straps, we come to the horses, which stand generally in front. The
middle horse is favored with a pair of shafts of enormous durability
and strength. He stands between these shafts, and is fastened in them
by means of ropes; but, to prevent him from jumping out overhead, a
wooden arch is out over him, which is the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of
ornamentation. This is called the _duga_, and is the most prominent
object to be seen about every wagon, drosky, and kibitka in Russia. I
am not sure but a species of veneration is attached to it. Often it is
highly decorated with gilding, painted figures, and every vagary of
artistic genius, and must cost nearly as much as the entire wagon.
Some of the _dugas_ even carry saintly images upon them, so that the
devout driver may perform his devotions as he drives through life. To
suppose that a horse could pull a wagon in Russia without this wooden
arch, the utility of which no human eye but that of a Russian can see,
is to suppose an impossibility. Now, the shafts being spread out so as
to give the horse plenty of room at each side, it becomes necessary,
since they are rather loosely hung on at the but-ends, to keep them
from swaying. How do you think this is done? Nothing easier. By
running a rope from the end of each shaft to the projecting end of the
fore axle, outside of the wheels. For this purpose the axle is made to
project a foot beyond the wheels, and the only trouble about it is
that two wagons on a narrow road often find it difficult to pass. It
is very curious to see these primitive-looking objects lumbering about
through the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg. The horses are most
commonly placed three abreast. In the ordinary kibitka or traveling
wagon the outside horses are merely fastened by ropes, and strike out
in any direction they please, the whip and a small rein serving to
keep them within bounds. It is perfectly astonishing with what
reckless and headlong speed these animals dash over the rough
pavements. Just imagine the luxury of a warm day's journey in such a
vehicle, which has neither springs nor backed seats--three fiery
horses fastened to it, and each pulling, plunging, and pirouetting on
his own account; a ferocious yamtschick cracking his whip and
shrieking "Shivar! shivar!"--faster! faster!--the wagon, rattling all
over, plunging into ruts, jumping over stones, ripping its way through
bogs and mud-banks; your bones shaken nearly out of their sockets;
your vertebrae partially dislocated; your mouth filled with dust; your
tongue swollen and parched; your eyes blinded with grit; your
_yamtschick_ reeling drunk with _vodka_, and bound to draw to the
destined station--or some worse place; your confidence in men and
horses shaken with your bones; your views of the future circumscribed
by every turn of the road--oh! it is charming; it is the very climax
of human enjoyment. Wouldn't you like to travel in Russia?
In addition to the villages which are scattered at frequent intervals
along the route, the gilded dome of a church is occasionally seen in
the distance, indicating the existence of a town; but one seldom
catches more than a glimpse of the green-covered roofs of the houses,
over the interminable patches of scrubby pine. It is not a country
that presents such attractive features as to induce the mere tourist
to get out and spend a few days rambling through it. In these dreary
solitudes of marshes and pines, the inhabitants speak no other
language than their own, and that not very well; but well or ill, it
is all Greek--or rather Russian--to the majority of people from other
countries.
But, as I said before, this habit of digression will be the death of
me. Like a rocket, I start off splendidly, but explode and fall to
pieces in every direction before I get half way on my journey. If the
scintillations are varied and gayly colored, to be sure, the powder is
not utterly lost; but the trouble of it is, if one keeps going off
like rockets all the time, he will never get any where, and in the
end will leave nothing but smoke and darkness to the gaping multitude.
If my memory serves me, I was talking of the Emperor Alexander's convoy
of private railway carriages--the most magnificent affair of the kind,
perhaps, in existence. It was made purposely for his use, at a cost of
more than a hundred thousand dollars, and presented to him by the
American company, Winans and Company. Nothing so magnificent in
decoration, and so admirably adapted to the convenience, comfort, and
enjoyment of a royal party has ever been seen in Europe. The main
carriage--for there are several in the suite--called, _par excellence_,
the emperor's own, is eighty-five feet long, and something over the
usual width. It rests upon two undivided sleepers of such elastic and
well-grained wood that they would bear the entire weight of the
carriage, without the necessity of a support in the middle, forming a
single stretch or arch, from axle to axle, of about seventy feet. The
springs, wheels, brakes, and various kinds of iron-work, are of the
finest and most select material, and highly finished in every detail,
combining strength and durability with artistic beauty. The interior of
the main or imperial carriage is a masterpiece of sumptuous
ornamentation. Here are the richest of carvings; the most gorgeous
hangings of embroidered velvet; mirrors and pictures in profusion;
carpets and rugs that seem coaxing the feet to linger upon them;
tables, cushioned sofas, and luxurious arm-chairs; divans and lounges
of rare designs, covered with the richest damask; exquisite Pompeian
vases and brilliant chandeliers--all, in short, that ingenuity could
devise and wealth procure to charm the senses, and render this a
traveling palace worthy the imperial presence. Connected with the main
saloon is the royal bedchamber, with adjoining bathing and dressing
rooms, equally sumptuous in all their appointments. Besides which,
there are smoking-rooms, private offices, magnificent chambers for the
camarilla, the secretaries, and body-guard of the emperor. The whole
is admirably arranged for convenience and comfort; and it is said that
the motion, when the convoy is under way, is so soft and dreamy that it
is scarcely possible to feel a vibration, the effect being as if the
cars were floating through the air, or drawn over tracks of down. Fully
equal to this, yet more subdued and delicate in the drapery and
coloring, are the apartments of the empress. Here it may truly be said
is "the poetry of motion" realized--saloons fit for the angels that
flit through them, of whom the chiefest ornament is the empress
herself--the beautiful and beloved Maria Alexandrina, the charm of
whose presence is felt like a pleasant glow of sunshine wherever she
goes. Here are drawing-rooms, boudoirs, apartments for the beautiful
maids of honor, reading-rooms, and even a dancing-saloon, from which it
may well be inferred that the royal party enjoy themselves. If the
emperor fails to make himself agreeable in this branch of his
establishment, he deserves to be put out at the very first station. But
he has the ladies at a disadvantage, which probably compels them to be
very tolerant of his behavior; that is to say, he can detach their
branch of the establishment from his own, and leave them on the road at
any time he pleases by pulling a string; but I believe there is no
instance yet on record of his having availed himself of this autocratic
privilege. It is usually understood at the start whether the excursion
is to be in partnership or alone. When the emperor goes out on a
hunting expedition, he is accompanied by a select company of gentlemen,
and of course is compelled to deprive himself of the pleasure of the
more attractive and intoxicating society of ladies, which would be
calculated to unsteady his nerves, and render him unfit for those
terrific encounters with the bears of the forest upon which his fame as
a hunter is chiefly founded.
CHAPTER IV.
MOSCOW.
What the great Napoleon thought when he gazed for the first time
across the broad valley that lay at his feet, and caught the first
dazzling light that flashed from the walls and golden cupolas of the
Kremlin--whether some shadowy sense of the wondrous beauties of the
scene did not enter his soul--is more than I can say with certainty;
but this much I know, that neither he nor his legions could have
enjoyed the view from Sparrow Hill more than I did the first glimpse
of the grand old city of the Czars as I stepped from the railroad
depot, with my knapsack on my back, and stood, a solitary and
bewildered waif, uncertain if it could all be real; for never yet had
I, in the experience of many years' travel, seen such a magnificent
sight, so wildly Tartaric, so strange, glowing, and incomprehensible.
This was Moscow at last--the Moscow I had read of when a child--the
Moscow I had so often seen burnt up in panoramas by an excited and
patriotic populace--the Moscow ever flashing through memory in fitful
gleams, half buried in smoke, and flames, and toppling ruins, now
absolutely before me, a gorgeous reality in the bright noonday sun,
with its countless churches, its domes and cupolas, and mighty
Kremlin.
Stand with me, reader, on the first eminence, and let us take a
bird's-eye view of the city, always keeping in mind that the Kremlin
is the great nucleus from which it all radiates. What a vast, wavy
ocean of golden cupolas and fancy-colored domes, green-roofed houses
and tortuous streets circle around this magic pile! what a combination
of wild, barbaric splendors! nothing within the sweep of vision that
is not glowing and Oriental. Never was a city so fashioned for scenic
effects. From the banks of the Moskwa the Kremlin rears its glittering
crest, surrounded by green-capped towers and frowning embattlements,
its umbrageous gardens and massive white walls conspicuous over the
vast sea of green-roofed houses, while high above all, grand and
stern, like some grim old Czar of the North, rises the magnificent
tower of Ivan Veliki. Within these walls stand the chief glories of
Moscow--the palaces of the Emperor, the Cathedral of the Assumption,
the House of the Holy Synod, the Treasury, the Arsenal, and the Czar
Kolokol, the great king of bells. All these gorgeous edifices, and
many more, crown the eminence which forms the sacred grounds,
clustering in a magic maze of beauty around the tower of Ivan the
Terrible. Beyond the walls are numerous open spaces occupied by booths
and markets; then come the principal streets and buildings of the
city, encircled by the inner boulevards; then the suburbs, around
which wind the outer boulevards; then a vast tract of beautiful and
undulating country, dotted with villas, lakes, convents, and public
buildings, inclosed in the far distance by the great outer wall, which
forms a circuit of twenty miles around the city. The Moskwa River
enters near the Presnerski Lake, and, taking a circuitous route,
washes the base of the Kremlin, and passes out near the convent of St.
Daniel. If you undertake, however, to trace out any plan of the city
from the confused maze of streets that lie outspread before you, it
will be infinitely worse than an attempt to solve the mysteries of a
woman's heart; for there is no apparent plan about it; the whole thing
is an unintelligible web of accidents. There is no accounting for its
irregularity, unless upon the principle that it became distorted in a
perpetual struggle to keep within reach of the Kremlin.
It is sometimes rather amusing to compare one's preconceived ideas of
a place with the reality. A city like Moscow is very difficult to
recognize from any written description. From some cause wholly
inexplicable, I had pictured to my mind a vast gathering of tall,
massive houses, elaborately ornamented; long lines of narrow and
gloomy streets; many great palaces, dingy with age; and a population
composed chiefly of Russian nabobs and their retinues of serfs. The
reality is almost exactly the reverse of all these preconceived ideas.
The houses for the most part are low--not over one or two stories
high--painted with gay and fanciful colors, chiefly yellow, red, or
blue; the roofs of tin or zinc, and nearly all of a bright green,
giving them a very lively effect in the sun; nothing grand or imposing
about them in detail, and but little pretension to architectural
beauty. Very nearly such houses may be seen every day on any of the
four continents.
Still, every indication of life presents a very different aspect from
any thing in our own country. The people have a slow, slouching,
shabby appearance; and the traveler is forcibly reminded, by the
strange costumes he meets at every turn--the thriftless and degenerate
aspect of the laboring classes--the great lumbering wagons that roll
over the stone-paved streets--the droskies rattling hither and thither
with their grave, priest-like drivers and wild horses--the squads of
filthy soldiers lounging idly at every corner--the markets and
market-places, and all that gives interest to the scene, that he is in
a foreign land--a wild land of fierce battles between the elements,
and fiercer still between men--where civilization is ever struggling
between Oriental barbarism and European profligacy.
The most interesting feature in the population of Moscow is their
constant and extraordinary displays of religious enthusiasm. This
seems to be confined to no class or sect, but is the prevailing
characteristic. No less than three hundred churches are embraced
within the limits of the city. Some writers estimate the number as
high as five hundred; nor does the discrepancy show so much a want of
accuracy as the difficulty of determining precisely what constitutes
a distinct church. Many of these remarkable edifices are built in
clusters, with a variety of domes and cupolas, with different names,
and contain distinct places of worship--as in the Cathedral of St.
Basil, for instance, which is distinguished by a vast number of
variegated domes, and embraces within its limits at least five or six
separate churches, each church being still farther subdivided into
various chapels. Of the extraordinary architectural style of these
edifices, their many-shaped and highly-colored domes, representing all
the lines of the rainbow, the gilding so lavishly bestowed upon them,
their wonderfully picturesque effect from every point of view, it
would be impossible to convey any adequate idea without entering into
a more elaborate description than I can at present attempt.
But it is not only in the numberless churches scattered throughout the
city that the devotional spirit of the inhabitants is manifested.
Moscow is the Mecca of Russia, where all are devotees. The external
forms of religion are every where apparent--in the palaces, the
barracks, the institutions of learning, the traktirs, the
bath-houses--even in the drinking cellars and gambling-hells. Scarcely
a bridge or corner of a street is without its shrine, its pictured
saint and burning taper, before which every by-passer of high or low
degree bows down and worships. It may be said with truth that one is
never out of sight of devotees baring their heads and prostrating
themselves before these sacred images. All distinctions of rank seem
lost in this universal passion for prayer. The nobleman, in his gilded
carriage with liveried servants, stops and pays the tribute of an
uncovered head to some saintly image by the bridge or the roadside;
the peasant, in his shaggy sheepskin capote, doffs his greasy cap,
and, while devoutly crossing himself, utters a prayer; the soldier,
grim and warlike, marches up in his rattling armor, grounds his
musket, and forgets for the time his mission of blood; the tradesman,
with his leather apron and labor-worn hands, lays down his tools and
does homage to the shrine; the drosky-driver, noted for his petty
villainies, checks his horse, and, standing up in his drosky, bows low
and crosses himself before he crosses the street or the bridge; even
my guide, the saturnine Dominico--and every body knows what guides are
all over the world--halted at every corner, regardless of time, and
uttered an elaborate form of adjurations for our mutual salvation.
Pictures of a devotional character are offered for sale in almost
every booth, alley, and passage-way, where the most extraordinary
daubs may be seen pinned up to the walls. Saints and dragons,
fiery-nosed monsters, and snakes, and horrid creeping things, gilded
and decorated in the most gaudy style, attract idle crowds from
morning till night.
It is marvelous with what profound reverence the Russians will gaze at
these extraordinary specimens of art. Often you see a hardened-looking
ruffian--his face covered with beard and filth; his great, brawny form
resembling that of a prize-fighter; his costume a ragged blouse, with
loose trowsers thrust in his boots; such a wretch, in short, as you
would select for an unmitigated ruffian if you were in want of a model
for that character--take off his cap, and, with superstitious awe and
an expression of profound humility, bow down before some picture of a
dragon with seven heads or a chubby little baby of saintly parentage.
That these poor people are sincere in their devotion there can be no
doubt. Their sincerity, indeed, is attested by the strongest proofs of
self-sacrifice. A Russian will not hesitate to lie, rob, murder, or
suffer starvation for the preservation of his religion. Bigoted though
he may be, he is true to his faith and devoted to his forms of
worship, whatever may be his short-comings in other respects. It is a
part of his nature; it permeates his entire being. Hence no city in
the world, perhaps--Jerusalem not excepted--presents so strange a
spectacle of religious enthusiasm, genuine and universal, mingled with
moral turpitude; monkish asceticism and utter abandonment to vice;
self-sacrifice and loose indulgence. It may be said that this is not
true religion--not even what these people profess. Perhaps not; but it
is what they are accustomed to from infancy, and it certainly develops
some of their best traits of character--charity to each other,
earnestness, constancy, and self-sacrifice.
On the morning after my arrival in Moscow I witnessed from the window
of my hotel a very impressive and melancholy spectacle--the departure
of a gang of prisoners for Siberia. The number amounted to some two or
three hundred. Every year similar trains are dispatched, yet the
parting scene always attracts a sympathizing crowd. These poor
creatures were chained in pairs, and guarded by a strong detachment of
soldiers. Their appearance, as they stood in the street awaiting the
order to march, was very sad. Most of them were miserably clad, and
some scarcely clad at all. A degraded, forlorn set they were--filthy
and ragged--their downcast features expressive of an utter absence of
hope. Few of them seemed to have any friends or relatives in the crowd
of by-standers; but in two or three instances I noticed some very
touching scenes of separation--where wives came to bid good-by to
their husbands, and children to their fathers. Nearly every body gave
them something to help them on their way--a few kopecks, a loaf of
bread, or some cast-off article of clothing. I saw a little child
timidly approach the gang, and, dropping a small coin into the hand of
one poor wretch, run back again into the crowd, weeping bitterly.
These prisoners are condemned to exile for three, four, or five
years--often for life. It requires from twelve to eighteen months of
weary travel, all the way on foot, through barren wastes and
inhospitable deserts, to enable them to reach their desolate place of
exile. Many of them fall sick on the way from fatigue and
privation--many die. Few ever live to return. In some instances the
whole term of exile is served out on the journey to and from Siberia.
On their arrival they are compelled to labor in the government mines
or on the public works. Occasionally the most skillful and industrious
are rewarded by appointments to positions of honor and trust, and
become in the course of time leading men.
[Illustration: PRISONERS FOR SIBERIA.]
In contemplating the dreary journey of these poor creatures--a journey
of some fifteen hundred or two thousand miles--I was insensibly
reminded of that touching little story of filial affection, "Elizabeth
of Siberia," a story drawn from nature, and known in all civilized
languages.
Not long after the departure of the Siberian prisoners, I witnessed,
in passing along one of the principal streets, a grand funeral
procession. The burial of the dead is a picturesque and interesting
ceremony in Moscow. A body of priests, dressed in black robes and
wearing long beards, take the lead in the funeral cortege, bearing in
their hands shrines and burning tapers. The hearse follows, drawn by
four horses. Black plumes wave from the heads of the horses, and
flowing black drapery covers their bodies and legs. Even their heads
are draped in black, nothing being perceptible but their eyes. The
coffin lies exposed on the top of the hearse, and is also similarly
draped. This combination of sombre plumage and drapery has a
singularly mournful appearance. Priests stand on steps attached to the
hearse holding images of the Savior over the coffin; others follow in
the rear, comforting the friends and relatives of the deceased. A
wild, monotonous chant is sung from time to time by the chief mourners
as the procession moves toward the burial-ground. The people cease
their occupations in the streets through which the funeral passes,
uncover their heads, and, bowing down before the images borne by the
priests, utter prayers for the repose of the dead. The rich and the
poor of both sexes stand upon the sidewalks and offer up their humble
petitions. The deep-tongued bells of the Kremlin ring out solemn
peals, and the wild and mournful chant of the priests mingles with the
grand knell of death that sweeps through the air. All is profoundly
impressive: the procession of priests, with their burning tapers; the
drapery of black on the horses; the coffin with its dead; the weeping
mourners; the sepulchral chant; the sudden cessation of all the
business of life, and the rapt attention of the multitude; the deep,
grand, death-knell of the bells; the glitter of domes and cupolas on
every side; the green-roofed sea of houses; the winding streets, and
the costumes of the people--form a spectacle wonderfully wild,
strange, and mournful. In every thing that comes within the sweep of
the eye there is a mixed aspect of Tartaric barbarism and European
civilization. Yet even the stranger from a far-distant clime, speaking
another language, accustomed to other forms, must feel, in gazing upon
such a scene, that death levels all distinctions of race--that our
common mortality brings us nearer together. Every where we are
pilgrims on the same journey. Wherever we sojourn among men,
"The dead around us lie,
And the death-bell tolls."
CHAPTER V.
TEA-DRINKING.
The _traktirs_, or tea-houses, are prominent among the remarkable
institutions of Russia. In Moscow they abound in every street, lane,
and by-alley. That situated near the Katai Gorod is said to be the
best. Though inferior to the ordinary cafes of Paris or Marseilles in
extent and decoration, it is nevertheless pretty stylish in its way,
and is interesting to strangers from the fact that it represents a
prominent feature in Russian life--the drinking of _tchai_.
[Illustration: TEA-SELLERS.]
Who has not heard of Russian tea?--the tea that comes all the way
across the steppes of Tartary and over the Ural Mountains?--the tea
that never loses its flavor by admixture with the salt of the ocean,
but is delivered over at the great fair of Nijni Novgorod as pure and
fragrant as when it started? He who has never heard of Russian tea has
heard nothing, and he who has never enjoyed a glass of it may have
been highly favored in other respects, but I contend that he has
nevertheless led a very benighted existence. All epicures in the
delicate leaf unite in pronouncing it far superior to the nectar with
which the gods of old were wont to quench their thirst. It is truly
one of the luxuries of life--so soft; so richly yet delicately
flavored; so bright, glowing, and transparent as it flashes through
the crystal glasses; nothing acrid, gross, or earthly about it--a
heavenly compound that "cheers but not inebriates."
"A balm for the sickness of care,
A bliss for a bosom unbless'd."
Come with me, friend, and let us take a seat in the traktir. Every
body here is a tea-drinker. Coffee is never good in Russia. Besides,
it is gross and villainous stuff compared with the _tchai_ of Moscow.
At all hours of the day we find the saloons crowded with Russians,
French, Germans, and the representatives of various other nations--all
worshipers before the burnished shrine of _Tchai_. A little saint in
the corner presides especially over this department. The devout
Russians take off their hats and make a profound salam to this
accommodating little patron, whose corpulent stomach and smiling
countenance betoken an appreciation of all the good things of life.
Now observe how these wonderful Russians--the strangest and most
incomprehensible of beings--cool themselves this sweltering hot day.
Each stalwart son of the North calls for a portion of _tchai_, not a
tea-cupful or a glassful, but a genuine Russian portion--a tea-potful.
The tea-pot is small, but the tea is strong enough to bear an
unlimited amount of dilution; and it is one of the glorious privileges
of the tea-drinker in this country that he may have as much hot water
as he pleases. Sugar is more sparingly supplied. The adept remedies
this difficulty by placing a lump of sugar in his mouth and sipping
his tea through it--a great improvement upon the custom said to exist
in some parts of Holland, where a lump of sugar is hung by a string
over the table and swung around from mouth to mouth, so that each
guest may take a pull at it after swallowing his tea. A portion would
be quite enough for a good-sized family in America. The Russian makes
nothing of it. Filling and swilling hour after hour, he seldom rises
before he gets through ten or fifteen tumblersful, and, if he happens
to be thirsty, will double it--enough, one would think, to founder a
horse. But the Russian stomach is constructed upon some physiological
principles unknown to the rest of mankind--perhaps lined with
gutta-percha and riveted to a diaphragm of sheet-iron. Grease and
scalding-hot tea; _quass_ and cabbage soup; raw cucumbers; cold fish;
lumps of ice; decayed cheese and black bread, seem to have no other
effect upon it than to provoke an appetite. In warm weather it is
absolutely marvelous to see the quantities of fiery-hot liquids these
people pour down their throats. Just cast your eye upon that bearded
giant in the corner, with his hissing urn of tea before him, his
_batvina_ and his _shtshie_! What a spectacle of physical enjoyment!
His throat is bare; his face a glowing carbuncle; his body a monstrous
cauldron, seething and dripping with overflowing juices. Shade of
Hebe! how he swills the tea--how glass after glass of the steaming-hot
liquid flows into his capacious maw, and diffuses itself over his
entire person! It oozes from every pore of his skin; drops in globules
from his forehead; smokes through his shirt; makes a piebald chart of
seas and islands over his back; streams down and simmers in his boots!
He is saturated with tea, inside and out--a living sponge overflowing
at every pore. You might wring him out, and there would still be a
heavy balance left in him.
[Illustration: MUJIKS AT TEA.]
These traktirs are the general places of meeting, where matters of
business or pleasure are discussed; accounts settled and bargains
made. Here the merchant, the broker, the banker, and the votary of
pleasure meet in common. Here all the pursuits of human life are
represented, and the best qualities of men drawn out with the drawing
of the tea. Enmities are forgotten and friendships cemented in tea. In
short, the traktir is an institution, and its influence extends
through all the ramifications of society.
But it is in the gardens and various places of suburban resort that
the universal passion for tea is displayed in its most pleasing and
romantic phases. Surrounded by the beauties of nature, lovers make
their avowals over the irrepressible tea-pot; the hearts of fair
damsels are won in the intoxication of love and tea; quarrels between
man and wife are made up, and children weaned--I had almost said
baptized--in tea. The traveler must see the families seated under the
trees, with the burnished urn before them--the children romping about
over the grass; joy beaming upon every face; the whole neighborhood a
repetition of family groups and steaming urns, bound together by the
mystic tie of sympathy, before he can fully appreciate the important
part that tea performs in the great drama of Russian life.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PETERSKOI GARDENS.
This draws me insensibly toward the beautiful gardens of the
Peterskoi--a favorite place of resort for the Moskovites, and famous
for its chateau built by the Empress Elizabeth, in which Napoleon
sought refuge during the burning of Moscow. It is here the rank and
fashion of the city may be seen to the greatest advantage of a fine
summer afternoon. In these gardens all that is brilliant, beautiful,
and poetical in Russian life finds a congenial atmosphere.
I spent an evening at the Peterskoi which I shall long remember as one
of the most interesting I ever spent at any place of popular
amusement. The weather was charming--neither too warm nor too cold,
but of that peculiarly soft and dreamy temperature which predisposes
one for the enjoyment of music, flowers, the prattle of children, the
fascinations of female loveliness, the luxuries of idleness. In such
an atmosphere no man of sentiment can rack his brain with troublesome
problems. These witching hours, when the sun lingers dreamily on the
horizon; when the long twilight weaves a web of purple and gold that
covers the transition from night to morning; when nature, wearied of
the dazzling glare of day, puts on her silver-spangled robes, and
receives her worshipers with celestial smiles, are surely enough to
soften the most stubborn heart. We must make love, sweet ladies, or
die. There is no help for it. Resistance is an abstract impossibility.
The best man in the world could not justly be censured for practicing
a little with his eyes, when away from home, merely as I do, you know,
to keep up the expression.
The gardens of the Peterskoi are still a dream to me. For a distance
of three versts from the gate of St. Petersburg the road was thronged
with carriages and droskies, and crowds of gayly-dressed citizens, all
wending their way toward the scene of entertainment. The pressure for
tickets at the porter's lodge was so great that it required
considerable patience and good-humor to get through at all. Officers
in dashing uniforms rode on spirited chargers up and down the long
rows of vehicles, and with drawn swords made way for the
foot-passengers. Guards in imperial livery, glittering from head to
foot with embroidery, stood at the grand portals of the gate, and with
many profound and elegant bows ushered in the company. Policeman with
cocked hats and shining epaulets were stationed at intervals along the
leading thoroughfares to preserve order.
The scene inside the gates was wonderfully imposing. Nothing could be
more fanciful. In every aspect it presented some striking combination
of natural and artificial beauties, admirably calculated to fascinate
the imagination. I have a vague recollection of shady and undulating
walks, winding over sweeping lawns dotted with masses of flowers and
copses of shrubbery, and overhung by wide-spreading trees, sometimes
gradually rising over gentle acclivities or points of rock overhung
with moss and fern. Rustic cottages, half hidden by the luxuriant
foliage, crowned each prominent eminence, and little by-ways branched
off into cool, umbrageous recesses, where caves, glittering with
sea-shells and illuminated stalactites, invited the wayfarer to linger
a while and rest. Far down in deep glens and grottoes were retired
nooks, where lovers, hidden from the busy throng, might mingle their
vows to the harmony of falling waters; where the very flowers seemed
whispering love to each other, and the lights and shadows fell, by
some intuitive sense of fitness, into the form of bridal wreaths.
Marble statues representing the Graces, winged Mercuries and Cupids,
are so cunningly displayed in relief against the green banks of
foliage that they seem the natural inhabitants of the place.
Snow-spirits, too, with outspread wings, hover in the air, as if to
waft cooling zephyrs through the soft summer night. In the open spaces
fountains dash their sparkling waters high into the moonlight,
spreading a mystic spray over the sward. Through vistas of shrubbery
gleam the bright waters of a lake, on the far side of which the
embattled towers of a castle rise in bold relief over the intervening
groups of trees.
On an elevated plateau, near the centre of the garden, stands a series
of Asiatic temples and pagodas, in which the chief entertainments are
held. The approaching avenues are illuminated with many-colored lights
suspended from the branches of the trees, and wind under triumphal
archways, festooned with flowers. The theatres present open fronts,
and abound in all the tinsel of the stage, both inside and out. The
grounds are crowded to their utmost capacity with the rank and fashion
of the city, in all the glory of jeweled head-dresses and decorations
of order. Festoons of variegated lights swing from the trees over the
audience, and painted figures of dragons and genii are dimly seen in
the background.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN THEATRE.]
Attracted by sounds of applause at one of these theatres, I edged my
way through the crowd, and succeeded, after many apologies, in
securing a favorable position. Amid a motley gathering of Russians,
Poles, Germans, and French--for here all nations and classes are
represented--my ears were stunned by the clapping of hands and
vociferous cries _Bis! Bis!_ The curtain was down, but in answer to
the call for a repetition of the last scene it soon rose again, and
afforded me an opportunity of witnessing a characteristic performance.
A wild Mujik has the impudence to make love to the maid-servant of
his master, who appears to be rather a crusty old gentleman, not
disposed to favor matrimonial alliances of that kind. Love gets the
better of the lover's discretion, and he is surprised in the kitchen.
The bull-dog is let loose upon him; master and mistress and
subordinate members of the family rush after him, armed with
saucepans, tongs, shovels, and broomsticks. The affrighted Mujik runs
all round the stage bellowing fearfully; the bull-dog seizes him by
the nether extremities and hangs on with the tenacity of a vice. Round
and round they run, Mujik roaring for help, bull-dog swinging out
horizontally. The audience applauds; the master flings down his
broomstick and seizes the dog by the tail; the old woman seizes master
by the skirts of his coat; and all three are dragged around the stage
at a terrific rate, while the younger members of the family shower
down miscellaneous blows with their sticks and cudgels, which always
happen to fall on the old people, to the great satisfaction of the
audience. Shouts, and shrieks, and clapping of hands but faintly
express the popular appreciation of the joke. Finally the faithful
maid, taking advantage of the confusion, flings a bunch of
fire-crackers at her oppressors and blows them up, and the Mujik,
relieved of their weight, makes a brilliant dash through the door,
carrying with him the tenacious bull-dog, which it is reasonable to
suppose he subsequently takes to market and sells for a good price.
The curtain falls, the music strikes up, and the whole performance is
greeted with the most enthusiastic applause. Such are the
entertainments that delight these humorous people--a little broad to
be sure, but not deficient in grotesque spirit.
From the theatre I wandered to the pavilion of Zingalee gipsies, where
a band of these wild sons of Hagar were creating a perfect furor by
the shrillness and discord of their voices. Never was such terrific
music inflicted upon mortal ears. It went through and through you,
quivering and vibrating like a rapier; but the common classes of
Russians delight in it above all earthly sounds. They deem it the very
finest kind of music. It is only the dilettante who have visited Paris
who profess to hold it in contempt.
Very soon surfeited with these piercing strains, I rambled away till I
came upon a party of rope-dancers, and after seeing a dozen or so of
stout fellows hang themselves by the chins, turn back somersaults in
the air, and swing by one foot at a dizzy height from the ground, left
them standing upon each other's heads to the depth of six or eight,
and turned aside into a grotto to enjoy a few glasses of tea. Here
were German girls singing and buffoons reciting humorous stories
between the pauses, and thirsty Russians pouring down whole oceans of
their favorite beverage.
Again I wandered forth through the leafy mazes of the garden. The
gorgeous profusion of lights and glittering ornaments, the endless
variety of colors, the novel and Asiatic appearance of the temples,
the tropical luxuriance of the foliage, the gleaming white statuary,
the gay company, the wild strains of music, all combined to form a
scene of peculiar interest. High overhead, dimly visible through the
tops of the trees, the sky wears an almost supernatural aspect during
these long summer nights. A soft golden glow flushes upward from the
horizon, and, lying outspread over the firmament, gives a spectral
effect to the gentler and more delicate sheen of the moon; the stars
seem to shrink back into the dim infinity, as if unable to contend
with the grosser effulgence of the great orbs that rule the day and
the night. Unconscious whether the day is waning into the night, or
the night into the morning, the rapt spectator gazes and dreams till
lost in the strange enchantment of the scene.
At a late hour a signal was given, and the company wandered down to
the lake, along the shores of which rustic seats and divans,
overshadowed by shrubbery, afforded the weary an opportunity of
resting. Here we were to witness the crowning entertainment of the
evening--a grand display of fire-works. A miniature steam-boat, gayly
decorated with flags, swept to and fro, carrying passengers to the
different landing-places. Gondolas, with peaked prows and variegated
canopies, lay floating upon the still water, that lovers might quench
their flames in the contemplation of its crystal depths, or draw fresh
inspiration from the blaze of artificial fires. Soon a wild outburst
of music was heard; then from the opposite shore the whole heavens
were lighted up with a flood of rockets, and the ears were stunned by
their explosions. Down through the depths of ether came showers of
colored balls, illuminating the waters of the lake with inverted
streams of light scarcely less bright and glowing. Anon all was dark;
then from out the darkness flashed whirling and seething fires,
gradually assuming the grotesque forms of monsters and genii, till
with a deafening explosion they were scattered to the winds. From the
blackened mass of ruins stood forth illuminated statues of the
imperial family, in all the paraphernalia of royalty, their crowns
glittering with jewels, their robes of light resplendent with precious
gems and tracery of gold. A murmur of admiration ran through the
crowd. The imperial figures vanished as if by magic, and suddenly a
stream of fire flashed from a mass of dark undefined objects on the
opposite shore, and lo! the waters were covered with fiery swans,
sailing majestically among the gondolas, their necks moving slowly as
if inspired by life. Hither and thither they swept, propelled by
streams of fire, till, wearied with their sport, they gradually lay
motionless, yet glowing with an augmented brilliancy. While the eyes
of all were fixed in amazement and admiration upon these beautiful
swans, they exploded with a series of deafening reports, and were
scattered in confused volumes of smoke. Out of the chaos swept
innumerable hosts of whirling little monsters, whizzing and boring
through the water like infernal spirits of the deep. These again burst
with a rattle of explosions like an irregular fire of musketry, and
shot high into the air in a perfect maze of scintillating stars of
every imaginable color. When the shower of stars was over, and silence
and darkness once more reigned, a magnificent barge, that might well
have represented that of the Egyptian queen--its gay canopies
resplendent with the glow of many-colored lamps--swept out into the
middle of the lake, and
"Like a burnished throne
Burn'd on the water."
[Illustration: THE PETERSKOI GARDENS.]
And when the rowers had ceased, and the barge lay motionless, soft
strains of music arose from its curtained recesses, swelling up
gradually till the air was filled with the floods of rich, wild
harmony, and the senses were ravished with their sweetness.
Was it a wild Oriental dream? Could it all be real--the glittering
fires, the gayly-costumed crowds, the illuminated barge, the
voluptuous strains of music? Might it not be some gorgeous freak of
the emperor, such as the sultan in the Arabian Nights enjoyed at the
expense of the poor traveler? Surely there could be nothing real like
it since the days of the califs of Bagdad!
A single night's entertainment such as this must cost many thousand
rubles. When it is considered that there are but few months in the
year when such things can be enjoyed, some idea may be formed of the
characteristic passion of the Russians for luxurious amusements. It is
worthy of mention, too, that the decorations, the lamps, the actors
and operators, the material of nearly every description, are imported
from various parts of the world, and very little is contributed in any
way by the native Russians, save the means by which these costly
luxuries are obtained.
CHAPTER VII.
THE "LITTLE WATER."
On the fundamental principles of association the intelligent reader
will at once comprehend how it came to pass that, of all the traits I
discovered in the Russian people, none impressed me so favorably as
their love of vodka, or native brandy, signifying the "little water."
I admired their long and filthy beards and matted heads of hair,
because there was much in them to remind me of my beloved Washoe; but
in nothing did I experience a greater fellowship with them than in
their constitutional thirst for intoxicating liquors. It was
absolutely refreshing, after a year's travel over the Continent of
Europe, to come across a genuine lover of the "tarantula"--to meet at
every corner of the street a great bearded fellow staggering along
blind drunk, or attempting to steady the town by hugging a post.
Rarely had I enjoyed such a sight since my arrival in the Old World.
In Germany I had seen a few cases of stupefaction arising from
overdoses of beer; in France the red nose of the _bon vivant_ is not
uncommon; in England some muddled heads are to be found; and in
Scotland there are temperance societies enough to give rise to the
suspicion that there is a cause for them; but, generally speaking, the
sight of an intoxicated man is somewhat rare in the principal cities
of the Continent. It will, therefore, be conceded that there was
something very congenial in the spectacle that greeted me on the very
first day of my arrival in Moscow. A great giant of a Mujik, with a
ferocious beard and the general aspect of a wild beast, came toward me
with a heel and a lurch to port that was very expressive of his
condition. As he staggered up and tried to balance himself, he blurted
out some unmeaning twaddle in his native language which I took to be a
species of greeting. His expression was absolutely inspiring--the
great blear eyes rolling foolishly in his head; his tongue lolling
helplessly from his mouth; his under jaw hanging down; his greasy cap
hung on one side on a tuft of dirty hair--all so familiar, so
characteristic of something I had seen before! Where could it have
been? What potent spell was there about this fellow to attract me? In
what was it that I, an embassador from Washoe, a citizen of
California, a resident of Oakland, could thus be drawn toward this
hideous wretch? A word in your ear, reader. It was all the effect of
association! The unbidden tears flowed to my eyes as I caught a whiff
of the fellow's breath. It was so like the free-lunch breaths of San
Francisco, and even suggested thoughts of the Legislative Assembly in
Sacramento. Only think what a genuine Californian must suffer in being
a whole year without a glass of whisky--nay, without as much as a
smell of it! How delightful it is to see a brother human downright
soggy drunk; drunk all over; drunk in the eyes, in the mouth, in the
small of his back, in his knees, in his boots, clear down to his toes!
How one's heart is drawn toward him by this common bond of human
infirmity! How it recalls the camp, the one-horse mining town, the
social gathering of the "boys" at Dan's, or Jim's, or Jack's; and the
clink of dimes and glasses at the bar; how distances are annihilated
and time set back! Of a verity, when I saw that man, with reason
dethroned and the garb of self-respect thrown aside, I was once again
in my own beloved state!
"What a beauty dwelt in each familiar face,
What music hung on every voice!"
[Illustration: VODKA.]
Since reading is not a very general accomplishment among the lower
classes, a system of signs answers in some degree as a substitute. The
irregularity of the streets would of itself present no very remarkable
feature but for the wonderful variety of small shops and the oddity of
the signs upon which their contents are pictured. What these symbols
of trade lack in artistic style they make up in grotesque effects.
Thus, the tobacco shops are ornamented outside with various
highly-colored pictures, drawn by artists of the most florid genius,
representing cigar-boxes, pipes, meerschaums, narghillas, bunches of
cigars, snuffboxes, plugs and twists of tobacco, and all that the most
fastidious smoker, chewer, or snuffer can expect to find in any
tobacco shop, besides a good many things that he never will find in
any of these shops. Prominent among these symbolical displays is the
counterfeit presentment of a jet-black Indian of African descent--his
woolly head adorned with a crown of pearls and feathers; in his right
hand an uplifted tomahawk, with which he is about to kill some
invisible enemy; in his left a meerschaum, supposed to be the pipe of
peace; a tobacco plantation in the background, and a group of warriors
smoking profusely around a camp-fire, located under one of the tobacco
plants; the whole having a very fine allegorical effect, fully
understood, no doubt, by the artist, but very difficult to explain
upon any known principle of art. The butchers' shops are equally
prolific in external adornments. On the sign-boards you see every
animal fit to be eaten, and many of questionable aspect, denuded of
their skins and reduced to every conceivable degree of butchery; so
that if you want a veal cutlet of any particular pattern, all you have
to do is to select your pattern, and the cutlet will be chopped
accordingly. The bakeries excel in their artistic displays. Here you
have painted bread from black-moon down to double-knotted twist;
cakes, biscuit, rolls, and crackers, and as many other varieties as
the genius of the artist may be capable of suggesting. The bakers of
Moscow are mostly French or German; and it is a notable fact that the
bread is quite equal to any made in France or Germany. The
wine-stores, of which there are many, are decorated with pictures of
bottles, and bas-reliefs of gilded grapes--a great improvement upon
the ordinary grape produced by nature.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MARKETS OF MOSCOW.
If there is nothing new under the sun, there are certainly a good many
old things to interest a stranger in Moscow. A favorite resort of mine
during my sojourn in that strange old city of the Czars was in the
markets of the Katai Gorod. Those of the Riadi and Gostovini Dvor
present the greatest attractions, perhaps, in the way of shops and
merchandise; for there, by the aid of time, patience, and money, you
can get any thing you want, from saints' armlets and devils down to
candlesticks and cucumbers. Singing-birds, Kazan-work, and Siberian
diamonds are its most attractive features. But if you have a passion
for human oddities rather than curiosities of merchandise, you must
visit the second-hand markets extending along the walls of the Katai
Gorod, where you will find not only every conceivable variety of old
clothes, clocks, cooking utensils, and rubbish of all sorts, but the
queerest imaginable conglomeration of human beings from the far East
to the far West. It would be a fruitless task to attempt a description
of the motley assemblage. Pick out all the strangest, most ragged,
most uncouth figures you ever saw in old pictures, from childhood up
to the present day; select from every theatrical representation
within the range of your experience the most monstrous and absurd
caricatures upon humanity; bring to your aid all the masquerades and
burlesque fancy-balls you ever visited, tumble them together in the
great bag of your imagination, and pour them out over a vague
wilderness of open spaces, dirty streets, high walls, and rickety
little booths, and you have no idea at all of the queer old markets of
the Katai Gorod. You will be just as much puzzled to make any thing of
the scene as when you started, if not more so.
[Illustration: OLD-CLOTHES' MARKET.]
No mortal man can picture to another all these shaggy-faced Russians,
booted up to the knees, their long, loose robes flaunting idly around
their legs, their red sashes twisted around their waists; brawny
fellows with a reckless, independent swagger about them, stalking like
grim savages of the North through the crowd. Then there are the sallow
and cadaverous Jew peddlers, covered all over with piles of ragged old
clothes, and mountains of old hats and caps; and leathery-faced old
women--witches of Endor--dealing out horrible mixtures of _quass_ (the
national drink); and dirty, dingy-looking soldiers, belonging to the
imperial service, peddling off old boots and cast-off shirts; and
Zingalee gipsies, dark, lean, and wiry, offering strings of beads and
armlets for sale with shrill cries; and so on without limit.
Here you see the rich and the poor in all the extremes of affluence
and poverty; the robust and the decrepit; the strong, the lame, and
the blind; the noble, with his star and orders of office; the Mujik in
his shaggy sheepskin capote or tattered blouse; the Mongolian, the
Persian, and the Caucasian; the Greek and the Turk; the Armenian and
the Californian, all intent upon something, buying, selling, or
looking on.
Being the only representative from the Golden State, I was anxious to
offer some Washoe stock for sale--twenty or thirty feet in the Gone
Case; but Dominico, my interpreter, informed me that these traders had
never heard of Washoe, and were mostly involved in Russian
securities--old breeches, boots, stockings, and the like. He did not
think my "Gone Case" would bring an old hat; and as for my "Sorrowful
Countenance" and "Ragged End," he was persuaded I could not dispose of
my entire interest in them for a pint of grease.
I was very much taken with the soldiers who infested these old
markets. It was something new in military economy to see the
representatives of an imperial army supporting themselves in this way;
dark, lazy fellows in uniform, lounging about with old boots, and
suspenders hanging all over them, crying out the merits of their wares
in stentorian voices, thus, as it were, patriotically relieving the
national treasury of a small fraction of its burden. They have much
the appearance, in the crowd, of raisins in a plum-pudding.
The peasant women, who flock in from the country with immense burdens
of vegetables and other products of the farms, are a very striking, if
not a very pleasing feature in the markets. Owing to the hard labor
imposed upon them, they are exceedingly rough and brawny, and have a
hard, dreary, and unfeminine expression of countenance, rather
inconsistent with one's notions of the delicacy and tenderness of
woman. Few of them are even passably well-looking. All the natural
playfulness of the gentler sex seems to be crushed out of them; and
while their manners are uncouth, their voices are the wildest and most
unmusical that ever fell upon the ear from a feminine source. When
dressed in their best attire they usually wear a profusion of red
handkerchiefs about their heads and shoulders; and from an
unpicturesque habit they have of making an upper waist immediately
under their arms by a ligature of some sort, and tying their
apron-strings about a foot below, they have the singular appearance of
being double-waisted or three-story women. They carry their children
on their backs, much after the fashion of Digger Indians, and suckle
them through an opening in the second or middle story. Doubtless this
is a convenient arrangement, but it presents the curious anomaly of a
poor peasant living in a one-story house with a three-story wife.
According to the prevailing style of architecture in well-wooded
countries, these women ought to wear their hair shingled; but they
generally tie it up in a knot behind, or cover it with a fancy-colored
handkerchief, on the presumption, I suppose, that they look less
barbarous in that way than they would with shingled heads. You may
suspect me of story-telling, but upon my word I think three-story
women are extravagant enough without adding another to them. I only
hope their garrets contain a better quality of furniture than that
which afflicts the male members of the Mujik community. No wonder
those poor women have families of children like steps of stairs! It is
said that their husbands are often very cruel to them, and think
nothing of knocking them down and beating them; but even that does not
surprise me. How can a man be expected to get along with a three-story
wife unless he floors her occasionally?
Ragged little boys, prematurely arrested in their growth, you see too,
in myriads--shovel-nosed and bare-legged urchins of hideously
eccentric manners, carrying around big bottles of _sbiteen_ (a kind of
mead), which they are continually pouring out into glasses, to appease
the chronic thirst with which the public seem to be afflicted; and
groups of the natives gathered around a cucumber stand, devouring
great piles of unwholesome-looking cucumbers, which skinny old women
are dipping up out of wooden buckets. The voracity with which all
classes stow away these vicious edibles in their stomachs is amazing,
and suggests a melancholy train of reflections on the subject of
cholera morbus. It was a continual matter of wonder to me how the
lower classes of Russians survived the horrid messes with which they
tortured their digestive apparatus. Only think of thousands of men
dining every day on black bread, heavy enough for bullets, a pound or
two of grease, and half a peck of raw cucumbers per man, and then
expecting to live until next morning! And yet they do live, and grow
fat, and generally die at a good old age, in case they are not killed
in battle, or frozen up in the wilds of Siberia.
Outside the walls of the Katai Gorod, in an open square, or plaza, are
rows of wooden booths, in which innumerable varieties of living stock
are offered for sale--geese, ducks, chickens, rabbits, pigeons, and
birds of various sorts. I sometimes went down here and bargained for
an hour or so over a fat goose or a Muscovy duck, not with any
ultimate idea of purchasing it, but merely because it was offered to
me at a reduced price. It was amusing, also, to study the manners and
customs of the dealer, and enjoy their amazement when, after causing
them so much loss of time, I would hand over five kopeks and walk off.
Some of them, I verily believe, will long entertain serious doubts as
to the sanity of the Californian public; for Dominico, my guide,
always took particular pride in announcing that I was from that great
country, and was the richest man in it, being, to the best of his
knowledge, the only one who had money enough to spare to travel all
the way to Moscow, merely for the fun of the thing.
I may as well mention, parenthetically, that Dominico was rather an
original in his way. His father was an Italian and his mother a
Russian. I believe he was born in Moscow. How he came to adopt the
profession of guide I don't know, unless it was on account of some
natural proclivity for an easy life. A grave, lean, saturnine man was
Dominico--something of a cross between Machiavelli and Paganini. If he
knew any thing about the wonders and curiosities of Moscow he kept it
a profound secret. It was only by the most rigid inquiry and an adroit
system of cross-examination that I could get any thing out of him, and
then his information was vague and laconic, sometimes a little
sarcastic, but never beyond what I knew myself. Yet he was polite,
dignified, and gentlemanly--never refused to drink a glass of beer
with me, and always knew the way to a traktir. To the public
functionaries with whom we came in contact during the course of our
rambles his air was grand and imposing; and on the subject of money he
was sublimely nonchalant, caring no more for rubles than I did for
kopeks. Once or twice he hinted to me that he was of noble blood, but
laid no particular stress upon that, since it was his misfortune at
present to be in rather reduced circumstances. Some time or other he
would go to Italy and resume his proper position there. In justice to
Dominico, I must add that he never neglected an opportunity of praying
for me before any of the public shrines; and at the close of our
acquaintance he let me off pretty easily, all things considered. Upon
my explaining to him that a draft for five hundred thousand rubles,
which ought to be on the way, had failed to reach me, owing,
doubtless, to some irregularity in the mail service, or some sudden
depression in my Washoe stocks, he merely shrugged his shoulders, took
a pinch of snuff, and accepted with profound indifference a fee
amounting to three times the value of his services.
I was particularly interested in the dog-market. The display of living
dog-flesh here must be very tempting to one who has a taste for poodle
soup or fricasseed pup. Dominico repudiated the idea that the Russians
are addicted to this article of diet; but the very expression of his
eye as he took up a fat little innocent, smoothed down its skin,
squeezed its ribs, pinched its loins, and smelled it, satisfied me
that a litter of pups would stand but a poor chance of ever arriving
at maturity if they depended upon forbearance upon his part as a
national virtue. The Chinese quarter of San Francisco affords some
curious examples of the art of compounding sustenance for man out of
odd materials--rats, snails, dried frogs, star-fish, polypi, and the
like; but any person who wishes to indulge a morbid appetite for the
most disgusting dishes over devised by human ingenuity must visit
Moscow. I adhere to it that the dog-market supplies a large portion of
the population with fancy meats. No other use could possibly be made
of the numberless squads of fat, hairless dogs tied together and
hawked about by the traders in this article of traffic. I saw one
man--he had the teeth of an ogre and a fearfully carnivorous
expression of eye--carry around a bunch of pups on each arm, and cry
aloud something in his native tongue, which I am confident had
reference to the tenderness and juiciness of their flesh. Dominico
declared the man was only talking about the breed--that they were fine
rat-dogs; but I know that was a miserable subterfuge. Such dogs never
caught a rat in this world; and if they did, it must have been with a
view to the manufacture of sausages.
[Illustration: CABINET-MAKERS.]
A Russian peasant is not particular about the quality of his food, as
may well be supposed from this general summary. Quantity is the main
object. Grease of all kinds is his special luxury. The upper classes,
who have plenty of money to spare, may buy fish from the Volga at its
weight in gold, and mutton from Astrakan at fabulous prices; but give
the Mujik his _batvina_ (salt grease and honey boiled together), a
loaf of black bread, and a peck of raw cucumbers, and he is happy.
Judging by external appearances, very little grease seems to be wasted
in the manufacture of soap. Indeed, I would not trust one of these
Mujiks to carry a pound of soap any where for me, any more than I
would a gallon of oil or a pound of candles. Once I saw a fellow
grease his boots with a lump of dirty fat which he had picked up out
of the gutter, but he took good care first to extract from it the
richest part of its essence by sucking it, and then greasing his
beard. The boots came last. In all probability he had just dined, or
he would have pocketed his treasure for another occasion, instead of
throwing the remnant, as he did, to the nearest cat.
In respect to the language, one might as well be dropped down in
Timbuctoo as in a village or country town of Russia, for all the good
the gift of speech would do him. It is not harsh, as might be
supposed, yet wonderfully like an East India jungle when you attempt
to penetrate it. I could make better headway through a boulder of
solid quartz, or the title to my own house and lot in Oakland. Now I
profess to be able to see as far into a millstone as most people, but
I can't see in what respect the Russians behaved any worse than other
people of the Tower of Babel, that they should be afflicted with a
language which nobody can hope to understand before his beard becomes
grizzled, and the top of his head entirely bald. Many of the better
classes, to be sure, speak French and German; but even in the streets
of Moscow I could seldom find any body who could discover a ray of
meaning in my French or German, which is almost as plain as English.
Some people know what you want by instinct, whether they understand
your language or not. Not so the Russians. Ask for a horse, and they
will probably offer you a fat goose; inquire the way to your
lodgings, and they are just as likely as not to show you the Foundling
Hospital or a livery-stable; go into an old variety shop, and express
a desire to purchase an Astrakan breast-pin for your sweet-heart, and
the worthy trader hands you a pair of bellows or an old blunderbuss;
cast your eye upon any old market-woman, and she divines at once that
you are in search of a bunch of chickens or a bucket of raw cucumbers,
and offers them to you at the lowest market-price; hint to a
picture-dealer that you would like to have an authentic portrait of
his imperial majesty, and he hands you a picture of the Iberian
Mother, or St. George slaying the dragon, or the devil and all his
imps; in short, you can get any thing that you don't want, and nothing
that you do. If these people are utterly deficient in any one quality,
it is a sense of fitness in things. They take the most inappropriate
times for offering you the most inappropriate articles of human use
that the imagination can possibly conceive. I was more than once
solicited by the dealers in the markets of Moscow to carry with me a
bunch of live dogs, or a couple of freshly-scalded pigs, and on one
occasion was pressed very hard to take a brass skillet and a pair of
tongs. What could these good people have supposed I wanted with
articles of this kind on my travels? Is there any thing in my dress or
the expression of my countenance--I leave it to all who know me--any
thing in the mildness of my speech or the gravity of my manner, to
indicate that I am suffering particularly for bunches of dogs or
scalded pigs, brass skillets or pairs of tongs? Do I look like a man
who labors under a chronic destitution of dogs, pigs, skillets, and
tongs?
[Illustration: PIGS, PUPS, AND PANS.]
It is quite natural that the traveler who finds himself for the first
time within the limits of a purely despotic government should look
around him with some vague idea that he must see the effects strongly
marked upon the external life of the people; that the restraints
imposed upon popular liberty must be every where apparent. So far as
any thing of this kind may exist in Moscow or St. Petersburg, it is a
notable fact that there are few cities in the world where it is less
visible, or where the people seem more unrestrained in the exercise of
their popular freedom. Indeed, it struck me rather forcibly, after my
experience in Vienna and Berlin, that the Russians enjoy quite as
large a share of practical independence as most of their neighbors. I
was particularly impressed by the bold and independent air of the
middle classes, the politeness with which even the lower orders
address each other, and the absence of those petty and vexatious
restraints which prevail in some of the German states. The constant
dread of infringing upon the police regulations; the extraordinary
deference with which men in uniform are regarded; the circumspect
behavior at public places; the nice and well-regulated mirthfulness,
never overstepping the strict bounds of prudence, which I had so often
noticed in the northern parts of Germany, and which may in part be
attributed to the naturally orderly and conservative character of the
people, are by no means prominent features in the principal cities of
Russia.
Soldiers, indeed, there are in abundance every where throughout the
dominions of the Czar, and the constant rattle of musketry and clang
of arms show that the liberty of the people is not altogether without
limit.
CHAPTER IX.
THE NOSE REGIMENT.
I saw nothing in the line of military service that interested me more
than the Imperial Guard. Without vouching for the truth of the whole
story connected with the history of this famous regiment, I give it as
related to me by Dominico, merely stating as a fact within my own
observation that there is no question whatever about the peculiarity
of their features. It seems that the Emperor Nicholas, shortly before
the Crimean War, discovered by some means that the best fighting men
in his dominions belonged to a certain wild tribe from the north,
distinguished for the extreme ugliness of their faces. The most
remarkable feature was the nose, which stood straight out from the
base of the forehead in the form of a triangle, presenting in front
the appearance of a double-barreled pistol. A stiff grizzly mustache
underneath gave them a peculiarly ferocious expression, so that brave
men quailed, and women and children fled from them in terror. The
emperor gave orders that all men in the ranks possessed of these
frightful noses should be brought before him. Finding, when they were
mustered together, that there was not over one company, he caused a
general average of the noses to be taken, from which he had a diagram
carefully prepared and disseminated throughout the empire, calling
upon the military commanders of the provinces to send him recruits
corresponding with the prescribed formula.
In due time he was enabled to muster a thousand of these ferocious
barbarians, whom he caused to be carefully drilled and disciplined. He
kept them in St. Petersburg under his own immediate supervision till
some time after the attack upon Sebastopol, when, finding the fortunes
of war likely to go against him, he sent them down to the Crimea, with
special instructions to the commander-in-chief to rely upon them in
any emergency. In compliance with the imperial order, they were at
once placed in the front ranks, and in a very few days had occasion to
display their fighting qualities. At the very first onslaught of the
enemy they stood their ground manfully till the French troops had
approached within ten feet, when, with one accord, they took to their
heels, and never stopped running till they were entirely out of sight.
It was a disastrous day for the Russians. The commander-in-chief was
overwhelmed with shame and mortification. A detachment of cavalry was
dispatched in pursuit of the fugitives, who were finally arrested in
their flight and brought back. "Cowards!" thundered the enraged
commander, as they stood drawn up before him; "miserable poltroons!
dastards! is this the way you do honor to your imperial master? Am I
to report to his most potent majesty that, without striking one blow
in his defense, you ran like sheep? Wretches, what have you to say for
yourselves?"
[Illustration: IMPERIAL NOSEGAY.]
"May it please your excellency," responded the men, firmly and with
unblenched faces, "we ran away, it is true; but we are not cowards. On
the contrary, sire, we are brave men, and fear neither man nor beast.
But your excellency is aware that nature has gifted us with noses
peculiarly open to unusual impressions. We have smelled all the
smells known from the far North to the far South, from the stewed rats
of Moscow to the carrion that lies mouldering upon the plains of the
Crimea; but, if it please your highness, we never smelled Frenchmen
before. There was an unearthly odor about them that filled our
nostrils, and struck a mysterious terror into our souls."
"Fools!" roared the commander-in-chief, bursting with rage, "what you
smelled was nothing more than garlic, to which these Frenchmen are
addicted."
"Call it as you will," firmly responded the men with the noses, "it
was too horrible to be endured. We are willing to die by the natural
casualties of war, but not by unseen blasts of garlic, against which
no human power can contend."
"Then," cried the commander, in tones of thunder, "I'll see that you
die to-morrow by the natural casualties of war. You shall be put in
the very front rank, and care shall be taken to have every man of you
shot down the moment you undertake to run."
On the following day this rigorous order was carried into effect. The
nose regiment was placed in front, and the battle opened with great
spirit. The French troops swept down upon them like an avalanche. For
an instant they looked behind, but, finding no hope of escape in that
direction, each man of them suddenly grasped up a handful of mud, and,
dashing it over his nostrils, shouted "Death, to the garlic-eaters!"
and rushed against the enemy with indescribable ferocity. Never before
were such prodigies of valor performed on the field of battle. The
French went down like stricken reeds before the ferocious onslaught of
the Imperial Guard. Their dead bodies lay piled in heaps on the bloody
field. The fortunes of the day were saved, and, panting and bleeding,
the men of Noses stood triumphantly in the presence of their chief. In
an ecstasy of pride and delight he complimented them upon their valor,
and pronounced them the brightest nosegay in his imperial majesty's
service, which name they have borne ever since.
CHAPTER X.
THE EMPEROR'S BEAR-HUNT.
The present emperor, Alexander III., is more distinguished for his
liberal views respecting the rights of his subjects than for his
military proclivities. In private life he is much beloved, and is said
to be a man of very genial social qualities. His predominating passion
in this relation is a love of hunting. I have been told that he is
especially great on bears. With all your experience of this manly
pastime in America, I doubt if you can form any conception of the
bear-hunts in which the Autocrat of all the Russias has distinguished
himself. Any body with nerve enough can kill a grizzly, but it
requires both nerve and money to kill bears of any kind in the genuine
autocratic style. By an imperial ukase it has been ordered that when
any of the peasants or serfs discover a bear within twenty versts of
the Moscow and St. Petersburg Railway, they must make known the fact
to the proprietor of the estate, whose duty it is to communicate
official information of the discovery to the corresponding secretary
of the Czar. With becoming humility the secretary announces the
tidings to his royal master, who directs him to advise the distant
party that his majesty is much pleased, and will avail himself of his
earliest leisure to proceed to the scene of action. In the mean time
the entire available force of the estate is set to work to watch the
bear, and from three to five hundred men, armed with cudgels, tin
pans, old kettles, drums, etc., are stationed in a circle around him.
Dogs also are employed upon this important service. The advance
trains, under the direction of the master hunter, having deposited
their stores of wines, cordials, and provisions, and telegraphic
communications being transmitted to head-quarters from time to time,
it is at length privately announced that his imperial majesty has
condescended to honor the place with his presence, and, should the
saints not prove averse, will be there with his royal party at the
hour and on the day specified in the imperial dispatch. The grand
convoy is then put upon the track; dispatches are transmitted to all
the stations; officers, soldiers, and guards are required to be in
attendance to do honor to their sovereign master--privately, of
course, as this is simply an unofficial affair which nobody is
supposed to know any thing about. The emperor, having selected his
chosen few--that is to say, half a dozen princes, a dozen dukes, a
score or two of counts and barons--all fine fellows and genuine
bloods--proceeds unostentatiously to the depot in his hunting-carriage
(a simple little affair, manufactured at a cost of only forty thousand
rubles or so), where he is astonished to see a large concourse of
admiring subjects, gayly interspersed with soldiers, all accidentally
gathered there to see him off. Now hats are removed, bows are made,
suppressed murmurs of delight run through the crowd; the locomotive
whizzes and fizzes with impatience; bells are rung, arms are grounded;
the princes, dukes, and barons--jolly fellows as they are--laugh and
joke just like common people; bells ring again and whistles blow; a
signal is made, and the Autocrat of all the Russias is off on his
bear-hunt!
In an hour, or two or three hours, as the case may be, the royal
hunters arrive at the destined station. Should the public business be
pressing, it is not improbable the emperor, availing himself of the
conveniences provided for him by Winans and Co., in whose magnificent
present of a railway carriage he travels, has in the mean time
dispatched a fleet of vessels to Finland, ten or a dozen extra
regiments of Cossacks to Warsaw, closed upon terms for a loan of fifty
millions, banished various objectionable parties to the deserts of
Siberia, and partaken of a game or two of whist with his camarilla.
But now the important affair of the day is at hand--the bear--the
terrible black bear, which every body is fully armed and equipped to
kill, but which every body knows by instinct is going to be killed by
the emperor, because of his majesty's superior skill and courage on
trying occasions of this sort. What a blessing it is to possess such
steadiness of nerve! I would not hesitate one moment to attack the
most ferocious grizzly in existence if I felt half as much confidence
in my ability to kill it. But the carriages are waiting; the horses
are prancing; the hunters are blowing their bugles; the royal party
are mounting on horseback or in their carriages, as best may suit
their taste, and the signal is given! A salute is fired by the Guard,
huzzas ring through the air, and the Czar of all the Russias is fairly
off on his hunt. Trees fly by; desert patches of ground whirl from
under; versts are as nothing to these spirited steeds and their
spirited masters, and in an hour or so the grand scene of action is
reached. Here couriers stand ready to conduct the imperial hunters
into the very jaws of death. The noble proprietor himself, bareheaded,
greets the royal pageant; the serfs bow down in Oriental fashion; the
dashing young Czar touches his hunting-cap in military style and waves
his hand gallantly to the ladies of the household, who are peeping at
him from their carriages in the distance. Once more the bugle is
sounded, and away they dash--knights, nobles, and all--the handsome
and gallant Czar leading the way by several lengths. Soon the terrific
cry is heard--"Halt! the bear! the bear! Halt!" Shut your eyes,
reader, for you never can stand such a sight as that--a full-grown
black bear, not two hundred yards off, in the middle of an open space,
surrounded by five hundred men hidden behind trees and driving him
back from every point where he attempts to escape. You don't see the
men, but you hear them shouting and banging upon their pots, pans, and
kettles. Now just open one eye and see the emperor dismount from his
famous charger, and deliver the rein to a dozen domestics,
deliberately cock his rifle, and fearlessly get behind the nearest
tree within the range of the bear. By this time you perceive that
Bruin is dancing a _pas seul_ on his hind legs, utterly confounded
with the noises around him. Shut your eyes again, for the emperor is
taking his royal aim, and will presently crack away with his royal
rifle. Hist! triggers are clicking around you in every direction, but
you needn't be the least afraid, for, although the bear is covered by
a reserve of forty rifles, not one of the hunters has nerve enough to
shoot unless officially authorized or personally desirous of visiting
the silver-mines of Siberia. Crack! thug! The smoke clears away. By
Jove! his imperial majesty has done it cleverly; hit the brute plumb
on the os frontis, or through the heart, it makes no difference which.
Down drops Bruin, kicking and tearing up the earth at a dreadful rate;
cheers rend the welkin; pots, pans, and kettles are banged. High above
all rises the stern voice of the autocrat, calling for another rifle,
which is immediately handed to him. Humanity requires that he should
at once put an end to the poor animal's sufferings, and he does it
with his accustomed skill.
Now the bear having kicked his last, an intrepid hunter charges up to
the spot on horseback, whirls around it two or three times, carefully
examines the body with an opera-glass, returns, and, approaching the
royal presence with uncovered head, delivers himself according to this
formula: "May it please your most gallant and imperial majesty, THE
BEAR IS DEAD!" The emperor sometimes responds, "Is he?" but usually
contents himself by waving his hand in an indifferent manner, puffing
his cigar, and calling for his horse. Sixteen grooms immediately rush
forward with his majesty's horse; and, being still young and vigorous,
he mounts without difficulty, unaided except by Master of Stirrups.
Next he draws an ivory-handled revolver--a present from Colt, of New
York--and, dashing fearlessly upon the bear, fires six shots into the
dead body; upon which he coolly dismounts, and pulling forth from the
breast of his hunting-coat an Arkansas bowie-knife--a present from the
poet Albert Pike, of Little Rock--plunges that dangerous weapon into
the bowels of the dead bear; then rising to his full height, with a
dark and stern countenance, he holds the blood-dripping blade high in
the air, so that all may see it, and utters one wild stentorian and
terrific shout, "Harasho! harasho!" signifying in English, "Good! very
well!" The cry is caught up by the princes and nobles, who, with
uncovered heads, now crowd around their gallant emperor, and waving
their hats, likewise shout "Harasho! harasho!"--"Good! very well!"
Then the five hundred peasants rush in with their tin pans, kettles,
and drums, and amid the most amazing din catch up the inspiring
strain, and deafen every ear with their wild shouts of "Harasho!
harasho!"--"Good! very well!" Upon which the emperor, rapidly
mounting, places a finger in each ear, and, still puffing his cigar,
rides triumphantly away.
The bear is hastily gutted and dressed with flowers. When all is ready
the royal party return to the railroad depot in a long procession,
headed by his majesty, and brought up in the rear by the dead body of
Bruin borne on poles by six-and-twenty powerful serfs. Refreshments in
the mean time have been administered to every body of high and low
degree, and by the time they reach the depot there are but two sober
individuals in the entire procession--his royal majesty and the bear.
Farther refreshments are administered all round during the journey
back to St. Petersburg, and, notwithstanding he is rigidly prohibited
by his physician from the use of stimulating beverages, it is supposed
that a reaction has now taken place, which renders necessary a
modification of the medical ukase. At all events, I am told the bear
is sometimes the only really steady member of the party by the time
the imperial pageant reaches the palace. When the usual ceremonies of
congratulation are over, a merry dance winds up the evening. After
this the company disperses to prayer and slumber, and thus ends the
great bear-hunt of his majesty the Autocrat of all the Russias.
CHAPTER XI.
RUSSIAN HUMOR.
The Russians have little or no humor, though they are not deficient in
a certain grotesque savagery bordering on the humorous. There is
something fearfully vicious in the royal freaks of fancy of which
Russian history furnishes us so many examples. We read with a shudder
of the facetious compliment paid to the Italian architect by Ivan the
Terrible, who caused the poor man's eyes to be put out that he might
never see to build another church so beautiful as that of St. Basil.
We can not but smile at the grim humor of Peter the Great, who, upon
seeing a crowd of men with wigs and gowns at Westminster Hall, and
being informed that they were lawyers, observed that he had but two in
his whole empire, and he believed he would hang one of them as soon as
he got home. A still more striking though less ghastly freak of fancy
was that perpetrated by the Empress Anne of Courland, who, on the
occasion of the marriage of her favorite buffoon, Galitzin, caused a
palace of ice to be built, with a bed of the same material, in which
she compelled the happy pair to pass their wedding night. The Empress
Catharine II., a Pomeranian by birth, but thoroughly Russian in her
morals, possessed a more ardent temperament. What time she did not
spend in gratifying her ambition by slaughtering men, she spent in
loving them:
"For, though she would widow all
Nations, she liked man as an individual."
She never dismissed an old admirer until she had secured several new
ones, and generally consoled those who had served her by a present of
twenty or thirty thousand serfs. On the death of Lanskoi, it is
recorded of her that "she gave herself up to the most poignant grief,
and remained three months without going out of her palace of Czarsko
Selo," thus perpetrating a very curious practical satire upon the
holiest of human affections. Her grenadier lover Potemkin, according
to the character given of him by the Count Segur, was little better
than a gigantic and savage buffoon--licentious and superstitious, bold
and timid by turns--sometimes desiring to be King of Poland, at others
a bishop or a monk. Of him we read that "he put out an eye to free it
from a blemish which diminished his beauty. Banished by his rival, he
ran to meet death in battle, and returned with glory." Another
pleasant little jest was that perpetrated by Suwarrow, who, after the
bloody battle of Tourtourskaya, announced the result to his mistress
in an epigram of two doggerel lines. This was the terrible warrior who
used to sleep almost naked in a room of suffocating heat, and rush out
to review his troops in a linen jacket, with the thermometer of
Reaumur ten degrees below freezing point. Of the Emperor Paul, the son
of Catharine, we read that he issued a ukase against the use of
shoe-strings and round hats; caused all the watch-boxes, gates, and
bridges throughout the empire to be painted in the most glaring and
fantastic colors, and passed a considerable portion of his time riding
on a wooden rocking-horse--a degenerate practice for a scion of the
bold Catharine, who used to dress herself in men's clothes, and ride
a-straddle on the back of a live horse to review her troops. Alexander
I., in his ukase of September, 1827, perpetrated a very fine piece of
Russian humor. The period of military service for serfs is fixed at
twenty years in the Imperial Guard, and twenty-two in other branches
of the service. It is stated in express terms that the moment a serf
becomes enrolled in the ranks of the army he is free! But he must not
desert, for if he does he becomes a slave again. This idea of freedom
is really refreshing. Only twenty or twenty-two years of the gentle
restraints of Russian military discipline to be enjoyed after becoming
a free agent! Then he may go off (at the age of fifty or sixty, say),
unless disease or gunpowder has carried him off long before, to enjoy
the sweets of hard labor in some agreeable desert, or the position of
a watchman on the frontiers of Siberia, where the climate is probably
considered salubrious.
These may be considered royal or princely vagaries, in which great
people are privileged to indulge; but I think it will be found that
the same capricious savagery of humor--if I may so call it--prevails
to some extent among all classes of Russians. In some instances it can
scarcely be associated with any idea of mirthfulness, yet in the love
of strange, startling, and incongruous ideas there is something
bordering on the humorous. On Recollection Monday, for example, the
mass of the people go out into the grave-yards, and, spreading
table-cloths on the mounds that cover the dead bodies of their
relatives, drink quass and vodka to the health of the deceased,
saying, "Since the dead are unable to drink, the living must drink for
them!" Rather a grave excuse, one must think, for intoxication.
In the museum of Peter the Great at St. Petersburg stands the stuffed
skin of his favorite servant--a gigantic Holsteiner--one of the most
ghastly of all the grotesque and ghastly relics in that remarkable
institution. It is not a very agreeable subject for the pencil of an
artist, yet there is something so original in the idea of stuffing a
human being and putting him up for exhibition before the public that I
am constrained to introduce the following sketch of this strange
spectacle.
In one of the arsenals is an eagle made of gun-flints, with swords for
wings, daggers for feathers, and the mouths of cannons for eyes. A
painting of the Strelitzes, in another, represents heaven as
containing the Russian priests and all the faithful; while the other
place--a region of fire and brimstone--contains Jews, Tartars,
Germans, and negroes!
[Illustration: SKINNED AND STUFFED MAN.]
The winter markets of Moscow and St. Petersburg present some of the
most cadaverous specimens of the startling humor in which the Russians
delight. Here you find frozen oxen, calves, sheep, rabbits, geese,
ducks, and all manner of animals and birds, once animate with life,
now stiff and stark in death. The oxen stand staring at you with their
fixed eyes and gory carcasses; the calves are jumping or frisking in
skinless innocence; the sheep ba-a at you with open mouths, or cast
sheep's-eyes at the by-passers; the rabbits, having traveled hundreds
of miles, are jumping, or running, or turning somersaults in frozen
tableaux to keep themselves warm, and so on with every variety of
flesh, fowl, and even fish. The butchers cut short these expressive
practical witticisms by means of saws, as one might saw a block of
wood; and the saw-dust, which is really frozen flesh and blood in a
powdered state, is gathered up in baskets and carried away by the
children and ragamuffins to be made into soup.
[Illustration: FROZEN ANIMALS IN THE MARKET.]
I can conceive of nothing humorous in these people which is not
associated in some way with the cruel and the grotesque. They have
many noble and generous traits, but lack delicacy of feeling. Where
the range of the thermometer is from a hundred to a hundred and fifty
degrees of Fahrenheit, their character must partake in some sort of
the qualities of the climate--fierce, rigorous, and pitiless in its
wintry aspect, and without the compensating and genial tenderness of
spring; fitful and passionate as the scorching heats of summer, and
dark, stormy, and dreary as the desolation of autumn.
I could not but marvel, as I sat in some of the common traktirs, at
the extraordinary affection manifested by the Russians for cats. It
appeared to me that the proprietors must keep a feline corps expressly
for the amusement of their customers. At one of these places I saw at
least forty cats, of various breeds, from the confines of Tartary to
the city of Paris. They were up on the tables, on the benches, on the
floor, under the benches, on the backs of the tea-drinkers, in their
laps, in their arms--every where. I strongly suspected that they
answered the purpose of waiters, and that the owner relied upon them
to keep the plates clean. Possibly, too, they were made available as
musicians. I have a notion the Russians entertain the same
superstitious devotion to cats that the Banyans of India do to cows,
and the French and Germans to nasty little poodles. To see a great
shaggy boor, his face dripping with grease, his eyes swimming in
vodka, sit all doubled up, fondling and caressing these feline pets;
holding them in his hands; pressing their velvety fur to his eyes,
cheeks, even his lips; listening with delight to their screams and
squalls, is indeed a curious spectacle.
[Illustration: MUJIK AND CATS.]
Now I have no unchristian feeling toward any of the brute creation,
but I don't affect cats. Nor can I say that I greatly enjoy their
music. I heard the very best bands of tom-cats every night during my
sojourn in Moscow, and consider them utterly deficient in style and
execution. It belongs, I think, to the Music of Futurity, so much
discussed by the critics of Europe during the past few years--a
peculiar school of anti-melody that requires people yet to be born to
appreciate it thoroughly. The discords may be very fine, and the
passion very striking and tempestuous, but it is worse than thrown
away on an uncultivated ear like mine.
CHAPTER XII.
A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE.
The police of Moscow are not an attractive class of men, considering
them in the light of guardians of the law. With a good deal of
pomposity and laziness, they mingle much filth and rascality. The
emperor may have great confidence in them, based upon some knowledge
of their talents and virtues not shared by casual tourists; but if he
would trust one of them with ten kopeks, or agree to place the life of
any intimate personal friend in their keeping, in any of the dark
alleys of Moscow, his faith in their integrity and humanity must be
greater than mine. Indeed, upon casting around me in search of a
parallel, I am not quite sure that I ever saw such a scurvy set of
vagabonds employed to preserve the public peace in any other country,
except, perhaps, in Spain. The guardians of the law in Cadiz and
Seville are dark and forbidding enough in all conscience, and
unscrupulous enough to turn a penny in any way not requiring the
exercise of personal energy; and the police of Barcelona are not
inferior in all that constitutes moral turpitude, but they can not
surpass the Moscovites in filthiness of person or any of the essential
attributes of villainy.
I have it upon good authority that they are the very worst set of
thieves in the place, and that they will not hesitate to unite with
any midnight prowler for the purpose of robbing a stranger. True, they
did not rob me, but the reason of that is obvious. I gave them to
understand at the start that I was connected with the press. You
seldom hear of a writer for newspapers being robbed; and if such a
thing ever does happen, the amount taken is never large.
As a consequence of this proclivity for ill-gotten gains on the part
of the guardians of the law, it is unsafe for a stranger to go through
the less frequented streets of Moscow at night. Should he chance to be
stopped by two or three footpads and call for help, he will doubtless
wake up some drowsy guardian of the law, but the help will be all
against him. Instances have been related to me of robberies in which
the police were the most active assailants, the robbers merely
standing by for their share of the plunder. Should the unfortunate
victim knock down a footpad or two in self-defense, it is good ground
for an arrest, and both robbers and policemen become witnesses against
him. A man had better get involved in a question of title to his
property before the courts of California than be arrested for assault
and battery, and carried before any of the civil tribunals in Russia.
There is no end of the law's delays in these institutions, and his
only chance of justice is to get his case before the emperor, who is
practically the Supreme Court of the empire. Otherwise the really
aggrieved party must pay a fine for defending himself, and support the
assaulted man, whose nose he may have battered, during an unlimited
period at the hospital, together with physician's fees for all the
real or imaginary injuries inflicted. I met with a young American who
was followed by a stalwart ruffian one night in returning from one of
the public gardens. The man dogged his footsteps for some time. At
length, there being nobody near to render aid, the robber mustered
courage enough to seize hold and attempt to intimidate his supposed
victim by brandishing a knife. He came from a country where they were
not uncommon, and, besides, was an adept on the shoulder. With a
sudden jerk he freed himself, and, hauling off a little, gave his
assailant a note of hand that knocked him down. I am not versed in the
classics of the ring, or I would make something out of this fight. The
pad dropped like a stricken ox, his knife flying picturesquely through
the silvery rays of the moon. Next moment he was on his feet again,
the claret shining beautifully on his cheeks and beard. Throwing out
his claws like a huge grizzly, he rushed in, gnashing his teeth and
swearing horribly. This time our friend was fairly aroused, and the
wretch promptly measured his length on the ground. Thinking he had
scattered it on rather heavy, the American stooped down to see how
matters stood, when the fellow grasped him by the coat and commenced
shouting with all his might for the police--"Help! help! murder!
murder!" There was no remedy but to silence him, which our friend
dexterously accomplished by a blow on the os frontis. Hearing the
approaching footsteps of the police, he then concluded it was best to
make his escape, and accordingly took to his heels. Chase was given,
but he was as good at running as he was at the noble art of
self-defense, and soon distanced his pursuers. Fortunately, he reached
his quarters without being recognised. This was all that saved him
from arrest and imprisonment, or the payment of a fine for the
assault.
A common practice, as I was informed, is to arrest a stranger for some
alleged breach of the law, such as smoking a cigar in the streets, or
using disrespectful language toward the constituted authorities. Not
being accustomed to the intricacies of a Russian judiciary, it is
difficult, when once the matter comes before a tribunal of justice,
for a foreigner to rebut the testimony brought against him; and if he
be in a hurry to get away, his only course is to bribe the parties
interested in his detention. It would be unjust to say that this
system prevails universally throughout Russia. There is a small
circle around the imperial presence said to be exempt from corruption;
and there may possibly be a few dignitaries of the government, in
remote parts of the empire, who will not tell an untruth unless in
their official correspondence, or steal except to make up what they
consider due to them for public services; but the circle of immaculate
ones is very small, and commences very near the Czar, and the other
exceptions referred to are exceedingly rare. Thieving may be said to
begin within gunshot of the capital, and to attain its culminating
excellences on the confines of Tartary. The difference is only in
degree between the higher and the lower grades of officers. Hence,
although it is quite possible to obtain full reparation for an injury
before the Czar, through the intervention of a consul or a minister,
it is a vexatious and expensive mode of proceeding, and would only
result at last in the transportation of some miserable wretch to the
mines of Siberia. Of course no man with a spark of feeling would like
to see a poor fellow-creature go there. For my part, I would rather
suffer any amount of injustice than be the cause of sending a
fellow-mortal on so long and dreary a journey.
The whole bearing of which you will presently discover. I am going to
tell you a very singular adventure that befell me in Moscow. Do not be
impatient; it will all come in due time. A few dashes of preliminary
description will be necessary, by way of introduction, otherwise it
would be impossible to comprehend the full scope and purpose of my
narrative. If you be of the rougher mould, cherished reader, just cast
yourself back somewhere at your ease, take this most excellently
printed book deftly between your fingers, with a good cigar between
your teeth; throw your legs over your desk, a gunny-bag, a fence-rail,
or the mantel-piece of the bar-room, as the case may be; give me the
benefit of your friendship and confidence, and read away at your
leisure. But if you be one of those gentle beings placed upon earth to
diffuse joy and happiness over the desert of life, I pray you
consider me a serf at your imperial foot-stool; bend on me those
tender eyes; and with the mingled respect and admiration due by all
men to female loveliness, I shall proceed at once to tell you
(confidentially of course)
A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE
It so happened in Moscow that I fell in with a very pleasant and
sociable party of Americans, several of whom were in the railway
service, and therefore might reasonably be regarded as fast young
gentlemen, though far be it from me to imply any thing injurious to
their reputation. Beyond an excessive passion for tea, acquired by
long residence in Moscow, I do not know that a single one of them was
at all dissipated. When I first called at the rooms of these lively
countrymen, they immediately got out their tea-urns, and assured me
that it would be impossible to comprehend any thing of Russian life
till I had partaken freely of Russian tea, therefore I was obliged to
drink five or six glasses by way of a beginning. Having freely
discussed the affairs of the American nation at one room, we adjourned
to another, where we had a fresh supply of tea; and then, after
settling the rebellion to our common satisfaction, adjourned to
another, and so on throughout the best part of the day. Sometimes we
stopped in at a _traktir_ and had a portion or two, dashed with a
little Cognac, which my friends assured me would prevent it from
having any injurious effect upon the nervous system. In this way,
within a period of twelve hours, owing to the kindness and hospitality
of these agreeable Americans, who insisted upon treating me to tea, in
public and in private, at every turn of our rambles, I must have
swallowed a gallon or two of this delicious beverage. The weather was
exceedingly warm, but these experienced gentlemen insisted upon it
that Russian tea was a sovereign antidote for warm weather, especially
when dashed with Cognac, as it drove all the caloric out of the body
through the pores of the skin. "Don't be afraid!" said they,
encouragingly; "drink just as much as you please--it will cool you!
See how the Russians drink it. Nothing else enables them to stand
these fiery hot summers after their polar winters!" Well, I didn't
feel exactly cool, with thirty or forty tumblers of boiling hot tea,
dashed with Cognac, in my veins, but what was the use of
remonstrating? They _lived_ in Moscow--they _knew_ better than I did
what was good for strangers--so I kept on swallowing a little more,
just to oblige them, till I verily believe, had any body stuck a pin
in me, or had I undertaken to make a speech, I would have spouted
Russian tea.
Why is it that the moment any body wants to render you a service, or
manifest some token of friendship, he commences by striking at the
very root of your digestive functions? Is it not exacting a little too
much of human nature to require a man to consider himself a large
sponge, in order that hospitality may be poured into him by the
gallon? When a person of pliant and amiable disposition visits a set
of good fellows, and they take some trouble to entertain him; when
they think they are delighting him internally and externally--not to
say infernally--with such tea as he never drank before, it is hard to
refuse. The moral courage necessary for the peremptory rejection of
such advances would make a hero. Thus it has ever been with me--I am
the victim of misplaced hospitality. It has been the besetting trouble
of my life. I remember once eating a Nantucket pudding to oblige a
lady. It was made of corn-meal and molasses, with some diabolical
compound in the way of sauce--possibly whale-oil and tar. I had just
eaten a hearty dinner; but the lady insisted upon it that the pudding
was a great dish in Nantucket, and I must try it. Well, I stuffed and
gagged at it, out of pure politeness, till every morsel on the plate
was gone, declaring all the time that it was perfectly delicious. The
lady was charmed, and, in the face of every denial, instantly filled
the plate again. What could I do but eat it? And after eating till I
verily believe one half of me was composed of Nantucket pudding, and
the other half of whale-oil and tar, what could I do but praise it
again? The third attempt upon my life was made by this most excellent
and hospitable lady; but I gave way, and had to beg off. Human nature
could stand it no longer. The consequence was, I wounded her feelings.
She regretted very much that I disliked Nantucket pudding, and I don't
think ever quite forgave me for my prejudice against that article of
diet, though her kindness laid me up sick for two weeks. Nor is this
an isolated case. I might relate a thousand others in illustration of
the melancholy fact that hospitality has been the bane of my life.
When I think of all the sufferings I have endured out of mere
politeness--though by no means accounted a polite person--tears of
grief and indignation spring to my eyes. Old John Rogers at the stake
never suffered such martyrdom. But there is an end of it! The _tchai_
of Moscow finished all this sort of thing--so far, at least, as the
male sex is concerned. I would still eat a coyote or a weasel to
oblige a lady, but as to drinking two gallons of strong tea per day,
dashed with Cognac to reduce its temperature, to oblige any man that
ever wore a beard, I solemnly declare I'll die first. The thing is an
imposition--an outrage. Every man has a right to my time, my purse, my
real estate in Oakland, my coat, my boots, or my razor--nay, in a case
of emergency, my tooth-brush--but no man has a right to deluge my
diaphragm with slops, or make a ditch of Mundus of my stomach.
[Illustration: EFFECTS OF "LITTLE WATER."]
At the Peterskoi Gardens we had a little more tea, dashed with
_vodka_, to keep out the night air. As soon as the fire-works were
over we adjourned to the pavilion, and refreshed ourselves with a
little more tea slightly impregnated with some more _vodka_. Now I
don't know exactly what this vodka is made of, but I believe it is an
extract of corn. In the Russian language _voda_ is water, and _vodka_
means "little water." There certainly was very little in what we got,
or the tea must have been stronger than usual, for, notwithstanding
these agreeable young gentlemen protested a gallon of such stuff would
not produce the slightest effect, it seemed to me--though there might
have been some delusion in the idea, arising from ignorance of Russian
customs--that my head went round like a whirligig; and by the time I
took my leave of these experienced young friends and retired to my
room at the _Hotel de Venise_, it did likewise occur to me--though
that too may have been a mere notion--that there was a hive of bees in
each ear. Upon due consideration of all the facts, I thought it best
to turn in, and resume any inquiries that might be necessary for the
elucidation of these phenomena in the morning.
[Here, you perceive, I am gradually verging toward the adventure. The
heroine of the romance has not yet made her appearance, but depend
upon it she is getting ready. You should never hurry the female
characters; besides, it is not proper, even if this were all fiction
instead of sober truth, that the heroine should be brought upon the
stage just as the hero is tumbling into bed.]
But to proceed. Sleep was effectually banished from my eyes, and no
wonder. Who in the name of sense could sleep with forty tumblers of
Russian tea--to say nothing of the dashes that were put in
it--simmering through every nook and cranny of his body, and boiling
over in his head? There I lay, twisting and tumbling, the pillow
continually descending into the depths of infinity, but never getting
any where--the bed rolling like a dismantled hulk upon a stormy
sea--the room filled with steaming and hissing urns--a fearful thirst
parching my throat, while myriads of horrid bearded Russians were
torturing me with tumblers of boiling-hot tea dashed with
_vodka_--thus I lay a perfect victim of tea. I could even see Chinamen
with long queues picking tea-leaves off endless varieties of shrubs
that grew upon the papered walls; and Kalmuck Tartars, with their long
caravans, traversing the dreary steppes of Tartary laden with
inexhaustible burdens of the precious leaf; and the great fair of
Nijni Novgorod, with its booths, and tents, and countless boxes of
tea, and busy throngs of traders and tea-merchants, all passing like a
panorama before me, and all growing naturally out of an indefinite
background of tea.
I can not distinctly remember how long I tossed about in this way,
beset by all sorts of vagaries. Sometimes I fancied sleep had come,
and that the whole matter was a ridiculous freak of fancy, including
my visit to Moscow--that Russian tea was all a fiction, and _vodka_ a
mere nightmare; but with a nervous start I would find myself awake,
the palpable reality of my extraordinary condition staring me in the
face. Unable to endure such an anomalous frame of mind and body any
longer, I at length resolved to go down and take an airing in the
streets, believing, if any thing would have a beneficial effect, it
would be the fresh air. Acting upon this idea, I hastily dressed
myself and descended to the front door. The _Hotel de Venise_ is
situated in a central part of the city, at no great distance from the
Kremlin. It stands back in a large open yard, with a very pretty
garden to the right as you enter from the main street. The proprietor
is a Russian, but the hotel is conducted in the French style, and,
although not more conspicuous for cleanliness than other
establishments of the same class in Moscow, it is nevertheless
tolerably free from vermin. The fleas in it were certainly neither so
lively nor so entertaining as I have found them at many of the Spanish
ranches in California, and the bugs, I am sure, are nothing like so
corpulent as some I have seen in Washington City. I throw this in
gratis, as a sort of puff, in consideration of an understanding with
the landlord, that if he would refrain from cheating me I would
recommend his hotel to American travelers. It is very good of its
kind, and no person fond of veal, as a standard dish, can suffer from
hunger at this establishment so long as calves continue to be born any
where in the neighborhood of Moscow.
The porter, a drowsy old fellow in livery, whose only business, so far
as I could discover, was to bow to the guests as they passed in and
out during the day, at the expense of a kopek to each one of them for
every bow, napping on a lounge close by the front door. Hearing my
footsteps, he awoke, rubbed his eyes, bowed habitually, and then
stared at me with a vacant and somewhat startled expression. It was
not a common thing evidently for lodgers to go out of the hotel at
that time of night, or rather morning--it must have been nearly two
o'clock--for, after gazing a while at what he doubtless took to be an
apparition or an absconding boarder whose bill had not been settled,
he grumbled out something like a dissent, and stood between me and the
door. A small fee of ten kopeks, which I placed in his hand, aided him
in grasping at the mysteries of the case, and he unlocked the door and
let me out, merely shaking his head gravely, as if he divined my
purpose, but did not altogether approve of it in one of my age and
sedate appearance. In that, however, he was mistaken: I had no
disposition to form any tender alliances in Moscow.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN BEGGARS.]
The streets were almost deserted. An occasional drosky, carrying home
some belated pleasure-seeker, was all that disturbed the silence. I
walked some distance in the direction of the Kremlin. The air was
deliciously cool and refreshing, and the sky wore a still richer glow
than I had noticed a few hours before at the gardens of the Peterskoi.
The moon had not yet gone down, but the first glowing blushes of the
early morning were stealing over the heavens, mingled with its silvery
light. I took off my hat to enjoy the fresh air, and wandered along
quite enchanted with the richness and variety of the scene. Every turn
of the silent streets brought me in view of some gilded pile of
cupolas, standing in glowing relief against the sky. Churches of
strange Asiatic form, the domes richly and fancifully colored; golden
stars glittering upon a groundwork of blue, green, or yellow; shrines
with burning tapers over the massive doors and gateways, were
scattered in every direction in the most beautiful profusion.
Sometimes I saw a solitary beggar kneeling devoutly before some gilded
saint, and mourning over the weariness of life. Once I was startled
by the apparition of a poor wretch lying asleep--I thought he was
dead--a crippled wreck upon the stone steps--his eyes closed in brief
oblivion of the world and its sorrows, his furrowed and pallid
features a ghastly commentary upon the glittering temples and idols
that surround him. For above all these things that are "decked with
silver and with gold, and fastened with nails and with hammers that
they move not," there is One who hath "made the earth by His power and
established the world by His wisdom;" man is but brutish in his
knowledge; "every founder is confounded by the graven image; for his
molten image is falsehood, and there is no breath in them." Such
extremes every where abound in Moscow--magnificence and filth; wealth
and poverty; a superstitious belief in the power of images in the
midst of abject proofs of their impotence. And yet, is it not better
that men should believe in something rather than in nothing? The
glittering idol can not touch the crippled beggar and put health and
strength in his limbs, but if the poor sufferer can sleep better upon
the cold stones in the presence of his patron saint than elsewhere, in
charity's name let him,
"O'erlabored with his being's strife
Shrink to that sweet forgetfulness of life."
I wandered on. Soon the cupolas of the mighty Kremlin were in sight,
all aglow with the bright sheen of the morn. Passing along its
embattled walls, which now seemed of snowy whiteness, I reached the
grand plaza of the Krasnoi Ploschod. Standing out in the open space, I
gazed at the wondrous pile of gold-covered domes till my eyes rested
on the highest point--the majestic tower of Ivan Veliki. And then I
could but think of the terrible Czar--the fourth of the fierce race of
Ivans, who ruled the destinies of Russia; he who killed his own son in
a fit of rage, yet never shook hands with a foreign embassador without
washing his own immediately after; the patron of monasteries, and the
conqueror of Kazan, Astrakan, and Siberia. This was the most cruel yet
most enlightened of his name. I am not sure whether the tower was
built to commemorate his fame or that of his grandfather, Ivan the
Third, also called "the Terrible," of whom Karasmin says that, "when
excited with anger, his glance would make a timid woman swoon; that
petitioners dreaded to approach his throne, and that even at his table
the boyars, his grandees, trembled before him." A terrible fellow, no
doubt, and thoroughly Russian by the testimony of this Russian
historian, for where else will you find men so terrible as to make
timid women swoon by a single glance of their eye? Not in California,
surely! If I were a Czar this soft summer night (such was the idea
that naturally occurred to me), I would gaze upon the fair flowers of
creation with an entirely different expression of countenance. They
should neither wilt nor swoon unless overcome by the delicacy and
tenderness of my admiration.
From the green towers of the Holy Gate, where neither Czar nor serf
can enter without uncovering his head, I turned toward the Vassoli
Blagennoi--the wondrous maze of churches that gathers around the
Cathedral of St. Basil. Not in all Moscow is there a sight so strange
and gorgeous as this. The globular domes, all striped with the varied
colors of the rainbow; the glittering gold-gilt cupolas; the rare and
fanciful minarets; the shrines, and crosses, and stars; the massive
steps; the iron railing, with shining gold-capped points--surely, in
the combination of striking and picturesque forms and colors, lights
and shades, must ever remain unequaled. The comparison may seem
frivolous, yet it resembled more, to my eye, some gigantic cactus of
the tropics, with its needles and rich colors, its round, prickly
domes and fantastic cupolas, than any thing I had ever seen before in
the shape of a church or group of churches. While I gazed in wonder at
the strange fabric, I could not but think again of Ivan the Terrible;
by whose order it was built; and how, when the architect (an Italian)
was brought before him, trembling with awe, the mighty Ivan expressed
his approval of the performance, and demanded if he, the architect,
could build another equally strange and beautiful; to which the poor
Italian, elated with joy, answered that he could build another even
stranger and more beautiful than this; and then how the ferocious and
unprincipled Czar had the poor fellow's eyes put out to prevent him
from building another.
But this is not the adventure. I have nothing to do at present with
the Church of St. Basil or Ivan the Terrible except in so far as they
affected my imagination. The business on hand is to tell you how the
dire catastrophe happened.
Bewildered at length with gazing at all these wonderful sights, I
turned to retrace my steps to the hotel. A few droskies were still
plying on the principal thoroughfares, and now and then I met gay
parties trudging homeward after their night's dissipation; but I soon
struck into the less frequented streets, where a dreary silence
reigned. There was something very sad and solitary in the
reverberation of my footsteps. For the first time it occurred to me
that there was not much security here for life, in case of a covert
attack from some of those footpads said to infest the city. I began to
reflect upon the experience of my young American friend, and regret
that it had not occurred to me before I left the hotel. You may think
this very weak and foolish, good friends, surrounded as you are by all
the safeguards of law and order, and living in a country where men are
never knocked on the head of nights--with occasional exceptions; but I
can assure you it is a very natural feeling in a strange,
half-barbarous city like Moscow, where one doesn't understand the
language. Had I been well versed in Russian, the probability is I
should not have felt the least alarmed; but a man experiences a
terrible sensation of loneliness when he expects every moment to be
knocked on the head without being able to say a word in his own
defense. Had my guide, Dominico, been with me, I should not have felt
quite so helpless--though I never had much confidence in his
courage--for he could at least have demanded an explanation, or, if
the worst came to the worst, helped me to run away. The fact is--and
there is no use attempting to disguise it--I began to feel a nervous
apprehension that something was going to happen. I was startled at my
own shadow, and was even afraid to whistle with any view of keeping up
my spirits, lest something unusually florid in my style of whistling
might lead to the supposition that I was from California, and
therefore a good subject for robbery.
Which, by the way, puts me in mind of a remarkable fact, well worth
mentioning. The State of California owes me, at the least calculation,
two hundred dollars, paid in sums varying from six kreutzers up to a
pound sterling to hotel-keepers, porters, lackeys, and professional
gentlemen throughout Europe, exclusively on the ground of my
citizenship in that state. In Paris--in Spain--in Africa--in Germany
(with the exceptions of the beer-houses and country inns), I had to
pay a heavy percentage upon the capital invested in my gold mines
solely on the presumption that no man could come from so rich a
country without carrying off a good deal of treasure on his person,
like the carcass that carried the diamonds out of the rich valley for
Sinbad the Sailor. Yet I never could forego the pleasure of announcing
myself as an embassador to foreign parts from that noble state,
commissioned by the sovereigns generally to furnish them with the
latest improvements in morals, fashions, and manners for the public
benefit--an extremely onerous and responsible duty, which I have
executed, and shall continue to execute, with the most rigid fidelity.
After walking quite far enough to have reached the hotel, I became
confused at the winding of the streets. The neighborhood was strange.
I could not discover any familiar sign or object. The houses were low,
mean, and dark looking; the street was narrow and roughly paved. I
walked a little farther, then turned into another street still more
obscure, and, following that for some distance, brought up amid a pile
of ruined walls. There could no longer be a doubt that I had missed
the way, and was not likely to find it in this direction. It was a
very suspicious quarter into which I had strayed. Every thing about it
betokened poverty and crime. I began to feel rather uneasy, but it
would not do to stand here among the ruins as a mark for any midnight
prowler who might be lurking around. Turning off in a new direction, I
took a by-street, which appeared to lead to an open space. As I picked
my way over the masses of rubbish, a dark figure crossed in front, and
disappeared in the shadow of a wall. I was entirely unarmed. What was
to be done? Perhaps the man might be able to tell me the way to my
lodgings; but I could not speak a word of Russian, as before stated,
and, besides, was rather averse to making acquaintance with strangers.
After a moment's reflection, I walked on, cautiously and distrustfully
enough, for the notion was uppermost in my mind that this fellow was
not there for any good purpose. As I passed the spot where he had
disappeared, I looked suspiciously around, but he did not make his
appearance. With a few hasty strides I readied the open space--a
vacant lot, it seemed, caused by a recent fire. The houses were burnt
down, and nothing but a blackened mass of beams, rafters, and ashes
covered the ground. The only exit was through a narrow alley. Before
entering this, I looked back and saw the same figure stealthily
following me. On I went as rapidly as I could walk. Closer and closer
came the figure. He was a man of gigantic stature, and was probably
armed. Soon I heard the heavy tramp of his feet within a few paces. It
was evident I must either run or stand my ground. Perhaps, if I had
known what direction to take, or could have placed more reliance upon
my knees, which were greatly weakened by tea, I might have chosen the
former alternative, inglorious as it may seem; but, under the
circumstances, I resolved to stand. Facing around suddenly, with my
back to the wall, I called to the ruffian to stand off, as he valued
his life. He halted within a few feet, evidently a little disconcerted
at my sudden determination to make battle. His face was the most
brutal I had over seen; a filthy mass of beard nearly covered it; two
piercing white eyes glistened beneath the leaf of his greasy cap; a
coarse blouse, gathered around the waist by a leather belt, and boots
that reached nearly to his hips, were the most striking articles of
his costume. For a moment he gazed at me, as if uncertain what to do;
then brushed slowly past, with the design, no doubt, of ascertaining
if I was armed. I could not see whether he carried any deadly weapons
himself; but a man of his gigantic stature needed none to be a very
unequal opponent in a struggle with one whose most sanguinary
conflicts had hitherto been on paper, and who had never wielded a
heavier weapon than a pen.
Proceeding on his way, however, the ruffian, after going about a
hundred yards, disappeared in some dark recess in among the houses on
one side. I continued on, taking care to keep in the middle of the
alley. As I approached the spot where the man had disappeared, I heard
several voices, and then the terrible truth flashed upon me that there
must be a gang of them. I now saw no alternative but to turn back and
run for my life. It was an inglorious thing to do, no doubt, but which
of you, my friends, would not have done the same thing?
[Illustration: GAMBLING SALOON.]
Scarcely had I started under full headway when three or four men
rushed out in pursuit. I will not attempt to disguise the fact that
the ground passed under my feet pretty rapidly; and the probability
is, the hostile party would have been distanced in less than ten
minutes but for an unfortunate accident. It was necessary to cross the
ruins already described. Here, in the recklessness of my flight, I
stumbled over a beam, and fell prostrate in a pile of ashes. Before I
could regain my feet the ruffians were upon me. While two of them held
my arms, the third clapped his dirty hand over my mouth, and in this
way they dragged me back into the alley. As soon as they had reached
the dark archway from which they had originally started, they knocked
at a door on one side. This was quickly opened, and I was thrust into
a large room, dimly lighted with rude lamps of grease hung upon the
walls. When they first got hold of me, I confess the sensation was not
pleasant. What would the Emperor Alexander say when he heard that a
citizen of California had been murdered in this cold-blooded manner?
My next thought was, in what terms would this sad affair be noticed in
the columns of the Sacramento _Union_? Would it not be regarded by the
editor as an unprovoked disaster inflicted upon society? My fears,
however, were somewhat dispelled upon looking around the saloon into
which I had been so strangely introduced. Several tables were ranged
along the walls, at each of which sat a group of the most
horrible-looking savages that probably ever were seen out of jail--the
very dregs and offscourings of Moscow. Their faces were mostly covered
with coarse, greasy beards, reaching half way down their bodies; some
wore dirty blue or gray blouses, tied around the waist with ropes, or
fastened with leather belts; others, long blue coats, reaching nearly
to their feet; and all, or nearly all, had caps on their heads, and
great heavy boots reaching up to their knees, in which their
pantaloons were thrust, giving them a rakish and ruffianly appearance.
A few sat in their shirt-sleeves; and, judging by the color of their
shirts, as well as their skins, did not reckon soap among the luxuries
of life. Several of these savage-looking Mujiks were smoking some
abominable weed, intended, perhaps, for tobacco, but very much unlike
that delightful narcotic in the foul and tainted odor which it
diffused over the room. They were all filthy and brutish in the
extreme, and talked in some wre
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